In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen

“Daumier had only one agent assigned to surveillance tonight. That woman, Colette. Apparently she stayed with Jordan.”

“Then who was following us?” demanded Beryl.

“I don’t know.”

There was a silence. Then Jordan asked peevishly, “Have I missed something? Why are we all being followed? And when did Richard join the fun?”

“Richard,” said Beryl tightly, “hasn’t been completely honest with us.”

“About what?”

“He neglected to mention that he was here in Paris in 1973. He knew Mum and Dad.”

Jordan’s gaze at once shot to Richard’s face. “Is that why you’re here now?” he asked quietly. “To prevent us from learning the truth?”

“No,” said Richard. “I’m here to see that the truth doesn’t get you both killed.”

“Could the truth really be that dangerous?”

“It’s got someone worried enough to have you both followed.”

“Then you don’t believe it was a simple murder and suicide,” said Jordan.

“If it was that simple—if it was just a case of Bernard shooting Madeline and then taking his own life—no one would care about it after all these years. But someone obviously does care. And he—or she—is keeping a close watch on your movements.”

Beryl, strangely silent, sat down on the bed. Her hair, which she’d gathered back with pins, was starting to loosen, and silky tendrils had drifted down her neck. All at once Richard was struck by her uncanny resemblance to Madeline. It was the hairstyle and the watered-silk dress. He recognized that dress now—it was her mother’s. He shook himself to dispel the notion that he was looking at a ghost.

He decided it was time to tell the truth, and nothing but. “I never did believe it,” he said. “Not for a second did I think Bernard pulled that trigger.”

Slowly Beryl looked up at him. What he saw in her gaze—the wariness, the mistrust—made him want to reach out to her, to make her believe in him. But trust wasn’t something she was about to give him, not now. Perhaps not ever.

“If he didn’t pull the trigger,” she asked, “then who did?”

Richard moved to the bed. Gently he touched her face. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to help you find out.”

AFTER RICHARD LEFT, Beryl turned to her brother. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s told us too many lies.”

“He didn’t lie to us exactly,” Jordan observed. “He just left out a few facts.”

“Oh, right. He conveniently neglects to mention that he knew Mum and Dad. That he was here in Paris when they died. Jordie, for all we know, he could’ve pulled the trigger!”

“He seems quite chummy with Daumier.”

“So?”

“Uncle Hugh trusts Daumier.”

“Meaning we should trust Richard Wolf?” She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Jordie, you must be more exhausted than you realize.”

“And you must be more smitten than you realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.”

She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?”

“There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.”

Then he closed the door on her astonished face.

WHEN RICHARD ARRIVED at Daumier’s flat, he found the Frenchman still awake but already dressed in his bathrobe and slippers. The latest reports on the bombing of the St. Pierre residence were laid out across his kitchen table, along with a plate of sausage and a glass of milk. Forty years with French Intelligence hadn’t altered his preference for working in close proximity to a refrigerator.

Waving at the reports, Daumier said, “It is all a puzzle to me. A Semtex explosive planted under the bed. A timing mechanism set for 9:10—precisely when the St. Pierres would be watching Marie’s favorite television program. It has all the signs of an inside operation, except for one glaring mistake—Philippe was in England.” He looked at Richard. “Does it not strike you as an inconceivable blunder?”

“Terrorists are usually brighter than that,” admitted Richard. “Maybe they intended it only as a warning. A statement of purpose. ‘We can reach you if we want to,’ that sort of thing.”

“I still have no information on this Cosmic Solidarity League.” Wearily Daumier ran his hands through his hair. “The investigation, it goes nowhere.”

“Then maybe you can turn your attention for a moment to my little problem.”

“Problem? Ah, yes. The Tavistocks.” Daumier sat back and smiled at him. “Hugh’s niece is more than you can handle, Richard?”

“Someone else was definitely tailing us tonight,” said Richard. “Not just your agent, Colette. Can you find out who it was?”

“Give me something to work with,” said Daumier. “A middle-aged man, short and stocky—that tells me nothing. He could have been hired by anyone.”

“It was someone who knew they were coming to Paris.”

“I know Hugh told the Vanes. They, in turn, could have mentioned it to others. Who else was at Chetwynd?”

Richard thought back to the night of the reception and the night of Reggie’s indiscretion. Blast Reggie Vane and his weakness for booze. That was what had set this off. A few too many glasses of champagne, a wagging tongue. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Poor Reggie was a harmless soul; certainly he’d never meant to hurt Beryl. Rather, it was clear he adored her like a daughter.

Richard said, “There were numbers of people the Vanes might have spoken to. Philippe St. Pierre. Nina and Anthony. Perhaps others.”

“So we are talking about any number of people,” Daumier said, sighing.

“Not a very short list,” Richard had to admit.

“Is this such a wise idea, Richard?” The question was posed quietly. “Once before, if you recall, we were prevented from learning the truth.”

How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt. There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing.

A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself.

The matter of the mole was never officially resolved.

Instead, Bernard Tavistock had been posthumously implicated as Delphi. Conveniently tried and found guilty, thought Richard. Why not pin the blame on Tavistock? A dead man can’t deny the charges.