Blind Instinct Page 22

  She was her father’s daughter, and he had taught her well. Money was power. The equation was simple. To maintain power, she had to control the money, and for over fifty years she had. Despite Bayard’s intervention, nothing had changed. The cabal was dismantled, a great many valuable assets frozen, but she, and approximately one billion pounds sterling, remained. It was a pittance compared to what she had once possessed, but it was enough to guarantee a new, improved future in a different country, with a new identity. Her father had achieved the transition sixty-five years ago; she would achieve it now.

  Aubrey adjusted his spectacles. Helene checked her wristwatch. The transfer was taking longer than expected.

  A small, inane fact registered. Aubrey was sweating, despite the fact that the air-conditioning kept the entire bank cool to the point of chilliness. Alarm feathered her spine.

  She lunged for the computer and encountered unexpected resistance from Aubrey. Simultaneously, the door burst open. Her fingers clawed at the Walther she kept in her handbag. Aubrey was on the floor, clutching the laptop. A sharp burst of gunfire registered. Something hard hit her in the back—the hand of one of her bodyguards, she realized, as he shoved her to the floor.

  Gunfire exploded. Within the space of seconds, the room was filled with men dressed in dark clothing, holding gleaming black weapons, balaclavas pulled over their heads.

  Using the desk as cover, she scrambled toward Aubrey, who was cowering in the corner, and fired two rounds at point-blank range into his chest. He slumped over the laptop and she panicked, grabbing at the machine. The screen glowed, riveting her attention. The transaction hadn’t been completed.

  Something hard and cold was shoved against her throat. Dazed, she stared at Bayard, cool and urbane in a suit.

  “Touch that keyboard,” he said softly, “and I will shoot.”

  * * *

  Helene Reichmann, alias Elizabeth Cohen and Elizabeth Richmond, was finally in custody, along with a cache of diamonds which had been recovered from her yacht and a staggering amount of money. But the morning’s work wasn’t over.

  Marc lifted his phone to his ear. “Where’s Dennison now?”

  Bridges answered. “The sneaky bastard was searching the yacht. He’s just swum to shore.”

  “Bring him in.”

  Dennison agreed to talk, for a price. Marc had created the fiction that Dennison was legally dead; he wanted to stay that way. He had no intention of returning to the States. All he wanted was to remain in the islands and live out his last years in peace, yada, yada, yada…

  Marc studied Dennison. He was a curious mixture of character traits and motivations. Neither black nor white, Dennison existed in a gray world. He had been both an FBI agent and a criminal. He had loved his wife and cared for her even after she had become a quadriplegic in a car accident, and yet he had committed murder. He had been Lopez’s right-hand man for years, then had turned federal witness and supplied them with vital information. “If you step on U.S. soil, I’ll put you in prison.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to go back.”

  Marc picked up his briefcase and shrugged into his jacket. “I’m going out for five minutes.”

  Dennison’s gaze darted to the desk where the cuff keys were prominently displayed. The previous year he had escaped from CIA custody by knocking out an agent with a ketchup bottle, unlocking his cuffs, then cuffing the agent before he had come around. Marc was well aware of the details.

  This time he had made it easy for Dennison, but not too easy. He would have to climb out the window, then he would have to make it through the bank’s security and the local police.

  Dennison’s optimism flickered. “You know where I live.”

  Marc paused at the door. “That’s right.”

  “I figured.”

  Dennison climbed out of the window, scuttled into the nearby shrubs and belly crawled. It took thirty minutes. During that time he must have twisted in a weird way, because he pinched a nerve in his back. He spent ten minutes in fiery agony, too frightened to move until the pain started to ebb, then an armed guard almost stepped on him, and that galvanized him into action. When he was free and clear, he hobbled in the direction of the beachfront. He stopped beneath the pilings of a pier to retrieve a spare weapon, duplicate passport and a bulging wallet he’d stored there after swimming to shore—just in case he’d had to make a run for it—then headed for the launch he’d hired.

  Once he was on board, he cast off, started the motor and headed out to sea. He found some anti-inflammatory pills, gulped them down with a glass of tepid water and waited for the pain to ease.

  He had enough food and fuel to last him a few days, and a radio if the weather turned bad and he got into trouble. When he was feeling better and he judged the coast to be clear, he would come back in at night, abandon the boat, call a contact he had and charter a flight out.

  Costa Rica, or Belize, maybe. Anywhere but Colombia.

  Once he was out of the Caribbean and away from Bayard’s influence, he would decide where he went from there. Damned if he would touch Africa or the Middle East—too dangerous. He was thinking the South Seas, Australia, maybe even New Zealand—if he could weasel his way past their security.

  When the searing pain in his back was blunted and he judged that he was far enough offshore, he dropped anchor and made himself a cup of coffee.

  Moving gingerly, in case he aggravated his back, he pulled out his wallet and emptied the contents onto the table. The glitter of the diamonds didn’t take away any pain, but they made him feel ten years younger.

  There wasn’t enough to make him rich, just enough to ensure his retirement.

  Always cover your ass.

  Twenty-Eight

  She was pregnant.

  Sara walked out of the medical clinic in Georgetown feeling light-headed and decidedly different. She had tried a test kit that morning. Then, to confirm, she’d made an appointment and had a second, more conclusive test. At four weeks, it was too early to guarantee that she would stay pregnant, but the doctor was optimistic. Lots of women her age were having first babies, she was in good health and her blood pressure was fine. As long as she took it easy, he couldn’t foresee any problems.

  She caught a cab at a taxi rank, slipped into the backseat and gave the driver Marc’s address. Her address now.

  The changes were dizzying.

  For days now she’d had to hide her mounting anticipation when she’d missed her usual period date. There had been nothing weird or psychic about it, just a normal, hyped-up, burning hope.

  Marc rang as she reached the apartment. He had just landed at Dulles and he would be home in forty minutes, give or take the usual rush hour hell.

  An hour later, Sara opened the door, slid her arms around Bayard’s neck and kissed her man.

  He dropped his briefcase on the floor, walked her backward into the room and kicked the door closed.

  Long, drugging minutes later, Marc lifted his head and jerked at his tie. “I need a shower before we go any further.”

  And, from the look of the dark circles under his eyes, a good night’s sleep. “You found Helene?”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair then pulled her back into his arms. “Uh-huh.”

  The guarded remoteness of his gaze sent a faint chill down her spine. “How?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Dennison?”

  “He followed the diamonds.”

  So predictable.

  She studied Marc’s movements, more concerned with his well-being than Dennison’s. His clinical approach to his job no longer worried her. She had made the mistake of assuming that an essential hardness—a lack of emotion—went with the job, and had made him the way he was, but she knew now that had never been the case. Behind the cool control there was plenty of emotion. Marc was, quite simply, a committed perfectionist. Whatever he did, he did one hundred percent. The reason he had
been so successful was because he never let a detail slip. He followed every lead, no matter how insignificant, and he didn’t flinch from being a hard-ass.

  Marc was also committed to his country and to justice. He had taken an oath and he lived by it—a fact Saunders had failed to understand. “Where’s Dennison now?”

  His gaze was wary. “He was last seen catching a flight to Mexico.”

  “You didn’t arrest him?”

  “Not exactly. Dennison knows more about the running of the Chavez cartel than anyone else alive. Names, addresses, operational procedures… We’ve got enough now to close them down completely.”

  Sara went still inside. There it was again: the emotion. He had let Dennison go.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You are not cut out for this work.”

  His grin was slow, his hands even slower as they took a leisurely tour of the curve of her butt, and the sensitive line of her back before pulling her close. “Which is why I’ve resigned, effective immediately. The case is wrapped up. From here on in, the paper pushers can take it.”

  Sara tried not to show her delight. She loved Marc; hated the job. “If you hadn’t done that, I would have made trouble.”

  Marc pulled her down into his lap. “I know it. Intelligence work is something I never intended to do. Don’t forget, I started out studying law.”

  “Then got sidetracked when Steve became obsessed about Uncle Todd.”

  He shrugged. “It ticked me off. Todd Fischer was like a father to me. Some of the best times I had as a kid were either at his place, or your folks’. When Todd disappeared, your father stepped in. I’ve always had a vested interest in the Fischer family.”

  “More than a vested interest.” She pulled his hand to her abdomen. “You know that wedding you mentioned? Let’s make it sooner, rather than later.”

  They were married two weeks later in the tiny chapel on the Bayard estate. The wedding, which would have caused a stir in either D.C. or Shreveport, was kept firmly under wraps. Lopez was dead, and Helene Reichmann was in prison, finally making it safe for a number of federal witnesses on the Witness Security Program, including Steve and Taylor, to resume their normal lives. But there was still the press to contend with. The guest list was tiny, but included Steve, Taylor and their new baby, a seven-pound bundle of joy they had named Faith. And Steve had insisted on giving her away.

  Marc’s mother, Mariel, flew in from Florida to take care of any of the wedding details Marc’s ex-PA, Lissa, had missed. Bridges was the best man, and Sara had asked Lissa—who, after the hostage crisis, had put both herself and Bridges out of their misery by moving in with him—to be her bridesmaid. The small group filled the high, vaulted chapel, with its simple arched windows, heady with the scent of freshly picked roses. The vicar and Amalie’s husband, George, an accountant with the city council, stood out like sore thumbs as being the only males present who weren’t linked to either law enforcement or the military.

  The reception was held on the terrace and catered entirely by Amalie and her daughters, who had also attended the ceremony. The food was simple and elegant; the champagne, French; the sunset clear and pure, with a golden afterglow.

  Twenty-Nine

  Vassigny, France, Two months later

  The road to Vassigny was still narrow and precipitous, forced as it was to wind through the darkly wooded slopes and the stony plateaus of the Jura Mountains that marked the Franco Swiss border. To the east, Mont d’Or thrust up almost a kilometer and a half, its snowcapped peak piercing a brilliantly blue sky. Closer, to the south, vast tracts of forest known as the Parc Natural Regional du Haut-Jura dominated the landscape.

  The sign for Vassigny loomed and the road became, if possible, even narrower. Stony pasture predominantly used for dairy farming and the production of the famous Comte cheeses gave way to lush vineyards. The landscape was familiar, and yet, not. Modern barns and houses had sprouted, along with a small airport. Signs were everywhere, indicating tourist attractions, cafés and accommodation. Marc slowed for a corner, seconds later the town appeared.

  The trip to Vassigny had been a natural choice, both to put the past to rest and answer a number of questions. Sara needed to know what had happened to Armand and his family—and they both wanted to find out about Cavanaugh.

  Now that she had the memories, they were a part of her, as valid and real as her memories of her parents and Eleanor and Todd Fischer. She had loved her present-day family and grieved for them; she kept their photos, remembered important dates and cherished their memories. As distant as those war years were now, it didn’t change the fact that she needed to do the same for the people she had loved back then. She needed closure.

  After several weeks of searching, Bayard had managed to locate Cavanaugh’s file. The manila folder had been mottled and darkened with age. When she’d opened it, the paper was yellowed, the typescript old-fashioned, as if someone had thumped it out on a manual typewriter, which was exactly what had happened. At the bottom of one of the pages was a neatly scrawled signature.

  All the hairs at the base of her neck had tightened as she’d studied the strong, slanting script.

  Marc had traced the signature with his finger. He didn’t have her memories, but he had recognized that the handwriting was eerily similar to his own.

  She had checked the document. Of course, it was the official secrecy act.

  Marc’s expression had been wry. “Standard procedure. He was in Intelligence.”

  The contents of the file were sparse, just four photocopied pages. Marc Cavanaugh, originally from New Orleans, had been seconded to the SOE in Britain in 1942—on request, because his mother had been from Lyon. He had parachuted into France in 1943 on a high-priority mission to escort an English agent across the Swiss border. The last entry was a letter to Cavanaugh’s parents advising them that their son was missing in action. The date was 1944.

  Sara had read the letter through twice. It hadn’t said what happened to him, or how he had died.

  France had still been occupied. A lot of soldiers had gone missing in action and their bodies had never been recovered. Sometimes soldiers had been reported dead but had actually survived.

  She needed to know.

  A few days later, Bayard had produced another sheet of paper, this one covered in his own handwriting. It was a brief genealogy. “I thought the name was familiar. Turns out that Marc Cavanaugh’s aunt was Heloise Louviere.”

  The sense that a piece of a subtle, complex puzzle had just fallen into place had been strong. The coincidence was too powerful to be pure chance. Heloise Louviere had married Jean Bayard and had been Marc’s grandmother.

  Sara held her breath as she studied Vassigny’s main street, and the cluster of hostels, cafés and sports shops catering to tourists and cross-country skiers.

  The familiar frontage of a bakery registered. “Pull over. There.”

  Inside, the shop was small and dark, the plain rolls and baguettes still in evidence, but accompanied by a mouthwatering array of both savory and sweet pastries.

  Gaspar Autin was behind the counter. He was barely recognizable, thinner than she remembered, his thick dark hair, gray, his eyes rheumy. Her heart swelled. She felt like flinging herself into his arms, but it couldn’t be Gaspar.

  It was his son, Louis.

  Her throat closed up. “When did Gaspar pass away?”

  Louis’s gaze was curious. “My father has been dead for more than twenty years. When did you meet him?”

  “It was a long time ago. But maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Pascal Dutetre, the grandson of Armand de Thierry. Does he live in his grandfather’s house?”

  “The de Thierry place. Oui.” He cocked his head to one side. “Are you sure I don’t know you, madame. You seem familiar to me.”

  Sara shook her head. “Non, je regrette. I’ve never met you before. And the Château? Does Pascal own that?”

  Louis shook his head. “Armand let that go,
gladly, you understand? After the SS had it…” He made an expressive face. “No one wanted to sleep there. The Château is now a hotel, with a four-star restaurant. They get a lot of German tourists.” He shook his head. “Who could know?”

  * * *

  Marc drove to the house. As they walked up the path to the front door, shivers ran up and down her spine.

  After a phone call explaining that they were distant relations of Marc Cavanaugh, a meeting had been arranged.

  Armand’s grandson was waiting for them at the front door of the house. Pascal, a far cry from the skinny child she remembered, had filled out and now had grandchildren of his own. He looked remarkably like his grandfather.

  Goose bumps feathered her skin as they stepped into the dim hallway. For a moment the déjà vu was so strong she almost expected to see Armand. Instead, a cheerful, elegant woman with iron-gray hair—Pascal’s wife, Marceline—appeared to usher them into the study.

  Pascal made introductions and Marceline brought coffee and what looked like pastries from Louis’s bakery. Sunlight slanted through the windows as cups and plates were handed out, and the initial awkwardness evaporated as they settled on the subject of the Second World War and the role the Special Operations Executive had played in Vassigny’s Maquis.

  “I never met Cavanaugh, unfortunately.” Pascal’s gaze settled on Sara. “But I did meet Sara Weiss. One moment.”

  He rummaged in a heavy armoire and produced an ancient photograph album filled with small, old-fashioned, black-and-white snaps and a few sepia-toned ones.

  He pointed to a wedding photograph. His gaze connected with Sara’s. “It’s a remarkable coincidence, but you look very like my stepgrand-mother. I still remember her clearly. She tried to teach me mathematics.”