He polished off his snack of stuffed grape leaves and started in on dessert, a walnut pastry steeped in syrup. Curious, how the completion of a job always left him ravenous. For other men, the spilling of blood resulted in a surge of libido, a sudden craving for hot, fast sex. Amiel Foch craved food instead; no wonder his weight was such a problem.
Dispatching the old Frenchman Rideau had been easy; killing Wolf and the woman would not be so simple. Earlier today he had considered an ambush, but Rideau’s house stood on an empty stretch of shoreline, the only access a five-mile-long dirt road, and there was nowhere to conceal his car. Nowhere to lie in wait without being detected. Foch had a rule he never broke: always leave an escape route. The Rideau house, set in the midst of barren scrub, was too exposed for any such retreat. Richard Wolf was armed and would be watching for danger signs.
Amiel Foch was not a coward. But he was not a fool, either.
Far wiser to wait for another opportunity—perhaps in Piraeus, with its crowded streets and chaotic traffic. Pedestrians were killed all the time. An accident, two dead tourists—it would raise hardly a stir of interest.
Foch’s gaze sharpened as the afternoon ferry pulled into port. There was only a brief unloading of passengers; the island of Paros was not, after all, on the usual Mykonos-Rhodes-Crete circuit made by tourists. At the bottom of the gangplank, a few dozen people had already gathered to board. Quickly Foch surveyed the crowd. To his consternation, he saw neither the woman nor Wolf. He knew they’d been on the island today; his contact had spotted the pair in a tavern this morning. Had they slipped away by some other route?
Then he noticed the man in the tattered windbreaker and black fisherman’s cap. Though his shoulders were hunched, there was no disguising the man’s height—six feet tall, at least, with a tautly athletic build. The man turned sideways, and Foch caught a glimpse of his face, partly obscured by a few days’ worth of stubble. It was, indeed, Richard Wolf. But he appeared to be traveling alone. Where was the woman?
Foch paid his café bill and wandered over to the landing. He mingled with the waiting passengers and studied their faces. There were a number of women, tanned tourists, Greek housewives clad modestly in black, a few hippies in blue jeans. Beryl Tavistock was not among them.
He felt a brief spurt of panic. Had the woman and Wolf separated? If so, he might never find her. He was tempted to stay on the island, to search her out….
The passengers were moving up the gangplank.
He weighed his choices and decided to follow Wolf. Better to stick with a flesh-and-blood quarry. Sooner or later, Wolf would reunite with the woman. Until then, Foch would have to bide his time, make no moves.
The man in the fisherman’s cap walked up the gangplank and into the cabin. After a moment, Foch followed him inside and took a seat two rows behind him, next to an old man with a box of salted fish. It wasn’t long before the engines growled to life and the ferry slid away from the dock.
Foch settled back for the ride, his gaze focused on the back of Wolf’s head. The smell of fuel and dried fish soon became nauseating. The ferry pitched and heaved on the water, and his lunch of dolmas and espresso was threatening to come back up. Foch rose from his seat and scrambled outside. Standing at the rail, he gulped in a few breaths of fresh air and waited for the nausea to pass. At last it eased, and he reluctantly turned to go back into the cabin. He headed up the aisle, past Wolf—
Or the man he’d thought was Wolf.
He was wearing the same ratty windbreaker, the same black fisherman’s cap. But this man was clean shaven, younger. Definitely not the same man!
Foch glanced around the cabin. No Wolf. He hurried outside to the deck. No Wolf. He climbed the stairs to the upper level. Again, no Wolf.
He turned and saw the island of Paros receding behind them, and he let out a strangled curse. It was all a feint! They were still on the island—they had to be.
And I’m trapped on this boat to Piraeus.
Foch slapped the railing and cursed himself for his own stupidity. Wolf had outsmarted him—again. The old professional using his bag of tricks. There was no point interrogating the man in the cabin; he was probably just some local dupe hired to switch places with Wolf for the ferry ride.
He looked at his watch and calculated how many hours it would take him to get back to the island via a hired boat. With any luck, he could be stalking them tonight. If they were still there. He’d find them, he vowed. Wolf might be a professional. But then, so was he.
From inside a nearby café, Richard watched the ferry glide out of the harbor and heaved a sigh of relief. The old bait and switch had worked; no one had followed him off the boat. He’d been suspicious of one man in particular—a balding fellow in nondescript tourist clothes. Richard had noticed how the man had scanned the boarding passengers, how his gaze had paused momentarily on Richard’s face.
Yes, he was the one. The bait was laid out for him.
The switch was a snap.
Once inside the ferry cabin, Richard had tossed his cap and jacket on a seat, walked up the aisle, and exited out the other door. By prior arrangement, Sofia’s brother—six foot one and with black hair—had slid into that same seat, donned the cap and jacket, and promptly cradled his face in his arms, as though to sleep.
Richard had waited behind some crates on deck just long enough for all the passengers to board. Then he’d simply walked off the boat.
No one had followed him.
He left the café and climbed into Sofia’s car.
It was a six-mile drive to the cove. Sofia and her brothers had Melina, the family fishing boat, ready to go, her engine running, her anchor line set to hoist. Richard scrambled out of the rowboat and up the rope ladder to Melina’s deck.
Beryl was waiting for him. He took her in his arms, hugged her, kissed her. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “I lost him.”
“I was afraid I’d lose you.”
“Not a chance.” He pulled back and smiled at her. With her black hair whipping in the wind, and her eyes the same crystalline green as the Aegean, she reminded him of some Greek goddess. Circe, Aphrodite. A woman who could hold a man forever bewitched.
The anchor thudded on deck. Sofia’s brothers guided Melina’s bow around to face the open sea.
It started out a rough passage, the summer winds fierce and constant, the sea a rolling carpet of swells. But at sunset, as the sky deepened to a glorious shade of red, the wind suddenly died and the water turned glassy. Beryl and Richard stood on deck and gazed at the darkening silhouettes of the islands.
Sofia said, “We arrive late tonight.”
“Piraeus?” asked Richard.
“No. Too busy. We pull in at Monemvassia where no one will see us.”
“And then?”
“You go your way. We go ours. It is safer, for all of us.” Sofia glanced toward the stern at her two brothers, who were laughing and clapping each other on the back. “Look at them! They think this is a nice little adventure! If they had seen Gerard’s father…”
“Will you be all right?” asked Beryl.
Sofia looked at her. “I worry more about Gerard. They may be looking for him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Richard. “He was only a boy when he left Paris. His testimony can’t hurt them.”
“He remembered enough to tell you,” countered Sofia.
Richard shook his head. “But I’m not sure what any of it meant.”
“Perhaps the killer knows. And he will be looking for Gerard next.” Sofia glanced back across the stern, toward the island. Toward Gerard, who had refused to flee. “His stubbornness. It will get him killed,” she muttered, and wandered away into the cabin.
“What do you think it meant?” asked Beryl. “That business about the short man with the briefcase? Was it just a payoff to Rideau, to keep him silent?”
“Partly.”
“You think there was something else in that briefcase,” she said. “Something besid
es money.”
He turned and saw the glow of the sunset on her face, the intensity of her gaze. She’s quick, he thought. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. He said, “I’m sure there was. I think the lover of our mysterious Mlle Scarlatti found himself in a very sticky situation. Two dead bodies in his garret, the police certain to be notified. He sees a way to extricate himself from two crises at once. He sends his man to pay off Rideau, asks him not to identify him to police.”
“And the second crisis?”
“His status as a mole.”
“Delphi?”
“Maybe he knew Intelligence was about to close in. So he places the NATO documents in a briefcase…”
“And has his hired man plant the briefcase in the garret,” finished Beryl. “Near my father’s body.”
Richard nodded. “That’s what Inspector Broussard was trying to tell us—something about a briefcase. Remember that police photo of the murder scene? He kept pointing to an empty spot near the door. What if the briefcase was planted after that initial crime photo was taken? The inspector would have realized it was done postmortem.”
“But he couldn’t pursue the matter, because French Intelligence confiscated the briefcase.”
“Exactly.”
“They assumed my father was the one who brought the documents into the garret.” She looked at him, her eyes glittering with determination. “How do we prove it? Any of it?”
“We identify Mlle Scarlatti’s lover.”
“But our only witness was Rideau. And Gerard was just a boy. He scarcely remembers what the man looked like.”
“So we go to another source. A man who would know Delphi’s true identity—his East German spymaster. Heinrich Leitner.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Do you know how to reach him?”
“He’s in a high-security prison in Berlin. Trouble is, German Intelligence won’t exactly allow us free access to their prisoners.”
“As a diplomatic favor?”
His laugh was plainly skeptical. “An ex-CIA agent isn’t exactly on their most-favored list. Besides, Leitner might not want to see me. Still, it’s a chance we’ll take.” He turned to gaze over the bow at the darkening sea.
He felt her move close beside him, felt her nearness as acutely as the warmth of the setting sun. It was enough to drive him crazy, having her so close and being unable to make love to her. He found himself counting the hours until they would be alone again, until he could undress her, make love to her. And I once considered her too rich for my blood. Maybe she is. Maybe this is just a fever that’ll burn itself out, leaving us both sadder and wiser. But for now she’s all I think about, all I crave.
“So that’s where we’re headed next,” she whispered. “Berlin.”
“There’ll be risks.” Their gazes met through the velvet dusk. “Things could go wrong….”
“Not while you’re around,” she said softly.
I hope you’re right, he thought as he pulled her into his arms. I hope to God you’re right.
The dice clattered against the cell wall and came to rest with a five and a six showing.
“Ah-hah!” crowed Jordan, raising a fist in triumph. “What does that make it? Ten thousand francs? Dix mille?”
His cellmates, Leroi and Fofo, nodded resignedly.
Jordan held out his hand. “Pay up, gentlemen.” Two grubby slips of paper were slapped into his palm. On each was written the number ten thousand. Jordan grinned. “Another round?”
Fofo shook the dice, threw them against the wall, and groaned. A three and a five. Leroi threw a pair of twos.
Jordan threw another five and six. His cellmates handed over two more grubby slips of paper. Why, I’ll be a millionaire by tomorrow, Jordan rejoiced, looking down at the growing pile of IOUs. On paper, anyway. He picked up the dice and was about to make another toss when he heard footsteps approach.
Reggie Vane was standing outside the cell, holding a basket of smoked salmon and crackers. “Helena sent these over,” he said as he slid the basket through the small opening at the bottom of the cell door. “Oh, and there’s fresh linen, napkins and such. One can’t dine properly on paper, can one?”
“Certainly not,” agreed Jordan, gratefully accepting the basket of goodies. “You are a true friend, indeed, Reggie.”
“Yes, well…” Reggie grinned and cleared his throat. “Anything for a child of Madeline’s.”
“Any word from Uncle Hugh?”
“Still unreachable, according to your people at Chetwynd.”
Jordan set the basket down in frustration. “This is most bizarre! I’m in prison. Beryl’s vanished. And Uncle Hugh’s probably off on some classified mission for MI6.” He began to pace the cell, oblivious to the fact that Fofo and Leroi were hungrily raiding the contents of the basket. “What about that bomb investigation? Anything new?”
“The two bombings are definitely linked. The devices were manufactured by the same hand. It appears someone’s targeted both Beryl and the St. Pierres.”
“I think the target was Marie St. Pierre, in particular.” Jordan stopped and looked at Reggie. “Let’s say Marie was the target. What’s the motive?”
Reggie shrugged. “She’s not the sort of woman to pick up enemies.”
“You should be able to come up with an answer. She and your wife are best chums, after all. Helena must know who’d want to kill Marie.”
Reggie gave him a troubled look. “It’s not as if there’s any, well…proof.”
Jordan moved toward him. “What are you thinking?”
“Just rumors. Things Helena might have mentioned.”
“Was it about Philippe?”
Reggie looked down. “I feel a bit…well, ungentlemanly, bringing it up. You see, it happened years ago.”
“What did?”
“The affair. Between Philippe and Nina.”
Jordan stared at him through the bars. There it is, he thought. There’s the motive. “How long have you known about this?” he asked.
“I heard about it fifteen, twenty years ago. You see, I couldn’t understand why Helena disliked Nina so much. It was almost a…a hatred. You know how it is sometimes with females, all those catty looks. I assumed it was jealousy. My Helena’s never been comfortable with more…well, attractive women. As a matter of fact, if I so much as glance at a pretty face, she gets downright nasty about it.”
“How did she learn about Philippe and Nina?”
“Marie told her.”
“Who else knew about it?”
“I doubt there were many. Poor Marie’s not one to advertise her humiliation. To have one’s husband dallying with a…a piece of baggage like Nina!”
“Yet she stayed married to Philippe all these years.”
“Yes, she’s loyal that way. And what good would it do to make a public stink of it? Ruin his career? Now he’s finance minister. Chances are, he’ll go to the top. And Marie will be with him. So in the long run, it was worth it.”
“If she lives to see it.”
“You’re not saying Philippe would kill his own wife? And why now, at this late date?”
“Perhaps she issued an ultimatum. Think about it, Reggie! Here he is, inches away from being prime minister. And Marie says, ‘It’s your mistress or me. Choose.’”
Reggie looked thoughtful. “If he chooses Nina, he’d have to get rid of his wife.”
“Ah, but what if he chooses Marie? And Nina’s the one left out in the cold?”
They frowned at each other through the bars.
“Call Daumier,” said Jordan. “Tell him what you just told me, about the affair. And ask him to put a tail on Nina.”
“You don’t really think—”
“I think,” said Jordan, “that we’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle entirely. The bombing wasn’t a political act. All that Cosmic Solidarity rubbish was merely a smoke screen, to cover up the real reason for the attack.”
“You mean it was personal?”
Jordan nodded. “Murder usually is.”
The flight to Berlin was half-empty, so the only logical reason that disheveled pair of passengers in row two should be sitting in first class was that they must have actually paid the fare, a fact the flight attendant found difficult to believe, considering their appearance. Both wore dark sunglasses, wrinkled clothes and unmistakable expressions of exhaustion. The man had a week’s worth of dark stubble on his jaw. The woman was deeply sunburned and her black hair was tangled and powdered with dust. Their only carryon was the woman’s purse, a battered straw affair coated with sand. The attendant glanced at the couple’s ticket stubs. Athens—Rome—Berlin. With a forced smile, she asked them if they wished to order cocktails.
“Bloody Mary,” said the woman in the Queen’s perfect English.
“A Rob Roy,” said the man. “Hold the bitters.”
The woman went to fetch their drinks. When she returned, the man and woman were holding hands and looking at each other with the weary smiles of fellow survivors. They took their drinks from the tray.
“To our health?” the man asked.
“Definitely,” the woman answered.
And, grinning, they both tipped back their glasses in a toast.
The meal cart was wheeled out and on it were lobster patties, crown roast of lamb, wild rice and mushroom caps. The couple ate double servings of everything and topped their dinner off with a split of wine. Then, like a pair of exhausted puppies, they curled up against each other and fell asleep.
They slept all the way to Berlin. Only when the plane rolled to a stop at the terminal did they jerk awake, both of them instantly alert and on guard. As the passengers filed out, the flight attendant kept her gaze on that rumpled pair from Athens. There was no telling who they were or what they might be up to. First-class passengers did not usually travel the world dressed like bums.
The couple was the last to disembark.
The attendant followed the pair onto the passenger ramp and stood watching as they walked toward a small crowd of greeters. They made it as far as the waiting area.
In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts Page 17
