Chapter Seventeen
“Jonathan.”
Her breath hitched as she held his gaze.
So, it had been him at the American soirée after all. The same man she’d followed to the Pont Neuf. The same man who’d taken a bullet and tumbled into the Seine.
Not Mr James Ashby. Not a passing resemblance in the right light, as Oliver had tried to convince her. The same Oliver who’d stood on that bridge and sworn his friend was in Bath at a family christening.
But what was he doing in Paris?
Her gaze went from Jonathan to Oliver, stationed between her and her only escape route. If he’d killed twice already, what was one more?
If she could just buy herself some time, then perhaps she could find a way out?
She took in the room at a quick glance – a large wooden table, some straight-backed chairs, a couple of green-shaded lamps turned low, and a pair of upholstered chairs near the hearth.
That was it. Nothing adorned the walls; no rugs covered the stone floors. And worst of all – no way out.
She had to keep them talking.
“I knew it was you at the American soirée that night, despite Oliver’s best efforts to convince me otherwise.”
“Oliver said he didn’t think you’d bought the story about my trip to Bath.” Jonathan perched on the corner of the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“It might have been more convincing if he’d managed to keep the facts straight.”
“In my defence, it was rather off the cuff.” Oliver shifted his weight.
“Your unexpected arrival threw a spanner in the works, I can tell you. Clemmi was supposed to be at Mayfield Manor with her mother by now, and the timing of this whole operation was built around it. But she changed her mind at the last minute, and by then things had already been set in motion.”
Operation? Things had already been set in motion? Did this have anything to do with the élysée Palace on the seventh?
“I’m curious, Elizabeth. Why did you follow me that night?”
“You knew?”
“Why do you think I went the long way round?” Jonathan’s lips twitched at the corners. “I was trying to lose you.”
“Because I’ve come to recognise the signs.”
“Signs?” Jonathan exchanged a quick glance with Oliver.
“That you’re working, or operating.” Elizabeth’s gaze went from Jonathan to Oliver and back again. The look on their faces confirmed she’d hit a nerve, just like she’d hoped it would. “I knew you were up to something the minute I saw you, and Oliver’s denial only served to convince me further.”
“Is that so?” Oliver’s eyes narrowed as he adjusted his grip on the Browning.
In for a penny, in for a pound, she might as well find out the truth since they were probably going to kill her, anyway. “And what were you doing?” She turned to Oliver.
“My job. But we hadn’t banked on you turning up. Or Jonathan being shot.”
“Luckily for me, the fellow was such a poor aim.” Jonathan’s hand went briefly to his side.
“That, and the fact that you happen to be such a strong swimmer.” Oliver glanced across at him. “Oxford champion two years running, wasn’t it?”
“Three, actually.” He crossed his legs at the ankles. “But who’s counting?”
“It was supposed to have been a straightforward transaction,” Oliver said.
But you just had to stick your nose in, didn’t you?
And instead of a simple handover, Jonathan ended up getting shot and we had to spend half the night scrambling to keep it out of the newspapers while we came up with a cover story. ”
“Hence the killing off of the fictional Mr Ashby during a street robbery?”
Oliver exhaled a long breath through his nose, his eyes flicking briefly to Jonathan.
“I warned you she was good.” Jonathan’s brows arched.
“You may as well tell me the rest.” Elizabeth pulled back her shoulders, her chin tilted defiantly, despite the cold feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. “Since you’re probably going to kill me, anyway.”
“Kill you?” Jonathan pushed himself up from the table. “What on earth made you think we were going to kill you?”
“Well, call me overly cautious if you wish, but the last time a man pointed a gun at me, I’m quite certain he intended to kill me.”
“True,” Jonathan’s eyes darkened briefly. “But as I recall, you rather held your own against Monsieur Moreau.”
The scene flashed through her mind unbidden – a bloodied Jonathan lying on the floor, Vincent Moreau lunging towards her, the crack piercing the air as her finger squeezed the trigger, and the dull thud of his body hitting the ground.
“I’ve had firsthand experience of your marksmanship, hence the reason for my caution.
“ Oliver took a step closer. “I suppose you’ll be wanting this back now?” He held out the Browning.
“Though I can’t for the life of me imagine why you’d think I wanted to kill you.
Apart from the obvious, my wife would never forgive me. ”
“I thought you wanted me dead because I’d discovered your secret, about Mr Ashby, that he was just a fake identity, created to facilitate whatever it was you were up to.”
“And what exactly is it that you thought I was up to?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to work out.
I knew you were up to something; I just didn’t know what.
And your behaviour these last few weeks with Clemmi, trying to keep her a virtual prisoner in the apartment.
Well, I was concerned you might … perhaps…
” Saying the words out loud, Elizabeth realised how ridiculous they sounded.
She’d let her instincts to protect her friend cloud her judgement.
No matter what Oliver was involved in, he’d never hurt Clemmi.
“I can assure you, Elizabeth, I love my wife dearly and would never do anything to injure her.” Oliver’s jaw tightened. “If she’d just gone to England like she was supposed to, then she’d have been out of harm’s way, safe from everything that’s going on.”
Oliver hadn’t been trying to control Clemmi; he’d been trying to protect her. But what, or who, was he trying to protect her from?
“Why don’t you take a seat, Elizabeth?” Oliver motioned towards the upholstered chairs beside the hearth. “I believe some explanations are in order.”
Elizabeth slipped the Browning back into her bag and took the chair facing the exit, keeping her only means of escape in her line of sight. The Browning might have been tucked away in her bag, but she wasn’t ready to let her guard down just yet.
Oliver waited until she’d settled before he spoke. “Before we go any further, I’ll need your word that nothing said in this room goes beyond it. What I’m about to tell you falls under the Official Secrets Act.”
“Of course.”
“That includes Clemmi.” His eyes held hers. “Especially Clemmi. I don’t want her knowing any of this, no matter how watered down it is. The doctor was quite clear about the dangers of any upset in her condition.”
As much as she hated keeping things from Clemmi, Oliver was right. The last thing any of them wanted was to upset her, especially now. “Very well. You have my word.”
Oliver let out a long sigh as he lowered himself into the chair opposite Elizabeth.
“We’ve discovered that someone at the chancery has been passing information to other, shall we say, unfriendly, parties for some months now.
And with the German reparation loan talks at such a delicate stage, His Majesty’s Government would rather it was stopped sooner rather than later. ”
“A traitor? Do you know who?”
“We have our … theories.”
“If you know who they are, can’t you simply arrest them? Or remove them from their position?”
“It’s not as simple as that. If we arrest them, then the ringleader will know we’re onto them and they’ll simply find themselves another pair of hands. What we need to do is find the organ grinder, rather than the monkey, so to speak. And that’s where Jonathan, or rather James Ashby, came in.”
Elizabeth’s gaze snapped to Jonathan. She’d suspected for some time he was involved in some kind of intelligence work, but that was all they’d ever been, suspicions.
“I, masquerading as James Ashby, let it be known in certain circles that I was someone who’d betray his country if the price was right. Then we waited for our organ grinder to show his hand.”
“Which he did when a shot was taken at Mr Ashby on the Pont Neuf,” Oliver continued. “It seems someone took exception to the competition.”
“What exactly has Jonathan been passing on?”
“Enough to maintain his credibility, but nothing that’s any real risk. Jonathan’s contact has been pushing for information on the reparation meetings – dates, places, policies.”
“Is that what’s taking place at the élysée Palace on the seventh? A meeting about the loan?”
“How do you know about the élysée?” Oliver leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on his thighs.
“Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. I found it when I searched Mr Ashby’s apartment.”
“And decoded it, evidently.” Jonathan folded his arms, settling back against the table.
“It wasn’t that difficult once I’d worked out the key. The seventh of September is hardly a date one forgets, particularly the French.”
Oliver considered her for a moment. “There are some people, Elizabeth, who wish to see the whole process derailed for their own ends, and we can’t afford to let that happen. That message was a misdirection, but as you’ve probably gathered, Ashby was murdered before he had the chance to deliver it.”
“So there was never going to be a meeting?”
“The meeting is real, but it won’t be taking place at the élysée Palace nor on the seventh. We were hoping the ringleader would show their hand, and we’d be able to arrest them.”
“And Sir Conrad? Was he aware of what you were doing?”
“He was aware of some of it, but not all of it. We kept it on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
“Because you suspected him?”
“No. Sir Conrad was never a man for details. So long as nothing could catch him unawares, he was more than happy to leave the workings to his staff. That’s how we know his death was murder, not suicide. He knew about the Ashby ruse, so confessing to his murder made no sense.”
“Do you believe the traitor killed him?”
Jonathan crossed to the hearth, resting an elbow on the mantel. “We aren’t sure yet.”
“What we do know,” Oliver said, “is that Sir Conrad summoned them here this afternoon, shortly after we returned from the Quai d’Orsay.”
Elizabeth’s gaze slid from one man to the other. “Well, who is your suspect?”
Neither man spoke for a moment. Then Oliver gave Jonathan the smallest of nods.
“Arbuthnot.”