Тесс Герритсен – In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen (страница 14)
Richard moved to the bed. Gently he touched her face. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to help you find out.”
AFTER RICHARD LEFT, Beryl turned to her brother. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s told us too many lies.”
“He didn’t lie to us exactly,” Jordan observed. “He just left out a few facts.”
“Oh, right. He conveniently neglects to mention that he knew Mum and Dad. That he was here in Paris when they died. Jordie, for all we know,
“He seems quite chummy with Daumier.”
“So?”
“Uncle Hugh trusts Daumier.”
“Meaning we should trust Richard Wolf?” She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Jordie, you must be more exhausted than you realize.”
“And you must be more smitten than you realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
“Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.”
She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?”
“There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.”
Then he closed the door on her astonished face.
WHEN RICHARD ARRIVED at Daumier’s flat, he found the Frenchman still awake but already dressed in his bathrobe and slippers. The latest reports on the bombing of the St. Pierre residence were laid out across his kitchen table, along with a plate of sausage and a glass of milk. Forty years with French Intelligence hadn’t altered his preference for working in close proximity to a refrigerator.
Waving at the reports, Daumier said, “It is all a puzzle to me. A Semtex explosive planted under the bed. A timing mechanism set for 9:10—precisely when the St. Pierres would be watching Marie’s favorite television program. It has all the signs of an inside operation, except for one glaring mistake—Philippe was in England.” He looked at Richard. “Does it not strike you as an inconceivable blunder?”
“Terrorists are usually brighter than that,” admitted Richard. “Maybe they intended it only as a warning. A statement of purpose. ‘We can reach you if we want to,’ that sort of thing.”
“I still have no information on this Cosmic Solidarity League.” Wearily Daumier ran his hands through his hair. “The investigation, it goes nowhere.”
“Then maybe you can turn your attention for a moment to my little problem.”
“Problem? Ah, yes. The Tavistocks.” Daumier sat back and smiled at him. “Hugh’s niece is more than you can handle, Richard?”
“Someone else was definitely tailing us tonight,” said Richard. “Not just your agent, Colette. Can you find out who it was?”
“Give me something to work with,” said Daumier. “A middle-aged man, short and stocky—that tells me nothing. He could have been hired by anyone.”
“It was someone who knew they were coming to Paris.”
“I know Hugh told the Vanes. They, in turn, could have mentioned it to others. Who else was at Chetwynd?”
Richard thought back to the night of the reception and the night of Reggie’s indiscretion. Blast Reggie Vane and his weakness for booze. That was what had set this off. A few too many glasses of champagne, a wagging tongue. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Poor Reggie was a harmless soul; certainly he’d never meant to hurt Beryl. Rather, it was clear he adored her like a daughter.
Richard said, “There were numbers of people the Vanes might have spoken to. Philippe St. Pierre. Nina and Anthony. Perhaps others.”
“So we are talking about any number of people,” Daumier said, sighing.
“Not a very short list,” Richard had to admit.
“Is this such a wise idea, Richard?” The question was posed quietly. “Once before, if you recall, we were prevented from learning the truth.”
How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt. There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing.
A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself.
The matter of the mole was never officially resolved.
Instead, Bernard Tavistock had been posthumously implicated as Delphi. Conveniently tried and found guilty, thought Richard. Why not pin the blame on Tavistock? A dead man can’t deny the charges.
With new determination, Richard rose from the chair. “This time, Claude,” he said, “I’m tracking him down. And no order from Washington is going to stop me.”
“Twenty years is a long time. Evidence has vanished. Politics have changed.”
“One thing hasn’t changed—the guilty party. What if we were wrong? What if Sutherland wasn’t the mole? Then Delphi may still be alive. And operational.”
To which Daumier added, “And very, very worried.”
BERYL WAS AWAKENED the next morning by Richard knocking on her door. She blinked in astonishment as he handed her a paper sack, fragrant with the aroma of freshly baked croissants.
“Breakfast,” he announced. “You can eat it in the car. Jordan’s already waiting for us downstairs.”
“Waiting? For what?”
“For you to get dressed. You’d better hurry. Our appointment’s for eight o’clock.”
Bewildered, she shoved back a handful of tangled hair. “I don’t recall making any appointments for this morning.”
“I made it for us. We’re lucky to get one, considering the man doesn’t see many people these days. His wife won’t allow it.”
“Whose wife?” she said in exasperation.
“Chief Inspector Broussard. The detective in charge of your parents’ murder investigation.” Richard paused. “You do want to speak to him, don’t you?”
“You don’t have to come,” he said, turning to leave. “Jordan and I can—”
“Give me ten minutes!” she snapped and closed the door on him.
She made it downstairs in nine minutes flat.
Richard drove with the self-assurance of a man long familiar with the streets of Paris. They crossed the Seine and headed south along crowded boulevards. The traffic was as insane as London’s, thought Beryl, gazing out at the crush of buses and taxis.
She finished her croissant and brushed the crumbs off the file folder lying in her lap. Contained in that folder was the twenty-year-old police report, signed by Inspector Broussard. She wondered how much the man would remember about the case. After all this time, surely the details had blended together with all the other homicide investigations of his career. But there was always the chance that some small unreported detail had stayed with him.
“Have you met Broussard?” she asked Richard.
“We met during the course of the investigation. When I was interviewed by the police.”
“They questioned you? Why?”
“He spoke to all your parents’ acquaintances.”
“I never saw your name in the police file.”
“A number of names didn’t make it to that file.”
“Such as?”
“Philippe St. Pierre. Ambassador Sutherland.”
“Nina’s husband?”
Richard nodded. “Those were politically sensitive names. St. Pierre was in the Finance Ministry, and he was a close friend of the prime minister’s. Sutherland was the American ambassador. Neither were suspects, so their names were kept out of the official report.”