In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (49 page)

“You mean without me.”

“That’s right.” Her chin slanted up as she found the courage to keep talking. “I can’t afford to spend my time worrying about you. You’ll be fine holed up in Chetwynd.”

“And where will you go?”

She smiled nonchalantly. “Some place warm. The south of France, maybe. Or Sicily. Anywhere I can be on a beach.”

“If you live long enough to climb into a bathing suit.” The train pulled in to the next stop. Abruptly he pulled her to her feet and snapped, “We’re getting off.” She followed him off the train and up the station steps 456

Tess Gerritsen

to Oxford Street. He was silent, his shoulders squared in anger. So much for self-sacrifice, she thought. All she’d managed to do was turn him against her. And why the hell was he mad at her, anyway? It wasn’t as if she’d rejected him. She’d simply offered him the chance to leave.

The chance to live.

“I was only thinking of
you,
you know,” she said.

“I’m quite aware of that.”

“Then why are you ticked off at me?”

“You don’t give me much credit.”

“There’s nothing more you can do for me. You have to admit, it doesn’t make sense for both of us to get our heads blown off. If we split up, they’ll forget all about you.”

“Will
you
forget all about me?” She halted on the sidewalk. “Does it matter?”

“Doesn’t it?” He turned to face her. They stood looking at each other, an obstruction to all the pedestrians moving along the sidewalk.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said. “I’m sorry it has to end this way, Jordan. But I have to look out for number one. Which means I can’t have you around. I don’t
want
you around.”

“You don’t know what the hell you want.”

“All right, maybe I don’t. But I do know what’s best for
you.
”

“So do I,” he said, and reached for her. His arms went around her back and his mouth came down on hers in a branding kiss that held no gentleness, brooked no resistance.

Far from protesting, she welcomed the assault, thrilled to the surge of his tongue into her mouth, the hungry roving of his hands up and down her back. She could not hide her
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457

desire from him, nor could he from her. They were both helpless and hopeless, lost to the crazy yearnings that always burst forth whenever they touched. It had been this way from the start. It would always be this way. A look, a touch, and suddenly the tension would be sizzling between them.

His lips slid to her cheek, then her ear, and the tickle of his hot breath sent a tremor of delight down her spine.

“Have I made myself clear?” he whispered.

She moaned. “About what?”

“About staying together.”

The need was still too strong between them. She pulled away and took a step back, fighting the urge to touch him again.
You and your crazy sense of honor,
she thought, staring up at his face.
It will get you killed. And I couldn’t
stand that.

“I’m not exactly helpless, you know,” she said.

He smiled. “Still, you have to admit I’ve come in handy on occasion.”

“On occasion,” she agreed.

“You need me, Clea. To beat Van Weldon.” She shook her head. “I’ve already tried. Now there’s nothing else I can do.”

“Yes, there is.”

“The dagger’s gone. I have no evidence. I can’t see any way to get at him.”

“There is a way.” He moved closer. “Veronica Cairncross.”

“What about her?”

“I’ve been trying to piece it all together. And I think you’re right. She could be the key to all this. I’ve known Ronnie for years. She’s a jolly girl, great fun to be around.

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But she’s a gambler. And a big spender. Over the last few years she’s run up a fortune in debts. A scam like this could’ve saved her skin.”

“But now we’re back to the problem of how she commissioned that reproduction,” said Clea. “How’d she get her hands on the original? It belonged to Van Weldon. Did she buy it from him? Borrow it from him?”

“Or steal it from him?”

Clea shuddered at the thought. “No one’s stupid enough to cross Van Weldon.”

“Somehow, though, that dagger found its way from Van Weldon into Delancey’s hands. Veronica could be the link between them. That’s what we have to find out.” Jordan paused, thinking. “She and Oliver have a town house here in London. They spend their weekdays here.

Which means they’d be in town now.” Clea frowned at him. She didn’t like this new shift of conversation. “What, exactly, are you thinking?” He eyed her hair. “I’m thinking,” he said, “that it’s time for you to try a wig.”

Archie MacLeod hung up the phone and looked at Richard Wolf and Hugh Tavistock. “They’re in London.

My man just spoke to an official from Lloyd’s. Jordan and Clea Rice paid a visit there around four o’clock today. Unfortunately the man they met with—an Anthony Vauxhall—wasn’t aware of the investigation. He just happened to mention their visit to his superior. By the time we found out, Jordan and Clea Rice had already left.”

“So we know they’re still alive,” said Hugh.

“As of this afternoon, anyway.”

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459

They were sitting in Chetwynd’s library, the room they’d turned into a crisis headquarters. Hugh had hurried back to Chetwynd that morning, and all day the three of them had sat waiting for word from their police contacts.

This last news was good. Jordan had made it safely to London.

Not that Richard was surprised. In the few months he’d known his future brother-in-law, he’d come to appreciate Jordan’s resourcefulness. In a pinch there were few men Richard would rather have at his side.

Clea Rice, too, was a survivor. Together, they might just stay alive.

Richard looked at Hugh. The older man was looking drained and weary. The worry showed plainly in Hugh’s round face. “That price on Clea Rice’s head will be drawing every contract man in Europe,” said Richard.

“Surely, Lord Lovat,” said MacLeod, “you can marshal some help from your intelligence contacts. We have to find them.”

Hugh shook his head. “My Jordan was reared in the lap of the intelligence business. All these years he’s been listening. Learning. He’s probably picked up a trick or two.

Even with help, it won’t be easy to track him down. Which means it won’t be easy for Van Weldon to track him down, either.”

“You don’t know Victor Van Weldon the way I do,” said MacLeod. “At this point, he’ll be willing to pay a fortune to get rid of Clea Rice. I’m afraid money is the world’s best motivator.”

“Not money,” said Richard. “Fear. That’s what will keep Jordan alive.”

“Blast it all,” said Hugh. “Why do we know so little 460

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about this Victor Van Weldon, anyway? Is he so untouchable?”

“I’m afraid he is,” admitted MacLeod. He sank into a chair by the fireplace. “Victor Van Weldon has always operated on the fringes of international law. Never quite crossing the boundaries into illegality. At least, never leaving any evidence of it. He hides behind a regiment of lawyers. Keeps homes in Gstaad, Brussels and probably a few places we haven’t found out about. He’s like some rare bird, almost never sighted, but very much alive.”

“You can’t dredge up any evidence against him?”

“We know he’s involved in international arms ship-ments. Dabbles in the drug trade. But every time we think we have hard evidence, it disintegrates in our hands. Or a witness dies. Or documents vanish. For years it’s been a source of frustration for me, how he manages to elude me.

Only recently did I realize how many friends in high places he has, keeping him apprised of my every move. That’s when I changed tactics. I picked out my own team of men.

An independent team. We’ve spent the past six months gathering information on Van Weldon, ferreting out his Achilles’ heel. We know he’s sick—emphysema and heart failure. He hasn’t much longer to live. Before he dies, I want him to face a little earthly justice.”

“You sound like a man on crusade,” said Richard.

“I’ve lost…people. Van Weldon’s work.” MacLeod looked at him. “It’s something one doesn’t forget. The face of a dying friend.”

“How close are you now to building a case?”

“We have the foundations. We know Van Weldon took big losses last year. The European economy—it’s affected even him. With his empire on the brink of ruin, he was
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bound to try something desperate. That’s when the
Havelaar
went down. Eight men dead, a fortune lost at sea—all of it fully insured. I couldn’t convince the Spanish authorities to foot the bill for a proper investigation. It would’ve required a salvage crew, ships and equip-ment. Van Weldon, we thought, had slipped away again.

Then we heard about Clea Rice.” MacLeod sighed. “Unfortunately, Miss Rice is not the sort of witness to base any prosecution on. Prison record. Family of thieves. Here we finally find a weapon against Van Weldon, and it’s one that could backfire in court.”

“So you can’t use her as the basis of any legal case,” said Hugh.

“No. We need something tangible. For instance, the artwork listed on the
Havelaar
’s manifest. We know bloody well it didn’t go down with the ship. Van Weldon’s stashed it somewhere. He’s waiting for an opportunity to sell it off piece by piece. If we just knew where he’s hidden it.”

“It was supposedly shipped from Naples.”

“We searched his Naples warehouse. We also searched—

not always legally, mind you—every building we know he owns. We’re talking about large items, not things you can just hide in a closet. Tapestries and oil paintings and even a few statues. Wherever he’s keeping it, it’s a large space.”

“There must be a warehouse you don’t know about yet.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Interpol’s not authorized to handle this alone,” said Hugh. “You’re going to need assistance.” He reached for the telephone and began to dial. “It’s not the customary way of doing things. But with Jordan’s life at stake…” 462

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Richard listened as Hugh made the contacts, called in old favors from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, as well as MI5—domestic intelligence. After he hung up, Hugh looked at Richard.

“Now I suggest we get to work ourselves,” said Hugh.

“London?”

“Jordan’s there. He may try to reach us. I want to be ready to respond.”

“What I don’t understand,” said MacLeod, “is why he hasn’t called you already.”

“He’s cautious,” said Richard. “He knows the one thing Van Weldon expects him to do is contact us for help. Under the circumstances, Jordan’s best strategy is to keep doing the
unexpected.
”

“Precisely the way Clea Rice has operated all these weeks,” observed MacLeod. “By doing the unexpected.” Van Weldon was waiting for the call. He picked up the receiver. “Well?”

“They’re here,” said Simon Trott. “They were spotted leaving Lloyd’s of London, as you predicted.”

“Is the matter concluded?”

There was a pause. “Unfortunately, no. They vanished off Brook Street—a jewelry store. The proprietor claims ignorance.”

The news made Van Weldon’s chest ache. He paused a moment to catch his breath, the whole time silently cursing Clea Rice. In all his years he’d never known such a tena-cious opponent. She was like a thorn that couldn’t be plucked out, and she seemed to keep burrowing ever deeper.

When he’d managed to catch his breath again, he said,

“So she did go to Lloyd’s. Did she take the dagger?”
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463

“Yes. She must have been rather peeved to learn it was a fake.”

“And the real Eye of Kashmir?”

“Safely back where it belongs. Or so I’ve been assured.”

“The Cairncross woman brought us to the brink of disaster. She cannot go unpunished.”

“I quite agree. What do you have in mind?”

“Something unpleasant,” said Van Weldon. Veronica Cairncross was an opportunistic bitch. And a fool as well to think she could slip one over on them. Her greed had taken her too far this time, and she was going to regret it.

“Shall I see to Mrs. Cairncross myself?” asked Trott.

“Wait. First confirm the collection is safe. It must go on the market within the month.”

“So soon after the
Havelaar?
Is that wise?” Trott raised a good point. It was risky to release the artwork onto the market. To think of all those assets bundled away, untouchable, just when he needed them most! Last year he had overextended himself, had made a few too many commitments to a few too many cartels.

Now he needed cash. Lots of it.

“I cannot wait,” said Van Weldon. “It must be sold. In Hong Kong or Tokyo, we could fetch excellent prices, and without much notice. Buyers are discreet in Tokyo. See that the collection is moved.”

“When?”

“The
Villafjord
is scheduled to dock in Portsmouth tomorrow. I will be on board.”

“You…are coming here?” There was an undertone of dismay in Trott’s voice. He
should
be dismayed. What had started as a minor difficulty had ballooned into a crisis, and Van Weldon was disgusted with his heir apparent. If Trott 464

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could not handle such simple matters as Veronica Cairncross and Clea Rice, how could he hope to assume the company’s helm?

“I will see to the shipment myself,” said Van Weldon.

“In the meantime, I expect you to find Clea Rice.”

“We have the Tavistocks under surveillance. Sooner or later, Jordan and the woman will surface.”
Perhaps not,
thought Van Weldon as he hung up. By now Clea Rice would be weary, demoralized. Her instinct would be to run as far and as fast as she could. That would take care of the problem—temporarily, at least.

Van Weldon felt better. He decided there was really no need to worry about Clea Rice. By now she’d be long gone from London.

It’s what any sensible woman would do.