The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [157]
Abyss stared at him in surprise, then he groaned as the pain hit him again. “I need to get to a hospital.” He gasped, clinging to the man’s arm to stop himself from falling.
The taxi cruising slowly at the sidewalk pulled to a stop and the little man helped him into it, then he climbed in beside him and slammed the door. The taxi took off, its wheels screaming as it lurched around the corner and down Siraselvileh Caddesi, heading back toward the bridge and the old town.
The news merited only five lines in the morning’s newspapers. The body of a man had been found floating in the harbor at Unkapani. He had not drowned, he had been stabbed to death, and the dagger was still embedded in his back. Robbery was not a motive, since the sum of ten thousand American dollars had been found in his pocket. He had been identified as Mr. Georges Gerome and police were investigating further.
Washington
Cal read the morning papers standing by his window overlooking the Potomac and Theodore Roosevelt Island, drinking his breakfast coffee. The hot news was Markheim’s murder. His body had been found by a cleaner, and, because his connection with the sale of the emerald had come out, the papers were having a field day. He wondered if Markheim had told his assassin the identity of the buyer before he was killed, and who the killer was. Maybe Valentin Solovsky?
The cup rattled against the saucer as he put it down, remembering Genie and Solovsky. He had not seen or heard from her since Düsseldorf. She had gone off again without telling him and then he had been called back to Washington.
He remembered Genie’s scared blue eyes and his own voice promising her there was no danger. “There’s really nothing to be afraid of,” he had told her blithely. “It’s the Ivanoff woman they want, not you. Besides, you’re no Mata Hari.” But dammit, Genie had turned out to be just that, determined to do her best for her country, just the way she always did in her job as a reporter. Like a fool he had sent her into a world of danger he had not anticipated.
He glanced worriedly at his watch, reading the date and time as if it might tell him where she was.
After picking up the phone, he called her producer. “Oh, sure,” he said, “we heard from her this morning. And about time too!”
Cal thanked him—and thanked God at the same time. Genie was okay. She was on her way home. And as soon as she got home he was going to see her and tell her to forget all about it. He wanted her to forget he ever asked her, to forget it ever happened. He just wanted her to be the tough, vulnerable girl reporter again, safe in her own world. He smiled ruefully as he dialed the florist and ordered two dozen cream roses to be sent to Ms. Genie Reese, with a card that said simply “I’m sorry. Love, Cal.”
He hoped she would believe him.
His thoughts turned grimly to Markheim’s murder. He switched on the television, wondering if there might be something more on the early news. Suddenly there was the Russian at Dulles Airport, battling his way through a crowd of reporters and cameramen.
Valentin stared, surprised, into the TV camera, then he turned and scanned the crowd blocking his way. Half a dozen men in dark glasses materialized from nowhere, pushing back the reporters and opening up a channel for him to pass through.
“You were at the sale in Geneva, Mr. Solovsky,” a reporter called, thrusting a microphone at him. “Can you tell us why?”
Ignoring him, Valentin moved forward. “What about Markheim’s murder, sir?” the reporter persisted, but Valentin simply thrust the microphone away and walked on. He glanced angrily at the security men and they closed ranks in front of him, shunting the reporters backward out onto the street. There was no embassy car waiting and Valentin stepped quickly into a cab. The cameras were still flashing as it drove away.
Cal whistled softly. He had thought he could handle the Ivanoff case diplomatically, but now things were getting out of hand. He needed help. He punched the phone buttons