In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (19 page)

“
Afraid
to indulge. She’d eat me up alive. Like that bronze statue.”

“Aren’t you tempted? Just a little?” He looked at her with amusement. “You’re baiting me, Beryl.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are. I know exactly what you’re up to. Putting me to the test. Making me prove I’m not like your friend the surgeon. Who, as you implied, also believed in free love.” Beryl’s smile faded. “Is that what I’m doing?” she asked softly.

“You have a right to.” He gave her hand a squeeze and glanced down again at the crowd.

He’s always alert, always watching out for me,
she thought.
I’d trust him with my life. But my heart? I still
don’t know….

In the downstairs gallery, a pair of musicians began to play. As the sweet sounds of flute and guitar floated
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through the building, Beryl suddenly sensed a pair of eyes watching her. She looked down at the cluster of bronze statues and spotted Anthony Sutherland, standing by his Madonna with jackal. He was gazing right at her. And the expression in his eyes was one of cold calculation.

Instinctively she shrank away from the railing.

“What is it?” asked Richard.

“Anthony. It’s the way he looks at me.” But by then Anthony had already turned away and was shaking Reggie Vane’s hand. An odd young man, thought Beryl. What sort of mind dreams up these nightmarish visions? Women nursing jackals. Couples devouring each other. Had it been so difficult, growing up as Nina Sutherland’s son?

She and Richard wandered through the second-floor gallery, but found no sign of Nina.

“Why are you so interested in finding her?” asked Beryl.

“It’s not her so much as the way she went up those stairs. Obviously trying not to be noticed.”

“And you noticed her.”

“It was the dress. Those trademark bugle beads of hers.” They finished their circuit of the second floor and headed up the staircase to the third. Again, no sign of Nina.

But as they moved along the walkway, the musicians in the first-floor gallery suddenly ceased playing. In the abrupt silence that followed, Beryl heard Nina’s voice—a few loud syllables—just before it dropped to a whisper. Another voice answered—a man’s, speaking softly in reply.

The voices came from an alcove, just ahead.

“It’s not as if I haven’t been patient,” said Nina. “Not as if I haven’t
tried
to be understanding.” 176

Tess Gerritsen

“I know. I know—”

“Do you know what it’s been
like
for me? For Anthony?

Have you any
idea?
All those years, waiting for you to make up your mind.”

“I never let you want for anything.”

“Oh, how
fortunate
for us! My goodness, how generous of you!”

“The boy has had the best—everything he’s ever wanted. Now he’s twenty-one. My responsibility ends.”

“Your responsibility,” said Nina, “has only just
begun.
” Richard yanked Beryl around the corner just as Nina emerged from the alcove. She stormed right past them, too angry to notice her audience. They could hear her high heels tapping down the staircase to the lower galleries.

A moment later, a second figure emerged from the alcove, moving like an old man.

It was Philippe St. Pierre.

He went over to the railing and stared down at the crowd in the gallery below. He seemed to be considering the temptation of that two-story drop. Then, sighing deeply, he walked away and followed Nina down the stairs.

Down in the first-floor gallery, the crowd was starting to thin out. Anthony had already left; so had the Vanes. But Marie St. Pierre was still standing in her corner, the abandoned wife waiting to be reclaimed. A full room’s length away stood her husband Philippe, nursing a glass of champagne. And standing between them was that macabre sculpture, the bronze man and woman devouring each other alive.

Beryl thought that perhaps Anthony had hit upon the truth with his art. That if people weren’t careful, love would consume them, destroy them. As it had destroyed Marie.

The image of Marie St. Pierre, standing alone and
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forlorn in the corner, stayed with Beryl all the way back to the flat. She thought how hard it must be to play the politician’s wife—forever poised and pleasant, always supportive, never the shrew. And all the time knowing that your husband was in love with another woman.

“She must have known about it. For years,” said Beryl softly.

Richard kept his gaze on the road as he navigated the streets back to Passy. “Who?” he asked.

“Marie St. Pierre. She must have known about her husband and Nina. Every time she looks at young Anthony, she’d see the resemblance. And how it must hurt her. Yet all these years, she’s put up with him.”

“And with Nina,” said Richard.

Beryl sat back, puzzled.
Yes, she does put up with Nina.

And that’s the part I don’t understand. How she can be so
civil, so gracious, to her husband’s mistress. To her
husband’s bastard son….

“You think Philippe is Anthony’s father?”

“That’s what Nina meant, of course. All that talk about Philippe’s responsibilities. She meant Anthony.” She paused. “Art school must be very expensive.”

“And Philippe must’ve paid a pretty bundle over the years, supporting the boy. Not to mention Nina, whose tastes are extravagant, to say the least. Her widow’s pension couldn’t have been enough to—”

“What is it?” asked Beryl.

“I just had a flash of insight about her husband, Stephen Sutherland. He committed suicide a month after your parents died—jumped off a bridge.”

“Yes, you told me that.”

“All these years, I’ve thought his death was related to 178

Tess Gerritsen

the Delphi case. I suspected he was the mole, that he killed himself when he thought he was about to be discovered.

But what if his reasons for jumping off that bridge were entirely personal?”

“His marriage.”

“And young Anthony. The boy he discovered wasn’t his son at all.”

“But if Stephen Sutherland wasn’t Delphi…”

“Then we’re back to a person or persons unknown.”
Persons unknown.
Meaning someone who could still be alive. And afraid of discovery.

Instinctively she glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if they were being followed. Just behind them was the Peugeot with the two French agents; beyond that she saw only a stream of anonymous headlights. Richard was right, she thought. She should have stayed in the flat. She should have kept her head low, her face out of sight. Anyone could have spotted her this afternoon. Or they could be following her right this moment, could be watching her from somewhere in that sea of headlights.

Suddenly she longed to be back in the flat, safely surrounded by four walls. It began to seem endless, this drive to Passy, a journey through a darkness full of perils.

When at last they pulled up in front of the building, she was so anxious to get inside that she quickly started to climb out of the car. Richard pulled her back in.

“Don’t get out yet,” he said. “Let the men check it first.”

“You don’t really think—”

“It’s a precaution. Standard operating procedure.” Beryl watched the two French agents climb the steps and unlock the front door. While one man stood watch on the steps, the other vanished inside.

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“But how could anyone find out about the flat?” she asked.

“Payoffs. Leaks.”

“You don’t think Claude Daumier—”

“I’m not trying to scare you, Beryl. I just believe in being careful.”

She watched as the lights came on inside the flat. First the living room, then the bedroom. At last, the man on the steps gave them the all-clear signal.

“Okay, it must be clean,” said Richard, climbing out of the car. “Let’s go.”

Beryl stepped out onto the curb. She turned toward the building and took one step up the sidewalk—

—and was slammed backward against the car as an explosion rocked the earth. Shattered glass flew from the building and rained onto the street. Seconds later, the sky lit up with the hellish glow of flames shooting through the broken windows. Beryl sank to the ground, her ears still ringing from the blast. She stared numbly as tongues of flame slashed the darkness.

She couldn’t hear Richard’s shouts, didn’t realize he was crouched right beside her until she felt his hands on her face. “Are you all right?” he cried. “Beryl, look at me!”

Weakly she nodded. Then her gaze traveled to the front walkway, to the body of the French agent lying sprawled near the steps.

“Stay put!” yelled Richard as he pivoted away from her.

He dashed over to the fallen man and knelt beside him just long enough to feel for a pulse. At once he was back at Beryl’s side. “Get in the car,” he said.

“But what about the men?”

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Tess Gerritsen

“That one’s dead. The other one didn’t stand a chance.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Just get in the car!” ordered Richard. He opened the door and practically shoved her inside. Then he scrambled around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.

“We can’t just leave them there!” cried Beryl.

“We’ll have to.” He started the engine and sent the car screeching away from the curb.

Beryl watched as a succession of streets blurred past.

Richard drove like a madman, but she was too stunned to feel afraid, too bewildered to focus on anything but the river of red taillights stretching ahead of them.

“Jordan,” she whispered. “What about Jordan?”

“Right now I have to think about you.”

“They found the flat. They can get to him!”

“I’ll take care of it later. First we get you to a safe place.”

“Where?”

He swerved across two lanes and shot onto an off ramp.

“I’ll come up with one. Somewhere.”
Somewhere.
She stared out at the night glow of Paris.

A sprawling city, an ocean of light. A million different places to hide.

To die.

She shivered and shrank deep into the seat. “And then what?” she whispered. “What happens next?” He looked at her. “We get out of Paris. Out of the country.”

“You mean—go home?”

“No. It won’t be safe in England, either.” He turned his gaze back to the road. The car seemed to leap through the darkness. “We’re going to Greece.”

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* * *

“Allô?”

A familiar voice growled at him from the receiver.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Richard?” said Daumier. “Where are you?”

“A safe place. You’ll understand if I don’t reveal it to you.”

“And Beryl?”

“She’s unhurt. Though I can’t say the same for your two men. Who knew about the flat, Claude?”

“Only my people.”

“Who else?”

“I told no one else. It should have been a safe enough place.”

“Apparently you were wrong. Someone found out.”

“You were both out of the flat earlier today. One of you could have been followed.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Beryl, then. You should not have allowed her out of the building. She could’ve been spotted at Galerie Annika this afternoon and followed back to the flat.”

“My mistake. You’re right, I shouldn’t have left her alone. I can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” Daumier sighed. “You and I, Richard, we have known each other too long. This is not the time to stop trusting each other.”

There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Richard said, “I’m sorry, but I have no choice, Claude.

We’re going under.”

“Then I will not be able to help you.”

“We’ll go it alone. Without your help.” 182

Tess Gerritsen

“Wait, Richard—”

But the line had already gone dead. Daumier stared at the receiver, then slowly laid it back in the cradle. There was no point in trying to trace the call; Richard would have used a pay phone—and it would be in a different neighborhood from where he’d be staying. The man was once a professional; he knew the tricks of the trade.

Maybe—just maybe—it would keep them both alive.

“Good luck, my friend,” murmured Daumier. “I am afraid you will need it.”

Richard risked one more call from the pay phone, this one to Washington, D.C.

His business partner answered with his usual charmless growl. “Sakaroff here.”

“Niki, it’s me.”

“Richard? How is beautiful Paris? Having a good time?”

“A lousy time. Look, I can’t talk long. I’m in trouble.” Niki sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s the old Delphi case. You remember? Paris, ’73. The NATO mole.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Delphi’s come back to life. I need your help to identify him.”

“I was KGB, Richard. Not Stasi.”

“But you had connections to the East Germans.”

“Not directly. I had little contact with Stasi agents.

The East Germans, you know…they preferred to operate independently.”

“Then who
would
know about Delphi? There must be some old contact you can pump for information.”
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There was a pause. “Perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Heinrich Leitner,” said Sakaroff. “He is the one who could tell you. He oversaw Stasi’s Paris operations. Not a field man—he never left East Berlin. But he would be familiar with Delphi’s work.”

“Okay, he’s the man I’ll talk to. So how do I get to him?”

“That is the difficult part. He is in Berlin—”

“No problem. We’ll go there.”

“—in a high-security prison.”

Richard groaned. “That
is
a problem.” In frustration, he turned and stared through the phone-booth door at the subway platform. “I’ve got to get in to see him, Niki.”

“You’ll need approval. That will take days. Papers, signatures…”