In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (23 page)

“Marie told her.”

“Who else knew about it?”

“I doubt there were many. Poor Marie’s not one to ad -

vertise 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
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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 exhaus-212

Tess Gerritsen

tion. 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.

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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.

Two men stepped into their path. At once the couple halted and pivoted as though to flee back toward the plane.

Three more men magically appeared, blocking off their escape. The couple was trapped.

The attendant caught a glimpse of the woman’s panicked face, the man’s grim expression of defeat. She had been sure there was something wrong about them.

They were terrorists, perhaps, or international thieves. And there were the police to make the arrest. She watched as the pair was led away through the murmuring crowd. Definitely not first class, she thought with a sniff of satisfaction. Oh, yes, one could always tell.

Richard and Beryl were shoved forward into a win-dowless room. “Stay here!” came the barked command, then the door was slammed shut behind them.

“They were waiting for us,” said Beryl. “How did they know?”

Richard went to the door and tested the knob. “Dead bolt,” he muttered. “We’re locked in tight.” In frustration, he began to circle the room, searching for another way out.

“Somehow they knew we were coming to Berlin….”

“We paid for the tickets in cash. There was no way they could have known. And those were airport guards, Richard.

If they want us dead, why bother to arrest us?”

“To keep you from getting your heads shot off,” said a familiar voice. “That’s why.”

Beryl wheeled around in astonishment at the portly man who’d just opened the door. “Uncle
Hugh?
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Tess Gerritsen

Lord Lovat scowled at his niece’s wrinkled clothes and tangled hair. “You’re a fine mess. Since when did you adopt the gypsy look?”

“Since we hitchhiked halfway across Greece. Credit cards, by the way, are
not
the preferred method of payment in small Greek towns.”

“Well, you made it to Berlin.” He glanced at Richard.

“Good work, Wolf.”

“I could’ve used some assistance,” growled Richard.

“And we would’ve happily provided it. But we had no idea where to find you, until I spoke with your man, Sakaroff. He said you’d be headed for Berlin. We only just found out you’d gone via Athens.”

“What are
you
doing in Berlin, Uncle Hugh?” demanded Beryl. “I thought you were off on another one of your secret missions.”

“I’m fishing.”

“Not for fish, obviously.”

“For answers. Which I’m hoping Heinrich Leitner will provide.” He took another look at Beryl’s clothes and sighed. “Let’s get to the hotel and clean you both up. Then we’ll pay a visit to Herr Leitner’s prison cell.”

“You have clearance to speak to him?” said Richard in surprise.

“What do you think I’ve been doing here these last few days? Wining and dining the necessary officials.” He waved them out of the room. “The car’s waiting.” In Uncle Hugh’s hotel suite, they showered off three days’ worth of Greek dust and sand. A fresh set of clothes was delivered to the room, courtesy of the concierge—

sober business attire, outfits appropriate for a visit to a high-security prison.

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“How do we know Leitner will tell us the truth?” asked Richard as they rode in the limousine to the prison.

“We don’t,” said Hugh. “We don’t even know how much he
can
tell us. He oversaw Paris operations from East Berlin, so he’d be acquainted with code names, but not faces.”

“Then we may come away with nothing.”

“As I said, Wolf, it’s a fishing expedition. Sometimes you reel in an old tire. Sometimes a salmon.”

“Or, in this case, a mole.”

“If he’s cooperative.”

“Are you prepared to hear the truth?” asked Richard.

The question was directed at Hugh, but his gaze was on Beryl. Delphi could still be Bernard or Madeline, his eyes said.

“Right now, I’d say ignorance is far more dangerous,” Hugh observed. “And there’s Jordan to consider. I have people watching out for him. But there’s always the chance things could go wrong.”

Things have already gone wrong, thought Beryl, looking out the car window at the drab and dreary buildings of East Berlin.

The prison was even more forbidding—a massive concrete fortress surrounded by electrified fences. The very best of security, she noted, as they moved through the gauntlet of checkpoints and metal detectors. Uncle Hugh had obviously been expected, and he was greeted with the chilling disdain of an old Cold War enemy. Only when they’d arrived at the commandant’s office was any courtesy extended to them. Glasses of hot tea were passed around, cigars offered to the men. Hugh accepted; Richard declined.

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“Up until recently, Leitner was most uncooperative,” said the commandant, lighting a cigar. “At first, he denied his role entirely. But our files on him are proof positive.

He
was
in charge of Paris operations.”

“Has Leitner provided any names?” asked Richard.

The commandant peered at Richard through the drifting cloud of cigar smoke. “You were CIA, were you not, Mr. Wolf?”

Richard gave only the briefest nod of acknowledgment.

“It was years ago. I’ve left the business.”

“But you understand how it is, to be dogged by one’s past associations.”

“Yes, I understand.”

The commandant rose and went to look out his window at the barbed-wire fence enclosing his prison kingdom.

“Berlin is filled with people running from their shadows.

Their old lives. Whether it was for money or for ideology, they served a master. And now the master is dead and they hide from the past.”

“Leitner’s already in prison. He has nothing to lose by talking to us.”

“But the people who worked for him—the ones not yet exposed—they have everything to lose. Now the East German files are open. And every day, some curious citizen opens one of those files and discovers the truth. Realizes that a friend or husband or lover was working for the enemy.” The commandant turned, his pale blue eyes focused on Richard. “That’s why Leitner has been reluctant to give names—to protect his old agents.”

“But you say he’s more cooperative these days?”

“In recent weeks, yes.”

“Why?”

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The commandant paused. “A bad heart, the doctors say.

It fails, little by little. In two months, three…” He shrugged. “Leitner sees the end coming. And in exchange for a few last comforts, he’s sometimes willing to talk.”

“Then he may give us answers.”

“If he is in the mood.” The commandant turned to the door. “So, let us see what sort of mood Herr Leitner is in today.”

They followed him down secured corridors, past mounted cameras and grim-faced guards, into the very core of the complex. Here there were no windows; the air itself seemed hermetically sealed from the outside world.

From here there is no escape,
thought Beryl.
Except
through death.

They stopped at cell number five. Two guards, each with his own key, opened separate locks. The door swung open.

Inside, on a wooden chair, sat an old man. Oxygen tubing snaked from his nostrils. His regulation prison garb—tan shirt and pants, no belt—hung loosely on his shrunken frame. The fluorescent lights gave his face a yel-lowish cast. Beside the man’s chair stood an oxygen tank; except for the hiss of the gas flowing through his nasal prongs, the room was silent.

The commandant said, “
Guten Tag,
Heinrich.” Leitner said nothing. Only by a brief flicker of his eyes did he acknowledge the greeting.

“I have brought with me today, Lord Lovat, from England. You are familiar with the name?” Again, a flicker in the old man’s blue eyes. And a whisper, barely audible, “MI6.”

“That’s right,” said Hugh. “Since retired.” 218

Tess Gerritsen

“So am I,” was the reply, not without a trace of humor.

Leitner’s gaze shifted to Beryl and Richard.

“My niece,” said Hugh. “And a former associate.

Richard Wolf.”

“CIA?” said Leitner.

Richard nodded. “Also retired.”

Leitner managed a faint smile. “How differently we enjoy our retirements.” He looked once again at Hugh. “A social call on an old enemy? How thoughtful.”

“Not a social call, exactly,” said Hugh.

Leitner began to cough, and the effort seemed almost too much for him; when at last he settled back into his chair, his face had a distinctly blue tinge. “What is it you wish to know?”

“The identity of your double agent in Paris. Code name Delphi.”

Leitner didn’t speak.

“Surely the name is familiar, Herr Leitner. Over the years, Delphi must have passed on invaluable documents.

He was your link to NATO operations. Don’t you remember?”

“That was twenty years ago,” murmured Leitner. “The world has changed.”

“We want only his name. That’s all.”

“So you may put Delphi in a cage like this? Shut away from the sun and air?”

“So we can stop the killing,” said Richard.

Leitner frowned. “What killing?”

“It’s going on right now. A French agent, murdered in Paris. A man, shot to death in Greece. It’s all linked to Delphi.”

“That cannot be possible,” said Leitner.

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“Why?”

“Delphi has been put to sleep.”

Hugh frowned at him. “Are you saying he’s dead?”

“But that makes no sense,” said Richard. “If Delphi’s dead, why is the killing still going on?”

“Perhaps,” said Leitner, “it has nothing at all to do with Delphi.”

“Perhaps you are lying,” said Richard.

Leitner smiled. “Always a possibility.” Suddenly he began to cough again; it had the gurgling sound of a man drowning in his own secretions. When at last he could speak, it was only between gasps for oxygen. “Delphi was a paid recruit,” he said. “Not a true believer. We preferred the believers, you see. They did not cost as much.”

“So he did it for money?” asked Richard.

“A rather generous sum, over the years.”

“When did it stop?”

“When it became a risk to all involved. So Delphi ended the association. Covered all tracks before your counterin-telligence could close in.”

“Is that why my parents were killed?” asked Beryl.

“Because Delphi had to cover his tracks?” Leitner frowned. “Your parents?”