Lovers and Liars Trilogy (115 page)

Rowland wondered if that was the case, and if so, why. He wondered if she had indeed broken up with the celebrated Pascal Lamartine, as Max had suggested. He wondered if her silence meant that she was retreating again, like the princess in his story, behind that glass wall.

He decided it was time to speak, to make some kind of overture.

“Anyway,” he said. “We did get some hard information—or you did. The police ought to be able to locate Mina now. It’s a distinctive car. They’re distinctive people. A man that good-looking, dressed in that way. A very young girl, with red hair… If they’re still together, of course.”

“Oh, I think they’re together,” she replied. “I’m sure they are.”

“Any particular reason?” He glanced toward her curiously. There was no sign of any glassy resistance, he noted. She had spoken in a normal way, with an odd air of certitude.

“No strong reason. Instinct, mainly. And what Mitchell said too. There seems to be a pattern to this Star’s behavior. The French girl last winter; she was replaced by Anneke; now Mina. He takes them over, and he holds on to them. For a while. He likes young girls—and Mina looks much younger than her age apparently. According to Charlotte, she looks about twelve.”

“Go on.”

“He seems to be drawn to girls from affluent backgrounds. From apparently happy homes. Then there’s nationality—the girl he cut with a razor was French; Anneke was Dutch; Mina’s American. Maybe he likes uprooting people from their homes and families. Maybe it gives him a sense of power.”

“That’s interesting. And?”

“And it made me wonder just how far away he’d take Mina. After all, they had that ten-hour start.”

“I know. They left at midnight, in a fast car. It’s two to three hours at most from here to the Channel ports. They could have taken the tunnel, or a ferry or a hovercraft. Max is checking the schedules. There’re certainly early morning departures. They could have been across the Channel, in France, by dawn.”

“And then they could go anywhere. Amsterdam, for instance.”

“Precisely. Or Belgium or Italy or France or Germany. On the other hand, they might never have left England at all.”

Gini shivered. She drew her coat more tightly around her. “He’s dangerous,” she said. “It makes me very afraid for Mina.”

“He’s certainly dangerous,” Rowland said in a grim way. “And what he peddles is dangerous as well.”

There was a silence. Rowland downshifted, then went up through the gears. Eventually he said in an abrupt way:

“Look. I owe you an apology. When Max and I got back to the house this morning… What I said about being uncharitable. It was rude. I’m sorry I spoke in that way.”

“I’m glad you spoke in that way. You shouldn’t apologize. You were right. If you were harsh, it was deserved.” She paused. “In fact, if anyone should apologize, it’s I. I’m ashamed of the way I spoke. I’m ashamed of the way I’ve been behaving. That’s not relevant to you—but I’d like you to know.”

She made this admission with obvious difficulty in a quiet voice. Having made it, she relapsed into silence. Rowland, who was beginning to find her reserve unnerving, steeled himself.

“I also wanted to say,” he began stiffly, “that I know your work. I’ve always admired it, and the pieces you wrote from Sarajevo were very fine.”

“Thank you.” She made a small flinching movement. “I—I don’t talk about Sarajevo. I’ve made that a rule.”

“Can’t you take praise?” Rowland replied somewhat sharply.

She turned and gave him one long, steady look, then turned away. “No,” she said quietly. “Not on that subject. I would never feel the praise was deserved.”

“Why not?”

Rowland glanced at her again; she did not immediately reply. He had wondered—uncharitably, he thought—if she might have been fishing for further compliments. Then he caught the glitter of tears in her eyes and knew the suspicion was a cheap one.

“Tell me,” he said more gently. “Explain. I’d like to hear.”

“What I wrote wasn’t adequate.” She kept her face averted, but he could sense a sudden agitation. “What I saw there—I doubt I conveyed a thousandth part of it. Maybe that’s always true in that kind of situation. But, foolishly, it wasn’t something I’d foreseen. Words—I don’t trust words very much anymore. When did words ever change anything?”

“Maybe not often, and maybe not for long.” Rowland hesitated. He could sense that she would respect him not at all for a glib answer. “On the other hand,” he continued slowly, “what does silence achieve? The right words, the right newspaper stories, can effect change.”

“The pen is mightier than the sword?” She gave him a small glance. “My father used to quote that. I believed it once. I don’t believe it anymore.”

“I met your father once,” Rowland said. “In Washington. When I was posted there. I worked there for a couple of years.”

That caught her attention. She turned to look at him, her hands tightening in her lap. For an instant, glancing away from the road, he saw anxiety in her face.

“How long ago?”

“A while. About seven years. I spoke to him only briefly. It was in a bar called O’Brien’s—a lot of the
Post
journalists used to use it.”

“Yes. Well, it would have been a bar. If not that one, some other. He drinks. As you’ll certainly know.”

Her tone was sharply defensive; Rowland slowed.

“I did know that. Did he always drink?”

“He’s an alcoholic. Before he became an alcoholic he was a heavy drinker, the kind of heavy drinker who claims he can kick it anytime. I don’t know exactly when he crossed the boundary between the two, if there ever was a boundary.”

“Did he drink when you were a child?”

“I don’t remember. I’ve never really lived with my father. I’ve lived in England with my stepmother since I was five, six years old.”

Her manner was growing more incommunicative by the second; Rowland could sense the barriers rise. They drove on for several minutes in silence. After a while he saw her hands move in her lap. She said: “He’s in a clinic in Arizona now. In a twelve-step program. He’s been there before. It may work this time. Was he very drunk when you met him? I hope—I’d like to think he wasn’t. People forget. They have such short memories. Once upon a time—he was a fine journalist, once…”

Rowland could hear, and was touched by, the plea. He had a brief memory of a celebrated man, a Pulitzer Prize-winner who was now a florid, loud-voiced, overweight Harvard boor. He had been protected by a shrinking group of acolytes; shortly before Rowland had left, he had lurched to his feet, then slumped to the floor.

“Not that drunk,” he replied mildly. “Nothing that noticeable…”

“Was he talking about Vietnam?” She gave him a sharp, pained glance.

“Why?”

“It’s one of the stages. That’s all.”

Rowland, who could hear desolation beneath the irony in her tone, decided to lie. “No, no, that subject never came up.” He reached a junction, slowed, then turned left. “Besides, if it had, I’d have been interested. I’ve read your father’s Vietnam book. And I admired it. His early work was very powerful.”

“Oh, I’m glad you think that.” For the first time, Rowland heard her voice lift with an unfeigned delight. Disliking himself as he did it, he slid in the next question fast, and—as he had hoped—caught her off guard.

“—And he must have influenced you, presumably? Was it your father’s influence that took you to Bosnia? Or Pascal Lamartine’s?”

“I wanted to make my father proud of me. When I was still a child, I always thought, if I could become—” She stopped, her hands twisting in her lap, head bowed. “Perhaps, if I’d been a boy. A son. It might have been different. As it is—it’s men who make wars, and men are better at writing about them. There have been women who’ve reported wars, of course, and done it well. But not many.” She hesitated, regaining control, and her voice became dry. “So now I’m not sure what to blame for my failure. My sex or my character. On the whole, I think it’s my character, don’t you?”

Rowland did not reply. There were several aspects of that answer that interested him, not least its resolute avoidance of any mention of Pascal Lamartine. Why did she think of her work in Bosnia as a failure, he wondered. With each sentence she spoke, he was revising his opinion of her, first this way, then the other. He liked her final question, and the way in which it was voiced. It had taken him by surprise.

Slowing the car, he glanced toward her, then, coming to a sudden decision, drew onto the side of the road.

Stopping the car, he turned to look at her.

“May I ask you something? Do you know why you’re here?”

“What—here at Max’s, this weekend?” She looked at him uncertainly, moonlight sharpening the planes of her face, then gave a slight smile.

“Yes. I realize, Rowland. I’m not a fool. I’m here because Max and Charlotte feel sorry for me. Because Lindsay’s been nagging them, I imagine, and telling them I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I’m here as an act of kindness—which I haven’t repaid too well.”

“Is Lindsay’s diagnosis correct?”

“About the nervous breakdown?” She met his gaze, then frowned and looked away. “No. I think perhaps I was close. At Christmas. Christmas wasn’t a very good time. I’m better now.” She hesitated. “Meantime, of course, I’ve been behaving badly, as you pointed out this morning. I’ve been irritating people. I’ve been irritating you—and I do know that. I can feel myself doing it.” She gave another half-smile. “You know what Lindsay says? She says I give her compassion fatigue.”

Rowland, amused, returned her smile. He wondered what it was that had occurred at Christmas. He had caught the pain in her voice as she said the word, though she attempted to disguise it.

“She’s right, of course. I have been selfish, and self-indulgent. I’m going to reform.” She was beginning to speak more quickly now, still keeping her face averted. “So, I did want to say, I should be working, I realize that now. When I got back from Bosnia I couldn’t write. I turned down several stories.”

“Did you? Yes, I think Max might have mentioned that.”

“But when we were talking to Mitchell earlier, when I went up to that barn… I could feel the story taking hold. I’d forgotten how that could feel, that sense of purpose and drive. But now—I would like to find Star. I’d like to find Mina, above all. So if I could help in any way—if you or Max wanted someone to talk to Cassandra and Mina’s friends, perhaps—I could do that I’d like to do that. It’s—I am here, after all…”

Her suggestion faltered away. Rowland realized that as she made it, she lost confidence. She expected him to demur, or refuse. Something, he thought, or someone, had damaged her confidence very badly.

“Why does it interest you so much?” he asked.

“Because of Mina.” She let her hair fall forward, obscuring her face. “I used to know a girl like her.”

“You did? And was she equally unwise?”

“Possibly. But she was luckier.”

She shivered, then seemed to realize for the first time that the car was no longer moving.

“Anyway—we should get back. Why did you stop?”

“Because I wanted to tell you why you were here this weekend. It wasn’t an act of charity. You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” She turned to look at him.

“Yes. You’re here because I asked Max to invite you. I persuaded him to set up this weekend. I wanted to meet you. And I wanted you to work for me.”

“You did?” She colored. “I don’t understand. Why couldn’t you ask me in the usual way? Why all this subterfuge? Oh, I see…” Understanding suddenly flooded her face. “You thought I’d refuse? Or you thought Lindsay might have prejudiced me against you.”

“That did cross my mind.”

“But it’s not just that?” She looked at him closely. “It’s something more. You wanted to assess me—to see if I came up to scratch—this neurotic woman who was being such a bore.”

“I wouldn’t put it in those terms. You’d been covering a war—a particularly ugly war. Obviously that had affected you. I’d think less of you had it not affected you. But I had to be sure.”

“You don’t have to be tactful. I don’t particularly like tact. You don’t seem to be a very tactful man. I’d rather you were straight with me.” She paused. “Oh, I see. I begin to see. There’s a connection, isn’t there, between your story and this one—a connection you hadn’t foreseen? It’s something to do with drugs, with White Doves, with Amsterdam. That’s why you and Max reacted that way earlier.”

She stopped. The excitement and wry amusement that had raced across her face disappeared. “Ah, well,” she said in a resigned way, and leaned back in the seat. Rowland watched the moonlight move across her face.

He said: “Would you let me explain?”

“Now? Here?”

“We might as well. Before we go back to Max’s. There’ll be fewer interruptions, and besides, it won’t take long. Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“I’ll leave the engine running, and the heater.” He paused, then cut the lights. He waited until his eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness. He gestured to a track, silver in the moonlight, which led up across the fields.

“You see that track? It’s another route to that barn. But this story, as you’ve gathered, doesn’t begin there. It doesn’t begin with Cassandra’s dying, or even a man called Star. Until today I’d never heard of Star. It begins…”

He paused; he knew that if he were entirely truthful, he would have to say that for him, it had begun years before, in Washington—but such feelings, which he intended not to reveal, were irrelevant now.

“It begins in Amsterdam. Last year…”

“Last autumn,” Rowland said, “I’d been working on a series of drug investigations. Shortly before I joined the paper, I was given a new lead. I was advised to take a closer look at a relatively small drug-manufacturing outfit based in Amsterdam. Up until then I’d primarily been concerned with heroin and cocaine, the new smuggling routes, the involvement of the Mafia in Russia, and so on. Those investigations are still continuing; this story was one I wanted to pursue. The outfit in Amsterdam had a specialty, you see: designer drugs, the drugs of the future, some people say—although they’re already very successful, of course, in this brave new world of ours.”