In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  Two men stepped into their path. At once the couple halted and pivoted as though to flee back toward the plane. Three more men magically appeared, blocking off their escape. The couple was trapped.

  The attendant caught a glimpse of the woman’s panicked face, the man’s grim expression of defeat. She had been sure there was something wrong about them. They were terrorists, perhaps, or international thieves. And there were the police to make the arrest. She watched as the pair was led away through the murmuring crowd. Definitely not first class, she thought with a sniff of satisfaction. Oh, yes, one could always tell.

  Richard and Beryl were shoved forward into a windowless room. “Stay here!” came the barked command, then the door was slammed shut behind them.

  “They were waiting for us,” said Beryl. “How did they know?”

  Richard went to the door and tested the knob. “Dead bolt,” he muttered. “We’re locked in tight.” In frustration, he began to circle the room, searching for another way out. “Somehow they knew we were coming to Berlin….”

  “We paid for the tickets in cash. There was no way they could have known. And those were airport guards, Richard. If they want us dead, why bother to arrest us?”

  “To keep you from getting your heads shot off,” said a familiar voice. “That’s why.”

  Beryl wheeled around in astonishment at the portly man who’d just opened the door. “Uncle Hugh?”

  Lord Lovat scowled at his niece’s wrinkled clothes and tangled hair. “You’re a fine mess. Since when did you adopt the gypsy look?”

  “Since we hitchhiked halfway across Greece. Credit cards, by the way, are not the preferred method of payment in small Greek towns.”

  “Well, you made it to Berlin.” He glanced at Richard. “Good work, Wolf.”

  “I could’ve used some assistance,” growled Richard.

  “And we would’ve happily provided it. But we had no idea where to find you, until I spoke with your man, Sakaroff. He said you’d be headed for Berlin. We only just found out you’d gone via Athens.”

  “What are you doing in Berlin, Uncle Hugh?” demanded Beryl. “I thought you were off on another one of your secret missions.”

  “I’m fishing.”

  “Not for fish, obviously.”

  “For answers. Which I’m hoping Heinrich Leitner will provide.” He took another look at Beryl’s clothes and sighed. “Let’s get to the hotel and clean you both up. Then we’ll pay a visit to Herr Leitner’s prison cell.”

  “You have clearance to speak to him?” said Richard in surprise.

  “What do you think I’ve been doing here these last few days? Wining and dining the necessary officials.” He waved them out of the room. “The car’s waiting.”

  In Uncle Hugh’s hotel suite, they showered off three days’ worth of Greek dust and sand. A fresh set of clothes was delivered to the room, courtesy of the concierge—sober business attire, outfits appropriate for a visit to a high-security prison.

  “How do we know Leitner will tell us the truth?” asked Richard as they rode in the limousine to the prison.

  “We don’t,” said Hugh. “We don’t even know how much he can tell us. He oversaw Paris operations from East Berlin, so he’d be acquainted with code names, but not faces.”

  “Then we may come away with nothing.”

  “As I said, Wolf, it’s a fishing expedition. Sometimes you reel in an old tire. Sometimes a salmon.”

  “Or, in this case, a mole.”

  “If he’s cooperative.”

  “Are you prepared to hear the truth?” asked Richard. The question was directed at Hugh, but his gaze was on Beryl. Delphi could still be Bernard or Madeline, his eyes said.

  “Right now, I’d say ignorance is far more dangerous,” Hugh observed. “And there’s Jordan to consider. I have people watching out for him. But there’s always the chance things could go wrong.”

  Things have already gone wrong, thought Beryl, looking out the car window at the drab and dreary buildings of East Berlin.

  The prison was even more forbidding—a massive concrete fortress surrounded by electrified fences. The very best of security, she noted, as they moved through the gauntlet of checkpoints and metal detectors. Uncle Hugh had obviously been expected, and he was greeted with the chilling disdain of an old Cold War enemy. Only when they’d arrived at the commandant’s office was any courtesy extended to them. Glasses of hot tea were passed around, cigars offered to the men. Hugh accepted; Richard declined.

  “Up until recently, Leitner was most uncooperative,” said the commandant, lighting a cigar. “At first, he denied his role entirely. But our files on him are proof positive. He was in charge of Paris operations.”

  “Has Leitner provided any names?” asked Richard.

  The commandant peered at Richard through the drifting cloud of cigar smoke. “You were CIA, were you not, Mr. Wolf?”

  Richard gave only the briefest nod of acknowledgment. “It was years ago. I’ve left the business.”

  “But you understand how it is, to be dogged by one’s past associations.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  The commandant rose and went to look out his window at the barbed-wire fence enclosing his prison kingdom. “Berlin is filled with people running from their shadows. Their old lives. Whether it was for money or for ideology, they served a master. And now the master is dead and they hide from the past.”

  “Leitner’s already in prison. He has nothing to lose by talking to us.”

  “But the people who worked for him—the ones not yet exposed—they have everything to lose. Now the East German files are open. And every day, some curious citizen opens one of those files and discovers the truth. Realizes that a friend or husband or lover was working for the enemy.” The commandant turned, his pale blue eyes focused on Richard. “That’s why Leitner has been reluctant to give names—to protect his old agents.”

  “But you say he’s more cooperative these days?”

  “In recent weeks, yes.”

  “Why?”

  The commandant paused. “A bad heart, the doctors say. It fails, little by little. In two months, three…” He shrugged. “Leitner sees the end coming. And in exchange for a few last comforts, he’s sometimes willing to talk.”

  “Then he may give us answers.”

  “If he is in the mood.” The commandant turned to the door. “So, let us see what sort of mood Herr Leitner is in today.”

  They followed him down secured corridors, past mounted cameras and grim-faced guards, into the very core of the complex. Here there were no windows; the air itself seemed hermetically sealed from the outside world. From here there is no escape, thought Beryl. Except through death.

  They stopped at cell number five. Two guards, each with his own key, opened separate locks. The door swung open.

  Inside, on a wooden chair, sat an old man. Oxygen tubing snaked from his nostrils. His regulation prison garb—tan shirt and pants, no belt—hung loosely on his shrunken frame. The fluorescent lights gave his face a yellowish cast. Beside the man’s chair stood an oxygen tank; except for the hiss of the gas flowing through his nasal prongs, the room was silent.

  The commandant said, “Guten Tag, Heinrich.”

  Leitner said nothing. Only by a brief flicker of his eyes did he acknowledge the greeting.

  “I have brought with me today, Lord Lovat, from England. You are familiar with the name?”

  Again, a flicker in the old man’s blue eyes. And a whisper, barely audible, “MI6.”

  “That’s right,” said Hugh. “Since retired.”

  “So am I,” was the reply, not without a trace of humor. Leitner’s gaze shifted to Beryl and Richard.

  “My niece,” said Hugh. “And a former associate. Richard Wolf.”

  “CIA?” said Leitner.

  Richard nodded. “Also retired.”

  Leitner managed a faint smile. “How differently we enjoy our retirements.” He looked once again at
Hugh. “A social call on an old enemy? How thoughtful.”

  “Not a social call, exactly,” said Hugh.

  Leitner began to cough, and the effort seemed almost too much for him; when at last he settled back into his chair, his face had a distinctly blue tinge. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “The identity of your double agent in Paris. Code name Delphi.”

  Leitner didn’t speak.

  “Surely the name is familiar, Herr Leitner. Over the years, Delphi must have passed on invaluable documents. He was your link to NATO operations. Don’t you remember?”

  “That was twenty years ago,” murmured Leitner. “The world has changed.”

  “We want only his name. That’s all.”

  “So you may put Delphi in a cage like this? Shut away from the sun and air?”

  “So we can stop the killing,” said Richard.

  Leitner frowned. “What killing?”

  “It’s going on right now. A French agent, murdered in Paris. A man, shot to death in Greece. It’s all linked to Delphi.”

  “That cannot be possible,” said Leitner.

  “Why?”

  “Delphi has been put to sleep.”

  Hugh frowned at him. “Are you saying he’s dead?”

  “But that makes no sense,” said Richard. “If Delphi’s dead, why is the killing still going on?”

  “Perhaps,” said Leitner, “it has nothing at all to do with Delphi.”

  “Perhaps you are lying,” said Richard.

  Leitner smiled. “Always a possibility.” Suddenly he began to cough again; it had the gurgling sound of a man drowning in his own secretions. When at last he could speak, it was only between gasps for oxygen. “Delphi was a paid recruit,” he said. “Not a true believer. We preferred the believers, you see. They did not cost as much.”

  “So he did it for money?” asked Richard.

  “A rather generous sum, over the years.”

  “When did it stop?”

  “When it became a risk to all involved. So Delphi ended the association. Covered all tracks before your counterintelligence could close in.”

  “Is that why my parents were killed?” asked Beryl. “Because Delphi had to cover his tracks?”

  Leitner frowned. “Your parents?”

  “Bernard and Madeline Tavistock. They were shot to death in a garret in Pigalle.”

  “But that was a murder and suicide. I saw the report.”

  “Or were they both murdered? By Delphi?”

  Leitner looked at Hugh. “I gave no such order. And that is the truth.”

  “Meaning some of what you told us is not the truth?” Richard probed.

  Leitner took a deep breath of oxygen and painfully wheezed it out. “Truth, lies,” he whispered. “What does it matter now?” He sank back in his chair and looked at the commandant. “I wish to rest. Take these people away.”

  “Herr Leitner,” said Richard, “I’ll ask this one last time. Is Delphi really dead?”

  Leitner met his gaze with one so steady, so unflinching, it seemed that surely he was about to tell the truth. But the answer he gave was puzzling at best.

  “Dormant,” he said. “That is the word I would use.”

  “So he’s not dead.”

  “For your purposes,” Leitner said with a smile, “he is.”

  Eleven

  “A sleeper. That’s what Delphi must be,” said Richard. They had not dared discuss the matter in the limousine—no telling whom their driver really worked for. But here, in a noisy restaurant, with waiters whisking back and forth, Richard could finally spell out his theories. “I’m sure that’s what he meant.”

  “A sleeper?” asked Beryl.

  “Someone they recruit years in advance,” said her uncle. “As a young adult. The person may be kept inactive for years. They live a normal life, try to gain influence in some trusted position. And then the signal’s sent. And the sleeper’s activated.”

  “So that’s what he meant by dormant,” said Beryl. “Not dead. But not active, either.”

  “Precisely.”

  “For this sleeper to be of any use to them, he’d have to be in a position of influence. Or close to it,” said Beryl thoughtfully.

  “Which describes Stephen Sutherland to a T,” said Richard. “American ambassador. Access to all security data.”

  “It also describes Philippe St. Pierre,” said Hugh. “Minister of Finance. In line for French prime minister—”

  “And extremely vulnerable to blackmail,” added Beryl, thinking of Nina and Philippe. And of Anthony, the son born of their illicit affair.

  “I’ll contact Daumier,” said Hugh. “Have St. Pierre vetted again.”

  “While he’s at it,” said Richard, “ask him to vet Nina.”

  “Nina?”

  “Talk about positions of influence! An ambassador’s wife. Mistress to St. Pierre. She could’ve heard secrets from both sides of the bed.”

  Hugh shook his head. “Considering her double digit IQ, Nina Sutherland’s the last person I’d expect to work for Intelligence.”

  “And the one person who’d get away with it.”

  Hugh glanced around impatiently for the waiter. “We have to leave for Paris at once,” he said, and slapped enough marks on the table to pay for their coffees. “There’s no telling what’s happening to Jordan.”

  “If it is Nina, do you think she could get at Jordan?” asked Beryl.

  “All these years, I’ve overlooked Nina Sutherland,” said Hugh. “I’m not about to make the same mistake now.”

  Daumier met them at Orly Airport. “I have reexamined the security files on Philippe and Nina,” he said as they rode together in his limousine. “St. Pierre is clean. His record is unblemished. If he is the sleeper, we have no evidence of it.”

  “And Nina?”

  Daumier gave a deep sigh. “Our dear Nina presents a problem. There was an item that was not addressed in her earlier vetting. She was eighteen when she first appeared on the London stage. A small part, quite insignificant, but it launched her acting career. At that time, she had an affair with one of her fellow actors—an East German by the name of Berte Klausner. He claimed he was a defector. But three years later, he vanished from England and was never heard from again.”

  “A recruiter?” asked Richard.

  “Possibly.”

  “How on earth did this little affair make it past Nina’s vetting?” asked Beryl.

  Daumier shrugged. “It was noted when Nina and Sutherland were married. By then she’d retired from the theater to become a diplomat’s wife. She didn’t serve in any official capacity. As a rule, security checks on wives—especially if they are American—are not as demanding. So Nina slipped through.”

  “Then you have evidence of possible recruitment,” said Beryl. “And she could have had access to NATO secrets by way of her husband. But you can’t prove she’s Delphi. Nor can you prove she’s a murderer.”

  “True,” admitted Daumier.

  “I doubt you’ll get her to confess, either,” said Richard. “Nina was once an actress. She could probably brazen her way through anything.”

  “That is why I suggest the following action,” said Daumier. “A trap. Tempt her into making a move.”

  “With what bait?” asked Richard.

  “Jordan.”

  “That’s out of the question!” said Beryl.

  “He has already agreed to it. This afternoon, he will be released from prison. We move him to a hotel where he will attempt to be conspicuous.”

  Hugh laughed. “Not much of a stretch for our Jordan.”

  “My men will be stationed at strategic points in the hotel. If—and when—an attack occurs, we will be prepared.”

  “Things could go wrong,” said Beryl. “He could be hurt—”

  “He could be hurt in prison, as well,” said Daumier. “At least this may provide us with answers.”

  “And possibly a dead body.”

  “Have
you a better suggestion?”

  Beryl glanced at Richard, then at her uncle. They were both silent. I can’t believe they’re agreeing to this, she thought.

  She looked at Daumier. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’d complicate things, Beryl,” said Hugh. “It’s better for you to stay out of the picture.”

  “The Vanes’ house has excellent security,” said Daumier. “Reggie and Helena have already agreed that you should stay with them.”

  “But I haven’t agreed,” said Beryl.

  “Beryl.” It was Richard. He spoke quietly. Unbendingly. “Jordan will be protected from all angles. They’ll be ready for the attack. This time, nothing will go wrong.”

  “Can you guarantee it? Can any of you?”

  There was silence.

  “Nothing can be guaranteed, Beryl,” said Daumier quietly. “We have to take this chance. It may be the only way to catch Delphi.”

  In frustration, she looked out the window, thinking of the options. Realizing there were none—not if any of this was to be resolved—she said softly, “I’ll agree to it on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  She looked at Richard. “I want you to be with him. I trust you, Richard. If you’re watching Jordan, I know he’ll be all right.”

  Richard nodded. “I’ll be right by his side.”

  “Who else knows about this plan?” asked Hugh.

  “Just a few of my people,” said Daumier. “I was careful not to let any of this leak out to Philippe St. Pierre.”

  “What do Reggie and Helena know?” asked Beryl.

  “Only that you need a safe place to stay. They are doing this as a favor to old friends.”

  As an old friend was exactly the way Beryl was greeted upon arrival at the Vanes’ residence. As soon as the gates closed behind the limousine, and they were inside the high walls of the compound, she was swept into the comfort of their home. It all seemed so safe, so familiar: the English wallpaper, the tray of tea and biscuits on the end table, the vases of flowers perfuming the rooms. Surely nothing could hurt her here….