7 Steps to Midnight (25 page)

She only turned to face him and returned his gaze. The sight of her undid his caution. He felt a surge of need for her and started leaning forward.

“Wait,” she said.

He tensed again as she picked up her purse and opened it, expecting her to take out a pistol and shoot him.

She removed a packet of tissues and, pulling one free, began to rub it over his face, grimacing slightly as she did. “What did you put on it?” she asked.

“Some stuff off a wall behind a toilet,” he said.

“Oh, God.” She exhaled, grimacing. “What made you do that?”

He hesitated, then decided that he had to trust her, he simply couldn’t function any longer if he didn’t. He told her about the phone call that had taken him to Montmartre, the tall man accosting him, the two Middle Eastern men (he got the impression that her reaction to that was one of alarmed surprise, but he wasn’t sure and didn’t pursue it), the tall man being stabbed, his flight from the café and escape after disguising himself.

“That was very ingenious of you,” she said. “Where did you get the idea?”

“From a novel,” he told her sheepishly.

Her laugh was a soft, explosive sound. “A
novel
?”

“What about that man? Can you find out if he’s alive?”

She nodded as she continued wiping off his face, wetting the tissues with her tongue. “I’ll find out,” she told him.

He kept staring at her as she finished cleaning off his face. Memory had not erred. She looked as marvelous as ever. He had to trust her; he just had to.

She put the last tissue in the wastebasket and gazed back at
him. “There, that’s better,” she said. She looked at him with sympathy. “You’ve had such a terrible time. I’m so sorry.”

Leaning forward, she put a hand on each side of his face and kissed him gently.

“I’m happy you’re safe,” she told him, drawing back.

“Alexsandra.” He could barely speak her name.

Abruptly, they were in each other’s arms, lips pressed together.

“I can’t help it, I love you, I’m sorry,” he murmured breathlessly, holding on to her as hard as he could, his cheek against hers, his eyes closed.
Trust
her! his mind commanded.

“Why sorry?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just… thought you might not want to hear it.”

She drew back and looked at him with a gentle smile, stroking back his hair. “You’re wrong,” she told him. She sighed. “I’ve tried very hard to get you out of my mind. It wasn’t easy.”

“But you succeeded,” he said sadly.

That enchanting half-smile. “Who said that?” she murmured.

She was in his arms again, holding him firmly, her lips demanding as much as his.

Suddenly, she pulled away. “
Oh.
No,” she murmured, sounding almost unhappy.

“
What?
”

She rubbed her face as though she felt dizzy. “We’re in so deep,” she said. “There’s so much to do yet.”

“What has that got to do with—?”

“There’s no time, love, no
time
,” she interrupted. She did sound unhappy now.

He looked at her hungrily. “Just let me hold you again.”

She hesitated, then was in his arms once more. They clung to each other, cheeks pressed together. “I wish you could love me,” he said.

“What makes you think I don’t?”

Seconds later, she pulled away from their passionate kiss. “We have to go,” she said, looking around uneasily. “I just don’t feel safe here.”

He swallowed, nodding.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

It seemed an odd question to ask at that moment, he thought. He realized then that he
was
hungry; did danger increase his appetite or something? “I… guess I am,” he admitted.

“All right.” She started the engine. “I’ll take you someplace safe to eat.”

“What, a restaurant on top of the Eiffel Tower?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled a little as she started the car forward. “Better than that.”

***

Harp music softly playing something by Fauré. A glass-topped boat gliding slowly along the Seine. The illuminated Eiffel Tower framed against a dark sky. Candlelight reflected glitteringly on crystal glasses. The most beautiful, exciting woman he had ever known sitting across from him.

It should have been heaven.

But as soon as they’d been seated, Alexsandra had asked him about the two men on Montmartre. “You said they looked Middle Eastern,” she reminded him.

“As far as I could tell,” he said. “What country, I have no idea.”

“You’re certain they were Middle Eastern though.”

“Well, I’ve never seen men like that except in the movies,” he said. “They weren’t wearing fezzes or anything but they looked Middle Eastern to me.”

She nodded, looking worried. “I hope to God it isn’t him,” she said under her breath as though speaking to herself.

“
Him?
”

“He’s Middle Eastern; no one knows for sure what country he was born in. He’s a billionaire and very powerful.” She winced. “And probably quite mad.”

He looked at her, appalled. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Now I’m involved with a madman.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t him,” she said.

“Yes, let’s,” he agreed. “What’s his name?”

“We don’t know his real name. He’s called Cabal.”

“As in ‘conspiracy’?”

She nodded.

He shook his head with a groan. “I don’t see how I could have been any worse off if I’d stayed in Arizona.”

“You could have been,” was all she said. “There
was
the replacement problem, you know.”

The replacement problem
, he thought. How polite a phrase for the plot that had flung him into this ordeal.

He looked out the window toward a huge domed building on the left. He wondered what it was, but didn’t have the energy to ask.

He turned back to her. She was gazing at him with a look of compassion. “I know it’s difficult,” she said.

“Do you know anything about the man who spoke to me on the Hovercraft?” he asked.

“The Hovercraft?”

He saw immediately that she didn’t know about him. Was there
anyone
who knew
everything
about what was happening? Veering? Or was the wager something separate from all the rest?

“What did the man say?” she asked.

He told her how the man had slapped him, told him about reality slippage and how he’d better finish up his work before he was a victim of it.

“Reality slippage?” she asked. “What’s that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “Although my reality has sure been slipping in the past few days.”

“Did he say anything else?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he told her. “He said that it was
six
steps to midnight now.”

He wondered if she had any idea how helpless he felt, seeing the look on her face that clearly told him that she had no knowledge of anything he’d just told her.

“I don’t know who it was.” She verified his fear. “I only know that you were picked up at Le Havre and taken to Paris. I was ordered to follow.”

“Ordered,” he said quietly.

She smiled at him. “That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy about it.”

He nodded, only half-convinced. “I’m so confused,” he said.

Before they’d boarded the boat, Alexsandra had gone to make a telephone call. He hadn’t asked her what it was about. He did now.

She looked at him gravely. “The man,” she said. “Maret. He’s dead.”

“Oh, Jesus God.” Chris lowered his head, grimacing. “He died to save my life, then.”

“It was his profession, Chris,” she said. “He knew the risks. You shouldn’t feel guilty about it.”

He looked up quickly. Was it possible that she was really so cold-blooded?

Her expression gave him the answer. There was pity in it, regret. “It’s a terrible business,” she said. “You can go on for years with nothing really violent occurring. Then, suddenly, it all erupts at once.”

“Why do you do it, then?” he asked.

She didn’t answer at first. He wasn’t sure she was going to answer. Then she sighed. “It came over me gradually,” she said. “At first, it was nothing more than office work for the government. Then some field work. Years going by. Then more difficult assignments, more difficult training for those assignments. And before I knew it—” She gestured haplessly. “I suppose if I’d known, from the start, exactly what I was getting into, I might not have done it. But… as I say, it came over me gradually. Does that make sense?”

He nodded. “Sure.” Of course it made sense. Wasn’t that how most things happened?

He looked out the window again. They were sitting in the front of the boat, a view of either riverbank available to them. To his left, he saw the floodlit top of an obelisk that looked Egyptian.
Place de la Concorde
, he thought.

He looked back, trying to smile. “What
is
this boat?” he asked.

“One of the Bateaux-Mouches,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“A small passenger boat, I think,” she told him.

She leaned forward abruptly, reaching across the table. He hesitated, then put his right hand in hers.

“Listen, my dear,” she said. “I’m going to do whatever I can to get you out of this.”

“How can you?” he asked. “It’s so damn complicated.”

“I will though,” she promised. “I’ll take you out of it.”

“Where, to the moon?” he asked, smiling faintly.

She hesitated, then said, “I’d take you to my secret island if I could.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the Pacific.”

“You
own
it?”

“No.” She made an amused sound. “Nobody knows about it though. Only islanders live there. I found it years ago. I’ve gone there six times now and I’ve had it in the back of my mind that, someday, I’m just going to chuck it all and slip away, unnoticed—disappear forever. Go native. Walk the beaches. Catch fish. Turn primitive.”

“Take me with you when you do,” he said.

“Wouldn’t you miss your work?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “All I’m doing is contributing to the troubles of the world anyway.”

She was silent for several moments. Then she smiled at him and he knew, once more, how much he was in love with her.

Until she squeezed his hand and he felt her ring.

The moment clouded instantly and he watched her hand as she drew back and picked up one of the tall, white menus. He thought about the painting and the dream. The ring was real though. It was not the figment of a painting or a dream. He felt a coldness in himself. Why did things keep changing? he thought. Why couldn’t anything remain the same?

She looked over at him. “I’ll interpret the menu for you, if you want,” she said.

He picked it up and looked at the black printing. It was all in French.

The waiter came up to the table and Chris, glancing up at him, acquired an immediate dislike of the man; he was plump, his hair combed into an extravagant pompadour, his eyelids heavy, a look of superiority printed on his features.

If Alexsandra noticed this, she gave no indication of it, ordering a bottle of wine in a polite tone of voice. Her selection, Chris observed, seemed to fill the waiter’s Gallic heart with scorn, the most fragmentary of snide smiles drawing back his thick lips as though he was thinking,
You really intend to drink that piss?

While waiting for the menu, they talked about Paris and the garden of the Tuileries the boat was passing. Then the waiter returned and something about the man’s expression added to the tension Chris already felt. As the waiter pulled the cork and handed it to him with a supercilious smile, Chris’s face became hard. “
Pensezvous vraiment que je vais le renifler?
” he asked in a contemptuous tone.

The waiter blinked, obviously taken aback by Chris’s perfect French. Chris lifted the cork in front of the waiter and added, coldly, “
Le bouchon est ni mouillé, ni moelleux.
”

“
Monsieur?
” There was a hint of fluster in the waiter’s voice.

“
Apparemment, la bouteille n’a pas été inclinée comme il se doit.
” Chris snapped, aware that Alexsandra was gaping at him.

“
Monsieur, je—
” the waiter began, protesting mildly.

Chris cut him off. “
De l’air a pénétré a l’interieur et a oxidé le vin.
” He tossed the cork onto the table and waved away the bottle in distaste. The intimidated waiter carried it off.

Chris looked at Alexsandra. Her mouth was hanging open. Suddenly aware of it, she closed it. “
What was that?
” she asked incredulously.

“A little French,” he said.

“A
little
?” She stared at him in amazement. “You spoke it like a native.”

“I took a course once,” he said, grinning. “And I have a good memory.”

She couldn’t seem to get over it. “You must be a genius.”

He chuckled, embarrassed. “No,” he said.

She shook her head, still impressed. “What did you
say
to him?”

“Uh… let’s see if I can remember. I… asked him first if he really thought I was going to sniff the cork; obviously that’s what he expected me to do. Then I told him that the cork was… not wet, not flexible, that
apparently
—I gave him a shot on that word—the bottle hadn’t been properly stored and air had gotten into it and oxidized the wine.” He grinned. “I think I impressed him.”

“You positively decimated him,” she said in an awed voice. “I can’t get over it.”

“Shucks, ma’am, ’twarn’t nuthin’.”

“I think you
are
a genius,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh… it’s not that interesting.”

“Please,” she said.

“Well…” He hesitated. “Okay, the
Reader’s Digest
version, then. I was born in Tucson. My father died when I was three. My mother is a college teacher—English. She raised my sister and me in a learning atmosphere. I started reading at five. We were taken to concerts, plays, lectures, museums. When I showed an aptitude for mathematics, she enrolled me in a special school. She used to—”

He broke off as the waiter returned with another bottle of wine. Trying to ignore Alexsandra’s lowered head and repressed amusement, Chris again assumed the icily haughty expression and, when the waiter poured him a half-inch of wine to taste, he ran it around in his mouth, then sucked in a hissing breath of air, lips pursed, the way he’d once seen an expert do it at a wine-tasting contest. He made a sound as though to say,
well, I guess it will have to do since you obviously have nothing better
.