Call After Midnight (16 page)

“Doesn't know any foreign languages, to my knowledge. Totally inexperienced. She'd be helpless on her own.”

Tarasoff entered the office. “Got the address. It's a pay
phone, center of town. No chance of tracking him down now.”

“Who does O'Hara know in Belgium?” asked Van Dam. “Any friends he'd trust?”

Potter frowned. “I'd have to check his file….”

“What about Mr. Lieberman in the consular division?” suggested Tarasoff. “He'd know about O'Hara's friends.”

Van Dam gave Tarasoff a look of appraisal. “Good start. I'm glad someone's thinking. What else?”

“Well, sir, I wonder if we should look at other angles, other themes running this man's life….” Tarasoff suddenly noticed the dark look Potter was flashing at him. He added quickly, “But of course, Mr. Potter knows O'Hara inside and out.”

“What themes are you referring to, Mr. Tarasoff?” prodded Van Dam.

“I keep wondering if he's—well, working for someone.”

“No way,” said Potter. “O'Hara's an independent.”

“But your man makes a good point,” said Van Dam. “Did we miss something when we vetted O'Hara?”

“He spent four years in London,” said Tarasoff. “He could have made numerous contacts.”

“Look, I know the guy,” insisted Potter. “He's his own man.” Van Dam didn't seem to hear him. Potter felt as if he was shouting from the wrong side of a soundproof window. Why did he always feel like the outsider, the slob with mustard on his ten-year-old suit? He'd worked like hell to be a good agent, but it wasn't enough, not in the eyes of men like Van Dam. What Potter lacked was
style
.

Tarasoff had it. And Van Dam—why, his suit was definitely Savile Row, his watch a Rolex. He'd been smart to marry money. That, of course, was what Potter should have done. He should have married rich women. Then they'd be paying
him
alimony.

“I'll expect results soon, Mr. Potter,” Van Dam said as he pulled on his overcoat. “Let me know the minute something turns up. How you handle O'Hara after that point is your affair.”

Potter frowned. “Uh—what does that mean?”

“I'll leave it up to you. Just make it discreet.” Van Dam left the room.

Potter stared in puzzlement at the closed door. What exactly had he meant by “I'll leave it up to you?” Oh, he knew what he'd
like
to do to Nick O'Hara. O'Hara was just another high-minded career diplomat. Potter knew the breed all too well. They looked down their noses at spooks. None of them appreciated the dirty work Potter had to do. Hell,
someone
had to do it! When things went well, he got no credit. But when things went wrong, guess who got the blame?

Those invectives he and O'Hara had hurled at each other a year ago still rankled. Mainly because he knew, deep down, that O'Hara had been right. Sokolov's death had been his fault.

This time he couldn't afford any mistakes. He'd already lost two agents. Even worse, he'd lost track of the Fontaine woman. By God, there'd be no more screwups. Even if he had to search every hotel in Brussels, he'd find them.

* * *

F
OR REASONS OF
his own, Jonathan Van Dam was just as determined to find them. Somehow O'Hara had managed to foul up what should have been a simple operation. He was the unexpected factor, the one little detail that no one had predicted, just the sort of thing that gives an operative nightmares. What really troubled Van Dam was something Tarasoff had suggested, that O'Hara could be more than just a man in love. Was he working for someone else?

Van Dam stared down at his plate of mixed grill and
considered this last disturbing possibility. He was sitting alone in his favorite London restaurant. The food wasn't bad here. The lamb chops were tender and pink, the sausages homemade. The chips were dry, true, but he never ate them anyway. He liked the candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. He liked seeing other people around him, if only anonymously. It helped him focus on the problem at hand.

He finished his chop and, sitting back, slowly sipped a glass of fine port. Yes, that young Tarasoff had brought up a good point. It was dangerous to assume anything was as it seemed. Van Dam, better than most people, knew that. For two years he'd endured what outsiders had called a happy marriage. For two years he'd shared a bed with a woman he could barely stand to touch. He had dutifully nursed her out of her gin binges, put up with her rages and, afterward, her remorse. Through it all he'd laughed in silence at the inane comments her friends had made. “You know, Jonathan, you've made Claudia so happy!” or “You're so good for her!” or “You're both so lucky!” Claudia's death had stunned everyone—most of all, perhaps, Claudia herself. The bitch had thought she'd live forever.

Yes, the port
was
excellent. He ordered another. A woman two tables away was staring at him but he ignored her, knowing, by some strange and certain instinct, that she had a fondness for spirits. Like Claudia.

The matter of Sarah Fontaine and Nick O'Hara returned to mind. He knew that finding a man like O'Hara, a man who spoke fluent French, would be impossible in a city as big as Brussels. Sarah Fontaine was a different matter. All she had to do was open her mouth at the wrong time, and the game would be up. Yes, better to concentrate on finding her, not O'Hara. She was the easier quarry. And after all, she was the one they really wanted.

* * *

H
UGGING HER LEGS
to her chest, Sarah sat on the hard mattress and checked her watch again. Nick had been gone two hours, and all that time she'd been sitting like a zombie, listening for his footsteps. And thinking. Thinking about fear, wondering if she'd ever feel safe again.

On the train from Calais, she had struggled against panic, against the premonition that something terrible was about to happen. All of her senses had become acutely raw. She'd registered every sound, every sight, right down to the loose threads on the ticket taker's jacket. Details took on new importance. Their lives might hang on something as trivial as the look in a stranger's eye.

The trip had gone smoothly—they'd made it to Brussels without a hitch. Hours had passed, dulling the sharp edges of fear until terror gave way to mere gnawing anxiety. For the moment she was safe.

But where was Nick? Surely he would come back for her? She didn't want to think of the other possibilities. That he'd been caught. Or that he'd come to his senses and bailed out of a hopeless situation. She wouldn't blame him if he had bailed out. What man in his right mind would stick around waiting for death?

She rose and went to the window. Dusk was blotting out the city. Through a gray drizzle, the rooftops of Brussels hovered unanchored, like ghosts.

She flicked on the one bare lightbulb. The room was small and shabby, a mere box on the second floor of a rundown hotel. Everything smelled of dust and mildew. The double mattress was lumpy. The wood floor was covered only by a single small throw rug, which was worn and stained. A few hours ago, she hadn't cared what the room looked like. Now the four walls were driving her mad. She felt trapped. She craved fresh air, and even more than that,
food. Their last meal had been breakfast, and her body was screaming to eat. But she had to wait until Nick returned.

If he returned.

Downstairs a door slammed. She spun around and listened as footsteps thumped up the stairs, then creaked heavily along the hall. A key jiggled in the lock. The knob turned. Slowly the door squealed open. She froze. A stranger loomed on the threshold.

Nothing about him seemed familiar. He wore a black fisherman's cap, pulled low over his eyes. A cigarette butt, trailing smoke, dangled carelessly from his mouth. He brought with him the reek of fish and wine, a smell he wore as distinctly as the tattered jacket on his shoulders. But when he looked up, Sarah suddenly found herself laughing with relief. “Nick! It's you!”

He frowned. “Who else would it be?”

“It's your clothes—”

He regarded his jacket with distaste. “Isn't this gross? Smells like the original owner died in it.” He stubbed out the cigarette and tossed her a brown-paper package.

“Your new identity, madame. I guarantee no one'll recognize you.”

“Oh, brother. I'm afraid to look.” She opened the package and removed a short black wig, a packet of hairpins and a singularly hideous wool dress. “I think it looked better on the sheep,” she sighed.

“Look, no fair grousing about the dress. Just be glad I didn't put you in a miniskirt with fishnet stockings. Believe me, I thought about it.”

She looked dubiously at the wig. “Black?”

“It was on sale.”

“I've never worn one of these before. Which way does it go? Like this?”

His hoot of laughter made her flush. “No, you've got it backward. Here, let me do it.”

She wrenched it off her head. “This isn't going to work.”

“Sure it'll work. Hey, I'm sorry I laughed. You just have to get the thing on right.” He grabbed the pins from the bed. “Come on, turn around. Let's get your hair out of the way first.”

Obediently she turned and let him pin up her hair. He was terribly awkward; she could have done the task more efficiently by herself. But at the first touch of his hands, a warmth, a contentment, seemed to melt through her body; she never wanted the feeling to end. It was so soothing, so incredibly sensuous, having a man stroke her hair, especially a man with hands as warm and gentle as Nick's.

As the tension eased from Sarah's shoulders, Nick felt the tension in his own body mounting to unbearable heights. Even while he struggled with the hairpins, he found himself staring at the smooth skin on the back of her neck. His gaze slipped down, tracing the delicate bones of her spine to the collar of her blouse. The strand of hair felt like liquid fire in his hand. The heat surged like a current up his fingers, straight to his gut. The old fantasy rose to mind: Sarah standing before him in his bedroom, her breasts bared, her hair loose about her shoulders.

He forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. What
was
he doing? Oh yes. The wig. With clumsy fingers he began slipping in hairpins.

“I never knew you smoked,” she murmured drowsily.

“I don't anymore. Gave it up years ago. Tonight's just for show.”

“Geoffrey used to smoke. I couldn't get him to quit. That's the only thing we ever fought about.”

He swallowed thickly as a strand tumbled loose and fell softly on his arm.

“Ouch. That pin hurts, Nick.”

“Sorry.” He placed the wig on her head and turned her toward him. The expression on her face—a mingling of doubt and resignation—made him smile.

“I look stupid, don't I?” she sighed.

“No. You look different, which was the whole idea.”

She nodded. “I look stupid.”

“Come on, try the dress.”

“What is this?” she asked, holding up the garment. “One size fits all?”

“I know it's big, but I couldn't pass it up. It was—”

“Don't tell me. On sale, right?” She laughed. “Well, if we're a pair, we ought to fit together.” She glanced at his tattered clothes. “What are you supposed to be, anyway? A bum?”

“From the odor of this jacket, I'd say I'm a drunk fisherman. Let's call you my wife. Only a wife would put up with a slob like me.”

“All right, I'm your wife. Your very hungry wife. Can we eat now?”

He went to the window and looked down at the street. “I think it's dark enough. Why don't you change?”

She began to undress. Nick gazed steadily out at the night and struggled feverishly to ignore the tempting sounds behind him: the rustle of the blouse as it slid from her shoulders, the whisper of the skirt as it fell past her hips.

And it suddenly occurred to him what a ridiculous situation he was in.

For four years Nick O'Hara had managed to stay sanely independent. For those same four years, he'd kept his emotional doors tightly closed against women. And then, quite unexpectedly, Sarah Fontaine, of all people, had slipped in a back entrance. Sarah, who was obviously still in love
with Geoffrey. Sarah, who in the course of two and a half weeks had managed to get him fired from his job, shot at and nearly run off the road. It was a spectacular beginning.

He couldn't wait to see what came next.

I
N A TAVERN
thick with laughter and smoke, they sat at a wobbly table and split a bottle of burgundy. The wine was rough and undisciplined; farmer's wine, thought Sarah, as she downed her third glass. The room had grown too warm and too bright. At the next table, old men swapped tales over bread and ale and their laughter rang in her ears. A cat strolled through the chairs and quietly lapped at a saucer of milk by the bar. Hungrily Sarah took in every sight, every sound. It was so good to be out of hiding. So good to be out in the world again, if only for a night! Even the flecks of red wax on the tablecloth struck her as strangely beautiful.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke, she saw Nick smiling at her. His shoulders drooped in the tired slouch of a man who has labored long and hard all his life. Day-old stubble darkened his jaw. She could hardly believe he was the same man she'd met in a sleek government office only two weeks ago. But then, she was not the same woman. Fear and circumstances had changed them both.

“You did justice to your meal,” he said, nodding at the empty plate. “Feeling better?”

“Much better. I was starved.”

“Coffee?”

“In a bit. Let me finish my wine.”

Shaking his head, he reached across the table and
pushed her glass aside. “Maybe you'd better stop. We can't afford to get careless.”

She regarded the displaced wineglass with irritation. As usual, Nick O'Hara was trying to run her life. It was time to fight back. Deliberately she slid the glass in front of her. “I've never been drunk in my life,” she said.