He took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her mouth, a kiss so long and hard that she had difficulty catching her breath. When at last he pulled back, her legs were wobbly and her pulse was roaring in her ears.
“That’s what’s bothering me,” he said. “I can’t think straight when you’re around. Can’t concentrate long enough to tie my own shoelaces. You brush past me, or just look at me, and my mind goes off on certain tangents I’d rather not specify. It’s the kind of situation that leads to mistakes. And I don’t like to make mistakes.”
“You’re the one who can’t concentrate. And I’m the one who has to fly home?” She turned and started across the room toward the connecting door to Jordan’s suite. “Sorry, Richard,” she said, moving past the window, “but you’ll just have to keep those lusty male hormones under—”
Her words were cut off by the crack of the shattering window.
Reflexes made her pivot away from the sting of flying glass. In the next instant, Richard lunged at her and sent her sprawling to the shard-littered floor.
Another bullet zinged through the window and thudded into the far wall.
“The light!” shouted Richard. “Got to kill the light!” He began to crawl toward the bedside lamp and had almost reached it when the second window shattered. Broken glass rained on top of him.
“Richard!” screamed Beryl.
“Stay down!” He took a deep breath, then rolled across the floor. He grabbed the lamp cord and yanked the plug from the outlet. Instantly the room was plunged into darkness. The only light came through the windows, shining dimly in from the Place Vendme. An eerie silence fell over the room, broken only by the hammering of Beryl’s heartbeat in her ears.
She started to rise to her knees.
“Don’t move!” warned Richard.
“He can’t see us.”
“He might have an infrared scope. Stay down.”
Beryl dropped back to the floor and felt the bite of broken glass through her sleeves. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Has to be one of the buildings across the plaza. Long-range rifle.”
“What do we do now?”
“We call for reinforcements.” She heard him crawling in the darkness, then heard the clang of the telephone hitting the floor. An instant later, he muttered an oath. “Line’s dead! Someone’s cut the wire.”
New panic shot through Beryl. “You mean they’ve been in the room?”
“Which means—” Suddenly he fell silent.
“Richard?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Over her pounding heartbeat, she heard the faint whine of the hotel elevator as it came to a stop at their floor.
“I think we’re in trouble,” said Richard.
Seven
“He can’t get in,” said Beryl. “The door’s locked.”
“They’ll have a passkey. If they managed to get in here earlier…”
“What do we do?”
“Jordan’s room. Move!”
At once she was on her knees and crawling toward the connecting door. Only when she’d reached it did she realize Richard wasn’t following her.
“Come on!” she whispered.
“You go. I’ll hold them off.”
She glanced back in disbelief. “What?”
“They’ll check this room first to see if we’ve been hit. I’ll slow them down. You get out through Jordan’s suite. Head for the stairwell and don’t stop running.”
Beryl crouched frozen in the connecting doorway. This is suicide. He has no gun, no weapon at all. Already he was slipping through the shadows. She could just make out his figure, poised by the door. Waiting for the attack.
The knock on the door made her jerk in panic. “Mlle Tavistock?” called a man’s voice. Beryl didn’t answer; she didn’t dare to. “Mademoiselle?” the voice called again.
Richard was gesturing frantically at her through the darkness. Get out! Now.
I can’t leave him, she thought. I can’t let him fight this alone.
A key grated in the lock.
There was no time to consider the risks. Beryl grabbed the bedside lamp, scrambled toward Richard, and planted herself right beside him.
“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered.
“Shut up,” she hissed back.
They both flattened against the wall as the door swung open in front of them. There was a pause, the span of just a few heartbeats, and then they heard footsteps cross the threshold into the room. The door slowly swung closed, revealing the silhouettes of the intruders—two men, standing in the darkness. Beryl could feel Richard coil up beside her, could almost hear his silent one-two-three countdown. Suddenly he was flying at the nearest man; the force of the impact sent both men slamming to the floor.
Beryl raised the lamp and brought it crashing down on the head of the second intruder. He collapsed at her feet, facedown and groaning. She dropped beside him and began patting his clothes for a gun. Through his jacket, she felt a hard lump under his arm. A holster? She rolled him over onto his back. Only then, as a crack of light through the partially closed door spilled across his face, did she realize their mistake.
“Oh, my God,” she said. She glanced at Richard, who’d just grabbed his opponent by the collar and was about to shove him against the wall. “Richard, don’t!” she yelled. “Don’t hurt him!”
He paused, still clutching the other man’s collar in his fists. “Why the hell not?” he muttered.
“Because these are the wrong men, that’s why!” She went to the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light.
Richard blinked in the sudden brightness. He stared at the hotel manager, cowering in his grip. Then he turned and looked at the man who lay groaning by the door. It was Claude Daumier.
At once Richard released the manager, who promptly shrank away in terror. “Sorry,” said Richard. “My mistake.”
“If I’d known it was you,” said Beryl, pressing a bag of ice to Daumier’s head, “I wouldn’t have whacked you so hard.”
“If you had known it was me,” muttered Daumier, “I would hope you wouldn’t have whacked me at all.” He sat up on the couch and caught the bag of ice before it could slide off. “Zut alors, what did you use, chérie? A brick?”
“A lamp. And not a very big one, either.” She glanced at Richard and the hotel manager. Both men were looking slightly the worse for wear—especially the manager. That black eye of his was colorful testimony to the damaging potential of Richard’s fist. Now that the crisis was over, and they were safely barricaded in the manager’s office, the situation struck Beryl as more than a little hilarious. A senior French Intelligence agent, beaned by a lamp? Richard, still nursing his bruised knuckles. And the poor hotel manager, assiduously maintaining a safe distance from those same knuckles. She could have laughed—if the whole affair hadn’t been so frightening.
There was a knock on the door. Instantly Beryl tensed, only to relax again when she saw that it was a policeman. I’m still high on adrenaline, she thought as she watched Daumier and the cop converse in French. Still expecting the worst.
The policeman withdrew, closing the door behind him.
“What did he say?” Beryl asked.
“The shots were fired from across the plaza,” said Daumier. “They have found bullet casings on the rooftop.”
“And the gunman?” asked Richard.
Regretfully Daumier shook his head. “Vanished.”
“Then he’s still on the loose,” said Richard. “And we don’t know when he’ll strike again.” He looked at the manager. “What about that telephone wire? Who could’ve cut it?”
The man shrank back a step, as though expecting another blow. “I do not know, monsieur! One of the maids, she says her passkey was misplaced for a few hours today.”
“So anyone could have gotten in.”
“No one from our staff! They are thoroughly checked. You see, we have many important guests.”
“I
want your employees revetted. Every last one of them.”
The manager nodded meekly. Then, still wincing in pain from the black eye, he left the office.
Richard began to pace, carelessly yanking his tie loose as he moved. “We have an intruder who cuts the phone line. A marksman stationed across the plaza. A high-powered rifle positioned for a shot straight into Beryl’s room. Claude, this is sounding worse by the minute.”
“Why would they try to kill me?” asked Beryl. “What have I done?”
“You’ve asked too many questions, that’s what.” Richard turned to Daumier. “You had it right, Claude. The matter’s not dead, not by a long shot.”
“We were both in that room, Richard,” said Beryl. “How do you know he was aiming at me?”
“I wasn’t the one walking past that window.”
“You’re the one who’s CIA.”
“The qualifying prefix is ex, as in, no longer with the Company. I’m not a threat to anyone.”
“And I am?”
“Yes. By virtue of your name—not to mention your curiosity.” He glanced at Daumier. “We need a safe house, Claude. Can you arrange it?”
“We keep a flat in Passy for protection of witnesses. It will serve your purpose.”
“Who else knows about it?”
“My people. A few ministry officials.”
“That’s too many.”
“It is the best I can offer. It has an alarm system. And I will assign guards.”
Richard paused, thinking, weighing the risks. At last he nodded. “It will have to do for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll come up with something else. Maybe a plane ticket.” He looked at Beryl.
This time she didn’t protest. Already she could feel the adrenaline fading away. A moment ago, every nerve felt wired for action; now a plane home was beginning to sound sensible. All it took was a short flight across the Channel, and she’d be safe in the refuge of Chetwynd. It was all so easy, so tempting.
And she was so very, very tired.
With a numb sense of detachment, Beryl listened as Daumier made the necessary phone calls. He hung up and said, “I will have a car and escort brought around. Beryl’s clothes will be delivered to the flat later. Oh, and Richard, you will no doubt want this.” He reached under his suit jacket and withdrew a semiautomatic pistol from his shoulder holster. He handed it to Richard. “A loan. Just between us, of course.”
“Are you sure you want to part with it?”
“I have another.” Daumier slid off his holster, which he also gave to Richard. “You remember how to use one?”
Richard checked the ammunition clip and nodded grimly. “I think it’ll come back.”
A policeman knocked on the door. The car was waiting.
Richard took Beryl’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Time to drop out of sight for a while. Are you ready?”
She looked at the gun he was holding, noted how easily he handled it, how comfortably he slid it into the holster. A professional, she thought. The transformation was almost frightening. How well do I really know you, Richard Wolf?
For now, the question was irrelevant. He was the one man she could count on, the one man she had to trust.
She folowed him out the door.
“We should be safe here. For tonight, at least.” Richard double-bolted the apartment door and turned to look at her.
She was standing in the center of the living room, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, a dazed look in her eyes. This was not the brash and stubborn Beryl he knew, he thought. This was a woman who’d faced sheer terror and knew the worst wasn’t over yet. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and promise her that nothing would ever hurt her while he was around, but they both knew it was a promise he might not be able to keep. In silence, he circled the flat, checking to see that the windows were secure, the drapes closed. A glance outside told him there were two guards watching the building, one at the front entrance, one at the rear. A safety net, he thought. For when I let my attention slip. And it would slip. Sooner or later, he would have to sleep.
Satisfied that all was locked up tight, he went back to the living room. He found Beryl sitting on the couch, very quiet, very still. Almost…defeated.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She gave a shrug, as though the question was irrelevant—as though they had far more important things to consider.
He took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “You haven’t eaten. There’s some food in the kitchen.”
Her gaze focused on his shoulder holster. “Why did you quit the business?” she asked.
“You mean the Company?”
She nodded. “When I saw you holding that gun, it…it suddenly struck me. What you used to be.”
He sat down beside her. “I’ve never killed anyone. If that makes a difference.”
“But you’re trained to do it.”
“Only in self-defense. That’s not the same thing as murder.”
She nodded, as though trying very hard to agree with him.
He took the Glock from the holster and held it out to her. She regarded it with undisguised abhorrence.
“Yes, I understand how you feel,” he said. “This gun’s a semiautomatic. Nine millimeter bullets, sixteen cartridges to the magazine. Some people consider it a work of art. I think of it as a tool of last resort. Something I hope to God I never have to use.” He set it on the coffee table, where it lay like an evil reminder of violence. “Pick it up if you want to. It’s not very heavy.”
“I’d rather not.” She shuddered and looked away. “I’m not afraid of guns. I mean, I’ve handled rifles before. I used to go shooting with Uncle Hugh. But those were only clay pigeons.”
“Not quite the same thing.”
“No. Not quite.”
“You asked why I quit the Company.” He pointed to the Glock. “That was one of the reasons. I’ve never killed anyone, and I’m not itching to. For me, the intelligence business was a game. A challenge. The enemy was well-defined—the Russians, the East Germans. But now…” He picked up the gun and held it thoughtfully in his palm. “The world’s turned into a crazy place. I can’t tell who the enemy is anymore. And I knew that sooner or later, I’d lose my edge. I could already feel it happening.”
“Your edge?”
“It’s my age, you know. You hit forty and you don’t react the way you did as a twenty-year-old. I like to think I’ve grown smarter, instead, but what I really am is more cautious. And a lot less willing to take risks.” He looked at her. “With anyone’s life.”
She met his gaze. Looking into her eyes, he suddenly found himself wanting to babble all sorts of crazy things. To tell her that the one life he didn’t want to risk was hers. When had this stopped being a mere baby-sitting job? he wondered. When had it become something much more? A mission. An obsession.
“You frighten me, Richard,” she said.
“It’s the gun.”
“No, it’s you. All the things I don’t know about you. All the secrets you’re keeping from me.”
“From now on, I promise I’ll be absolutely honest with you.”
“But it started out as half truths. Not telling me you knew my parents. Or how they died. Don’t you see, it’s my childhood all over again! Uncle Hugh with his head full of classified secrets.” She let out a breath of frustration and looked away. “Then I see you with that…thing.”
He touched her face and gently turned it toward him. “It’s just a temporary evil,” he murmured. “Until this is over.” She kept looking at him, her eyes bright and moist, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. She wants to trust me, he thought. But she’s afraid.
He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her. Once. Twice. The second time, he felt her lips yield under his, felt her whole body seem to turn liquid at his touch. He kissed her a third time and found his hands sliding through her hair, his fingers hopelessly becoming tangled in all that raven silk. She sighed, a delicious sound of surren
der, invitation, and she sagged backward onto the couch.
Suddenly he, too, was falling, tumbling on top of her. Their lips met in a touch that instantly turned electric. She reached around his neck and pulled him down hard against her—
And flinched. That blasted gun again. The holster had pushed into her breast, had served as an ugly reminder of all the things that had happened today. All the things that could still happen.
He looked at her face, at her hair flung across the cushions, at the mingling of fear and desire he saw in her eyes. Not now, he thought. Not this way.
Slowly he pulled away and they both sat up. For a moment, they remained side by side on the couch, not touching, not speaking.
She said, “I’m not ready for this. I’ll put my life in your hands, Richard. But my heart, that’s a different matter.”
“I understand.”
“Then you’ll also understand that I’m not a fan of James Bond, or anyone remotely like him. I’m not impressed by guns, or by the men who use them.” She rose to her feet and moved pointedly away from the couch. Away from him.
“So what does impress you?” he asked. “If not a man’s gun?”
She turned to him and he saw a flicker of humor cross her face. The old Beryl, he thought. Thank God she’s still there, somewhere.
“Straight talk,” she said. “That’s what impresses me.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get. I promise.”
She turned and walked to the bedroom. “We’ll see.”
Jordan was not impressed by this lawyer, no, he was not impressed at all.
The man had greasy hair and a greasy little mustache, and he spoke English with the exaggerated accent of a second-rate actor playing a stereotypical Frenchman. All those “eets” and “zees” and “Mon Dieus.” Still, Jordan reasoned, since Beryl had hired the man, he must be one of the best attorneys in Paris.
You could have fooled me, thought Jordan, gazing across the prison interview table at the smarmy M. Jarre.
“Not to worry,” said the man. “Everything will be taken care of. I am reviewing the papers now, and I believe we will soon reach an agreement to have you released.”
In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts Page 11
