Читать книгу: «In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen», страница 2

“She certainly knows how to fill a dress,” Richard said under his breath, marveling.

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Jordan said dryly.

“You wouldn’t.”

Laughing, Jordan set down his glass. “Come on, Wolf. Let me properly introduce you.”

As they approached her, the woman flashed Jordan a smile of greeting. Then her gaze shifted to Richard, and instantly her expression went from easy familiarity to a look of cautious speculation. Not good, thought Richard. She’s remembering how I knocked her off that horse. How I almost got her killed.

“So,” she said, civilly enough, “we meet again.”

“I hope you’ve forgiven me.”

“Never.” Then she smiled. What a smile!

Jordan said, “Darling, this is Richard Wolf.”

The woman held out her hand. Richard took it and was surprised by the firm, no-nonsense handshake she returned. As he looked into her eyes, a shock of recognition went through him. Of course. I should have seen it the very first time we met. That black hair. Those green eyes. She has to be Madeline’s daughter.

“May I introduce Beryl Tavistock,” said Jordan. “My sister.”

“SO HOW DO YOU HAPPEN to know my Uncle Hugh?” Beryl asked as she and Richard strolled down the garden path. Dusk had fallen, that soft, late dusk of summer, and the flowers had faded into shadow. Their fragrance hung in the air, the scent of sage and roses, lavender and thyme. He moves like a cat in the darkness, Beryl thought. So quiet, so unfathomable.

“We met years ago in Paris,” he said. “We lost touch for a long time. And then, a few years ago, when I set up my consulting firm, your uncle was kind enough to advise me.”

“Jordan tells me your company’s Sakaroff and Wolf.”

“Yes. We’re security consultants.”

“And is that your real job?”

“Meaning what?”

“Have you a, shall we say, unofficial job?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “You and your brother have a knack for cutting straight to the chase.”

“We’ve learned to be direct. It cuts down on the small talk.”

“Small talk is society’s lubricant.”

“No, small talk is how society avoids telling the truth.”

“And you want to hear the truth,” he said.

“Don’t we all?” She looked up at him, trying to see his eyes in the darkness, but they were only shadows in the silhouette of his face.

“The truth,” he said, “is that I really am a security consultant. I run the firm with my partner, Niki Sakaroff—”

“Niki? That wouldn’t be Nikolai Sakaroff?”

“You’ve heard the name?” he asked, in a tone that was just a trifle too innocent.

“Former KGB?”

There was a pause. “Yes, at one time,” he said evenly. “Niki may have had connections.”

“Connections? If I recall correctly, Nikolai Sakaroff was a full colonel. And now he’s your business partner?” She laughed. “Capitalism does indeed make strange bedfellows.”

They walked a few moments in silence. She asked quietly, “Do you still do business for the CIA?”

“Did I say I did?”

“It’s not a difficult conclusion to come to. I’m very discreet, by the way. The truth is safe with me.”

“Nevertheless I refuse to be interrogated.”

She looked up at him with a smile. “Even under torture, I assume?”

Through the darkness she could see his teeth gleaming in a grin. “That depends on the type of torture. If a beautiful woman nibbles on my ear, well, I might admit to anything.”

The brick path ended at the maze. For a while, they stood contemplating that leafy wall of shadow.

“Come on, let’s go in,” she said.

“Do you know the way out?”

“We’ll see.”

She led him through the opening and they were quickly swallowed up by hedge walls. In truth, she knew every turn, every blind end, and she moved through the maze with confidence. “I could do this blindfolded,” she said.

“Did you grow up at Chetwynd?”

“In between boarding schools. I came to live with Uncle Hugh when I was eight. After Mum and Dad died.”

They rustled through the last slot in the hedge and emerged into the center. In a small clearing there was a stone bench and enough moonlight to faintly see each other’s face.

“They were in the business, too,” she said, circling the grassy clearing slowly. “Or did you already know that?”

“Yes, I’ve…heard of your parents.”

At once she sensed an undertone of caution in his voice and wondered why he’d gone evasive on her. She saw that he was standing by the stone bench, his hands in his pockets. All these family secrets. I’m sick of it. Why can’t anyone ever tell the truth in this house?

“What have you heard about them?” she asked.

“I know they died in Paris.”

“In the line of duty. Uncle Hugh says it was a classified mission and refuses to talk about it, so we never do.” She stopped circling and turned to face him. “I seem to be thinking about it a lot these days.”

“Why?”

“Because it happened on the fifteenth of July. Twenty years ago tomorrow.”

He moved toward her, his face still hidden in shadow. “Who reared you, then? Your uncle?”

She smiled. “‘Reared’ is a bit of an exaggeration. Uncle Hugh gave us a home, and then he pretty much turned us loose to grow up as we pleased. Jordan’s done quite well for himself, I think. Gone to university and all. But then, Jordie’s the smart one in the family.”

Richard moved closer—so close she thought she could see his eyes glittering above her in the darkness. “And which one are you?”

“I suppose…I suppose I’m the wild one.”

“The wild one,” he murmured. “Yes, I think I can tell…”

He touched her face. With that one brief contact, he left her skin tingling. She was suddenly aware of her pounding heart, her quickening breath. Why am I letting this happen? she wondered. I thought I’d sworn off romance. But now this man I scarcely know is dragging me back into the game—a game at which I’ve proved myself a miserable failure. It’s stupid, it’s impulsive. It’s insanity itself.

And it’s leaving me quite hungry for more…

His lips grazed hers; it was the lightest of kisses, but it was heady with the taste of champagne. At once she craved another kiss, a longer kiss. For a moment, they stared at each other, both hovering on the edge of temptation.

Beryl surrendered first. She swayed toward him, against him. His arms went around her, trapping her in their embrace. Eagerly she met his lips, met his kiss with one just as fierce.

“The wild one,” he whispered. “Yes, definitely the wild one.”

“Demanding, too…”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“…and very difficult.”

“I hadn’t noticed…”

They kissed again, and by the ragged sound of his breathing, she knew that he, too, was a helpless victim of desire. Suddenly a devilish impulse seized her.

She pulled away. Coyly she asked, “Now will you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he asked, plainly confused.

“Whom you really work for?”

He paused. “Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.,” he said. “Security consultants.”

“Wrong answer,” she said. Then, laughing wickedly, she turned and scampered out of the maze.

Paris

AT 8:45, AS WAS HER HABIT, Marie St. Pierre patted on her bee pollen face cream, ran a brush through her stiff gray hair, and then slipped under the covers of her bed. She flicked on the TV remote control and awaited her favorite program of the week—“Dynasty.” Though the voices were obviously dubbed and the settings garishly American, the stories were close to her heart. Love and power. Pain and retribution. Yes, Marie knew all about love and pain. It was the retribution part she hadn’t quite mastered. Every time the anger bubbled up inside her and those old fantasies of revenge began to play out in her mind, she had only to consider the consequences of such action, and all thoughts of vengeance died. No, she loved Philippe too much. And they had come so far together! From finance minister to prime minister would be such a short, short climb…

She suddenly focused on the TV as a brief news item flashed on the screen—the London economic summit. Would Philippe’s face appear? No, just a pan of the conference table, a five-second view of two dozen men in suits and ties. No Philippe. She sat back in disappointment and wondered, for the hundredth time, if she should have accompanied her husband to London. She hated to fly, and he’d warned her the trip would be tiresome. Better to stay home, he’d told her; she would hate London.

Still, it might have been nice to go away with him for a few days. Just the two of them in a hotel room. A change of scenery, a new bed. It might have been the spark their marriage so terribly needed—

A thought suddenly crossed her mind. A thought so painful that it twisted her heart in knots. Here I am. And there is Philippe, alone in London…

Or was he alone?

She sat trembling for a moment, considering the possibilities. The images. At last she could resist the impulse no longer. She reached for the telephone and dialed Nina Sutherland’s Paris apartment.

The phone rang and rang. She hung up and dialed again. Still it rang unanswered. She stared at the receiver. So Nina has gone to London, too, she thought. And there they would be together, in his hotel room. While I wait at home in Paris.

She rose from the bed. “Dynasty” had just come on the TV; she ignored it. Instead she got dressed. Perhaps I am jumping to conclusions, she thought. Perhaps Nina is really home and refuses to answer her telephone.

She would drive past Nina’s apartment in Neuilly. Check the windows to see if her lights were on inside.

And if they were not?

No, she wouldn’t think about that, not yet.

Fully dressed now, she hurried downstairs, picked up her purse and keys in the darkened living room, and opened the front door. Just as she felt the night air against her face, her ears were blasted by a deafening roar.

The explosion threw her off her feet, flinging her forward down the front steps. Only her outstretched arms beneath her prevented her head from slamming against the concrete. She was vaguely aware of glass raining down around her and then of the soft crackle of flames. Slowly she managed to roll over onto her back. There she lay, staring upward at the fingers of fire shooting through her bedroom window.

It was meant for her, she thought. The bomb was meant for her.

As fire sirens wailed closer, she lay on her back in the broken glass and thought, Is this what it’s come to, my love?

And she watched her bedroom burn above her.

Chapter 2

Buckinghamshire, England

The Eiffel Tower was melting. Jordan stood beside the buffet table and watched the water drip, drip from the ice sculpture into the silver platter of oysters below it. So much for Bastille Day, he thought wearily. Another night, another party. And this one’s about run its course.

“You have had more than enough oysters for one night, Reggie,” said a peevish voice. “Or have you forgotten your gout?”

“Haven’t had an attack in months.”

“Only because I’ve been watching your diet,” said Helena.

“Then tonight, dear,” said Reggie, plucking up another oyster, “would you mind looking the other way?” He lifted the shell to his mouth and tipped the oyster. Nirvana was written on his face as the slippery glob slid into his throat.

Helena shuddered. “It’s disgusting, eating a live animal.” She glanced at Jordan, noting his quietly bemused look. “Don’t you agree?”

Jordan gave a diplomatic shrug. “A matter of upbringing, I suppose. In some cultures, they eat termites. Or quivering fish. I’ve even heard of monkeys, their heads shaved, immobilized—”

“Oh, please,” groaned Helena.

Jordan quickly escaped before the marital spat could escalate. It was not a healthy place to be, caught between a feuding husband and wife. Lady Helena, he suspected, normally held the upper hand; money usually did.

He wandered over to join Finance Minister Philippe St. Pierre and found himself trapped in a lecture on world economics. The summit was a failure, Philippe declared. The Americans want trade concessions but refuse to learn fiscal responsibility. And on and on and on. It was almost a relief when bugle-beaded Nina Sutherland swept into the conversation, trailing her peacock son, Anthony.

“It’s not as if Americans are the only ones who have to clean up their act,” snorted Nina. “We’re none of us doing very well these days, even the French. Or don’t you agree, Philippe?”

Philippe flushed under her direct gaze. “We are all of us having difficulties, Nina—”

“Some of us more than others.”

“It is a worldwide recession. One must be patient.”

Nina’s jaw shot up. “And what if one cannot afford to wait?” She drained her glass and set it down sharply. “What then, Philippe, darling?”

Conversation suddenly ceased. Jordan noticed that Helena was watching them amusedly, that Philippe was clutching his glass in a whiteknuckled fist. What the blazes was going on here? he wondered. Some private feud? Bizarre tensions were weaving through the gathering tonight. Perhaps it’s all that free-flowing champagne. Certainly Reggie had had too much. Their portly houseguest had wandered from the oyster tray to the champagne table. With an unsteady hand, he picked up yet another glass and raised it to his lips. No one was acting quite right tonight. Not even Beryl.

Certainly not Beryl.

He spied his sister as she reentered the ballroom. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with some unearthly fire. Close on her heels was the American, looking just as flushed and more than a little bothered. Ah, thought Jordan with a smile. A bit of hanky-panky in the garden, was it? Well, good for her. Poor Beryl could use some fresh romance in her life, anything to make her forget that chronically unfaithful surgeon.

Beryl whisked up a glass of champagne from a passing servant and headed Jordan’s way. “Having fun?” she asked him.

“Not as much as you, I suspect.” He glanced across at Richard Wolf, who’d just been waylaid by some American businessman. “So,” he whispered, “did you wring a confession out of him?”

“Not a thing.” She smiled over her champagne glass. “Extremely tight-lipped.”

“Really?”

“But I’ll have another go at him later. After I let him cool his heels for a while.”

Lord, how beautiful his baby sister could be when she was happy, thought Jordan. Which, it seemed, wasn’t very often lately. Too much passion in that heart of hers; it made her far more vulnerable than she’d ever admit. For a year now she’d been lying doggo, had dropped out entirely from the old mating game. She’d even given up her charity work at St. Luke’s—a job she’d dearly loved. It was too painful, always running into her ex-lover on the hospital grounds.

But tonight the old sparkle was back in her eyes and he was glad to see it. He noticed how it flared even more brightly as Richard Wolf glanced her way. All those flirtatious looks passing back and forth! He could almost feel the crackle of electricity flying between them.

“…a well-deserved honor, of course, but a bit late, don’t you think, Jordan?”

Jordan glanced in puzzlement at Reggie Vane’s flushed face. The man had been drinking entirely too much. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t following.”

“The Queen’s medal for Leo Sinclair. You remember Leo, don’t you? Wonderful chap. Killed a year and a half ago. Or was it two years?” He gave his head a little shake, as though to clear it. “Anyway, they’re just getting ’round to giving the widow his medal. I think that’s inexcusable.”

“Not everyone who was killed in the Gulf got a medal,” Nina Sutherland cut in.

“But Leo was Intelligence,” said Reggie. “He deserved some sort of honor, considering how he…died.”

“Perhaps it was just an oversight,” said Jordan. “Papers getting mislaid, that sort of thing. MI6 does try to honor its dead, and Leo sort of fell through the cracks.”

“The way Mum and Dad did,” said Beryl. “They died in the line of duty. And they never got a medal.”

“Line of duty?” said Reggie. “Not exactly.” He lifted the champagne glass unsteadily to his lips. Suddenly he paused, aware that the others were staring at him. The silence stretched on, broken only by the clatter of an oyster shell on someone’s plate.

“What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” asked Beryl.

Reggie cleared his throat. “Surely…Hugh must have told you…” He looked around and his face blanched. “Oh, no,” he murmured, “I’ve put my foot in it this time.”

“Told us what, Reggie?” Jordan persisted.

“But it was public knowledge,” said Reggie. “It was in all the Paris newspapers…”

“Reggie,” Jordan said slowly. Deliberately. “Our understanding was that my mother and father were shot in Paris. That it was murder. Is that not true?”

“Well, of course there was a murder involved—”

“A murder?” Jordan cut in. “As in singular?”

Reggie glanced around, befuddled. “I’m not the only one here who knows about it. You were all in Paris when it happened!”

For a few heartbeats, no one said a thing. Then Helena added, quietly, “It was a very long time ago, Jordan. Twenty years. It hardly makes a difference now.”

“It makes a difference to us,” Jordan insisted. “What happened in Paris?”

Helena sighed. “I told Hugh he should’ve been honest with you, instead of trying to bury it.”

“Bury what?” asked Beryl.

Helena’s mouth drew tight.

It was Nina who finally spoke the truth. Brazen Nina, who had never bothered with subtleties. She said flatly, “The police said it was a murder. Followed by a suicide.”

Beryl stared at Nina. Saw the other woman’s gaze meet hers without flinching. “No,” she whispered.

Gently Helena touched her shoulder. “You were just a child, Beryl. Both of you were. And Hugh didn’t think it was appropriate—”

Beryl said again, “No,” and pulled away from Helena’s outstretched hand. Suddenly she whirled and fled in a rustle of blue silk across the ballroom.

“Thank you. All of you,” said Jordan coldly. “For your most refreshing candor.” Then he, too, turned and headed across the room in pursuit of his sister.

He caught up with her on the staircase. “Beryl?”

“It’s not true,” she said. “I don’t believe it!”

“Of course it’s not true.”

She halted on the stairs and looked down at him. “Then why are they all saying it?”

“Ugly rumors. What else can it be?”

“Where’s Uncle Hugh?”

Jordan shook his head. “He’s not in the ballroom.”

Beryl looked up toward the second floor. “Come on, Jordie,” she said, her voice tight with determination. “We’re going to set this thing straight.”

Together they climbed the stairs.

Uncle Hugh was in his study; through the closed door, they could hear him speaking in urgent tones. Without knocking, they pushed inside and confronted him.

“Uncle Hugh?” said Beryl.

Hugh cut her off with a sharp motion for silence. He turned his back and said into the telephone, “It is definite, Claude? Not a gas leak or anything like that?”

“Uncle Hugh!”

Stubbornly he kept his back turned to her. “Yes, yes,” he said into the phone, “I’ll tell Philippe at once. God, this is horrid timing, but you’re right, he has no choice. He’ll have to fly back tonight.” Looking stunned, Hugh hung up and stared at the telephone.

“Did you tell us the truth?” asked Beryl. “About Mum and Dad?”

Hugh turned and frowned at her in bewilderment. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You told us they were killed in the line of duty,” said Beryl. “You never said anything about a suicide.”

“Who told you that?” he snapped.

“Nina Sutherland. But Reggie and Helena knew about it, too. In fact, the whole world seems to know! Everyone except us.”

“Blast that Sutherland woman!” roared Hugh. “She had no right.”

Beryl and Jordan stared at him in shock. Softly Beryl said, “It is a lie. Isn’t it?”

Abruptly Hugh started for the door. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “I have to take care of this business—”

“Uncle Hugh!” cried Beryl. “Is it a lie?”

Hugh stopped. Slowly he turned and looked at her. “I never believed it,” he said. “Not for a second did I think Bernard would ever hurt her…”

“What are you saying?” asked Jordan. “That it was Dad who killed her?”

Their uncle’s silence was the only answer they needed. For a moment, Hugh lingered in the doorway. Quietly he said, “Please, Jordan. We’ll talk about it later. After everyone leaves. Now I really must see to this phone call.” He turned and left the room.

Beryl and Jordan looked at each other. They each saw, in the other’s eyes, the same shock of comprehension.

“Dear God, Jordie,” said Beryl. “It must be true.”

FROM ACROSS THE BALLROOM, Richard saw Beryl’s hasty exit and then, seconds later, the equally rapid departure of a grim-faced Jordan. What the hell was going on? he wondered. He started to follow them out of the room, then spotted Helena, shaking her head as she moved toward him.

“It’s a disaster,” she muttered. “Too much bloody champagne flowing tonight.”

“What happened?”

“They just heard the truth. About Bernard and Madeline.”

“Who told them?”

“Nina. But it was Reggie’s fault, really. He’s so drunk he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Richard looked at the doorway through which Jordan had just vanished. “I should talk to them, tell them the whole story.”

“I think that’s their uncle’s responsibility. Don’t you? He’s the one who kept it from them all these years. Let him do the explaining.”

After a pause, Richard nodded. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Maybe I’ll just go and strangle Nina Sutherland instead.”

“Strangle my husband while you’re at it. You have my permission.”

Richard turned and spotted Hugh Tavistock reentering the ballroom. “Now what?” he muttered as the man hurried toward them.

“Where’s Philippe?” snapped Hugh.

“I believe he was headed out to the garden,” said Helena. “Is something wrong?”

“This whole evening’s turned into a disaster,” muttered Hugh. “I just got a call from Paris. A bomb’s gone off in Philippe’s flat.”

Richard and Helena stared at him in horror.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Helena. “Is Marie—”

“She’s all right. A few minor injuries, but nothing serious. She’s in hospital now.”

“Assassination attempt?” Richard queried.

Hugh nodded. “So it would seem.”

IT WAS LONG PAST MIDNIGHT when Jordan and Uncle Hugh finally found Beryl. She was in her mother’s old room, huddled beside Madeline’s steamer trunk. The lid had been thrown open, and Madeline’s belongings were spilled out across the bed and the floor: silky summer dresses, flowery hats, a beaded evening purse. And there were silly things, too: a branch of sea coral, a pebble, a china frog—items of significance known only to Madeline. Beryl had removed all of these things from the trunk, and now she sat surrounded by them, trying to absorb, through these inanimate objects, the warmth and spirit that had once been Madeline Tavistock.

Uncle Hugh came into the bedroom and sat down in a chair beside her. “Beryl,” he said gently, “it’s time…it’s time I told you the truth.”

“The time for the truth was years ago,” she said, staring down at the china frog in her hand.

“But you were both so very young. You were only eight, and Jordan was ten. You wouldn’t have understood—”

“We could’ve dealt with the facts! Instead you hid them from us!”

“The facts were painful. The French police concluded—”

“Dad would never have hurt her,” said Beryl. She looked up at him with a ferocity that made Hugh draw back in surprise. “Don’t you remember how they were together, Uncle Hugh? How much in love they were? I remember!”

“So do I,” said Jordan.

Uncle Hugh took off his spectacles and wearily rubbed his eyes. “The truth,” he said, “is even worse than that.”

Beryl stared at him incredulously. “How could it be any worse than murder and suicide?”

“Perhaps…perhaps you should see the file.” He rose to his feet. “It’s upstairs. In my office.”

They followed their uncle to the third floor, to a room they seldom visited, a room he always kept locked. He opened the cabinet and pulled a folder from the drawer. It was a classified MI6 file labeled Tavistock, Bernard and Madeline.

“I suppose I…I’d hoped to protect you from this,” said Hugh. “The truth is, I myself don’t believe it. Bernard didn’t have a traitorous bone in his body. But the evidence was there. And I don’t know any other way to explain it.” He handed the file to Beryl.

In silence she opened the folder. Together she and Jordan paged through the contents. Inside were copies of the Paris police report, including witness statements and photographs of the murder scene. The conclusions were as Nina Sutherland had told them. Bernard had shot his wife three times at close range and had then put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. The crime photos were too horrible to dwell on; Beryl flipped quickly past those and found herself staring at another report, this one filed by French Intelligence. In disbelief, she read and reread the conclusions.

“This isn’t possible,” she said.

“It’s what they found. A briefcase with classified NATO files. Allied weapons data. It was in the garret, where their bodies were discovered. Bernard had those files with him when he died—files that shouldn’t have been out of the embassy building.”

“How do you know he took them?”

“He had access, Beryl. He was our Intelligence liaison to NATO. For months, Allied documents were showing up in East German hands, delivered to them by someone they code-named Delphi. We knew we had a mole, but we couldn’t identify him—until those papers were found with Bernard’s body.”

“And you think Dad was Delphi,” said Jordan.

“No, that’s what French Intelligence concluded. I couldn’t believe it, but I also couldn’t dispute the facts.”

For a moment, Beryl and Jordan sat in silence, dismayed by the weight of the evidence.

“You don’t really believe it, Uncle Hugh?” said Beryl softly. “That Dad was the one?”

“I couldn’t argue with the findings. And it would explain their deaths. Perhaps they knew they were on the verge of being discovered. Disgraced. So Bernard took the gentleman’s way out. He would, you know. Death before dishonor.”

Uncle Hugh sank back in the chair and wearily ran his fingers through his gray hair. “I tried to keep the report as quiet as possible,” he said. “The search for Delphi was halted. I myself had a few sticky years in MI6. Brother of a traitor and all, can we trust him, that sort of thing. But then, it was forgotten. And I went on with my career. I think…I think it was because no one at MI6 could quite believe the report. That Bernard had gone to the other side.”

“I don’t believe it, either,” said Beryl.

Uncle Hugh looked at her. “Nevertheless—”

“I won’t believe it. It’s a fabrication. Someone at MI6, covering up the truth—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Beryl.”

“Mum and Dad can’t defend themselves! Who else will speak up for them?”

“Your loyalty’s commendable, darling, but—”

“And where’s your loyalty?” she retorted. “He was your brother!”

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Then did you confirm that evidence? Did you discuss it with French Intelligence?”

“Yes, and I trusted Daumier’s report. He’s a thorough man.”

“Daumier?” queried Jordan. “Claude Daumier? Isn’t he chief of their Paris operations?”

“At the time, he was their liaison to MI6. I asked him to review the findings. He came to the same conclusions.”

“Then this Daumier fellow is an idiot,” said Beryl. She turned to the door. “And I’m going to tell him so myself.”

“Where are you going?” asked Jordan.

“To pack my things,” she said. “Are you coming, Jordan?”

“Pack?” said Hugh. “Where in blazes are you headed?”

Beryl threw a glance over her shoulder. “Where else,” she answered, “but Paris?”

RICHARD WOLF GOT THE CALL at six that morning. “They are booked on a noon flight to Paris,” said Claude Daumier. “It seems, my friend, that someone has pried open a rather nasty can of worms.”

Still groggy with sleep, Richard sat up in bed and gave his head a shake. “What are you talking about, Claude? Who’s flying to Paris?”

“Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. Hugh has just called me. I think this is not a good development.”

Richard collapsed back on his pillow. “They’re adults, Claude,” he said, yawning. “If they want to jet off to Paris—”

“They are coming to find out about Bernard and Madeline.”

Richard closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, wonderful, just what we need.”

“My sentiments precisely.”

“Can’t Hugh talk them out of it?”

“He tried. But this niece of his…” Daumier sighed. “You have met her. So you would understand.”

Yes, Richard knew exactly how stubborn Miss Beryl Tavistock could be. Like mother, like daughter. He remembered that Madeline had been just as unswerving, just as unstoppable.

Just as enchanting.

He shook off those haunting memories of a long-dead woman and said, “How much do they know?”

“They have seen my report. They know about Delphi.”

“So they’ll be digging in all the right places.”

“All the dangerous places,” amended Daumier.

Richard sat up on the side of the bed and clawed his fingers through his hair as he considered the possibilities. The perils.

“Hugh is concerned for their safety,” said Daumier. “So am I. If what we think is true—”

“Then they’re walking into quicksand.”

“And Paris is dangerous enough as it is,” added Daumier, “what with the latest bombing.”