Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

New panic shot through Beryl. “You mean they’ve been in the room?”

“Which means-” Suddenly he fell silent.

“Richard?”

“Shh. Listen.”

Over her pounding heartbeat, she heard the faint whine of the hotel elevator as it came to a stop at their floor.

“I think we’re in trouble,” said Richard.

“He can’t get in,” said Beryl. “The door’s locked.”

“They’ll have a passkey. If they managed to get in here earlier…”

“What do we do?”

“ Jordan ’s room. Move!”

At once she was on her knees and crawling toward the connecting door. Only when she’d reached it did she realize Richard wasn’t following her.

“Come on!” she whispered.

“You go. I’ll hold them off.”

She glanced back in disbelief. “What?”

“They’ll check this room first to see if we’ve been hit. I’ll slow them down. You get out through Jordan’s suite. Head for the stairwell and don’t stop running.”

Beryl crouched frozen in the connecting doorway. This is suicide. He has no gun, no weapon at all. Already he was slipping through the shadows. She could just make out his figure, poised by the door. Waiting for the attack.

The knock on the door made her jerk in panic. “Mlle Tavistock?” called a man’s voice. Beryl didn’t answer; she didn’t dare to. “Mademoiselle?” the voice called again.

Richard was gesturing frantically at her through the darkness. Get out! Now.

I can’t leave him, she thought. I can’t let him fight this alone.

A key grated in the lock.

There was no time to consider the risks. Beryl grabbed the bedside lamp, scrambled toward Richard, and planted herself right beside him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered.

“Shut up,” she hissed back.

They both flattened against the wall as the door swung open in front of them. There was a pause, the span of just a few heartbeats, and then they heard footsteps cross the threshold into the room. The door slowly swung closed, revealing the silhouettes of the intruders-two men, standing in the darkness. Beryl could feel Richard coil up beside her, could almost hear his silent one-two-three countdown. Suddenly he was flying at the nearest man; the force of the impact sent both men slamming to the floor.

Beryl raised the lamp and brought it crashing down on the head of the second intruder. He collapsed at her feet, facedown and groaning. She dropped beside him and began patting his clothes for a gun. Through his jacket, she felt a hard lump under his arm. A holster? She rolled him over onto his back. Only then, as a crack of light through the partially closed door spilled across his face, did she realize their mistake.

“Oh, my God,” she said. She glanced at Richard, who’d just grabbed his opponent by the collar and was about to shove him against the wall. “Richard, don’t!” she yelled. “Don’t hurt him!”

He paused, still clutching the other man’s collar in his fists. “Why the hell not?” he muttered.

“Because these are the wrong men, that’s why!” She went to the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light.

Richard blinked in the sudden brightness. He stared at the hotel manager, cowering in his grip. Then he turned and looked at the man who lay groaning by the door. It was Claude Daumier.

At once Richard released the manager, who promptly shrank away in terror. “Sorry,” said Richard. “My mistake.”

“If I’d known it was you,” said Beryl, pressing a bag of ice to Daumier’s head, “I wouldn’t have whacked you so hard.”

“If you had known it was me,” muttered Daumier, “I would hope you wouldn’t have whacked me at all.” He sat up on the couch and caught the bag of ice before it could slide off. “ Zut alors, what did you use, chérie? A brick?”

“A lamp. And not a very big one, either.” She glanced at Richard and the hotel manager. Both men were looking slightly the worse for wear-especially the manager. That black eye of his was colorful testimony to the damaging potential of Richard’s fist. Now that the crisis was over, and they were safely barricaded in the manager’s office, the situation struck Beryl as more than a little hilarious. A senior French Intelligence agent, beaned by a lamp? Richard, still nursing his bruised knuckles. And the poor hotel manager, assiduously maintaining a safe distance from those same knuckles. She could have laughed-if the whole affair hadn’t been so frightening.

There was a knock on the door. Instantly Beryl tensed, only to relax again when she saw that it was a policeman. I’m still high on adrenaline, she thought as she watched Daumier and the cop converse in French. Still expecting the worst.

The policeman withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“What did he say?” Beryl asked.

“The shots were fired from across the plaza,” said Daumier. “They have found bullet casings on the rooftop.”

“And the gunman?” asked Richard.

Regretfully Daumier shook his head. “Vanished.”

“Then he’s still on the loose,” said Richard. “And we don’t know when he’ll strike again.” He looked at the manager. “What about that telephone wire? Who could’ve cut it?”

The man shrank back a step, as though expecting another blow. “I do not know, monsieur! One of the maids, she says her passkey was misplaced for a few hours today.”

“So anyone could have gotten in.”

“No one from our staff! They are thoroughly checked. You see, we have many important guests.”

“I want your employees revetted. Every last one of them.”

The manager nodded meekly. Then, still wincing in pain from the black eye, he left the office.

Richard began to pace, carelessly yanking his tie loose as he moved. “We have an intruder who cuts the phone line. A marksman stationed across the plaza. A high-powered rifle positioned for a shot straight into Beryl’s room. Claude, this is sounding worse by the minute.”

“Why would they try to kill me?” asked Beryl. “What have I done?”

“You’ve asked too many questions, that’s what.” Richard turned to Daumier. “You had it right, Claude. The matter’s not dead, not by a long shot.”

“We were both in that room, Richard,” said Beryl. “How do you know he was aiming at me?”

“I wasn’t the one walking past that window.”

“You’re the one who’s CIA.”

“The qualifying prefix is ex, as in, no longer with the Company. I’m not a threat to anyone.”

“And I am?”

“Yes. By virtue of your name-not to mention your curiosity.” He glanced at Daumier. “We need a safe house, Claude. Can you arrange it?”

“We keep a flat in Passy for protection of witnesses. It will serve your purpose.”

“Who else knows about it?”

“My people. A few ministry officials.”

“That’s too many.”

“It is the best I can offer. It has an alarm system. And I will assign guards.”

Richard paused, thinking, weighing the risks. At last he nodded. “It will have to do for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll come up with something else. Maybe a plane ticket.” He looked at Beryl.

This time she didn’t protest. Already she could feel the adrenaline fading away. A moment ago, every nerve felt wired for action; now a plane home was beginning to sound sensible. All it took was a short flight across the Channel, and she’d be safe in the refuge of Chetwynd. It was all so easy, so tempting.

And she was so very, very tired.

With a numb sense of detachment, Beryl listened as Daumier made the necessary phone calls. He hung up and said, “I will have a car and escort brought around. Beryl’s clothes will be delivered to the flat later. Oh, and Richard, you will no doubt want this.” He reached under his suit jacket and withdrew a semiautomatic pistol from his shoulder holster. He handed it to Richard. “A loan. Just between us, of course.”