Masquerade (55 page)

Asher trotted off into the deepening twilight.

And then she saw movement in the dusk around the rear limousine.

“Asher!” she shouted frantically. Her chest contracted with fear.

She saw the movement before she saw Asher fall backward and before she heard the sharp retort of gunfire. In an instant she was across the lawn and on her knees at his side. His handsome, swarthy face grimaced in pain. Blood poured from a new wound on his leg.

“I—” he tried. And his eyes closed, unconscious.

“No!” she shouted. And then she looked wildly around.

“That fucking bitch.” The hoarse voice came from the other side of the limo. Gordon's contorted face rose above the hood, and he stepped out, swaying toward her.

He held his Beretta in both bloody hands, staggering as he walked, looking for a target. For her. For “that fucking bitch.” He weaved as if he'd been on a week-long drunk. But it was his face that held Sarah's shocked attention. The Fourth-of-July mask had vanished, and what remained was pure viciousness and a spirit warped by a lifetime of evil. Sarah had never seen such hate.

“You bitch! You murdered him. My . . .
father
!”

She slid Asher's Gunsite Service Pistol from its holster. As her hands moved, she felt the reassuring beat of his heart. He was alive, and they were both going to stay that way—

Gordon's Beretta was pointed directly at her. “You stupid, filthy bitch!”

She swung the Gunsite pistol up and shot him. And shot him again. This time she knew exactly what she was doing.

Chapter 64

By the time the French police arrived twenty minutes later, the Languedoc helicopters had landed and taken off again. Arlene Debo and the chief of liaison would stonewall and demand the police call in their security and intelligence agencies. The French and American spooks would negotiate for advantage and then quietly bury everything.

They would especially bury G
RANDEUR
, and Europe's narrow escape from disaster. At that very moment, the French President was hearing the bare facts on a hot line from the White House. He would instantly alert the secret agencies and the police. They would fan out to locate and shut down Je Suis Chez Moi and to isolate Vincent Vauban and the head of the Banque de France.

Twilight had turned to night, and the helicopter bearing Melanie Sansborough, with Liz still unconscious against her shoulder, neared the Languedoc. Also in the helicopter, a doctor tended Asher's wounds. Sarah sat with him, directly behind the pilot. She touched Asher's black hair and beard, now streaked with blood. Blood also oozed, red and fresh, from his wounded arm and the leg where one of Gordon's bullets had grazed it. There was blood all over his hand, too. But he held her to him and smiled.

“It's over, Sarah. It's all over!”

She kissed him and smiled back. “Not quite.”

Monday

The round, golden tower of the Château de la Vere rose above the treetops. At last the entire building came into view, medieval and imposing in the late morning light. White geese waddled across the grounds. The only other movement was a gentle wind rustling the sycamores and oaks. Sarah and Asher were cleaned, detoxified, and bandaged. They parked out of sight of the château itself and moved silently through the shadows until they spotted Red Jack O'Keefe at the back. He was dressed in beige linen trousers and a loose yellow silk shirt. His once-red hair gleamed thick and ivory. There was no sign of George, Elaine, or the other
compadres
. A distinct lump showed under O'Keefe's armpit.

“You see the gun?” Asher said.

“Couldn't miss it.”

The retired spymaster was carrying two leather suitcases to the battered old Peugeot parked at a back door to the south wing. He heaved the suitcases into the trunk, and stared into the woods where Sarah and Asher hid, but gave no indication he'd seen them.

He returned to the doorstep and picked up the last two suitcases and a slim leather briefcase. He lowered the suitcases into the trunk and closed it. He tossed the briefcase onto the front seat, headed back to the château, and went inside.

“Looks like you were right,” Asher said.

They melted through the trees until they reached the point closest to the Peugeot. Then they ran to the stone garage and hugged it around to the car. The briefcase lay on the front seat. Sarah grabbed it. Inside was a white business envelope, which contained the documents for three numbered accounts in three different Swiss banks.

Sarah read the numbers, nodded to Asher.

“My papers, please.” The voice was behind Sarah. Jack O'Keefe had come the long way around the château. He smiled affably, but his gun was in his hand and aimed at her back.

Asher reached for his weapon—

“I wouldn't, Asher.” O'Keefe's eyebrows raised. “My finger's pressing the trigger of this toy, and even if you managed to kill me instantly with one of your well-placed bullets, I'd fire reflexively. We both know what that means.”

“I doubt you'd do it, Jack,” Sarah said quietly.

O'Keefe considered. “Perhaps not, but it's not worth the risk to Asher. She's the love of your life, isn't she, Asher? All I want is to leave in peace with a little money in the bank. I intend to live long and comfortably, and to indulge my
compadres
.” He gestured with the gun. “Come here where I can see you, Asher. Stand close to Sarah. Not that close. There, that's right. Turn around, and I'll take those papers, Sarah.”

Sarah waved them at O'Keefe. “Stolen money, Jack? You've been part of Sterling-O'Keefe all along, and now you're running with the loot?”

He smiled, cocked his head. “Filthy lucre. But I've earned it a thousand times over.”

“Just like Hughes Bremner,” Asher said.

“You never know, do you, in our business?”

Sarah shook her head. “No one's going to believe that, Jack. You've got nothing to do with Sterling-O'Keefe. Bunny Bremner's confirmed that.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I doubt Hughes ever told Bunny a damn thing about Sterling-O'Keefe.”

“No, but a journalist named Leslee Pousho did.” Sarah related the story of Lucas Maynard, Leslee Pousho, and Bunny Bremner. “When Ms. Pousho could talk, she called Mrs. Bremner and told her everything. That was late last night. Mrs. Bremner immediately called the White House. The Chief of Staff himself picked up Leslee's second set of copies from the post office box where she'd mailed them.”

O'Keefe was surprised. “Christ, Hughes really was a pig. His own wife! But she ended up turning the tables, did she? Too bad the bastard didn't live to be made miserable by it.”

Sarah waved the papers at him again. “Come on, Jack. These are Hughes's accounts. Arlene Debo has his inventory, and these three are listed.”

“Really?” He held the gun steady on them. “Well, then, I
suppose you can add stealing to my crimes. Now hand over—”

“In a minute.” Sarah slid the papers back into the envelope. “I'd like your help on one little matter. You acted Brutus to Bremner's Caesar and told us the truth about Bremner and why he'd decided to kill the Carnivore. You didn't have to reveal that, did you? So why did you do it?” She studied his sun-bleached eyes and twisted the knife: “Getting tired of Hughes paying your bills, ‘keeping' you?”

The pistol in Red Jack O'Keefe's hand stayed true on its mark—her heart. They stood that way, watching each other in the luminous French sunshine.

At last he said, “When they forced me to retire, I had nothing but a lifetime of service and a room full of awards. My pension couldn't buy a third of what I was accustomed to, much less a place like this. I'd always wanted this château. Hughes knew it. He bought it for me. Gave me a monthly stipend. At first I thought it was gratitude for all I'd done for him, pure generosity.” He paused. “Then I learned better.”

“He rubbed your nose in it,” Asher guessed. “Kept you on a leash. You'd been his mentor, now
he
gave the orders.”

“And he used your name for his illegal empire,” Sarah added. “Sterling-
O'Keefe
. The ultimate insult. He—”

An angry flush rose up Jack O'Keefe's neck. He exploded: “How goddamn dare he use
my
name for his illicit, greedy business! He was a dog peeing on a tree, using my name to prove he owned me. All I have is my reputation!” He paused, blinked furiously. “When he phoned to tell me to stall you two, I saw my chance. I couldn't risk going against him directly, but maybe I could destroy the son of a bitch and keep what I had if I filled you in and helped out. If he killed you and the Carnivore, I was still safe. But if you killed him, Sterling-O'Keefe would end, I'd be free of Hughes,
and
I'd still have what I wanted!”

Asher nodded. “So you kept us here for him, but you also gave him to us. You planted your hat by the door, knowing Sarah would spot it. I guess you never forget how to play all sides?”

“Which means,” Sarah said, “you already had the numbers
to Bremner's Swiss accounts. You just couldn't use them while he was alive. With him dead, you had your revenge, your freedom from his ‘generosity,' and his money.”

O'Keefe gave her a shrewd look. “Someone always ‘owes,' Sarah. I have contacts in Swiss banking circles. Some of them ‘owe' me a great deal. It was child's play to get Hughes's so-called secret numbers.”

“It wasn't Hughes's money, Jack, and it's not yours,” Asher reminded him.

Sarah nodded. “I guess Hughes forgot your rule.”

“And what's that, Sarah?”

“ ‘The speed of the leader determines the speed of the pack.' Ultimately you ran a faster, smarter race than Hughes. Sadly for you, you weren't quite fast enough to get away with it.”

The spymaster looked from one to the other. Slowly a grin spread across his weathered face. “Too bad you're too young to have known Wild Bill Donovan. Even he would've been impressed.”

“Never mind the flattery, Jack.” Sarah held out her hand. “Give me the gun. Arlene Debo wants to talk to you. It seems that when the French police arrived at Je Suis Chez Moi last night, the whole thing had been bombed to smithereens. We heard your van take off early from the coming-in—that wouldn't have been you going off to take care of that rather large detail?”

“As a matter of fact, I believe some of my
compadres
might have been responsible for that. Did seem a little stupid to let biotechnology like Levine's continue in an irresponsible world like ours, don't you think?”

“Now we'll never know. All Levine's records are gone.”

“That was the idea.” O'Keefe hesitated. He pointed the gun at her heart again. “No one's going to miss these three little accounts, Sarah. There's hardly $5 million in them. The great U.S. government can have all the rest.”

“No.”

“Perhaps a split?” he offered.

“The gun, Jack,” Asher said.

“And we keep the papers,” Sarah added.

“Perhaps
one
account?” Red Jack asked hopefully.

“All
the papers,” Sarah said.

The old spymaster sighed, lowered his weapon, and handed it to Asher. “I never was any good at looking out for myself.”

“Maybe Arlene Debo can arrange something,” Asher suggested.

“After all, you helped expose Hughes, Sterling-O'Keefe, and G
RANDEUR
,” Sarah said. “You cleared your name.”

A flicker in O'Keefe's eyes told them that's the way he viewed it, too, and if he couldn't be rich and keep his château, at least he'd remain an untarnished living legend.

“I suppose that's what's important,” he said. “And I'm sure something will turn up, some way for an old man to make a few francs, eh? I believe I'd rather not talk to Arlene just now. George and Elaine Russell are waiting on the Côte d'Or. Can't disappoint them, can I? Their pensions are even less than mine. I can't say exactly where we'll be down the road, you understand. But I'll be available anytime Arlene cares to offer that reward.”

“Jack—” Sarah said.

He stepped toward the Peugeot. “I really have nothing else to tell Langley, Sarah. What I know is ancient history, Asher. You'll get along fine without me. I pass the torch to you.”

He flashed them his best smile.

Sarah and Asher laughed.

“All right, go on,” Asher said. “Meet your friends. But check in with Langley soon. I'm serious about that reward. You did give us the last piece we needed to stop Hughes Bremner.”

“Even if you had an ulterior motive,” Sarah added.

O'Keefe nodded, climbed into the sporty Peugeot, and drove off down the long, stately drive. He was whistling “God Bless America.”

Sarah and Asher laughed and turned toward the forest where their Languedoc car waited. Suddenly she stopped and stared at Asher. “We never searched the Peugeot. The glove compartment. Under the carpet. The floorboards.”

“And there were those suitcases in the trunk.” Asher stared back, stunned. “We never even looked!”

“No, we didn't. Do you think he could already have withdrawn some of Bremner's money? An odd million or two?”

“Those three accounts were awfully easy to pick up on,” Asher said. “The way he flung the briefcase into the car and walked away long enough for us to find the papers. Very careless of Jack. Kind of like his leaving his straw Panama by the door yesterday.”

They gazed down the drive. Without looking back, Red Jack O'Keefe gave a jaunty wave and vanished onto the main road. They looked at each other again. They shrugged, and then they began to laugh.

Chapter 65

January

It was winter in Santa Barbara, and a cold ocean storm was drumming the roof and pounding the beach. The two cousins—Sarah Walker and Liz Sansborough—stood shoulder to shoulder in Sarah's bungalow and stared into the hall mirror.