Tess Gerritsen: In Their Footsteps

“The Vanes’ house has excellent security,” said Daumier. “Reggie and Helena have already agreed that you should stay with them.”

“But I haven’t agreed,” said Beryl.

“Beryl.” It was Richard. He spoke quietly. Unbendingly. “Jordan will be protected from all angles. They’ll be ready for the attack. This time, nothing will go wrong.”

“Can you guarantee it? Can any of you?”

There was silence.

“Nothing can be guaranteed, Beryl,” said Daumier quietly. “We have to take this chance. It may be the only way to catch Delphi.”

In frustration, she looked out the window, thinking of the options. Realizing there were none-not if any of this was to be resolved-she said softly, “I’ll agree to it on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

She looked at Richard. “I want you to be with him. I trust you, Richard. If you’re watching Jordan, I know he’ll be all right.”

Richard nodded. “I’ll be right by his side.”

“Who else knows about this plan?” asked Hugh.

“Just a few of my people,” said Daumier. “I was careful not to let any of this leak out to Philippe St. Pierre.”

“What do Reggie and Helena know?” asked Beryl.

“Only that you need a safe place to stay. They are doing this as a favor to old friends.”

As an old friend was exactly the way Beryl was greeted upon arrival at the Vanes’ residence. As soon as the gates closed behind the limousine, and they were inside the high walls of the compound, she was swept into the comfort of their home. It all seemed so safe, so familiar: the English wallpaper, the tray of tea and biscuits on the end table, the vases of flowers perfuming the rooms. Surely nothing could hurt her here…

There was scarcely time to say goodbye to Richard. While Daumier and Hugh waited outside in the car, Richard pulled Beryl into his arms. They shared a last embrace, a last kiss.

“You’ll be perfectly safe here,” he whispered. “Don’t leave the compound for any reason.”

“ You’re the one I worry about. You and Jordan.”

“I won’t let anything happen to him.” He tipped up her chin and pressed his lips to hers. “And that,” he murmured, “is a promise.” He touched her face and grinned, a confident grin that made her believe anything was possible.

Then he walked away.

She stood on the doorstep and watched the car drive out of the compound, saw the iron gates close shut behind it. I’m with you, she thought. Whatever happens, Richard, I’m right there beside you.

“Come, Beryl,” said Reggie, affectionately draping his arm around her shoulders. “I have an instinct about these things. And I’m positive everything will turn out just fine.”

She looked up at Reggie’s smiling face. Thank God for old friends, she thought. And she let him lead her back into the house.

Jordon was down on all fours in his jail cell, rattling a pair of dice in his hand. His cellmates, the two shaggy, ripe-smelling ruffians-or could that odor be Jordan’s?-hovered behind him, stamping their feet and yelling. Jordan threw the dice; they tumbled across the floor and clattered against the wall. Two fives.

“Zut alors!” groaned the cellmates.

Jordan raised his fist in triumph. “Oh, là là!” Only then did he see his visitors staring at him through the bars. “Uncle Hugh!” he said, jumping to his feet. “Am I glad to see you!”

Hugh’s disbelieving gaze scanned the interior of the cell. Over the cot was draped a red-checked tablecloth, laid out with platters of sliced beef, poached salmon, a bowl of grapes. A bottle of wine sat chilling in a plastic bucket. And on a chair beside the bed was neatly stacked a half dozen leather-bound books and a vase of roses. “This is a prison?” quipped Hugh.

“Oh, I’ve spruced it up a bit,” said Jordan. “The food was wretched, so I had some delivered. Brought in the reading material, as well. But,” he said with a sigh, “I’m afraid it’s still very much a prison.” He tapped the bars. “As you can see.” He looked at Daumier. “So, are we ready?”

“If you are still willing.”

“Haven’t much of a choice, have I? Considering the alternative.”

The guard unlocked the door and Jordan stepped out, carrying his bundle of street clothes. But he couldn’t walk away without a proper goodbye to his cellmates. He turned and found Fofo and Leroi staring at him mournfully. “Afraid this is it, fellows,” he said. “It’s been-” he thought a moment, struggling to come up with the right adjective “-a uniquely fragrant experience.” On impulse, he tossed his tailored linen jacket to the disbelieving Fofo. “I think that might fit you,” he said. “Wear it in good health.” Then, with a farewell wave, he followed his companions out of the building and into Daumier’s limousine.

They drove him to the Ritz-same floor, different room. A fashionably appropriate place for an assassination, he thought wryly as he came out of the shower and dressed in a fresh suit.

“Bulletproof windows,” said Daumier. “Microphones in the front room. And there’ll be two men, stationed across the hall. Also, you should have this.” Daumier reached into his briefcase and pulled out an automatic pistol. He handed it to Jordan, who regarded the weapon with a raised eyebrow.

“Worst-case scenario? I’ll actually have to defend myself?”

“A precaution. You know how to use one?”

“I suppose I can muddle through,” said Jordan, expertly sliding in the ammunition clip. He looked at Richard. “Now what happens?”

“Have a meal in the restaurant downstairs,” said Richard. “Take your time, make sure you’re seen by as many employees as possible. Leave a big tip, be conspicuous. And return to your room.”

“And then?”

“We wait and see who comes knocking.”

“What if no one does?”

“They will,” said Daumier grimly. “I guarantee it.”

Amiel Foch received the call a mere thirty minutes later. It was the hotel maid-the same woman who’d been so useful a week before, when he’d needed access to the Tavistocks’ suites.

“He is back,” she said. “The Englishman.”

“Jordan Tavistock? But he’s in prison-”

“I have just seen him in the hotel. Room 315. He seems to be alone.”

Foch grimaced in amazement. Perhaps those Tavistock family connections had come through. Now he was a free man-and a vulnerable target. “I need to get into his room,” said Foch. “Tonight.”

“I cannot do it.”

“You did it before. I’ll pay double.”

The maid gave a snort of disgust. “It’s still not enough. I could lose my job.”

“I’ll pay more than enough. Just get me the passkey again.”

There was a silence. Then the woman said, “First, you leave the envelope. Then, I get you the key.”

“Agreed,” said Foch, and hung up.

He immediately made a call to Anthony Sutherland. “Jordan Tavistock is out of prison,” he said. “He’s taken a room at the Ritz. Do you still wish me to proceed?”

“This time, I want it done right. Even if I have to supervise it myself. When do we move?”

“I do not think it is wise-”

“When do we move?”

Foch swallowed his angry response. It was a mistake letting Sutherland take part. The boy was just a voyeur, eager to experience the ultimate power-the taking of a life. Foch had sensed it years ago, from the day they’d first met. He’d known just by looking at him that he’d be addicted to thrills, to intensity, be it sexual or otherwise.

Now the young man wished to experience something novel. Murder. This was a mistake, surely, a mistake…

“Remember who’s paying your fees, M. Foch,” said Sutherland. “And outrageous fees, too. I’m the one who makes the decisions, not you.”