Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

Tracy had finally agreed to listen to their idea. A half million dollars for a few hours' discomfort. She had examined the scheme from every angle. It can work, Tracy thought. If only Jeff Stevens were not involved!

Her feelings about him were such a roiling mixture of emotions that she was confused and angry with herself. He had done what he did in Madrid for the fun of outwitting her. He had betrayed her, cheated her, and now he was secretly laughing at her.

The three men were watching her, waiting for her answer. The boat was passing under the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, which the contrary French insisted on calling the New Bridge. Across the river, two lovers embraced on the edge of the embankment, and Tracy could see the blissful look on the face of the girl. She's a fool, Tracy thought. She made her decision. She looked straight into Jeff's eyes as she said, “All right. I'll go along with it,” and she could feel the tension at the table dissipate.

“We don't have much time,” Vauban was saying. His dead eyes turned to Tracy. “My brother works for a shipping agent, and he will let us load the soft container with you in it at his warehouse. I hope mademoiselle does not have claustrophobia.”

“Don't worry about me…. How long will the trip take?”

“You will spend a few minutes in the loading area and one hour flying to Amsterdam.”

“How large is the container?”

“Large enough for you to sit down. There will be other things in it to conceal you — just in case.”

Nothing can go wrong, they had promised. But just in case….

“I have a list of the things you'll need,” Jeff told her. “I've already arranged for them.”

The smug bastard. He had been so sure she would say yes.

“Vauban, here, will see to it that your passport has the proper exit and entrance stamps, so you can leave Holland without any problem.”

The boat began docking at its quay.

“We can go over the final plans in the morning,” Ramon Vauban said. “Now I have to get back to work. Au revoir.” he left.

Jeff asked, “Why don't we all have dinner together to celebrate?”

“I'm sorry,” Gunther apologized, “but I have a previous engagement.”

Jeff turned to Tracy. “Would —”

“No, thanks. I'm tired,” she said quickly.

It was an excuse to avoid being with Jeff, but even as Tracy said it, she realized she really was exhausted. It was probably the strain of the excitement she had been going through for so long. She was feeling lightheaded. When this is over, she promised herself, I'm going back to London for a long rest. Her head was beginning to throb. I really must.

“I brought you a little present,” Jeff told her. He handed her a gaily wrapped box. In it was an exquisite silk scarf with the initials TW stitched in one corner.

“Thank you.” He can afford it, Tracy thought angrily. He bought it with my half million dollars.

“Sure you won't change your mind about dinner?”

“I'm positive.”

In Paris, Tracy stayed at the classic Plaza Athйnйe, in a lovely old suite that overlooked the garden restaurant. There was an elegant restaurant inside the hotel, with soft piano music, but on this evening Tracy was too tired to change into a more formal dress. She went into the Relais, the hotel's small cafй, and ordered a bowl of soup. She pushed the plate away, half-finished, and left for her suite.

Daniel Cooper, seated at the other end of the room, noted the time.

Daniel Cooper had a problem. Upon his return to Paris, he had asked for a meeting with Inspector Trignant. The head of Interpol had been less than cordial. He had just spent an hour on the telephone listening to Commandant Ramiro's complaints about the American.

“He is loco!” the commandant had exploded. “I wasted men and money and time following this Tracy Whitney, who he insisted was going to rob the Prado, and she turned out to be a harmless tourist just as I said she was.”

The conversation had led Inspector Trignant to believe that Daniel Cooper could have been wrong about Tracy in the first place. There was not one shred of evidence against the woman. The fact that she had been in various cities at the times the crimes were committed was not evidence.

And so, when Daniel Cooper had gone to see the inspector and said, “Tracy Whitney is in Paris. I would like her placed on twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the inspector had replied, “Unless you can present me with some proof that this woman is planning to commit a specific crime, there is nothing I can do.”

Cooper had fixed him with his blazing brown eyes and said, “You're a fool,” and had found himself being unceremoniously ushered out of the office.

That was when Cooper had begun his one-man surveillance. He trailed Tracy everywhere: to shops and restaurants, through the streets of Paris. He went without sleep and often without food. Daniel Cooper could not permit Tracy Whitney to defeat him. His assignment would not be finished until he had put her in prison.

Tracy lay in bed that night, reviewing the next day's plan. She wished her head felt better. She had taken aspirin, but the throbbing was worse. She was perspiring, and the room seemed unbearably hot. Tomorrow it will be over. Switzerland. That's where I'll go. To the cool mountains of Switzerland. To the chвteau.

She set the alarm for 5:00 A.M., and when the bell rang she was in her prison cell and Old Iron Pants was yelling, “Time to get dressed. Move it,” and the corridor echoed with the clanging of the bell. Tracy awakened. Her chest felt tight, and the light hurt her eyes. She forced herself into the bathroom. Her face looked blotchy and flushed in the mirror. I can't get sick now, Tracy thought. Not today. There's too much to do.

She dressed slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head. She put on black overalls with deep pockets, rubber-soled shoes, and a Basque beret. Her heart seemed to beat erratically, but she was not sure whether it was from excitement or the malaise that gripped her. She was dizzy and weak. Her throat felt sore and scratchy. bn her table she saw the scarf Jeff had given her. She picked it up and wrapped it around her neck.

The main entrance to the Hфtel Plaza Athйnйe is on Avenue Montaigne, but the service entrance is on Rue du Boccador, around the corner. A discreet sign reads ENTREE DE SERVICE, and the passageway goes from a back hallway of the lobby through a narrow corridor lined with garbage cans leading to the street. Daniel Cooper, who had taken up an observation post near the main entrance, did not see Tracy leave through the service door, but inexplicably, the moment she was gone, he sensed it. He hurried out to the avenue and looked up and down the street. Tracy was nowhere in sight.

The gray Renault that picked up Tracy at the side entrance to the hotel headed for the Йtoile. There was little traffic at that hour, and the driver, a pimply-faced youth who apparently spoke no English, raced into one of the twelve avenues that form the spokes of the Йtoile. I wish he would slow down, Tracy thought. The motion was making her carsick.

Thirty minutes later the car slammed to a stop in front of a warehouse. The sign over the door read BRUCERE ET CIE. Tracy remembered that this was where Ramon Vauban's brother worked.

The youth opened the car door and murmured, “Vite!”

A middle-aged man with a quick, furtive manner appeared as Tracy stepped out of the car. “Follow me,” he said. “Hurry.”

Tracy stumbled after him to the back of the warehouse, where there were half a dozen containers, most of them filled and sealed, ready to be taken to the airport. There was one soft container with a canvas side, half-filled with furniture.

“Get in. Quick! We have no time.”