The Property of a Lady (25 page)

“Damn,” she said, turning away despondently, “the one night I come to see him, he’s not here.” It meant that instead of catching the 9
P.M
. flight to Paris to meet Valentin, she would have to spend another night in Düsseldorf and try again tomorrow. She wondered if maybe Markheim was on the phone and just couldn’t answer the door right now….

After retracing her steps, she rang the bell again and, when she got no response, tried the handle. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. She stepped quickly inside, closing the door behind her.

“Mr. Markheim?” she called, glancing around curiously. The small outer office was furnished tastefully with some excellent antique pieces and fine paintings, but then of course it would be. After all, that was Markheim’s business. The lamps were lighted and there were two full cups of coffee on a small table in front of the pale brocade sofa. Genie inspected them: They were still warm so obviously Markheim must still be there. Perhaps he had just popped down the hall for a minute.

The door to the inner office stood open a crack and she called his name again, pushing it open. The lights were all on and Markheim was sitting behind the desk, half swiveled away from her. She caught her breath guiltily, feeling like a trespasser caught in the act.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said, blushing, “I didn’t realize …” Markheim did not move and she peered nervously at him. “Mr. Markheim?” Her voice faltered as she edged around the desk and looked at him. Markheim’s glazed stare met hers, only Markheim couldn’t see because
he had a small round hole in the middle of his forehead and he was very dead.

Waves of panic hit her. She was going to scream, she was going to faint, she was going to throw up, she was in a room with a dead body. A
murdered body
.

With a strangled scream, she spun around, afraid she would come face-to-face with the assassin, but the room was empty. She looked back at Markheim. There was no mess, and the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth had already congealed. A second wave of panic sent her flying from the room, through the outer office and out the door. Breathing hard, she stared down the silent, empty corridor. It had lost its former innocence and suddenly looked as dangerous as a minefield. What if the murderer had seen her go in? What if he was waiting behind one of those silent doors? To grab her,
to murder her as he had Markheim
. Genie tried desperately to remember what she had learned at all those self-defense classes she had taken before panic propelled her down the corridor to the elevator. She slammed her fist on the button, dancing up and down with fear until at last it arrived.

The two women inside glanced at her curiously as she jumped in, holding her finger on the down button until the doors closed and they began to descend. As soon as the doors opened she fled across the marble foyer and out into the crowded street, gasping in the freezing night air, waiting for her knees to stop shaking. Then she walked two blocks, trying to get a grip on herself before hailing a passing taxi.

Back at the hotel, she threw her things into her suitcase, called for a porter, went back down to the lobby, and checked out. Within half an hour she was on her way to the airport, where she went straight to the bar and had a large brandy, watching the minutes tick by until she could board her flight at eight-thirty. But it wasn’t until it took off that she felt safe again. She was on her way to Paris and to Valentin.

Paris

As usual, Geneva airport had been crowded with groups of young skiers and harried businessmen. Valentin was late. He checked in at the first-class desk for the British Airways London flight. Carrying only his briefcase, he strode quickly to the gate. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the two men following fifty yards behind. They wore black overcoats and carried briefcases, but to him they stood out from the crowd as if they wore red KGB badges on their fur caps.

He settled into the seat reserved for him and a steward offered to take his coat, but Valentin shook his head. He accepted a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
, glancing behind him as the curtain dividing the cabins was suddenly pulled back and the KGB agent in the fur hat quickly scanned the seats. His eyes were expressionless as they met Valentin’s, then he retreated obediently into the economy section as a stewardess shook her head reprovingly at him.

Valentin watched carefully as the last of the passengers boarded. When he heard the captain’s voice over the intercom saying “Doors to manual, please, cabin crew,” he stood up, grabbed his bag, and walked to the front of the plane. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically to the steward, “but I have decided not to take this flight. Urgent business….”

Within seconds he was striding back down the tunnel
from the BA London flight toward the Air France desk. The flight to Paris was just boarding. He glanced back at the gate; the crowd had gone and there was no sign of the two KGB men. Valentin grinned as he thought of their faces as they waited for him later at Heathrow.

The hotel in the St. Germain quarter of Paris was small with a kind of faded charm. The
toile de jouy
wallpaper had bleached over the years to a pink blur and the bed was the old-fashioned French double that Americans always found too small. But the linen was immaculate, there was a bunch of flowers on the dresser, and the window faced onto a charming inner courtyard.

Valentin emerged from the shower, toweling his hair dry. After picking up his watch, he checked the time. Eight
P.M
. There had been no message from Genie so she should be on the nine o’clock flight. Unless she had changed her mind, of course. He doubted it. Genie Reese knew what she wanted and she was determined to get it, even if it took a little extracurricular activity. And anyway he had the feeling she wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see her. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was crazy, but there it was—he couldn’t wait to see her again.

He dressed quickly in jeans and a beige crew-neck cashmere sweater and lay on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking. Before he had left Moscow, he had done his research carefully, intent on knowing every detail of the Ivanoff story and the mines. When Genie had told him about Markheim and the Düsseldorf connection he had put a fast two and two together: The Arnhaldts had been leasing those mines from Russia for years. So now he knew there was a third player in the game. Ferdie Arnhaldt.

He told himself that Genie had been a willing victim in his scheme. She wanted her scoop and he wanted the information. It was fair trade. Of course she had asked why
the Russians wanted to find the “Lady,” and that’s why he had told her about the money.

“You have to understand,” he had said firmly, “that after the revolution, Russia confiscated all monies and property. There was no more individual wealth: Everything belonged to the people. We believe it is
Russian
money sitting in the banks, not Ivanoff money. Unfortunately the banks refuse to recognize our claim. They will release the money only with the notarized signature of the Ivanoff heir, if one still remains. Naturally we are eager to find the ‘Lady,’ and we hope to persuade her that it is her duty as a Russian to help her own people by releasing the money to the Soviet Union.” He shrugged. “After all, it is exactly what her ancestor the prince did in his small way.”

“And if she refuses?” Genie had asked.

“Then we shall pursue our claim in the international courts.”

“You won’t … I mean, the ‘Lady’ is not in any danger?”

He had laughed. “The revolution was a long time ago. We are not savages. We are civilized men and women, just like you. We do not even want the money from the sale of the jewels. All we want is for her to return to Russia what is rightfully hers.”

Genie had breathed a sigh of relief as he had gone on to tell her what he wanted her to do. Then she had sat back on the soft striped sofa in the Hotel Beau Rivage, thinking.

Valentin had watched her silently, taking in her smooth oval face, the broad brow, her troubled blue eyes, and the soft mouth whose sweetness belied the professional hardness she assumed, like a cloak, to disguise her vulnerability. She was wearing a simple black dress and her blond hair shone under the lamplight, and he thought she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen.

She had caught the message in his eyes and known
what it meant. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll do it, Valentin.” And then it was back to business again as they had made arrangements to meet in Paris tonight.

He switched back the curtains and stared into the courtyard, automatically checking the windows opposite. All the shades were closed and a thin layer of snow covered the small, leafless trees. He was pretty sure he had lost the KGB men, but they were smart and you never knew. He thought of his father in Moscow. A worried man.

He had gone over his father’s story a thousand times in his mind, and of course there was no doubt it was true. But try as he might, he could not think of himself as Prince Misha Ivanoff’s grandson. His grandfather was the peasant, Grigori Solovsky, a man who had loved him and whom he had loved as only true flesh and blood can. It seemed unfair that the past should return to haunt his father. After all, he was just a helpless little boy when it happened. His only crime was to be the son of a rich, aristocratic man.

“I cannot let my father suffer for this,” Valentin told himself again. “I cannot let him be exposed. Not because of myself, but for Grigori’s sake too. Our whole family would be discredited. Why doesn’t Boris see that?” The trouble was, he didn’t know Boris’s true game. Did he really mean to go through with his scheme against his father? Or was he simply intent on covering himself in glory by recovering the Ivanoff treasure for Russia and ensuring his place in the Wall of Honor in Red Square? But he knew Boris was an unpredictable man and a cruel one, and his father had said he would stop at nothing.

“Nor,” Valentin vowed grimly to himself, “will I.”

It was eleven o’clock when his phone finally rang. Genie’s voice sounded shaky. She was downstairs in the lobby, and he told her quickly to come up.

He knew at once something was wrong. Her face was
drained of color; her pupils were dilated, making her eyes dark. He put his arms protectively around her.

“What is it,
malenkaya?”
he asked.

She was shaking so much at first she couldn’t speak; then all the pent-up fear and emotion she had kept under control on the journey suddenly cracked and she began to cry.

Valentin took off her coat and sat her down on the bed. He pulled off her smart brown cowboy boots and rubbed her frozen feet briskly. Then he went to the minibar and poured her a shot of brandy, standing over her while she sipped it.

She looked up at him, her eyes still brimming with tears. “It’s Markheim,” she whispered, “he … he’s dead. Shot … murdered….”

He sat on the bed next to her. “Where? Where did you find him, Genie?”

“In his office. I went there—after Arnhaldt—I was going to offer him the bribe like you said. Only … only … Oh, Valentin”—she dissolved tearfully into his arms—“somebody killed him just before I got there. It can only have been minutes! There was coffee, still warm….”

He said urgently, “Did anyone see you go into his office? Or leaving?”

“Two women in the elevator going down. I don’t think they noticed anything. Just that I was in a hurry.”

She buried her face in his chest, crying quietly, and Valentin sighed as he put his arms around her. He wondered who had gotten to Markheim. And why? Either Markheim had accepted a bribe, told who the buyer was, and then been eliminated so he could not tell anyone else, or else the buyer himself had seen Markheim as a weak link and killed him.

“Genie,” he said calmly, “what about Ferdie Arnhaldt? Did he buy the emerald?”

She sat up, dabbing at her face with a tissue he gave her. “I’m not sure. He certainly knew something about it
because he reacted so violently when I mentioned it. He practically threw me out. He said he wasn’t interested in emeralds and rubies.” She glanced up at Valentin. The brandy had warmed her. She felt calmer now that she was with him. “Arnhaldt had been doodling on his notepad. It was right there, next to the telephone. Valentin,
he had drawn the emerald and the Ivanoff tiara.”

“You have done well,” he said, sitting beside her again. “I’m sorry about Markheim. Believe me, Genie, when I say I would not have sent you had I known there would be violence.”

She nodded. His deep, dark-gray eyes that seemed to know so many secrets were absorbing her. She could not look away. She leaned toward him, drawn by his glance.

“And would you believe me, Genie, if I said I missed you?” he asked, taking her hands in his.

She nodded again.

He held her closer and her mouth parted under his as he kissed her; his hands were in her hair, caressing the nape of her neck, and he was stroking her tense aching back soothingly. And soon Markheim and Arnhaldt, Russia and America, were forgotten as he made love to her.