Once She Knew Page 18

  “I will wait for your call. Be careful, my love.” He bent his dark head, and Annabeth raised her face to his eagerly. The part of Claire’s brain that was still working noted that this obviously wasn’t the first time they had done this. The part concerned with survival told her it was time to get out of the hallway, because they would be coming that way very shortly and they shouldn’t see her. And she needed to talk to Leah immediately, because what had begun as a nice simple plan was rapidly turning into an unholy mess. Now some unknown man knew where Jonathan would be, and Claire didn’t trust him.

  With extreme caution Claire picked up the tray of dirty glasses and crept down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible, which was not easy with a load of clinking glasses. She arrived at the kitchen without mishap. Leah was there, looking tired but satisfied, chatting with Jean-Paul. He looked up at Claire with a dash of annoyance. “Ah, the tardy one. Is that everything, do you think?”

  Claire banged the tray onto the countertop. “I hope so. There were still a couple of people in the library, but I couldn’t just barge in and grab their glasses out of their hands.”

  “Ah, c’est pas grande chose. You did well. If you would care to assist another time . . . ?”

  “Sure, fine, whatever. Let me get out of these clothes, okay?” Claire shot a glance at Leah that was supposed to convey urgency; Leah just looked bewildered. Claire ducked into the tiny bathroom and stripped off the caterer’s uniform, and pulled on what she was coming to think of as her “slut suit.” She ran her fingers through her hair, then grabbed the uniform off the floor and went back to the kitchen.

  Jean-Paul was still standing there, but now he was holding out an envelope toward her. What was it with envelopes tonight? She stared at it in confusion, until he said gently, “It is your pay. Leah said you had great need of it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Claire tried to collect her jumbled wits and remember the role she was playing. “Thank you. I appreciate your fitting me in at the last minute. Leah, you ready to go?”

  “Just let me get my coat. Jean-Paul, you have outdone yourself, as usual. I’ll call you about that reception. Good night.”

  Claire all but dragged Leah down the hall toward the front door.

  “Whoa, girl, at least let me get my arms into my coat sleeves. What the heck has got your knickers in a twist?”

  Claire didn’t answer but kept moving until they were outside, standing on the sidewalk in the bitter night air. The street was all but deserted; a few plastic bags and dry leaves skittered about the corners. There was no one to hear them. Claire took a deep breath, fighting for calm.

  “I saw Annabeth in the library, with a man,” she said. “She gave him the envelope. Jonathan’s envelope. He read the note.”

  “Oh, crap. Let me think. Okay, who was the guy?”

  “Leah, how the hell should I know?”

  “Steady, girl. Describe him.”

  “Tall. Well, taller than Annabeth anyway, and she’s taller than I am. Maybe forty-five? Dark hair, dark eyes. Foreign, probably, but I can’t guess what nationality. Definitely not American. Speaks with a slight accent, but clearly educated. Nice suit. And he’s got Annabeth under his thumb.”

  “Hey, Nancy Drew, not bad for a first impression. I think I know who you mean—a guy named Philippe Cachette. I think he’s with the Egyptian delegation. He was on the official guest list for tonight.”

  “Well, I know he and Annabeth are . . . something. I’d guess lovers.”

  “It happens, you know. So, what? She showed him the envelope—why?”

  “Do you think I know?” Claire found it hard to shriek in a whisper. “He offered to come with her to the rendezvous, but she said no. She didn’t think Jonathan would hurt her. Damn, I wish I knew what all this means. Oh, and Susie was there too.”

  “Susie?” Leah looked blankly at her.

  “The Greenferne student who shot the FBI agent, or so Jonathan says. My guess is that Annabeth brought some Greenferne students along for the conference, kind of like a field trip. Susie doesn’t seem to be exactly traumatized, and obviously she isn’t under lock and key.” Another thought percolated into Claire’s sluggish mind, and she said slowly, “And she seems to know the guy Annabeth was with, which means . . . I don’t know. That it’s been going on for a while? That he’s been to Greenferne? Or that Susie has been to New York before? Leah, what do we do now?”

  “Calm down, for starters. Stick to the plan, until we’ve got a better one. We’d better head over toward the deli. And then we’ll just wait and see who shows up. If it’s this Philippe guy, or if he calls in the cops, we’re going to have to back off and let Jonathan handle it. You got that?”

  “Yes,” Claire agreed grudgingly.

  They quickly covered the two short blocks to the deli Jonathan had chosen, moving fast both to keep warm and because of Claire’s sense of urgency. This new guy was a wild card and she didn’t know what to make of him, but there was no way to contact Jonathan and divert him, and even if she could, they had no fallback plan. He needed to talk to Annabeth now, tonight, and this was their last, best, only chance.

  They had agreed that she and Leah would stay out of sight, not intrude on the conversation unless or until Jonathan signaled them. What Claire had not been able to visualize was where that would put them. Belatedly she realized that if they sat somewhere in the deli, there was the risk that Annabeth would recognize one or both of them. But it was dark and cold outside, and they couldn’t very well stand around on the sidewalk waiting for something to happen. Either they’d freeze their buns off or they’d get picked up for soliciting. Claire snorted: she would get picked up, but no one would mistake Leah for a prostitute. Maybe a church lady, albeit a fashionable one, trying to save Claire’s immortal soul and turn her to the path of salvation. Claire felt unbidden laughter welling in her chest and clamped down hard. Get a grip, Claire! This is serious, grown-up stuff—dead men, terrorists, assassinations. You can’t lose focus now.

  “You okay?” Leah panted behind her, trying to keep up. “’Cause I haven’t trained for the fifty-yard dash in a while, and these sure as hell aren’t the right shoes.”

  “Sorry.” Claire slowed down. “I’m just worried. I always worry when I don’t have all the facts. And I didn’t like that guy, and the way Annabeth was oozing all over him.”

  “Oh, well, that’s obviously a reason to shoot him on sight. Heaven forbid an anointed feminist like Annabeth Rankin should have a love life!”

  “But that’s just it!” Claire struggled to put her fears into words. “I mean, I know her—by reputation, anyway—as an intelligent professional woman, and there she was acting like a lovesick cow.”

  “Obviously you haven’t been in love lately. Try it—you might like it. Anyway, we’re here.” Leah pointed to the brightly lit storefront across the street.

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten fifty-three.”

  “Jonathan’s there.” Claire could see him seated at a table for two, in the middle of the deli. The room was brightly lit, and Claire wondered if he felt painfully exposed. A random thought flitted through her mind: it looked like a Hopper painting. Only Hopper’s pictures were lonely, not ominous.

  “Yup. And here comes Annabeth.” Leah nodded, and Claire saw Annabeth emerging from a taxi at the corner and then moving purposefully toward the deli. Claire pulled Leah into a doorway and, shielded from the wind, prepared to watch.

  25

  As Claire shivered, half concealed, she felt like she was watching a crummy television—with the sound turned off. She could barely make out the expressions on people’s faces, and of course she had no hope of hearing what they said. Annabeth reached the door and pulled it open. Jonathan saw her immediately, and stood to greet her. He was smiling. They both sat down, without exchanging hugs or even handshakes. Since Jonathan had chosen his seat in order to watch the street for Annabeth’s approach, that put Annabeth’s back to Claire. Damn. Was she really s
upposed to figure out what was going on from body language alone? Jonathan’s smile had evaporated, and he was leaning forward and talking rapidly. Annabeth sat stiffly in her chair, not exactly poised for flight, but not relaxed either.

  This was ridiculous. Maybe they should have gone in. Maybe they still could. Claire realized she was shaking from the cold, or maybe it was just nerves. “Leah? Do you think we could get in there without Annabeth seeing us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you could, but she knows me, and she’s bound to see me when she leaves. Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know. But if we freeze to death standing here, I’d have a problem with that.”

  “I hear you.” Leah thought for a moment. “Okay, I think it’s better if we go in. We could have some explaining to do, but if everything goes right, Jonathan might want you to join them. And I can’t feel my feet anymore. Let’s go.”

  Claire reached into her pocket and pulled out her mangy knit hat, which she jammed down over her hair. A feeble attempt at disguise, but it made her feel better. There was nothing to be done about Leah, who was hardly unnoticeable. They emerged from their niche and crossed the street. Everything looked so deceptively normal—lights on, cars passing, a few people walking hurriedly . . . somewhere. There was even a scattering of patrons in the deli, mostly people sitting alone, guarding their privacy, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Claire and Leah slipped in and sat at a table near the front, where Annabeth couldn’t see them. Jonathan looked briefly in their direction but turned quickly back to Annabeth. They weren’t needed, not yet anyway. They ordered coffee from the tired waitress.

  They still couldn’t hear any part of the conversation.

  “What now?” Leah asked in a low voice.

  “Got me. Warm up, at least.” Claire wrapped her hands around the chunky white mug of coffee. “Jonathan knows we’re here. How do you think the little chat is going?” As she watched, Annabeth leaned forward and put her hand on Jonathan’s arm. It looked as though she was pleading with him. He shook his head and started talking again.

  Leah studied the pair. “They don’t look happy.”

  “I agree.” Claire watched as Annabeth sat back in her chair, shaking her head. Whatever she was saying, she was becoming increasingly vehement, and Jonathan was listening to her with an expression of concern. He didn’t seem to be getting through to Annabeth, and Claire was beginning to worry again. If Annabeth didn’t believe him, what then? She realized she had been counting on this meeting to fix things—counting on Jonathan’s old friendship with Annabeth, or maybe just his persuasive powers, to get them through this. And neither seemed to be working.

  Annabeth stood up abruptly. “Leah, duck,” Claire hissed, as she pulled her cap down as far as it would go and hunched over her coffee. Leah reacted quickly, dropping her napkin and diving under the table to retrieve it. But it made no difference, as Annabeth stormed out without looking at anyone. From the corner of her eye Claire could see her grim expression.

  Leah came back up once the door had swung shut behind Annabeth’s retreating form. “Is the coast clear?”

  “She’s gone.” Claire looked toward Jonathan, who had stood up and was throwing down a couple of bills on the table. He met her eyes, but then his gaze traveled to the door. Claire turned to see what had caught his attention.

  Two men had come in together. They looked liked businessmen, dressed in well-tailored dark overcoats, their shoes gleaming with polish. As she watched, they moved toward Jonathan, flanking him. One of the men leaned toward him and said something in his ear.

  Claire felt an icy stab of fear. Had the FBI finally caught up with them? But they didn’t look like FBI; they looked somehow indefinably foreign, a little too elegant. And they hadn’t shown any identification, which Claire was sure Jonathan would have demanded. So . . . what?

  One of the men slipped an arm through Jonathan’s, and they began an unhurried march toward the door. Claire kept her eyes on Jonathan’s face, waiting for any signal, but all she got was a quick negative shake. She got the message: don’t interfere. She sat immobile, pretending to be fascinated by her empty coffee mug, while the trio left the deli and marched around the corner, not along brightly lit Lexington Avenue, but toward the darker side street. Claire stood up, but didn’t know what to do next. As she dithered, she saw a dark car pull out of the cross street and move at a discreet pace through the intersection and back the way she and Leah had come. A working fragment of her brain deciphered the license number, and then the car was gone.

  Claire sat down heavily, not sure her legs would support her. “Give me a pen, quick.”

  Leah looked at her as if she had gone crazy, but went fishing in her purse and handed her a pen. Claire quickly wrote the license number on a napkin, and then considered having a panic attack. She realized she was shaking.

  “Okay, what the hell just happened?” Leah sounded angry.

  “Oh, God, I don’t know.” Claire rejected the panic attack idea and wondered if crying would help. No, neither one would improve the situation. She took a deep breath. “My first thought was, maybe it’s the FBI. But they didn’t look like FBI. Did they?”

  “Nope. The FBI doesn’t wear Armani. And no badges.”

  “You noticed that too?”

  “And your friend didn’t look too happy to be going with them.”

  “No, I didn’t think so. So now what? Who the heck could I report this to? A fugitive gets snatched up in a public place by two goons in Armani topcoats and dragged off into the night. Leah, the only other person who knew where Jonathan would be, apart from Annabeth, is Annabeth’s smarmy boyfriend. Maybe he thinks he’s protecting her. Maybe he just asked two of his good buddies to escort wanted criminal Jonathan to the nearest police station. Why don’t I believe that?”

  “Girl, I think we need to know a little more about Mr. Cachette.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Claire thought, and then a lightbulb went off. “Rick. I’ve got to talk to Rick. He can find out about Cachette, and I can give him the license plate of that car. Let’s get back to your place, fast. I need a phone.”

  Leah rose decisively and, after throwing a few dollars on their table, headed for the door, Claire following closely. On the street, Leah raised an imperious arm, and a taxi miraculously appeared. Why did that always work for Leah? But right now Claire was immensely grateful. Barreling downtown in the clattering taxi through the late-night streets, it took little time to reach Leah’s apartment. Leaving Leah to pay off the taxi driver, Claire took the stairs two at a time, and paced impatiently outside Leah’s door waiting for her to catch up. “Come on, come on, come on . . .” She wasn’t sure if she was encouraging Leah or just talking to herself. It took Leah a minute to undo all the locks, and once the door was open, Claire headed straight for the phone. She stared at it blankly for a moment. The number . . . she had used Rick’s phone to call Leah, and she steadied herself and shut her eyes to visualize it. She punched it into the phone.

  The phone rang. Oh, God, what if he isn’t there? What do I do then? Somebody picked up on the third ring.

  “’Lo?”

  “Rick, it’s Claire.” Silence on the other end. “Claire Hastings. I was there with Jonathan?”

  “Oh, yuh.” He was careful, noncommittal. “What do you want?”

  “Rick, we’ve got a problem. Jonathan met Annabeth tonight, and about a minute later two guys showed up and escorted him away, and I don’t think they were police or FBI.”

  “So?”

  Claire was beginning to get angry. “Listen, Rick, I . . . he needs your help. The only person who knew where Jonathan was going to be is somebody who I suspect is Annabeth’s boyfriend. His name’s Philippe Cachette, and he may be part of the Egyptian delegation to the U.N. He wasn’t one of the two guys who grabbed him, but he looks like the type who knows that kind of guy. And I got the license plate of the car, if you can do anything with that.” She read it off to him
from the crumpled napkin.

  “Shit.” Rick was silent for a while, and Claire found herself holding her breath. “Okay, give me a couple of minutes. I think . . . no, let me check it out. I’ll call you at the phone there. Five minutes.” He hung up abruptly. Claire wandered into the living room, still clutching the phone.

  Leah watched her pace in circles. “What’s he going to do?”

  “If Rick is as good as Jonathan says he is, he’s going to tiptoe through the Internet tulips and try to identify our mystery man, or the car. If Cachette turns out to be exactly who he says he is, we’re stuck. But if he’s something more . . .” There were so many bits and pieces, and it was so hard to fit them together. Annabeth. Susie. The FBI. The conference. The mystery man. Jonathan’s suspicions, which he had shared only in driblets. They all buzzed around her head and refused to settle into any sort of order.

  It was actually six minutes before Rick called back. When the phone rang, Claire jumped and answered after the first ring.

  “Claire?”

  “Yes. What have you got?”

  “You near a computer?”

  Claire looked at Leah. “You have a computer here?” Leah nodded. “Yes, Rick.”

  “I’ll send you the stuff—it’s easier than trying to explain it.”

  “Let me get Leah’s e-mail.”

  Rick cut her off. “I’ve got it. I’m sending now.”

  “Leah, is your computer on?” When Leah nodded, she went on, “Look at your e-mail.” Leah crossed to a table under the front window and extricated a sleek laptop from a pile of magazines.

  “What am I looking for?” Leah asked.

  “The last thing to come in—he just sent it.”

  “Okay, got it. It’s got attachments. Open them?”