Once She Knew Page 22

  “Wrong,” Claire said. “It was his information—gathered with the help of a friend—that led us to you. That friend knows what’s going on and will make sure that somebody pays attention. You are not as invisible as you’d like to think.” Claire was working up some righteous wrath; it sure beat giving in to her fear.

  Philippe shrugged. “It will make little difference. By the time your officials sort things out, I will be long gone.”

  Not if I can help it, Claire thought grimly. He really doesn’t regard us very highly, does he? He thinks that we’ll march meekly into his closet and wait to be rescued? Think again, pal. She felt herself distancing herself from the scene, looking at it from the outside. There were three of them—Claire didn’t bother to include Susie in the count—and if they fanned out, how quickly could he kill all of them? If he hit one, or maybe two of them, could the third take him down? And even if it was possible, how could she communicate this plan to the others?

  Claire felt a sharp pang of regret. “Leah, I’m sorry I got you into this,” she said.

  Leah laughed, without looking away from Philippe, and the sound was completely incongruous. “Hey, girl, I wouldn’t have missed it. Besides, I was involved anyway, right? At least this way I got a chance to stop it. I don’t take kindly to assassination attempts messing up my parties. So this was all part of my job.” She grinned at Claire, and Claire found herself grinning back. All right, if they were going down, they were going down fighting. And as she watched, Leah suddenly grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the side table next to her and heaved it at Philippe’s head.

  As he put up both hands to fend off the projectile, Claire came at him laterally, and she was glad to see that Leah had done the same from the other side. Together they managed to knock him backward to the floor, and Claire knelt on his right arm, hoping that the others could hold down his body while she tried to get the gun away from him. Even as she struggled, it went off, shattering a window. Annabeth picked up the ashtray from the floor and began to whack him on the head with it. Susie wisely or foolishly hung back, staring at the unexpected melee with her mouth hanging open.

  Philippe proved to be surprisingly strong, despite his elegant appearance, now slightly disarrayed. With a knee he managed to kick Annabeth away, and she stumbled against Susie. Both fell to the floor. But that appeared to startle Philippe. “Pas les seins,” he gasped. “Do not hit her.”

  “I just did. Wait—what did you say? Don’t hit her . . . breasts?” Annabeth said.

  Philippe fell silent again, but not before Claire had a blinding moment of insight. It was clear that the bra Susie was wearing was padded—but with what? “Susie, did Philippe give you that bra?” Claire demanded.

  Susie, sprawled on the floor with Annabeth draped over her legs, looked both confused and defiant. “Yeah. So what?”

  “Take it off,” Claire gasped, as she struggled to contain Philippe.

  “What? Are you nuts, or just weird?”

  Claire gathered up the vestiges of her self-control. “Take it off now, or Annabeth will rip it off you and you can greet the FBI without it.” When Susie gave no sign of giving it up, Claire added, “Susie, you may be wearing a bomb.”

  If Claire had had any doubts about her wild conjecture, Philippe’s renewed struggles convinced her. The combined weight of Leah and Claire was no match for a strong and well-trained fighter, who was not about to pull his punches just because they were female. This was a battle they were going to lose.

  There was a pounding at the door.

  29

  Philippe heard the sound and renewed his struggles. As her grip weakened, Claire gasped, “Time for Plan B, ladies. Scream!”

  The sound of three voices shrieking at full force startled even Philippe, although it didn’t deter him. But whoever was outside the door redoubled their efforts, and apparently they had come prepared, as the impact of what Claire devoutly hoped was a battering ram shook the walls and rattled the paintings. The first blow warped the door, and the second tore out the lock. A number of large men in suits tumbled through it and stopped in the archway leading to the living room, taking in the scene of recumbent Philippe and the three women holding down various parts of him, plus Susie sprawled nearby in her fancy underwear. Claire recognized Agent Maguire and his sidekick Agent Vitello at the head of the pack and swallowed a sob of relief. At the sight of the gun still in Philippe’s hand, the agents drew their own weapons.

  “Thank God!” Claire panted. “It’s about time! Agent Maguire, what the hell are you doing here? Would you mind taking Philippe’s gun away from him?”

  “Ms. Hastings, nice to see you again.” Maguire knelt beside her and removed the gun from Philippe’s hand. “I was looking for you and your friend Mr. Daulton, of course. I think you can let this guy up now.”

  Claire, Leah and Annabeth disentangled themselves carefully and, without speaking, gathered together at one side of the room—leaving the FBI agents a clear shot at Philippe, in case they needed it. Philippe, relieved of his burden, scrambled to his feet, cursing richly in a language Claire did not recognize. Then he shifted into French, although some of those words were unfamiliar to Claire as well.

  He tucked in his shirt, pulled down his sleeves, and smoothed his hair before addressing the crowd of law enforcement officials in English. “Gentleman, I am most relieved that you have arrived. These women attacked me and my guest.” He gestured at Susie, who was already attracting plenty of attention from the agents. “I am convinced that they are deranged. I demand that you remove them from the premises.”

  “Not quite so fast, Mr.—Cachette, I assume?” Agent Maguire did not appear impressed by Philippe’s bluster.

  “Yes. I am a respected member of the Egyptian embassy, and I have been subjected to physical attack. Arrest these women.”

  Claire felt a wave of relief when Agent Maguire answered, “I’d like to hear a little more about the, uh, activities here before I take any action. Ms. Hastings, I appreciate your phone call. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  Claire nodded. “That was me. I didn’t think anyone would show up if we called up and said we caught ourselves a terrorist.” Claire, you’re getting giddy. Control yourself.

  “Now, that’s an interesting statement. Would you care to expand upon it? Oh, and I’m quite glad to see you in the best of health. Not suffering any ill effects from your kidnapping?”

  “I deserve that, but there’s a good explanation.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing it. Please, go on. What is your version of the events here?”

  “You know who I am. These other two women are Annabeth Rankin and Leah Parker.” The other women nodded in turn. “Leah is the coordinator for the conference on women’s rights that begins at the U.N. in a few hours. Annabeth is one of the keynote speakers. As you probably know, the First Lady is another. And that sniveling child on the floor is a student of Annabeth’s, who apparently has been carrying on with Mr. Cachette.”

  “Yes?” Maguire struggled to keep his expression impassive.

  “Based on information that Jonathan Daulton uncovered and has been pursuing, we have reason to believe that this man, Philippe Cachette, has been planning a terrorist event at the conference, aimed specifically at the First Lady.”

  “That’s a rather serious accusation. You have any sort of proof?”

  Claire looked at Leah. “You still have those printouts?”

  “Sure do.” Leah reached for the bag she had dropped when they jumped at Philippe, then froze as several agents pointed guns at her. “Gentlemen, I am going to reach very slowly into my bag and remove a handful of papers. Is that all right with you?”

  Without answering, Agent Vitello took the bag from her. He stepped back, then reached in and extracted the sheaf of now rumpled printouts of the information that Rick had sent. Glancing briefly at them, he handed the stack to Agent Maguire. Vitello did not relinquish the bag. Agent Maguire shuffled through the papers.


  Claire pressed on. “I don’t expect you to believe this right now, but we’ll be happy to tell you everything we’ve found—just as long as you keep this guy off the street until the First Lady leaves town.”

  Philippe interrupted. “This is outrageous! I am a diplomat. Therefore you have no right to detain me. I demand that you remove these women.”

  Agent Maguire showed no sign of moving, Claire was happy to see. “Mr. Cachette, I respect your position, but surely as a representative of your nation you will be happy to assist us in our inquiries? In this difficult time, we must all be prepared to work together in the interests of international security, don’t you agree? If you will accompany us to our headquarters, I’m sure we can clear all this up in a few hours.”

  Claire noted that Philippe was turning an interesting and unhealthy shade of red: the effort of restraining his fury must be taking its toll. On the other hand, Agent Maguire looked cool and collected, and Claire was profoundly grateful that he was on their side. At least, she thought he was. “An excellent idea, Agent Maguire. Shall we leave now?”

  “In good time, Ms. Hastings. But first, perhaps you could enlighten me as to the whereabouts of your putative kidnapper, Mr. Daulton?”

  Claire felt a punch in her gut. She’d forgotten about Jonathan. She’d been so focused on Philippe that she had lost sight of one of their main purposes. “I think that’s a question you should ask Mr. Cachette.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because approximately three hours ago he had Jonathan picked up by two men driving a car that belongs to the Egyptian embassy. You have their pictures there.”

  That statement startled both Philippe and Agent Maguire. “How do you know this?”

  “Which part? The abduction, or the identity of the guys who took him? Leah and I both saw the men drag Jonathan Daulton into their car. I took down the license, and a . . . friend identified it for me.”

  “Hmm. And you are suggesting that Mr. Daulton did not accompany these men of his own free will?”

  “Damn straight I am. Under the circumstances, there’s no way he would go off in the middle of the night with a couple of strangers.”

  Agent Maguire was not to be deterred from his line of reasoning. “He may have known the men. He may have been working with them, or want information from them.”

  Claire wanted to yell at him, but she knew if she blew up now, it wouldn’t help anyone. With as much deliberation as she could muster, she said carefully, “Agent Maguire, I can understand your concerns. But I saw them take Jonathan, and Leah will back me up. Jonathan did not accompany these men voluntarily. But if you don’t believe me, why don’t you talk to them yourselves? Since they were driving an embassy car, I assume they are associated with the embassy. It shouldn’t be too hard to find them.”

  This suggestion seemed to push Philippe further toward the brink of a meltdown. “You are going to take the word of these . . . silly women over mine? Their imaginations have overheated. They are discovering criminals under every trash bin. I demand once again that you remove them, or there will be consequences!”

  Agent Maguire gave him an enigmatic look. “Mr. Cachette, I do not take kindly to being threatened. I am acting within my proper authority, in a reasonable manner. Let me ask you this: do you have any direct and personal knowledge as to the current whereabouts of Jonathan Daulton?”

  “I do not know this man! Why would I have any dealings with him?”

  “Do you know of the two men to whom Ms. Hastings refers?”

  “I know many people at the embassy. I have been there for three years. Perhaps we have met, perhaps not. What are you implying?”

  Maguire ignored the question. “Then you won’t have any objection if we locate these men and speak to them? Perhaps they remember you better than you remember them.” He turned back to Claire. “You have the license number?”

  Claire handed him the crumpled napkin. Maguire handed it to Vitello. “See if you can track down this car, fast. Start with the embassy—maybe they’ve got parking on-site or nearby. If that comes up dry, start checking street parking, working your way out from the embassy. Oh, and check this neighborhood too, while you’re at it.” He turned back to Claire. “Can you describe it?”

  Claire shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not good with cars. Black, four-door, tinted windows, relatively new—it was very clean and shiny, like it had just been washed. One guy got into the driver’s seat, the other one shoved Jonathan into the backseat and got in after him. They drove away from the corner of Lexington and 86th Street, heading east. They were driving carefully, if you know what I mean—they didn’t exactly peel out and speed off. All very orderly. But they knew exactly where to find Jonathan. And that had to be because Philippe told them, because we know it wasn’t us, and we were the only other people who knew.”

  Maguire looked back at Vitello. “Go.” Vitello pulled out his cell phone and walked into the hallway. Maguire’s gaze returned to Claire again. “And why would he know that?”

  “I can explain that, Agent,” Annabeth said. “Earlier today, or I suppose yesterday, Claire delivered a note from Jonathan to me at a private party. I read it, and I showed it to Philippe. No one else. To the best of my knowledge, only Claire, Leah, Philippe and I knew where Jonathan was going to be.”

  “Why did you show it to Mr. Cachette?”

  Annabeth’s fair skin flushed, and she lifted her chin. “Because until last evening, Philippe and I were . . . intimately involved. But I had no idea of his other activities until I spoke with Claire and Leah a couple of hours ago. You may not believe me when I say that. I must admit I was abysmally stupid.”

  “Hmm.” Agent Maguire did not elaborate, but Claire had no doubt that he had filed away that information for further review. What did it take to disturb that imperturbable exterior?

  Maguire surveyed the disheveled group. “Perhaps it might be best if you all sat down. This may take some time.” Claire noticed that the other agents in the room did not relax their vigilance. Claire sank gratefully into a luxuriously upholstered chair. How long has it been since I slept? Do I remember eating today? Is Jonathan alive? That brought her up short, not because she hadn’t entertained the possibility that he might not be alive, but because of the unexpected and overwhelming sense of despair that flooded her. He couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t. To have come this far, to have gotten this close, and then . . . No, they had to find him. But putting her faith in the FBI to find him now, fast, meant ignoring the fact that the two of them, rank amateurs, had eluded the same agents for the last several days, which did not recommend their skills.

  Claire shook herself and checked out her colleagues. Leah looked sleepy but undismayed; no doubt she was mentally reviewing the schedule for the day’s events and drafting alternative scenarios in case the FBI did not see fit to release them in the next few hours. Annabeth looked about ten years older than she had at the beginning of the evening, but she had somehow gathered up a quiet dignity. Susie had struggled to her feet and was clutching at the front of the oversized shirt in a belated effort at modesty, while staying as far from everyone else as she could.

  Annabeth avoided looking at Philippe. Claire studied him for a moment: Philippe was clearly fraying at the edges. Apparently he was not used to being thwarted, and he was not taking it well. And by three women! It must really gall him. Claire clung to the small measure of comfort that gave her.

  They waited. No one spoke. Maguire did not indulge in small talk, or perhaps he thought silence would soften up his suspects. It made no difference. Claire was prepared to tell him everything. Well, no, she amended. She would not identify Rick: that was a confidence that was not hers to share. She wondered if a journalist’s right to protect his sources could be applied transitively. Secondhand. Could apply to her. No way she was going to name Rick. Of course, she didn’t even know his last name, or his address in Providence, but that probably wouldn’t slow down the FBI much. Did it even m
atter? The FBI should be able to match any information Rick had ferreted out—shouldn’t they?

  Somebody’s cell phone range, and Claire flinched violently at the sound. Somebody answered, talked briefly, then approached Maguire. “We’ve located the car. About three blocks from the embassy, on the street. Two men sitting in it. What do you want us to do?”

  “Keep an eye on it, but don’t go near it. We’re going to head over there. Have we got enough cars to bring our friends here?”

  “I’ll take care of it.” The other agent went back to the hall, to his phone.

  Maguire looked at the bedraggled assembly in the living room. “You’ll come with me, ladies. Mr. Cachette can ride with Vitello. Morgan, you go with them.”

  “Wait!” Claire exclaimed. “You’d better get Susie’s bra.”

  “What?” Maguire asked, clearly bewildered. “Her bra?”

  Claire nodded. “It may be a wild guess, but I think it’s packed with explosives. Like the underwear bomber, you know?”

  Maguire clearly struggled with her request, but in the end he said to Susie, “Would you mind changing your underwear? And you might want to put some clothes on.” Then he apparently realized that he couldn’t leave her unattended—and he had no female agent with him. “Ms. Hastings, can I trust you to keep an eye on her and prevent her from leaving by the nearest fire escape?”

  “Of course. Come on, Susie, let’s get this over with. I assume you brought other clothes?”

  “I’ve got plenty here.” Susie stalked toward the bedroom door and Claire followed closely. She left the door open but blocked the agents’ view from the living room with her body.

  Susie rummaged in a bag—a Vuitton satchel, Claire noted, and most likely a gift from Philippe. Susie pulled out a bra and swapped quickly, her back toward Claire, then tossed the lacy number at Claire, who caught it gingerly. “You’re nuts, you know that? It was a present from Philippe—he likes to see me in pretty things. Why would he give me a bra that would blow up?”