Deadly Memories

by Susan Vaughan

  She began to smile but didn’t. Jack supposed his demeanor intimidated her. Whether he meant to look harsh or not, he had that effect on people. In his work it was an advantage. But not at the moment.

  Donning a professional mask, she jammed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “Signora Rinaldi will recover fully. In time. The pain and dizziness from the concussion will ease in a day or two, and she can leave the hospital. A sling will protect her shoulder.”

  Jack expelled the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “So she’s okay.”

  The doctor’s lips compressed. As if unable to talk without gesturing, she withdrew her hands from her pockets and held them out, palms open. “She will be fine. I am certain. There is the small issue of amnesia.”

  “My God, doesn’t she know who she is?”

  “Sì, sì. Indeed she does. That type of amnesia is extremely rare. Signora Rinaldi’s global memory is intact. Hers is what we call retrograde amnesia.” She hesitated, expressive hands hovering. “Often with head injuries from an accident or attack, patients do not remember the seconds immediately leading up to the trauma.”

  Jack had seen it before, when fellow officers had been shot. They didn’t always recover the memory later. But he needed Sophie to remember what had terrified her. “And retrograde amnesia is what she has? She’s missing only the seconds up to her…accident?”

  Dr. Manetti’s brows drew together. She raised and lowered one shoulder. “Hers is an interesting case. Molto insolito. Very unusual. She has lost more memory than patients with her injuries normally do.”

  Sophie studied the leather bifold’s contents longer than necessary. Examining the gold badge and picture ID of the U.S. Anti-Terrorism Security Agency was easier than facing the stern-faced government agent standing beside her hospital bed. Jackson Thorne was a rugged-looking man, tall and leanly muscled, with dark gold hair. His accusing blue stare and uncompromising jaw jittered her pulse. He was an intimidating man, so the flutter of sexual awareness she felt made no sense.

  When he cleared his throat, she finally closed the wallet and handed it back.

  When her fingers brushed his knuckles, he recoiled as if she’d contaminated him. How odd. As though a concussion was contagious.

  Sophie started to smile, to reassure the agent, but even that slight movement sent shards of pain rocketing around in her skull.

  She wanted to ask what ATSA had to do with her, but courtesy first, as her nonna would’ve said. “I must have you to thank for arranging such good care for me in the hospital. Did you hand out the bustarelle?”

  Thorne, his expression already forbidding, frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “In Italian hospitals, patients might not get fed or bathed unless the nurses and orderlies receive envelopes of cash, bustarelle.”

  “My superior must’ve taken care of that when you were admitted.” Stone-faced, he conveyed an air of impatience, of intense purpose.

  He withdrew a spiral notebook from his jacket pocket. He didn’t open it, just held it in long, muscular, tanned fingers. White scars lacing his knuckles told of a dangerous job. No wonder he had that hard-eyed look.

  “Please thank him for me,” she said. “Agent Thorne, I’d like to know why ATSA wants to talk to me.”

  “It’s Officer Thorne,” he bit out. “Not Agent.”

  “I see,” she said, although she didn’t, not really. “Okay, Officer Thorne, are you here because I was injured in some sort of terrorist attack? The doctors have told me nothing about my accident.”

  Doubt and suspicion chased across Thorne’s austere features. He shifted his feet. “We’ll get to that. Tell me what you do remember.”

  His eyes, calm and cold, told her she’d get nowhere until she answered his questions. She subsided into the pillow. “I came to see the land of my ancestors and to find any living relatives. My trip includes Rome, Tuscany and Venice. The plane’s descent in Rome on May ninth is the last thing I remember. Dottoressa Manetti said that today is June sixth. So that was four weeks ago.”

  Anguish rose up as hot tears tightened her throat. “How could I not remember four whole weeks of touring Italy? What happened to me?”

  Other than a tightening of his already steely jaw, the ATSA officer’s face betrayed no reaction to her impassioned plea. He pulled a sheaf of pictures from a manila envelope and held one in front of her. “Tell me how you met this man.”

  Sophie stared at the trim older man in the photo. Silver at the temples, patrician bearing. Handsome, if you liked the slick, arrogant type. But a stranger to her. “I don’t know him. Who is he?”

  “Sebastian Vadim.” Thorne consulted the notebook. “A wealthy consultant. Owns a villa in the Veneto countryside. He says you stole from him.”

  Sophie did something she’d only read in books: her jaw dropped open in shock. A memory clicked. She recognized the name. “The name is familiar, but I’ve never met Mr. Vadim.”

  If Thorne’s lips compressed any thinner, they’d disappear, Sophie observed. The sadness lurking in his eyes hinted that something more than his job had him strung tighter than the strings on a guitar.

  “Vadim says different.” Thorne glared at her, daring her to deny his accusation. “He says you stole a valuable object from his house.”

  “I’ve never been to the man’s house.” Sophie inhaled, trying to remain calm. Tears burned, but she blinked them away. “Look, in New York I worked as a nanny for an Italian family, the Donatis. Mr. Donati’s company moved them to London. This trip was a severance bonus.”

  “We have that information. Go on.”

  “Mrs. Donati gave me Sebastian Vadim’s name as someone I could contact near Venice. He’s a distant relative of hers. She wrote him that I might call on him. That’s all I know.”

  “Then how do you explain this picture?”

  She stared in disbelief at a snapshot of her with Vadim in front of a set of large double doors. She stood on tiptoes to kiss the man on the mouth. “I… That can’t be me. The picture…it must be altered or something. How—” A lump in her throat choked off more speech.

  Nothing made sense. If he asked one more baffling question, tears would overwhelm her. She felt like folding her arms in a gesture of finality, but her bound shoulder wouldn’t allow it. So she closed her eyes.

  Jack couldn’t take his eyes from Sophie. Gone was the exuberant, vibrant woman he’d watched the past several days. Her shiny dark hair lay lank and dull against the pillow. Cuts and bruises marred her chin and jaw on one side, her vivid complexion pale as ivory.

  Dressed in a shapeless hospital gown and with her arm held against her body like a broken wing, she looked small and vulnerable, more ethereal and delicate than before. Sympathy and other emotions he wouldn’t name tugged at his chest, but he shoved them away.

  She had information he needed. Concentrating on Vadim was his goal. Emotion would only get in the way. Emotion could get him killed.

  He needed a new tack. Accusing her of a fabricated theft hadn’t tricked her into denying it.

  Amnesia for real? Or acting?

  If the tears and memory loss were false, why protect the man who’d tried to kill her? Was Vadim that great a lover? The mere thought turned Jack’s stomach.

  Or was she protecting herself because she was guilty? Had the sightseeing excursions been cover for passing smuggled diamonds or arranging the uranium sale?

  Jack doubted that. She’d been out of task-force sight only when she’d been inside the villa.

  If she was faking, returning her to the villa might give him an opportunity to trip her up. If the amnesia was real, a return might jog her brain. Either way fit his plans.

  For now, he’d keep testing how good an actress she was.

  Regarding her lying there weak and racked with pain, he tamped down a stab of guilt. And an urge to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

  Jack waited as she seemed to regroup and revive. Her breathing evened out and her forehea
d smoothed. Finally she reopened her eyes, lush brown lashes fluttering.

  Distress again pleated her forehead. She gazed at him with resignation in her espresso-dark eyes. She’d probably expected him to leave.

  “Ms. Rinaldi,” he began.

  A sigh escaped her lips. “Sophie, please. Ms. Rinaldi makes me think of my mother.” She started to reach for the carafe beside her but grimaced at the effort to turn.

  He waved her off and poured the water. He dropped a flexible straw into the plastic cup.

  “Sophie.” He’d thought the name for days but hadn’t said it. A soft name, a whisper of silk on the lips. He shook off the foolish thought as he handed her the cup. Their fingers brushed, and awareness sparked into his flesh. “ATSA has pieced together the last four weeks from your travel itinerary and the American consulate. But I warn you. You may not like what you hear.”

  She brightened visibly, a rosy hue suffusing her high cheekbones. “Oh, yes, please tell me. I want to know everything. I need to know.” She handed him back the cup.

  Jack took the cup, careful not to touch her again. He dragged his gaze from her parted lips, moistened by the cool water. He needed to study her reactions, but, damn it, looking at the woman had unwanted physical consequences.

  He flipped a page in his notebook and skimmed his notes. “You did land in Rome as planned. No plane crash. You spent a week there, stayed at the Hotel Magenta near the Pantheon. From Rome—”

  “Wait,” Sophie said, worry in her eyes. “What did I do in Rome? Did I find any Pinellis?”

  “Pinellis?”

  “My mother’s people. One reason for my trip was to find family. I had letters and names—oh, my God, what happened to them?” She clutched at his sleeve. “My luggage, my things…”

  “Your effects are safe, including the letters.” He’d gone through them himself last night. Her passport and the letters confirmed her identity if not her innocence. The rest had been bought for her by Vadim, but he’d save that for later.

  Seeming to accept his word, she let go of his sleeve. She accepted the cup again and swallowed another sip of water. “Go on, please.”

  Returning the cup to the side table, he continued his recital of her itinerary. “From Rome you flew to Florence, where you stayed until the next Sunday. Then you rented a car and toured Tuscany. You returned to Florence and took a plane to Venice, the last leg of your journey.”

  Sophie reacted to his story with small frowns and a tightening of her mouth. She asked only one question. “Do you know whether I found my relatives?”

  He shook his head. “None of your papers indicated that one way or the other. Were you searching for relatives in Venice, too?”

  “No. I just wanted to see the city. What about Venice?” Her words were almost a whisper. Her agitation was palpable. “Whatever…happened to me must’ve happened here.”

  Jack stuffed his notebook away and kept his hand in the pocket to keep from gathering Sophie in his arms. If she was acting, she ought to win an Oscar. He gave himself a mental kick for letting his professional skepticism slip.

  “This last part is sketchy,” he said. “We obtained information from the airline and from what you told the U.S. Consulate. When you landed, your luggage didn’t. That left you with only a few euros and a credit card. When you tried to use the credit card at the hotel, the card check indicated the card was stolen. The clerk cut it up.”

  When she said nothing, only stared at him in disbelief, he continued, “That’s apparently when you contacted Sebastian Vadim. He moved you into his villa and bought you new clothes and new luggage.”

  “What about my own luggage?”

  “We found your purse with some new traveler’s checks—but no credit card—at the villa. Apparently the airline hasn’t recovered your luggage.” Leoni had checked with Baggage Claim. He said the clerk had merely smiled and shrugged.

  As Jack studied her bewildered expression, he paused for full effect before the clincher. An assumption but a good bet. Jack wouldn’t flinch from pushing her to deny or remember. “As I said, Vadim moved you into his villa—and into his bed. You are his lover.”

  Her mouth rounded in horror. “You must be mistaken,” she whispered. “I couldn’t—”

  “Or were. Until he tried to kill you yesterday.”

  “Impossible. Yesterday was the return date on my plane tickets. Why wasn’t I at the airport?”

  “You ran from the villa in fear, but Vadim came after you in his Maserati. His right front fender did this to you.”

  His words seemed to strike her like a physical blow. She sank backward, her free hand covering her eyes. Then, tears streaming, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “No, no, it can’t be! I am not this man’s anything. I don’t know him. Why would he try to kill me?”

  Jack forced himself to peel her fingers from his arm. He leaned forward, his arms braced on the bed, close enough to feel her warm breath, see the rise and fall of her breasts and breathe her female scent. Damn it, he would not let Vadim’s woman get to him.

  Angry at his ambivalence, he nearly growled at her. “That’s exactly what ATSA wants to know. Your lover is no business consultant. He’s a murderer and a black-market dealer in blood diamonds. ATSA can protect you from him if you cooperate with us. Where is he? Where is Sebastian Vadim?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything,” Sophie choked out. “What you say is impossible. Leave me alone!” She turned away, her tears welling to shuddering sobs.

  Jack froze. Damn, he’d pushed her too hard. Questions clamped his chest. Was he wrong about her? What should he do?

  He pulled his hands away from the bed. Indecision was not his style. He hated uncertainty, second-guessing, but there was something about Sophie… “Look, I didn’t mean—”

  The door burst open. “Cosa sta succedendo qui?” What’s happening here?

  Two nurses shoved him out of the way. One made cooing noises over Sophie and straightened her covers.

  The other glared at Jack. “Vada via!” she ordered as she hustled him out the door.

  Even in a historic building like the Venice Questura, the conference room looked like every other police conference room in which Jack had attended a meeting. Long polished-wood table, creaky chairs and drab walls with framed commendations, portraits and official seals. Commissario De Carlo was outlining strategy to Jack and other members of the Nuclear Interdiction Task Force not chasing down leads.

  At the far end of the rectangular table, De Carlo was flanked by three polizia colleagues who took furious notes as he talked. Jack eyed his notes—the basics, not more than ten words. What could those guys be writing? Two other ATSA officers sat midway down. Across from Jack, Leoni looked half-asleep, as usual.

  At the other end of the table was a surprise addition—Jack’s boss, Raines. The ATSA assistant director listened to the task-force leader but took no notes. From time to time Raines’s gaze flicked from De Carlo to him.

  “Thorne, your assistant director has vouched for you as a man with solid experience and ability,” said De Carlo, a short man with a wrestler’s build and a bald spot like a tonsure. He passed a file folder down the table to Jack.

  “What’s this, Commissario?” He flipped open the folder.

  “I need more men investigating possible buyers of the uranium. That’s a file on one of them, a Yamari exile named Ahmed Saqr. He’s a fanatic, a terrorist who has associated with Vadim in the past. We believe he is in London.”

  Jack’s heart plummeted. Reassigned. Exiled to London. Before he broke it, he dropped his pen on the table and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

  “Sir, with all due respect, I believe the Rinaldi woman is our best hope of finding Vadim.”

  “The woman may be his lover, but she has amnesia. The doctor’s report says she remembers nothing of her time with Vadim, and they have no idea when she might remember.”

  “I have my doubts about the amnesia,” Jack countered.
“I think I can get through to her.” After her reaction this morning, he wasn’t too sure, but he had to try again. And soon. “She’s the key, I know it.”

  Jack respected Raines and hated to have failed him almost as much as he hated failing his personal mission. He prided himself on his powers of observation, on being able to read people—but not Raines. Not the slightest clue to his impressions or thoughts betrayed him. Although Jack could keep his own features impassive, he had the eerie feeling Raines could see into his mind.

  If the AD went along with reassigning him, Jack would quit and go it alone. Nothing would stop him from taking down his enemy.

  And Sophie Rinaldi was the key.

  He gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white. He cast a glance at Raines.

  Jack’s ATSA boss cleared his throat. “Commissario De Carlo, as you know, I defer to you as head of this task force, but Jack Thorne’s instincts about people are what make him invaluable. I trust his judgment on the Rinaldi woman. A few more days on that assignment might yield the intel we need.”

  A muscle jumped in Jack’s jaw, and he felt sweat bead on his temples. The tension between the Italian and U.S. factions of the task force was typical. De Carlo didn’t trust the ATSA officers. Leoni’s laid-back approach didn’t help. Nor did the elitist attitude of some in the polizia contingent.

  Jack’s next argument had to be logical, not emotional. He flattened his palms on his knees and sought calm.

  When De Carlo hesitated, Jack jumped in again. “Whether she has real amnesia or not, she knows Vadim’s secrets. He will try to kill her again. You can count on it. He has connections we don’t know and he’s ruthless. I can protect Ms. Rinaldi while I question her.”

  “Boh.” De Carlo waved off Jack’s plea with the all-purpose Italian dismissal. “The woman is not important. She is safe while in hospital. Once she is well enough, we will return her to the States.”

  “But—”

  “You have your new assignment.” He gave a deferential nod to Raines. “However, I will give you two days to probe this Rinaldi woman. That is all. After that you fly to London. In the meantime, I suggest you study this file and the other data Interpol has provided to our computers.”