The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [82]
Back at the hotel, she threw her things into her suitcase, called for a porter, went back down to the lobby, and checked out. Within half an hour she was on her way to the airport, where she went straight to the bar and had a large brandy, watching the minutes tick by until she could board her flight at eight-thirty. But it wasn’t until it took off that she felt safe again. She was on her way to Paris and to Valentin.
Paris
As usual, Geneva airport had been crowded with groups of young skiers and harried businessmen. Valentin was late. He checked in at the first-class desk for the British Airways London flight. Carrying only his briefcase, he strode quickly to the gate. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the two men following fifty yards behind. They wore black overcoats and carried briefcases, but to him they stood out from the crowd as if they wore red KGB badges on their fur caps.
He settled into the seat reserved for him and a steward offered to take his coat, but Valentin shook his head. He accepted a copy of the International Herald Tribune, glancing behind him as the curtain dividing the cabins was suddenly pulled back and the KGB agent in the fur hat quickly scanned the seats. His eyes were expressionless as they met Valentin’s, then he retreated obediently into the economy section as a stewardess shook her head reprovingly at him.
Valentin watched carefully as the last of the passengers boarded. When he heard the captain’s voice over the intercom saying “Doors to manual, please, cabin crew,” he stood up, grabbed his bag, and walked to the front of the plane. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically to the steward, “but I have decided not to take this flight. Urgent business….”
Within seconds he was striding back down the tunnel from the BA London flight toward the Air France desk. The flight to Paris was just boarding. He glanced back at the gate; the crowd had gone and there was no sign of the two KGB men. Valentin grinned as he thought of their faces as they waited for him later at Heathrow.
The hotel in the St. Germain quarter of Paris was small with a kind of faded charm. The toile de jouy wallpaper had bleached over the years to a pink blur and the bed was the old-fashioned French double that Americans always found too small. But the linen was immaculate, there was a bunch of flowers on the dresser, and the window faced onto a charming inner courtyard.
Valentin emerged from the shower, toweling his hair dry. After picking up his watch, he checked the time. Eight P.M. There had been no message from Genie so she should be on the nine o’clock flight. Unless she had changed her mind, of course. He doubted it. Genie Reese knew what she wanted and she was determined to get it, even if it took a little extracurricular activity. And anyway he had the feeling she wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see her. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was crazy, but there it was—he couldn’t wait to see her again.
He dressed quickly in jeans and a beige crew-neck cashmere sweater and lay on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking. Before he had left Moscow, he had done his research carefully, intent on knowing every detail of the Ivanoff story and the mines. When Genie had told him about Markheim and the Düsseldorf connection he had put a fast two and two together: The Arnhaldts had been leasing those mines from Russia for years. So now he knew there was a third player in the game. Ferdie Arnhaldt.
He told himself that Genie had been a willing victim in his scheme. She wanted her scoop and he wanted the information. It was fair trade. Of course she had asked why the Russians wanted to find the “Lady,” and that’s why he had told her about the money.
“You have to understand,” he had said firmly, “that after the revolution, Russia confiscated all monies and property. There was no more individual wealth: Everything belonged to the people. We believe it is Russian money sitting