Call After Midnight (12 page)

The light changed, and they merged with the morning traffic. It was ten o'clock and the cars were bumper-to-bumper. An oncoming bus roared by on their right, and Sarah felt a momentary flash of panic. The left-sided driving unsettled her. Even Nick seemed uneasy as he frowned at the rearview mirror.

She forced herself to sit back and ignore the road. “I can't believe everything that's happened,” she said. “It's all so crazy. And the more I try to figure it out, the more confused I get….” Glancing sideways at Nick, she saw that his frown was deepening. “Nick?”

“The plot has just thickened,” he said softly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Keep your eyes straight ahead. Don't look back. We're being followed.”

The urge to turn her head was overwhelming, but Sarah managed to focus her attention on the wet road in front of them.
Why is this happening?
she asked herself, as fear made her heart beat faster. “What are you going to do, Nick?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He ignored the dismay in her voice. “That's right. We're going to act like nothing at all is wrong. We're going to stop at your hotel, where you'll change, pack your bags and check out. Then we're going to have some breakfast. I'm starved.”

“Breakfast? But you just said we're being followed!”

“Look, if those guys were out for blood, they could've grabbed you last night.”

“Like they grabbed Eve?” she asked in a whisper.

“No. That's not going to happen.” He looked in his mirror. “Hang on, Sarah. We're gonna see just how good these guys are….”

He swerved into a narrow street, zipped past a row of small shops and cafés, then hit the brakes. The car behind them skidded to a stop, missing their rear bumper by inches. Unexpectedly Nick laughed. Glancing at Sarah, he saw that she was gripping the dashboard. “You all right?”

She nodded, too frightened to say a word.

“We're okay, Sarah. I think I know these guys. I've seen 'em before.” He stuck his hand out and flashed an unmistakably obscene gesture at the car behind them. An instant later he grunted with satisfaction at their response, which was equally obscene. “I was right. Those are Company boys. The driver just flipped me the sign of the eagle.”

“You mean they're CIA?” she asked with sudden relief.

“Don't go celebrating yet. I don't trust them. Neither should you.”

But her panic was already fading. Why should she be afraid of the CIA? Weren't they on the same side? But then why were they following her? She wondered how long she'd been tailed. If it had been since her arrival in London, they might have seen who killed Eve….

She turned to Nick. “What did happen to Eve?” she asked.

“You mean besides murder?”

“You said something about—the way she died. They did more than just kill her, didn't they?”

The look he gave her made Sarah shudder. “Yes,” he said. “They did more than just kill her.”

The stoplight was red. Nick pulled up behind a long
line of cars and let the engine idle. Rain began to fall, big, fat droplets that slid down the windshield. The ubiquitous black umbrellas filled the intersection. Nick sat motionless as he gazed at the street.

“They found her in an alley,” he said at last. “Her hands were tied to an iron fence post. Her mouth was gagged. She must have screamed like hell, but no one heard her. Whoever did the job took his time. An hour, maybe longer. He knew how to use a knife. It was not a…good death.”

His flint eyes turned and locked on hers. She was aware of his closeness, of the warmth and the smell of his wool coat around her shoulders. A woman had been tortured to death. A car was following them. And yet, at this moment, with this man sitting beside her, she felt infinitely safe. She knew Nick O'Hara was hardly a savior. He was just an ordinary man, someone who'd probably spent his life behind a desk. She didn't even know why he was here, but he was, and for that she was grateful.

The car behind them honked its horn. The light had changed to green. Nick turned his attention reluctantly to the traffic.

“Why did they kill her that way?” murmured Sarah. “Why—why torture her?”

“The police say it looked like the work of a maniac. Someone who gets his thrills from causing pain.”

“Or someone out for vengeance,” Sarah added. Eve had been playing a deadly game. Perhaps it had caught up with her. “Magus,” she said, suddenly remembering the name. At Nick's quizzical glance, she explained, “It's a code name. For a man they called the Magician. Eve told me about him.”

“We'll get to all that,” he said, glancing at the mirror again. “The Savoy's right up this block. And we're still being followed.”

* * *

A
N HOUR AND
a half later, they sat in a booth at the back of a Strand café and finished off a breakfast of eggs and bacon and grilled tomatoes. At last Sarah was starting to feel human again. Her stomach was full, and a cup of hot tea warmed her hands. Most important, she was dressed in a skirt and a shetland gray sweater. She realized now what good police strategy it had been to keep her in her nightclothes. She'd felt so naked and helpless, the right frame of mind to be forced into a confession.

And the ordeal still wasn't over; her troubles were really just beginning.

Nick had eaten quickly, all the while watching the door as he listened to Sarah's story. By the time she'd finished talking, the dishes were cleared and they were working on their second pot of tea.

“So Eve agreed with you that Geoffrey's alive?” he asked.

“Yes. The stolen photograph convinced her.”

“Okay,” he said, reviewing what she'd just told him. “So according to Eve, someone's out to kill Geoffrey. Someone who doesn't know his face but does know his new name's Fontaine. Geoffrey discovers he's being followed. He goes to Berlin, calls Eve and tells her to vanish. Then he stages his own death.”

“That doesn't explain why she was tortured.”

“It doesn't explain a lot of things. There are too many holes. Whose body was buried, for one. But at least we've got an explanation for that stolen photograph. If Simon Dance had plastic surgery to change his appearance, then whoever's after him may not recognize his face.”

“And why are we being followed? Do they think I'll lead them to Geoffrey?”

He nodded. “And that brings up the detail that really bothers me: your release. I don't buy that story about the
police not having enough evidence against you. When I talked to Inspector Appleby, he seemed ready to shut you away for life. Then Potter showed up and—poof! Everything's hunky-dory. Just like that, you're out. I think someone put a little pressure on the good inspector. The order must have come from above—way above. Someone wants you free to move around, and he's waiting for your next move.”

Fatigue had drawn new shadows on Nick's face. She wondered how much sleep he'd had. Probably not much, not on a trans-Atlantic flight. She had an impulse to reach out and tenderly stroke his haggard face, to run her fingers across the harsh stubble on his jaw. Instead, hesitantly she reached out and brushed her fingers across his hand. He seemed startled by her touch, by the mingling of their hands on the table.
I've embarrassed him,
she thought as the blood rose to her cheeks.
I've embarrassed us both.
But as she started to pull away, his fingers closed tightly around hers. The warmth of his skin seemed to creep up her arm and invade every part of her body.

“You believe Geoffrey's alive, don't you?” she murmured.

He nodded. “I think he's alive.”

She stared down at their hands woven together on the table. “I never believed he was dead,” she whispered.

“Now that you've heard the facts, how do you feel about him?”

“I don't know. I don't know anymore….” With sudden intensity, she looked at Nick. “All this time I trusted him. I
believed
in him. Oh, you probably think I was naive, don't you? Maybe I was. But we all have dreams, Nick. Dreams we want to come true. And when you're like me, thirty-two and lonely and not very pretty, when a man says he loves you, you want so much to believe him.”

“You're wrong, Sarah,” he said gently. “You're very pretty.”

She knew he was only being kind. She looked down at the table and wondered what he really thought of her. That only a plain woman could be so gullible? She pulled her hand away and reached for the teacup. Of course she knew what he was thinking—that Geoffrey had picked his target well; that Sarah, foolish woman, had fallen hard and fast. She saw it just as clearly. As clearly as if she were holding up a mirror and could coldly, critically, see herself as a man might see her: not beautiful, but shy and awkward. Not the kind of woman to attract a man like Geoffrey.

“It was a marriage of lies,” she said. “Strange, how I feel as though I dreamed the whole thing. As though I was never married at all…”

He nodded. “I've felt that way myself, sometimes.”

“You were married, then?”

“Not long. Three years. I've been divorced for four.”

“I'm sorry.”

His eyes focused on hers. “You really mean that, don't you?”

She nodded. Up till this moment, she hadn't seen the sadness in his eyes. She recognized it now, the same pain she was feeling. His marriage had failed; Sarah's had never existed. They both had their wounds.

But hers wouldn't heal. Not until her questions were answered. Not until she knew why Geoffrey had called her.

“Whatever your feelings about Geoffrey,” said Nick, “you know, don't you, that it's a big risk, staying here in London. If someone's after him, you're the one they'll watch. Obviously you've been followed, at least since yesterday. You've already led them to Eve.”

She looked up sharply. “Eve?”

“I'm afraid so. Eve was a professional. An ex-Mossad
agent, on the run for years. She knew how to drop out of sight, and she did it well. But curiosity—maybe jealousy— made her careless. Against her better judgment, she agreed to meet you. It's no coincidence that the night you two met was the same night she was killed.”

“Then I caused her death?” Sarah asked in what was barely a whisper.

“Yes, in a way. They must have tailed you to the Lamb and Rose. Right to Eve.”

“Oh, God!” She shook her head miserably. “I almost hated her, Nick. When I thought about her and Geoffrey, I couldn't help it. But to be responsible for her death… I didn't want that!”

“She was the professional, Sarah, not you. You can't blame yourself.”

She began to tremble and pulled her sweater tight. “Vengeance,” she said softly, remembering the way Eve had died. “That's why they killed her.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“What else could it be?”

“Consider all the possible motives for torture. Granted, vengeance is one. People like to get even. But let's suppose there were more practical reasons….”

She suddenly understood his point. “You mean interrogation? They thought Eve knew something?”

“Maybe they saw through Geoffrey's faked death. Maybe they think he's still alive, too. So they put the knife to Eve, hoping for information. The question is, did she give them any?”

Sarah thought of Eve, remembering the green eyes, windows to a tough soul that did what was necessary to survive. Eve would have killed without a second thought. The business she was in required that ruthlessness. Tough as she was, though, Eve had also been in love. Last night in
the Lamb and Rose, Sarah had sensed, even through her heartache, that Eve loved Geoffrey just as deeply, perhaps even more deeply, than Sarah ever had. Eve must have known where to find him. But whatever the torture, she would have held fast. She never would have betrayed Geoffrey. She had died with her secret.

Would Sarah have been as brave? She thought of the knife, of the pain that a blade could inflict on naked flesh, and she shuddered. There was no way to judge one's own courage, she thought. Courage surfaced only when it was needed, when one was forced to meet one's darkest terrors.

Sarah hoped hers would never be tested.

“I
WANT ANSWERS
, Dan. Starting with who ordered Sarah Fontaine's release and why.”

Dan Lieberman, chief of consular affairs, regarded Nick with the passive face of a career man long attached to the State Department. Years of giving nothing away but a smile had left their mark; since the day they had met four years ago, Nick had not seen a single strong emotion emerge on Lieberman's face. The foreign service had turned the man into one hell of a poker player.

Yet Nick's instincts told him that somewhere beneath that polite facade was a voice of integrity trying to scream through the politics. Unlike Nick, Lieberman had learned to live with his demons. At least he still had a job and an enviable post here in London. He hadn't held on to it by rocking the boat. No, he'd kept his opinions to himself, had stayed out of trouble, and he'd survived.

But a little trouble was just what Nick was bringing him today.

“What's going on with her case?” asked Nick. “It seems to me it's being handled in a damned peculiar way.”

“There have been irregularities,” admitted Lieberman.

“Yeah. Starting with that son of a bitch Potter showing up at the police station.”

At this remark Lieberman did crack a faint grin. “I'd forgotten you and Roy Potter knew each other so well. What was it between you guys again?”

“Sokolov. Don't tell me you've forgotten that, too.”

“Oh, yeah. The Sokolov case. I remember now. You and Potter had it out in the stairwell. I hear your vocabulary would've made a sailor blush.” He shook his head. “Bad move, Nick. Generated a very nasty personnel memo.”