Lovers and Liars Trilogy (37 page)

“Don’t say anything.” Pascal bent closely to her ear. “Nothing, Gini. Wait until we’re outside.”

They said their good-byes and thanks to Mary, then left. Pascal took her arm. They walked at a fast pace in the opposite direction from the street where Gini had parked her car. When Pascal was certain there was no one following them, he drew her into a deserted cul-de-sac. There he stopped. He turned to Gini, his face alert and pale in the lamplight.

“Gini, you saw?”

“The coat? Of course I saw the coat. You can’t exactly miss full-length sable.”

“And the necklace? You saw the pearls?”

“No.”

“It’s because she was wearing the clasp at the back. You could see it only from behind. I noticed it earlier. The clasp was gold, with a cabochon ruby. Both the pearls and the coat were a birthday present from her husband. It’s her birthday today, Gini.”

“I know. Mary mentioned it.”

“Well, now.” Pascal took out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned back against a garden wall and looked at her. “Isn’t her husband, the ambassador, a generous man? A pearl necklace. A sable coat. I wonder if he mentioned who had worn them before?”

“Pascal, wait. You’re sure about the pearls?”

“Of course. And what’s more, we were right when we listened to that phone tape. She’s afraid, and she’s under strain. Even your stepmother noticed it. She came over twice to ask her if she still felt unwell.”

“She didn’t look unwell to me.” Gini gave him a sharp glance. “She looked perfectly fine when she was reading your palm.”

“How could you tell?” His comeback was equally sharp. “You were so wrapped up in Hawthorne, you wouldn’t have noticed a damn thing.”

“Well, at least I wasn’t flirting with Hawthorne. Which can’t be said of you and Lise….”

“Oh, really? You weren’t? You were listening to him pretty damn closely, hanging on his every word. I saw the way he looked at you. I saw the way he took your arm—”

“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous! Of course I was listening to him. That’s why I was there. To get some kind of impression of the man.”

“Fine. Excellent. And so what was that impression?”

“I liked him, if you must know. On the whole. He’s autocratic, but you’d expect that. If you’d tried to talk to him yourself instead of sitting there, having your palm read, for God’s sake, you might have liked him too.”

“Tried to talk to him? Jesus Christ, are you totally blind?” Pascal gave a gesture of exasperation. “You saw what happened the second Mary introduced me. As soon as he heard my name, he was off, gone. And calling his wife to heel.”

“I’m amazed he didn’t do that earlier,” Gini replied. “I’ve never seen anything so pathetic. Sitting on a sofa, whispering to you…”

“She was not whispering. She just has a low voice, that’s all.”

“Whispering. Taking your palm in front of a whole room of people. Well, I could see you were flattered, Pascal, and I hate to disillusion you, but apparently she does that all the time—”

“Is that so?” Pascal’s voice, angry a moment before, became suddenly and dangerously cool.

“Yes, she damn well does,” Gini continued. “Hawthorne told me. He heard what she was saying—all that tripe about horoscopes and astrology or whatever it was. And he told me that in three minutes she’d be reading your palm. He was right to the second, what’s more.”

“Was he? How very clever of her.”

“Clever of
her
?” Gini stared at him. “Why?”

“Because she did something he expected her to do—and because of that, he stopped paying attention. Instead, he turned his attention to you.”

“Will you stop this? He did no such thing. It was just a normal, ordinary conversation. We talked about work. About my father. He knew my father in Vietnam. …”

Pascal gave her an impatient glare.

“But of course. He set out to charm you—that was obvious from the second we walked in. So he talked about your father. He was flattering you, Gini. Can’t you see that?”

“No, I can’t. I’m telling you, I liked him. He seemed honest. Straight. Sharp. I liked him. End of story. That’s it.”

“You’re biased in his favor now, is that it? But you can’t explain those pearls, or that coat—”

“No. I can’t. And neither can you. In themselves they prove nothing. …”

“They suggest quite a lot.”

“Look.” Gini sighed. “All I’m doing is giving him the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty. Unlike you. You took one of your instant dislikes. It was just the same as when you met my father—”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this!” Pascal turned away and began to pace up and down. “Fine. Right.” He turned back to her. “Let me just make sure I’ve got this right. You associate Hawthorne with your father now, is that it?”

“No, I damn well don’t.” Gini rounded on him angrily. “Did I say that? No. I said you made one of your instant decisions—”

“I do not make instant decisions.”

“Yes, you do. How about Lise? You took one look and instantly capitulated. Suddenly Lise is this poor, frightened creature in need of protection. We don’t
know
that, Pascal. Lise could have made up this whole thing. So could McMullen, for that matter. It could be one long lie from beginning to end.”

“You think I don’t know that? Why do you think I was talking to the stupid woman for so long? Why was I listening to her so carefully? You think I actually enjoyed it—hours of horoscope nonsense, little lectures on Fate? Dear God, don’t you know me at
all
?”

“You didn’t
look
bored, Pascal.”

“Will you stop this and listen?” He moved suddenly and took hold of her arm.

“No. I will not. I
saw
you, Pascal. I’ve never seen you behave that way in my life. I—” She broke off. Pascal was now very close to her. He was looking down into her face.

“There’s more you want to say, perhaps, Gini? Other things you want to add? Or are you going to be quiet and
listen
?”

“No. I’m not. And I have plenty more to say.”

Pascal gave a sigh. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Then we’ll do it this way. I’ll
make
you be quiet.”

Then he kissed her. He moved so quickly that he took her by surprise. He caught her roughly against him and kissed her mouth hard.

“Now,” he said, stepping back from her. “You will listen to what I have to say, and you won’t interrupt until I’ve finished. First, Lise Hawthorne
was
under strain, she was jumpy, odd, maybe even on pills of some kind. Second, there must be a major security alert, because that house was crawling with security men. There were three cars outside, and two men on foot. Inside, there was that Malone man in the hall, and another man positioned at the far side of the drawing room by the other door. That’s very unusual, in fact, it’s something I’ve never seen at a private party. Third, Lise Hawthorne was worried by the man in the room and the man in the hall. She kept glancing at them, and then at her husband. It was as if she felt watched. Fourth, she
was
watched, certainly by Hawthorne. Most of the time you were talking to him, you had your back to us. But he kept his eye on her the entire time. All of which, Gini,
all of which
makes it all the more remarkable what she did when she read my palm and that damn husband of hers finally turned away. She gave me this, Gini. Look.”

He held out to her in the lamplight a tiny piece of paper, no more than an inch square.

“Now,”
he said, “do you understand why this apparently stupid woman reads my palm? It was very well done, Gini. I noticed nothing until I felt the paper in my hand. It was done in a second. So. Shall we see why?”

Pascal drew her closer to the streetlight. He unfolded the tiny scrap of paper and smoothed it flat. On it, typed, was the word
Sunday,
and beneath it an address.

There was a small silence. Gini shivered.

“McMullen failed to provide next Sunday’s assignation address,” Pascal said. “So she did. At some risk.”

Gini was looking closely at the address. “One thing you should know,” Gini said. “This address is five minutes from Regent’s Park. Five minutes from the U.S. ambassador’s official residence, Pascal, from John Hawthorne’s house. We can take a look at it on the way home.”

They drove north, skirted Regent’s Park, and turned into Avenue Road. Large houses lined the street on either side of them.

“Some neighborhood,” Pascal said without enthusiasm. It reminded him of Helen’s house, of her neighborhood.

“A
rich
neighborhood,” Gini corrected him. “A
nouveau riche
neighborhood. Especially this part here.”

They passed some large white-stucco Victorian villas, interspersed with oversize brick palaces of more recent date. Most had security lighting; almost all had ground-floor windows that were barred.

“People buy them for investment, I think,” Gini said. “Half of them are empty except for staff. That’s a well-known private abortion clinic—I interviewed its director once. I think it’s the next turn on the right….” She slowed. “Damn. It’s a cul-de-sac.”

“Never mind. Turn in, drive to the end, circle, and go out again.”

There were six houses on the street, three on each side. The one to which Lise had directed them was at the far end, and was the only period house. They glimpsed white stucco, a curious gothic porch set to the side. The rest of the building was hidden behind high laurel hedges. It was unlit, as were the rest of the houses. Apart from one streetlamp, the cul-de-sac was dark.

Gini pulled back out into the main road. They drove north back to Islington, saying little. In her apartment, Pascal made up the sofa in silence, and in silence began to pack his bag. Gini watched him.

“Venice tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes. The flight leaves at nine. We’ll have to leave here around seven. You’d better get some sleep.”

“Perhaps we’ll find McMullen,” she said. “Perhaps he’ll explain. …”

“Maybe.” Pascal straightened. He looked around the room, and then back at her. “Not here,” he said.

Gini looked around her living room, which might or might not be safe. She wanted to ask Pascal why he had kissed her, and whether he had felt as she had felt when he did, but she did not want to ask that question in a room with listening walls.

She thought she could see the answer in his face, and in the resolute way he continued his packing, but she could not be sure. At the door of her bedroom she hesitated. Pascal stopped packing, straightened, and looked at her.

“Was it just to silence me?” she said finally.

“No.” He smiled. “I’d been considering it for some time.
Depuis mercredi, tu sais. Depuis douze ans….
”

He returned to his packing. She went into her bedroom and closed the door.

Those two phrases sang in the air. She liked the grammar, the French construction; they made the words echo and reecho. Since Wednesday, she thought. A translation. Since twelve years.

T
HE FLIGHT WAS DELAYED.
Pascal and Gini stood in line. There were few passengers for Venice. Most of the other travelers were heading for the ski slopes. A calm, bored voice kept up a constant refrain on the public address system:
Due to the current international situation, additional security measures are in operation. Please do not leave bags unattended. Please be patient and cooperate with security personnel….

Their luggage was hand-searched twice. Pascal’s cameras were minutely examined. Gini’s tape recorder was opened, the tape removed, checked, replaced.

Their plane was half-empty. Pascal, who had kept a close eye on the other passengers in the departure lounge, ensured they were given seats well separated from the others. They had two empty rows behind them, and two in front.

“There,” he said as the plane took off. “It’s the best I can do. It’s not one hundred percent, but at least we’re not easily overheard.”

“You think we’ll be followed?”

Pascal shrugged. “It’s possible. I
feel
followed, and listened to, all the time. But no doubt that’s partly paranoia, as you said. I’ve taken some precautions. We won’t go to the hotel I booked us into; we’ll go to another I know. A small, quiet place.” He paused while the stewardess brought copies of the newspapers.

“One thing,” he said when she had gone. “If McMullen did leave England for Italy, he timed it very well. Another couple of weeks and they’d have been checking all passports very carefully.”

“They checked yours for long enough.” Gini said.

“Too many Middle East visas; they don’t like that.”

“Look at this.” She held out the copy of
The Sunday Times.
“More anti-U.S. demonstrations. In Syria. And in Iran.”

“It’s spreading, and it’s intensifying. That was inevitable.” Pascal shrugged. “Look.” He turned the pages of his own newspaper, pointed to one item. “Last Friday there was a bomb outside the U.S. embassy in Paris, did you see that?”

“Yes. I did. I suppose it could explain why Lise Hawthorne was so nervous yesterday. Mary did say that Lise worried about her husband’s safety.”

Pascal frowned and turned away to the window. “No,” he said, “it was something else, something
more.
”

“She could be worrying about McMullen,” Gini said. “That’s the most obvious deduction, surely? After all, McMullen seems to have been her one confidant. She was depending on his help and his support. It’s well over two weeks since McMullen disappeared.”

“Twenty days. It’s twenty days.”

“Suppose she hasn’t heard from him in that time either? Suppose she doesn’t know where he is—even if he’s dead or alive? And meanwhile there’s another of those Sundays coming closer and closer. The next is just one week away.” She glanced toward him. “Absence, Pascal. Uncertainty. Just those factors alone would explain it. She’s anxious, and she’s afraid for
him.
”

“If they aren’t in contact.” He frowned. “Maybe. Except I can’t believe McMullen
wouldn’t
contact her. You heard him on that tape. ‘I’d cross the world to spend five minutes at your side.’ He’d move heaven and earth to remain in touch, to reassure her. You could hear it in his voice.”