Once She Knew Page 19

  “It’s the attachments we need to see?” Claire asked Rick.

  “Yeah. Read them now. Fast.”

  Claire looked over Leah’s shoulder as the attachments unfurled. The first was a full-screen photo. Annabeth’s paramour, no question.

  “That the guy?” Rick’s voice echoed in her ear.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  He didn’t answer for a minute, and Claire wondered what he was thinking. Finally he said, “Okay, read the rest of the stuff. I’ll give you the short version. How much did Jonathan tell you?”

  “Not enough, apparently,” Claire said grimly.

  “Yeah. This U.N. conference thing that’s going on?”

  “Yes. The First Lady’s supposed to put in an appearance, in, like”—Claire looked at her watch—“nine hours. Have you got anything more?”

  “I think that’s the target—her and the conference. The ‘who’ was trickier, but it looks like a small fundamentalist group from Egypt that’s really ticked off about women gaining any rights.”

  “Don’t they have enough to worry about in Egypt without going after women?” Claire muttered. And then suddenly something unfolded in her mind, and she could begin to see the pattern. “Rick,” she began slowly, “where does Cachette fit in?”

  “He may be the head of the group.”

  “He’s Egyptian?”

  “Half. His mother was French, his father Egyptian. He lived in Paris until he was about fifteen, then moved to Egypt and lived with his dad. Went to Oxford, then back to Egypt and began working his way up the administration. He’s been in New York for a few years.”

  Leah had printed out the first picture of Cachette, and several more pages. Mutely she handed them to Claire. They included two pictures of men.

  “Rick, who are the other guys in the pictures?”

  “I traced that license you gave me. The car belongs to the Egyptian embassy. The two guys work there, and they’re on a couple of watch lists.”

  “And they’re the same two guys who took Jonathan.”

  They all fell silent. Finally Claire broke the silence. “Listen, Rick, tell me if I’ve got this right. You’re saying there’s a terrorist cell that wants to go after the First Lady, who’s making a public appearance tomorrow in defense of women’s rights. But naturally security is going to be real tight.” She turned to Leah. “Right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Leah, how long ago did the planning for this start?”

  “Maybe a year? It takes that long to get the speakers set up, work out the details, print up the advertising and the literature, publicize it.”

  “So I’m going to guess that Cachette started courting Annabeth sometime in the last year. He can handle the violence, the external strategy, all that stuff, but he needs access to insider information, the planning process, maybe even a way into the event. And that’s where Annabeth comes in, because she’s been one of the key players from the beginning. Am I right so far?”

  Leah nodded, her face bleak.

  “Rick, you still there? Did you do any digging on Annabeth?”

  “Yeah, some. She’s clean, as far as I can tell.”

  “So it’s likely she’s being used. Wonder if she knows it?” God, we women can be such fools sometimes, when hormones get involved. “The conference starts tomorrow, and Cachette or his goons have Jonathan.” Unless, of course, they just killed him and dumped his body in the nearest river. No, she wasn’t going to think about that.

  “Sounds about right.” Rick replied.

  “Rick,” she said slowly, “what do you think they’re likely to do now? You know a lot more about this kind of thing than I do. Are they going to get rid of Jonathan as soon as they can, or will they hold on to him to use as a bargaining chip, just in case?”

  “How’m I supposed to know?” Rick protested.

  “Will they think the fact that Jonathan has popped up twice means that he knows something? Enough to make them abort the plan?”

  A few beats of silence. “Don’t know. I’d bet they’re going to go forward. They’ve got a lot at stake, and nothing to lose. And whichever way it goes, they know Jonathan isn’t going to tell anyone anything.” Apparently Rick didn’t want to finish that thought either.

  “What’s our best hope of stopping this?” Claire said. “Somehow I think calling up the FBI or the police and saying, ‘Hi, I’m that so-called kidnap victim, and I’ve got information about a terrorist event that’s happening in a few hours’ is not going to work.”

  Rick gave a brief snort of laughter. “I doubt it. I’d say your best bet is to get to Annabeth and see if she’ll take you to this Cachette guy. Let him know his plan has been outed. Fast. And take backup.”

  “My thought exactly. Rick, if you come up with anything else concrete, will you e-mail it to Leah? Maybe if I can pass on some hard information to the right people, they’ll take me more seriously. And call us on her cell?” Claire rattled off Leah’s number.

  “Got it. And, Claire?”

  “What?”

  “Good luck. Looks like you’ll need it.” He hung up.

  Claire turned to Leah. “You got most of that?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m right with you. Up to my neck in it. So what say we pay a little visit to Annabeth?”

  “You know where to find her?”

  “Of course. She’s staying at the Plaza. I booked the block of rooms for the conference.”

  “And I heard her tell Lover-Boy that she wanted to get her beauty sleep, and he claimed he was headed home, so I hope we can assume she’s alone. Let’s go! And bring the printouts with you.”

  “Uh, Claire, you might want to change clothes, if you want to be taken seriously. Or even get past the desk at the Plaza.”

  “Then it’ll have to be your clothes, lady, because this is the best I’ve got.”

  It took two minutes for Claire to pull on something that made her look moderately respectable, and another minute to scrub the layers of gunk off her face. She emerged feeling more herself, at least in appearance. Leah checked her bag: printouts, schedule for the conference, cell phone, all in place. Claire had little to carry but her purse.

  “Ready?”

  “I hope so.”

  They hurried down the stairs. In front of the building, Leah raised her arm, and once again a cab materialized out of nowhere.

  “Leah, one of these days you’re going to have to teach me how to do that,” Claire said as they climbed in.

  “Nothing to it.” Leah turned to the driver. “The Plaza, please.”

  26

  Speeding along the half-empty streets, illuminated by the unearthly glow of the streetlights, Claire was struck with how unreal the whole scene was. She and Leah were surrounded by millions of people, but it was vitally important to find only one or two of them. Or three: Jonathan. What on earth was she going to do if he was dead? She’d never be able to explain all this to any authority. Her mind shied away from that question. Focus on Annabeth: she was the key. Too bad Claire had no idea what the key would open.

  Where to start? First, she had questions. Did Annabeth know her lover was a terrorist, and that he was exploiting her? If she was a dupe, what information could she have given him? Claire had to believe the U.N. security force was prepared to deal with a physical attack, in this perilous era. Why had Philippe latched on to Annabeth—what advantage did it give him? And where did Susie fit? And what had Jonathan said to Annabeth? And how could Annabeth have been stupid enough to get herself into this mess? That stopped Claire short: she wasn’t exactly in a position to throw stones, under the circumstances.

  The cab took little time to cover the thirty blocks to the Plaza through the midnight streets. The driver pulled up in front of the hotel with a flourish. Leah threw money at him and all but dragged Claire from the backseat. But once on the sidewalk, in front of the broad, brightly lit steps, Claire pulled her to a stop. “Do we have a strategy here? It’s after midnight.”

>   “Sure. We walk in like we own the place, and head straight for Annabeth’s room—I’ve got the room number. If anyone tries to stop us, I tell them I need to talk to Annabeth about a crisis at the conference, and I flash my U.N. credentials. Same once we get into Annabeth’s room. After that, it’s up to you.”

  “Let’s do it.” Claire wished she felt as assured as Leah looked. And if Annabeth wasn’t alone . . . Cross one bridge at a time. If Annabeth had company—all right, if Philippe was there—then she and Leah would just have to improvise. They strode through the lobby, as if they knew exactly where they were going, and boarded a waiting elevator. Nobody gave them a second glance. As the elevator doors slid shut, Claire gave a sigh of relief. One bridge crossed. Unfortunately the next one was the size of the Brooklyn Bridge. The doors slid silently open on the fourteenth floor, and she and Leah stepped into the hallway, which stretched in both directions, all subdued lighting and rich damask. Leah looked each way once, then set off to her right, Claire trailing behind her. They stopped in front of a door.

  “This is it. You ready?” Leah asked.

  “Go for it.”

  Leah raised her hand and rapped firmly on the door. She rapped again. Finally there were sounds of movement in the room, and a muffled voice mumbled, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Another few seconds passed before the door opened partway, held fast by the safety latch. Annabeth peered through the gap, her hair tumbled, a peach-colored silk robe clutched around her.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Leah stepped forward, blocking Annabeth’s view of Claire. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, Ms. Rankin. You remember me? Leah Parker, the U.N. conference coordinator? We have a problem with the schedule tomorrow, and I need to go over a few changes with you. It won’t take long, but I didn’t think we could handle it over the phone. May we come in?”

  “Oh. Sure.” The door closed, Annabeth slipped the latch off, and then held the door wide. “Come in. Sorry—I’d just gotten into bed, so I’m a little groggy.” She headed toward the table and chairs in front of the windows. Claire closed the door behind them and looked quickly around. Unless Philippe was hiding in the bathroom, Annabeth was alone. As she crossed the room, Claire saw that the bathroom door was wide open, the shower curtain pulled back: no sign of anyone else. So far, so good.

  Annabeth and Leah had reached the table, and Annabeth was looking at Claire. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?” she said politely, and then a look of puzzlement crossed her face. “Wait a minute—do I know you? You’re . . . you’re the person who gave me the note at the party tonight. Aren’t you? You look different . . .”

  Claire stepped forward. “Yes. And I’m Claire Hastings—the woman Jonathan Daulton is accused of kidnapping.”

  The color left Annabeth’s face, and she fell heavily into one of the chairs at the table. “But . . . I . . . then . . .”

  Claire remained standing. It felt better to loom over seated Annabeth; it made Claire feel more in control, and she needed every small advantage she could scrounge. She was about to make the most important pitch of her life. “I know you saw Jonathan earlier this evening, because I was with him when he wrote that note, and I was there in the deli when you met. What did you talk about?”

  Annabeth cleared her throat. “I urged him to turn himself in.”

  “You didn’t call the authorities? The police, the FBI?”

  Annabeth shook her head. “No. I considered it, but he asked me not to, and I thought I owed him that much. We go back a long way.”

  Claire’s voice was icy. “Did he tell you he didn’t shoot the FBI agent at your house?”

  Annabeth stared at her. “You know about that? Oh, well, of course you do—that’s where he kidnapped you, in Maine. Yes, he said that, but I expected him to say that. I didn’t believe him.”

  “You believed the story your student Susie gave you?”

  Annabeth’s eyes widened. “Wait—what? You know about Susie?” When Claire nodded, she went on, “Yes, I believed her. Why on earth would she shoot an FBI agent? And I don’t even know what an FBI agent would be doing at my home in the first place. I assumed he was looking for Jonathan.”

  Claire looked critically at Annabeth. Attractive, intelligent, successful Annabeth, her artfully colored hair becomingly tousled, her face bare of makeup yet still striking. Her name in bold print on the fliers for a prestigious international gathering, only hours away. Either she was very smart or very stupid. But it really didn’t matter, because Claire had only one card to play. She sat down across the table from Annabeth. Leah drifted to the far side of the table, her back to the curtained window, watching them both.

  Claire chose her words with care. “Annabeth, a minute after you left the deli tonight, two men came and took Jonathan away in a car. Leah and I saw it happen, and I got the license. They were not FBI agents. The car is registered to the Egyptian embassy. Apart from Leah and me, you were the only person who knew where Jonathan was going to be tonight. At least, until you showed the note to Philippe Cachette.”

  Annabeth stared at Claire coolly. “So you were eavesdropping at the party. What does it matter that I shared the note with Philippe? I trust him. It may be that he called the authorities. I didn’t. I’m sorry if Jonathan has been apprehended, but it has nothing to do with me.”

  Claire felt a brief stab of pity for the woman. She was in for a rude shock. “I’m afraid that’s not quite true. I assume the FBI has talked with you about what happened in Maine? And you’ve heard their side, in addition to Susie’s side of the story?”

  “Yes, I met with the FBI in California—that’s where I was before I flew to New York for this event. I told them I had known Jonathan for years, and I had offered to let him stay at my home while he was at Greenferne, but that I hadn’t seen him. I’d left home before he arrived. And Susan is one of my students from Greenferne. She had nowhere to go for interterm, so I let her stay at the house, water the plants, that kind of thing. All very aboveboard. What is the problem?”

  Claire pushed on relentlessly. “Did you give Jonathan time to tell you his version of the story tonight?”

  “Yes, he told me. I found it hard to believe. Why on earth would Susie shoot anyone?”

  Another thought hit Claire. “When you spoke with the FBI, did they tell you why they were at your house?”

  Annabeth laughed briefly. “Yes. They said they had a warrant to seize my computer. Apparently someone using that computer had been accessing Internet sites that the FBI was watching, something about terrorism. Because of my association with this conference they paid special attention to me. The agents were looking for me at the house. I talked to them as soon as I heard about what happened, but I couldn’t tell them anything about the computer. I assumed Jonathan had used it.”

  “They didn’t say they were looking for Jonathan?”

  “Ms. Hastings—Claire, is it? I’ve been traveling for the last month, and I’ve been focused on this coming conference. I have no idea who might have used my computer, but there really are only two possibilities: Susie or Jonathan. I was as surprised as anyone when I learned that a man had been shot in my house.”

  “But you were willing to accept that it was Jonathan who shot the man, rather than your protégé? Someone you’ve known for years, someone you trusted in your home?”

  “Yes, I suppose I was. I’ve known him for a long time, but I haven’t followed his career very closely. He may well have gotten involved in some things that I know nothing about.”

  “Annabeth, did it never occur to you that Susie might have shot the man?”

  Annabeth stood up and began pacing. “Claire, that’s absurd. I’ve had Susie in my classes for over two years. She’s not the most outstanding student, but she works hard and she seems sincerely engaged in her studies. She’s certainly not a violent person.”

  “Whose gun was it?”

  “I assume it must have been mine.”

  “You had a gun?” Clair
e said, surprised.

  “Yes, and quite legally.” Annabeth met Claire’s eyes squarely. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve lived alone for a number of years, and it makes me feel safer. I’ve made sure I know how to use it.”

  “Did anyone know where you kept the gun?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. I kept it in the nightstand next to the bed. I certainly didn’t talk about it.”

  But, Claire reasoned, it was right there for anyone to find—anyone with a little idle curiosity, and free time to snoop. Susie, for instance. She couldn’t imagine any reason why Jonathan would have been snooping in Annabeth’s drawers.

  Annabeth was beginning to look angry. “Do you mind telling me what the purpose of this inquisition is? I’ve done nothing wrong, and you’re harassing me about something I know nothing about. And you, Claire—you’re supposed to be a kidnapping victim. I would think you would have some explaining to do. In fact,” Annabeth stood up decisively, “I think I should call hotel security and ask them to remove you from my room.” She moved toward the phone on the nightstand.

  Claire rose quickly to intercept her, laying a hand on her arm. Annabeth looked at the hand, then at Claire’s face. “What do you think you’re doing?” Annabeth said.

  Claire wondered which one of them would win a physical confrontation. “Annabeth, wait. There’s something you have to know. Just sit down and listen for a little longer, all right?”

  Annabeth shook her hand free and stalked back to her seat at the table. “This had better be good.”

  Claire looked briefly at Leah. Leah nodded and pulled the printouts from her bag, and pushed them across the table toward Annabeth.

  Claire swallowed before speaking. This wasn’t going to be easy for Annabeth to hear, and Claire didn’t expect her to believe it, not at first. But Claire knew she had to convince her. “Annabeth, Philippe is a terrorist. We have reason to believe he is planning an attack on the First Lady at the conference in the morning.”

  If she had not been so angry and so gut-level scared, Claire might have felt sorry for Annabeth. Her face was like a kaleidoscope as a series of emotions passed over it: incredulity and anger first, and then something like comprehension, and . . . fear? It was a lot to absorb all at once, and as Claire watched, Annabeth seemed to shrink and age. She was staring at the documents in front of her without touching them, as if touching them would make them more real. But at least she was reading. Finally she reached out and turned a page, then another. Nobody spoke for a full minute.