Discretion, thought Beryl. Meaning he was trying to hide some embarrassing fact.
“The attic flat where their bodies were found,” said Daumier, “was rented out to a Mlle Scarlatti. According to the landlord, Rideau, this Scarlatti woman used the flat once or twice a week. And only for the purpose of…” He paused delicately.
“Meeting a lover?” Jordan said bluntly.
Daumier nodded. “After the shooting, the landlord was asked to identify the bodies. Rideau told the police that the woman he called Mlle Scarlatti was the same one found dead in the garret. Your mother.”
Beryl stared at him in shock. “You’re saying my mother met a lover there?”
“It was the landlord’s testimony.”
“Then we’ll have to talk face-to-face with this landlord.”
“Not possible,” said Daumier. “The building has been sold several times over. M. Rideau has left the country. I do not know where he is.”
Beryl and Jordan sat in stunned silence. So that was Daumier’s theory, thought Beryl. That her mother had a lover. Once or twice a week she would meet him in that attic flat on Rue Myrha. And then her father found out. So he killed her. And then he killed himself.
She looked up at Richard and saw the flicker of sympathy in his eyes. He believes it, too, she thought. Suddenly she resented him simply for being here, for hearing the most shameful secret of her family.
They heard a soft beeping. Daumier reached under his jacket and frowned at his pocket pager. “I am afraid I will have to leave,” he said.
“What about that classified file?” asked Jordan. “You haven’t said anything about Delphi.”
“We’ll speak of it later. This bombing, you understand—it is a crisis situation.” Daumier slid out of the booth and picked up his briefcase. “Perhaps tomorrow? In the meantime, try to enjoy your stay in Paris, all of you. Oh, and if you dine here, I would recommend the duckling. It is excellent.” With a nod of farewell, he turned and swiftly walked out of the restaurant.
“We just got the royal runaround,” muttered Jordan in frustration. “He drops a bomb in our laps, then he scurries for cover, never answering our questions.”
“I think that was his plan from the start,” said Beryl. “Tell us something so horrifying, we’ll be afraid to pursue it. Then our questions will stop.” She looked at Richard. “Am I right?”
He met her gaze without wavering. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because you two obviously know each other well. Is this the way Daumier usually operates?”
“Claude’s not one to spill secrets. But he also believes in helping out old friends, and your uncle Hugh’s a good friend of his. I’m sure Claude’s keeping your best interests at heart.”
Old friends, thought Beryl. Daumier and Uncle Hugh and Richard Wolf—all of them linked together by some shadowy past, a past they would not talk about. This was how it had been, growing up at Chetwynd. Mysterious men in limousines dropping in to visit Hugh. Sometimes Beryl would hear snatches of conversation, would pick up whispered names whose significance she could only guess at. Yurchenko. Andropov. Baghdad. Berlin. She had learned long ago not to ask questions, never to expect answers. “Not something to bother your pretty head about,” Hugh would tell her.
This time, she wouldn’t be put off. This time she demanded answers.
The waiter came to the table with the menus. Beryl shook her head. “We won’t be staying,” she said.
“You’re not interested in supper?” asked Richard. “Claude says it’s an excellent restaurant.”
“Did Claude ask you to show up?” she demanded. “Keep us well fed and entertained so we won’t trouble him?”
“I’m delighted to keep you well fed. And, if you’re willing, entertained.” He smiled at her then, a smile with just a spark of mischief. Looking into his eyes, she found herself wavering on the edge of temptation. Have supper with me, she read in his smile. And afterward, who knows? Anything’s possible.
Slowly she sat back in the booth. “We’ll have supper with you, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You play it straight with us. No dodging, no games.”
“I’ll try.”
“Why are you in Paris?”
“Claude asked me to consult. As a personal favor. The summit’s over now, so my schedule’s open. Plus, I was curious.”
“About the bombing?”
He nodded. “Cosmic Solidarity is a new one for me. I try to keep up with new terrorist groups. It’s my business.” He held a menu out to her and smiled. “And that, Miss Tavistock, is the unadulterated truth.”
She met his gaze and saw no flicker of avoidance in his eyes. Still, her instincts told her there was something more behind that smile, something yet unsaid.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
“How did you guess?”
“Does this mean you’re not having supper with me?”
Up until that moment, Jordan had sat watching them, his gaze playing Ping-Pong. Now he cut in impatiently. “We are definitely having supper. Because I’m hungry, Beryl, and I’m not moving from this booth until I’ve eaten.”
With a sigh of resignation, Beryl took the menu. “I guess that answers that. Jordie’s stomach has spoken.”
AMIEL FOCH’S TELEPHONE rang at precisely sevenfifteen.
“I have a new task for you,” said the caller. “It’s a matter of some urgency. Perhaps this time around, you’ll prove successful.”
The criticism stung, and Amiel Foch, with twenty-five years’ experience in the business, barely managed to suppress a retort. The caller held the purse strings; he could afford to hurl insults. Foch had his retirement to consider. Requests for his services were few and far between these days. One’s reflexes, after all, did not improve with age.
Foch said, with quiet control, “I planted the device as you instructed. It went off at the time specified.”
“And all it did was make a lot of bloody noise. The target was scarcely hurt.”
“She did the unexpected. One cannot control such things.”
“Let’s hope this time you keep things under better control.”
“What is the name?”
“Two names. A brother and sister, Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. They’re staying at the Ritz. I want to know where they go. Who they see.”
“Nothing more?”
“For now, just surveillance. But things may change at any time, depending on what they learn. With any luck, they’ll simply turn around and run home to England.”
“If they do not?”
“Then we’ll take further action.”
“What about Mme St. Pierre? Do you wish me to try again?”
The caller paused. “No,” he said at last, “she can wait. For now, the Tavistocks take priority.”
OVER A MEAL OF poached salmon and duck with raspberry sauce, Beryl and Richard thrusted and parried questions and answers. Richard, an accomplished verbal duelist, revealed only the barest sketch of his personal life. He was born and reared in Connecticut. His father, a retired cop, was still living. After leaving Princeton University, Richard joined the U.S. State Department and served as political officer at