Ghost Image (22 page)

The London caller was Edward Jaine, asking me to phone him as soon as I got his message. I took a deep breath and hit Redial.

He skipped right past the pleasantries. “Ms. Medina, we haven't formally met, but I understand you were a good friend of Brother Kevin Boyle's. I also attended the party at the Austrian ambassador's residence the other night in Washington. Since we're both in London, I thought we might meet to discuss a certain book I understand you have. It happens to belong to me.”

There was no point beating around the bush or claiming I didn't know what he was talking about, but I did wonder how he knew I had the book and who told him I was in London.

“I don't have it,” I said. “I'm not sure what there is to discuss.”

“Meet me tomorrow at ten o'clock at the Paramount restaurant,” he said. “It's in Centre Point on Tottenham Court Road. Do you know where it is?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. I'll see you there. And, Ms. Medina, don't stand me up. I assure you I will make this meeting very worth your while. Please be on time.”

“I—”

But he had already hung up. In a furious mood, I listened to Max's message: He had news from Bram. I poured lukewarm tea into my cup, calmed down, and called Max, wondering if Bram's news confirmed what Victor had told me downstairs about the value of Kevin's book.

Or, if you were Edward Jaine, his book.

“Bram says that copy is worth several million, sugar,” Max said after we exchanged small talk. “If he were selling it at auction, he'd ask around five.”

“Edward Jaine just called me,” I said. “He wants to know where his book is. Kevin may not have notified the Franciscans that he had it in his possession, so it might legally belong to Jaine. He asked—ordered—me to meet him tomorrow for coffee to discuss it. He's in London.”

Max made an unhappy noise. “He might own it or does own it?”

“I don't know.”

“Apparently he's not the only one interested in it. Your friend Victor Haupt-von Véssey's father was making some quiet inquiries. Bram heard about it through the grapevine,” he said.

“That's because Kevin flew to London with Victor and showed it to Archduke Orlando the week before he died.”

“So Kevin knew how valuable it was?”

“Yes.”

“You can't get in the middle of this, Sophie,” Max said in a warning voice. “What are you going to tell Jaine?”

“I don't know. I guess I'll have to tell him Bram has it. It can't be the first time Bram has had to deal with parties warring over who owns something.”

Max sighed. “I know you're trying to do the right thing, but sometimes you just gotta leave things lay where Jesus flang them. The book's not your problem anymore. Tell Jaine the truth, and then you'll be done with it.”

But I wasn't sure I would be done with it, especially after what had happened today at the Seed Bank.

I suspected there would be more to come.

16

S
omeone knocked on the door after I hung up with Max. James stood in the doorway behind a small table draped with a white linen tablecloth, place settings for two, covered silver dishes, and a bud vase with two red roses.

“I didn't order dinner yet,” I said. “Did Harry change his plans and come back to London tonight after all?”

“Allow me to leave this with you, and you can knock on Mr. Wyatt's door.” James gave me an enigmatic smile. “I'm sure it will all make sense.”

I knocked on Harry's door. My husband stood in the doorway.

“Someone told me you might be free for dinner,” he said. “I believe the butler did it.”

In the thirteen years Nick and I have been married, I have learned not to be surprised when he turns up on the doorstep even though I'm dead sure he's in some other part of the world. This time was different.

He pulled me to him, kissing me until I couldn't catch my
breath, and whispered into my hair, “You have no idea how much I've missed you.”

And then he took me over to the bed and proceeded to show me.

Nick and I had met in Paris fourteen years ago on New Year's Eve at the party of a mutual friend who had rented a glass-enclosed riverboat that cruised the Seine until sunrise. I remember that evening as magical, the boat gliding under lighted bridges, the fizz of champagne, the romantic cigarette-and-whiskey songs of Aznavour, Brel, and Piaf, Notre-Dame basked in floodlights, the Eiffel Tower glittering like an enormous studded jewel, and finally the pale blush of colors in the dawn sky, but mostly I remember falling head over heels in love with Nick. We spent the next day together walking the quiet streets of Paris, found a little brasserie that was open on New Year's Day in a mostly shuttered city, and eventually, as we knew we would, ended up spending the next night together in my hotel in the Latin Quarter. After that, Nick liked to joke that we had the world's longest first date, spanning two years. He proposed six months later, on a sultry summer night on the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower, and we were married the following Valentine's Day at the Chelsea Town Hall in London.

We knew from the beginning that the secrecy that cloaked Nick's job and the clandestine nature of his work, along with my itinerant travel schedule with IPS, were going to be hard on our marriage. So whenever we got together after one of those separations, the first thing we did—before talking about work or the mundane concerns of home life, bills, our families—was go to bed together. After fourteen years, it was still as good and intense and erotic as that first night in Paris, maybe even better because we knew each other so intimately.

I had not thought to close the curtains before we tumbled into bed tonight. The soft golden light from the streetlamps on Carlos Place caught the outline of Nick's naked body as he hovered over me, silhouetting him so he looked like a perfect Greek
god. I pulled him down and guided him inside one more time. He groaned and murmured my name, and before long we were touching and kissing again, starting all over.

Later, when we were lying in each other's arms, I remembered James arriving with our dinner . . . hours ago.

“What are we going to do about the meal James brought us? It's been sitting there for at least two hours.”

Nick ran the back of his finger across my shoulder and down one arm. “It's okay, sweetheart. Everything's on ice and it's a cold supper: caviar, foie gras, scallop and endive salad, fruit and cheese.” He sat up. “First, we ought to have some champagne.”

He pulled me out of bed and led me over to the connecting door between my room and Harry's.

“Wait a minute.” I tugged on his hand. “How do you know what's under those covered dishes? And this is Harry's room . . . we can't just . . . and this is his bathroom. I don't think—oh, my gosh, how beautiful.”

Someone had placed lighted votive candles throughout the white-and-gray marble bathroom, and the large soaking tub was already partially filled with a bubble bath. Nick turned on the hot water and the heat released a fragrant scent, lavender combined with the heady aroma of ylang-ylang. A small bowl filled with red rose petals sat on the tub ledge and a bottle of Mumm was chilling in a silver bucket next to a tray with two crystal champagne flutes on it.

“Don't worry about Harry,” Nick said. “Why do you think he's staying in Lingfield tonight?”

“You mean he knows? You two planned this?”

Nick grinned. “It's the next best thing I could do since I missed our thirteenth wedding anniversary. Harry and I couldn't have done it without James. Who do you think prepared the bath and lit all these candles?” He held out his hand. “Come on, why don't you add those rose petals to the water and I'll open our champagne?”

I picked up the bowl and scattered the bloodred petals. Then I let Nick help me into the tub.

We sat facing each other, my legs wrapped around his waist, and finally talked as we drank our champagne. He told me all about what he'd been doing in the Gulf, animated and excited in a way that I hadn't seen him for a long time.

“You seem happy,” I said.

He moved his hand across the top of the water and scooped up a handful of foamy soap bubbles. “I am. By the way, Quill said I don't have to work out of the Washington office if I don't want to. We could move back here.”

“To London? Are you kidding me?” I sat up and knocked the bubbles out of his hand. “When were you going to tell me that?”

He grinned and brushed the tip of my nose with more bubbles. “I just did. So what do you think?”

“You know I'd love it. But we just moved back home, we've barely settled in. I think we ought to give it a try.”

“You really want to stay in D.C.?”

“I think so, at least for now.” I finished my champagne and he reached for the bottle, refilling our glasses. “Perry told me today that IPS is looking for a White House photographer. Monica Yablonski wants to hear from me by the end of the week.”

“Are you interested?”

“I like being my own boss.”

“Is that a no?”

“Come on, you know what the White House press room is like. It's like working in a submarine, low ceilings, no windows. When it rains, the carpet gets soaked and you're jammed in there like sardines. Access to the president is strictly managed, choreographed, and parsed out by his people whose default answer is ‘no' or, if you're lucky, ‘I don't know.' If the president thinks he's living in a fishbowl, the press lives in a gilded cage.”

He said in a mild voice, “And those are just the good points?”

I laughed. “It sounds glamorous, but you and I know it's not . . . Would you be happy in Washington?”

“I'll be happy anywhere as long as I'm with you.”

James had left oversized terry robes on the back of the bathroom door. We climbed out of the tub and had dinner back in my room, where an opened bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti was waiting at our table.

I gave Nick another surprised look and he grinned. “James and I had this all set up.”

“I can see that.”

Nick held my chair and poured the wine. “What have you been doing since you got here? Not shopping, obviously.”

“How do you know that?”

He indicated the rest of the room. “No shopping bags. No Harrods, no Harvey Nicks. Not even a bookstore carrier bag. Just some tea from Fortnum and Mason.”

“I bought that for Grace and India. I should have gotten some for us. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow.”

Nick unfolded his napkin as though he were unwrapping something that required great concentration and placed it in his lap. “You have a hell of a set of bruises starting to come up on your right shoulder and along the back of your arm. You also winced a couple of times in bed. I tried to be careful. Why don't you tell me what's going on, what you've really been doing?”

As soon as he said that, I reached for my shoulder. It had taken a battering when Alastair and I tried to shove open the security door to the storage vault, but I hadn't realized the bruises showed much yet since I couldn't see them. Besides, I'd been too lost in Nick, in what he had been doing with me, to think about anything else.

“I'm okay,” I said. “Don't worry.”

“Did somebody hurt you?”

“A door. And it hurt like hell.”

He set his fork down and waited.

“Eat your dinner and I'll tell you. It's a long story.”

I didn't leave anything out. When I was done, he said, “I've got a couple of friends who moonlight doing security work. I'm going to call them. I don't like you walking around London unprotected. These guys are discreet. You won't even know they're there.” He paused. “Unless you need them.”

“Nick, I don't need a bodyguard or a babysitter. I can handle this.”

“Humor me.”

“All right, I'll make you a deal. Let me talk to Edward Jaine tomorrow morning. I'm meeting him in a posh restaurant, for Pete's sake. After that, if your friends want to follow me around London and carry my shopping bags—because that's what I'm going to do next—that's fine.”

He smiled. “I'll set it up.”

“Not now, okay? Let's have this evening just for us.”

By the time James came in to take away our table and the dinner dishes and ask if we wanted a nightcap, the two of us were so tired we could barely keep our eyes open.

“I think we're all set, James,” Nick said, stifling a yawn. “The meal was excellent. And thank you for everything. My beautiful wife had no clue about our plans.”

“Quite true,” I said. “You're very sneaky, James. I never would have suspected.”

“It's one of the required courses at butler school, Miss Medina,” he said. “I was top of my class.”

I laughed. “I bet you were.”

James grinned. “Will you both be taking breakfast here tomorrow morning, or will you dine downstairs?”

Nick gave me a reluctant look. “I've got a ten a.m. flight tomorrow out of Heathrow. I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

“You're leaving tomorrow? Already?”

“I've got to, I'm afraid. I'm sorry.” He turned to James. “Any chance of coffee and something to eat at six o'clock in the room?”

“Of course, sir. What about you, Miss Medina? Will you be dining with Mr. Canning, or do you wish to wait until Mr. Wyatt returns?”

“I'll have breakfast with my husband at six, please.”

James left after sorting out our order and assuring Nick that one of the hotel cars would be downstairs at seven to take him to the airport. After he was gone, I wanted Nick to pull me into bed again, now that I knew all we had left was the rest of tonight.

He did.

Later, after we finished making love, I fell into a deep sleep where my dreams and the events of the last few days since Kevin's death collided in a giant, confusing pileup. At one point I must have cried out, because all of a sudden Nick was stroking my hair and hushing me, murmuring that it was only a dream, probably fueled by wine and champagne drunk late at night. But when I slept again, the dreams returned and I was alone in a long, dark arctic-cold tunnel where Perry's voice repeated what he'd told me earlier in the day at the Crypt restaurant.

Kevin left you the answer to the puzzle, Sophie. It's right there in front of you. You just can't see it.

• • •

When I woke the next morning, I was alone, the imprint of Nick's head still on his pillow and his half of the rumpled blankets turned back where he'd slipped out of bed. It was dark outside, but a crack of lamplight shone under the threshold to Harry's room. Nick's deep voice carried through the door, though I couldn't hear what he was saying. The clock on my bedside table read five forty-five.

I found my robe on the floor where I had dropped it last night. When I opened the adjoining door, Nick was sitting on the edge of a damask sofa across from Harry's bed, engrossed in a phone conversation. Somehow, he'd managed to shave, shower, and get completely dressed without waking me. He looked up
and smiled as I walked in, stretching out his arm for me to join him, still listening to whoever was talking on the other end of the line.

I sat down next to him and leaned my head on his shoulder. “I owe you for that one, buddy,” he was saying. “Thanks for letting me know . . . you, too . . . sure, let's get together for that beer. I'll call you.”

He disconnected and kissed me. “Morning, sleepyhead. I didn't mean to wake you.”

I kissed him back. “What time did you get up? I didn't hear you get out of bed.”

“About an hour ago. You were dead to the world. I don't think you would have heard a bomb go off.”

“Who were you talking to just now? My future bodyguard?”

“I already left a message with two guys I know. Hopefully I'll hear from at least one of them real soon.” He brushed a lock of hair off my face and tucked it behind my ear. “That call was to an old friend in the D.C. office of the FBI.”

“I thought you guys in the CIA and the FBI didn't talk to each other.”

“The smart guys talk to each other, we just don't tell the others about it. He made a few calls for me. I'm sorry, baby. You're not going to like this, but the medical examiner is going to rule that Kevin Boyle's death was an accident.”

“That's not possible.”

“My buddy says Kevin sustained a basal skull fracture and that's what killed him. In other words, he cracked his skull. There were no injuries consistent with a struggle.”

“Someone pushed him, and that's how it happened. I'm sure of it.”

“Then call the officer who questioned you,” he said. “Tell her you found a five-million-dollar motive for why it might not be an accident.”

“I left her card at home,” I said. “I'll wait until this afternoon
when it's proper business hours in Washington and then track her down.”