Call After Midnight (10 page)

“What happened, Eve?”

Eve cleared her throat and lifted her head bravely. “I don't know. All I know is, he left London two weeks ago. He had joined an operation against Magus. Then things went wrong. He was being followed. Someone left explosives, set to go off in his hotel room. He called from Berlin and told me he'd decided to vanish. I was to go into hiding. When the time was right, he'd come for me. But the night before I left Margate, I had a—a premonition. I tried to call him in Berlin. That's when I learned he was dead.”

“But he's not dead!” Sarah blurted. “He's alive!”

Eve's hands jerked, almost causing her to drop the cigarette. “What?”

“He called me two days ago. That's why I'm here. He told me to come to him—that he loved me—”

“You're lying.”

“It's true!” cried Sarah. “I know his voice.”

“A recording, perhaps—some kind of trick. It's easy to imitate a voice. No, it couldn't have been him. He wouldn't call
you
,” Eve said coldly.

Sarah fell silent. Why would someone use Geoffrey's voice to draw her to Europe? Then she remembered something else, another piece of the puzzle that made no sense. She looked across the table at Eve. “The day I left Washington, someone broke into my apartment. All they took was a photograph—that's all, just a photograph—and I still don't underst—”

“A photograph?” Eve asked sharply. “Of Geoffrey?”

“Yes. It was our wedding picture.”

The woman's face went chalk white. She stubbed out her cigarette and snapped up her purse and sweater.

“Where are you going?” asked Sarah.

“I have to get back—he'll be searching for me.”

“Who?”

“Geoffrey.”

“But you said he was dead!”

Eve's eyes were suddenly as bright and sparkling as jewels. “No. No, he's alive. He must be! Don't you see? They don't know his face so they've stolen his photograph. It means they're looking for him, too.” She threw on her sweater and ran for the door.

“Eve!” Sarah scrambled from the booth and chased after her. But when she stepped outside, the street was empty. She saw only fog, great thick clouds of it, creeping at her feet. “Eve?” she called. There was no answer.

Eve had disappeared.

* * *

E
VE DIDN'T GET
far. Wild and reckless with hope, she ran through the fog of Dorset Street toward the underground station. She didn't stop to listen for footsteps; she didn't take all the usual precautions she'd learned to take during her years as a Mossad operative. Simon was alive—that was all that mattered. He was alive, and he'd be waiting for her. She didn't have the patience to zigzag through the neighborhood, to pause in doorways and see if she was alone. Instead, her path took her in a straight line for the subway station.

After only two blocks of running, her breathing became hard and heavy. It was the cigarettes, she thought. Too many years of smoking had left her easy to tire and short of breath. But she forced herself to keep moving, until
the ache started in her chest and she knew she'd have to rest, just for a moment. The pain was an old problem, one she'd lived with since she was a child. It meant nothing. It would ease up a bit and she could keep going.

She paused to lean against a lamppost. Little by little the ache subsided. Her breathing came easier. The roaring in her ears faded. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Then another sound penetrated her awareness, a sound so soft she almost missed it. She stiffened, and her eyes shot open. There it was again, a few yards away. A footstep. But in which direction?

Staring desperately through the mist she tried to make out a face, a figure, but she saw nothing. Reaching into her purse, she withdrew the pistol she always carried. The cold steel felt instantly reassuring in her palm. She realized that the lamplight was a beacon, and she was standing right beneath it. She fled into the shadows. Darkness had always been her ally.

Another sound made her swing the pistol around.
Where is he?
she thought.
Why can't I see him?

She realized too late that the last sound had been nothing more than a decoy, a trick meant to draw her aim. From behind, something rushed at her. Before she could twist around and fire, she was flung to the ground. The pistol flew from her hand, and then, in the next instant, she felt a blade press firmly against her throat.

A face was smiling down at her, a face she recognized. Even in the darkness, his pale hair gleamed like silver.

“Kronen,” she whispered.

She felt the blade slide across her skin, as gentle as a caress. She wanted to scream, but terror had clamped off her throat.

“Little Eva,” Kronen murmured. Then he laughed softly, and that was when Eve knew she would not live through the night.

* * *

T
HE WORLD LOOKED
different from thirty-five thousand feet. No neon lights, no traffic, no concrete, just an endless black sky glittering with stars.

Nick leaned his head back tiredly and wished he could sleep. Almost everyone else on Flight 201 to London seemed to be snoring blissfully across the Atlantic. On the other side of the dim cabin, he saw a stewardess gently tuck in a child and tiptoe away down the aisle. It was 1:00 a.m., D.C. time, yet Nick was wide awake, with an airline blanket still folded neatly on his lap.

He was too disgusted to sleep. He kept remembering Sarah and how innocent she'd looked, how grief stricken and vulnerable. What a great actress. She'd given an Oscar-winning performance. She'd also stirred up a whole host of male instincts he'd forgotten he had. He'd wanted to protect her, to hold her.

Now he wasn't sure
what
he wanted to do to her. Whatever it was, protection had nothing to do with it.

Because of Sarah Fontaine he was out of a job, his patriotism was in question and worst of all, he felt like a damned fool. Van Dam had been right. As a spy Nick was nothing but a rank amateur.

The more he thought about how she'd fooled him, the angrier he got. He slapped the armrest and stared out the window at the stars.

By God, when he got to London, he'd get the truth out of her. He owed it to himself; he couldn't leave the foreign service without clearing his record.

She wouldn't be expecting him in London. He already
knew where to find her; a phone call confirmed that she'd checked into the Savoy, her husband's usual hotel. He looked forward to seeing the look on her face when she opened her door to find him standing there. Surprise, surprise! Nick O'Hara was in town to set the record straight. And this time he wouldn't settle for lies.

But mingled with his anger was another emotion, much deeper and infinitely more disturbing. He kept coming back to that old fantasy, the vision of her standing in his bedroom, gazing at him with those soft amber eyes. The confusion of what he really felt was driving him nuts. He didn't know if he wanted to kiss her or strangle her. Maybe both.

He did know one thing. Boarding this flight to London had surely been the craziest stunt he'd ever pulled. All his life he'd made decisions thoughtfully. He was not, by nature, a careless man. But tonight he'd thrown his clothes into a suitcase, caught a taxi to Dulles and slapped a credit card down on the British Airways ticket counter. It was totally unlike him to do something so impulsive, so emotional. So stupid. He hoped it wasn't the start of a new trend.

* * *

T
HE OLD MAN
would not be happy.

As Kronen wiped the woman's blood from his knife, he considered putting off the inevitable phone call for another hour, another day. At least until he'd eaten a stout breakfast or perhaps put away a few pints. But the old man would be hungry for news, and Kronen didn't want to keep him waiting too long. The old man didn't tolerate frustrations very well these days. Ever since the tragedy, he had been impatient and easily irritated. One did not irritate him if one wanted to remain in good health.

Not that Kronen was afraid. He knew the old man needed him too much.

At the age of eight, Kronen had been plucked from the trash heaps of Dublin and adopted by the old man. Perhaps it was the boy's fair, almost white hair that caught his attention; perhaps it was the utter emptiness in the boy's eyes, the sign of a soulless vacuum within a shell of human flesh and bone. The old man recognized, even then, that the boy could someday be dangerous. A boy without a soul had no use for love, and as a man he might someday turn on his guardian.

But a boy without a soul could also be very useful. So the old man took the boy in, fed him, taught him, maybe even loved him a little, but he never quite trusted him.

Kronen, even at a young age, had sensed the old man's distrust. Instead of resenting it, he had worked hard to overcome it. Anything the old man wanted done, Kronen would do. After thirty years of doing his bidding, it had become automatic. Kronen was well compensated. More important, he enjoyed his work. It gave him a sense of pleasure and satisfaction. Especially when it involved women.

Like tonight.

Unfortunately the woman had not talked. She'd been stronger that way than any man he'd ever met. Even an hour of his most persuasive techniques had been to no avail. She'd done a lot of screaming, which had both annoyed and excited him, but she'd given him absolutely no information. And then, when he'd least expected it, she'd died.

That had bothered him most of all. He hadn't meant to kill her. At least not yet. What bad luck to discover too
late that his victim had a weak heart. She'd looked healthy enough.

He finished wiping his blade. He believed in cleanliness, especially when it came to his favorite knife. A sharp edge required care. He put the knife in its sheath and stared at the telephone. There was no point in delaying the matter any longer. He decided to call Amsterdam.

The old man answered.

“Eva did not talk,” said Kronen.

The silence was enough. He could sense the disappointment through the receiver. “Then she is dead?”

“Yes,” said Kronen.

“What about the other?”

“I am still watching her. Dance has not come near.”

The old man made a sound of impatience. “I cannot wait forever. We have to force his hand.”

“How?”

“Abduct her.”

“But she has the CIA following her.”

“I'll see they're taken care of. By tomorrow. Then you take the woman.”

“And then?”

“See if she knows anything. If she does not, we can still use her. We will broadcast an ultimatum. If Dance is alive, he'll respond.”

Kronen was not so sure. Unlike the old man, he held no faith in something as ridiculous as love. Besides, he'd seen Sarah Fontaine, and he didn't think any man—certainly not Simon Dance—would come to her rescue. No, to risk one's life for a woman was absurd. He didn't think Dance would be so stupid.

Nevertheless, it would be an interesting experiment.
And when it was over the old man would let Kronen take care of the woman. Her heart would certainly be stronger than Eva Fontaine's. She would last much longer. Yes, it would be an interesting experiment. It gave him something to look forward to.

* * *

I
N A DREAM
it came back to Sarah. But everything was distorted and strange and swirling with mist. She was running through the streets, running after Geoffrey, crying out his name. She heard his footsteps ahead of her, but he was always out of sight, always beyond her reach. Then the footsteps changed. They were behind her. She was no longer the pursuer, but the pursued. She was running through the fog, and the footsteps were growing closer. Her heart was pounding. Her legs refused to work. She struggled to move forward.

Her path was blocked by a woman with green eyes, a woman who was standing in the middle of the street, laughing at her. The footsteps closed in. Sarah whirled around.

The man who came toward her was someone she knew, someone with tired gray eyes. Slowly he emerged from the mist. And as he did, her fears dissolved. Here was safety, here was warmth. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestoned streets….

Sarah woke up, drenched in sweat. Someone was knocking at her door. She turned on the light. It was 4:00 a.m.

The knock came again, louder. “Mrs. Fontaine?” said a man's voice. “Please open up, ma'am.”

“Who is it?” she called.

“The police.”

She stumbled out of bed, struggled into a robe and
opened the door. Two uniformed policemen stood outside, accompanied by a sleepy-eyed hotel clerk.

“Mrs. Sarah Fontaine?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Sorry for the intrusion, ma'am, but it will be necessary for you to accompany us to the station headquarters.”

“I don't understand. Why?”

“We're obliged to place you under detention.”

She clutched the door with both hands and stared at them in amazement. “Do you mean I'm under
arrest
? But for what?”

“For murder. The murder of Mrs. Eve Fontaine.”

T
HIS CANNOT BE
happening,
thought Sarah.

Surely it was a nightmare, a scenario pulled from the darkest reaches of her subconscious. She was sitting in a hard chair, staring at a bare wooden table. Glaring fluorescent lights shone down on her from the ceiling and illuminated her every movement, like a spotlight waiting for guilt to appear. The room was cold and she felt half-naked, dressed only in her nightgown and robe. A detective with ice-blue eyes brusquely fired question after question, without letting her finish a single sentence. Only after she'd asked him half a dozen times did he let her use the bathroom, and then only with a matron standing outside the stall.

Once back in the interrogation room, she was left shivering and alone for a moment to ponder her situation.
I am going to jail,
she thought.
I am going to be locked up forever, for murdering a woman I met only last night....