Undercover (19 page)

“So what do you think?” she asked Lili, who cocked her head to one side. In the end, she decided not to burn the letters. She would leave them and the journals intact in the aviator's box and bury the whole thing in the park the next morning when she took Lili on her walk.

She found a small scoop in one of the kitchen drawers, for lack of a shovel, and hoped that the earth would be soft enough for her to dig a hole large enough for the box. And then it would be over at last. She was burying Jorge in Paris, and expunging him from her heart and mind. It was time. She was ready to move on.

She lay in bed, thinking about him that night, and she was anxious for morning to come. She was awake before first light, and it was snowing when she woke up, making it too hard to go to Bagatelle and bury the box. She hoped the weather would change—she wanted to do it on that day. It was symbolic. It was just slightly more than two years since she had been rescued by the Israelis, a year since she'd been working with Yael to get her mind back. She didn't want to wait another day. It was time.

The snow turned to rain in the afternoon and finally stopped at four-thirty, and it was still light out. The ground was wet, but she put Lili's leash on, and took the battered metal box under her arm. She hadn't let it out of her possession since Jorge had entrusted her with it. She had done him honor and justice, far more than he had ever deserved. He hadn't been worthy of her love, dedication, and confusion after she was released. He had deserved nothing except the fate he had gotten in the end. She knew that now. She had no doubt. And she couldn't wait to get rid of the box with his letters and journals in it. She felt as though it were on fire under her arm.

She walked Lili to Bagatelle, carrying the box and the metal scoop. She walked for a while, and found a clearing with some hedges around it, and saw that there was soft earth under the bushes. She dropped Lili's leash and knew that she would stand nearby, as Ariana began digging with the scoop. After the rain, it was easier than she had thought it would be, and the hole in the ground grew large enough very quickly. She set the box down in it and said a little prayer, for her own peace of mind and the life she had nearly lost and finally regained. And then she covered the box with the damp earth until it vanished completely. It was gone forever from her life. The rest of her life could begin now, forever changed, but maybe stronger and better after all she'd been through. She stood looking at the earth that was the shallow grave for the aviator's box and what was in it.

“Goodbye,” Ariana said softly, and walked away, as she picked up Lili's leash, and they ran back to her apartment. She had never felt as free in her life.

The day Marshall arrived in Paris, it was snowing, and he stood on the terrace of his apartment watching the giant snowflakes fall from the sky. It looked like a winter wonderland, and he thought he had never seen anything as beautiful. He unpacked his suitcases, and went to buy groceries so he'd have something to eat for dinner and bought himself a great bottle of red wine. He was giving himself a treat that night to celebrate his arrival in Paris. The snow had turned to rain by the time he got back to the apartment, and Stanley was looking at him mournfully. He wanted to go out, but it was still raining hard.

“I'll make you a deal,” he said to Stanley. “Hold it for a while, and I'll take you to the park as soon as it stops.” The huge dog whined and lay down, as though he had grudgingly accepted the deal but didn't like it. And an hour later the rain stopped.

Marshall wasn't looking forward to it, but he lived up to his end of the bargain. He put his coat back on, and a wool scarf. It was colder than it had been in Washington, but the air was clean and crisp, despite the bitter cold. Stanley didn't like the weather either, but they loped along at a good pace. Marshall had already seen where the park was and headed there, as he noticed a pretty blond woman ahead of them with a small white dog. He saw her pay her entrance fee to the park at the gate, and then she started walking with her dog, holding a box under her arm. There was something graceful and mysterious about her that intrigued him, as he entered the park far behind her.

But even at that distance, Stanley picked his head up and became interested in the small white dog. He wanted to run after it. Marshall held him back on the leash, and walked along at a leisurely pace. The blond woman disappeared up ahead, and then he saw her again, as he and Stanley rounded a bend. She was leaning over something next to a hedge. He thought at first that she was cleaning up a mess her dog had made, with a scoop. The box she had been carrying was sitting on the ground. Her back was turned, and the dog was watching her dig a hole. And then Marshall saw her reach for the box. It was an old tin box of some kind, and it shone in the light, as the sun came out of the clouds. He was embarrassed to be watching her so intently, but he was fascinated by her. She was beautiful, but there was something deeply sad about her face as she turned and put the box in the hole. He could see her close her eyes, and say a few silent words as he and Stanley continued on the path and walked past her at a distance. And then her face looked peaceful as she picked up the dog's leash, and they walked away. She looked as though she had just been relieved of a great burden, and he couldn't help wondering what was in the box.

He had been trained to observe people and unusual occurrences, and something about the young blond woman put him on alert. And then he saw her run out of the park with the dog. She looked as though she were flying, and she had a big smile on her face. Whatever she had come to do had obviously been accomplished, and suddenly his old instincts made him wonder if she had been doing something illicit or wrong. She didn't look the type, but you never knew. Stranger things had happened. The box was too small for a body—he laughed to himself at his suspicions. Maybe a pet, but then she wouldn't have been smiling. And she had looked happier when she left the park than when she had arrived. Everything that he'd seen her do seemed strange and suspicious to him, and when he and Stanley walked back the way they had come, Stanley pulled him toward the bush where he had seen her bury the box, as though he sensed something too. He was a bloodhound after all.

“Easy, boy,” Marshall cautioned him. The ground was slippery under his feet, from all the rain, and his balance wasn't as good as it used to be, with his dead arm. Marshall used a long leash when he took him to the park, and Stanley was already pawing at the hole when Marshall reached him. He was digging frantically, and Marshall couldn't help wondering what he had picked up on the scent of the box. Stanley was looking at him as though he expected him to help. “Don't look at me, you're doing fine. I only have one good arm.” The dog had uncovered the box by then, and was barking at it. He wondered if the bloodhound had picked up the woman's scent, or the dog's, or what was in it, and although he felt foolish digging up whatever she had buried in the park, his old instincts made him too curious to resist. He bent down and pulled the box free of the soft earth.

Marshall could see that it was an old aviator's box. He opened it cautiously, afraid of what he would find. You never knew what people buried, but as he pulled the box open with one hand, he saw a stack of letters, one of which looked as though it had been burned around the edges. And when he dug deeper, under many letters, he found a group of small notebooks. There was nothing frightening in the box, no drugs, no small animal remains, just letters and notebooks, and he was about to put the box back in the hole, when curiosity got the best of him again, and he wondered why the woman had buried them instead of just throwing them away. Something was drawing him to the contents of the box that he couldn't explain. He brushed the dirt off the box with his one good hand and stamped the dirt down again with his shoe so she wouldn't know the box was gone if she came back. He glanced at Stanley with a sheepish look.

“I know this is ridiculous, but I'm retired DEA. What can I tell you? I was born to be suspicious. They're probably letters from her mother-in-law whom she hates, or the diaries of her fourteen-year-old kid.” But the pretty blonde didn't look old enough to have a fourteen-year-old—more likely it was a boyfriend she was pissed at. Still, the old aviator's box seemed strange to him. There were a lot of things she could have put in it, other than notebooks and old letters. He sensed a mystery afoot, or maybe he was just wishing for one. By then he had stood up, with the box under his good arm, holding Stanley's leash, and headed back in the direction of the gate. Stanley was looking at him as though he disapproved, and Marshall spoke to him like a friend.

“Don't look at me like that. You dug it up. What did you expect me to do?” The dog sniffed and looked away, and then tried to chase after a bird, despite his leash.

They left the park a few minutes later, and Marshall felt as though he were bringing a treasure chest home with him. He could hardly wait to see if he could figure out why she had thrown the letters away. It was probably a banal answer, but maybe it would turn out to be more interesting. And after he finished reading them, he was going to just dispose of the contents and the box. He didn't want to risk burying them, and getting caught while he did, if she happened to come back to the park while he was there. He would have to dispose of the evidence some other way.

He dropped the box onto his kitchen table, got out a damp rag, and cleaned it off. The soft dirt came away easily. He opened the bottle of wine masterfully with one hand, using his knees to hold it, as he had learned to do, and poured a glass of Château Margaux. It was his gift to himself to celebrate his arrival in Paris. And he grinned, thinking that now he had a mystery to solve too. He felt like Sherlock Holmes as he carried the metal box to the leather couch, and went back to the kitchen for his glass of wine. He sat down with it, opened the box, and took the letters out. He read the one with burned edges and was startled to realize the letters were in Spanish. He wondered if the blond woman was Spanish. It was a torrid love letter addressed to someone called “Ariana” and signed “Jorge.” And it was clear that they had had a passionate romance. There was no sign of trouble in it, no argument. It was pure passion as he described the wonders of her lips, her eyes, her body as he made love to her. It was faintly embarrassing reading such an intimate letter to a lover, particularly since he'd seen the woman who had buried it. And he noticed that there was no date. He was intrigued by the charred edges, and wondered if she had started to burn it, changed her mind, and buried what was in the box instead.

He took a sip of the Château Margaux, and sat back to read the letters and journals he had found in the aviator's box in Bagatelle. Night had fallen by then, and he sat in the warm cozy apartment, fascinated by what a man called Jorge had written to her. All he knew was that Ariana, whoever she was, whether she was the blonde he'd seen or someone else, had to be quite a woman to inspire letters like that.

Marshall had intended to read only a few of the letters—there were at least thirty of them in the box, neatly stacked on top of each other. But they were so loving, passionate, and intense that he couldn't stop himself. By midnight he had read them all, and started one of the journals, which he found more interesting. The letters were a little too Romeo and Juliet for him. The man who had written them, who signed himself Jorge, talked about their being fused into one being, and sounded as though he were trying to convince her that she could no longer exist without him, and should want to abandon all that remained of her “old life” now to be with him. He said it frequently. And if Marshall had to guess, it sounded as though all thirty-two letters had been written in a short span of time, and among them, he had been talking about the child that was now within her. So clearly she had been pregnant, but whatever had happened between them, and whatever line he had tried to sell her about following him forever into a new life, hadn't worked, since she had buried the letters in Paris, and was alone when she did. Maybe she had a husband or other man in her life now, and didn't want him to find them. There were dozens of romantic possibilities as to why she wanted to get rid of the letters. And maybe Jorge was a bad guy, despite his adoring words. He sounded a little unhealthy to him, with his notions about “fusion,” and abandoning every memory of her “old life.” It sounded excessive to him, and maybe had to the blond woman too.

The journal he had begun reading was also written in educated Spanish, with elegant penmanship, the kind that Jesuit schools often produced, particularly in Europe. His ideologies sounded as extreme as his romantic ideals. He talked about starting a new order and a new world, where everything that had existed until now had to be destroyed, and the poor would rise to conquer the world, and all the rich had to be punished and removed from power. It was classic revolutionary philosophy and went on and on and on—he sounded like a man who liked to hear himself talk. He appeared to have a God complex and wanted to rule the world, and apparently had a profound hatred for the upper classes and anyone with money. Marshall looked at Stanley when he took a break.

“He sounds like a Communist to me,” Marshall said with a grin, and took another sip of the fabulous wine. The dog rolled over and played dead.

He went back to reading the journals, and couldn't tell what order they were supposed to be in, so he just started with the nearest one at hand. And as he read further, the writer referred to the woman they had taken, and said that her father was going to fund their movement for years, which Jorge apparently thought was ironic. And whoever the woman was, he clearly considered her a meal ticket. He talked about keeping her in a box, and he had freed her from it that afternoon, and he bragged that soon she would be his. The way he said it made Marshall read it again. Her being “taken” and “kept in a box” sounded ominous to him.

He mentioned her again later on, and this time he referred to her as Ariana. He talked about how beautiful she was and about watching her bathe in the stream. So the journal mentioned her as well. And something about the way it was written, and what he said about her, made Marshall uncomfortable. He felt like a peeping tom, but other than that, there was an undercurrent of violence, power, and possession about what he wrote about her, and total control. It gave him the creeps. He already didn't like the guy, when he came to a passage later on that mentioned his men killing her driver. Something about what he was reading suddenly brought Marshall wide awake, and what he'd read was starting to ring a bell. He didn't know what it was, but pieces of what was in the journal sounded vaguely familiar to him.

He tried to finish the first journal he'd started, but with the time difference and jet lag from the trip, he fell asleep with it in his hand. He woke up the next morning, with the sun streaming into the room, and Stanley nudging his good arm. He wanted to go out. It was after ten
A.M.

“Okay, guy, give me a minute,” he said, and stood up. He washed his face, looked at himself in the clothes he'd slept in, put a knitted cap over his unbrushed hair, and rapidly got into his coat. Stanley was waiting at the door.

Marshall put his leash on him, and together they bounded down the stairs, walked outside, and headed to the park. He bought a multiple-entry ticket at the gate, and jogged down the path with the dog. And as soon as he came around the same bend in the path, he saw Ariana, standing near where she had buried the box with her dog. She was wearing a peacoat and red scarf, and he just hoped that she hadn't decided to retrieve the box, and discovered it was gone. She didn't see him, but he had guilt all over his face, as Stanley strained at the leash to get to the little white dog.

“Come on.” Marshall tugged at the leash, and Stanley grudgingly followed as they walked past her. She didn't look upset, and walked by the place where she had buried the box, so he assumed she didn't know the box was gone. He slowed his pace then, and watched her. Her long blond hair was in a braid, and as though sensing him watching her, she turned and their eyes met, and then she walked away. There was no expression in her eyes. She seemed distracted and uninterested in him, and a few minutes later she and the dog left the park. He exercised Stanley for a while, and then he went home.

Marshall flopped down on the couch and started reading the journal again. He finished the first one before lunch, took a shower and changed his clothes, had something to eat, and read the second journal. He found nothing interesting in it, other than the rambling political dogma he found tiresome. But the third one woke him up again. In that one, Jorge referred to his brother, Luis. He said he would be president one day, and when he was, he would help Jorge to change the world. According to Jorge, Luis was very cleverly hiding his true allegiances, and had fooled everyone, and they were biding their time. Jorge wrote that he had promised him a portion of the ransom money, which Luis intended to use to buy arms for them in Bolivia and Ecuador, and would put the rest in a secret account.

Marshall started to pace when he read it. He had no idea which South American country Jorge and Luis were from. It was impossible to tell. He referred to mountains and forests, which could have been anywhere, and for a moment, he wondered if it was Colombia. And more than ever now, he wanted to know what he could discover about the girl. She obviously wasn't Spanish, as he had guessed from the love letters. He assumed she was from somewhere in South America, and he was dying to know who she was. He had a sixth sense that she was more important than she appeared when he saw her in the park with her dog.

He read all afternoon, and had finished three of the journals by then. It was crazy, he was in Paris, and had stayed in his apartment all day, thinking about a woman he didn't know, and reading the journals of her lover, who was clearly a revolutionary of some kind. He wondered if she was in Europe to buy arms, but then why would she have buried the box with his love letters in it? Maybe so they wouldn't be found if she got caught. The girl in the park looked wholesome and innocent, but after years in undercover work, he knew that didn't mean anything. He wondered where she lived, obviously somewhere close by. What he had gleaned in his reading that day troubled him for the rest of the night. He made himself an omelet for dinner, and finished the rest of the wine.

Ariana had had a much better day than Marshall. She had gone to see Yael after taking Lili to the park, and she looked victorious the moment he opened the door.

“I did it!” she said happily, as she took off her coat and laid it down. She had brought Lili with her, who sniffed at the shepherd, and then hopped onto the couch and lay down. She was used to their sessions, and most of the time she slept on Ariana's lap. “I buried the box yesterday just before dark. That's it. It's done. I don't need any of it anymore.” She had never thoroughly read the journals—they were full of the dogma he had explained to her. It was the love letters that had kept her hooked, not the rest.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a free woman for the first time in two years. I'm finally, finally free!” She had worked hard for this. Yael smiled at her and looked pleased. It had been a difficult case. She was such a decent person, had such strong integrity, and was so passionately loyal that she had hung on to the memory of him and her belief that underneath it all Jorge was a good person, that it had been hard for him to convince her of the truth. Nearly impossible, in fact, but she had gotten there at last. She looked like a different person, and the agony of the past two years had finally melted from her face. She was free at last, and Yael was happy for her.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked her. She still hadn't made up her mind. But the future was open to her. She hadn't been able to move forward until she exorcised Jorge from her life.

“Enjoy Paris for a while.” She had just extended her lease again. “Maybe travel a little.” She wanted to go to Italy, although she was still nervous about traveling alone, but she felt that Italy was safe. She would never have gone back to South America again. But here in Europe, she knew she was all right. “I might try to work for the online fashion magazine again or get a job at one of the big fashion magazines like
Vogue
or
L'Officiel.
” She didn't want to go back to New York. There was nothing for her there. But now she was twenty-five years old, with her whole life ahead of her. Jorge had finally lost his grip on her. Burying the box hadn't liberated her—she had freed herself, with Yael's help, which had allowed her to finally get rid of the box that had been like a ball and chain around her leg. Now it was gone.

“It sounds like you have a lot of plans.” He was very proud of her. She had come far, worked diligently to get there, and taken all his advice.

“Are we done?” she asked him cautiously, afraid of what he'd say. She knew she'd miss him when they were.

“Yes, we are,” he said quietly as he lit a cigarette and watched her from his chair. She was a beautiful girl, and a wonderful woman in many ways. And he knew that one day she would make someone a lucky man. He hoped for her that it would be soon. He hated to think of her alone. And he had grown fond of her, in a wholesome way, through their work. He wanted only the best for her.

“I'm going to miss you,” she suddenly said sadly. He had been the mainstay of her life for a year, and her salvation. She could never have freed herself of Jorge without his help. He had saved her life, and she was deeply grateful to him.

“Keep in touch, Ariana. I want to know what you're doing.”

“I promise I will. I'm going to stay in Paris for a while. Maybe until next summer. Or longer if I find a job.”

Yael hugged her when she left, and it was a strange feeling for her, knowing she wouldn't come back again. She had seen him almost every day for a year, and he knew everything about her life.

When she went home that afternoon, she called Sam Adams in Washington. He was just getting to the office, and he was surprised to hear from her. He hadn't spoken to her in a year.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“Very much so. I called to thank you. I just finished a year of work with Yael Le Floch.”

“Oh my God. I thought you'd finished with him months ago. You're still in Paris?”

“Yes. I just graduated today. That's why I called. It took longer than we thought.”

“How do you feel?” She sounded great, and he was happy for her. She was a nice girl and didn't deserve what had happened to her.

“I feel terrific.” She didn't tell him about burying the box and the letters. He didn't need to know. That was between her and Yael. All that mattered was the end result. She was free now. The ghost of Jorge was no more. He had no power over her. He was gone at last. And she finally understood now how evil he had been. All she needed now was to pick up the threads of her life and move on. She didn't even feel guilty for her father's death anymore, just sad that he was gone.

“When are you coming back to the States?”

“I don't know. Not for a while. I like my apartment. I have a dog. I might try to find a job here. I want to travel around Europe before I leave.” A whole world had opened up to her, with the freedom she had won. And Sam respected her a lot for the courage she'd had to deal with it. He knew Yael could be tough, but he was the best in his field.

He didn't ask her if she was seeing anyone. The question was too personal, and he suspected that she wasn't. She had to get Jorge out of her head first. But it sounded like Yael had helped her exorcise his ghost at last. Sam was happy for her, and she was young enough to start a whole new life. He could only imagine how tough the last two years had been for her.

“Well, stay in touch. Let me know if you come back to the States.” But he wondered if seeing him, even for a friendly cup of coffee, would bring back painful memories for her.

She took Lili back to Bagatelle for a walk at the end of the day. By then Marshall was deep into Jorge's fourth journal, and he talked about his brother again. It was obvious from everything that Jorge said that he was high up in the government, playing a double game and secretly sympathetic to his brother's small army of revolutionaries. He was apparently doing all he could to help them establish a sound financial base. Jorge even intimated that committing a series of random kidnappings had been his brother's idea as a sure moneymaker for their cause. Jorge also said that his brother would help overthrow the government one day, and that day was near at hand.

As Marshall read the journal, he tried to guess who it could be, but he didn't even know what country they were in. And Jorge never used last names. It was driving him crazy, and he read all through the night and into the next day. It wasn't what he had planned to do in Paris, but he was hooked on what he was reading. He had a nagging suspicion that he had stumbled on something important, but he had no idea what to do about it, or even who to call. He would sound like a lunatic if he explained that he had unearthed a box full of love letters and journals in a park in Paris, and a South American government was at risk for being overthrown, but he didn't know which one. So many of them were in the delicate balance that existed there.