Masquerade (46 page)

He raised his brows, impressed. “My apologies,
madame
. I see I have misjudged you.” From another pocket he handed her the document. She sat and read it carefully. She was to receive a generous pension, beginning the first of next month, from the U.S. Department of the Treasury.

She gave him her most charming smile.
“Excellent
. Now I will have the passport and the cash, and then I will tell you what I know.” She held out her hand.

Bremner put one then the other in her palm. She stood again.

His face darkened. He rose, towered over her. “Your information,
madame
!”

She savored the thrill. “Here,
monsieur
. Enjoy.” She took a small piece of paper from her purse, laid it on the table, and walked briskly away.

Chapter 52

Christine Robitaille exited the back door of a bookstore, strode down an alley, and emerged onto the busy street where she had parked her car. She looked at it, and suddenly she felt apprehensive. She had a new U.S. passport, an envelope filled with cash, a pension . . . and a sudden sense of unease.

She marched along the street in the opposite direction. What should she do? She tried to hail a taxi, but dozens whipped past, carrying church-dressed passengers home to Sunday dinners. She hated the
métro
. She wanted her car. Tomorrow she'd have a friend inspect it, make sure it wasn't wired for sound or with plastic. Meanwhile she could simply rent one. There was a car-rental agency down the block. Gold Star Rent-a-Car. She turned toward it, and again she changed her mind.

There was someone following her.

She hurried back toward the rue de Rivoli, which would take her to the intricacies of the Louvre. For the first time she had a sense of terrible dread. She was certain at least one man was following her. He was dressed in light summer trousers, a blousy shirt, and sunglasses. For a while he'd been on the same side of the street as she, but now he'd crossed over.

He was pretending to look in a store window, but her years working for Interpol told her he was watching her.

And following her.

She wanted to reach the Louvre. There she could hide.
Mon
dieu
! The Louvre could hide all the spies of France, England, and Germany combined!

Just let her reach the Louvre, and—

Now she spotted a woman behind her, too. On her side of the street. An attractive woman in shorts and a tank top, a large bag held close to her side.

Large enough for a pistol.

Christine was sweating now. She increased her speed. Then, as she rushed past the mouth of an alley, a man hurried out.

They collided.

“Pardonnez-moi!”
he exclaimed, holding her in his arms to balance her.

She needed no help! She pushed away.
“Ca m'est égal!”

“Christine,
ma chérie
!” the woman behind her waved.

At the sound of her name, Christine shoved with all the force of her small, hard muscles. She had to get away!

And almost immediately she knew she was too late.

She felt a sting in her
derrière
. A sharp sting, like a needle. Weakness flooded her. Her knees buckled.

Christine wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. She wanted to run. But her muscles and intentions failed. Someone took her purse. She felt a moment of fury. Inside the purse were the money and papers that guaranteed her new future. Too late.
De par le roi, defense à Dieu, de faire miracle en ce lieu
. She collapsed into cold, silent death.

That morning in Virginia, an irritating noise awoke Bunny Bremner. Her mouth was dry, her eyes itched, and she wanted to brush her teeth. She heard the noise again. It was a scratching sound, and it seemed to come from under the mountain cabin. A steady scratching and men's voices. She recognized the muffled voices of her captors but not what they were saying.

The noise grated on her alcohol-inflamed nerves. She looked at the clock on the kitchen stove: 9:00
A.M.
She'd fallen asleep sometime after midnight, after she'd persuaded both men to drink with her. But by then she'd been too drunk to escape, even though they'd become careless. She needed her Scotch too
damn much, and, suddenly, in her mind she heard Hughes's mocking voice:

Have more, Bunny dearest! Can't stop, can you, you disgusting old drunk? The Lord God above never made anyone as revolting as you, and that, Bunny dearest, is why I love you so
!

With rare insight, she realized her alcoholism had let him feel better about himself. No matter how bad he was, he could always tell himself he wasn't as bad as “that disgusting old drunk he'd married.” And now—

She looked at the iron bed. Marilyn was motionless. Bunny studied the crumpled form until she saw the blanket rise and fall over her chest. Marilyn was still alive. For all the good that did either of them. Suddenly the comforting voice of her aristocratic father seemed to speak to her:

As long as we're alive, we can win, Bunny. The Hartfords never give up. Never. It's time you quit letting Hughes humiliate you. You're better than that
.

She paused, furious and suddenly determined. Papa was right. She shook her head to clear last night's Scotch and listened carefully to the strange scratching sounds. Like metal being scraped. Echoing faintly into the kitchen. The pipes? The two men scraping at the water pipes under the house? Why would they care about water pipes?

Bunny studied the cabin. Everything the men had brought into it was gone, except for their jackets. The jackets hung just inside the door. Through the front window she could see her Mercedes and Marilyn's car parked close to the porch. The green Volvo was now in the driveway with its trunk open as if waiting for a last item before driving away.

She heard the men crawling down beneath the floorboards again, and then the voice of the leader, Sid: “That ought to do it. One more good nick, we light the stove, and
boom
, that's all she wrote.”

Bunny looked at the gas stove in the little kitchen. They were scraping a hole in the gas line under the house! They would light the stove, make one last nick in the gas line, run for their car, and—

She blinked slowly, allowing herself time to absorb the
shock of what would happen next: Gas would seep into the cabin. When it reached the flame, the cabin would explode. There would be an inferno. Marilyn and she would be either asphyxiated or burned to death.

Sid spoke near the front door, “Take the tools down to the car. As soon as we get the call, we'll be out of here in five minutes.”

He stepped into the room and sat at the table across from Bunny. He smiled, a mortician taking the measurements of the not-yet-dead.

She felt strangely calm.
The Hartfords never give up
, she reminded herself.

“Want a drink?” He opened the last bottle of Scotch and pushed it toward her.

She stared at the bottle, and an idea began to form in her mind.

“Well?” he demanded.

She nodded.

He laughed, untied her hands, and sat back down facing her.

If she did everything exactly right, Bunny thought, Marilyn and she might survive. For a moment she had a sense of utter dread. This might be her only opportunity. And she had to do it before fear immobilized her—

“What's wrong, Mrs. Bremner? Change your mind?”

“No.” Heart pounding, she quickly grabbed the Scotch bottle by its neck, leaned forward, and slammed it against his forehead.

Blood poured down his face and into his startled mouth.

“Cunt!” Stunned, he lunged for her.

But he was too late. She crashed the bottle against his forehead again. The bottle shattered. Blood sprayed. His eyes closed, and he started to topple. She reached across the table and tugged on his shoulders until his torso slumped quietly before her.

She was breathing hard. Now she had to figure out what to do about the other one. She didn't try to untie the rope that bound her legs. She already knew the knots were too tight. She lifted her chair around to where she could take his knife from his pocket.

She cut herself free, wriggled her toes and feet, and stood. She looked out the window.

The tall one was at their Volvo, talking on the cellular phone. As she watched, he punched a button on the phone, ending the conversation. He started toward the cabin. He was in his shirt sleeves, and the gun in his shoulder holster was clearly visible.

She needed a weapon. She looked at the man she'd hit. He wasn't wearing his gun!

Frantic, she hurried to the jackets hanging next to the door. The gun was in its holster under his jacket. Swiftly she pulled it out. Her father had taught her all about hunting rifles and a moderate amount about hand guns. She was a fine shot. Even Hughes admitted that. She inhaled, trying to keep calm. A rifle or side arm was a woman's equalizer, her father had told her.

The gun had a silencer. She checked the chamber and clip, released the safety, and moved to the cabin's front door. Trying to keep calm, she glanced out the window next to the door and saw the tall man had just ambled up onto the porch.

She steeled herself. He was a torturer and killer. She opened the door and fired. Immediately she realized she'd made a terrible mistake by not moving Sid out of view. Fess was rushing across the porch to the door, his gaze on Sid's slumped form in the kitchen window.

Her bullet missed. It bit into the floorboards behind him. Sudden sweat drenched her.

He grabbed for the gun in his shoulder holster.

She was paralyzed. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

The instant seemed to stretch into an hour as she forced an old, rusty switch to turn itself on inside her brain. Still, she was too shocked to aim. So she pumped out bullets as fast as she could. For a long beat she thought his gun was going to complete its arc toward her chest and shoot her point-blank in the heart.

Instead, he screamed, spun back, and sprawled flat across the porch. His right shoulder and chest erupted in blood. His fingers convulsively released his gun and the cellular phone.

Shaking, she kicked his gun away and stood over him, her pistol pointed down. Spittle appeared at the corner of his slack
mouth. His eyes were closed. She poked him with the toe of her tennis shoe.

“Get up!” she ordered. His body undulated with the increased pressure of her foot.

Breathing hard, she looked around and saw clothesline strung across the yard. She ran into the cabin, picked up Sid's pocket knife, and ran out. With the clothesline, she tied Sid to the chair in which he sat. She dragged Fess into the cabin and tied him to the foot of Marilyn's cot.

“Marilyn?”

She spoke the injured woman's name urgently and touched her arm. Marilyn—Leslee Pousho—made no response. Her eyes remained closed. Her skin was gray. There was something sepulchral about her, Bunny decided. The poor woman must have medical treatment immediately.

Somehow Bunny got Marilyn to her feet and half-carried, half-dragged her to the red Mercedes outside the cabin.

Bunny shot holes in the tires of Leslee's rental car and the men's Volvo. She returned to the cabin, found her purse with her car keys inside, found Marilyn's purse, then hurried back out. Even though it appeared they were safe, sweat still bathed her and fear had left a dry, bitter taste in her mouth.

She got into her luxury sports car, symbol of all she loved and believed in, and gripped its steering wheel. She made herself breathe deeply. Then she hit the accelerator and sped down the steep drive. Her tires squealed as they gripped blacktop and shot the car forward.

Suddenly she smiled.

Marilyn moaned in the bucket seat next to her.

“Now, now, dear.” She patted Marilyn's arm. “You'll be all right very soon.”

Marilyn opened her eyes. Bunny was astonished she had the strength. “Where going?” Marilyn's swollen lips hardly moved.

“I'm taking you to the hospital, dear. I'm sure you want to know how we got away from those sadists, but you're much too ill to have to listen to all that. When you're better, we'll have lunch. I'll buy this time, and I'll explain—”

“Must . . . tell . . . ” Marilyn swallowed.

“Of course, dear. Go ahead.”

“Made . . . documents . . .” But the effort was too much. Marilyn slumped in the seat, unconscious again.

Bunny rushed down through the Blue Ridge Mountains, into the foothills, and then through the rolling vineyards and Arabian estates of the flatlands. At last she arrived at the village hospital. Fortunately, Charlie Smithdeal was on duty in the emergency room and took charge immediately. He sent Marilyn straight to ICU while he himself treated Bunny's welts and bruises. She smiled again, remembering his grandfather, who had delivered her at a time when doctors came when they were called.

When he released her, Bunny took the elevator up to check on Marilyn. The young journalist looked much better now that she was clean and her wounds were bandaged, even with all those tubes in her.

“You must rest, dear.”

Marilyn clutched Bunny's arm. “. . . documents . . . copies . . . mailed to . . . myself . . . P.O. box . . . must . . . stop . . . Bremner . . . ”

Bunny froze. “You may be absolutely sure of that.
I
will expose Hughes and deal with him personally.”

“No . . . now . . . now . . .” The hand fell away.

Bunny called the nurse, who came quickly. She bent over Marilyn, then nodded to Bunny. “She'll be fine, Mrs. Bremner. But she really must rest.”

“Of course. Tell her I'll return tomorrow. Here's my card in case she asks for me.”

Bunny rode down to the lobby, which, on a Sunday afternoon, was full of visiting families. She wondered what Marilyn had wanted to tell her. She must remember to ask tomorrow. After she contacted Senator Joe Allen, and Philip Shelton at the White House, to demand Hughes be arrested immediately.