Call After Midnight (7 page)

“For tea or interrogation?”

He smiled and brushed away the water dripping down his cheek. “A little of both. I've had so much trouble getting hold of you, I'd better ask all my questions now.”

They reached the top of the stairs. She was just about to say something when the hallway came into view. What she saw made her freeze.

The door to her apartment was hanging open. Someone had broken in.

Instinctively Sarah retreated, terrified of whatever lay beyond the door. She fell back against Nick and found herself wordlessly clutching his arm. He stared at the open door, his face suddenly tense. Except for the pounding of her own heart, she heard nothing. The apartment was absolutely silent.

Light spilled into the hall through the open doorway. Nick motioned her to stay where she was, then cautiously approached the door. Sarah started to follow him, but he gave her such a dark look of warning that she shrank back at once.

He nudged the door open, and the arc of light widened and spilled across his face. For a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, staring at the room beyond. Then he entered the apartment.

In the hall Sarah waited, frightened by the absolute silence.
What was happening inside? A shadow flickered in the doorway, and panic began to overtake her as she watched the outline grow larger. Then, to her relief, Nick poked his head out.

“It's all right, Sarah,” he said. “There's no one here.”

She ran past him into the apartment. In the living room, she paused, surprised by what she saw. She had expected to find her possessions gone, to find only empty shelves where her TV and stereo had always sat. But nothing had been touched. Even the antique clock was in its place, ticking softly on the bookshelf.

She turned and ran into the bedroom with Nick close behind. He watched from the doorway as she went directly to the jewelry box on her dresser. There, on red velvet, was her string of pearls, right where it should be. Slamming the box shut, she turned and quickly surveyed the room, taking in the king-size bed, the nightstand with its china lamp, the closet. In confusion she looked back at Nick.

“What's missing?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Could I have just left the door unlocked?”

He stalked out of her bedroom, back to the hall. She found him crouched in the doorway. “Look,” he said, pointing down at the wood splinters and fragments of antique-white paint littering the gray carpet. “It's definitely been forced open.”

“But it doesn't make sense! Why break into an apartment and then not take anything?”

“Maybe he didn't have time. Maybe he was interrupted….” Rising, he turned and looked at her. “You look shook up. Are you all right?”

“I'm just—just bewildered.”

He touched her hand; his fingers felt hot against hers.
“You're also freezing. You'd better get out of those wet clothes.”

“I'm fine, Mr. O'Hara. Really.”

“Come on. Off with the coat.” He insisted. “And sit down while I make a few calls.”

Something about his tone seemed to leave Sarah no choice but to obey. She let him tug off her coat, then sat on the couch and watched numbly as he reached for the telephone. Suddenly she felt as though she'd lost control of her actions. As though, just by walking into her apartment, Nick O'Hara had taken over her life. Almost as an act of protest, she rose and headed for the kitchen.

“Sarah?”

“I'm going to make a pot of tea.”

“Look, don't go to any trouble—”

“It's no trouble. We could both use a cup, I think.”

From the kitchen doorway, she saw him dial his call. As she put the kettle on, she heard him say, “Hello? Tim Greenstein, please. This is Nick O'Hara calling…. Yes, I'll hold.”

The next pause seemed to last forever. Nick began to pace back and forth, like an animal in a cage, first pulling off his overcoat, then loosening his tie. His agitation made him entirely out of place in her small, tidy living room.

“Shouldn't you call the police?” she asked.

“That's next on the list. First I'd like an informal chat with the bureau. If I can just get through the damned lines.”

“The bureau? You mean the FBI? But why?”

“There's something about all this that bugs me….”

His words were lost when the kettle abruptly whistled. Sarah filled the teapot and carried the tray out to the living room, where Nick was still waiting on the phone.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself. “Where the hell are you, Greenstein?”

“Tea, Mr. O'Hara?”

“Hmm?” He turned and saw the cup she held out to him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She sat down, holding a cup and saucer on her lap. “Does Mr. Greenstein work for the FBI?”

“No. But he has a friend who—hello? Tim? It's about time! Don't you answer your calls anymore?”

In the silence that followed, Nick's face and the way he stood, with his shoulders squared and his back rigid, told Sarah that something was wrong. He was livid. The loud clatter of his teacup on the saucer made her jump.

“How the hell did Ambrose get wind of it?” he snapped into the receiver, turning away from Sarah.

Another silence. She stared at his back, wondering what kind of catastrophe had made Nick O'Hara so angry. Up until now she'd thought of him as a man completely in control of his emotions. No longer. His anger surprised her, yet somehow it also reassured her that he was human.

“Okay,” he said into the phone. “I'll be there in half an hour. Look, Tim, something else has come up. Someone's broken into Sarah's apartment. No, nothing's been touched. Can you get me the number of this FBI friend? I want to— Yeah, I'm sorry I got you into this, but…” He turned and gave Sarah a harassed look. “Okay! Half an hour. My trip to the woodshed. Meet you in Ambrose's office.” He hung up with a scowl.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“So end eight glorious years with the State Department,” he muttered, furiously snatching up his overcoat and walking toward the door. “I've gotta go. Look, you've still got the chain. Use it. Better yet, stay with your friend tonight. And call the police. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

She followed him into the hallway. “But Mr. O'Hara—”

“Later!” he called over his shoulder as he stalked away. She heard his footsteps echo in the stairwell, and moments later the lobby door slammed shut.

She closed the door and slid the chain in place, then slowly gazed around the room. Her stack of
Advances in Microbiology
lay on the coffee table. A vase of peonies dropped petals onto the bookshelf. Everything was as it should be.

No, not quite. Something was different. If she could just put her finger on it…

She was halfway across the room when it suddenly struck her—there was an empty space on the bookshelf. Her wedding picture was gone.

A cry of anger welled up in her throat. For the first time since she'd returned to the apartment, she felt a sense of violation, of fury that someone had invaded her house. It had only been a photograph, a pair of happy faces beaming at a camera, yet it meant more to her than anything else she owned. The picture had been all she had left of Geoffrey. Even if her marriage had been mere illusion, she never wanted to forget how she had loved him. Of all the things in her apartment, why would anyone steal a photograph?

Her heart skipped a beat as the phone rang. It was probably Abby, calling as promised. She picked up the receiver.

The first sound she heard was the hiss of a long-distance connection. Sarah froze. For some reason she found herself staring at the empty shelf, at the spot where the photograph should have been.

“Hello?” she said.

“Come to me, Sarah. I love you.”

A scream caught in her throat. The room was spinning wildly, and she reached out for support. The receiver slipped from her fingers and thudded on the carpet.
This is impossible!
she thought.
Geoffrey is dead....

She scrambled on the floor for the receiver, scrambled to hear the voice of what could only be a ghost.

“Hello?
Hello? Geoffrey!
” she screamed.

The long-distance hiss was gone. There was only silence and then, a few seconds later, the hum of the dial tone.

But she had heard enough. Everything that had happened in the past two weeks faded away as if it were a nightmare remembered in the light of day. None of it had been real. The voice she'd just heard, the voice she knew so well—
that
was real.

Geoffrey was alive.

“Y
OU'VE HAD IT
, O'Hara!” Charles Ambrose stood outside the closed door of his office and looked pointedly at his watch. “And you're twenty minutes late!”

Unperturbed, Nick hung up his coat and said, “Sorry. I couldn't help it. The rain had us backed up for—”

“Do you know who just happens to be waiting in my office right now? I mean, do you have any idea?”

“No. Who?”

“Some son of a—” Ambrose abruptly lowered his voice. “The
CIA
, that's who! A guy named Van Dam. This morning he calls me up wanting to know about the Fontaine case. What's the Fontaine case, I ask. He had to tell me what's going on in my own department! For God's sake, O'Hara! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Nick gazed back calmly. “My job, as a matter of fact.”

“Your job was to tell the widow you were sorry and to fly the damned body back. That was it, period. Instead, Van Dam tells me you've been out playing James Bond with Sarah Fontaine.”

“I'll admit that I went to the funeral. And I did drive Mrs. Fontaine home. I wouldn't call that playing James Bond.”

In reply, Ambrose turned and flung the office door open. “Get in there, O'Hara!”

Without blinking, Nick walked into the office. The blinds were open and the last drab light of day fell on the
shoulders of a man sitting at Ambrose's desk. He was in his midforties, tall, silent, and like the day outside, totally without color. His hands were folded in a gesture of prayer. There was no sign of Tim Greenstein. Ambrose closed the door, stalked past Nick and seated himself off to the side. The fact that Ambrose had been evicted from his own desk spoke volumes about his usurper's prestige.
This guy,
thought Nick,
must be hot stuff in the CIA.

“Please sit down, Mr. O'Hara,” said the man. “I'm Jonathan Van Dam.” That was the only label he gave himself: a name.

Nick took a chair, but obedience had nothing to do with it. He was simply not going to stand at attention while he was put through the wringer.

For a moment Van Dam silently regarded him with those colorless eyes. Then he picked up a manila folder. It was Nick's employment record. “I hope you're not nervous. It's just a minor thing, really.” Van Dam glanced through the folder. “Let's see. You've been with state for eight years.”

“Eight years, two months.”

“Two years in Honduras, two in Cairo and four years in London. All in the consular service. A good record, with the exception of two adverse personnel memos. It says here that in Honduras you were too—er, sympathetic to native concerns.”

“That's because our policy there stinks.”

Van Dam smiled. “Believe me, you're not the first person to say that.”

The smile threw Nick off guard. He glanced suspiciously at Ambrose, who'd obviously been hoping for an execution and now looked sorely disappointed.

Van Dam sat back. “Mr. O'Hara, this is a country of diverse opinions. I respect men who think for themselves,
men like you. Unfortunately, independent thinking is often discouraged in government service. Is that what led to this second memo?”

“I assume it's about that incident in London.”

“Yes. Could you elaborate?”

“I'm sure Roy Potter filed a report with your office. His version of the story, anyway.”

“Tell me yours.”

Nick sat back, the memory of the incident at once reawakening his anger. “It happened the week our consular chief, Dan Lieberman, was out of town. I was filling in for him. A man named Vladimir Sokolov approached me one night, in confidence. He was an attaché with the Russian embassy in London. Oh, I'd met him before, you know, at the usual round of receptions. He'd always struck me as a little nervous. Worried. Well, he took me aside at one of their—I don't know, I guess it was a reception for the ambassador. He wanted to talk asylum. He had information to trade—good information, to my mind. I immediately brought the matter to Roy Potter.” Nick glanced at Ambrose. “Potter was chief of intelligence in our London mission.” He looked back at Van Dam. “Anyway, Potter was skeptical. He wanted to try using Sokolov as a double agent first. Maybe get some hard intelligence from the Soviets. I tried to convince him the man was in real danger. And he had a family in London, a wife and two kids. But Potter decided to wait before taking him in.”

“I can see his point. Sokolov had strong links to the KGB. I would've questioned his motives, too.”

“Yeah? If he was a KGB plant, why did his kids find him dead a few days later? Even the Soviets don't dispose of their own operatives without good reason. Your people left him to the wolves.”

“It's a dangerous business, Mr. O'Hara. These things do happen.”

“I'm sure they do. But I felt personally responsible in this case. And I wasn't going to let Roy Potter off the hook.”

“It says here you two had a shouting match in the embassy stairwell.” Van Dam shook his head and laughed as he scanned the report. “You called Mr. Potter a large variety of—er, colorful names. My goodness, here's one I've never heard before. And all within public hearing.”

“To that I plead guilty.”

“Mr. Potter also claims you were…let me quote: ‘incensed, out of control and close to violence,' unquote.”