Claimed by the Secret Agent (7 page)

G
rant followed Marie down to the car and listened to her excited directions as she guided him through the outskirts of Gouda to the road that led east.

He had to shift his focus to the case, but he had trouble doing it. So Marie wasn’t ready to acknowledge what had happened between them, much less discuss it. He could wait. Unless she came down with a galloping case of total amnesia, he knew she wouldn’t forget it.

It wasn’t ego that made him know that. In fact, he felt pretty humbled by the whole experience. He could understand her shock. They’d known each other for less than forty-eight hours. Apparently that was all it took in his case. He’d like to believe it was only the power of suggestion, triggered by recalling his dad’s similar
experience when he’d met Grant’s mother, but he knew better. Marie was the one.

Now she was his, at least in his own mind and heart, and he now had the forever responsibility of keeping her safe and protected. She wouldn’t abide by an order that she sit this one out, though. He had a bad feeling about her coming along, but he’d just have to stay between her and danger and hope for the best.

“So, old Dr. Shute is dead and someone’s still picking up his mail in town. A relative, maybe? Or has someone taken over his identity?” Marie asked. “This could be headquarters for the Hoofstads, or a satellite group.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Grant surmised. “It would be a perfect setup, but we can’t jump to any conclusions. It’s a fairly safe assumption that the mail was once delivered out there. Then someone changed that by renting a box in town and using Shute’s name. Could be a relative. We need more information about the clinic and what its purpose was. An interview with Pieter’s grandfather would be helpful. We probably should have done that before checking out the place.”

“There’s the time factor,” Marie reminded him. “Cynthia Rivers could be killed while we run around asking questions. What if she’s being held there? As soon as the kidnappers realize there’ll be no ransom for her, she’s had it.”

Grant couldn’t argue that. “How do we find the turnoff?”

“It’s the fourth road to the left. I’m counting. How
do you think the old grandfather knew about the place? The directions are roughly drawn but pretty explicit for all that. I wonder what sort of clinic it was.”

“Could be anything. Tuberculosis was rampant before and after World War II, so it could be a sanatorium. Or mental-health facility. Home for unwed mothers. Too far out of town to be a regular doctor’s practice. Doesn’t really matter what it was, only what it is now and who’s living there.”

“How do we go in?” She was too antsy, almost bouncing in her seat. Her eagerness to get that clerk to safety could jeopardize everything if she didn’t calm down.

“We don’t go in,” Grant told her. “We’re scoping it out, that’s all. Tonight’s better for the intrusion. I’ll bring in some backup if we suspect anything fishy.” He gave her a warning look. “You’ll stay in the car, keep your head down and let me see if anyone’s there.”

“I will not!”

“And what if Onders comes to the door?”

“Oh.”

“Think, Marie,” he insisted. “You’re too close to this to stay objective. Let me handle this.”

“All right,” she agreed, settling back in her seat and studying the map. “At least initially.”

Grant drove down the driveway to the front of the old place. It was a gray, two-story stone building, with lots of windows on the first floor. It appeared deserted. There could be vehicles hidden from view in the three small outbuildings.

He parked in the circular driveway that fronted the
house, stopping well past the entrance. Marie rolled down her window and remained low in the seat.

“Go ahead. If anyone answers the door, you can ask directions or something. I’ll stay down,” Marie promised.

He pounded on the door several times and was about to give it up when he heard scuffling footsteps inside.

A short, thin, gray-haired man opened the door. Dressed in a ratty robe and slippers, he peered silently up at Grant over wire-rimmed glasses. The eyes were dark, almost black, the complexion sallow.

“I wonder if you could help me, sir,” Grant said in English. “Is there a petrol station nearby?”

“Six kilometers that direction on the main road,” the old fellow said, pointing. “You are American?”

“Canadian, on holiday. Grant Tyndal from Toronto. And who may I thank, sir?” Grant asked, smiling broadly. He detected an accent. British, he thought, but not precisely that.

“Dr. Shapur,” the man informed him.

Grant offered his hand and met reluctant acceptance. “What a grand old house you have here, doctor. I have always been interested in architecture. Is it prewar by any chance?”

“Yes.” The word was clipped, impatient. Perhaps he was frightened. Or a little off the mark mentally. Hard to tell.

“I had best be on my way, then. You’ve been a great help to me, Dr. Shapur. I do appreciate your time.”

“Of course. Drive with care.”

Grant said a cheery goodbye, returned to the car and drove back to the main road.

“Well, he isn’t Shute,” he told Marie.

“Not dead. He looks old, though. Maybe a former partner?”

“You were supposed to stay down and out of sight.”

“I did. He didn’t see me, but I saw him clearly. Perfect little vignette in the side mirror.”

“Maybe he’s been masquerading as Shute so he wouldn’t have to move out. What do you think?”

“That I’ve seen his face before,” Marie said, resuming a more comfortable posture and adjusting her seat belt now that they were out of sight of the house.

“You’re kidding! Lately?”

“No and not in person. In an old
National Geographic
from the seventies. Research for an international studies course I took.” She met Grant’s questioning glance. “He’s Iranian. Affiliated with the last shah of Iran. At least he was photographed with him thirty-odd years ago.”

“Amazing.” Grant shook his head. “How do you keep all that in your brain? You’re sure?”

“Certain. I don’t know his name, but his face is distinctive and hasn’t changed radically. He looked old, even then. I never forget a face. Let’s go back to the library.”

“He said his name’s Dr. Shapur. Is that familiar?”

“No. The people in the photo weren’t identified, except for the shah and the royal family.”

“If you can make a sketch, I’ll send it in. We’ll get confirmation on the name and whatever info’s on record about him, hopefully by tonight.”

“So, we’re going back after dark. Good plan.”

“
I’m
going. Alone.”

“What about backup?” Marie asked.

“If the Rivers woman is being held there, I stand a better chance of getting her out if I’m by myself. Besides, the doctor might have had company in there that we didn’t see. I thought he looked a little scared.”

“All the more reason for you to have a partner to back you up. I’m going.”

“If Onders sees you, he’ll kill you, Marie. He’ll know you saw him, know that’s how you found him and eliminate you.”

“Not if I see him first.” She held up a hand to stop his protest. “Promise not to kill him unless it’s unavoidable.”

“Yeah, right. Have you ever killed anybody? You know what the fallout’s like?”

She thought about it. “No, I haven’t and I don’t really want to.” He wasn’t buying it. “Seriously, Grant. That’s not what I want.”

“No, you don’t, believe me. So let’s just keep the temptation off the table, okay?”

Once they returned to the hotel, Grant watched as Marie took up her sketchbook and began creating a likeness. Her fingers flew, stopping only occasionally to smudge a line or prop the pad against the headboard of the bed and sit back from it to gain new perspective.

What a talent she had. Magic in her hands. He pushed back the memories she had made with those hands earlier in the day. Man, she was driving him crazy.

He wondered what she had thought of their lovemaking, but he had so far resisted the urge to tune in. All he had to do was pick up something of hers that she’d touched immediately afterward.

The hairbrush. She would have been thinking of what happened between them while she raked it through her tousled hair, wouldn’t she? Or maybe that shoulder bag she’d clutched while he was driving.

But what if she hadn’t thought of him at all? It was very possible she’d had her mind on where they were going, trying to rescue Cynthia Rivers. Or maybe killing Onders if they found him there. Damn, he wanted to know.

Sidling around the room, killing time while she drew, he stopped at the chair where her purse lay. Using that seemed like cheating. Or an invasion of her thoughts.

How would he like it if she were capable and did the same thing to him? With an explosive sigh, he turned away from the temptation and walked over to look out the window.

Using his ability on the job was one thing, but it seemed more like abusing it when it involved a personal matter.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, sounding a trifle distracted by what she was doing.

“Dying of curiosity,” he admitted. “Did it mean anything?”

“What?” she asked, still focused on her work.

“Us. You’re acting as if nothing happened. Regretting it?”

She smiled and smudged some more. “Nope.”

“Just for the record, I wasn’t disappointed, not by a long shot.”

“Thanks.”

Grant wanted to shake her silly. “Well? Is that
all
you have to say?”

She put the sketchbook down and looked at him, her head cocked to one side. “If it’s an ego boost you’re looking for, then I admit the sex was great. Best ever, but let it go at that, Grant. Don’t get possessive.”

“That’s what you’re afraid of? Well, I guess that’s understandable, especially after what happened to you.”

She picked up the sketch again and stared down at it. “Wow, you really are psychic.” Then she dropped the sarcasm and faced him again. “You have no idea what it’s like, and I can’t explain it. It’s a control thing. I have to be in control.”

He felt a little bit angry and a lot defensive. “Hey, you were the one calling the shots.”

She nodded. “I know. That’s why it…worked so well for us.”

“Someone in your past had total control and you didn’t like it. Were you forced?”

Her gaze dropped and she began working again. It was several minutes before she answered. “No, but it was close.”

“Tell me,” Grant suggested softly. “Sometimes it helps to talk about it, and I’ll bet you never have.”

Her smile was sad. “I see how you look at me, Grant. You’ve only seen me the way I wanted you to. The real me is someone you wouldn’t even want to know. I’m not talking about the surface now.”

“Tell me about you and see what happens. I’m a little deeper than you seem to think.”

“Fine.” She made a few more marks, then held up the drawing and examined it. “I was almost thirteen,” she said. “My stepfather had been sneaking into my room
for nearly a year. Just touching, talking suggestively, making me really uncomfortable.”

“Surely you told somebody!”

“Of course, I’m not stupid. I told my mother, but she accused me of being jealous of her and lying just to get rid of him.”

“Was she nuts?” Grant could hardly control his anger at the woman. What kind of mother would say such a thing to a child in danger?

She shrugged. “Maybe she was crazy. I got sick of it all and decided to confront him.”

Grant couldn’t imagine what she must have gone through with no one to turn to, no one to help her. “I hope you had a weapon.”

Her chuckle was grim. “The best. Brains. He wasn’t all that smart. I called him at work, had him meet me at the food court at the mall. Safety in numbers, I figured. When he got there, I told him I was going to the police if he didn’t get out of town that afternoon. He freaked. Quietly, of course, and he threatened to kill my mom if I told.”

“What did you do?” Grant demanded, horrified. “I hope you went to the police anyway!”

“No, I knew it would have been my word against his, and if my own mother didn’t believe me, why should they?” She still focused on her work as she spoke. “But TV cop shows are really helpful. I told him about the evidence I’d collected. Semen on my sheets and underwear. It had never gone that far, so he knew he hadn’t put it there, of course.”

“But you had?”

“Not really, but I told him that I had, from used
condoms I’d found in the trash in their bedroom. I told him I had a boyfriend at school, that the cops would surely wonder how a poor little girl had lost her virginity at twelve and they’d blame him for it. That was a lie, of course. I was still intact, but I must have been pretty damn convincing.”

“How could you have known about sex at twelve?” Grant couldn’t imagine that.

“Oh, man, you are naive, aren’t you! I did an awful lot of unsupervised reading,” she replied easily. “You’d be amazed at what a girl can learn from the printed word and television. I told him the cops would also look at the husband first if my mother was killed and that I would make sure he stayed in prison for life. I’d testify that they had fights all the time.”

“Good God, Marie. He might have killed you for that!”

She nodded. “He threatened that, too, but I presented my insurance. I had a diary, I said. If I died, that plus the evidence would turn up immediately and he’d never find any of it before the police did. I gave him four hours to pack and get out of Atlanta.”

Grant couldn’t believe a girl that age could manage such a thing. It was a helluva coming of age. He felt speechless.

But the story wasn’t over. Marie kept drawing as she told the rest. “So he left. Trouble is, my mother went with him. I spent the next five years with an eighty-year-old woman who lived next door.”

Her blue eyes looked old when she faced him again. “We made a deal, Mrs. Cox and I. I would do her errands, keep her independent and out of a nursing home.
She wouldn’t rat me out to the authorities, who would have stuck me in foster care. We lived on her Social Security and my paper route.”

Grant was shaking his head in disbelief. “What about school?”