Tess Gerritsen: In Their Footsteps

“How do you know he took them?”

“He had access, Beryl. He was our Intelligence liaison to NATO. For months, Allied documents were showing up in East German hands, delivered to them by someone they code-named Delphi. We knew we had a mole, but we couldn’t identify him-until those papers were found with Bernard’s body.”

“And you think Dad was Delphi,” said Jordan.

“No, that’s what French Intelligence concluded. I couldn’t believe it, but I also couldn’t dispute the facts.”

For a moment, Beryl and Jordan sat in silence, dismayed by the weight of the evidence.

“You don’t really believe it, Uncle Hugh?” said Beryl softly. “That Dad was the one?”

“I couldn’t argue with the findings. And it would explain their deaths. Perhaps they knew they were on the verge of being discovered. Disgraced. So Bernard took the gentleman’s way out. He would, you know. Death before dishonor.”

Uncle Hugh sank back in the chair and wearily ran his fingers through his gray hair. “I tried to keep the report as quiet as possible,” he said. “The search for Delphi was halted. I myself had a few sticky years in MI6. Brother of a traitor and all, can we trust him, that sort of thing. But then, it was forgotten. And I went on with my career. I think…I think it was because no one at MI6 could quite believe the report. That Bernard had gone to the other side.”

“I don’t believe it, either,” said Beryl.

Uncle Hugh looked at her. “Nevertheless-”

“I won’t believe it. It’s a fabrication. Someone at MI6, covering up the truth-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Beryl.”

“Mum and Dad can’t defend themselves! Who else will speak up for them?”

“Your loyalty’s commendable, darling, but-”

“And where’s your loyalty?” she retorted. “He was your brother!”

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Then did you confirm that evidence? Did you discuss it with French Intelligence?”

“Yes, and I trusted Daumier’s report. He’s a thorough man.”

“Daumier?” queried Jordan. “Claude Daumier? Isn’t he chief of their Paris operations?”

“At the time, he was their liaison to MI6. I asked him to review the findings. He came to the same conclusions.”

“Then this Daumier fellow is an idiot,” said Beryl. She turned to the door. “And I’m going to tell him so myself.”

“Where are you going?” asked Jordan.

“To pack my things,” she said. “Are you coming, Jordan?”

“Pack?” said Hugh. “Where in blazes are you headed?”

Beryl threw a glance over her shoulder. “Where else,” she answered, “but Paris?”

Richard Wolf got the call at six that morning. “They are booked on a noon flight to Paris,” said Claude Daumier. “It seems, my friend, that someone has pried open a rather nasty can of worms.”

Still groggy with sleep, Richard sat up in bed and gave his head a shake. “What are you talking about, Claude? Who’s flying to Paris?”

“Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. Hugh has just called me. I think this is not a good development.”

Richard collapsed back on his pillow. “They’re adults, Claude,” he said, yawning. “If they want to jet off to Paris -”

“They are coming to find out about Bernard and Madeline.”

Richard closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, wonderful, just what we need.”

“My sentiments precisely.”

“Can’t Hugh talk them out of it?”

“He tried. But this niece of his…” Daumier sighed. “You have met her. So you would understand.”

Yes, Richard knew exactly how stubborn Miss Beryl Tavistock could be. Like mother, like daughter. He remembered that Madeline had been just as unswerving, just as unstoppable.

Just as enchanting.

He shook off those haunting memories of a long-dead woman and said, “How much do they know?”

“They have seen my report. They know about Delphi.”

“So they’ll be digging in all the right places.”

“All the dangerous places,” amended Daumier.

Richard sat up on the side of the bed and clawed his fingers through his hair as he considered the possibilities. The perils.

“Hugh is concerned for their safety,” said Daumier. “So am I. If what we think is true-”

“Then they’re walking into quicksand.”

“And Paris is dangerous enough as it is,” added Daumier, “what with the latest bombing.”

“How is Marie St. Pierre, by the way?”

“A few scratches, bruises. She should be released from the hospital tomorrow.”

“Ordnance report back?”

“Semtex. The upper apartment was completely demolished. Luckily Marie was downstairs when the bomb went off.”

“Who’s claiming responsibility?”

“There was a telephone call shortly after the blast. It was a man, said he belonged to some group called Cosmic Solidarity. They claim responsibility.”

“Cosmic Solidarity? Never heard of that one.”

“Neither have we,” said Daumier. “But you know how it is these days.”

Yes, Richard knew only too well. Any wacko with the right connections could buy a few ounces of Semtex, build a bomb, and join the revolution-any revolution. No wonder his business was booming. In this brave new world, terrorism was a fact of life. And clients everywhere were willing to pay top dollar for security.

“So you see, my friend,” said Daumier, “it is not a good time for Bernard’s children to be in Paris. And with all the questions they will ask-”

“Can’t you keep an eye on them?”

“Why should they trust me? It was my report in that file. No, they need another friend here, Richard. Someone with sharp eyes and unerring instincts.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“I hear through the grapevine that you and Miss Tavistock shared a degree of…simpatico?”

“She’s way too rich for my blood. And I’m too poor for hers.”

“I do not usually ask for favors,” said Daumier quietly. “Neither does Hugh.”

And you’re asking for one now, thought Richard. He sighed. “How can I refuse?”

After he’d hung up, he sat for a moment contemplating the task ahead. This was a baby-sitting job, really-the sort of assignment he despised. But the thought of seeing Beryl Tavistock again, and the memory of that kiss they’d shared in the garden, was enough to make him grin with anticipation. Way too rich for my blood, he thought. But a man can dream, can’t he? And I do owe it to Bernard and Madeline.

Even after all these years, their deaths still haunted him. Perhaps the time had come to close the mystery, to answer all those questions he and Daumier had raised twenty years ago. The same questions MI6 and Central Intelligence had firmly suppressed.

Now Beryl Tavistock was poking her aristocratic nose into the mess. And a most attractive nose it was, he thought. He hoped it didn’t get her killed.

He rose from the bed and headed for the shower. So much to do, so many preparations to make before he headed to the airport.

Baby-sitting jobs-how he hated them.

But at least this one would be in Paris.

Anthony Sutherland stared out his airplane window and longed fervently for the flight to be over and done with. Of all the rotten luck to be booked on the same Air France flight as the Vanes! And then to be seated straight across the first-class aisle from them-well, this really was intolerable. He considered Reggie Vane a screaming bore, especially when intoxicated, which at the moment Reggie was well on the way to becoming. Two whiskey sours and the man was starting to babble about how much he missed jolly old England, where food was boiled as it should be, not sautéed in all that ghastly butter, where people lined up in proper queues, where crowds didn’t reek of garlic and onions. He’d lived too many years in Paris now-surely it was time to retire from the bank and go home? He’d put in many years at the Bank of London’s Paris branch. Now that there were so many clever young V.P.s ready to step into his place, why not let them?