The Explorer's Code (38 page)

“Watson, down,” he said, ruffling the dog’s harsh coat. “Sorry, Cordelia, I should have remembered to tell you about Watson.”

Cordelia had realized by now it was a dog.

“That is the biggest dog I have ever seen in my entire life. Is it a Great Dane?” she asked.

“Watson is a wolfhound. An Irish wolfhound,” Charles said. “Although Mother just calls him ‘the animal.’ “ He pronounced it with a French accent.

Madame Bonnard laughed. “When Charles calls me on the phone, I always tell him how much trouble the animal is causing.”

As if he knew the word
animal,
Watson fell back down on all fours and seemed chastened. He looked at Cordelia speculatively, but she was too intimidated by his size to pat his head.

“Don’t be afraid. He’s a big baby. He will grow on you. You’ll see,” assured Charles.

“Do come in. I’m keeping you standing in the foyer,” said Madame Bonnard.

They walked past the grand curved marble staircase into the main salon of the apartment. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the Luxembourg Garden. The view of the formal flower beds and verdant lawns gave the illusion that the apartment was on a country estate, yet Cordelia knew the Eiffel Tower was only a few dozen blocks away.

Madame Bonnard sat in one of the upright chairs and indicated that Cordelia should sit next to her. A housekeeper in a white smock came in and offered tea, coffee, or chocolate. She told Cordelia her room was prepared; the front bedroom to the right of the stairs.

After a moment Charles excused himself, saying to his mother, “I’ll just pop in on Clothilde to say hi.”

The housekeeper returned.

“Madame is wanted on the telephone.”

Madame Bonnard left the room to take the call, saying she would be right back. The room became absolutely quiet.

The wolfhound sat regarding her, as silent as a sphinx. He blinked at her but didn’t move.

“Good boy, Watson,” she said.

She started looking around the room, decorated in a classic French style. The chairs and furniture were delicate and formal, with a beautiful gold Aubusson on the floor that looked antique. Small bombé chests lined the walls, over which hung gilded mirrors. Cordelia noticed the three crystal chandeliers were sending fireflies of reflection on the ceiling and walls in the afternoon sun.

She wondered where Sinclair was and what he was doing.

S
inclair walked arm in arm with Erin Burke through the airport in Oslo, Norway. He hated everything about this operation. He hated leaving Cordelia behind, and the gnawing fear that he was exposing her to some kind of danger. He hated the subterfuge of being with this woman. He especially hated that he’d had to lie to Charles.

Well, he hadn’t exactly lied, but Charles and Cordelia had no idea he was traveling with an American agent. They thought he was just going up to Svalbard to talk to some Norwegian officials to try to locate the deed. What he was doing now was probably the most dangerous part of this whole affair. Thaddeus had explained that any “independent actor” who was after the deed would trail them. That was why Erin had to go, and not Cordelia. This operation would require a serious agent who could defend herself.

Thank God Cordelia had agreed. The less she knew about what he was going to do, the safer she was. A nice quiet stay in Paris with Charles’s mother would be perfectly fine.

Sinclair had no compunctions about making Erin a target. Her role was to draw out the aggressors and force them into the open. Erin not only expected a dangerous encounter, she was hoping for it. And she was physically perfect for the job; she could pass for Cordelia, even at close range.

He knew it was trivial, but he hated having to playact an affectionate relationship with her. He was not attracted to her in any real way, and her proximity was starting to wear on him.

He had observed her on the flight from London. She had reclined in the airline seat on the first leg of the flight reading the
National Geographic
magazine that Frost had provided as a prop. Her legs were stretched out on the leg rest, alongside his. She wasn’t really reading. She was lying in wait for any sign of interest. He could feel the tension in her body as she sat next to him. He resolved not to speak to her.

He had run his eyes down the muscles on Erin’s legs; they were strong and lean. She was a beautiful woman, but he also had a suspicion she could break his neck at the slightest provocation. Her arm under the raincoat had been pure steel; this was no woman, this was a fighting weapon. He laughed at the thought that Thaddeus should think he needed this kind of protection. He didn’t need Erin to protect him; he needed protection
from
Erin.

Now, on the last leg of the trip from Oslo to Longyearbyen, she had removed her shoes, and Sinclair had noticed her toenails were painted a most provocative bloodred. Cordelia would never wear that color. But that was not the only false note; Cordelia would never kick off her shoes and sit with bare feet on an airplane. It was a mistake that only Sinclair would have detected. He sat thinking about Cordelia; she was refined and elegant to every fiber of her being. And he missed her.

How were she and Charles getting on? He did not dare call for fear his phone transmission would be intercepted. If he needed to call Charles, they would pretend to talk about foundation business, using the code words
environmental project
to indicate the deed. And Sinclair had also promised not to call until he got to Longyearbyen, the small town on the island of Svalbard. It was just a speck of land high above the Arctic Circle—in the northernmost region on planet Earth. And when they landed, he knew, he had very little time to find the deed.

M
adame Bonnard was seated next to Cordelia and pouring tea. The blend was a special mix by Fauchon, and the madeleines had just the right amount of lemon zest. Madame Bonnard lifted the lid of the teapot to check its strength and added a small amount of hot water.

“May I offer you a little more—you must be tired from your journey.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Cordelia. “I can’t thank you enough for letting me hide here.”

Madame Bonnard did not reply as she poured.

“Where is Charles?” asked Cordelia.

“He mentioned he wanted to take some photos. It’s very foggy and he thought he might get some nice shots of the Seine. He will be back later.”

“I didn’t know he was a photographer,” said Cordelia. “I have only just met him, but I think he is great.”

His mother smiled. “I am afraid I had quite the wrong impression about you when you arrived. I thought you were a friend of Charles’s—a romantic friend.”

Cordelia blushed. “Oh, no, not at all. He just agreed to help John Sinclair protect me for a while.”

“And this John Sinclair, have you known him long?” asked Madame Bonnard gently.

“Actually no—just a few weeks. But he has helped me so much.”

“A few
weeks
! Are you aware of his reputation, my dear?” asked Madame Bonnard. She passed Cordelia the plate of madeleines.

“I know he was dating a fashion model. But he told me it’s over. Charles did too. So I’m not too worried.”

Madame Bonnard looked down and fussed with the edge of the tablecloth. She folded it to her satisfaction, and then looked up.

“One must not leap into these romances,” said Madame Bonnard. “I speak from experience, my dear. Very hard experience.”

“Usually I can tell right away if someone is good for me,” said Cordelia stubbornly, putting down her teacup.

Madame Bonnard looked doubtful. “I think one becomes infatuated easily. If an older man makes a fuss over one, it is easy to lose one’s head.”

There was a long silence. Cordelia didn’t know what to say. Finally Madame Bonnard spoke again. “I understand you lost your parents when you were young.”

“Yes.”

“I wish you would allow me to give you some advice. Not as a parent—I would not presume. But accept this advice from an older woman. I know you will make up your own mind. But the experience of a previous generation may be helpful.”

Cordelia was leaning back in her chair. She didn’t want to hear whatever Madame Bonnard was preparing to say.

“If you will indulge me by listening to a personal anecdote. This story has some relevance to the dangers of quick romances.”

Cordelia nodded.

“I fell in love with Charles’s father in a matter of days. He was twenty-eight, I was seventeen. He was American and had come to Paris for a few months after graduating from law school. His visit was to be an introduction to European culture.”

Cordelia drank her tea and listened.

“Paris is a dangerous place for young men. They feel that they deserve to have a great love here, that the Parisian experience would not be complete without it, and the reputation of the city demands it.”

“Paris is very romantic,” Cordelia agreed cautiously, taking a bite of her madeleine. She was glad the topic had shifted away from John Sinclair.

“Charles’s father was the son of an American senator. He was being groomed for political office. And it is not good for American politicians to have a foreign wife.”

“What happened?” asked Cordelia.

“His family heard about me and demanded that he come back to Savannah. He was summoned home. But after he left I realized I was
enceinte—
you know . . . carrying Charles.”

Cordelia looked at the woman, fascinated. She hadn’t expected this kind of revelation.

“Of course, this was many years ago. When Charles was born there was no chance of him being acknowledged by his American father. The pregnancy was a personal and political inconvenience. And, of course, Charles’s father
did
go on to public office, just like his father before him. He became a very famous American senator.”

“How awful for you,” said Cordelia in sympathy.

“My own family was horrified, but then they helped me in my ‘embarrassed’ condition. I was married quietly to a very good man, a family friend, Alphonse Bonnard. He was willing to do this for me. And all of Paris society thought that Charles was born prematurely.”

“Why did you have to get married?” asked Cordelia.

“It was out of the question to have Charles on my own. I come from one of the oldest families in France, and so did Alphonse Bonnard; so Charles, despite the rejection of his real father, has a heritage to be proud of.”

“And there was never any reconciliation with his real father?”

“No, Charles has never met his birth father. He knows who he is, but he has never spoken to him or written to him. In fact, his father has not spoken to me since the day he left Paris. I was contacted by a lawyer after I wrote to tell him I was carrying his child.”

“It’s a sad story,” admitted Cordelia. “I can’t help feeling that his father is the only one who lost out. Charles would make a lovely son for anyone.”

Madame Bonnard smiled. “I certainly think he is very special. I tell you this not to catalog the charms of my son but to give you a word of caution. The few weeks you have known John Sinclair are insufficient for you to see all the nuances of his life.”

“It is true, I don’t know a lot about him. But he has been so utterly . . .” Cordelia paused, looking for just the right word.

“John Sinclair may find you enchanting one moment and inconvenient the next. It
can
happen, my dear.”

Cordelia stared at Madame Bonnard and swallowed hard.

“I
have
been worrying . . . John and I had a discussion in England about the future. He said we live very different lives, and we may
not
end up together in the end.”

Madame Bonnard looked grave. “What else did he say?”

“He said we live worlds apart, on different continents. We have different lives. He didn’t see how it would work.”

“My dear, what did you do?”

Cordelia sat upright, suddenly very anxious.

“I made him stop talking, and promise to give our romance a try.”

Madame Bonnard reached over and patted Cordelia’s hand again.

“Charles tells me you are a smart girl. An accomplished girl. And you are at the top of your field. I advise you to also be cautious until you know John Sinclair better.”

Cordelia flushed. “Thank you for your kind advice, Madame Bonnard.” She stopped for a moment and then added with sudden energy, “I feel I am very much in love with John Sinclair. And he has been very, very kind to me in my difficult situation. And Charles thinks the world of Sinclair.”

“Charles is a
man,
” said Madame Bonnard simply. She picked up a little silver bell and rang it to have the housekeeper come and clear the tea tray.

“Cordelia, I hope with all my heart that John Sinclair is the love you have always dreamed about. But you should make him prove that he is worthy of your love. And that will take some time.”

S
inclair stood at the window of the Spitsbergen Hotel and surveyed the Arctic landscape. The refurbished miners’ lodge, located halfway up the mountain, gave him a clear view of all the surrounding landscape. At this time of year, the light was still bright late into the evening, and the scene in front of him had all the beautiful desolation of the moon. The original name of the place, Spitsbergen, meant “jagged mountain” in Dutch. The peaks formed a ring around the town of Longyearbyen. Most of the houses were nestled along the main street, and the lights were beginning to glow faintly against the uncertain dusk.

Sinclair was awestruck at the intrepid spirit that prompted people to live here. While the summer months were blessed with long days of light, in the winter, the town was plunged into total darkness. The sun never rose from the horizon, and the moon alone circled overhead in the sky, tracing a single orbit each day, illuminating the snow with ambient light. But hiding in that vast whiteness was man’s single most deadly predator:
Ursus maritimus,
the polar bear.