In Their Footsteps. Tess Gerritsen
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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?
Lady Helena, who appeared to be just as fed up with her husband as Anthony was, simply said, “Shut up, Reggie,” and ordered him a third whiskey sour.
Anthony didn’t much care for Helena, either. She reminded him of some sort of nasty rodent. Such a contrast to his mother! The two women sat across the aisle from each other, Helena drab and proper in her houndstooth skirt and jacket, Nina so striking in her whitest-white silk pantsuit. Only a woman with true confidence could wear white silk, and his mother was one who could. Even at fifty-three, Nina was stunning, her dark, upswept hair showing scarcely a trace of gray, her figure the envy of any twenty-year-old. But of course, thought Anthony, she’s my mother.
And, as usual, she was getting in her digs at Helena.
“If you and Reggie hate it so much in Paris,” sniffed Nina, “why do you stay? If you ask me, people who don’t adore the city don’t deserve to live there.”
“Of course, you would love Paris,” said Helena.
“It’s all in the attitude. If you’d kept an open mind…”
“Oh, no, we’re much too stuffy,” muttered Helena.
“I didn’t say that. But there is a certain British attitude. God is an Englishman, that sort of thing.”
“You mean He isn’t?” Reggie interjected.
Helena didn’t laugh. “I just think,” she said, “that a certain amount of order and discipline is needed for the world to function properly.”
Nina glanced at Reggie, who was noisily slurping his whiskey. “Yes, I can see you both believe in discipline. No wonder the evening was such a disaster.”
“We weren’t the ones who blurted out the truth,” snapped Helena.
“At least I was sober enough to know what I was saying!” Nina declared. “They would have found out in any event. After Reggie there let the cat out of the bag, I just decided it was time to be straight with them about Bernard and Madeline.”
“And look at the result,” moaned Helena. “Hugh says Beryl and Jordan are flying to Paris this afternoon. Now they’ll be mucking around in things.”
Nina shrugged. “Well, it was a long time ago.”
“I don’t see why you’re so nonchalant. If anyone could be hurt, it’s you,” muttered Helena.
Nina frowned at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“No, really! What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” Helena snapped.
Their conversation came to an abrupt halt. But Anthony could tell his mother was fuming. She sat with her hands balled up in her lap. She even ordered a second martini. When she rose from her seat and headed down the aisle for a bit of exercise, he followed her. They met at the rear of the plane.
“Are you all right, Mother?” he asked.
Nina glanced in agitation toward first class. “It’s all Reggie’s bloody fault,” she whispered. “And Helena’s right, you know. I am the one who could be hurt.”
“After all these years?”
“They’ll be asking questions again. Digging. Lord, what if those Tavistock brats find something?”
Anthony said quietly, “They won’t.”
Nina’s gaze