Masquerade (28 page)

“I know. Maslow says that's what happens when people deny, or are forced to deny, their true inner natures. Karen Horney, another psychologist, says every time we do something wrong, something we feel guilty about, it ‘registers' inside us, and every time we do something good and honest, it ‘registers,' too. In other words, each of us unconsciously keeps our own private scale of justice. It eventually weights itself in one direction or the other, for good or for evil, and as a result we either like and admire ourselves, or we despise ourselves and feel worthless and unlovable. Then we behave accordingly. You know, a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Gosh, criminals feel unlovable. Gee whiz.”

“Go ahead and sneer, Flores. You can spot the disease, but I'll bet you haven't a clue what the world would be like if we were all living fulfilling lives.”

“Can't happen to Homo sapiens. We're a warrior species.”

“Wrong. That's ancient history, our primitive past. The search for excellence and altruism
is
our nature, and if we survive long enough, it'll be our future.”

“Tell that to Langley and the people at the Ranch. Tell it to yourself. Now, with what's happened to you.”

She frowned. “We're still psychologically evolving, so it's tough for us to envision the kind of remarkable world we could create. But even though we can't see it, we have to trust that it's possible. We have to keep trying. For me, that means because I look like Liz Sansborough, I've got to protect myself. That's a basic instinct, too, idiot. Self-preservation.”

But it wasn't self-preservation she'd felt a few minutes ago. It was as if a thunderbolt had struck and forced her to face how easily she could use her new skills: Entice. Kill. Escape. And that she might enjoy it.

She'd always lived a safe existence. Despite her many interviewing trips to major cities around the world, she'd never had even her purse stolen. Her words to Flores said one thing, while her mind recoiled at
her
potential.

Flores smiled. “Glad to hear it. I think you, Maslow, and Horney are batty. However, I'll offer one little observation. You've been worried about what kind of person you are. In a sense, Gordon raised you. You should be like Gordon, but you're not. If the situation had been reversed, he'd have shot us at once. Doesn't that tell you a lot about who you really are?”

“Maybe I'm a lot more like Gordon than you think.”

He laughed. “Not likely.”

Yesterday she would have found solace in his words. But this morning she'd killed a young man, shattered his cranium with a perfect bull's-eye shot, and then this afternoon she'd looked at the two policemen in the terminal and known she had the skill and perhaps the will to execute them, too.

She closed her eyes. No. She couldn't be that kind of person. She wouldn't allow it!

She looked into Flores's warm black eyes. In them she saw something rare—genuine kindness. Crazy Flores was a kind man. And yet he was a complete professional, hard, ruthless when he had to be. And he'd probably been right about killing Gordon. But for her, that would have been like leaping off a cliff into a wretched, bottomless void. She was proud she'd resisted. In the end, it was not what you felt but whether you acted on it that mattered. She hoped the difference between Gordon and her was the difference between those who believed in the future and those who wanted to despoil it. Now she must be wary of herself, wary that she could follow in Gordon's toxic footsteps.

“Flores, are you a typical Langley operative?”

He grinned. Then he saw she was serious. “One of the tests I had to take was the old square-peg-in-a-round-hole routine.
They thought they had me. Most of the pegs were too big.”

“So what did you do?”

He pulled out his pocket knife. “They were wood. I shaved the damn things until they fit.”

She laughed. His black eyes danced.

The seat-belt light flicked off overhead, and passengers unsnapped themselves and moved around the cabin.

“At last.” She reached for her day pack, which she'd slid under the seat ahead of her.

“Good. Let's see if we got anything useful.”

She'd put each of the four agents' belongings in separate places in the pack. None had carried much, a tradecraft rule when on a job. She took Gordon's things, while Flores took the woman's.

There was Gordon's billfold with $521 cash, a Virginia driver's license, and one VISA card. He also had car keys for the Buick in which he'd arrived at the airport; a coin purse with 79 cents; his favorite Cross ballpoint pen, which he'd been using as long as she remembered knowing him; and a bag of peanuts.

“Not much here.” She was disappointed. She made a small pile of the items next to her feet where it was less likely to attract attention and reached for one of the other men's belongings.

“Nothing here either.” Flores sounded equally disappointed. He collected the last man's things to inspect.

When they'd finished, they had four small piles that included the usual fake driver's licenses and credit cards, plus a pack of Rolaids, a Brian Garfield paperback, an opened pack of Winston cigarettes, and the woman's small makeup kit.

Flores sighed. “Guess it's time to get down to the nitty gritty.”

He opened an airline vomit bag on his lap and shredded the first cigarette. As loose tobacco and tattered white paper fell into the bag, Sarah reached for the makeup kit to examine it more closely, then stopped.

Instead she picked up Gordon's car keys. “I suppose this could be a coincidence, but look where he rented his Buick.” She held out the keys with their Gold Star Rent-a-Car tag. “Remember the car Matt Lister and Beno Durante had at our
motel? It was from Gold Star, too. And—” She struggled. “I know, somehow another Gold Star car figured in with Gordon and me back in Santa Barbara before I lost my memory.” She grappled more, but the memory wouldn't come to her. Stymied, she looked at Flores.

He was frowning. “Jesus. Maybe that's how he found us.”

“What?”

“He could've ordered tracking devices and our photos passed to the Gold Star agencies in Denver, figuring we'd have to switch cars and that renting was safer than stealing.”

“There are Gold Star agencies everywhere. He just plain outthought us. And then he got lucky.”

“Not us.
Me
.” He was angry. “Why didn't I leave well enough alone?”

“It was the right decision, just the wrong agency. Look, by then they probably had an all-points bulletin out on our pickup.”

His black, disturbed gaze turned on her, and she smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “First thing in Paris, I'll check out Gold Star, see if there might be a connection to Bremner.”

“Good.” She picked up Gordon's silver Cross pen. In Santa Barbara and at the Ranch, he'd written everything with it. She could see him in her mind bent over his spiral notebook, recording intently, preparing yet another report to be faxed back to Hughes Bremner. Inwardly she shuddered.

What was it about this pen? She examined it. There was tiny lettering engraved on the side.

Asher asked, “Does it say something?”

“Je Suis Chez Moi.”

“Your accent stinks. Let me.” He read quickly. “It means, ‘I am at home.' ”

She repeated the translation. “What is it, a code?”

“Could be.” He scrutinized the pen, took it apart, put it back together, and returned it to her. “It's an expensive pen. Maybe it was a gift from one of Gordon's lovers. You know, dahling—” He rolled his eyes and waggled his bushy black eyebrows.
“‘Ah am at home.'
Come up and see me sometime!”

She smiled, but stuck to business. “This pen is very expensive, and the lettering is discreet. It's engraved, which means
the phrase is intended to be permanent. And the first letter of each word is capitalized, like a title.”

“So what do
you
think it means?”

“You've got me. But for something French and secretive, especially if it involves scandal, I know just the guy to ask.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes, a colleague.”

They were over Canada now, and turbulence rocked the jet. She wondered whether Gordon was free yet. It was only a matter of time. Despite all Flores's work and skill, Gordon—and Bremner—would eventually trace them to Paris. Like a past that haunted, Gordon would follow. In fact, he
was
her past, one she desperately wished she'd never lived.

She looked down at her day pack, once again under the seat before her. In it was her Beretta, her lethal friend. Now she had three killers to fear: The Carnivore, Gordon, and herself. She was unsure whether the Carnivore really wanted her—“Liz Sansborough”—dead, but he might. She knew Gordon wanted her, one way or another. Who would find her first?

And what would she do when he—or they—did?

She held Gordon's pen tight in her fist. She had to stop him and Bremner from whatever plan they had that was causing so many deaths. She refused to feed the grim, outraged part of herself that yearned for revenge. No, she believed in redemption, even though she knew there were those who could never reform, would never change, who would wallow forever in their personal cesspools of injuries and sick dreams.

To heal that empty place next to her heart, she had to go on. She had to know what had happened and why. And then she had to stop Bremner and Gordon.

Chapter 31

Chantelle Joyeaux massaged exotic eucalyptus oil into Prime Minister Vincent Vauban's shoulders and chest, lingering over the well-developed trapezius and pectoral muscles. The poor man was exhausted from
les troubles
, which had cursed France almost from the moment of his swearing-in last March. She felt deep sympathy for him. Also a great deal of respect for his fine body.

The Prime Minister was fifty-five years old and beset by rising unemployment and a worsening recession, but he maintained the robust physique and vigorous attitude of a man in his thirties. Only his hair showed the stress; it was snow white, which to Chantelle's eyes made him look even more distinguished. He must please Madame Vauban very much.

“Chantelle.” It was the whisper of Maurice.

“Oui
. I am almost finished.”

The doctor stood in the doorway in his long white coat, and tiny Maurice hovered behind in his white T-shirt and trousers, the uniform worn by all staff members including herself at this private health spa in the heart of Paris. The tall, skeletal doctor and Maurice came into the room like that, the doctor followed by The Mouse. Chantelle repressed a chuckle.

The doctor checked the nutrients dripping into the unconscious politician's leg. “Another five minutes, Maurice. Remove the IV. Let me know when he awakes.”

As soon as the doctor left, Maurice sat on a stool and
watched her hands move down to the Prime Minister's abdominal muscles. Just below them, the white towel across his naked hips bounced and jerked upward.

“Ah, Chantelle, you naughty girl. You have given our great statesman a hard-on.”

“Shhh, Maurice. Someone will hear you.”

“He is a lucky man. How many years have I begged you to give me a hard-on?”

It was their usual banter, and although she'd never found it nearly as amusing as he, she didn't stop him. She liked The Mouse. He was a gentle man who never said a cross word and showed great understanding for the spa's clients. The banter was his way of forgetting who and what he was, and of dreaming.

“The Banque de France is getting his massage next door and snoring like a thousand grasshoppers,” he informed her. That would be Henri le Petit, governor of the Banque. The Mouse was a great source of gossip. “The Banque was supposed to come at noon, but there was some huge meeting, and he was delayed.”

Chantelle took a soft jelled cold pack from the refrigerator and draped it over the thick towel that covered the Prime Minister's heaving cock. She rubbed her hands to warm them. The Prime Minister shivered, and the ice pack lay quiet.

“You are a cruel woman, Chantelle.”

She took away the pack and laughed. “No. It's just that the real thing is far superior to the fantasy.”

“Cruel! You are shattering my heart!”

She laughed again and rubbed eucalyptus oil into the Prime Minister's quadriceps as she admired his long, handsome legs.

The Mouse checked his watch, turned off the drip system, and removed the IV. He started to return to his stool, then thought better of it. First he closed the door. He sat again and caressed her with his gaze.

“Chantelle, shall we be serious a moment?”

She looked up. “Of course. What is it?”

“You are a medical student. Tell me, should I worry?”

She didn't understand. “About what?”

“Our clients seem to change more than their physiques after
they have been with us a while. Have you noticed? Their minds seem to alter as well.”

“Of course,” she said. “The doctor has explained that our clients grow more fit in all ways, and their attitudes improve. That is the advantage of our health spa. Everyone comes back day after day. What is the problem with that?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder whether you would do me a favor. I have copied some reports from the doctor's office that you will understand better than I.”

“Maurice!”

“Shhh. I know, I know.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “They are not for myself. If I am wrong, I will say confession for the first time in twenty-three years.”

She smiled. “What are the papers about?”

“Some kind of research on our clients. The files are in a drawer labeled MK-U
LTRA
in the doctor's very elegant office. After your shift, I can meet you at Café Justine and give you my copies. You will meet me,
si'l vous plaît
, Chantelle
cherie
?”