Masquerade (45 page)

Her Catholic family saw no other solution. She must marry.

She ran away, found an abortionist, and went to work in the clubs in Montmartre. Soon she was on stage, dancing and singing in fewer and fewer clothes. When her father found her there at last, he left in tears. He would tell her mother she was dead. She promised never to return home.

There were more men, more
amours
, but when she turned thirty, she knew her nude dancing days were coming to an end. That's when her lover at the time, a dark charmer from Marseille, suggested she speak to his friend, Jean.

Jean had been the only name by which she'd known her new boss, and their professional association had lasted twenty years.

Thus she went to work for Interpol, and
amour
became her career. It was a good career, working for the government, selling something she'd never run out of. But now she was past fifty. She had gray hair, which, six months ago, she'd abruptly quit coloring. With the years, her soft, sweet face had grown steely. Now she smoked too much, drank too much, and was weary of
amour
. She'd learned that for men, power was sex. But for women, sex was a poor substitute for power.

She liked Asher Flores, not only because he was a darling man who'd always treated her with respect, but because his last name was Spanish for flowers. It seemed destined they should meet, become friends, and she would be able to give him information that would save his life. Afterward she'd bedded him. Not for love, but so he could thank her properly.

This morning he'd phoned the computer shop. She'd told her assistant to say she was not at work. She'd needed time to think, because she'd had a message from her new boss, Jean's replacement. “Guy.” Guy had told her Interpol was looking for Asher Flores and, in fact, three Languedoc men had died in an attempt to capture him outside her shop. Of course, she knew about the murders, but she'd not known they were Asher's work. Also, she'd read that Asher and some young woman
were being hunted for murders they'd supposedly committed in Denver.

This unsettled her. She trusted Asher. She knew he wouldn't have killed unless he had to. He was no traitor. But Guy said that was indeed what Langley claimed.

Asher Flores had turned. He'd gone rogue.

She must help take him out.

Sarah Walker, however, must be captured alive and turned over to the Languedoc.

She'd met Asher anyway, nearly two hours ago. Even the condemned deserved a hearing, although she didn't tell him that was why she'd finally agreed to see him. He'd explained about his young woman, Sarah Walker, and what Hughes Bremner had supposedly done to her. He'd also told her the Carnivore was coming in after all these years.

She'd believed Asher. What a child he was. Also an excellent lover. He'd wanted to know where Jack O'Keefe lived. She'd made a few calls and tracked him to Burgundy. Jack O'Keefe had also been her lover. But that was years ago, when she was still competitive and Jack was a silver-haired legend, about to retire. Too bad. She'd liked to have known him before, when he'd had the red hair. All over, she'd heard. Red Jack O'Keefe.

In her belly she knew it was time to retire herself. Everywhere she turned she saw the shades of long-ago men whose names she no longer recalled.
Merde
! She could no longer remember even the name of that first one who would have married her so many years ago. She had no regrets about the abortion. Secretly she'd always known she was the only child who mattered.

Some five years ago, after her parents died, she'd recontacted her family. She'd made friends with a nephew who'd recently moved to Seattle, where he'd opened his own Robitaille floral boutique. Outside Seattle, he'd written her, the trees grew so lush, the area was a vast northern jungle. She would like to see that. But even more, she would like to live in Seattle, where no one would know her and she would see no
ghosts. She needed someone in the United States government to cut through the bureaucracy, give her resident alien status, and award her a pension.

Guy and Asher Flores had just opened the door for that. With one telephone call she could buy a one-way ticket to Seattle. Was that what she really wanted?

And what about Asher? Could she live with herself if she were the instrument of his death?

She stubbed out her cigarette and strode into her apartment, stripping off clothes as she went. She dressed in her chaste nightgown, brushed her teeth, gargled, and climbed between the sheets as if it were bedtime. It had been many months since she'd had a man, and she cherished her celibacy. Still, there was the yearning between the legs. The body had its own memory.

She rolled over and pounded her pillow. What should she do?

The bottom line, as the Yanks liked to say, was a choice between Asher's life . . . and her own.

Christine Robitaille did not sleep. In an hour she was up again. She made a phone call. Within thirty minutes she was marching down the rue de Rivoli.

She passed perfume stores, boutiques, souvenir shops, and bookstores, noticing business was slow. The wretched recession again. At last she stepped under the arcade of the Café Madeleine. She selected a table outdoors, where she could watch.

She ordered
café
. She noticed a tall and austerely handsome man, who looked in need of lunch. He'd paused in the entry-way and was surveying the tables. Perhaps he was the one.

She took out one of her signature gold-tipped cigarettes, and paused.

He saw it . . . and her.

“Allow me,
madame
.”

His lighter clicked beneath her cigarette. She inhaled and looked into his chilly eyes. He had the face and heart of a
hawk, she decided. As she had heard, he was a predator. She was glad she'd taken precautions.

“Hughes Bremner?” she murmured.

“Oui.”

“Sit down,
monsieur
. We have a large matter to discuss.”

Chapter 51

The tinted motorcycle visors completely hid their faces, but Sarah's eyes watched everywhere, acutely aware the hunt had intensified and Hughes Bremner never quit.

Over the roar of the BMW, Asher shouted, “Your Beretta?”

She talked against his helmet. “Probably at the Languedoc. Gordon almost got me again.” She told him about the attack in the street near Je Suis Chez Moi and how the “nanny”—Quill—had saved her. Then she described the second CIA assault, Quill's death, and his admission of who he was.

“He's your uncle? You mean Liz's father?” Asher yelled back at her. “But didn't he and your aunt die in New York?”

“Their deaths must've been faked. Or at least his was. Remember, there was identification in their wallets. No one would have done too much checking. After all, they were ‘only' a salesman and his wife. No one special.”

They were out of Paris at last. Asher pulled off the road, let the engine drop into idle, and hitched himself around on the seat.

“But why go to that much trouble?”

She took a deep breath. “Bear with me, Asher. I think Uncle Hal had a very compelling reason. First, he was supposedly a salesman, but the man I just met was a skilled, ruthless killer, great at disguise and sleight of hand. And he knew so much about the world's most mysterious, most enigmatic assassin he could describe the guy's family, his mafia ties, and his first hit.”

“Liz could've told him that.”

“Okay, then look at the coincidence: The Carnivore's father was an asshole Beverly Hills lawyer who sent the Carnivore away when he was a teenager. My uncle's father—my grandfather—was an asshole Beverly Hills lawyer, too.”

“The two fathers do sound suspiciously alike.”

“The Carnivore and Uncle Hal are about the same age. My Grandma Firenze, actually Uncle Hal's grandmother, was Italian. The uncle in Vegas who took in the Carnivore when he was a screwed-up teenager was Italian. Then there was the godfather in New York. Grandma Firenze had lots of relatives who came from Sicily—”

They were silent. Time seemed to stand still.

She continued: “Being a traveling salesman gave Uncle Hal cover to do the hits. His wife and daughter gave him more cover: Who'd suspect a hard-working, middle-class guy with a lovely wife and an adorable little girl of being a professional assassin?”

Asher nodded. “The mafia godfather in New York would've expected the Carnivore to pay respects once a year, which would explain the annual ‘sales' meetings in New York.”

“When Mom wrote Uncle Harold, she probably sent photos and told him about Michael and me. That's how he knew what I looked like before my cosmetic surgery. After he ‘died,' he probably kept up with what we were all doing, so he'd know where we were and that we wouldn't inadvertently cause him trouble. That's how he knew what kind of work I did. I always thought it weird Mom talked so little about him and his family. For obvious reasons he must've kept her at a distance. He probably didn't write much or send photos for Mom to show around. Then, of course, he ‘died.' ” She shook her head. “God, I can't believe I may be the Carnivore's niece!”

Asher absorbed the shock. “It makes me wonder whether he planted Liz inside Langley as his spy.”

They sat in silence, considering the Carnivore, Liz Sansborough, and Hughes Bremner.

At last Asher said, “It's over. The whole thing. If the Carnivore's dead, Bremner's got nothing to fear.”

“It's not over for us. Bremner still can't let us live. We know too much.”

“We've got to find out more about Sterling-O'Keefe and also about this mysterious operation of Bremner's that's going down Monday. Somehow the Carnivore, dead or alive, has to be a danger to one or both.”

“Don't forget Liz. She's obviously smart and tough, and she may know plenty about the Carnivore's business. Bremner has to eliminate her, too.”

“True.”

“Maybe she'll try to come in anyway.”

He looked off into the distance, where cattle grazed in the lacy shade of a stand of sycamores. “If she tells what she knows, at least she won't be hunted anymore. She could get asylum and have a regular life—marry, have a family, a new career, whatever she wanted.” He nodded to himself. “Yeah, she's got every reason to come in. So it looks to me like Bremner's in the same spot: He won't be able to take a chance on what the Carnivore might have told her.”

“The situation's changed, yet it hasn't. Even if the Carnivore's dead, Bremner's still got to eliminate us. He might not even find out the Carnivore's dead by eight o'clock tonight.”

“It's tough to identify a man whose face you've never seen, even for Bremner.” He paused. “Maybe we're the only ones who know. We could turn that into an advantage.”

“And I could be wrong.” She touched his chin. “Quill was my uncle, but maybe he was just what he seemed—an assistant trained to be like his boss. The rest could be sheer coincidence—or a lie Quill made up. Quill could have fabricated the whole story about how the Carnivore got started. In any case, the Carnivore's fooled the world before. Often. My uncle is dead, but the Carnivore could still be very much alive!”

At the Café Madeleine on the rue de Rivoli, Christine Robitaille drank not a sip of
café
, but she enjoyed Hughes Bremner. Even though she didn't trust him, she could appreciate him.
Un homme galant
. Charming enough to be French.

She also admired his ability to use a compliment and set the tone for negotiations. He offered champagne. Alas, she had to
refuse that, too. Being charmed had not softened her brain.

“You have information for me about Sarah Walker and Asher Flores?” Bremner smiled his hollow smile.

She liked the predatoriness of him, the savvy hawk face, the sunken eyes, the aristocratic gestures. He was a man of the world.

She said, “I can tell you where they're going right now. Where they will be this afternoon.”

He cocked his head and nodded, impressed. “Do go on.”

“But first, I, too, have certain needs.”

He listened attentively as she explained her desire to move to Seattle with money in the bank. “Hmmm. I see no problem. A modest request.”

“I cannot tell you about Asher and the woman,” she explained, “until I see my new documents. You understand.”

“Of course. But alas, dear lady, I'm in a bit of a rush.”

She smiled. She was flexible. She sat back, held out a cigarette for another light. “How long will you need?”

Bremner seemed to consider. “An hour. No more.”

“I will return here in an hour.”

Bremner left.

Christine was hungry, but she would not eat here. She put out her cigarette and walked for some time to be sure Bremner had no one following her. Then she picked a
bistro
she'd never patronized. She ate a good lunch, and was back at the Café Madeleine in precisely an hour.

Bremner was waiting. He showed her a new U.S. passport, filled out with her name and information. All that was missing was her photograph. Then he returned the passport to his pocket. He showed her a fat envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills. Then he returned the envelope to his pocket also.

“And the pension?” she demanded.

“It's being established now.” He shrugged. “You'll have to trust me on that. I won't have the paperwork until tomorrow.”

“Hmmmm.” Her gaze scanned the street. “Then I must give you the information tomorrow.”

“That will do me no good, since you know where Flores and Walker are
today
.”

“True.
Quel dommage
. What a pity.” If he was bluffing, she'd discover it now. If he was telling the truth, she'd have to find another way to get her documents, because she believed a predator like Bremner would never be trustworthy.

Resolute, she stood.