Chapter 7 Vivianne Promise
SEVEN
Vivianne: Promise
Those last moments in the warehouse remain foggy. I struggle to put all the pieces into a cohesive picture. One moment, Paul's brother is standing. Next, he jerks and tumbles over the railing. I have no memory of shots being fired, but I'm told that's what happened.
Then Paul collapses. He’s barely breathing.
Boots.
The stomping of scores of boots rings out of the darkness. Strong hands lift me from behind.
Tears.
Those I remember, and the choked cries that followed. My sobs pull at my chest and clog in my throat.
Light.
A sudden infusion of brilliant light pushes back the darkness. Spots dance in my vision, but Paul's pale complexion and his blood-soaked shirt cut through the haze.
We’re taken to a safe place, and now I sit as the guest of an unexpected ally. Urakov sits across from me in a spacious sitting room within the Russian consulate. There, he pours tea and fixes me a plate of ladyfingers while I stare listlessly out the window.
"Miss Faulks, you must eat." He lifts the plate. His clipped English is buried beneath a heavy Russian accent.
I manage a practiced smile, the product of years of social conditioning. My hand trembles, but I take the plate.
"Thank you."
"One lump or two?" He turns to the pot of tea, pouring two steaming cups.
The civility of tea and ladyfingers is going to drive me crazy. I need a stiff pour of whiskey, brandy, or hell, even vodka.
"One, thank you." I nibble at the finger sandwich and sit back in the overstuffed chair.
A thick cotton throw wraps around me. After our arrival, I was provided a change of clothes. Light cotton pants and a long-sleeved blouse provide warmth and modesty. Urakov even gave me wool-lined slippers.
"How is Paul?"
Paul was taken to the hospital, while I was brought to the Russian consulate.
It's been several hours since our rescue.
The late morning sun spills through mullioned windows and casts a triangle of yellowish light onto the dark walnut floor of the sitting room.
It advances across a brilliant blue carpet, a relic of unknown significance, cutting a path to the glossy cut stone of the floor lining the hall.
As sunlight creeps into the room, it glides over burnished gold statues, completing the ostentatious display of Russian glory. I blink a few times, adjusting to the encroaching light, trying to forget about that terrible darkness, trying desperately not to scream.
"He is well. Recovering from surgery." Urakov settles deeper into his chair.
"When will I be able to see him?"
Urakov's lips press into a thin line, and he takes a long pull of his tea.
"That might be more problematic."
"I need to see him."
"I know, and he would like to see you, but there are complications."
"The Crow?"
"Has been taken care of." Urakov sets down his cup. "You do not need to worry yourself over him."
He never mentions dead, although there's no way anyone could survive that fall, not after taking that many shots.
Paul is barely clinging to life, and he only took one bullet. His injury must be more serious than I've been led to believe.
"Agent Larson will be here shortly, and a representative from your father." Urakov shifts in his seat.
"Why is my father involved?"
"After we contacted Agent Larson, they notified your father."
And my overprotective father will storm in—not to save me, but to provide damage control on anything remotely threatening the Faulks name. He will demand my immediate return to the States where I will linger until properly wed to my contracted fiancé.
"How much time do I have?"
"Not much." He pauses. "And I suspect the American consulate, along with your father—"
"I have no doubt what will happen next. I'm a civilian contractor for the FBI. With how this turned out, they'll want me as far from this case as possible. My father will want me even further." I clasp my hands in my lap. "Please, I need to see Paul."
"I'm very sorry, but I don't see how that's possible." He shakes his head.
I never get to see Paul before they force me from Geneva.
Larson arrives a few hours later, bringing with him my chauffeur, Jacques. My father's instructions can't be denied, so I return home on a private jet without discussion.
Larson debriefs me before my departure. Paul's identity as the Starling is known.
They've been using him to ferret out larger prey.
Larson asks how much I know, and I admit to discovering Paul's identity as the forger and thief.
I keep to myself the secret of his cache and the more important revelation of Merlin being alive.
However, Merlin might not have survived the night. The Crow mentioned Paul being forced to make a choice.
All my life, I've wanted to meet the mystical Merlin, a mystery to the world. Like everyone else, I believed his name was derived from the stories of King Arthur, never understanding its true roots.
It makes sense, though.
Merlin was a predator, the Starling a mimic, and the Crow a thief.
Three men, all bound together by one man's vision—steal from those who stole from others. Return what they can.
Somewhere along the way, the Crow took a darker path. And then there is Catherine.
A woman who came between two brothers.
One day, I hope to hear the whole story.
I spend the next few weeks on lockdown at the Faulks estate. My father debriefs me, but his questions make little sense. He isn't interested in the case, the auction, or the recovery of Dr. Gachet.
Instead, his questions center on how Paul entered my life. He wants to know about The Lovers and grills me incessantly about the Starling and Merlin. Unlike Larson and Urakov, my father knows nothing about Paul being the Starling, and I will make sure it stays that way.
My father's frustration intensifies, but he believes my lies. As his paranoia deepens, my need to know something of Paul's fate increases. One day, I wander the halls of the estate until I stand before the painting that started it all.
I stop short at the empty expanse on the wall.
The Lovers no longer hangs on display.
I make my way to my father's office and knock on his door.
"Come." His voice is clipped. A command.
When I cross the threshold, he pins me with a fierce look that nearly stops me in my tracks, but I suck in a breath and ask my question.
"Father, what happened to The Lovers?"
"That painting is no longer your concern." He taps his pen on the legal pad before him.
"Not my concern?" I take several steps into the room, but halt at another pointed look. Intimidating at the best of times, his cold demeanor could freeze hell. "I would say it's very much my concern."
"That painting has been moved to a place of higher security."
"Which is where?"
"None of your concern."
"Father—"
"Silence.” He tosses his pen down and stands. Bracing himself on the table, he leans forward. "Your foolish dream has risked too much. You've placed our family's legacy at risk."
"I risked nothing."
"You risked it all!"
"How?"
"You brought our family to Merlin's attention."
"Merlin is dead.” I raise my voice. It helps suppress the lump forming in my throat.
"How can you be certain?"
Because Paul traded Merlin's life for mine.
"Why do you fear a ghost?"
"He knows Faulk’s secrets, my dear." He softens his voice, but that does nothing to ease the hardness of his eyes. "The Starling carries on his work. Your little foray brought the Starling's attention to you—and, by extension, the family. I don't need to tell you how damaging that can be."
"I doubt the Starling has much interest in us. Nobody knows we have The Lovers."
"If you believe that, then you are a fool." He arches a brow.
"Father."
"I've indulged you long enough. It's time you stopped chasing this dream of yours. I'm moving up the wedding." He shakes his head.
"No." My chest tightens, ribs constricting around my lungs. I'm not ready for my freedom to end.
"The announcements go out tomorrow. You have six months. You'll submit your resignation to Dr. Phillips."
"You can't do this. I've worked hard to make a name for myself. Don't you see what my position can do? What it brings to the Faulks name?"
"It has brought nothing but chaos and exposed us to enemies long thought buried. You did nothing to honor our legacy. Instead, you've threatened everything we've tried to build."
I ball my hands into fists. "I'm not resigning."
"It's non-negotiable. I've already arranged the meeting. You'll meet with Dr. Phillips in the morning." He sits and picks up his pen.
"Is this how the rest of my life will go, Father? You arranging every interaction? What if I refuse to go through with the wedding?"
"That will never happen. Good day, Viv. I suggest you prepare your resignation letter."
I'm dismissed.
The rest of the day, I stomp around the mansion.
None of the drivers will take me out, and I have access to none of the keys to any of the many cars.
The Faulks estate sits several miles from the main road, and the nearest town is twenty miles away.
I've been effectively imprisoned within my own home.
The next day brings me to Dr. Phillips's office. I storm around the cramped space, fuming over my father's decree. There's no reason to draft a resignation letter, but my father already saw to that. He even forwarded the letter on my behalf.
"I suppose I'm still reeling with the news. I can't believe it. Have you heard from him?" Dr. Phillips leans against the window, staring out at the campus lawn.
I've filled him in, telling him all the secrets I've kept from my father. Dr. Phillips isn't a man who can be bought off. His life passions revolve around the provenance of art, and he has a similar interest in the art plundered during World War II.
It's been weeks—plenty of time for Paul to recover fully. Yet, I've heard nothing, and my snort answers Dr. Phillips's question.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "I contacted the Russian consulate. They told me no man by the name of Urakov works for them. He disappeared. Paul disappeared. And Merlin is dead."
"It's a shame. After all this time… I would have loved to have met him."
"Me, too. But how am I going to find Paul? Even those at the ACT won't give me any details. Larson is a closed book."
"What about that fellow we met in New York?"
"Agent Radcliffe?" I give another snort.
"He's less than helpful. When I called, he thanked me for my service and told me how the recovery of Dr. Gachet wouldn't have been possible without my help.
When I asked about Paul, he switched the subject and ended our conversation.
I'm afraid my opportunities to work with them are ruined.
That leaves me with nothing. After all my hard work… " I vent a sigh.
"It's not that bad."
"You don't understand. After this wedding, I'll be a prisoner.
My duties will revolve around charity events, galas, and social hobnobbing.
My father wants a quick pregnancy and hopes for his male heir.
After that, I'll truly be stuck. If I leave my child to grow up under my father's influence, I'll lose everything.
My position as an art expert was going to be my escape. He's taken that from me."
"I'm sorry."
I wave to the letter sitting on Dr. Phillips's desk. "Exhibit A." Walking over, I crumple the paper and toss it in the trash. "He's a monster."
A soft knock sounds on the door. A young student pops his head inside.
"Dr. Phillips, you have a delivery."
"Well, bring it in."
"Um, you need to come to the examination room." The student glances around the room, uncertain.
"Why?"
"It's a series of crates."
"Just sign for it, and I'll be there momentarily." Dr. Phillips takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
"Sir, the man said you had to sign in person. He's waiting."
"Come on. Let's see what's so important that it can't wait." I shake my head, glancing at the wastebasket and the crumpled resignation my father penned. There has to be another way.
"Well, let's see what it is."
We walk down the hall and head to Dr. Phillips's examination room. This is a private lab area reserved for his use. I spent the better part of my training there, learning about the art of forgery and the methods behind revealing them as fakes.
Five large crates fill the room. A man with silver hair supervises three other men unboxing the crates. He turns, blue eyes twinkling under the harsh fluorescents overhead.
"Anthony!" I rush forward.
I would hug him, but the reserved man maintains a certain air of decorum. Instead, I grip his hands and give them a light squeeze.
"What are you doing here?" My pulse races. Anthony is alive. And knowing who the enigmatic man truly is…
He survived.
"Mademoiselle Vivianne, it is a pleasure."
"Where's Paul?"
"He could not make the trip and asked me to see to the delivery." Anthony's bushy brows twitch.
"Of what?" Although I can guess. My breath catches.
Anthony gestures to the crates—the cover of the first crashes to the ground.
The men peel back Styrofoam and a layer of plastic wrap.
They step aside and allow Anthony to approach.
He cuts away a final layer of paper and reveals the most stunning partial nude I've ever laid eyes on: the sweeping curve of a woman's back.
My back.
"Oh my. That's magnificent." Dr. Phillips steps closer.
A river of long, flowing golden hair cascades down her back, caressing her narrow waist and kissing her hips.
A roaring blaze in a fireplace silhouettes her body, the flames billowing around her nakedness.
Her skin glistens with a sensual sweat and glows beneath the heat of the fire, softening her features—a single starling cartwheels in the flames.
The other men pause in opening the crates to stare at the painting.
"Who is this? What artist?"
"The Starling sends his regards." Anthony turns to me and hands me a folded piece of parchment.
My hands shake as I open the paper. Meanwhile, Anthony directs the men to uncrate the other four pieces.
My dearest Vivianne,
Love is a possession of the soul. In you, I find myself whole. You belong to me, and I belong to you. I am coming, my darling Swan.
Your Starling
I touch my neck, clutch the pendant. I haven't removed it since he placed it there. I thought it was a gift. Now I understand. It's a promise.
Paul is coming.
For me.
I turn to give Anthony a message, but the elderly man has slipped away.
"Viv, do you see this? He exposed himself to the world." Dr. Phillips stares at the paintings.
There's no reason to look at them. I know what each will reveal. One promise after another, and I have no doubt Paul will rescue me once more.