Call After Midnight (13 page)

“You never met Sokolov, did you?”

“No.”

“They say his kids found him New Year's day. He had two sons, ten years old or so. They went down to the basement looking for Daddy. They found him with a bullet in his head. Nice New Year's surprise, don't you think?”

“These things happen, Nick. You shouldn't ruin a career over it.”

“Two kids, for God's sake! If Potter had listened to me, those two little boys would be safe in Montana or somewhere. Now they're probably freezing in Siberia, hauled back by the KGB.”

“He was a defector. He took a risk and lost. Hey, this is all history. You didn't really come here to grouse about Potter, did you?”

“No. I'm here about Sarah Fontaine. I want to know why Potter's involved.”

Lieberman shook his head. “Nick, I shouldn't even be talking to you. I hear from the grapevine that you're as popular as a dead fish. So before I say a thing, tell me why you're interested in the Fontaine case.”

“Let's call it a sense of moral outrage.”

“What're you outraged about?”

“Right now, Sarah Fontaine's sitting in my hotel room, wondering whether she's a widow. I happen to think her husband's alive. But all I've been hearing from our people is that he's dead. That I should give the widow my condolences and forget about it.”

“So why not take the easy way out and do what you're told?”

“I don't like being lied to. And I really don't like being ordered to pass those same lies along. If there's a reason for keeping her in the dark, then I want to hear it. If it's valid, okay, I'll back off. But she's going through hell, and I think she has a right to know the truth.”

Lieberman sighed. “Back tilting at windmills, aren't you? Know what we used to call you around here? Don Quixote. Nick, why don't you save yourself an ulcer and just go home?”

“Then you won't help me.”

“No, it's not that I don't want to. I just don't have any answers.”

“Can you tell me why Potter showed up at the station in your place?”

“Okay, I can tell you that much. I got a call this morning from above that Potter would be handling the case, that I wasn't to get involved.”

“A call from above? How far above?”

“Let's just say very far above.”

“How was her release arranged?”

“Through the British chain of command, I assume. Someone must've whispered in their ear.”

“The Brits?” Nick frowned. “Then it's a cooperative effort?”

“Draw your own conclusions.” Lieberman's smile revealed he did not disagree.

“What's Roy Potter's involvement?”

“Who knows? Obviously the Company's very interested in your widow. Enough to spring her from jail. Since Potter himself is doing the footwork, I imagine there must be high stakes involved.”

“Have you looked over the Fontaine case?” asked Nick.

“Briefly. Before they called me off of it.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought the murder charge had a few major holes. A good barrister could've knocked it to pieces.”

“And what did you think about Geoffrey Fontaine's death?”

“Irregular.”

“An understatement if ever I've heard one. Did you know anything about Eve Fontaine?”

“Not really. I was told she bought the cottage a year ago. They say she was a recluse. Spent all her time out at Margate. But I'm sure you know a lot more about that than I do. Did you say the widow's staying in your room?”

“That's right. At my old bed and breakfast on Baker Street.”

“Oh, the Kenmore.” Lieberman filed away this information without a change in expression. “What sort of woman is she?”

Nick thought a moment. “Quiet,” he said at last. “Intelligent. At the moment, very bewildered.”

“I saw her passport photo. She struck me as rather, well…unremarkable.”

“She strikes a lot of people that way.”

“May I ask what your involvement is?”

“No.”

Lieberman smiled. “Blunt as ever! Look, Nick, that really is all I know.” He made a gesture that implied he had more pressing business. “If I have more information, I'll give you a call. How long will you be at the Kenmore?”

Nick rose. “For a few days, probably. After that, I'm not sure.”

“And Sarah Fontaine? Will she be staying with you?”

Nick didn't have an answer. If it were up to him, Sarah would be on a plane back to Washington. Just the fact she
was sitting alone in his room right now made him nervous. The Kenmore's proprietress, an old acquaintance of Nick's, had assured him that her two beefy sons would handle any trouble. Still, Nick was anxious to get back. Eve Fontaine's gruesome death still weighed on his mind.

“If Sarah decides to stay in London,” Nick said, “then I'll be around.”

They shook hands. Lieberman's grip was the same as always, firm and connected. It made Nick want to trust him. “By the way,” Nick said as they walked to the door, “have you ever heard of someone called Magus?”

Lieberman's brow remained absolutely smooth. Not a ripple passed through his blue eyes. “Magus?” he repeated. “In biblical terms, it refers to a wise man. Or a magician.”

“No. I'm referring to a code name.”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

Nick paused in the doorway. “One last thing. Could you relay a message to Roy Potter for me?”

“Sure. Just keep the language decent.”

“Tell him to call off his bloodhounds. Or at least have them follow us at a more discreet distance.”

For the first time, a frown appeared on Lieberman's face. “I'll tell him,” he said. “But if I were you, I'd make damn sure it really is the Company on your tail. Because if it isn't, let's just say the alternative might be a lot less pleasant.”

“Less pleasant than the Company?” asked Nick. “I doubt it.”

* * *

W
HEN NICK RETURNED
to his room at the Kenmore Bed and Breakfast, Sarah was fast asleep. She was sprawled, fully dressed, on the bed by the window, her face nestled against the pillow, her arm trailing over the side. Her glasses had fallen to the floor, as if she'd drifted to sleep still clutching
them. The sun shone in brightly and illuminated her coppery hair.

For a moment he stood over the bed and gazed down at her, taking in the baggy sweater and the plain gray skirt. Lieberman had called her unremarkable.
Maybe to everyone else she is,
thought Nick.
Maybe I'm not seeing straight. Maybe I'm too lonely to care about looks anymore.
Whatever the reason, as he watched her now, he was starting to think she was really quite beautiful.

Not in the classical sense. Not like Lauren, the woman he'd once been married to. Black-haired, green-eyed Lauren could walk into a room and make a dozen heads turn. Nick had gotten a kick out of that—for a while. When Lauren was on his arm, other men would glance enviously in his direction, and he'd marvel at his own good luck. She'd been the perfect embassy wife: charming, witty, always ready with the repartee. And she'd been beautiful, in a way any man could appreciate. She'd known it, too. Maybe that had been the problem.

The woman sleeping on this bed was nothing like Lauren. Sarah had called herself plain. She'd felt a sense of wonder that a man like Geoffrey had married her. It must have been painful to learn that her marriage had been nothing but a sham. Nick knew all about pain; he'd lived through it himself four years ago. In a way, he'd never recovered. After his divorce he'd promised himself he'd never be hurt again. So here he was, stubbornly single. At least the bitterness had faded. At least he was still human enough to look at Sarah and think of the possibilities.

The possibilities? Who was he kidding? There were none. Not until they learned the truth about Geoffrey.

Sarah wasn't ready to abandon what for her had been a happy marriage. It was obvious she still loved her husband. She wanted to believe in him. The perverse part about it
all was that this very loyalty to Geoffrey was what made Sarah so appealing. Loyalty.

Nick turned and gazed out the window. In the street below, the same black car was parked. The Company was still watching them. He waved, wondering what in God's name had happened to the quality of spies these days. Then he closed the curtain and went to lie down on the other bed.

The daylight was disconcerting. He couldn't sleep. Tired as he was, he could only lie there with his eyes closed and think.

What exactly am I doing here?
he wondered. Boarding the plane last night had been an impulse of pure anger. He'd thought Sarah had lied to him; she had hammered the last nail in the coffin of his career, and he had meant to find her and get to the truth. Instead, here he was, not ten feet away from her, daydreaming about the possibilities.

He glanced over at her bed. She was sleeping so soundly, so peacefully, like a tired child. Yet she wasn't a child, and he was too aware of that fact. He remembered how it had felt this morning to touch her hair, to feel her face against his shoulder. Something began to stir in his belly, something very, very dangerous. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, and Sarah looked so soft, so near….

He closed his eyes, suddenly angry at his own lack of control. Why was he putting himself through this unnecessary agony? The smart thing to do would be to go home and let the CIA handle the whole affair. But if they let anything happen to her, he'd never forgive himself.

Gradually, fitfully, Nick drifted toward sleep. A vision intruded: a woman with amber eyes. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but his hands became tangled in the long strands of her hair. Sarah, Sarah. How could anyone not think you beautiful? His hands moved leadenly, caught in a
web too thick to penetrate. Beyond his grasp, Sarah faded away. He was alone. As always, he was alone.

* * *

I
N ONE OF
Roy Potter's back rooms, a radio report came over the receiver. “O'Hara left Lieberman's office forty minutes ago,” the agent called in. “Now he's back at the Kenmore. Haven't seen the woman for an hour. Curtains are drawn. Looks like they're hitting the sack.”

“And I'll bet ya two bangers it's not to sleep,” Potter muttered to his assistant. Agent Tarasoff barely smiled. Tarasoff had no sense of humor, no sense of fun. His style of dressing was absolutely correct: a conservative gray suit, a tie in dull blues and silvers, a plain white shirt, and all of it spotless. Even the way Tarasoff ate his roast-beef sandwich was boring. He took neat little nibbles, wiping his fingers between bites. Now Potter, on the other hand, ate like a normal person. No pussyfooting around. He just ate and got it over with. Potter gulped down his last bite of corned-beef sandwich and reached for the transmitter.

“Okay, guys, just stick it out. See who wanders by.”

“Yes, sir. Have you got anything on the Kenmore folks?”

“Clean Brits. Plain old B and B types, widow and two sons.”

“Check. We've seen 'em.”

“How're you guys situated?”

“Can't complain. Got a pub right across the street.”

“Has he spotted you yet?”

“Afraid so, sir. He flipped us a bird some time back.”

Tarasoff made a sound that might have been a chuckle. But when Potter glanced over at him, all he saw was the same impassive face.

“Geez, he's on to you already? What'd you guys do? Go up and introduce yourselves?”

“No, sir. He saw us way back, after we left the station.”

“Okay. It's one-thirty. You can clock yourselves out in two hours. Keep alive.”

Potter hung up, crumpled the waxed paper from his lunch and tossed it at the trash can. It missed by a mile, but he didn't feel like getting up.

Tarasoff rose and retrieved the crumpled paper. “What do you make of all this, Mr. Potter?” he asked, neatly dropping the trash into the can.

Potter shrugged. “Wild-goose chase? I hope not.”

“Should we be looking at this Nick O'Hara in a different light?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it possible there's something more complex involved? Could he be under deep cover for someone?”

Potter burst out laughing. “O'Hara? Let me tell you something about him. He's not the deep-cover type. Too damned honest. Thinks he's on a quest for the Holy Grail or something. You know, the kind of guy who spends all day worrying about dead whales.” Potter eyed Tarasoff's half-eaten roast-beef sandwich. His stomach was still growling. “You gonna finish that thing?”

“No, sir. You can have it.”

Potter took a bite and almost choked. Horseradish. Why did folks have to go and ruin perfectly good roast beef? But there was no point wasting it. “O'Hara's smart enough, I guess,” he said between bites. “I mean, in an intellectual sort of way—all theory, no practice. Speaks about four languages. Not a bad consular officer. But he just doesn't operate in the real world.”

“It's strange, though,” said Tarasoff. “Why should he get mixed up in this affair? He's jeopardized his career. It doesn't make sense to me.”

“Tarasoff, have you ever been in love?”

“I'm married.”

“No, I mean
in love
?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“You suppose so. Hell, that's not love. By love, I mean something red-hot, something that'll make you go crazy, risk your life. Maybe even get married.”

“He's in love? With Sarah Fontaine?”

“Why not?”

Tarasoff shook his head gravely. “I think he's under deep cover.”

Potter laughed. “Never underestimate the power of hormones.”

“That's what my wife always says.” Tarasoff suddenly frowned at Potter's arm. “Sir, you'd better wipe up that mustard. It'll ruin your jacket.”