Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  More gently, Claire said, “I know it sounds crazy, but we have good evidence that it’s true. And it would explain why Philippe had Jonathan picked up—he was getting too close.”

  Annabeth looked up from the documents in front of her, and there were tears in her eyes. But there was also a glint of something else that gave Claire hope. “Damn. I knew he was too good to be true.” She squared her shoulders. “All right, ladies, talk to me. I’m listening.”

  27

  Claire shut her eyes for a moment in sheer relief. “All right. I’ll start at the beginning. The FBI came to your house looking for your computer. Accept that it was Susie who shot the agent, but we still don’t know why. Jonathan panicked and ran, and ended up at a cabin on the lake, where I was staying. I believed his story and took him in, for what I thought would be one night only—he promised to turn himself in the next day, but, uh, that didn’t happen. Then I agreed to help him get out of town, but when he tried to get on a bus, the police moved in. That’s when the so-called kidnapping happened. We got on a bus to Portland and found a library there with computers so we could find your schedule and try to connect with you, to figure out what was going on. We learned you were going to be in New York. We holed up for the night in a motel, and the next day we took a bus to Providence because Jonathan wanted to talk to a buddy of his there who’s an Internet genius. He’s the one that found that information on the terrorist stuff, by the way.” Claire nodded at the papers on the table.

  “The next day we took another bus to New York, and crashed with Leah—she’s my college roommate. Our goal was to get you and Jonathan together so you two could talk, and see if we could sort out this mess, and clear all our names. Leah got me into the party through the caterer, and I gave you the note. And I saw you give it to Philippe. I realized you two were . . . together. And I also saw that Susie was there. Leah and I followed you to the deli, and saw you meet Jonathan and leave again, and before we could talk to him, these two guys came and took him away. And here we are.” Claire felt breathless after her recitation. “Your turn. And can we move this along? They’ve got Jonathan, you know.”

  Annabeth seemed in control of her emotions now, but she took time to think before she began to speak, slowly. “Claire Hastings—you teach at Sophia, right? I’ve read some of your papers. That’s why you were hanging around Greenferne?” Claire nodded grimly: couldn’t this woman get to the point? They could trade credentials later. As if reading her mind, Annabeth went on, “Excellent summary, even though I find it rather incredible.” When Claire opened her mouth to protest, Annabeth held up a hand. “Claire, most of what you’ve just told me is completely new to me, and I’m having a little trouble absorbing it. Let’s see—I met Philippe about a year ago. I was in New York attending a party with friends, and he came over and introduced himself. I was flattered, and intrigued. Well, you’ve seen him—you can understand why. We started seeing each other, as often as we could, which isn’t easy since I live in Maine and he’s based in New York. But we managed. And things got more and more serious—we were beginning to talk about marriage.”

  Claire interrupted her. “When did the planning for the conference begin?”

  Annabeth paused before answering. “About a year ago. I was one of the first people asked to participate—well, after the First Lady, of course—and I suggested other names, and you know how that goes. You think Philippe latched on to me because I was involved in the conference?”

  She was quick to catch on, Claire noted. “How much do you know about him?”

  “You mean, apart from the fact that he’s handsome and charming and has plenty of money? Not a whole lot. He led a rather vagabond childhood—his mother was French, and his father was Egyptian, in the diplomatic service, but I think they divorced when Philippe was young. He grew up in Paris, with his mother, spent some time with his father before he attended Oxford, but more recently he’s lived in Egypt, and now here in New York. He’d like to be ambassador to the U.N. someday, but he knows he hasn’t paid his political dues yet, and with the uncertainties about the Egyptian government, that may not happen quickly. If I may be honest . . . I’m past forty, single, and I live and work a long way from anywhere. When a gorgeous man was interested, I didn’t ask a lot of questions, all right? Feel free to call me shallow if you must. But believe me, it never crossed my mind that he was anything other than what he seemed. If I’ve made an error in judgment—and this looks like it might be a whopper—I’m truly sorry.”

  At least she was being open about it, Claire thought, and luckily it didn’t look like her heart was broken. That would save them some time. “Annabeth, assuming he is what Jonathan and his friend think, then he would have no trouble coordinating the force-and-violence side of things. We’re guessing that he cultivated you because he needed some inside information about the conference—you know, timing, who was coming, where they were staying—anything that would give him an edge, an opening.”

  Annabeth blanched. “Oh my God . . . but I don’t know anything important!” She appeared genuinely distressed. “In fact, I did my best to stay out of administrative stuff like that, just because I didn’t want to get sucked in to the whole planning side. Sorry, Leah. You’ve done a great job putting things together.”

  Leah spoke up for the first time. “Yeah, and the whole thing is going to blow sky-high if we don’t do something fast. Let’s move on. Assume Philippe and his goons know the whole schedule for the First Lady’s appearance, and all about the security precautions we’ve added, and are working around that. And with whatever’s going down, they don’t care who else gets hurt, or how many of their own they lose, as long as they make a very big political statement: keep women in their place, and their place is not in public. Tell me, Annabeth”—Leah cocked an eyebrow at Annabeth—“what did he think of your feminist positions?”

  Annabeth laughed bitterly. “I think I’d say his response was along the lines of, ‘Isn’t that cute?’ He didn’t take them very seriously, and I didn’t push them when we were together. We had other things on our minds, most of the time.” She shook her head. “Again, I’m sorry. There’s a lot more at stake here than my love life, right? So what do we have to do to stop this?”

  “Don’t forget about Jonathan,” Claire added. The other two women swiveled to look at her.

  “Looks to me like the two problems are really one and the same,” Leah said. “We nab Philippe, and he can lead us to Jonathan. Unless . . .”

  “I know. You don’t have to say it. He may already be dead, although a body isn’t of much use to them, but a hostage might be. Which is all the more reason to get to Philippe, and fast. But how the hell do we do that?” Claire fumed. “We can’t just call up the authorities and say, ‘We think this respectable foreign dignitary is really a terrorist plotting to kill the First Lady tomorrow, and would you please pick him up for questioning?’ They’d haul us in first, and by the time we’d finished explaining things, it would be too late.”

  “Good point,” Annabeth acknowledged. “Look, I can get you face-to-face with Philippe, but then what? How do we get anybody useful there to help us out?”

  Lights were beginning to go off in Claire’s head, like a pinball machine. “I think I have an idea. What do you think of this? Annabeth, you get Philippe to let you in wherever it is he lives, which gets us all in, right? And then we tell him what we’ve guessed, and that will distract him for a while—he’s going to want to know who knows what, and whether he should abort the whole mission or just . . . shut us up.” Claire didn’t want to voice her more dire suspicions. “And maybe we can pry out of him what he’s done with Jonathan.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy, but what makes you think he’s going to politely discuss all his carefully laid plans with the three of us? And what does that gain us?” Leah’s tone was sarcastic.

  “Time,” Claire replied promptly. “Because before we go in, I make a phone call to the FBI and let them know where they can fi
nd me. Me, not him. I’m still wanted, right? I can give them some story and then cut it off—they should come running. I’ll just tell them to look in Philippe’s home. Presto, the cavalry will appear! And then, once we’ve got them there, we can give them our evidence. Even if they don’t buy into it right away, Philippe will be held up for a few hours, which might be long enough to short-circuit whatever he’s planning.”

  Leah laughed. “You realize your little plan will also tie up the event coordinator and the other keynote speaker for the conference? But, hey, I think it’s probably the best we’re going to come up with on short notice. And there sure as hell isn’t a lot of time. Annabeth, you in?”

  “Of course. After all, I’m to blame for at least a part of this. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  But what about Jonathan? A little voice inside Claire kept protesting. She squashed it. One thing at a time. Get to Philippe and stop the assassination attempt. Then find out what he’s done with Jonathan. She could only hope it wouldn’t be too late.

  “Where does Philippe live?” Claire tried to keep her voice businesslike.

  “On the other side of the park. He found a gorgeous apartment, which allows him to live in the style to which he is accustomed.”

  “It’s not, like, international territory or something, is it? He’s probably going to claim diplomatic immunity, regardless,” Leah said.

  “No doubt. No, I don’t think the immunity extends to the place, just the person, but I’m not an expert. There is a doorman, but he knows me. In any event, once the FBI knock politely on the door, you can start screaming. If I understand correctly, that will give them sufficient cause to enter—to rescue you. You do know how to scream, don’t you?”

  “I’m a fast learner,” Claire said grimly.

  “Well, then, ladies, I’m going to get dressed.” Annabeth disappeared into the bathroom.

  Claire looked at Leah. “Do we believe her? That was a pretty fast switch.”

  Leah shrugged. “Do we have a choice? I don’t have any better ideas. So we’ll either be heroes or we’ll be dead.”

  “Gee, thanks. I’m so glad I brought you along,” Claire said. “You always cheer me up.”

  “Well, look at the messes you get into without me!”

  * * *

  “Do we walk or take a cab?” Claire felt foolish asking, but the later it got, the more difficult it became to make such mundane decisions. She was beyond tired. At least she had remembered to look up the phone number for the New York office of the FBI while waiting for Annabeth to dress. Timing was going to be tricky. They needed to get into the building, and into Philippe’s apartment, but they had to place the call to the FBI before they went in. How long would it take the FBI to appear? Claire had no idea. Could Annabeth stall Philippe long enough for them to show up, even with help from Claire and Leah?

  Claire was coming to appreciate Annabeth’s resiliency. She and Leah had appeared at Annabeth’s door in the middle of the night and had informed her that her lover was an international terrorist; she had taken it in stride, and now she was apparently helping them turn him over to the FBI. Good for her, Claire thought. Recrimination and self-doubt could come later; right now there were things to be done. The plan was shaky, but it was all they had. She was entitled to some hope, wasn’t she? She had damn little else to cling to at the moment.

  “Cab,” said Annabeth promptly, as they entered the elevator. “It’s freezing out there, and we need to save our energy for more important things. So, just to review: we arrive at the building. Claire, you make your phone call. Then we march up to Philippe’s place and . . . what?”

  “Will he be asleep?” Leah asked.

  “Well, usually, yes, but I think we can assume he’s planning a busy day tomorrow, so he’s probably still awake. At least we’ll have the element of surprise on our side, whichever way it goes.”

  They marched through the lobby of the Plaza like an avenging horde, if a small one, and Annabeth imperiously signaled for the doorman to find her a cab. He did, quickly, and they climbed in and were off. It’s still unreal, Claire thought. I’ve gone from playing the hired help to watching thugs abduct Jonathan, and now we’re about to confront a terrorist who is a threat to our national security. This is not happening. I should wake up any time. Please. Her prayers did not work, and the cabbie pulled up across from Philippe’s building on the side toward Central Park, at Annabeth’s direction. After the cabbie had sped off up the street, they stood mutely, looking up at what Annabeth pointed out as Philippe’s living room window. There was a light on, and a shadow moved inside the room. Someone was home, and awake.

  Claire sighed. There was no postponing this, and she was getting cold. “Your cell phone, Leah?”

  Leah fished the phone out of her bag and handed it to Claire. Claire took it and flipped it open, then, consulting a scrap of paper, she punched in the FBI number. It was picked up quickly, and Claire felt a jolt of adrenaline.

  “Hello?” she whispered hoarsely. “Is this the FBI?”

  “Could you speak up, ma’am? I can hardly hear you.”

  “I can’t. I can’t talk any louder—they’ll hear me. Listen, please listen. I’m Claire Hastings. I was kidnapped three days ago in Maine, but they brought me to New York. I’m in an apartment near Central Park. They put me in this room, but I found a cell phone, I guess they forgot about it, so I called you and you’ve got to come get me because I’m scared . . .” Her words came out in a jumble.

  “Calm down, ma’am. Can you give me an address?”

  “I don’t know . . .” It wasn’t hard to simulate panic. “They brought me in the back . . . wait a minute, there’s a stack of mail here. Let me look . . . oh, yes, it looks like . . . Central Park West, apartment 32A. Oh, please come quickly. They’re going to be back any . . .” Claire abruptly cut off the call. Annabeth and Leah mimed applause.

  “Good work!” Leah grinned at her. “You know, you’re pretty good at this. Okay, Annabeth—we’re going in!”

  Only a few lone cabs cruised the broad street, and they crossed in the middle of the block. Annabeth led them into the small but elegant lobby, where she smiled winsomely at the concierge. “Edward, I’m just going to pop upstairs, all right? And don’t call Philippe—I want to surprise him.”

  “Very good, Ms. Rankin. He came in about an hour ago.”

  “Thank you, Edward.” Annabeth shepherded Claire and Leah to the elevator, which rose with stately grandeur. Claire’s heart was pounding, and her palms were wet. What was she doing here? Trying to rescue Jonathan, or no, the First Lady, then Jonathan. Priorities. The elevator door slid open soundlessly, and Annabeth turned left. Nice place, Claire reflected briefly: there were only two doors on each floor. I can’t wait to see the interior—complete with terrorist. She fought an insane giggle.

  At the door at the end of the hall, Annabeth pushed Claire and Leah to one side, out of sight of the peephole, then knocked. They heard footsteps immediately: Philippe must be wide awake. They heard a bolt sliding back, and then the door opened. “Annabeth, ma chère, I thought you would call. What on earth brings you here at this ungodly hour? Is something wrong?” He stepped back to let Annabeth in, and Claire and Leah followed on her heels. Philippe looked appropriately startled—and, Claire thought, angry. This was not part of his plan. Too bad.

  “Philippe, darling, these ladies came to me this evening with a most distressing story, and I just had to come to you directly and make sure it wasn’t true.” Annabeth laid her hands on his chest and looked up at him with melting eyes.

  Philippe’s eyes were far colder than his smile as he gestured them toward his living room. “But of course. I’m sure we can clear this up quickly. Please, come in, ladies.”

  And there echoed in Claire’s mind the old line, “‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly; ‘’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.’” Who said that? Ah, Mary Howitt, in the 1840s. Nothing like an acade
mic brain stuffed full of trivia: quotes supplied for all occasions.

  Get a grip, Claire! As far as she could remember, that poem had not ended happily—at least not for the fly.

  28

  Claire quickly took in the living room, which was everything she had expected from the home of a wealthy diplomat. Richly furnished, with what must be a great view by daylight, and even after dark. Philippe, after his initial surprise, had stepped back to allow them into the apartment. Studying him up close, Claire could see why Annabeth had been so easily swayed by him: even casually dressed in his plain (but monogrammed) white shirt and (finely tailored) gray trousers, he radiated authority and masculinity—and, at the moment, a tightly controlled tension. He might be charming, but he was troubled; Claire guessed that he was banking his anger until he knew what he was facing.

  Before anyone could speak, Philippe’s cell phone rang. Claire almost pitied him: it was clear he didn’t want to answer it with them watching, but he couldn’t afford not to answer it or to leave them where they stood. His eyes never left them as he retrieved the phone from his pocket and raised it to his ear.

  “Yes,” he said curtly. He listened. “No, wait there. Do nothing until you hear from me again. Do you understand?” He listened for another moment, then shut off the phone and returned it to his pocket. Claire braced herself for whatever might come next.

  With an effort, Philippe summoned a gracious smile. “Would you care to introduce your friends, darling?” he asked Annabeth, his voice silken.