“Mirabella,” she said, her voice a whisper. I saw that her eyes were dry as though she could shed no tears. I also saw fear in them. I gripped her hand in my gloved one. The sapphire sparkled in the strong light. Between the two of us we were at that moment worth a small fortune in jewels. And we would have given it up, everything, just to be free.
Quite suddenly all the adrenaline that had given me my fake strength drained from me. My knees gave way and I sank to the floor, resting my head on Verity’s bare feet. They were so cold I feared the worst, yet I could feel a pulse beating, slowly, steadily.
She said, in a whisper, so soft she barely moved her lips, “Thank you.”
I heard the Boss coming toward us, that solid tread of his, the sheer size of the man, a giant in the world of business, a physical giant in real life. He could crush each one of us with a single blow of his fist, and I was sure he had done that many times in his past.
“Well, well, my girls together. How lovely this is. I’ll tell you what I propose we do first, before…” He paused for a moment, laughing softly, as though at a good joke, “Before ‘everything else.’ I think we should have tea. I ordered it specially. After that accident with the wine, I think a nice hot cup of tea is what any good English girl, like Verity, would need. Isn’t that what Brits always say when in difficulty in wartime with bombs flying all around? ‘Why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea?’”
He laughed again at his own joke. I saw him take Verity’s hand, very gently in his own large one. Then he turned to me, still on the floor at her feet, and said, “Come, my dear, we shall talk this over together. And then I’ll tell you my plans for you.” He freed Verity and helped her out of bed.
And that’s how it was, with the three of us seated demurely around a table with a white linen cloth, with silver teapots and jugs and Limoges porcelain cups and plates of cookies and English jam tarts, stirring sugar round and round with silver spoons, afraid to drink that tea for what it might contain, when the door burst open. And Chad and the Colonel and a squad of uniformed cops came running toward us.
“Verity, it’s the cavalry,” I said.
54
The Boss
The Boss realized his mistake; a classic error. He had left the door unlocked. He did not wait for the cavalry. His own secret exit, hidden behind the paneling that held a Matisse of which he was particularly fond. Electronics fanatic that he was, it opened to the press of a finger, revealing a steep flight of wooden stairs, leading it seemed into nowhere but darkness. He had designed those stairs himself, used them many times for secret getaways, some as trivial as escaping unwanted guests or social obligations. But this getaway was serious and he knew it would be for good.
A touch of another switch revealed a small square room at the foot of the stairs. There was no furniture, only a stack of paintings leaning against the wall. He stopped for a second and looked at them, picked out the Turner, put it under his arm, and walked to the door that opened onto a wooden walkway, leading to a stone jetty and the sea.
His Riva was moored alongside the jetty. He clambered down the iron ladder and jumped into it. The boat rocked, almost sending him into the water, but still he clung onto the painting. He steadied himself, then took up his position behind the wheel, the captain as always, only this time there was no captain’s cap trimmed with gold flaunting his position. And there was no one to notice, to admire. The Boss was, finally, alone.
The powerful engines roared at his touch, loud enough certainly to attract attention. He checked his watch. He reckoned he had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before his hunters realized this was the logical place from which he would run.
He was well prepared. A man like him had to be ready for anything. You learned that young and it was a habit that never left you. A suitcase stashed under the backseat contained enough clothing to see him through a week or two. There were even a couple of pairs of the Lobbs. He could not manage without those shoes and saw no reason why he should have to.
When he was about a mile offshore, he stopped the boat and stood looking back at his own house, the Villa Mara, lit as though for a party. He could almost hear those police dogs yelping in excitement, and he could certainly see the torches held by the cops, maybe even by that bastard Chad Prescott. Or even worse, the fuckin’ Colonel.