Call After Midnight (29 page)

“Tarasoff!” yelled Potter. “Get your men up there! Find out where the hell that shot came from!” He turned to the Dutch cop. “How long till the ladder gets here?”

“Five, ten minutes.”

“She'll be dead by then!” said Nick, taking off toward the buildings. He didn't look twice as he passed the dead body lying on the blood-spattered sidewalk. He had to get to Sarah.

“O'Hara!” shouted Potter. “We've got to clear the building first!”

But Nick was already across the street and heading for the door. The building was unlocked. Inside, he took the stairway two steps at a time. All the way up, he was terrified he would hear a second rifle shot, terrified that he'd emerge on the roof and find Sarah dead. But all he heard were his own footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Somewhere below, a door slammed shut. Potter's voice shouted, “O'Hara?”

Nick kept going.

The wide steps led to a small staircase that spiraled to the roof. He dashed up the last steps and scrambled through the door at the top.

Outside, the sun was shining. Nick halted, stunned by the sudden burst of light and by the horror of what lay in the gravel at his feet. The dead eyes of a faceless man stared up at him. A red silk scarf fluttered in the wind, as bright and alarming as the blood seeping slowly from the man's chest. Beside him lay a rifle.

The roof door flew open. Potter rushed through and almost collided with Nick.

“My God!” said Potter, staring at the body. “It's Magus! Did he shoot himself?”

From a roof above them came a sudden wail, a ghostly sound of despair. Nick looked up in alarm.

Sarah was reaching out helplessly, as though pleading with the wind. She didn't notice Nick or Potter; she was gazing into the distance, at something only she could see. What she screamed next made Nick shudder. It didn't make sense; it was the cry of a terrified woman, driven to hysteria. He turned and looked in the direction of her gaze. He saw only rooftops, wet and sparkling in the sunlight. And echoing off the buildings, he heard Sarah's voice, over and over, screaming to a man who did not exist.

When they finally brought her down from the roof, she was quiet and composed. Nick was right beside her as they lowered her onto the stretcher. She looked so small and weak and cold. There was so much blood on her arms. He was scarcely aware of what he said or did at that moment; he only knew he wanted to be near her.

Down on the street, the ambulance was waiting. “Let me ride with her,” Nick muttered, brushing off Potter's restraining hand. “She needs me.”

“Just keep out of their way, O'Hara.”

Nick climbed in beside Sarah's stretcher. She was awake. “Sarah?”

She turned her head and gazed at him in wonder. “I thought I'd never see you again,” she whispered.

“Sarah, I love you.”

Potter stuck his head in the ambulance. “For God's sake, O'Hara! Give 'em some room to work in!”

Nick glanced around and saw the two attendants scowling at him.

“No, please!” Sarah pleaded. “Let him stay. I want him to stay.”

Potter gave the attendants a shrug of helplessness. Grumbling, they went on with their work. From the looks they exchanged, it was obvious what they thought of this extra passenger. But they decided it was better to leave Nick alone. From experience they knew that frantic husbands could be stubborn, unreasonable creatures. And this one, obviously, was very, very frantic.

W
ITH AN OVERWHELMING
sense of relief, Roy Potter watched the ambulance pull away from the curb. Even after it had turned the corner, he could still hear the siren's two notes piercing the quiet Sunday morning. As the sound faded into the maze of Amsterdam streets, Potter stifled a yawn and walked toward the other ambulance, which was parked a few yards away. For the first time in twenty-four hours, he could allow himself to feel tired. No, exhausted was a better word. Exhausted and triumphant. The operation was over.

Mentally he tabulated their gains. Magus and his key associate were dead. Four other men were in custody. And last, but not least, Sarah Fontaine was alive.

She would need hospitalization, of course. She had sustained nasty lacerations on her arms and feet; they'd probably require a surgeon's skill. More important, she would need immediate psychiatric attention. She'd been hallucinating, seeing ghosts on rooftops. Under the circumstances, hysteria was perfectly understandable. It might take weeks, even months, to recover from the ordeal she'd just survived. But she would recover. He had no doubt about it. Sarah Fontaine, he'd decided, was made of sterner stuff than anyone had suspected.

Potter watched as the next stretcher was loaded into the waiting ambulance. The siren would be silent this time; both men were dead. He shuddered, remembering the sight
of Kronen's body on the sidewalk. Thank God the ambulance crew had cleared it away so quickly. After a night of nothing but black coffee, Potter's stomach was just waiting for an excuse to puke. Would have been damned undignified, to say the least, especially with a dozen Dutch cops standing around as witnesses.

The second stretcher was now being placed in the vehicle. It was Magus. Potter frowned, wondering at the irony of the old man's suicide. After all these years of evading capture, Magus had chosen to take his own life. Or had he? The ballistics lab would surely confirm it. Suicide was the only explanation. There had been no other gunman. None, that is, except for the one seen by Sarah Fontaine, and she'd seen nothing but a ghost.

“Mr. Potter?”

He turned. A Dutch policeman was coming toward him through the knot of bystanders.

“What is it?”

“There is a man inside who wishes to see you. An American, I think.”

“Have him talk to Mr. Tarasoff.”

“He said he'd only talk to you.”

Potter stifled a curse. What he really wanted to do right now was crawl into bed. But he grudgingly followed the officer through the police line, into the F. Berkman building. The smell of coffee was everywhere; it reminded him he'd hardly eaten since the previous afternoon. Breakfast would taste good right now. Bacon and eggs and then an honest-to-God hot shower. Hell, he deserved it. They all deserved it. He made a mental note to put in a commendation for Tarasoff and the others. They'd held up well.

The officer nodded toward the front office. “There he is.”

Potter glanced through the doorway and frowned. The
man standing at the window had his back turned. He was dressed completely in black. There was something disturbingly familiar about the golden color of his hair, which was sparkling in the window's light.

Potter went in and closed the door. “I'm Roy Potter,” he said. “Did you want to see me?”

The man turned and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Potter.”

Potter's jaw dropped. He couldn't speak. He could only stare like a dumb animal.
What the hell is going on?
he thought.
Am I seeing ghosts, too?

It was Simon Dance.

* * *

A
N HOUR LATER
Simon Dance—the man once known as Geoffrey Fontaine—finally turned and wandered back to the window. For a moment he stood there motionless, his face silhouetted against the sunlight. “So that, Mr. Potter, is what happened,” he said softly. “Rather more complicated than you suspected. I thought you might appreciate hearing the facts. In return I ask only that one favor.”

“If I'd only known—why the hell didn't you tell me all this before?”

“It was instinct at first. Then the explosives appeared in my hotel room. That's when I was certain. I knew I couldn't trust you. Any of you. There'd been a leak all along. High level, I'm afraid.”

Potter said nothing. Somehow he'd already guessed who it might be.

“Van Dam,” said Dance.

“How can you be sure?”

Dance shrugged. “Why does a man leave his warm hotel at midnight to use a phone booth?”

“When was this?”

“Last night, right after I tipped O'Hara.”

“That was your call?” Cursing softly, Potter shook his
head. “Then it's partly my fault. I told Van Dam about the tip. I had to.”

Dance nodded. “I didn't understand his little walk to the phone booth. At first. Then I heard that Kronen and his men appeared at Casa Morro shortly afterward. That's when I knew who Van Dam had called. Magus.”

“Look, I need more evidence. You don't expect me to proceed on the basis of one phone call?”

“No, no. The matter has already been taken care of.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'll understand. Shortly.”

“What about his motive? A man doesn't go bad without a good reason!”

Calmly Dance lighted a cigarette and shook out the match. “Motives are funny things. We all have them. We all have our secrets, our hidden agendas. Van Dam was a wealthy man, I understand.”

“His wife left him millions.”

“Was she old when she died?”

“In her forties. There was some kind of crime involved. A burglary, I think. Van Dam was out of the country at the time.”

“Of course he was.”

Potter fell silent. There it was. Motive. Yes, if you looked deep enough, you might find it, hidden in the shadows of a man's life. “I'll begin an internal investigation,” he said. “Immediately.”

Dance smiled. “No hurry. I doubt he'll be vanishing any time soon.”

“What about you?” asked Potter. “Now that it's over, will you surface?”

Dance slowly blew out a cloud of smoke. “I don't know what I'll do yet,” he said, staring off sadly. “Eva was the only thing that ever mattered to me. And I've lost her.”

“There's still Sarah.”

Dance shook his head. “I've caused her enough pain.” He turned and looked out the window again. “Your ballistics report will reveal that Magus was killed not by his own rifle, but by a bullet fired from a distance. Promise me Sarah will never learn this fact.”

“If that's what you want.”

“It's what I want.”

“You won't even say goodbye to her?”

“It's kinder if I don't.” Dance squinted out at the street. The last police car had just driven off. The bystanders were gone. Except for the bloodstains on the curb, it looked like any Amsterdam street on a Sunday morning. “Mr. O'Hara seems like a good man,” he said softly. “I think they'll be happy together.”

Potter nodded. Yes, he had to admit, Nick O'Hara wasn't so bad after all. “Tell me, Dance,” he said. “Did you ever love Sarah?”

Dance shook his head. “In this business love is always a mistake. No, I didn't love her. But I did not want her harmed.” He gave Potter a hard look. “Next time, avoid the use of innocents in your operations. We cause enough misery in this world without making those who are blameless suffer.”

Potter was suddenly uncomfortable. The whole operation had been his idea; if Sarah had been killed, he'd be the one responsible. Thank God she'd survived.

“Someday,” said Dance, “I'll tell you how the operation should have been run. You're still amateurs. But you'll learn. You'll learn.” He took one last puff and stubbed out his cigarette. “Now I think it's time I be on my way. I have a great deal to do.”

“Will you be going back to the States? If so, I'll see what I can do to get you a new identity—”

“That won't be necessary. I've always managed best on my own.”

Potter couldn't argue that point. Dance's one brief affiliation with the Company had almost proved fatal for him.

“I think perhaps a change in climate will suit me,” said Dance as he walked to the door. “I have never liked the dampness. Or the cold.”

“What if I need to get hold of you?”

“I'm afraid I won't be available, Mr. Potter.”

“But—but how do I find you?”

Dance paused in the doorway. For a moment he was thoughtful. Then, with a smile, he said, “You can't.”

* * *

I
T WAS LATE
afternoon when Sarah woke up. The first thing she saw was the white curtains, blowing gently beside the open window. Slowly her unfocused gazed took in the pots of red and yellow tulips, sitting in a row on the table. And then, in a chair beside her bed, she saw Nick clutching a tulip pot in his lap. He was fast asleep. His shirt was a map of wrinkles and sweat. His hair was streaked with more gray than she'd remembered. But he was smiling.

She reached over and touched his hand. With a start he woke up and looked at her with bloodshot eyes.

“Sarah,” he murmured.

“My poor, poor Nick. I think you need this bed more than I do.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Strange. Safe.”

“You are safe, Sarah.” He put the tulip pot down and took her hands. “You really are.”

She gazed at the table. “Oh, look at all the flowers!”

“I guess I overdid it. I didn't know two dozen pots would go so far.”

They both laughed then, a tentative laugh that quickly
faded. Neither of them was ready to let go of the fear. Not yet. Too much had happened. In silence he watched her and waited.

“I did see him, Nick,” she said softly. “I know I did.”

“It doesn't matter, Sarah….”

“But it
does
matter. To me. Whether he was real or imagined—I saw him….” She sank back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. “And I'll always wonder.”

“When you're scared, your mind can do funny things.”

“Perhaps.”

“I don't believe in ghosts.”

“Neither did I. Until today.”

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “If he was a ghost, then I owe him one. For letting me keep you.” Nick looked so rumpled, so tired, as his dark head bent down to her palm. A sudden, overwhelming wave of tenderness swept through her. He raised his head and she saw, in his tired gray eyes, the love she'd never really seen in Geoffrey's.