LACKING VIRTUES (52 page)

“What?”  She was stunned.

“Please, Nicole. I beg you to keep an open mind and listen to me. I’m not proud of what I did, but when you’ve heard me out, I think you’ll agree it wasn’t such a bad thing.”

“The tennis club? All that was a lie?”

“I arranged for him to get the job, yes.”

Nicole started to tremble, tears of rage welling in her eyes. “You mean his coming on to me, all that was
theater
? You paid him to get me in bed? You paid him? And all along I was saying to myself, he’s so different from arrogant French boys, so interested in me as a person and not just my body, so kind  –  ”

“Nicole, please. He fell in love with you before anything intimate happened. He called me from Nice and told me he was quitting the assignment, that he simply couldn’t reconcile his feelings for you with what I was asking of him. Do you know what it meant for him to give up that assignment? Nicole, he wants to be a journalist. I had given him a start the likes of which few young hopefuls ever receive. I was providing him with a lavish expense account at a time when he was broke. And still, he chose you over all of that. It’s the truth, Nicole, the absolute truth.”

“Then he quit with this nonsense of spying on my father?”

“No, not exactly. He tried to quit. I was shameless. I was ruthless. I was manipulative. I needed him to get my story, so I gave him more money. I ridiculed and cajoled him. I convinced him your father had plans for you that would ruin your life.”

“He did. He does. But that’s beside the point. Steven had no right to deceive me. No right whatsoever. It is a denial of trust and honesty and everything else that love demands.”

“It’s not that cut-and-dried, Nicole. He fell in love with you, he fell in love with the dream of helping me do a great story on a man I considered dangerous to the future of his country and the world. Steven was in a dilemma from which he did not know how to escape. He was trying to get out, though. Trying to find the courage to confess to you. He put it off for the second time when you mentioned your father’s Wednesday night political meetings.”

“Oh, my God, he’s taken such advantage of me. Is that where he was when he said he was playing a tournament in Dijon? After I had introduced him to the caretakers and given him a tour of the house? I trusted him. I trusted him with my life. This . . . this is disgusting.”

“Nicole”

“I can’t talk anymore. I have to go. I can’t take this at a time when everyone but me is trying to run my life. Perhaps my father is right.  Perhaps I am naive and need to be protected from the scoundrels of this world.”

“I understand why you are upset, Nicole. But before you leave, I would like to tell you what Steven overheard at your father’s country home.”

She was already on her feet. She did not answer.

“If you’re looking for scoundrels, Nicole, leave Steven out of this. Your father has a monopoly on the title. He and a group of his cronies are sabotaging Boeing airplanes. He is responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent men, women and children. He has done this horrible thing for political gain. He thinks that if he turns the French economy around while he’s Minister of Industry, he will be elected President of France. That, my dear, is what the man who truly loves you learned while he was eavesdropping on your father’s meeting.”

“It can’t be,” Nicole said. “How can I believe something like that? I know father isn’t a kind man, but a saboteur of passenger jets? No, that’s hardly possible. He hasn’t a heart, but he’s not evil. He’s not, is he, Madame Marx?”

Sophie knew she had almost lost Nicole, but now she could feel her coming back. She said, “Steven is at the manor right now with a member of the United States government. They have photographic equipment and listening devices. They will be here shortly. You can decide then whether or not these allegations are true.”

“No . . . they cannot be true. I assure you, they cannot be.”

“Nicole –  ”

“What?”

“This was a very dangerous thing for Steven to attempt. Your father’s group is making payment to an ex-KGB agent tonight for his role in the crashes. This man, whose name is Walter Claussen, is to receive one and a half
billion
francs. You can imagine the type of security Steven and his colleague are up against. It’s possible they won’t make it back at all. Please stay here and wait with me. I beg you. If things go badly we’re going to need each other.”

Nicole began to tremble again. Tears streamed down her ravaged face. “I . . . I don’t know what to do or whom to believe. I’m . . . so tired.”

Sophie took her gently by the arm. “Why don’t you lie down and have a rest. There’ll be a lot to talk about when he returns.”

“What if he doesn’t return? What if –  ”

“Shhh. Rest now.”

Nicole did not resist when Sophie led her to Steven’s bedroom. She lay down and curled up, clutching a pillow. Sophie tiptoed out and closed the door. She had done what she set out to do. Whether it had been a good idea or not, she wasn’t sure.

Chapter Forty

Warner received the light signal, the first in a long time. He held the pocket knife across the control box terminals, and the furnace roared to life.

But the light, for some reason, did not go out. Had Steven gotten careless? Or sleepy? This was entirely unacceptable. He reattached the thermostat wires, fearing it could grow noticeably colder upstairs if he did not and, seething with irritation over his partner’s slothfulness, headed for the wine cellar.

Groaning met him as he approached the door. Steven was on his knees, blood trickling down the side of his head, his hands groping aimlessly for support.

Warner grabbed him with both arms and hauled him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

“I . . . don’t – ”

“Where’s the CVR?”

Steven seemed confused. He pointed to the crates where he had been standing. It was not there. He tried to sit back down, but Warner wouldn’t let him.

“Steven . . . Steven! What happened? Try to remember.”

“I don’t . . . know. I just woke up down there.”

“Try to remember!”

“I feel sick.”

“Steven, do you know where you are?”

“Huh?”

“We’ve got to go. Now. We’ve got to run.”

“The CVR? Did you . . . find it?”

“Steven, someone has been here. They’ve knocked you out and taken the recorder. Come on. Get tough. If we don’t get out of here, we’re finished.”

Warner slung the dazed man’s arm over his shoulder and half dragged, half carried him to the steps. “Can you walk on your own now?” he asked, puffing like a locomotive.

“I . . . I think so.”

“Then move. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Steven started up the stairs, fell, took a few steps on all fours, then got to his feet. His head seemed to be clearing. He pushed open the door and hit the lawn running.

Jesus Christ, he was in shape, thought Warner, following. He took a quick glance through the kitchen window as they raced away from the house. Henri! It had been Henri who had come into the basement! He was holding up the CVR, making some sort of animated presentation to his wife. This meant they had just been discovered in the last few minutes. Judging from Henri’s behavior, the men in the dining room had not yet been told.

Now was the critical time, thought Warner. Now was when they had to give it everything they had.

He caught up to Steven, who was keeping a fast steady pace. “You okay?”

“I’m all right, Frank. Still dazed but all right. Jesus, what happened?”

“Henri must have come down for wine while you were listening. He’s in the kitchen with the CVR right now. Don’t talk. Save your strength. We have to cover some ground.”

They passed under the trees where the crows had once mounted a noisy attack and reached the edge of the meadow that led to the lily ponds. The forest glistened in the moonlight. It seemed far, far away. Patches of ground fog clung to ditches and indentations in the terrain. Cover if and when they needed it. Not much but some.

Warner’s lungs were on fire. His legs felt as though they had turned to jelly. He could hear himself hacking and rasping as his feet pounded the wet grass.

“It’s my fault,” Steven said. “I lost the tapes. They were perfect. They were everything we needed and more.  How could it happen? How did I fuck up?”

“Christ, quit blaming yourself. It was nobody’s fault. Let’s work on getting out of here before they get organized.”

Steven started to say something, then fell silent and picked up the pace. He had recovered from the blow to the head; he wasn’t hurt. Warner tried to keep up, but his 53 years were more than a match for his will power. Better to concentrate on not spraining an ankle, he thought, than on doing the impossible.

They circled the lily ponds, took the path to the forest and came to the irrigation ditch that formed the boundary of Michelet’s estate. It was covered with a thick blanket of fog rising a few feet above the ground.

Once they crossed it, Warner knew they couldn’t be seen from the manor, not even with the best infrared field glasses Delors and the SDECE could muster. He stopped and lifted his binoculars; he felt it was worth the small delay to try to get an idea of how much time they had until hell on earth broke loose.

He could see through the kitchen windows, which were the only windows without drapes. He focused while Steven helped him steady his arms.

Isabelle was guarding the CVR, which sat on the counter like a piece of smoked meat. Henri was gone, no doubt making his report in the dining room.

Warner believed they would have time enough to get to the bike. Whether they could ride it to safety depended on the response these bastards mounted.

He didn’t want to underestimate them. There was a member of the government present who could pull all sorts of strings. His right-hand man was the deputy director of French intelligence, who could mobilize his own substantial forces. And there was Claussen, a spy who had fooled the CIA for 30 years. If ever they needed a stroke of luck, the time was now.

***

Michelet banged on the table when Henri entered the dining room unannounced. “What do you think you’re doing? Where’s the cognac?”

“Monsieur, Isabelle and I must talk to you in the kitchen at once.”

“What did he say?” Haussmann said.

“No idea,” said Delors. “He was mumbling.”

Claussen lit a cigarette. “He said he and Isabelle would like to talk to Minister Michelet in the kitchen. At once.”

“Please excuse yourself,” Michelet bellowed, shaking a fist at his servant. “I asked that you bring the cognac and return to your quarters. As yet you have done neither. At least have the decency to GO HOME. We will fetch the cognac ourselves. Now, go.”

“But, Monsieur, it is about the cognac and the other items in your wine cellar that I must speak to you. It could be, Monsieur, that someone has made an unauthorized entry into the cellar. It could be that a wine thief was present.”