"By all means." The courteous reply was accompanied by a damning smile. "There is no hurry. Have the latest quarterly report for Novastar, as well as the most recent banking statements for our Swiss holding companies, Andara and Futura, in my office by Monday."
"I am in New York Monday," said Kirov, puffing out his chest, trying to muster some authority. "We will price the Mercury offering that afternoon. We can sit down together when I get back in the country on Friday."
"Monday," repeated Dashamirov, less courteously. "By four o'clock. Or else I will begin looking somewhere else for the thief within your company. Somewhere closer to the top."
A bead of sweat broke high on Kirov's back and rolled the length of his spine.
"Monday," he said, knowing it would be impossible.
39
The jet banked hard to the right and drifted lower. From her window, Cate stared as the city of Geneva rushed up to greet her, as if she were looking at a postcard from her teenage past. The city looked no different than it had when she'd last seen it, ten years before. The jet d'eau shot a geyser of water two hundred feet into a young blue sky. A flotilla of boats bobbed lazily on the lake's scalloped surface. The prim row of banks and hotels that lined the Quai Guisan nodded a courteous "Welcome back."
Beyond the cityscape, the Saleve rose vertically from a buckle of forest, a brooding granite soldier guarding the town's southern flank. The only Calvinist remaining in a city gone to the devil. But the familiar sights brought forth no haze of nostalgia, neither a wish for the past nor a desire to recall her youth. They promised only trouble. This was her other life. Her secret self. The history she'd sworn to keep hidden. Stealing a glance at Jett, her stomach tightened. In fear. In sorrow. In anticipation. And as the plane touched down, the wheels bouncing once before embracing the runway, she shivered with a premonition of loss. She was certain that everything she'd spent her adult life working toward was about to come undone.
A white Volvo with the orange and blue markings of the airport police waited on the tarmac beside their assigned parking spot. Two policemen, submachine guns tucked under their arms, approached the aircraft.
"Let me handle this," said Cate.
"Be my guest." Gavallan handed her his passport and stepped aside. She didn't know how he could stand there so calmly with a pistol tucked into his waistband.
Customs and immigration were conducted "sur place." The policemen examined their passports. One climbed into the cargo hold to inspect their luggage while the other checked the flight log.
Keeping to English, Cate explained they had nothing to declare and were, in fact, only staying in Geneva for the day. A little sight-seeing. Lunch at the Lion D'Or. A run up to the UN. Would either care to join them? They needed a guide, she said, her itchy nerves fueling the giddy repartee. Someone who knew the language and could provide some local color. Could they tell her where Audrey Hepburn was buried? Wasn't it near Crissier? And didn't Phil Collins live nearby?
Suddenly, the policemen were all smiles. Beneath the blue berets, neither was more than twenty. "Pheel Collins? Oui, oui, il habite tout près." He lives nearby. But neither could come up with the town. As for guides, they were unable to help. "Désolé, Madame," they replied. They were in the midst of their annual military service and their next scheduled leave was not until the following Friday.
Thirty minutes later, she was driving a rented Mercedes sedan along the highway. Jett sat beside her, a map spread upon his lap. "Keep your eye out for the Aubonne exit," he said. "Looks like it's about twenty klicks down the road. Just up from the lake."
Cate shot him an apprehensive glance, frightened by his retreat into military vernacular. He'd been brooding since they'd crossed over the continent, speaking less and less, avoiding her gaze.
This is the Jett Gavallan I don't know, she mused. The Air Force Academy grad who never whispers a word about his time in uniform. The jet jock who clams up at the first mention of the war he fought. He's going back, she realized. He's suiting up for battle.
"Klicks being what?" she asked. "Kilometers?"
He nodded without looking at her.
"Just don't let me miss the turnoff," she said, though she knew the way to Aubonne as well as to her own home.
"I won't."
Jean-Jacques Pillonel did not live in Aubonne, but in Lussy-sur-Morges, a quaint village situated high on the vine-covered slopes of Lac Leman (she would never call it Lake Geneva) about halfway to Lausanne. She knew the spot only because one of her art teachers had lived there, a man named Luc Caprez with whom at the age of eighteen she'd had her first affair. Luc and his briar pipe, who spoke of the courage to live a dangerous life, dangerous meaning to brave the landscape of your ideals, to pursue your dreams no matter where they led. Luc, who lectured her even while making love.
She kept her foot firmly on the gas, taking the car to 160 kilometers per hour as she passed the exits for Nyon, Gland, and finally, Rolle, where she'd gone to school for four years at Le Rosey. She glimpsed the campus to her left. The schoolhouses were done up as old villas and sat on a plateau cut into the hill. She took in the steep mansard roofs, the limestone façades, and the window boxes heavy with purple and red geraniums.
But it wasn't the sights so much as the smells that lent her a melancholy feeling and sent a current of doubt rustling across her belly. It was the smell of sun-warmed soil carried by an easy lake breeze; of Saturday afternoons trawling the back alleys of Geneva; of Sunday mornings saddling horses at the stable.
It was, she realized, the long-absent smell of her youth.
Cate caught sight of her eyes in the mirror and was frightened at their intensity. When had she adopted the mantle of crusader? she wondered. Had she finally embarked upon the "dangerous life" she'd promised herself she would one day lead? Or was she just tagging along with Jett for the ride?
Until now, she'd been content to fight through others. At the K Bank, she'd transferred her dissatisfaction to Alexei and let him do the dirty work. As a reporter, she hid behind the banner of the paper, relying on its influence and reputation to forward her watered-down causes. In her bid to derail Mercury, she'd recruited Ray Luca to fire her broadsides. As always, she preferred to remain one step removed, a gray eminence sheathed in fear.
But overnight things had changed. The battle had landed on her doorstep with a thud, a personal invitation stained with the blood of innocents. RSVP Konstantin Kirov, Moscow. There was no more escaping, no more hiding behind another.
This was the dangerous life.
Yet it was not guilt that had led to her decision. It was you, she said to Gavallan's silent profile, seeing in his strained, concentrated features the determination that had brought him so much success, the confidence that had led him to the brink of disaster, and the generosity of spirit that had captured her heart. I came because of you. Because I can't let you go on with all you don't know. Because your foolish confidence isn't enough to save you. Because I love you and you're all I have left.
As she settled into her seat, Cate's eyes once more found the sparkling asphalt. Grimly, she saw the days ahead playing out. All paths led in the same direction, ended at the same destination. What would happen when he found out? How could she explain? Above all, Jett was an honest man. He detested liars. She was sure she detected a new coolness between them since she'd brought up Alexei. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. How could he ever love a woman whose entire life was a lie? Sooner or later, he would discover the truth. And she would never have a chance to win him back.