A Tangled Web Page 4

  “Good morning, madame, may I be of service?” A small man came through the doorway, stooped over a cane. His white hair was in disarray; his white beard was trimmed to a neat point. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting; I was wrapping some maps for a customer—Ah, madame, have you come for the Tavernier? Perhaps your friend could not wait to have it shipped; it is not surprising: he was so excited about it. I have it wrapped for you; I will get it.”

  Sabrina’s heart began to pound; she felt herself sway.

  “Madame! Here, a chair, oh, I’m so sorry, only a stool, but still . . . please, please, madame, it is perhaps the heat outside?”

  He was holding her arm, but Sabrina gently moved away. “Thank you, I don’t need to sit down; I’m fine.” A map had fallen from her hand and she saw its delicate traceries and pale colors waver as she stared at it.

  “There is a doctor, madame, not far from here; I can take you to him.”

  “No, really, I don’t need a doctor.” She smiled at him. “You’re probably right; it was the heat.” She paused, then made a decision. “However, I must tell you that I am confused. I was not here recently; I have never been in your shop. Whoever was here must have been someone who looked like me.”

  He was frowning at her. “Madame makes some kind of joke? Everything is the same, the hat, the scarf, the hair . . . and the face! Someone so beautiful, madame, so in love, so eager to learn, is not quickly forgotten. And your friend, who knows so well the world of maps; I do not forget him either.” He bent to retrieve the map from the floor. “It was a pleasure to talk to him; not many these days have such knowledge. And he is a painter, not a cartographer! It astonishes me still.”

  Sabrina shook her head. “There is some mistake. Did they tell you their names?”

  “You are asking me if you told me your name, madame? You did not. I asked your friend if he had a card, but he said no and made a little joke, that painters have canvases but not cards. No, madame, your friend did not tell me his name and neither did you.” He looked at her pointedly, waiting for her to tell him, and end whatever game she was playing.

  Whoever they were, Sabrina thought, they had some reason for not telling you. A long conversation about a shopkeeper’s wares, a possible purchase, almost always led to an exchange of names.

  “My name is Stephanie Andersen,” she said, “but that is not the name of the woman who was in your shop.”

  “Madame!” he exploded. He turned away to replace the map in its proper drawer, then turned again to face her. “If you have changed your mind about buying the Tavernier, that is one thing. I understand that you are not especially interested in maps—that you deal with antique furniture instead—but . . .”

  “What?”

  “I beg your pardon, madame?”

  “You said antique furniture.”

  “Mon dieu! Madame, I am baffled that you insist on playing this very strange game; it is nothing to me what your name is—”

  “Did they say where they live? What neighborhood in Avignon, or nearby town?”

  He flung up his hands. “No, madame, you did not tell me that.”

  “What kind of painter is he?”

  “As you know, he did not tell me.”

  “Did you watch them after they left your shop? Where did they go?”

  “I do not know where you went, madame. Nor am I interested in finding out. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” Furious with her, he returned to the other room.

  Sabrina stood indecisively, then slowly left the shop and retraced her steps along the river and returned to the center of town. The shops would be closing soon for the afternoon break, and by the time they reopened, she would be on her way to Marseilles to catch her flight to London; otherwise she would miss the morning flight to Chicago. But what difference did it make whether the shops were open or closed? If this woman, this impostor—for what else could she be?—was determined not to tell her name to shopkeepers, and her friend was determined, too, what good would it do to go from shop to shop to try to find out who they were and what they were doing and why?

  But he’s a painter. If he was telling the truth about that, he would have wanted to go to galleries. Or maybe he needed more supplies.

  Suddenly filled with energy, she went to the tourist office on Cours Jean-Jaurès and got a list of art galleries and artists’ supply shops. There were only two supply shops, and the first, Monet Fournitures Artistiques, was a few blocks away. She walked quickly, ignoring the heat, her face shaded by her hat.

  “Ah, madame, I am so glad you return,” said the tall woman behind the counter. She had broad shoulders, her cheeks were round and full, and she wore oversize glasses that made her look like an amiable owl. “I left out one brush in wrapping your package; I have it here.” She brought a narrow box from behind the counter and held it out to Sabrina with a wide smile. “Otherwise I would have had to go looking for you, which would have been a long process, since I did not know where to look.”

  Sabrina avoided the truth; it was too difficult. “I didn’t tell you where I live?”

  “No, madame, the subject did not come up.” The woman tilted her head and contemplated Sabrina’s pale face calmly and with sympathy; she was prepared to accept any kind of infirmity or eccentricity. “Did you think you did?”

  Sabrina laughed. “No, I know I didn’t. Did I tell you my name?”

  “No, madame, and neither did your companion.”

  Sabrina frowned slightly. “How do you know he was not my husband?”

  “In fact, madame, at first I thought he was, from your closeness, your joy at being together, so very evident, especially to someone recently widowed, but I overheard a conversation when I left the room for a moment and it was clear that someone else was the husband.”

  Their eyes met. They liked each other. “I’m sorry about your husband,” Sabrina said gently, and the woman bowed her head in acknowledgment. Her hands gripped each other; tears were in her eyes. A loving woman, Sabrina thought. So loving that she was willing to indulge a stranger in a bizarre conversation rather than issue a challenge and perhaps cause distress. A wonderful woman, a caring woman.

  And Sabrina knew she could not intrude with her own concerns on memories of a dead husband.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she turned to go. But the woman’s voice stopped her. “Madame asked me if you told me your name.”

  She turned back. “Yes.”

  “As I said, you did not.” In gratitude for Sabrina’s sympathy, the shopkeeper no longer spoke as if it had been Sabrina in her shop. “The woman did not tell me her name. But when I was in the other room—I was searching for a kind of gesso that I thought I had, and indeed I did—she and her friend were talking together and he called her by her name. And she spoke her husband’s name.”

  Sabrina looked at her, waiting.

  “Her name was Sabrina,” the woman said. “And the husband’s name was Max.”

  Part II

  CHAPTER 4

  The explosion ripped open the Lafitte’s staterooms, flinging debris in a wide arc above the Mediterranean. The roar echoed off the white and pink buildings on the shore, causing cries of alarm in the streets and cafés of Monte Carlo. Those who had binoculars grabbed them, but saw little in the turbulence of waves and wreckage. On the ship, within seconds, water flooded the elegant quarters where Max Stuyvesant had entertained and made love, and the crew’s quarters below, and within minutes the ship began to sink. It was five-thirty in the afternoon of an overcast October day.

  Stephanie and Max were flung across the lounge by the force of the explosion. Stephanie’s head struck a corner of a steel-and-glass cocktail table, and she lay beside it like a rag doll. Max was thrown against the end of the mahogany bar, and he huddled there, trying to catch his breath, the words the bomb, too early, the bomb, too early . . . pounding through his head.

  He heard no screams or cries for help, only an eerie silence broken by the angry slapping of waves against the
ship as it rocked and shuddered beneath him. Christ, blew the whole thing . . . He forced himself up on all fours and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. Pain shot through his left shoulder, and he shifted his weight to his right arm as he tried to stand. He fell back and, muttering a steady stream of curses, crawled across the room to the high, wide window, not thinking of anything now but getting away. He pulled himself up to the windowsill, grunting, swearing, soaked with sweat. The glass was shattered; he had a clear way out.

  With his right arm he pulled himself up to the sill, then he swiveled and swung one leg out. And as he turned, he saw Stephanie on the floor, her eyes closed, blood running down her face.

  “Sabrina—” It came out as a gasp. My God, they’ve killed her. He wiped away the sweat running into his eyes and thought he saw her move. Or it might have been the rocking of the ship. “Christ!” he burst out. He swung his leg back into the lounge to go to her, then stopped. He couldn’t wait; he had to get away. She was dead and he was alive; his men would be waiting for him, and he had to get the hell out of here before the ship went down. He pushed his other leg through the window and tensed to leap into the water.

  But he could not stop himself from taking one quick look back, and when he did he saw Stephanie’s head roll to the side into a thin stream of water trickling in beneath the door. As he watched, the water flowed faster and then the force of it burst the door open and a torrent gushed in. Max knew he could not leave her like that. He had to know if she was alive, and if she was. he had to keep her with him.

  He swung his legs around and dropped back into the room, gasping with the pain. Broke something, he thought. No, probably not that bad. He knelt in the water beside Stephanie. “Sabrina! God damn it, Sabrina, wake up, help me . . .

  “Merde.” He was cursing now in whatever language broke through the panic building inside him. He held his fingers against Stephanie’s neck and found the thread of a pulse. Alive. God damn, she’s alive. A wellspring of joy sprang up within him, so powerful it stunned him. Wait. Think about it later. Got to get us out of here.

  He gripped Stephanie’s hands and, crawling backwards through the water, dragged her to the window, fighting dizziness and the pain in his leg and left shoulder. She was deadweight, and he slipped on the wet floor as he struggled to push her up until she lay over the windowsill like a burlap sack. Gasping, coughing, he pulled himself up to sit beside her and catch his breath. No time, he thought; no time to breathe. He pulled off his shoes, and Stephanie’s, then lifted her and shoved her through the window and into the sea. And as she dropped, he dove in, just behind her.

  It had been two minutes since the explosion.

  He hit the water clumsily and fought his way to the surface. Debris churned around him in the waves rolling outward as the ship went down; he felt a piece of metal cut his hand, another struck his thigh. Treading water, he looked around. He was on the side of the ship away from shore, and except for some small boats speeding in his direction, he seemed to be alone. “Sabrina! Sabrina, for Christ’s sake . . .” Sputtering, coughing, he took a few lurching sidestrokes, favoring his bad shoulder, and found himself at the stern of the ship. He saw the hole in its side—the bomb, the fucking bomb, wasn’t supposed to go off until—and then he saw Stephanie, floating face down in water red with her blood, shards of wood and metal swirling around her.

  He reached her in an instant and twined his fingers in her thick hair to yank her head back and out of the water. He rolled her over, then hooked his left arm beneath her chin and swam with his other arm away from the ship. His clothes dragged him down, the water was colder than he had imagined, his head and shoulder throbbed, and he had to force his legs to keep moving. “Bastardos, fucking bastardos,” he said aloud, meaning all of them, the ones who had set the bomb to kill him, and his own men who should have been there by now to pick him up.

  Stephanie floated, her face colorless, pale veins tracing across her dead white eyelids. Max could see the gash in her forehead now; he thought it was not as bad as all the blood had made it seem. She’ll be all right, he thought. She’ll be fine. She’s tough; I always liked her toughness.

  But he was so tired he could barely stay afloat. It would be easier without her. Easier alone. He’d known that all his life: it was easiest to go alone. But he held on to her. He remembered that spurt of joy when he knew she was alive, though he could not recapture it now. Verfluchen, he swore wearily. Sons of bitches. Said they’d be close by . . .

  The motorboat was beside him before he saw it; the men had cut the engine and maneuvered through the debris to come close without setting up high waves. “Sorry, boss,” one of them said. “Didn’t think it’d go off this early. You want her, too?”

  “Fuck it!” Max exploded.

  “Okay, right.” The two men reached down and dragged Stephanie into the boat. “Grab my arm,” the first one said to Max, and pulled him in as the other man started the engine. The small boat leaped away, its prow high out of the water. Max lay beside Stephanie in the bottom of the boat, out of sight, while the men kept fishing poles and nets raised high and looked straight ahead as they tore through the water.

  Max slid a life preserver beneath Stephanie’s head, then ripped off his shirt and pressed it to the bleeding gash in her forehead. Holding it there, he lay back again, breathing deeply. Now, he thought; now I can breathe. But then he heard one of the men say, “She’s gone,” and he raised himself and looked behind them. He stared at the widening circle of debris and the motorboats bobbing a little distance away. Rescue boats were approaching from shore. That was all he saw. The Lafitte was gone.

  “A beaut, that bomb,” one of his men said cheerfully.

  Max looked at him until the man’s cheer faded. “Why the fuck did you wait so long to tell me about it?”

  “I didn’t wait! I told you as soon as I knew! I didn’t hear word one about a bomb, about any plans for a bomb, until today. I don’t know; maybe they were starting to wonder about me—”

  “I pay you so they don’t wonder about you. I pay you to make them trust you. I pay you to get information to me in time for me to use it.”

  “Well, you did; you got out in—”

  “None of us should have been on board in the first place.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing until this afternoon, boss, honest to God. I called you on your plane, but you’d landed and the pilot said you’d just left for the dock. I got down there as soon as I could, but you were gone, so I called you on the ship’s radio; what else could I do?” There was a silence. “So you went forward, right? I mean, when you knew the bomb was under your stateroom . . .”

  “We went forward.”

  The others had been unpacking in their rooms, but Max had insisted on going to the lounge. “You can unpack later, Sabrina,” he had said. “I want a drink; I want you to see Monte Carlo in this light.” And they had gone forward.

  In fact, he’d thought he had plenty of time. His man, who had worked his way into Denton’s organization, had told him the bomb was set to go off at seven, when everyone was dressing for dinner. But Max was not one to sit calmly on top of a bomb without doing something about it. He had planned to leave the lounge after a few minutes and get the engineer to go with him to find the bomb. But then it had occurred to him that the engineer could be part of the plot. Whoever brought the bomb on board and found a place to hide it and then left the ship without anyone being suspicious . . . whoever did that couldn’t have managed it without help from someone on the crew.

  He had been thinking about that while pouring drinks in the lounge. “It looks like a little girl’s birthday cake,” Stephanie had said, looking at the pastel colors and rococo designs on the buildings of Monte Carlo, stepping up the hill from the shore.

  Max brought her a drink and saw the sudden cloud that shadowed her face. “What is it?”

  “I was thinking about little girls’ birthdays,” she said, and he grasped her hand, angry at her for letting h
er thoughts take her away from him. He put her glass in her hand and curved her fingers around it. And then the bomb went off.

  In the small motorboat, Max cradled Stephanie’s head against him to protect her from the pounding vibration of the engine. They were racing west, toward Nice, the beaches and harbors of the Côte d’Azur on their right. The sun was still bright, but the beach was emptying as bronzed men and women gathered possessions, packed them into brightly striped raffia bags, and strolled to the hotels lining the shore.

  “Almost there, boss,” said the man at the wheel. “Burt’s waiting at the dock; he took care of the helicopter. Trouble is, we didn’t know you’d need a stretcher or an ambulance or, you know, so there won’t be anybody waiting when we get to Marseilles.”

  “Burt can call from the helicopter. An ambulance and a hospital.”

  “Right; he’ll know where to go; he’s lived there all his life.”

  Nice was a jumble of buildings behind the forest of ships’ masts in the harbor; the cafés on the Promenade des Anglais were crowded with people settling in for late afternoon drinks. Max looked at them, thinking that that familiar life was closed to him for a long time. Then he turned away as his small boat chugged slowly to a deserted part of the harbor near a cluster of squat warehouses, and eased into place at the far end of the dock.

  A black Renault was parked close to the dock; beside it stood a short, slender priest with a brown beard. He squatted as Max’s men tied the boat to the dock. “I heard you were coming in today; I came to greet—Mon Dieu, Max, you’re hurt!” He leaned into the boat, his hand extended. “But who is this? She’s bleeding . . . Max, what happened?”

  “An explosion; the ship went down.” Max grasped the priest’s hand and clambered out of the boat, gritting his teeth against the pain that shot through his arm. “I’m glad to see you, Robert. We’ll need a hospital in Marseilles.”