22. Galahad #2
“Perhaps?” Dmitry shrugged. “If she was SOE—Special Operations Executive—she might have been inserted into Marseille with Delphine as her operational name.”
“She told us she spent the war in London.” Grace’s voice cracked, and her eyes found mine, as though I was some sort of rock holding her in place. “In the Tube stations during the Blitz. She said that was the worst of what she saw.”
“Undercover operatives would have been bound to secrecy,” Jean said gently. “I’ve heard of many who took stories like that to their graves.”
Grace let out a slow breath that sounded like, ‘Didi.’ Could it be true? Could the woman who’d shaped Grace so significantly have been someone else entirely?
The light in her eyes was dimming. The brightness she carried everywhere, the warmth that made people want to be near her—it was fading more and more with every passing second.
Something twisted in my gut.
Brain chemistry, Garrett.
I sank onto the arm of the sofa next to her, and let her take my hand again.
“Marcel’s son told me his father gave it to Delphine before she returned to England so it would be safe from the Germans. Marcel planned to go after her, but he was killed weeks before the liberation.”
“And no one else knew how to find her,” Grace said.
“No. The connection died with Marcel.”
Grace was quiet for a long moment.
“You said the family’s in Prague,” I said, giving her something else to focus on. If I propelled her forward, maybe she’d be able to cope.
“The family lives in Prague, yes. Marcel’s son, Henri, is the one who hired me.” Dmitry’s gaze flicked between Grace and me, as though searching for how to approach either of us with a proposition. “I am certain he would love to meet you and see his father’s egg.”
And there it was. The private investigator was little more than a bounty hunter. He was brokering a meeting and, no doubt, his finder’s fee. Eight years of legwork might be worth a small fortune.
“If Didi was given the egg to keep it safe,” Grace said slowly, “then it was never really hers.”
“It belongs to you now,” I said.
“No.” She shook her head. “It belongs to Marcel’s family. They should have it back.”
Dmitry smiled, and I refrained from glowering at Jean for putting us in touch with the snake. “I can arrange a meeting with Henri. He would be honored to speak with you and share what he knows about your grandmother. He’s currently in Zurich on business.”
If he knew a man who hired him eight years ago was currently in Zurich, that meant Dmitry had already contacted him about this.
“I want to hear what he knows. About who she really was.” Grace looked up at me. Was she asking my permission? “What do you think?”
“One sec.” I let go of her hand and pulled out my phone.
No response from Arthur yet. I’d have to consult with him on the Dubois claim before we made any hasty decisions.
And I’d have to— My text conversation with Tristan caught my attention.
I opened it and scrolled to the photographs he’d sent me from the security footage at Isabella’s gallery that captured the second man who’d shown up at the coffee shop.
“Before we agree to anything, I need you to look at this.”
I handed the phone to Dmitry and monitored his face, ready for the tell. Waiting for some flash of recognition he’d try to hide or some microexpression that would reveal he was working with the man in the photo, and that this whole thing was a setup.
Dmitry’s eyes widened. Not recognition. Fear. He stared at the phone a beat longer than he needed to, as though he was willing the photo to change. “The photograph is unclear, but I’m certain this is Conrad Richter.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He works for an obsessive collector named Werner Kessler, who swears he’s of Romanov blood, and believes collecting Russian artifacts will prove it.” Dmitry handed the phone back. “If Richter has been following you?—”
“He was in London when we were,” Grace said. “He followed me through the streets and stole something from my purse. He thought I had the egg on me, I think.”
“They know you have it.” Dmitry stood abruptly and looked at Jean. “I’m sorry, my friend. But they can’t stay here. Richter is very good at what he does, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds this place.”
There was nothing false in his words. I ran the options: stay here and wait for Richter to show up, head back to Paris and try to disappear, or push forward toward Zurich, toward Henri, toward answers.
And toward more danger.
Fuck. I’d have to call Arthur and put a rush on his research.
“We go to Zurich,” I said.
Dmitry nodded. “I’ll advise Henri. He’ll want to see you immediately.”
Grace stood. The color hadn’t returned to her face, but her jaw was set. Whatever she was feeling—the grief, the shock, the betrayal—she was locking it down. Focusing on the next step.
That’s my girl.
She’s not your girl, Garrett.
I had to focus on something other than her. Well, on her, but not on her. She was still my job, but my haywire emotions had to stay buried where they belonged.
“Go and pack, Grace,” I said, then marched off to grab my things from the bathroom.
As I walked, I sent Arthur the full list of names: Dmitry Ivanov, Conrad Richter, Werner Kessler, and Henri Dubois.
The sooner the team started chasing down these people, the sooner I’d know what we were dealing with.