Forever (57 page)

The next day, Stephanie witnessed the
silent, almost mysterious ease with which the de Veigas travelled,
and she had the impression of a great unseen piece of machinery at
work.

Returning to her suite after breakfast, she
found her luggage already magically packed. Throughout her life,
arranging for airline tickets and reservations, and packing her own
luggage - in fact, the very act of seeing to these mundane details
and minutiae - had always been an essential ritual; had, above all,
been a comforting transition between leaving one place for
another.

But now, with everything taken care of by
unseen minions, she felt strangely detached and disconcerted. It
was almost as if a comforting slice of routine, control, had been
taken away from her, and she had the unsettling notion that this
was a time point - that from here on in she was in uncharted
territory, and no longer had a hand in her own destiny . . .

Stephanie felt even less in control when,
half an hour later, Colonel Valerio came to collect her
passport.

'I always get Immigration and Customs out of
the way long before we board the jet,' he explained. 'That way, we
can take off as soon as we board.'

Stephanie was reluctant to hand over her
passport because it represented her last link with freedom, but she
had no choice but to comply.

Pocketing it, Colonel Valerio said, 'Thank
you, ma'am. Flight time is at fifteen hundred hours sharp.'

Stephanie stared at him. She couldn't
believe he'd actually said that: Fifteen hundred hours sharp.

'Ah!' she said, couching her sarcasm under
layers of innocence. 'You must mean three o'clock!'

His stony mask reflected no emotion - only
twin fish-eye miniatures of herself in his mirrored shades.

'That's right, ma'am,' he said. And spinning
on his heel, he did a neat about-face and marched off.

'March two, three, four!' Stephanie
murmured, sketching a mock salute behind his receding back. What
was he? Some kind of machine?

She went up on deck. The
Chrysalis
was anchored a mile offshore. The sky was cloudless and the sun
dazzled and the Maritime Alps were a purple haze. Gulls fluttered
like confetti in the air.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly ten
o'clock.

She tightened her lips thoughtfully. Between
now and takeoff, she had five hours, and she would have to call
Uncle Sammy in New York. She hadn't talked to him for nearly a
week, and knowing him, he would be agonising over her, thinking the
worst. She had to let him know she was fine - and flying off to
Brazil.

But she couldn't telephone him from aboard
the yacht; she wouldn't put it past Colonel Valerio to have bugged
all the telephones. Nor would it be wise for her to go ashore
expressly to use a public phone; that would arouse suspicions, for
sure. So. She would have to think up something . . .

Some excuse . . .

And then one was dropped right in her
lap.

'There you are!' she heard Eduardo call.

Turning in the direction of his voice,
Stephanie faced into the sun and raised one hand to shield her
eyes. Eduardo was coming towards her, dressed in a white silk
Versace shirt with the top three buttons undone and knife-creased
white duck trousers and a brown belt from Hermes and with a gold
letter H for a buckle. On his feet were Roman legion-style sandals
with a lot of brass hardware and thick brown leather straps that
wound around the ankles. He had a canvas bag the colour of oatmeal
slung casually over his shoulder, and was all smiles.

'I looked everywhere for you!' he exclaimed
as he kissed her noisily on the lips.

Stephanie kissed him back and smiled. 'You
did?' she said, sounding pleased.

'Of course I did.' He slung the bag off his
shoulder and held it up. 'Why would I have raided the changing
rooms by the pool? Do you think matching turquoise bikinis will
do?'

'Why?' she asked. 'Are we going
swimming?'

'Among other things,' he said, nuzzling her
nose with his.

'Oh? Things such as what?'

'Well, we are very close to Cannes,' he
said, pushing his body against hers, and their lips met again and
all conversation ceased.

After a moment, he pulled away. 'Of course,
if you prefer to stay aboard -'

And Stephanie quickly said, 'No, no, no!'
and hooked her arm through his and added: 'I'd love to see Cannes!
Really I would!'

'Good! I will show you around, and we can
lunch at a good restaurant.'

'Well?' she grinned. 'What are we waiting
for? Let's go!'

And so they went ashore.

Eduardo had the launch drop them at Le
Suquet, the lovely old fishing port with its small picturesque
streets and bustling market. They had coffee at a quayside caf6 and
then walked along the Croisette, Cannes's glamorous beachfront with
its fine tan beaches and majestic palm trees and white spun-sugar
hotels - among them the world-famous Martinez-Concorde, the
Majestic, and the Carlton.

As always, Stephanie found Eduardo to be the
perfect guide. He seemed to know everything, and made an effort to
point out all the sights. He took her to the rue Mace and the rue
des Serbes, where they browsed around the antique shops, and then
on to Alaska on the rue des Etats-Unis, where they bought the most
delicious ice cream she had ever tasted - pistachio, peanut, and
marron glace. Licking their cones, they walked to La Californie,
the hill at the other end of town, where kings, emirs, and
billionaire businessmen owned secluded neo-Gothic castles. And,
because no visit to Cannes is complete without it, they went to the
Carlton pier, where they paid 100 francs each for a mattress and
sun umbrella, and, donning the turquoise swimsuits, splashed in the
sea and played beachball with two delightful Australian
children.

After an hour at the beach, they changed
back into their street clothes and went to La Palme d'Or, the
restaurant in the Hotel Martinez-Concorde. The dining room was Art
Deco and the walls were lined with old movie stills. Eduardo
ordered for them both. They had succulent baby lamb chops and
sweet, thyme-flavoured onion tarts and raspberries fresh from the
Col de Bleine. It was one of the most delicious meals Stephanie had
ever eaten. Even so, she was practically oblivious to the food: her
attention was consumed by Eduardo, and bread and water would have
tasted superb.

I wonder, she dared think. What would a
lifetime with him be like?

Two o'clock rolled around and the maitre d'
with the moustache and bald pate approached the table. 'Monsieur,'
he murmured, 'your car has arrived.'

'Thank you,' Eduardo said, discreetly
transferring a concealed hundred-dollar bill from his palm into the
man's hand. 'Please tell my driver to wait.'

The maitre d' gave a low bow. 'With
pleasure, monsieur: he said and skimmed across the dining room,
seemingly on a cushion of air. Eduardo smiled across the table at
Stephanie. She knew what that little smile meant.

Almost time to fly into the great
unknown.

Returning his smile, she pushed back her
chair. 'Could you excuse me for a minute, Eduardo?' she said. 'I've
got to use the powder room. I'll be right back.'

Picking up her purse, she rose to her feet.
Eduardo rose also, and didn't sit back down until she'd left the
table. Knowing he was watching, she walked through the dining room
with graceful slow steps, but when she left the restaurant and was
out in the hotel lobby, where he could no longer see her, her gait
quickened purposefully. She made a beeline for the nearest
telephone booth.

She clutched the receiver with both hands
and tapped her foot impatiently. Then, realising she was hunched
suspiciously over the phone, she forced herself to straighten her
posture and raised her head. Turning half around, she glanced out
at the vast lobby as she waited for the operator to connect
her.

There was the usual hotel activity.
Arrivals. Departures. Porters struggling with luggage. A young
bellboy walking around, holding up a sign that read: M. Fayad. A
manager soothing the ruffled feathers of an outraged guest. A group
of identically dressed Japanese businessmen surging out of an
elevator. The requisite ill-behaved child. And a man seated in a
chair, legs crossed, newspaper on his lap, staring directly over .
. .
at her!

Stephanie jerked and nearly dropped the
receiver. Caught it with fumbling hands. She knew him! Christ, yes,
she did! From Marbella! The ageing gigolo who'd tried to warn her
off approaching the
Chrysalis
. . . the one who'd warned her
that the de Veigas were a law unto themselves!

But what was he doing here?

Following her? Spying on her? But for whom?
And why?

Suddenly she was aware of a voice squawking
something in her ear. Stephanie turned back around, holding the
receiver close to her ear, struggling to listen even while she
looked back over at -- an empty chair. Folded newspaper on the
seat. Impossible!

She blinked her eyes, stared.

Where did he go? She could have sworn . . .
was still willing to swear . . .

Her eyes darted around . . .

Where? He couldn't have disappeared into
thin air!

The operator cut in. it's ringing.'

'Thank you.' Stephanie made one last
eye-sweep of the lobby. But he wasn't there.

Yet she knew she hadn't imagined him! She
had seen him. She knew she had!

Her telephone hand was shaking. Gone! He was
gone, dammit! Gone without so much as a puff of smoke, and she
unable to leave the phone -

- and the distant rings were interrupted by
a click and then Sammy's familiar voice said, '
Hel
-lo,' in
that curt way he had of answering the phone, and she felt the most
immeasurably sweet, exquisite relief flooding through her.

'Uncle Sammy?' she breathed. 'Oh, Uncle
Sammy, thank God you're there!'

'Girlie? My God! I've been racking my brains
trying to come up with a way to contact you. Where are you?'
'Cannes. You know -'

But he cut her off. 'Girlie, we have to
talk! Something's come up! I told you about Aaron Kleinfelder? The
man in the coma?'

'Uncle Sammy/' She shut her eyes momentarily
in frustration. 'I've only got a minute! I called so -'

'Girlie - listen to me!' It was the sharpest
tone he had ever used with her. Any other time, it would have made
her listen; right now, every second was precious. She had to get
back to Eduardo before he came looking for her.

'Uncle Sammy! I don't have time to talkl I
just wanted to tell you we're getting ready to fly to Brazil -'

'Girlie? Girlie - will you listen to me?'
Sammy's voice took on an even harsher tone. 'Aaron Kleinfelder is
-'

'- for God's sake, not now! Her voice was a
mixture of childish pleading and adult exasperation, and she kept
glancing in the direction of the restaurant, half expecting to see
Eduardo there, scanning the lobby for her.

'Girlie, do you have any idea what you're
mixed up in? No? Well, get ready. Aaron Kleinfelder died because he
discovered this secret pro -'

Stephanie blinked. 'He's . . . dead?' she
murmured. 'But I thought you just got through saying he was in a co
-'

'He was,' Sammy said, and quickly filled her
in on how Aaron Kleinfelder had awakened from the coma, but had
died soon after being transferred from ICU.

'The poor man!' Stephanie exclaimed. 'How
horrible, coming out of the coma only to have to die!'

Sammy's voice was hushed. 'He didn't have to
die. Girlie.' 'Uncle Sammy, we all have to die sooner or later.'
'What I mean to say, Girlie, is ... he didn't die of natural
causes.'

Stephanie drew in a sharp breath. 'You can't
mean -' 'I'm afraid so, Girlie. Someone suffocated him. He was
murdered.'

'Murdered!' Her hands tightened around the
receiver. 'Uncle Sammy, are you sure?'

'Yes,' he said wearily, 'murdered. And the
killer even left a calling card on his pillow. A nice fresh red
rose. Can you believe it?' He gave a long-distance sigh.

'You're positive it was murder?'

'They did an autopsy, Girlie. There's
absolutely no doubt but that it was foul play.'

'Oh, God!' She took a deep breath, put a
hand on the wall of the phone booth, and rested her forehead
against it. How she wished she had the luxury of time; how she
wanted to discuss this in detail and get all of Uncle Sammy's
input. But alas, time would not permit. She raised her head
wearily. 'Uncle Sammy,' she sighed, 'I really do have to run. I'll
try to call again as soon as I get to Brazil -'

'For crying out loud, Girlie! Will you
listen to me? And for heaven's sake: whatever you do, don't. . .
hang... up ...! You must not - I repeat,
not!
- go anywhere
with the de Veigas, especially not to Brazil. I know it sounds
melodramatic, but Aaron Kleinfelder, Vinette Jones, and your
grandfather were killed because of what they'd found out. So
please, Girlie,
please!
Don't fool yourself into thinking
you're not as expendable as they were - because you are! The people
we're dealing with won't hesitate to . . . are you listening to
me?'

'Uncle Sammy, I -'

'Will you hear me out? For God's sake,
Girlie, what does it take to make you wake up? Do you think they
won't hesitate to kill you, too?'

Kill. . .?

Inwardly Stephanie quailed against the ugly
word; she pressed a thumb and forefinger against her suddenly
throbbing skull.

Kill. . .

She sighed and shuddered. Kill. Oh, Jesus .
. .

Sammy was saying, 'Girlie, I want you to
come back here - to New York. Right away. Take the next flight out
of there. Then, once you're here, we can sit down and put our heads
together. Surely between us we can think up a safer and saner way
to approach this thing?' He paused a moment in order to gauge her
reaction, and when none was forthcoming, he asked, 'Girlie - did
you hear me?'