Free In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts by Tess Gerritsen Page B

realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
    “Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.”
    She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?”
    “There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.”
    Then he closed the door on her astonished face.
    When Richard arrived at Daumier’s flat, he found the Frenchman still awake but already dressed in his bathrobe 82
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    and slippers. The latest reports on the bombing of the St.
    Pierre residence were laid out across his kitchen table, along with a plate of sausage and a glass of milk. Forty years with French Intelligence hadn’t altered his prefer-ence for working in close proximity to a refrigerator.
    Waving at the reports, Daumier said, “It is all a puzzle to me. A Semtex explosive planted under the bed. A timing mechanism set for 9:10—precisely when the St. Pierres would be watching Marie’s favorite television program. It has all the signs of an inside operation, except for one glaring mistake—Philippe was in England.” He looked at Richard. “Does it not strike you as an inconceivable blunder?”
    “Terrorists are usually brighter than that,” admitted Richard. “Maybe they intended it only as a warning. A statement of purpose. ‘We can reach you if we want to,’
    that sort of thing.”
    “I still have no information on this Cosmic Solidarity League.” Wearily Daumier ran his hands through his hair.
    “The investigation, it goes nowhere.”
    “Then maybe you can turn your attention for a moment to my little problem.”
    “Problem? Ah, yes. The Tavistocks.” Daumier sat back and smiled at him. “Hugh’s niece is more than you can handle, Richard?”
    “Someone else was definitely tailing us tonight,” said Richard. “Not just your agent, Colette. Can you find out who it was?”
    “Give me something to work with,” said Daumier. “A middle-aged man, short and stocky—that tells me nothing.
    He could have been hired by anyone.”
    “It was someone who knew they were coming to Paris.” In Their Footsteps
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    “I know Hugh told the Vanes. They, in turn, could have mentioned it to others. Who else was at Chetwynd?” Richard thought back to the night of the reception and the night of Reggie’s indiscretion. Blast Reggie Vane and his weakness for booze. That was what had set this off. A few too many glasses of champagne, a wagging tongue. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Poor Reggie was a harmless soul; certainly he’d never meant to hurt Beryl.
    Rather, it was clear he adored her like a daughter.
    Richard said, “There were numbers of people the Vanes might have spoken to. Philippe St. Pierre. Nina and Anthony. Perhaps others.”
    “So we are talking about any number of people,” Daumier said, sighing.
    “Not a very short list,” Richard had to admit.
    “Is this such a wise idea, Richard?” The question was posed quietly. “Once before, if you recall, we were prevented from learning the truth.”
    How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt.
    There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing.
    A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself.

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