Back at the hotel, Jordan parked the taxi a block away, and sat for a moment in the driver’s seat, watching to see if any cars had followed him. When he saw nothing suspicious, he stripped off his beard and turban, got out and headed for the building.
Trust me, he thought as he climbed the stairs. You have to learn to trust me. He knew it would be a long, slow process, one that might take a lifetime. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps all the damage done in childhood had robbed Clea forever of her faith in other people. Could they live with that?
Could she?
Only then did he realize that, lately, all his thoughts of the future seemed to include her.
Sometime in the past week, the shift had occurred. Where once he would have thought I, now he thought we. That’s what came of sharing so much, so intensely. It was both the reward and the consequence, this link between them.
Trust me, he thought, and opened the door.
The room was empty.
He stood staring at the bed, suddenly, painfully aware of the silence. He went into the bathroom; it was empty, as well. He paced back to the bedroom and saw that her purse was gone. And he saw his jacket, lying draped across a chair.
He picked up the jacket and noticed at once that it was lighter than usual. That something was missing. Reaching into the pocket, he discovered that his father’s gold watch was missing.
In its place was a note.
“It was fun while it lasted. Clea.”
With a groan of frustration, he crumpled the paper in his fist. Blast the woman! She’d picked his pockets! And then she’d headed for…where?
The answer was only too frightening.
It was eight o’clock. She’d had a solid three hours’ head start.
He ran back down the stairs to the taxi. First he’d swing past Sloane Square, to pick up some Scotland Yard assistance. And then it’d be on to Portsmouth, where a certain little burglar was, at this moment, probably sneaking up the gangplank of a ship.
If she wasn’t already dead.
The fence was higher than she’d expected. Clea crouched in the thickening gloom outside the Cairncross Biscuits complex and stared up in dismay at the barbed wire lacing the top of the chain link. This was not the usual penny ante security one expected for a biscuit warehouse. What were they afraid of? An attack by the Cookie Monster? The fence ringed the entire complex, interrupted only by the main gate, which was padlocked for the night. Floodlights shone down on the perimeter, leaving only intermittent patches of shadow. Judging by the fortune invested in security, there was more than just biscuits being stored in that warehouse.
Right on the money, she thought. Something else is going on in there besides the manufacture of teatime treats.
It had required only a small leap of logic to lead her to the Cairncross warehouse on the outskirts of London. If Van Weldon’s ship was taking on illicit cargo tonight, then here was the obvious holding place for that cargo. Legitimate trucks were probably in and out of here all the time, pulling up to that handy warehouse platform. If a truck showed up tonight to pick up a load of crates, no one in the neighborhood would bat an eyelash.
Very clever, Van Weldon, she thought. But this time I’m one step ahead of you.
She’d be ahead of the authorities, as well. By the time Jordan and his precious police converged on that Portsmouth dock, there’d be no telling how many people would know about the forthcoming raid. Or how much warning Van Weldon would have. Now was the time to view the evidence—before Van Weldon had a chance to change plans.
The sound of someone whistling sent Clea scrambling for the cover of bushes. From her hiding place she watched a security guard stroll past, inside the fence. He had a gun strapped to his hip. He moved at a leisurely pace, pausing to flick away a cigarette and crush the butt with his shoe. Then, lighting up another, he continued his circuit.
Clea timed the gap between his appearances. Seven minutes. She waited, let him go around again. This time it was six minutes. Six minutes, max, to get through the fence and into the building. The fence was no problem; a few snips of the wire cutter she’d brought and she’d be in the complex. It was the warehouse that worried her. Those locks might take a while to bypass, and if the guard circled around too early, she’d be trapped.
She had to take the chance.
She snipped a few links in the fence, then hid as the guard came around. The instant he vanished around the corner she cut the last link, scrambled under with her knapsack and dashed across the expanse of pavement to the warehouse side door.
One glance at the lock told her she was in for some trouble. It was a brand-new pin tumbler, and six minutes might not be enough to bypass it. She set her watch alarm for five minutes. Holding a penlight in her teeth, she set to work.
First she inserted an L-shaped tension wrench and gently applied pressure to slide apart the plug and cylinder plates. Next she inserted a lifter pick, with which she gingerly lifted the first lock pin. It slid up with a soft click.
One down, six pins to go.
The next five pins were a piece of cake. It was the seventh one—the last—that kept tripping her up. She felt the minutes tick by, felt the sweat beading on her upper lip as she struggled to lift that seventh pin. Just one more click and she’d be in the door. Interrupt the effort now, and she’d be back to square one.
Her watch alarm gave a beep.
She kept working, gambling on the chance she’d conquer that last pin in the seconds that remained. She was so close, so close.
Too late, she heard the sound of whistling again. The guard was approaching her corner of the building!
She’d never make it back under the fence in time. Neither was there any cover along the building. She had only one route of escape.
Straight up.
Sheer panic sent her clambering like a monkey up a flimsy-looking drainpipe, seeking the cover of the shadows above.
As the guard rounded the corner, she pressed herself to the wall, afraid to move a muscle, afraid even to breathe. A few feet below, the guard stopped. Pulse hammering, Clea watched as he lighted a fresh cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then, with a satisfied sigh, he continued his circuit. He rounded the next corner without a backward glance.
Clea had to make a quick choice: should she try that bloody lock again or keep climbing? Glancing up, she traced the course of the drainpipe to the three-story-high roofline. There might be another way in from there. Though the drainpipe looked flimsy, so far it had supported her weight.
She began to climb.
Seconds later she scrambled up over the edge and dropped onto the rooftop.
A shadowy expanse of asphalt tile lay before her. She started across it, moving past the whirring fans of vents. At last she came to a rooftop door—locked, of course. Another pin tumbler. She set to work with her tension wrench and lifter pick.
In two minutes flat she had the door open.
At her feet a narrow stairway dropped away into the darkness. She descended the stairs, pushed through another door and entered the vast cavern of the warehouse. Here the area was lighted, and she could see rows of crates. All of them were stamped Cairncross Biscuits, London.
She grabbed a crowbar from a tool bin and pried open one of the crates, releasing the fragrant waft of cookies. Inside she found tins with the distinctive red-and-yellow Cairncross logo. The crate did, indeed, contain biscuits.
Frustrated, she glanced around at the other crates. She’d never be able to search them all! Only then did she spot the closed double doors in the far wall.
With mounting excitement she approached the doors. They were locked. There were no windows, so it was unlikely there was an office beyond.
She picked the lock.
A rush of cooled air spilled out the open door. Air-conditioned, she thought. Climate control? She found the light switch and flicked it on.
The room was filled with crates, each stamped with the Cairncross Biscuits logo. These crates, however, were a varie
ty of sizes. Several were huge enough to house a standing man.
With the crowbar she pried off one of the lids and discovered a fluffy mound of wood shavings. Plunging both arms into the packing, she encountered something solid buried within. She dug into the shavings and the top of the object emerged, its marble surface smooth and gleaming under the lights.
It was the head of a statue, a noble youth with a crown of olive leaves.
Clea, her hands shaking with excitement, pulled a camera from her knapsack and began to snap photos. She took three shots of the statue, then reclosed the lid. She pried open a second crate.
Somewhere in the building, metal clanged.
She froze, listening, and heard the growl of a truck, the protesting squeal of a bay door being shoved open along its tracks. At once she killed the room lights. Opening the door a crack, she peered out into the warehouse.
The loading gate was wide open. A truck had backed up to the platform, and the driver was swinging open the rear doors.
Veronica and the blond man were walking in Clea’s direction.
Clea jerked back and shut the door. Frantically she waved her penlight around the room. No other exit. No place to hide except…
Voices were speaking right outside the door.
She grabbed her knapsack, scrambled into the open crate and pulled the lid over her head.
Through the cracks in the wood she saw the room’s lights come on.
“It’s all here, as you can see,” said Veronica. “Would you care to check the crates yourself, Mr. Trott? Or do you trust me now?”
“I have no time for that. They must be moved immediately.”
“I hope Mr. Van Weldon appreciates the trouble we’ve gone to, keeping these safe. He did promise there’d be compensation.”
“You’ve already taken yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your profit from selling the Eye. That should suffice.”
“That was my idea! My profit. Just because I borrowed the bloody thing for a few weeks…”
There was a momentary pause. Then Clea heard Veronica suck in a sharp breath. “Put the gun away, Mr. Trott.”
“Move away from the crates.”
“You can’t—you wouldn’t—” Suddenly Veronica laughed, a shrill, hysterical sound. “You need us!”
“Not any longer,” said Trott.
Clea flinched at the sound of a gun firing. Three bullets in rapid succession. She pressed her hand to her mouth, clamped it there to stifle the cry that rose up in her throat. She felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the crate and she was suffocating in her fear, choking on silent tears.
Then she heard the sounds of terrified sobbing. Veronica’s. She was still alive.
“Just a warning, Mrs. Cairncross,” said Trott. “Next time, I’ll hit my target.”
Trott crossed to the doorway and called out, “In here! Get these crates in the truck!”
More footsteps approached—two men and a squeaky loading cart.
“The large one first,” said Trott.
Clea heard the cart move closer, then the men grunted in unison. She braced herself as the crate tilted. She found herself wedged between the side of the crate and something cold and metallic: the bronze torso of a man.
“Christ, this one’s heavy. What’s in here, anyway?”
“That’s not your concern. Just get it moved.”
Every little bump seemed to squash Clea into a tighter and tighter space. Only when the crate at last thumped to a rest in the truck was she able to take in a deep breath. And take stock of her predicament.
She was trapped. With the men constantly shuttling back and forth, loading in the rest of the crates, she couldn’t exactly stroll out unseen.
The scrape of a second crate being slid on top of hers settled the issue. For the moment she was boxed in.
By the glow of her watch she saw it was 8:10.
At 8:25, the truck pulled away from the warehouse. By now, Clea’s calves were cramping, the wood shavings had worked their way into her clothes and she was battling an attack of claustrophobia. Reaching up, she strained to push off the lid, but the crate on top was too heavy.
She pressed her face to a small knothole and took in a few slow, deep breaths. The taste of fresh air took the edge off her panic. Better, she thought. Yes, that’s better.
Something hard was biting into her thigh. She managed to worm her hand into her hip pocket and found what it was: Jordan’s watch. The one she’d stolen.
By now he knew she’d taken it. By now he’d be hating her and glad she was out of his life. That’s what she’d wanted him to think. What he should think. He was a gentleman and she was a thief. Nothing could close that gap between them.
Yet, as she huddled in that coffin of a space and clutched Jordan’s pocket watch in her fist, her longing for him brought tears to her eyes.
I did it for you, she thought. To make it easier for you. And me, as well. Because I know, as well as you do, that I’m not the woman for you.
She pressed the watch to her lips and kissed it, the way she longed to kiss him, and never would again. She wanted to curse her larcenous past, her transgressions, her childhood. Even Uncle Walter. All the things that would forever keep Jordan out of her reach. But she was too weary and too frightened.
So she cried instead.
By the time the truck wheezed to a stop, Clea was numb in both spirit and body. Her legs felt dead and useless.
The other crates were unloaded first. Then her crate was tipped onto a cart and began a roller coaster ride, down a truck ramp, up another ramp. She knew there were men about—she heard their voices. An elevator ride brought her to the final destination. The crate hit the floor with a thump.
After a while she heard nothing. Only the faint rumbling of an engine.
Cautiously she pushed up on the lid. The weight of the other crate had redriven the nails into the wood. Luckily she still had the crowbar. It took some tight maneuvering, but she managed to work the tip under the lid and yanked on the bar.
The lid popped open.
She raised her head and inhaled a whiff of diesel-scented air. She was in a storage bay. Beside her were stacked the other crates from the warehouse annex. No one was around.
It took her a few moments to crawl out. By the time she dropped onto the floor, her calves were beginning to prickle with renewed circulation. She hobbled over to the steel door and opened it a crack.
Outside was a narrow corridor. Beyond the corner, two men were laughing, joking in that foul language sailors employ when they’re away from the polite company of women. Something about the whores in Naples.
The floor lurched beneath Clea’s feet and she swayed sideways. The engine sounds were grinding louder now.
Only then did she focus on the emergency fire kit mounted on the corridor wall. It was stamped with the name Villafjord.
I’m on his ship, she thought. I’m trapped on Van Weldon’s ship.
The floor swayed again, a rolling motion that made her reach out to the walls for support. She heard the engine’s accelerating whine, sensed the gentle rocking of the hull through the swells, and she understood.
The Villafjord was heading out to sea.
Fourteen
Hugh Tavistock’s limousine was waiting at the side of the road just outside Guildford. The instant Jordan and his two Scotland Yard escorts pulled up in a Mercedes, the limousine door swung open. Jordan stepped out of the Mercedes and slid into the limousine’s rear seat.
He found himself confronting his uncle Hugh’s critical gaze. “It seems,” said Hugh, “that I retired from intelligence simply to devote my life to rescuing you.”
“And a fond hello to you, too,” answered Jordan. “Where’s Richard?”
“Present and accounted for,” answered a voice from the driver’s seat. Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, Richard turned and grinned at him. “I picked up this trick from a certain relative-to-be. Where’s Cl
ea Rice?”
“I don’t know,” said Jordan. “But I have a very good idea. Did you confirm the shipping schedule for Portsmouth?”
“There is a vessel named Villafjord due to sail at midnight tonight. That gives us plenty of time to stop the departure.”
“Why all this interest in the Villafjord?” asked Hugh. “What’s she carrying?”
“Wild guess? A fortune in art.” Jordan added, under his breath, “And a certain little cat burglar.”
Richard pulled onto the highway for Portsmouth. “She’ll jeopardize the whole operation. You should have stopped her.”
“Ha! As if I could!” said Jordan. “As you may have surmised, she doesn’t take to instruction well.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about Miss Rice,” said Hugh. “Uncooperative, is she?”
“She doesn’t trust anyone. Not Richard, not the authorities.”
“Surely she trusts you by now?”
Jordan gazed ahead at the dark road. Softly he said, “I thought she did….”
But she didn’t. When it came down to the wire, she chose to work alone. Without me.
He didn’t understand her. She was like some forest creature, always poised for flight, never trusting of a human hand. She wouldn’t let herself believe in him.
That lifting of his pocket watch—oh, he understood the meaning of that gesture. It was part defiance and part desperation. She was trying to push him away, to test him. She was crazy enough to put him to this test. And vulnerable enough to be hurt if he failed her.
I should have known. I should have seen this coming.
Now he was angry at himself, at her, at all the circumstances that kept wrenching them apart. Her past. Her mistrust of him.
His mistrust of her.
Perhaps Clea had it right from the start. Perhaps there was nothing he could do, nothing she could do, that would get them beyond all this.
With renewed anxiety he glanced outside at a passing road sign. They were still thirty miles from Portsmouth.
MacLeod and the police were already waiting at the dock.
“We’re too late,” said MacLeod as Hugh and Jordan stepped out of the limousine.
In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts Page 40
