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CHAPTER FOUR

“YOU’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.”

“I was not close to violence.”

Van Dam closed the file and smiled sympathetically. “I know how it feels, Mr. O’Hara, to be surrounded by incompetents. God knows, not a day goes by that I don’t wonder how this country stays afloat. I’m not talking about just the intelligence business. Everything. I’m a widower, you see, and my wife left me with a rather large house to keep up. I can’t even find a decent housekeeper, or a gardener who can keep my azaleas alive. Sometimes, at work, I want to throw my hands up and just say, ‘Forget it! I’m doing things my own way and the rules be damned!’ Haven’t you felt that way, too? Of course you have. I can see you’re a nonconformist, like me.”

Nick began to feel he’d been trapped in the wrong conversation. Housekeepers? Azaleas? What was the guy leading up to?

“I see you were with American University before you joined the State Department,” said Van Dam.

“I was an associate professor. Linguistics.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s really Dr. O’Hara, isn’t it?”

“A minor point.”

“Even at the university, you were the independent sort. Traits like that don’t change. Mr. Ambrose says you don’t quite fit into this department. You’re an outsider. I imagine that gets a bit lonely.”

“Just what are you trying to say, Mr. Van Dam?”

“That a lonely man might find it…tempting, shall we say, to associate with other nonconformists. That, in anger, you might be persuaded to cooperate with outside interests.”

Nick stiffened. “I’m not a traitor, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, no. I’m not saying that at all! I dislike that word, traitor. It’s so imprecise. After all, the definition of traitor varies with one’s political orientation.”

“I know what a traitor is, Mr. Van Dam! It so happens I don’t agree with a lot of our policies, but that doesn’t make me disloyal!”

“Well, then. Perhaps you can explain your involvement in the Fontaine case.”

Nick forced himself to take a deep breath. They’d finally gotten to the real issue. “I was just doing my job. Two weeks ago Geoffrey Fontaine died in Germany. I got the routine task of calling the widow. Certain things she said bothered me. I ran Fontaine’s name through the computer—just checking, you understand. I came up with a lot of blanks. So I called a friend…”

“Mr. Greenstein,” offered Van Dam.

“Look, leave him out of this. He was just doing me a favor. He has a buddy in the FBI who looked up Fontaine’s name. Not much turned up. I had more questions than answers. So I went straight to the widow.”

“Why didn’t you come to us?”

“I wasn’t aware your authority extended to American soil. Legally speaking, that is.”

For the first time, a faint look of irritation flashed in Van Dam’s eyes. “You realize, don’t you, that you may have done irreparable damage?”

“I don’t understand.”

“We had things under tight control. Now I’m afraid you’ve warned her.”

“Warned her? But Sarah’s as much in the dark as I am.”

“Is that an amateur spy’s conclusion?”

“It’s my gut feeling.”

“You don’t know all the implications—”

“What are the implications?”

“That Geoffrey Fontaine’s death is still in question. That his wife may know more about it than you think. And that a lot rides on this case—more than you’ll ever know.”

Nick stared at him, stunned. What was the man talking about? Was Geoffrey Fontaine dead or alive? Could Sarah possibly be such a good actress that she’d totally fooled Nick?

“Just what does ride on this case?” Nick asked.

“Let’s just say the repercussions will be international.”

“Was Geoffrey Fontaine a spy?”

Van Dam’s mouth tightened. He said nothing.

“Look,” said Nick. “I’ve had enough of this. Why am I being grilled on a routine consular matter?”

“Mr. O’Hara, I’m here to ask the questions, not answer them.”

“Pardon me for interfering with your standard operating procedures.”

“For a diplomat, you’re damned undiplomatic.” Van Dam turned to Ambrose. “I can’t tell if he’s clean. But I agree with your plan of action.”

Nick frowned. “What plan of action?”

Ambrose cleared his throat. Nick knew exactly what that meant. It was a sure sign of impending unpleasantness. “Upon review of your personnel record,” said Ambrose, “and based on this latest act of—uh, indiscretion, we feel it best you take an extended leave of absence from the department. Your security clearance will need reevaluation. Until we confirm your noninvolvement in anything subversive, you will be on leave. If we find evidence of something more serious than indiscretion, you will be hearing from Mr. Van Dam again. Not to mention the Justice Department.”

Nick didn’t need a translation—he’d just been labeled a traitor. The logical response would be to protest his innocence and resign, here and now. But damned if he would do it in front of Jonathan Van Dam.

Instead he rose stiffly and said, “I understand. Is that all, sir?”

“That’s all, O’Hara.”

With that brusque dismissal, Nick turned and strode out of the office. So that’s it, he thought as he walked down the hall to what had been, up to a moment ago, his own office. After eight years with the State Department, a little curiosity had gotten him canned.

The funny part was that except for being called a traitor, he wasn’t at all bothered about losing the job. In fact, as he turned the key to unlock his door, he felt strangely buoyant, as though a terrible weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. He was free. The decision he’d struggled so hard to make had just been made for him. In a way it had been inevitable.

Now he could start a new life. He had saved enough money to keep him going another six months or so. Perhaps he’d consider returning to the university. The last eight years had given him a big dose of reality; it would make him a better teacher than he ever could have been.

As he turned to the task of cleaning out his desk, he was actually grinning. One by one he emptied out his drawers, throwing the year’s accumulated junk into a cardboard box. Next he threw in his dozens of journals, just part of the huge library of a man addicted to facts. To his surprise he found himself whistling. It would be a great night to go out and get roaring drunk. On second thought, he’d rather skip the hangover. He had too many things to do, too many answers to find. Losing his job he could handle, but he wasn’t going to exit with his loyalty in question. He had to set the record straight, to get to the truth. And for that he had to see Sarah Fontaine again.

The prospect was not at all unpleasant. In fact, he looked forward to sharing a little civilized conversation, maybe over dinner.

The urge to see her became instantly compelling. Nick dropped the box on his desk and dialed her number. As usual, he was greeted by her answering machine. With an oath he hung up, suddenly remembering his suggestion that she stay with her friend. If only he knew the friend’s number…

Leaning back in his chair, he found himself engaging in a rare moment of fantasy. Sarah. Of all the women in the world, to be thinking of her! This afternoon, at the cemetery, she’d looked so helpless, so thin, walking toward him through the mist. Not beautiful, but very, very vulnerable. In the car she’d huddled beside him like a cold, wet sparrow. Then she’d taken off her glasses and looked at him. And at that moment, as he’d looked into those huge amber eyes, he’d been awestruck. I’m wrong, he’d thought. Dead wrong. In her own quiet way, Sarah Fontaine is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

He was attracted to her, which wasn’t very smart. With all of these unanswered questions about her husband—and about Sarah herself—Nick had plenty of reasons to keep his emotional distance. But now, as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk, he couldn’t help painting all those mental pictures lonely men like to paint. He saw her standing in his apartment—in his bedroom— with her copper-colored hair loose about her shoulders. He saw the look in her eyes—shy and awkward, yet at the same time somehow eager. Her hands would be cold. He’d warm them against his skin. Then she—

“Nick!”

The fantasy shattered as Tim Greenstein walked into the room. “What’re you still doing here?”

Nick looked up, startled. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning out my desk.”

“Cleaning out your—you mean you got sacked?”

“The moral equivalent. I’ve been asked to take an ‘extended leave of absence,’ as Ambrose so politely put it.”

“Geez, that’s tough!” Tim dropped into a chair. He was looking unusually pale, as if he’d just been shaken up badly.

“Where were you?” asked Nick. “I thought you were meeting me in Ambrose’s office.”

“I got sidetracked by my supervisor. And the FBI. And the CIA. Not pleasant. They even threatened to take away my computer pass card. I mean—that’s cruel!”

Nick shook his head and sighed. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? Sorry, Tim. Looks like we were on forbidden turf. Did your FBI friend get slapped down, too?”

“No. Funny thing is, he may come out of this smelling like a rose. See, all his digging around just happened to embarrass the CIA. Over at the bureau, you get bonus points for making the Company look bad.” Tim laughed, but something about the sound made Nick uneasy. His friend’s laughter faded.

“What’s going on, Tim?”

“It’s a bad scene, Nick. We’ve been poking around in a hornet’s nest.”

“So it involves a little espionage. We’ve dealt with spooks before. What’s so special about Geoffrey Fontaine?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to know any more than I already do.”

“Lost your curiosity?”

“Damn right. So should you.”

“I’ve got a personal interest in this case.”

“Back off, Nick. For your own good. It’ll blow your career apart.”

“My career’s already blown. I’m a private citizen now, remember? And I just might spend a little more time with Sarah Fontaine.”

“Nick, as a friend I’m telling you to forget her. You’re wrong about her. She’s no Little Miss Innocent.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. But I’m the only one who’s spent any time with her.”

“Look, you’re wrong, okay?”

Tim’s sharp tone puzzled Nick. What’s going on? he thought. What’s happened? Leaning forward, he looked his friend straight in the eye. “What are you trying to tell me, Tim?” he asked evenly.

Tim looked miserable. “She pulled one over on you, Nick. My FBI buddy’s been keeping tabs on her. Her movements. Her contacts. And he just called and told me…”

“Told you what?”

“She knows something. It’s the only explanation for what she did—”

“Dammit, Tim! What happened?”

“Soon after you left her apartment, she took a taxi to the airport. She boarded a plane.”

Nick froze in disbelief. Sarah had left town? Why?

“Where did she go?” he snapped.

Tim gave him a sympathetic look. “London.”

* * *

LONDON. IT WAS the logical place to start. Or so it seemed to Sarah. London had been Geoffrey’s favorite city, a town of green parks and cobblestoned alleys, of streets where men in stiff black suits and bowler hats rubbed elbows with turbaned Sikhs. He’d told her of St. Paul’s Cathedral, soaring high above the rooftops; of red and yellow tulips blanketing Regent’s Park; of Soho, where both the laughter and music were always loud. She’d heard all of these things and now, as she stared out the taxi window, she felt the same stirring that Geoffrey must have felt whenever he came to London. She saw broad, clean streets, and black umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalks. Over the skyline hung a gentle mist, and in the parks the first spring flowers were bursting open. This was Geoffrey’s city. He knew it and loved it. If he were in trouble, this is where he would hide.

The cab dropped her off on the Strand, in front of the Savoy Hotel. At the front desk the clerk, a sweet-faced young woman neatly dressed in a blazer, looked up and smiled at her. Yes, she told Sarah, a room was available. The tourist rush hadn’t started yet.

Sarah was filling out the registration form when she said casually, “By the way, my husband was here about two weeks ago.”

“Was he, now?” The clerk glanced across the ledger at her name. “Oh! You’re Mrs. Fontaine? Is your husband Geoffrey Fontaine?”

“Yes. Do you remember him?”

“Of course we do, ma’am! Your husband’s been a regular here. Such a nice man. Queer, though, I never imagined you were American. I always thought…” Her voice trailed off as she turned her attention to Sarah’s registration card. “Will your husband be joining you in London?”

“No, not—not yet.” Sarah paused. “Actually I was expecting a message of some sort. Could you check for me?”

The clerk glanced over at the mail slots. “I don’t see anything.”

“Then there haven’t been any calls? For either of us?”

“They’d be here in the slot. Sorry.” The clerk turned back to her paperwork.

Sarah fell silent for a moment. What next? Search his hotel room? But of course it would have been cleaned weeks ago.

“Anyway,” said the clerk, “if there had been a message, we would have forwarded it to your house in Margate. That’s what he always had us do.”

Sarah blinked in bewilderment. “Margate?”

The clerk was too busy writing to look up. “Yes.”

What house in Margate? Sarah wondered. Did Geoffrey own a residence here in England that he’d never told her about?

The clerk was still writing. Sarah steadied her hands on the counter and prayed she could lie convincingly. “I hope—I hope you don’t have the wrong address,” she said. “We’re still in Margate, but we—we moved last month.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed the clerk, heading toward the back office. “Let me see if the address has been updated….” A moment later, she emerged with a registration card. “Twenty-five Whitstable Lane. Is that the old address or the new?”

Sarah didn’t answer. She was too busy committing the address to memory.

“Mrs. Fontaine?” asked the clerk.

“I’m sure it’s all right,” said Sarah, quickly sweeping up her suitcase and turning for the elevator.

“Mrs. Fontaine, you needn’t carry that up! I’ll call the boy….”

But Sarah was already stepping into the elevator. “Twenty-five Whitstable Lane,” she murmured as the door closed. “Twenty-five Whitstable Lane…”

Was that where she’d find Geoffrey?

* * *

THE SEA POUNDED against the white chalk cliffs. From the dirt path where Sarah walked, she could see the waves crashing on the rocks below. Their violence frightened her. The sun had already burned through the morning fog, and in a dozen cottage gardens, flowers bloomed and thrived despite the salt air and chalk soil.

At the end of Whitstable Lane, Sarah found the house she’d been seeking. It was only a cottage, tucked behind a white picket fence. In the tiny front garden, stately rosebushes mingled with riotous marigolds and cornflowers. The soft clip of garden shears drew her attention to the side of the cottage, where an elderly man was trimming a hedge.

“Hello?” she called across the fence.

The old man stood up and looked at her.

“I’m looking for Geoffrey Fontaine,” she said.

“Isn’t ’t ’ome, miss.”

Sarah’s hands started to shake. Then Geoffrey had been here. But why? she wondered. Why keep a cottage so far from his work in London?

“Where can I find him?” she asked.

“Don’t rightly know.”

“Do you know when he’ll be coming home?”

The old man shrugged. “Neither he nor the missus tells me ’bout their comin’s ’n goin’s.”

“Missus?” she repeated stupidly.

“Aye. Mrs. Fontaine.”

“You don’t mean—his wife?”

The old man looked at her as if she were an idiot. “Aye,” he said slowly. “It would seem that way. ’Course, with a little imagination, one could always figure on ’er bein’ ’is mother, but I’d say she’s a bit young for that.” He suddenly burst out laughing, as if the whole thing was quite absurd.

Sarah was clutching the picket fence so hard that the wooden points were biting into her palms. A strange roar rose in her ears, as if a wave had swept over her and was dragging her to the ground. With fumbling hands she dug in her purse and pulled out Geoffrey’s photograph. “Is this Mr. Fontaine?” she asked hoarsely.

“That’s ’im, all right. I’ve got a good eye for faces, you know.”

She was trembling so hard she could barely stuff the picture back into her purse. She held on to the fence, trying to absorb what the man had said. The knowledge came as a shock, and the pain was more than she could bear.

Another woman. Hadn’t someone asked her about that? She couldn’t remember. Oh yes, it had been Nick O’Hara. He’d wondered about another woman. He’d called it a logical assumption, and she’d been angry with him.

Nick O’Hara had been right. She was the blind one, the stupid one.

She didn’t know how long she had been standing there among the marigolds; she had lost track of time and place. Everything—her hands, her feet, even her face—had gone mercifully numb. Her mind refused to take in any more pain. If it did, she thought she’d go crazy.

Only when the old man called to her a third time did she hear him.

“Miss? Miss? Do you need some ’elp?”

Still in a daze, Sarah looked at him. “No. No, I’ll be all right.”

“You’re sure, now?”

“Yes, I…please, I need to find the Fontaines.”

“I don’t rightly know ’ow, miss. The lady packed ’er bags and took off ’bout two weeks ago.”

“Where did she go?”

“She weren’t in the ’abit of leavin’ a forwardin’ address.”

Sarah hunted in her purse for a piece of paper, then scribbled down her name and hotel. “If she—if either of them—shows up, please tell them to call me immediately. Please.”

“Aye, miss.” The old man folded up the paper without looking at it and slipped it into his pocket.

Like a drunken woman, she stumbled toward the road. At the beginning of Whitstable Lane, she saw a row of mailboxes. Glancing back, she saw that the old man was once more at work, clipping his hedge. She looked inside the box labeled 25 and found only a mail-order catalog from a London department store. It was addressed to Mrs. Eve Fontaine.

Evie.

More than once, Geoffrey had called Sarah by that name.

She shoved the catalog back into the mailbox. As she walked down the cliff road to the Margate train station, she was crying.

* * *

SIX HOURS LATER, tired, empty and hungry, Sarah walked into her room at the Savoy. The phone was ringing.

“Hello?” she said. “Sarah Fontaine?” It was a woman. Her voice was low and husky.

“Yes.”

“Geoffrey had a birthmark, left shoulder. What shape?”

“But—”

“What shape?”

“It was—it was a half-moon. Is this Eve?”

“The Lamb and Rose. Dorset Street. Nine o’clock.”