“I’m not exactly alone.” She crossed the room to the connecting door leading to Jordan’s suite. Yanking it open, she called, “Wake up, Jordie! I’m in need of some brotherly assistance.”

There was no answer from the bed.

“Jordie?” she said.

“Your bodyguard stays right on his toes, doesn’t he?” said Richard.

Annoyed, Beryl flicked on the wall switch. In the sudden flood of light, she found herself blinking in astonishment.

Jordan’s bed was empty.

Chapter 4

That woman is staring at me again.

Jordan stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his cappuccino and casually glanced in the direction of the blonde sitting three tables away. At once she averted her gaze. She was attractive enough, he noted. Mid-twenties, with a lean, athletic build. Nothing overripe about that one. Her hair was cut like a boy’s, with elfin wisps feathering her forehead. She wore a black sweater, black skirt, black stockings. Fashion or camouflage? He shifted his gaze ahead to the street and the evening parade of pedestrians. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the woman again looking his way. Ordinarily it would have flattered him to know he was the object of such intense feminine scrutiny. But something about this particular woman made him uneasy. Couldn’t a fellow wander the streets of Paris these days without being stalked by carnivorous females?

It had been such a pleasant outing up till now. Minutes after sending Beryl and Richard on their way, he’d slipped out of his hotel room in search of a decent watering hole. A stroll across Place Vendčme, a visit to the Olympia Music Hall, then a midnight snack at Café de la Paix—what better way to spend one’s first evening in Paris?

But perhaps it was time to call it a night.

He finished his cappuccino, paid the tab, and began walking toward the Rue de la Paix. It took him only half a block to realize the woman in black was following him.

He had paused at a shop window and was gazing in at a display of men’s suits when he spotted a fleeting glimpse of a blond head reflected in the glass. He turned and saw her standing across the street, intently staring into a window. A lingerie shop, he noted. Judging by the rest of her outfit, she’d no doubt choose her knickers in black, as well.

Jordan continued walking in the direction of Place Vendčme.

Across the street, the woman was parralleling his route.

This is getting tiresome, he thought. If she wants to flirt, why doesn’t she just come over and bat her eyelashes? The direct approach, he could appreciate. It was honest and straightforward, and he liked honest women. But this stalking business unnerved him.

He walked another half block. So did she.

He stopped and pretended to study another shop window. She did likewise. This is ridiculous, he thought. I am not going to put up with this nonsense.

He crossed the street and walked straight up to her. “Mademoiselle?” he said.

She turned and regarded him with a startled look. Plainly she had not expected a face-to-face confrontation.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “may I ask why you’re following me?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again, all the time staring at him with those big gray eyes. Rather pretty eyes, he observed.

“Perhaps you don’t understand me? Parlezvous anglais?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I speak English.”

“Then perhaps you can explain why you’re following me.”

“But I am not following you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not!” She glanced up and down the street. “I am taking a walk. As you are.”

“You’re dogging my every step. Stopping where I stop. Watching every move I make.”

“That is preposterous.” She pulled herself up, a spark of outrage lighting her eyes. Real or manufactured? He couldn’t be sure. “I have no interest in you, Monsieur! You must be imagining things.”

“Am I?”

In answer, she spun around and stalked away up the Rue de la Paix.

“I don’t think I am imagining things!” he called after her.

“You English are all alike!” she flung over her shoulder.

Jordan watched her storm off and wondered if he had jumped to conclusions. If so, what a fool he’d made of himself! The woman rounded a corner and vanished, and he felt a moment’s regret. After all, she had been rather attractive. Lovely gray eyes, unbeatable legs.

Ah, well.

He turned and continued on his way toward the Place Vendčme and the hotel. Only as he reached the lobby doors of the Ritz did that sixth sense of his begin to tingle again. He paused and glanced back. In a distant archway, he spied a flicker of movement, a glimpse of a blond head just before it ducked into the shadows.

She was still following him.

DAUMIER ANSWERED the phone on the fifth ring. “Allo?”

“Claude, it’s me,” said Richard. “Are you having us tailed?”

There was a pause, then Daumier said, “A precaution, my friend. Nothing more.”

“Protection? Or surveillance?”

“Protection, naturally! A favor to Hugh—”

“Well, it scared the living daylights out of us. The least you could’ve done was warn me.” Richard glanced toward Beryl, who was anxiously pacing the hotel room. She hadn’t admitted it, but he knew she was shaken, and that for all her bravado, all her attempts to throw him out of her suite, she was relieved he’d stayed. “Another thing,” he said to Daumier, “we seem to have misplaced Jordan.”

“Misplaced?”

“He’s not in his suite. We left him here hours ago. He’s since vanished.”

There was a silence on the line. “This is worrisome,” said Daumier.

“Do your people have any idea where he is?”

“My agent has not yet reported in. I expect to hear from her in another—”

“Her?” Richard cut in.

“Not our most experienced operative, I admit. But quite capable.”

“It was a man following us tonight.”

Daumier laughed. “Richard, I am disappointed! I thought you, of all people, knew the difference.”

“I can bloody well tell the difference!”

“With Colette, there is no question. Twenty-six, rather pretty. Blond hair.”

“It was a man, Claude.”

“You saw the face?”

“Not clearly. But he was short, stocky—”

“Colette is five foot five, very slender.”

“It wasn’t her.”

Daumier said nothing for a moment. “This is disturbing,” he concluded. “If it was not one of our people—”

Richard suddenly pivoted toward the door. Someone was knocking. Beryl stood frozen, staring at him with a look of fear.

“I’ll call you back, Claude,” Richard whispered into the phone. Quietly he hung up.

There was another knock, louder this time.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, “ask who it is.”

Shakily she called out, “Who is it?”

“Are you decent?” came the reply. “Or should I try again in the morning?”

“Jordan!” cried a relieved Beryl. She ran to open the door. “Where have you been?”

Her brother sauntered in, his blond hair tousled from the night wind. He saw Richard and halted. “Sorry. If I’ve interrupted anything—”

“Not a thing,” snapped Beryl. She locked the door and turned to face her brother. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”

“I just went for a walk.”

“You could have left me a note!”

“Why? I was right in the neighborhood.” Jordan flopped lazily into a chair. “Having quite a nice evening, too, until some woman started following me around.”

Richard’s chin snapped up in surprise. “Woman?”

“Rather nice-looking. But not my type, really. A bit vampirish for my taste.”

“Was she blond?” asked Richard. “About five foot five? Mid-twenties?”

Jordan shook his head in amazement. “Next you’ll tell me her name.”

“Colette.”

“Is this a new parlor trick, Richard?” Jordan said with a laugh. “ESP?”

“She’s an agent working for French Intelligence,” said Richard. “Protective surveillance, that’s all.”

Beryl gave a sigh of relief. “So that’s why we were followed. And you had me scared out of my wits.”

“You should be scared,” said Richard. “The man following us wasn’t working for Daumier.”

“You just said—”

“Daumier had only one agent assigned to surveillance tonight. That woman, Colette. Apparently she stayed with Jordan.”

“Then who was following us?” demanded Beryl.

“I don’t know.”

There was a silence. Then Jordan asked peevishly, “Have I missed something? Why are we all being followed? And when did Richard join the fun?”

“Richard,” said Beryl tightly, “hasn’t been completely honest with us.”

“About what?”

“He neglected to mention that he was here in Paris in 1973. He knew Mum and Dad.”

Jordan’s gaze at once shot to Richard’s face. “Is that why you’re here now?” he asked quietly. “To prevent us from learning the truth?”

“No,” said Richard. “I’m here to see that the truth doesn’t get you both killed.”

“Could the truth really be that dangerous?”

“It’s got someone worried enough to have you both followed.”

“Then you don’t believe it was a simple murder and suicide,” said Jordan.

“If it was that simple—if it was just a case of Bernard shooting Madeline and then taking his own life—no one would care about it after all these years. But someone obviously does care. And he—or she—is keeping a close watch on your movements.”

Beryl, strangely silent, sat down on the bed. Her hair, which she’d gathered back with pins, was starting to loosen, and silky tendrils had drifted down her neck. All at once Richard was struck by her uncanny resemblance to Madeline. It was the hairstyle and the watered-silk dress. He recognized that dress now—it was her mother’s. He shook himself to dispel the notion that he was looking at a ghost.

He decided it was time to tell the truth, and nothing but. “I never did believe it,” he said. “Not for a second did I think Bernard pulled that trigger.”

Slowly Beryl looked up at him. What he saw in her gaze—the wariness, the mistrust—made him want to reach out to her, to make her believe in him. But trust wasn’t something she was about to give him, not now. Perhaps not ever.

“If he didn’t pull the trigger,” she asked, “then who did?”

Richard moved to the bed. Gently he touched her face. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to help you find out.”

AFTER RICHARD LEFT, Beryl turned to her brother. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s told us too many lies.”

“He didn’t lie to us exactly,” Jordan observed. “He just left out a few facts.”

“Oh, right. He conveniently neglects to mention that he knew Mum and Dad. That he was here in Paris when they died. Jordie, for all we know, he could’ve pulled the trigger!”

“He seems quite chummy with Daumier.”

“So?”

“Uncle Hugh trusts Daumier.”

“Meaning we should trust Richard Wolf?” She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Jordie, you must be more exhausted than you realize.”

“And you must be more smitten than you realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.”

She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?”

“There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.”

Then he closed the door on her astonished face.

WHEN RICHARD ARRIVED at Daumier’s flat, he found the Frenchman still awake but already dressed in his bathrobe and slippers. The latest reports on the bombing of the St. Pierre residence were laid out across his kitchen table, along with a plate of sausage and a glass of milk. Forty years with French Intelligence hadn’t altered his preference for working in close proximity to a refrigerator.

Waving at the reports, Daumier said, “It is all a puzzle to me. A Semtex explosive planted under the bed. A timing mechanism set for 9:10—precisely when the St. Pierres would be watching Marie’s favorite television program. It has all the signs of an inside operation, except for one glaring mistake—Philippe was in England.” He looked at Richard. “Does it not strike you as an inconceivable blunder?”

“Terrorists are usually brighter than that,” admitted Richard. “Maybe they intended it only as a warning. A statement of purpose. ‘We can reach you if we want to,’ that sort of thing.”

“I still have no information on this Cosmic Solidarity League.” Wearily Daumier ran his hands through his hair. “The investigation, it goes nowhere.”

“Then maybe you can turn your attention for a moment to my little problem.”

“Problem? Ah, yes. The Tavistocks.” Daumier sat back and smiled at him. “Hugh’s niece is more than you can handle, Richard?”

“Someone else was definitely tailing us tonight,” said Richard. “Not just your agent, Colette. Can you find out who it was?”

“Give me something to work with,” said Daumier. “A middle-aged man, short and stocky—that tells me nothing. He could have been hired by anyone.”

“It was someone who knew they were coming to Paris.”

“I know Hugh told the Vanes. They, in turn, could have mentioned it to others. Who else was at Chetwynd?”

Richard thought back to the night of the reception and the night of Reggie’s indiscretion. Blast Reggie Vane and his weakness for booze. That was what had set this off. A few too many glasses of champagne, a wagging tongue. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Poor Reggie was a harmless soul; certainly he’d never meant to hurt Beryl. Rather, it was clear he adored her like a daughter.

Richard said, “There were numbers of people the Vanes might have spoken to. Philippe St. Pierre. Nina and Anthony. Perhaps others.”

“So we are talking about any number of people,” Daumier said, sighing.

“Not a very short list,” Richard had to admit.

“Is this such a wise idea, Richard?” The question was posed quietly. “Once before, if you recall, we were prevented from learning the truth.”

How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt. There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing.

A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself.

The matter of the mole was never officially resolved.

Instead, Bernard Tavistock had been posthumously implicated as Delphi. Conveniently tried and found guilty, thought Richard. Why not pin the blame on Tavistock? A dead man can’t deny the charges.

And now, twenty years later, the ghost of Delphi is back to haunt me.

With new determination, Richard rose from the chair. “This time, Claude,” he said, “I’m tracking him down. And no order from Washington is going to stop me.”

“Twenty years is a long time. Evidence has vanished. Politics have changed.”

“One thing hasn’t changed—the guilty party. What if we were wrong? What if Sutherland wasn’t the mole? Then Delphi may still be alive. And operational.”

To which Daumier added, “And very, very worried.”

BERYL WAS AWAKENED the next morning by Richard knocking on her door. She blinked in astonishment as he handed her a paper sack, fragrant with the aroma of freshly baked croissants.

“Breakfast,” he announced. “You can eat it in the car. Jordan’s already waiting for us downstairs.”

“Waiting? For what?”

“For you to get dressed. You’d better hurry. Our appointment’s for eight o’clock.”

Bewildered, she shoved back a handful of tangled hair. “I don’t recall making any appointments for this morning.”

“I made it for us. We’re lucky to get one, considering the man doesn’t see many people these days. His wife won’t allow it.”

“Whose wife?” she said in exasperation.

“Chief Inspector Broussard. The detective in charge of your parents’ murder investigation.” Richard paused. “You do want to speak to him, don’t you?”

He knows I do, she thought, clutching together the edges of her silk robe. He’s got me at a disadvantage. I’m scarcely awake and he’s standing there like Mr. Sunshine himself. And since when had Jordan turned into an early riser? Her brother almost never rolled out of bed before eight.

“You don’t have to come,” he said, turning to leave. “Jordan and I can—”

“Give me ten minutes!” she snapped and closed the door on him.

She made it downstairs in nine minutes flat.

Richard drove with the self-assurance of a man long familiar with the streets of Paris. They crossed the Seine and headed south along crowded boulevards. The traffic was as insane as London’s, thought Beryl, gazing out at the crush of buses and taxis. Thank heavens he’s behind the wheel.

She finished her croissant and brushed the crumbs off the file folder lying in her lap. Contained in that folder was the twenty-year-old police report, signed by Inspector Broussard. She wondered how much the man would remember about the case. After all this time, surely the details had blended together with all the other homicide investigations of his career. But there was always the chance that some small unreported detail had stayed with him.

“Have you met Broussard?” she asked Richard.

“We met during the course of the investigation. When I was interviewed by the police.”

“They questioned you? Why?”

“He spoke to all your parents’ acquaintances.”

“I never saw your name in the police file.”

“A number of names didn’t make it to that file.”

“Such as?”

“Philippe St. Pierre. Ambassador Sutherland.”

“Nina’s husband?”

Richard nodded. “Those were politically sensitive names. St. Pierre was in the Finance Ministry, and he was a close friend of the prime minister’s. Sutherland was the American ambassador. Neither were suspects, so their names were kept out of the official report.”

“Meaning the good inspector protected the high and mighty?”

“Meaning he was discreet.”

“Why did your name escape the report?”

“I was just a bit player asked to comment on your parents’ marriage. Whether they ever argued, seemed unhappy, that’s all. I was only on the periphery.”

She touched the file on her lap. “So tell me,” she said, “why are you getting involved now?”

“Because you and Jordan are. Because Claude Daumier asked me to look after you.” He glanced at her and added quietly, “And because I owe it to your father. He was…a good man.” She thought he would say more, but then he turned and gazed straight ahead at the road.

“Wolf,” asked Jordan, who was sitting in the back seat, “are you aware that we’re being followed?”

“What?” Beryl turned and scanned the traffic behind them. “Which car?”

“The blue Peugeot. Two cars back.”

“I see it,” said Richard. “It’s been tailing us all the way from the hotel.”

“You knew the car was there all the time?” said Beryl. “And you didn’t think of mentioning it?”

“I expected it. Take a good look at the driver, Jordan. Blond hair, sunglasses. Definitely a woman.”

Jordan laughed. “Why, it’s my little vampiress in black. Colette.”

Richard nodded. “One of the friendlies.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Beryl.

“Because she’s Daumier’s agent. Which makes her protection, not a threat.” Richard turned off Boulevard Raspail. A moment later, he spotted a parking space and pulled up at the curb. “In fact, she can keep an eye on the car while we’re inside.”

Beryl glanced at the large brick building across the street. Over the entrance archway were displayed the words Maison de Convalescence. “What is this place?”

“A nursing home.”

“This is where Inspector Broussard lives?”

“He’s been here for years,” said Richard, as he gazed up at the building with a look of pity. “Ever since his stroke.”

JUDGING BY THE PHOTOGRAPH tacked to the wall of his room, ex-Chief Inspector Broussard had once been an impressive man. The picture showed a beefy Frenchman with a handlebar mustache and a lion’s mane of hair, posing regally on the steps of a Paris police station.

It bore little resemblance to the shrunken creature now propped up, his body half-paralyzed, in bed.

Mme Broussard bustled about the room, all the time speaking with the precise grammar of a former teacher of English. She fluffed her husband’s pillow, combed his hair, wiped the drool from his chin. “He remembers everything,” she insisted. “Every case, every name. But he cannot speak, cannot hold a pen. And that is what frustrates him! It is why I do not let him have visitors. He wishes so much to talk, but he cannot form the words. Only a few, here and there. And how it upsets him! Sometimes, after a visit with friends, he will moan for days.” She moved to the head of the bed and stood there like a guardian angel. “You ask him only a few questions, do you understand? And if he becomes upset, you must leave immediately.”

“We understand,” said Richard. He pulled up a chair next to the bedside. As Beryl and Jordan watched, he opened the police file and slowly laid the crime-scene photos on the coverlet for Broussard to see. “I know you can’t speak,” he said, “but I want you to look at these. Nod if you remember the case.”

Mme Broussard translated for her husband. He stared down at the first photo—the gruesome death poses of Madeline and Bernard. They lay like lovers, entwined in a pool of blood. Clumsily Broussard touched the photo, his fingers lingering on Madeline’s face. His lips formed a whispered word.

“What did he say?” asked Richard.

“La belle. Beautiful woman,” said Mme Broussard. “You see? He does remember.”

The old man was gazing at the other photos now, his left hand beginning to quiver in agitation. His lips moved helplessly; the effort to speak came out in grunts. Mme Broussard leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying. She shook her head in bewilderment.

“We’ve read his report,” said Beryl. “The one he filed twenty years ago. He concluded that it was a murder and suicide. Did he truly believe that?”

Again, Mme Broussard translated.

Broussard looked up at Beryl, his gaze focusing for the first time on her black hair. A look of wonder came over his face, almost a look of recognition.

His wife repeated the question. Did he believe it was a murder and suicide?

Slowly Broussard shook his head.

Jordan asked, “Does he understand the question?”

“Of course he does!” snapped Mme Broussard. “I told you, he understands everything.”

The man was tapping at one of the photos now, as though trying to point something out. His wife asked a question in French. He only slapped harder at the photo.

“Is he trying to point at something?” asked Beryl.

“Just a corner of the picture,” said Richard. “A view of empty floor.”

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