Chapter 24

Dear Anne,

We received a batch of newspapers today, months old, of course. There was mention of you in the SF Chronicle dated last May. For some reason, reading it drove your death home to me all over again and I had to let memory have its way with me. Those chaotic days at the start of the last war, the push and shove to get out of France. Paul's ridiculous tilt at a windmill. Over by Christmas. Isn't that what they said? What they always say? Is it hubris or hope that causes them to say it and us to believe them?

D aisy folded the page and placed it with the rest of them. "You have a lot to answer for, Paul Jaffray, and if I had you before me now, I'd have half a mind to take you over my knee for your foolishness. And, directly afterward, your wife for hers."

She continued to browse the feast of news from home, chuckling over her newfound fame. the hedy lamar of grandmothers was her favorite headline, though there were a half dozen articles from papers all over the country, extolling her political acumen, her courage, and her intelligence. If only they'd stopped there instead of going on to praise her trim figure, her Paris fashions, and her well-coifed hair. She wasn't surprised, but she was disappointed. She couldn't recall a single instance of Freddie Sterling's suits being described or his waistline being evaluated.

She poured herself a drink from the sideboard, snapped on the radio, and took up her knitting. She was halfway through a sweater for Phyllis, and if she worked quickly, she might be able to have it finished by the time the ship docked in New York Harbor. But her mind continued to churn, unable to settle into the soothing rhythm that usually cleared her head and relaxed the tension banding her shoulders and settling into her creaky joints.

Had there been a reason behind her recall to the States? She saw the cold logic of it, but it didn't make it sting any less, especially when she'd been held up as a heroine for her work thus far. Hedy Lamar, indeed!

She thought back over the last few months: those chaotic days around the invasion, the headlong flight cross-country in the royal family's wake, the months of information gathering, picking away at every scrap of news and rumor for the crumbs that could be turned into useful intelligence. Had it been a case of something she'd done? Something she'd not done? Her first thought when she'd heard the news had been that they'd discovered she mislaid the codebook. A thought quickly dismissed. Far more likely was that her conversation with His Majesty had been transformed through diplomatic channels into a State Department command. She much preferred that scenario to the alternative, which was that she'd run her course, and this was her reward for her efforts—being put out to pasture with a pat on the nose and a sugar lump.

She needed to look at it as a reward and not as a punishment. She was going home. Back to Uplands and her comfortable house with the wilds of Rock Creek Park just beyond her back garden. She would have Ethel in for a good, long visit and the grand children. She would take the train to New York and see her old friend Anne Morgan and they could mourn lost friends and feast on tales of past glories.

Perhaps she would start her dinner parties up again, gathering the great minds among the press and the politicians around her dining table, reconnecting with those whose passions matched her own. Then perhaps she'd dig in to the real work of the war, for this new horror would be much like the last. There would be suffering and heartbreak and hunger and desperation. And people who would step up and do what they could to help.

She wanted to count herself among those people.

Yes, these were all things she could do.

"Mrs. Harriman, we've just received word." Mr. Whitney didn't even bother knocking. "The American Legion is due to arrive at the Finnish port of Petsamo."

"Has the final passenger list been typed up?"

"Not yet. We've had over a thousand names come in from the embassies and legations, but the ship's captain has suggested we should cap the number at nine hundred."

She was reminded of the childhood game of musical chairs. No matter how she chose, someone would be disappointed, left behind. She rubbed the space between her brows, where a headache began to form. "Is he sure we can't squeeze in any extra?"

"He's being overgenerous now, in my opinion. He's imagining nine hundred soldiers used to putting up with deprivation and hardship. Not a rabble of civilians—women and children and the like. They'll be expecting Queen Mary luxury. God help us when they see what's lying at anchor in Petsamo."

"A bridge we'll cross when we get there. Any reports on activity along the border we should be made aware of?"

"Now that the Swedish government has agreed to let Her Royal Highness and the children leave, Terboven and the Germans don't seem concerned."

"Let's hope it stays that way."

A fter tossing and turning most of the night, Cleo finally fell asleep just as the sun was coming up. She was roused from the sludge of troubling dreams almost immediately by the shrill ring from her telephone and a far too chirpy desk clerk informing her this was her requested wake-up call.

The second time she awakened it was to a bellhop with a pot of life-giving coffee.

The third time was to a knock on her door and Micky, who stood sheepishly in the corridor looking charmingly woebegone.

Panicked, she shot a quick glance up and down the hall. "This is a surprise."

"A nice one, I hope." His smile was the same as ever, as was the slouchy, seductive way he had of leaning against the doorframe. Even his scent reminded Cleo of long, sleepy mornings in hotel rooms similar to this one, a bed covered in the morning papers, the floor covered with their cast-off clothes. So where was the dizzying loop the loop in her stomach or the flutter of attraction in her chest? Her rising heart rate stemmed more from the fear someone would spot him and report his presence to Aunt Daisy than from any lingering attraction.

"Of course. I mean..." She opened the door wider, dragging him inside before anyone spotted him. "Of course, but what are you doing here?"

"I was hoping we could get breakfast. I know a wonderful bakery just on the other side of the park." His gaze flicked to her unmade bed. "Unless maybe you'd rather we ring room service."

Cleo cinched her dressing gown sash tighter across her midsec tion like a warrior donning a buckler before battle. "I have an appointment, and I'm already running late."

She didn't have time to wonder why she felt the need to armor herself against a man she'd spent the past six months desperately searching for, and she definitely didn't have time to shoo him away while she puzzled out this odd sensation. Not if the bedside clock was right. She had a car due to arrive any moment to drive her to a school in Upsala that was being used as a clearinghouse for supplies meant for Norway. Not human, this time. Instead, they were collecting and organizing seed, livestock feed, and farm tools and equipment ahead of a shipment due to go out next week—if the right permits could be obtained and transportation arranged.

"Can't you cancel it for a reunion with an old friend?"

Friend? Was that all he thought they were? It made her ache with regret and anger. "I can't just drop everything. People are depending on me. If you'd warned me you were coming, I might have made arrangements."

"Warned you?" His smile faded. "I thought you'd be thrilled to see me."

"I am. That's not what I meant."

"You used to like surprises."

"Is that what you thought when you surprised me by disappearing?"

"I explained all that. I didn't have a choice." He took a deep breath, his smile turned back on like a light bulb. "We're squabbling like an old married couple. You go wash up and get dressed. I'll wait, and we can at least grab a quick coffee before you have to run off."

He'd always had the ability to turn aside a tense moment, never take anything too seriously. She'd loved that about him. Turned on her , however, it was much less appealing.

"Micky, this really... I don't think this is a good idea..." Watching him settle in, she gave up. An argument would only slow her down further, but a tiny flicker of annoyance burned through her earlier nostalgia.

After a quick bath, she emerged pink and scrubbed to find Micky seated in front of her dressing table. He'd a plate of buttered toast set on top of her favorite silk scarf and a cup of coffee teetering dangerously on the edge of her open jewelry case.

"Micky!" She rescued both with a magician's skill. "What have you done?"

"I thought this would save you time, and we could still have our breakfast together." He pulled the pink costume diamond out of the box with a flash of the old Micky. "Still can't believe you've got this old necklace I gave you. Figured you'd have tossed it away when I didn't turn up. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that."

"I was never angry with you, Micky. I was afraid for you."

She dressed in haste, irritation and frustration making her movements sharp. When she laddered one of her stockings, she muttered an oath under her breath.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. I'm running late, and you're behaving as if the past six months never happened and we can just pick up where we left off. We can't do that. I can't do that."

"You've changed, Cleo. You look the same, but..." He shook his head.

"Of course I've changed. We all have. It's this damned war." Why was she so quick to argue? This wasn't how it had been. Even at their worst, they'd shrugged off their fights or, more often, made up in their own way. But the thought didn't appeal. She needed him out. "How about if we meet for dinner?"

"Can't tonight. I'm seeing a guy who says for the right amount of cash he can get me the proper paperwork to secure a place on a train headed north into Russia."

"You mean forgeries."

Annoyance passed like a shadow over his face. "Not all of us have wealthy, well-connected relatives with deep pockets."

"That's not fair."

"Neither is playing Miss Prim all of a sudden."

When had desire and loss and desperation turned sour? When had her love begun to fade? Had it happened so gradually she'd not noticed the tiny fault lines, the pin pricks that came with every new question? Or was it now? This moment? This peeling back of disguises to show what lay underneath?

"You act as if you're sorry I turned up, but just remember, you came looking for me ."

That hit like a slap. "What's that supposed to mean?"

A knock at the door interrupted their argument before he could answer. Her heart shot into her throat. Was it Aunt Daisy? Mr. Whitney?

"Cleo? It's Lieutenant Bayard."

There was the missing slow stomach flip and the buzz along her skin and the smile she couldn't stop. He was home. He was safe. A weight lifted from her shoulders.

She cracked open the door to find Bayard looking as if he'd come straight from dropping off his luggage to her door. His uniform was rumpled, his coat smelled of gasoline and leather and cigarettes, and there was a tightness at the corners of his eyes as if he'd not slept much since leaving Stockholm a month ago.

"Am I catching you at a bad time?" He spied Micky. "Oh. Didn't know you had company."

Was it her imagination or did his words sound like an accusation?

"Don't mind me." As if they'd not just been fighting thirty seconds earlier, Micky grinned and slid his arm around her waist as if staking a claim. "Cleo and I were just catching up."

She shook Micky off but not before Bayard's cool gaze shriveled her insides. "Micky was just leaving," she explained.

"Not the Micky," Bayard said in a dangerous soldier's tone of voice. "And here we thought you were dead, Mr. Kominski. Cleo must have been overjoyed to discover it was all a misunderstanding."

"Between you and me, she was a bit peeved—you know how women get." Micky's smile was more like a leer. "But I explained the mix-up and made it up to her."

"I'm sure you did." Anyone else seeing the clench of Bayard's jaw and the tension in his pose would have chalked it up to a typical military bearing, but Cleo knew him well enough by now to know he was holding himself together by the thinnest of threads.

"Right. I'll shove off. See you later, doll?" Micky leaned in for a kiss, which she dodged.

On the way out the door, he swung back, giving her a long lazy once-over. "Gorgeous as ever."

It was only after he was gone that Cleo realized he was looking at the necklace when he'd said it, not her.

"Care to tell me what all that was about?" Bayard asked, only now sounding like himself rather than someone at the edge of violence.

"I will, but first I need to see a jeweler about a diamond."

T he jewelry store was off Odengatan, a main thoroughfare bustling with traffic, but inside the shop, the thick carpets and handsome furniture deadened the sound to a whispery quiet. A young couple eyed engagement rings with wistful longing while an old woman haggled with the jeweler over an heirloom, her eyes watery as she explained its provenance, hoping to squeeze a few more kronor out of the man.

She departed with her money at the same time as the couple, who had obviously found the prices in this particular shop too dear. Cleo was alone.

She'd done this before. She knew the drill. The jeweler was equally experienced if his suspicious gaze and aloof manner were anything to go by. No smiles or offers to help the madam with something. He simply nodded then waited for her to make the next move.

"What are we doing here?" Bayard asked.

"Fishing" was her enigmatic answer as she approached the counter, where she hailed the jeweler with a summons that would have done her Jaffray forebears proud. "I'd like to have a piece appraised."

"I'm sorry, miss. We don't purchase from private citizens."

"No? So that money you gave that woman just now was merely the act of a charitable philanthropist?"

When the man started to grumble, she reached to undo the clasp at the back of her neck. The necklace slid down her throat before she dropped it into his outstretched hand. "I don't need you to buy it off me, just give me a price."

His gaze sharpened with new avarice, and he pulled out a piece of velvet, laying the necklace out flat before taking up a loupe to study each stone in the gold setting, his gaze widening as it settled on the pink diamond. Occasionally he would write something down on a pad of paper or make a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. Cleo's heart sped up, her skin growing icy as her nerves stretched. It shouldn't take this long. Not unless her hunch was correct and, oh, how she wanted her hunch not to be correct.

"It is difficult to say, miss . . . there are many factors . . ."

"How much?" By now she could barely stand still, and her throat had gone dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She'd kill for a piece of chewing gum or a mint.

The jeweler looked equally nervy. His complexion had turned waxy, eyebrows lifted into his thinning hairline as he read over his notes once more as if convincing himself of his own observations. "The pink diamond is of amazing quality and rose cut. The setting containing the six smaller rubies is quite unique."

Her suspicions confirmed, Cleo swallowed back the bile souring the back of her throat and tightened her belly against the butterflies. If she collapsed would Bayard catch her before she hit the floor? After Micky's shenanigans this morning, probably not. "How much?" she repeated.

He cleared his throat and fiddled with the edge of the velvet. "If you choose to sell the stones separately, you could maybe get five thousand American dollars for the diamond in the center, but I've seen them go for more. The rubies—one hundred and fifty each, give or take. The piece as a whole? Impossible to say. It is obviously quite old and would bring what a determined collector would offer." She wanted to be sick. She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth to stave off the nausea. "Where did you say you got this, madam?"

"I didn't. Thank you." Cleo's hands shook as she took up the necklace and clasped it back around her neck. "Ready to go, Lieutenant?"

Her voice sounded queer, almost panicky, but maybe no one else noticed.

"That necklace—you didn't know it was worth that much, did you?" Bayard asked when they were back in the car.

Of course Bayard noticed. He noticed far too much.

And she, far too little.

How could she have missed the clues, laid out as they were like crumbs for Hercule Poirot? The doorman's pugnacious questions. Micky's delight when she turned up like the world's easiest mark. His excitement at seeing she still wore the necklace he'd given her.

His flight out of Poland hadn't been an escape so much as a getaway.