Praise for
TESS
GERRITSEN
“Tess Gerritsen is an automatic must-read in my house.”
—Stephen King
“Tess Gerritsen…throws one twist after another until the excitement is almost unbearable.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Ms. Gerritsen is a master!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Gerritsen’s romances are thrillers from beginning to end.”
—Portland Press Herald
“Tess Gerritsen brings us action, adventure, and compelling romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Riveting…Gerritsen knows how to fashion credible, dimensional characters.”
—Los Angeles Times
Also by TESS GERRITSEN
KEEPER OF THE BRIDE
PRESUMED GUILTY
WHISTLEBLOWER
NEVER SAY DIE
UNDER THE KNIFE
CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT
TESS GERRITSEN
IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS & THIEF OF HEARTS
CONTENTS
IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
THIEF OF HEARTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS
To Misty, Mary and the Breakfast Club
Prologue
Paris, 1973
She was late. It was not like Madeline, not like her at all.
Bernard Tavistock ordered another café au lait and took his time sipping it, every so often glancing around the outdoor café for a glimpse of his wife. He saw only the usual Left Bank scene: tourists and Parisians, red-checked tablecloths, a riot of summertime colors. But no sign of his raven-haired wife. She was half an hour late now; this was more than a traffic delay. He found himself tapping his foot as the worries began to creep in. In all their years of marriage, Madeline had rarely been late for an appointment, and then only by a few minutes. Other men might moan and roll their eyes in masculine despair over their perennially tardy spouses, but Bernard had no such complaints—he’d been blessed with a punctual wife. A beautiful wife. A woman who, even after fifteen years of marriage, continued to surprise him, fascinate him, tempt him.
Now where the dickens was she?
He glanced up and down Boulevard Saint-Germain. His uneasiness grew from a vague toe-tapping anxiety to outright worry. Had there been a traffic accident? A last-minute alert from their French Intelligence contact, Claude Daumier? Events had been moving at a frantic pace these last two weeks. Those rumors of a NATO intelligence leak—of a mole in their midst—had them all glancing over their shoulders, wondering who among them could not be trusted. For days now, Madeline had been awaiting instructions from MI6 London. Perhaps, at the last minute, word had come through.
Still, she should have let him know.
He rose to his feet and was about to head for the telephone when he spotted his waiter, Mario, waving at him. The young man quickly wove his way past the crowded tables.
“Monsieur Tavistock, there is a telephone message for you. From madame.”
Bernard gave a sigh of relief. “Where is she?”
“She says she cannot come for lunch. She wishes you to meet her.”
“Where?”
“This address.” The waiter handed him a scrap of paper, smudged with what looked like tomato soup. The address was scrawled in pencil: 66, Rue Myrha, #5.
Bernard frowned. “Isn’t this in Pigalle? What on earth is she doing in that neighborhood?”
Mario shrugged, a peculiarly Gallic version with tipped head, raised eyebrow. “I do not know. She tells me the address, I write it down.”
“Well, thank you.” Bernard reached for his wallet and handed the fellow enough francs to pay for his two café au laits, as well as a generous tip.
“Merci,” said the waiter, beaming. “You will return for supper, Monsieur Tavistock?”
“If I can track down my wife,” muttered Bernard, striding away to his Mercedes.
He drove to Place Pigalle, grumbling all the way. What on earth had possessed her to go there? It was not the safest part of Paris for a woman—or a man, either, for that matter. He took comfort in the knowledge that his beloved Madeline could take care of herself quite well, thank you very much. She was a far better marksman than he was, and that automatic she carried in her purse was always kept fully loaded—a precaution he insisted upon ever since that near-disaster in Berlin. Distressing how one couldn’t trust one’s own people these days. Incompetents everywhere, in MI6, in NATO, in French Intelligence. And there had been Madeline, trapped in that building with the East Germans, and no one to back her up. If I hadn’t arrived in time…
No, he wouldn’t relive that horror again.
She’d learned her lesson. And a loaded pistol was now a permanent accessory to her wardrobe.
He turned onto Rue de Chapelle and shook his head in disgust at the deteriorating street scene, the tawdry nightclubs, the scantily clad women poised on street corners. They saw his Mercedes and beckoned to him eagerly. Desperately. “Pig Alley” was what the Yanks used to call this neighborhood. The place one came to for quick delights, for guilty pleasures. Madeline, he thought, have you gone completely mad? What could possibly have brought you here?
He turned onto Boulevard Bayes, then Rue Myrha, and parked in front of number 66. In disbelief, he stared up at the building and saw three stories of chipped plaster and sagging balconies. Did she really expect him to meet her in this firetrap? He locked the Mercedes, thinking, I’ll be lucky if the car’s still here when I return. Reluctantly he entered the building.
Inside there were signs of habitation: children’s toys in the stairwell, a radio playing in one of the flats. He climbed the stairs. The smell of frying onions and cigarette smoke seemed to hang permanently in the air. Numbers three and four were on the second floor; he kept climbing, up a narrow staircase to the top floor. Number five was the attic flat; its low door was tucked between the eaves.
He knocked. No answer.
“Madeline?” he called. “Really now, this isn’t some sort of practical joke, is it?”
Still there was no answer.
He tried the door; it was unlocked. He pushed inside, into the garret flat. Venetian blinds hung over the windows, casting slats of shadow and light across the room. Against one wall was a large brass bed, its sheets still rumpled from some prior occupant. On a bedside table were two dirty glasses, an empty champagne bottle and various plastic items one might delicately refer to as “marital aids.” The whole room smelled of liquor, of sweating passion and bodies in rut.
Bernard’s puzzled gaze gradually shifted to the foot of the brass bed, to a woman’s high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor. Frowning, he took a step toward it and saw that the shoe lay in a glistening puddle of crimson. As he rounded the foot of the bed, he froze in disbel
ief.
His wife lay on the floor, her ebony hair fanned out like a raven’s wings. Her eyes were open. Three sunbursts of blood stained her white blouse.
He dropped to his knees beside her. “No,” he said. “No.” He touched her face, felt the warmth still lingering in her cheeks. He pressed his ear to her chest, her bloodied chest, and heard no heartbeat, no breath. A sob burst forth from his throat, a disbelieving cry of grief. “Madeline!”
As the echo of her name faded, there came another sound behind him—footsteps. Soft, approaching…
Bernard turned. In bewilderment, he stared at the pistol—Madeline’s pistol—now pointed at him. He looked up at the face hovering above the barrel. It made no sense—no sense at all!
“Why?” asked Bernard.
The answer he heard was the dull thud of the silenced automatic. The bullet’s impact sent him sprawling to the floor beside Madeline. For a few brief seconds, he was aware of her body close beside him, and of her hair, like silk against his fingers. He reached out and feebly cradled her head. My love, he thought. My dearest love.
And then his hand fell still.
One
Buckinghamshire, England
Twenty years later
Jordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hugh’s easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock family’s sense of whimsy that they’d chosen to so publicly display their one relative who’d, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill—the last man to be officially decapitated in England—unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. I should keep at least a few gray cells in working order, he thought. I might need them to hold up my end of the chitchat. Chitchat being one of Jordan’s least favorite activities.
For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonight’s event—in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane—might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hugh’s retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hugh’s former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris—all of them in London for the recent economic summit—and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface.
Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; he’d managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot.
“Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you?” said Hugh.
Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. “Where’s Davis? He’s much better at this sort of thing.”
“I sent him to fetch that sister of yours.”
“Beryl’s gone out again?”
“Naturally. Mention the words ‘cocktail party,’ and she’s flying out the door.”
Jordan began to loop his uncle’s tie into a bow. “Beryl’s never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think she’s had just a bit too much of the Vanes.”
“Hmm? But they’ve been lovely guests. Fit right in—”
“It’s the nasty little barbs flying between them.”
“Oh, that. They’ve always been that way. I scarcely notice it anymore.”
“And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?”
Hugh laughed. “Around a pretty woman, Reggie is a puppy dog.”
“Well, it’s no wonder Helena’s always sniping at him.” Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncle’s bow tie with a frown.
“How’s it look?”
“It’ll have to do.”
Hugh glanced at the clock. “Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why aren’t the Vanes down yet?”
As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. “Someone has to point these things out to you,” she said.
“Yes, and it’s always you, isn’t it?”
Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helena’s substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer.
As the hour edged toward six o’clock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. “Before the hordes arrive,” he said, “a toast, to your safe return to Paris.” They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends.
Now Reggie raised his glass. “And here’s to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!”
From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the woman’s arm.
“Good heavens, it’s Nina Sutherland and her brat,” Helena muttered. “What broom did she fly in on?”
Outside, the woman in the green gown suddenly spotted them standing in the window. “Hello, Reggie! Helena!” she called in a voice like a bassoon.
Hugh set down his sherry glass. “Time to greet the barbarians,” he said, sighing. He and the Vanes headed out the front door to welcome the first arrivals.
Jordan paused a moment to finish his drink, giving himself time to paste on a smile and get the old handshake ready. Bastille Day—what an excuse for a party! He tugged at the coattails of his tuxedo, gave his ruffled shirt one last pat, and resignedly headed out to the front steps. Let the dog and pony show begin.
Now where in blazes was his sister?
At that moment, the subject of Jordan Tavistock’s speculation was riding hell-bent for leather across a grassy field. Poor old Froggie needs the workout, thought Beryl. And so do I. She bent forward into the wind, felt the lash of Froggie’s mane against her face, and inhaled that wonderful scent of horseflesh, sweet clover and warm July earth. Froggie was enjoying the sprint just as much as she was, if not more. Beryl could feel those powerful muscles straining for ever more speed. She’s a demon, like me, thought Beryl, suddenly laughing aloud—the same wild laugh that always made poor Uncle Hughie cringe. But out here, in the open fields, she could laugh like a wanton woman and no one would hear. If only she could keep on riding, forever and ever! But fences and walls seemed to be everywhere in her life. Fences of the mind, of the heart. She urged her mount still faster, as though through speed she could outrun all the devils pursuing her.
Bastille Day. What a desperate excuse for a party.
Uncle Hugh loved a good bash, and the Vanes were old family friends; they deserved a decent send-off. But she’d seen the guest list, and it was the same tiresome lot. Shouldn’t ex-spies and diplomats lead more interesting lives? She couldn’t imagine James Bond, retired, pottering about in his garden.
Yet that’s what Uncle Hugh seemed to do all day. The highlight of his week had been harvesting the season’s first hybrid Nepal tomato—his earliest tomato ever! And as for her uncle’s friends, well, she couldn’t imagine them ever sneaking around the back alleys of Paris or Berlin. Philippe St. Pierre, perhaps—yes, she could picture him in his younger days; at sixty-two, he was still charming, a Gallic lady-killer. And Reggie Vane might have cut a dashing figure years ago. But most of Uncle Hugh’s old colleag
ues seemed so, well…used up.
Not me. Never me.
She galloped harder, letting Froggie have free rein.
They raced across the last stretch of field and through a copse of trees. Froggie, winded now, slowed to a trot, then a walk. Beryl pulled her to a halt by the church’s stone wall. There she dismounted and let Froggie wander about untethered. The churchyard was deserted and the gravestones cast lengthening shadows across the lawn. Beryl clambered over the low wall and walked among the plots until she came to the spot she’d visited so many times before. A handsome obelisk towered over two graves, resting side by side. There were no curlicues, no fancy angels carved into that marble face. Only words.
Bernard Tavistock, 1930-1973
Madeline Tavistock, 1934-1973
On earth, as it is in heaven, we are together.
Beryl knelt on the grass and gazed for a long time at the resting place of her mother and father. Twenty years ago tomorrow, she thought. How I wish I could remember you more clearly! Your faces, your smiles. What she did remember were odd things, unimportant things. The smell of leather luggage, of Mum’s perfume and Dad’s pipe. The crackle of paper as she and Jordan would unwrap the gifts Mum and Dad brought home to them. Dolls from France. Music boxes from Italy. And there was laughter. Always lots of laughter…