Tess Gerritsen: In Their Footsteps

Here he saw a number of familiar faces among the dozens of guests who’d already arrived. The London economic summit had drawn in diplomats and financiers from across the continent. He spotted at once the American ambassador, swaggering and schmoozing like the political appointee he was. Across the room he saw a trio of old acquaintances from Paris. There was Philippe St. Pierre, the French finance minister, deep in conversation with Reggie Vane, head of the Paris Division, Bank of London. Off to the side stood Reggie’s wife, Helena, looking ignored and crabby as usual. Had Richard ever seen that woman look happy?

A woman’s loud and brassy laugh drew Richard’s attention to another familiar figure from his Paris days-Nina Sutherland, the ambassador’s widow, shimmering from throat to ankle in green silk and bugle beads. Though her husband was long dead, the old gal was still working the crowd like a seasoned diplomat’s wife. Beside her was her twenty-year-old son, Anthony, rumored to be an artist. In his purple shirt, he cut just as flashy a figure as his mother did. What a resplendent pair they were, like a couple of peacocks! Young Anthony had obviously inherited his ex-actress mother’s gene for flamboyance.

Judiciously avoiding the Sutherland pair, Richard headed to the buffet table, which was graced with an elaborate ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. This Bastille Day theme had been carried to ridiculous extremes. Everything was French tonight: the music, the champagne, the tricolors hanging from the ceiling.

“Rather makes one want to burst out singing the ‘Marseillaise,’ doesn’t it?” said a voice.

Richard turned and saw a tall blond man standing beside him. Slenderly built, with the stamp of aristocracy on his face, he seemed elegantly at ease in his starched shirt and tuxedo. Smiling, he handed a glass of champagne to Richard. The chandelier light glittered in the pale bubbles. “You’re Richard Wolf,” the man said.

Richard nodded, accepting the glass. “And you are…?”

“Jordan Tavistock. Uncle Hugh pointed you out as you walked into the room. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”

The two men shook hands. Jordan ’s grip was solid and connected, not what Richard expected from such smoothly aristocratic hands.

“So tell me,” said Jordan, casually picking up a second glass of champagne for himself, “which category do you fit into? Spy, diplomat or financier?”

Richard laughed. “I’m expected to answer that question?”

“No. But I thought I’d ask, anyway. It gets things off to a flying start.” He took a sip and smiled. “It’s a mental exercise of mine. Keeps these parties interesting. I try to pick up on the cues, deduce which ones are with Intelligence. And half of these people are. Or were.” Jordan gazed around the room. “Think of all the secrets contained in all these heads-all those little synapses snapping with classified data.”

“You seem to have more than a passing acquaintance with the business.”

“When one grows up in this household, one lives and breathes the game.” Jordan regarded Richard for a moment. “Let’s see. You’re American…”

“Correct.”

“And whereas the corporate executives arrived in groups by stretch limousine, you came on your own.”

“Right so far.”

“And you refer to intelligence work as the business. ”

“You noticed.”

“So my guess is…CIA?”

Richard shook his head and smiled. “I’m just a private security consultant. Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.”

Jordan smiled back. “Clever cover.”

“It’s not a cover. I’m the real thing. All these corporate executives you see here want a safe summit. An IRA bomb could ruin their whole day.”

“So they hire you to keep the nasties away,” finished Jordan.

“Exactly,” said Richard. And he thought, Yes, this is Madeline and Bernard’s son, all right. He resembles Bernard, has got the same sharply observant brown eyes, the same finely wrought features. And he’s quick. He notices things-an indispensable talent.

At that moment, Jordan ’s attention suddenly shifted to a new arrival. Richard turned to see who had just entered the ballroom. At his first glimpse of the woman, he stiffened in surprise.

It was that black-haired witch, dressed not in old jodhpurs and boots this time, but in a long gown of midnight blue silk. Her hair had been swept up into an elegant mass of waves. Even from this distance, he could feel the magical spell of her attraction-as did every other man in the room.

“It’s her,” murmured Richard.

“You mean you two have met?” asked Jordan.

“Quite by accident. I spooked her horse on the road. She was none too pleased about the fall.”

“You actually unhorsed her?” said Jordan in amazement. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

The woman glided into the room and swept up a glass of champagne from a tray, her progress cutting a noticeable swath through the crowd.

“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?”