Blood Oath Part 21

"I don't understand."

"You said that if he's against us too we're finished. Once we feel no place is safe, then Verlaine's beaten us. We're paralyzed. We can't allow that. Wait and hope."

He studied her. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"h.e.l.l, I don't know what you'd do without me either."

But the voice was not Simone's. It was a man's. Houston swung, alarmed.

Andrews loomed beside him at the table: short-haired, square-jawed, heavy-muscled. He stood rigidly, wearing a s.h.i.+rt with epaulets that made him look as if he was still in the military.

Houston slumped back. "Where'd you come from?"

"Through the back. That's why I'm late. I had to make sure no one followed me. I checked my phone, and it's not tapped." His craggy face was troubled. Brooding, he set down a folder, pulled out a chair, and sat bolt-upright before the table.

"You look awful. When you called last night, you didn't want to talk about it.

What the h.e.l.l happened?"

Houston told him.

He ended with the old man in the rusty truck who'd picked them up along the road. The old man had believed their lie about an accident and drove them to the nearest village, where, as soon as the old man was out of sight, they paid a drunk to drive them to a village farther on.

"We found a doctor. We bought clothes. We spent a lot of time on trains and buses."

"After that, you still had nerve enough to want to meet me here? A public place?"

"We figured they wouldn't try to kill us in plain sight. Too many witnesses."

"From what you've told me, these guys aren't exactly bashful." "Thanks. That's what I need. Encouragement." "Verlaine and Charon? Something white?" "I know. It doesn't make much sense." "It's like a stone thrown in a pond. The ripples keep on spreading."

"Did you bring the numbers?" Houston asked. Andrews studied him. "You're still determined to go on?" "More than ever. What's the choice? We either run until they catch us, or we find the truth and fight."

Andrews sighed. "I've got the numbers." He reached for the folder he had set on the table.

But his fingers were reluctant. "It was difficult. I had to cancel favors that were owed me. I had to owe a lot of favors in return. I lost some friends at Army Intelligence. But finally I managed to persuade them. They were hesitant to get the numbers without asking for permission from... You still believe that you can't trust the French officials?"

"Would you trust them in my place? The local cops or Bellay's agency?"

"Considering what's happened, no." "The numbers," Houston said.

Andrews squinted toward the folder. He debated, fingering the seal with apprehension. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather hide somewhere?" he asked.

"Intelligence suggested no, insisted that you stay away while they investigated." Houston reached to grab the folder.

Andrews broke the seal himself. He pulled out a sheet of paper. "Your father made three calls," Andrews told Simone. "Long distance, as you guessed. The numbers were recorded in the company's computer, so your father's hotel could be billed." He gave Simone the sheet of paper.

"There they are. The numbers and the countries. I don't know who's at those numbers. But the places might have some significance. First France, then England, then America."

Pete felt a chill. "America?"

"Your father, possibly," Andrews said. "That's why I wondered if you really felt you had to know. The secrets of our childhood are best left that way."

"You're wrong," Pete said. "Without the truth, what else matters?"

"For your sake, I hope you're right. I can't help you any further. I've been ordered by Intelligence to stay away. From now, you're on your own. . . . And something else." Reluctantly Andrews reached inside the folder and withdrew the front page of a Paris newspaper. "Have you seen it?"

Houston nodded. "It's what happened at the hunting lodge. No mention of the two men I was forced to . . ." Houston swallowed something sour. "But the two of us are mentioned, and the cops believe we're responsible for killing a French undercover agent. They're out searching for us, thanks to Bellay. We weren't killed, and so he makes it look as if we caused what happened. If I get my hands around his ..." Houston stiffened. "One more thing they've done to me."

"What's that?"

"They made me kill. They showed me something I don't want to know about myself."

"But self-defense . . ."

"It doesn't make a difference," Houston told him. "I killed two men. I " He saw that people turned to look at him. He glanced down at the circles his wine gla.s.s made on the table. Then the circles changed, became the ruined faces of the men he'd killed. He shuddered. "I'm not trained to kill," he went on, his voice low.

"I responded on pure instinct. Oh, my books are violent in places, and I did some research for them, took some weapons cla.s.ses, things like that. But this was real, and I was good at it. I won against professionals. I try to tell myself I was only lucky. But I know what I was feeling. I've got a talent for it. I don't like the implications."

Houston tensed. He felt Andrews clutch his hand.

"For what it's worth, I understand," Andrews said. "I was in Nam. There were some members of my unit who could kill and not be bothered. But it always gave me nightmares." Andrews paused as Houston had. He pursed his lips, remembering.

"That's why I'm where I am. The cemetery. As a penance. All the same, I'll tell you this. A man who kills and isn't bothered, that man isn't worth a s.h.i.+t. But if he has to kill and doesn't, well, my friend, that man's as good as dead."

Pete concentrated on Andrews, considered, and then looked away. "The trouble is, I want to kill," he said. "I want to make them pay for what they did to me, to Janice, to Simone. That's why I'm bothered." He faced Andrews again. "I'm angry, and I'm scared. Because I killed two men, and maybe next time will be easier."

Andrews didn't move. He just kept staring. With a.s.sessment, new awareness. When he spoke at last, his voice was respectful. "Then maybe you've got a chance."

Pete set the phone back on its cradle and stepped from the gla.s.sed-in booth. His hands were sweaty. In this ma.s.sive, busy room a phone complex in Paris all the walls were lined with other booths. Behind a counter in the center of the room a group of clerks received instructions from the many people, mostly tourists, who had come here to make foreign calls. The room was noisy, but that pleased Houston. He felt protected in the chaos.

Once again he read the sheet of paper that the superintendent had delivered to him. Three stark numbers. Telephones in France and England and America. His hands kept shaking. Next to him, he heard the rattle of an opening phone booth door. Simone stepped out, her face tense and thoughtful.

"You got through?" he said. "You talked to someone?"

"Yes." Her voice was puzzled. "Not an office here in Paris. It's a home.

LeBlanc. Francois LeBlanc."

He couldn't hide the shock he felt. She stared at him. "What's the matter?"

"I'll tell you in a second. It could mean nothing. What did he say?"

"I didn't speak to him. He isn't there. A servant answered."

"Will LeBlanc be back soon?"

"No. Two days ago he left abruptly. For a business meeting at his country home."

"Two days ago? That's when your father called him."

"Don't you think I know that?"

Houston studied her the fear, the tension in her eyes. He held her gently. "Take it easy. This is hard on you. It's hard on both of us. But we've got to find the answers."

"We've got to find my father. If he's trying to protect me, if he called LeBlanc to try to stop what's happening, then he's in danger. His employers will suspect his loyalty. He can't be faithful to Verlaine and to me."

"I think we're closer to him."

Anxiously she peered at him. "Your call?"

"The number was in London. Once again, a home. The name is Jules Fontaine. He isn't there. A secretary told me that two days ago he had to leave. An urgent business meeting."

"Here in France?"

"You guessed it."

"Then my father's with him! With LeBlanc!"

"Let's hope so," Houston said. "The puzzle's almost finished. One more piece."

The phone rang in the booth that Houston had just left. "America," he said. "I told the clerk to put the call through when I finished with the other one. New York." He stepped inside the booth, toward what he feared yet hoped would be the voice of his lost father.

"h.e.l.lo," he said. The line crackled. Houston raised his voice, attempting to project it through the distance. "My name's Victor Corrigan," he said. "Somebody left a message and this number with my secretary. I'm supposed to call, but I'm not certain why. The message isn't clear."

A woman's voice. Late middle age, distinctly upper cla.s.s, refined, as if she'd been educated in a small exclusive college in New England. "Victor Corrigan? I'm sorry. I don't think I know the name." Her cadence was uncertain. Houston guessed that she apologized a lot.

"It's terribly embarra.s.sing," he said. "My secretary's new. She's made mistakes all week. I might be forced to let her go."

"Oh, no, that's awful. Please, if this is business, I don't know enough to help you. It's my husband you should talk to."

"Is he there? Perhaps he knows what this is."

"No. He left two days ago. He's in the mountains."

Houston felt excitement rus.h.i.+ng through him. "Then I'll wait and call again. I'm sorry to have No, please, just a moment. One more question if you've got the time. My secretary's so disorganized. If you could tell me what your husband's name is, I could check my records. Maybe I could find a reason for "

"Of course." She seemed relieved. "I seldom get the chance to help. His name is Paul Da.s.sin."

"I should have recognized the number. Verlaine Enterprises."

"Not at all. I've never heard of Verlaine Enterprises. Hawthorne Imports."

Houston frowned. "My mistake. I sometimes mix them up. I won't keep you any longer. Give Paul my regards. The Rockies are especially attractive in the spring. With luck, he'll get a chance to do some skiing."

"Not the Rockies."

"Pardon me?"

"The Alps, young man. He's gone to France."

Houston feared that he'd be sick. He clutched the gla.s.s wall of the phone booth, thanking her, apologizing, fumbling to hang up. He pulled at the door. Simone stared at him, startled by the dazed expression on his face. "What is it?"

"I don't know. I ..." Houston watched her face blur, seem to fade. "He left two days ago. The Alps. In France." The noises of the room echoed inside his head.

"They've got to be together," she said quickly. "All of them. My father."

"Paul Da.s.sin." He gripped the booth's door for support.

"What?"

"That's his name. Like the other names Francois LeBlanc and Jules Fontaine it's French. We a.s.sumed they were the missing soldiers from my father's squad. But they wouldn't all be French descendants, wouldn't all have parents who were emigrants from France."

"They could have changed their names."

Houston nodded. "They could have a.s.sumed a new ident.i.ty. It's possible. But why?"

"LeBlanc."

He frowned at her, bewildered.

"When I said his name the first time something happened to your face," she told him. "Your eyes changed."

"Since you're French, the name seems common to you, ordinary. But the language gives me trouble. Everything I hear in French, I automatically change into English."

"What's that got to do with "

"Tell me what his last name means in English."

"What? LeBlanc? Well, blanc means " She stopped abruptly, understanding.

"Blanc means white," he told her. "In your bedroom, when that man was dying, I thought he'd changed to speaking French, so I translated what he said. It made no sense, of course. Because he wasn't speaking French. The man was giving me a name. He didn't say, 'the white.' He said 'LeBlanc.' "

"Verlaine and "

"Now we know what those two mean. But who or what is Charon?"

Chapter 38.

Houston s.h.i.+vered on the busy Paris street. The sky was cloudy now, the light fading. A faint wind had started, chilly and damp. He pulled his sportcoat tight, fastening a b.u.t.ton.

He was in a neighborhood of office buildings with boutiques at sidewalk level, some cafes. Late afternoon; the office workers had begun to swarm from buildings. Houston glanced across the street and saw a sign that told him le mcdonald's, which he hoped was someone's notion of a joke.