Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“So that’s where we’re headed next,” she whispered. “Berlin.”

“There’ll be risks.” Their gazes met through the velvet dusk. “Things could go wrong…”

“Not while you’re around,” she said softly.

I hope you’re right, he thought as he pulled her into his arms. I hope to God you’re right.

The dice clattered against the cell wall and came to rest with a five and a six showing.

“Ah-hah!” crowed Jordan, raising a fist in triumph. “What does that make it? Ten thousand francs? Dix mille? ”

His cellmates, Leroi and Fofo, nodded resignedly.

Jordan held out his hand. “Pay up, gentlemen.” Two grubby slips of paper were slapped into his palm. On each was written the number ten thousand. Jordan grinned. “Another round?”

Fofo shook the dice, threw them against the wall, and groaned. A three and a five. Leroi threw a pair of twos.

Jordan threw another five and six. His cellmates handed over two more grubby slips of paper. Why, I’ll be a millionaire by tomorrow, Jordan rejoiced, looking down at the growing pile of IOUs. On paper, anyway. He picked up the dice and was about to make another toss when he heard footsteps approach.

Reggie Vane was standing outside the cell, holding a basket of smoked salmon and crackers. “Helena sent these over,” he said as he slid the basket through the small opening at the bottom of the cell door. “Oh, and there’s fresh linen, napkins and such. One can’t dine properly on paper, can one?”

“Certainly not,” agreed Jordan, gratefully accepting the basket of goodies. “You are a true friend, indeed, Reggie.”

“Yes, well…” Reggie grinned and cleared his throat. “Anything for a child of Madeline’s.”

“Any word from Uncle Hugh?”

“Still unreachable, according to your people at Chetwynd.”

Jordan set the basket down in frustration. “This is most bizarre! I’m in prison. Beryl’s vanished. And Uncle Hugh’s probably off on some classified mission for MI6.” He began to pace the cell, oblivious to the fact that Fofo and Leroi were hungrily raiding the contents of the basket. “What about that bomb investigation? Anything new?”

“The two bombings are definitely linked. The devices were manufactured by the same hand. It appears someone’s targeted both Beryl and the St. Pierres.”

“I think the target was Marie St. Pierre, in particular.” Jordan stopped and looked at Reggie. “Let’s say Marie was the target. What’s the motive?”

Reggie shrugged. “She’s not the sort of woman to pick up enemies.”

“You should be able to come up with an answer. She and your wife are best chums, after all. Helena must know who’d want to kill Marie.”

Reggie gave him a troubled look. “It’s not as if there’s any, well…proof.”

Jordan moved toward him. “What are you thinking?”

“Just rumors. Things Helena might have mentioned.”

“Was it about Philippe?”

Reggie looked down. “I feel a bit…well, ungentlemanly, bringing it up. You see, it happened years ago.”

“What did?”

“The affair. Between Philippe and Nina.”

Jordan stared at him through the bars. There it is, he thought. There’s the motive. “How long have you known about this?” he asked.

“I heard about it fifteen, twenty years ago. You see, I couldn’t understand why Helena disliked Nina so much. It was almost a…a hatred. You know how it is sometimes with females, all those catty looks. I assumed it was jealousy. My Helena’s never been comfortable with more…well, attractive women. As a matter of fact, if I so much as glance at a pretty face, she gets downright nasty about it.”

“How did she learn about Philippe and Nina?”

“Marie told her.”

“Who else knew about it?”

“I doubt there were many. Poor Marie’s not one to advertise her humiliation. To have one’s husband dallying with a…a piece of baggage like Nina!”

“Yet she stayed married to Philippe all these years.”

“Yes, she’s loyal that way. And what good would it do to make a public stink of it? Ruin his career? Now he’s finance minister. Chances are, he’ll go to the top. And Marie will be with him. So in the long run, it was worth it.”

“If she lives to see it.”

“You’re not saying Philippe would kill his own wife? And why now, at this late date?”

“Perhaps she issued an ultimatum. Think about it, Reggie! Here he is, inches away from being prime minister. And Marie says, ‘It’s your mistress or me. Choose.’”

Reggie looked thoughtful. “If he chooses Nina, he’d have to get rid of his wife.”

“Ah, but what if he chooses Marie? And Nina’s the one left out in the cold?”

They frowned at each other through the bars.

“Call Daumier,” said Jordan. “Tell him what you just told me, about the affair. And ask him to put a tail on Nina.”

“You don’t really think-”

“I think,” said Jordan, “that we’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle entirely. The bombing wasn’t a political act. All that Cosmic Solidarity rubbish was merely a smoke screen, to cover up the real reason for the attack.”

“You mean it was personal?”

Jordan nodded. “Murder usually is.”

The flight to Berlin was half-empty, so the only logical reason that disheveled pair of passengers in row two should be sitting in first class was that they must have actually paid the fare, a fact the flight attendant found difficult to believe, considering their appearance. Both wore dark sunglasses, wrinkled clothes and unmistakable expressions of exhaustion. The man had a week’s worth of dark stubble on his jaw. The woman was deeply sunburned and her black hair was tangled and powdered with dust. Their only carryon was the woman’s purse, a battered straw affair coated with sand. The attendant glanced at the couple’s ticket stubs. Athens-Rome-Berlin. With a forced smile, she asked them if they wished to order cocktails.

“Bloody Mary,” said the woman in the Queen’s perfect English.

“A Rob Roy,” said the man. “Hold the bitters.”

The woman went to fetch their drinks. When she returned, the man and woman were holding hands and looking at each other with the weary smiles of fellow survivors. They took their drinks from the tray.

“To our health?” the man asked.

“Definitely,” the woman answered.

And, grinning, they both tipped back their glasses in a toast.

The meal cart was wheeled out and on it were lobster patties, crown roast of lamb, wild rice and mushroom caps. The couple ate double servings of everything and topped their dinner off with a split of wine. Then, like a pair of exhausted puppies, they curled up against each other and fell asleep.

They slept all the way to Berlin. Only when the plane rolled to a stop at the terminal did they jerk awake, both of them instantly alert and on guard. As the passengers filed out, the flight attendant kept her gaze on that rumpled pair from Athens. There was no telling who they were or what they might be up to. First-class passengers did not usually travel the world dressed like bums.

The couple was the last to disembark.

The attendant followed the pair onto the passenger ramp and stood watching as they walked toward a small crowd of greeters. They made it as far as the waiting area.

Two men stepped into their path. At once the couple halted and pivoted as though to flee back toward the plane. Three more men magically appeared, blocking off their escape. The couple was trapped.

The attendant caught a glimpse of the woman’s panicked face, the man’s grim expression of defeat. She had been sure there was something wrong about them. They were terrorists, perhaps, or international thieves. And there were the police to make the arrest. She watched as the pair was led away through the murmuring crowd. Definitely not first class, she thought with a sniff of satisfaction. Oh, yes, one could always tell.