Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“None?”

“None at all. But next time…”

“Yes?”

She twisted her body beneath him, and they tumbled across the sheets until her body was lying atop his. “Next time,” she murmured, lowering her lips to his chest, “it’s my turn to do the tormenting.”

He groaned as her mouth slid hotly down to his belly. “We’re taking turns?”

“You’re the one who said it. All’s fair…”

“…in love and war.” He laughed. And he buried his hands in her hair.

They met in the usual place, the warehouse behind Galerie Annika. Against the walls were stacked dozens of crates containing the paintings and sculptures of would-be artists, most of them no doubt talentless amateurs hoping for a spot on a gallery wall. But who can really say which is art and which is rubbish? thought Amiel Foch, gazing around at the room full of crated dreams. To me, it is all the same. Pigment and canvas.

Foch turned as the warehouse door swung open. “The bomb went off as planned,” he said. “The job is done.”

“The job is not done,” came the reply. Anthony Sutherland emerged from the night and stepped into the warehouse. The thud of the door shutting behind him echoed across the bare concrete floor. “I wanted the woman neutralized. She is still alive. So is Richard Wolf.”

Foch stared at Anthony. “It was a delayed fuse, set off two minutes after entry! It could not have ignited on its own.”

“Nevertheless, they are still alive. Thus far, your record of success is abysmal. You could not finish off even that stupid creature, Marie St. Pierre.”

“I will see to Mme St. Pierre-”

“Forget her! It’s the Tavistocks I want dead! Lord, they’re like cats! Nine bloody lives.”

“Jordan Tavistock is still in custody. I can arrange-”

“Jordan will keep for a while. He’s harmless where he is. But Beryl has to be taken care of soon. My guess is that she and Wolf are leaving Paris. Find them.”

“How?”

“You’re the professional.”

“So is Richard Wolf,” said Foch. “He will be difficult to trace. I cannot perform miracles.”

There was a long silence. Foch watched the other man pace among the crates, and he thought, This boy is nothing like his mother. This one has the ruthlessness to see things through. And the nerve not to flinch at the consequences.

“I cannot search blindly,” said Foch. “I must have a lead. Will they go to England, perhaps?”

“No, not England.” Anthony suddenly stopped pacing. “Greece. The island of Paros.”

“You mean…the Rideau family?”

“Wolf will try to contact him. I’m sure of it.” Anthony let out a snort of disgust. “My mother should have taken care of Rideau years ago. Well, there’s still time to do it.”

Foch nodded. “I leave for Paros.”

After Foch had left, Anthony Sutherland stood alone in the warehouse, gazing about at the crates. So many hopes and dreams locked away in here, he reflected. But not mine. Mine are on display for all to see and admire. The work of these poor slobs may molder into eternity. But I am the toast of Paris.

It took more than talent, more than luck. It took the help of Philippe St. Pierre’s cold hard cash. Cash that would instantly dry up if his mother was ever exposed.

My father Philippe, thought Anthony with a laugh. Still unsuspecting after all these years. I have to hand it to my lovely mother-she knows how to keep them under her spell.

But feminine wiles could take one only so far.

If only Nina had cleaned up this matter years ago. Instead, she’d left a live witness, had even paid the man to leave the country. And as long as that witness lived, he was like a time bomb, ticking away on some lonely Greek island.

Anthony left the warehouse, walked down the alley, and climbed into his car. It was time to go home. Mustn’t keep his mother awake; Nina did worry about him so. He tried never to distress her. She was, after all, the only person in this world who really loved him. Understood him.

Like peas in a pod, Mother and I, he thought with a smile. He started his car and roared off into the night.

They came to escort him from his cell at 9:00 a.m. No explanations, just the clink of keys in the door, and a gruff command in French.

Now what? wondered Jordan as he followed the guard up the corridor to the visitation room. He stepped inside, blinking at the glare of overhead fluorescent lights.

Reggie Vane was waiting in the room. At once he waved Jordan to a chair. “Sit down. You look bloody awful, my boy.”

“I feel bloody awful,” said Jordan, and sank into the chair.

Reggie sat down, too. Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, “I brought what you asked for. There’s a nice little charcuterie around the corner. Lovely duckling terrine. And a few baguettes. ” He shoved a paper bag under the table. “Bon appétit.”

Jordan glanced in the bag and gave a sigh of pleasure. “Reggie, old man, you’re a saint.”

“Had some nice leek tarts to go with it, but the cop at the front desk insisted on helping himself.”

“What about wine? Did you manage a decent bottle or two?”

Reggie shoved a second bag under the table, eliciting a musical clink from the contents. “But of course. A Beaujolais and a rather nice Pinot noir. Screw-top caps, I’m afraid-they wouldn’t allow a corkscrew. And you’ll have to hand over the bottles as soon as they’re empty. Glass, you know.”

Jordan regarded the Beaujolais with a look of sheer contentment. “How on earth did you manage it, Reggie?”

“Just scratched a few itchy palms. Oh, and those books you wanted-Helena will bring them by this afternoon.”

“Capital!” Jordan folded the bag over the bottles. “If one must be in prison, one might as well make it a civilized experience.” He looked up at Reggie. “Now, what’s the latest news? I’ve had no word from Beryl since yesterday.”

Reggie sighed. “I was dreading that question.”

“What’s happened?”

“I think she and Wolf have left Paris. After the explosion last night-”

“What?”

“I heard it from Daumier this morning. The flat where Beryl was staying was bombed last night. Two French agents killed. Wolf and your sister are fine, but they’re dropping out for a while, leaving the country.”

Jordan gave a sigh of relief. Thank God Beryl was out of the picture. It was one less problem to worry about. “What about the explosion?” he asked. “What does Daumier say about it?”

“His people feel there are similarities.”

“To what?”

“The bombing of the St. Pierre residence.”

Jordan stared at him. “But that was a terrorist attack. Cosmic Solidarity or some crazy group-”

“Apparently bombs are sort of like fingerprints. The way they’re put together identifies their maker. And both bombs had identical wiring patterns. Something like that.”

Jordan shook his head. “Why would terrorists attack Beryl? Or me? We’re civilians.”

“Perhaps they think otherwise.”

“Or perhaps it wasn’t terrorists in the first place,” said Jordan, suddenly pushing out of his chair. He paced the room, pumping fresh blood to his legs, his brain. Too many hours in that cell had turned his body to mush; he needed a stiff walk, a slap of fresh air. “What if,” he suggested, “that bombing of the St. Pierre place wasn’t a terrorist attack at all? What if that Cosmic Solidarity nonsense was just a cover story to hide the real motive?”

“You mean it wasn’t a political attack?”

“No.”

“But who would want to kill Philippe St. Pierre?”

Jordan suddenly stopped dead as the realization hit him. “Not Philippe,” he said softly. “His wife. Marie.”