Lovers and Liars Trilogy (130 page)

“How many bars and cafés did you try before the Antica?” he said. “How many did you try after it? You’d like to put up a billboard, advertise on TV, perhaps? Maybe you’d be good enough to explain what in hell you thought you were doing? You gave me your
word
on this.”

He continued to speak. Gini stared at the wall as Rowland McGuire, gifted at invective, proceeded to take her apart stitch by stitch. She felt confused, then humiliated—and furious with herself. She knew there was no point in even trying to interrupt at this stage, and she was thinking hard.

Someone must have called him direct from the Antica very shortly after she had left. It could have been only one of two people. She had assumed his contact in Amsterdam was a man, and Rowland, she realized now, had played along with that foolish assumption. He might have been misleading her; he might not. Whichever of the two it was, she thought, they were good.

“Sandra?” Gini said as he paused for the first time. “Or is your contact Lance?”

She expected she would receive no reply to that question, and she did not.

“That wasn’t your concern before—and it certainly isn’t now. I spelled this out to you, not once, but twice. You gave me your word, and I
trusted
you… Apart from the fact that you lied, it was unprofessional behavior of the worst sort.”

“Rowland. I can explain…”

“Sure you can explain. In London. Meanwhile, you’re off this story as of an hour ago, you understand?”

“Rowland, will you
listen
? I went
only
to the Antica. I didn’t go anywhere else…”

“You expect me to believe that? Out of God knows how many bars and cafés in Amsterdam, you happen to pick the one where your appearance is guaranteed to cause maximum trouble? Don’t waste my time and my intelligence. I suggest you get the first plane out in the morning. Better still, get one tonight.”

“I went there because it’s where
Anneke
used to go.” Gini’s temper snapped. “Nothing to do with your damn contact, Rowland. What is this? I had a
lead,
and I followed it up. Do you want this story, or don’t you?”

“Yes. I want this story. I want this story more than you’re ever likely to understand.”

“Fine. I want it too. I want to find Star. I want to find Mina. And I’ll do that a whole lot quicker without you breathing down my neck.”

“This is sensitive. You knew it was sensitive. If you had a lead, you could have called me. But no, you just went chasing off. You do understand what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve compromised me. You’ve ignored my explicit instructions. You’ve put someone I know at risk. As a result, you’ve not only prejudiced
this
story, you’ve prejudiced others.”

“The hell I have!” Gini’s voice rose. “I don’t know what your precious source has been saying to you—”

“My precious source, as you put it, has given me a very clear and accurate account. Don’t try and damn well shift the blame. I know exactly what you did, and exactly what you said. Maybe those tabloid techniques suited the last paper you worked on—but they don’t suit me.” He broke off. “Look, I don’t have the time or the inclination for this. I didn’t expect to have to go through the rule book to someone with your experience. If I have the time, you can explain in London. Which gives you a while to come up with a better excuse.”

“I’m not coming back to London,” Gini interrupted furiously. “I’m going to follow up this story
my
way, at my pace. Which will give
you
time, Rowland, to work on your apology.”

“What did you just say?”

“You heard. The hell with this—who in God’s name do you think you are? Do this. Do that. Call back every five seconds.
No one
works like that.”

There was a silence. When he next spoke, Rowland’s voice was very cool and dangerously polite.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You seem to have some problem in understanding what I say. You’re off this story—you’ve got that? And I very much doubt, given the circumstances, that you’ll work for me again. I had my doubts about you, and the way in which you operate—”

“What?” Something in his tone made Gini tense. “What do you mean—the way I operate?”

“I thought—I was fool enough to think—I was a good judge of character. I see now…” His voice was becoming angry again. “All those apologies of yours, that sob story you gave me in the car about how you’d lost confidence—it didn’t mean a damn thing. Dear God—I should have
known.
I blame myself. You used me to get this story the same way you used Pascal Lamartine to get you to Bosnia.
Why
did you do that? It wasn’t necessary. I told you—”

“What did you just say?” Gini had gone very cold. “I used Pascal? How dare you say that? No way is that true.”

“Oh, it isn’t? Fine. My mistake. Look, I have to go. Just get that plane.”

“No.
You
wait. Don’t you dare hang up. You’re going to explain that, Rowland, and explain now. And don’t damn well tell me what to do and where to go.”

“Goddamn it, I’m your
editor.
I put you on this story—God only knows why—and I can take you off it anytime I choose.”

“Don’t pull rank on me—Lindsay was right about you. She said you were arrogant. Sitting in London, passing judgment, leaping to conclusions… You know
nothing
about my going to Bosnia. Why don’t you check? Ask Max…”

“Oh, I’ve already asked Max. You
knew
Max would never agree to send you to Bosnia, didn’t you? You tried everything, even played him off against the
Times,
and when that didn’t work, you sent your boyfriend in to clinch the deal.”

“I did what? That’s not true—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gini fought to control her voice; she had begun to tremble, and she could sense it, some vile revelation, very close. “You’ve been listening to lies—someone’s cheap lies—”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice rose. “I don’t damned well listen to gossip and rumor. Lamartine made a deal with Max. I know that for a fact. Max wanted Lamartine’s photographs—and when Lamartine made your presence a
condition
of working for us, Max gave in. He’d
never
have sent you out there otherwise. And judging from your present behavior, Max was right. You’re erratic, and untrustworthy, and—”

“Pascal wouldn’t do that!” She heard her own protest echo into the telephone. Her voice had risen, and was unsteady. Tears had sprung to her eyes. “How can you say that? How dare you say that? You know nothing about me. Nothing about Pascal. Pascal would
never
make conditions of that kind. Unlike you, he’s a professional.”

That stung him; there was a sharp intake of breath.

“Yes. Well, no doubt you were persuasive when you put him up to it. You were persuasive with me. I’ll say this for you, Gini, you put on a good act.”

“You bastard. You lying, sanctimonious bastard. I—”

She stopped. She was listening to the dial tone. At the second adjective McGuire had hung up.

Gini replaced the receiver. She was trembling from head to foot. It could not be true, she told herself. Pascal would never deceive her like that.

Then, the next second, she knew it could be true. She could remember the afternoon he had set off for his private meeting with Max. She could remember his quiet elation when he returned, and the negligent way in which he had said that it had been a good meeting, but nothing was finalized yet. He and Max had been circumspect. Her terms had finally been met four days later, Pascal’s signed and sealed two days after that. She could not decide which she minded more, the fact that Pascal could, out of love, misinterpret her own wishes so disastrously, that he could lie and then continue to lie for more than six months—or the fact that, as Rowland McGuire had been quick to point out, she had overestimated her own worth.

Her own abilities, her experience, her years of fighting to get just such an assignment, had counted for nothing. She’d been sent out there as Pascal’s
girl,
as a price paid with reluctance to secure his services. She felt the most acute and painful humiliation. How many other people were privy to this? Had they all known, the other reporters, the editors in features and news, the assistants, the secretaries? Had they all been as scornful as McGuire? Had they all been gossiping, and laughing behind her back?

Her first impulse was to reach for the telephone, to call Pascal, demand the truth. But as she reached for the machine, humiliation and shame receded and anger flooded back. She felt rage against Max, bland, amusing Max, who had said one thing and thought another. She felt the most bitter rage against Rowland McGuire, who jumped to the wrong conclusions, put two and two together and made six, who had been prejudiced against her, she now saw, from the very beginning, and who had just addressed her with such contempt.

He might think she was just going to drop this story, crawl meekly back to London and hide her head: well, he was wrong. Every major lead on this story with the exception of Mitchell had come from her. It was she who had persuaded Mitchell to talk, she who had won Fricke’s confidence, and she who had the Paris lead now. She thought of Erica van der Leyden that afternoon—the way in which Anneke’s mother had clasped her hands. That female exchange was far greater validation than any Rowland McGuire could provide; she had no intention of stopping now. Think, act,
move,
she said to herself. A quick future image of McGuire sprang into her mind. She saw him contrite; she saw him take back everything he had just said. But this little glimpse of a possible future disturbed her, and she pushed it aside at once. She had spent too much of her past life seeking her father’s approval; she did not intend seeking McGuire’s.

She loathed him, she told herself. She did not care one jot how the man reacted. She had nothing to prove to him; she was her own arbiter, proving her worth and her ability to no one but herself.

Without further hesitation she called the front desk and told them to book her on the next flight to Paris. There was one in forty-five minutes. If she hurried, she could catch it. This hotel, part of a large group, also had a branch in Paris. “Fax through a reservation for me, will you?” Gini said. But there she met her first hitch. Unfortunately, that would not be possible, the clerk explained. They had already had this problem earlier: not only their sister hotel, but every other major hotel in Paris was fully booked.

“You see,” said the clerk, “it’s the collections. They start tomorrow, and of course—”

“Forget it,” Gini said. “I’ll fix it myself.”

She dialed the St. Vincent hotel in Paris, where she knew Lindsay and her staff would be occupying several rooms and suites for the duration of the collections. She could not get Lindsay, who was out. After being transferred from phone to phone, and at the point when she was about to hang up, she finally reached Lindsay’s assistant, Pixie: Pixie, who was usually so ebullient and efficient, but who now sounded frantic, inattentive, and distressed. Gini could hear telephones ringing in the background; the noise of people and conversations and running feet. She began to explain her predicament, then stopped.

She realized Pixie was crying.

“I’ll try,” Pixie was saying. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise. Hang on—I’m coming. I’m sorry, Gini—Max is on the other line. I’m trying to find Lindsay; she’s out with Markov, and she doesn’t even know yet. It only just came through on the wires. It’s pandemonium here. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. After all, I never knew her. But I felt as if I did, and—”

“What’s happened, Pixie?”

“You mean you don’t know? I thought that must be why you were calling—”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Maria Cazarès. She’s dead.”

G
INI RACED FOR THE
airport. She caught her plane with five minutes to spare, and it was not until it was airborne that she had time to think. Pixie had known no further details, not how Cazarès died, or where, just that she was dead, had died earlier that day and that it was natural causes—or that seemed to be the case.

“I’ll do my best about the room,” she had finished, “but you can imagine, Gini, right?”

Gini could imagine only too well. She could imagine what might or might not have caused this sudden death; she could imagine the immediate consequences. A second circus would be coming to town. From America, from Britain, from all over Europe: when legends die, the jackals move in.

Her flight left on time; every ten minutes Gini checked her watch. Half an hour to landing, twenty minutes to landing. She had only hand luggage. With luck, she could be in a taxi and at the St. Vincent within thirty minutes of clearing customs.

Then the problems began. They were stacked over Charles de Gaulle airport. When she finally reached the taxi stand, there was a long line. The trip from the airport was slow, the center of Paris gridlocked with traffic. She ran up the steps of the St. Vincent, into its huge marble-floored lobby. There she stopped dead.

Rowland McGuire had been luckier, it seemed. He rose to his feet as she entered. As she attempted to walk straight past him, he blocked her path. He then took her arm.

“What kept you?” he said.

Gini gave him a furious look; she struggled to free herself.

“Don’t you touch me,” she began. “Just get out of my way.”

“Let’s not waste time,” he said, tightening his grip and propelling her toward the elevator. “I suggest we go straight up to our room.”

“What did you just say?”

“Our room. It has three phone lines and two faxes. It’s a suite. One bed and one couch. Since I’m a gentleman, I’ll take the couch.”

“Let go of my arm, damn you.”

“—Besides, neither of us will be getting much sleep. The French press has a head start, and I intend to catch up. Press eight.”

“Go to hell.”

“Along the corridor. First door on the right. That’s it. You like it? It’s the last available room of its kind in Paris. It’s cost the
Correspondent
six thousand francs above rates. When in doubt, bribe. Now…” He closed the door. “I would like you to listen to me.”