She marched over to the bed where she had placed her suitcase.
She reached down, grasped the phone and held it in her hand.
Aggravated with herself for hesitating, she said aloud, “Put on your big girl panties and do it.”
She hit the preprogrammed number and held her breath as she waited for him to answer.
“Good morning, Blondie,” Derek said.
“Good morning. I . . . uh . . . was wondering—”
“I’m ready to hit the road whenever you are,” he told her. “I had my breakfast delivered half an hour ago. Have you eaten?”
She glanced at the untouched cereal and fruit on her breakfast tray. “I just now finished. I can be ready to leave in about ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll knock on your door when I’m ready to go.”
“Sounds fine. That will give me time to check in with headquarters.”
Everything was going to be all right. Derek sounded like his usual self. Apparently, she was the only one with a problem, the one who had stammered and acted all morning-after stupid.
“Derek?”
“Huh?”
“I think we should head straight back to Vidalia. I really want some prep time before I go back to the penitentiary for another interview with Browning. I’m going to need your help.”
“We’re thinking alike,” he said. “I’ve already called the Hampton Inn where we stayed and reserved rooms for the next three nights. And while you’re driving today, I’ll start putting my thoughts down on paper and we can discuss strategy.”
“Thanks, Derek.”
“You’re welcome, Blondie.”
Poppy didn’t go to church except when she stayed with Grandmother in Savannah. Her mother wasn’t a religious person. Actually Vickie didn’t believe in God. She said religion was for idiots and senile old fools like her grandmother. But Grandmother wasn’t an idiot nor was she senile. And Poppy actually enjoyed Sunday morning services at the First Presbyterian Church. Aunt Mary Lee was Episcopal now, having converted when she married Uncle Lowell. The Dandridges had been Episcopalian for generations, just as the Chappelles had been Presbyterian.
“I thought we’d have lunch out here,” Grandmother called to Poppy from the sunroom. “It’s just the three of us today. I told Heloise not to worry with anything much. No sense heating up the house on such a warm day when we aren’t expecting company.”
“I made chicken salad before we left for services this morning.” Heloise came out of the kitchen carrying a tray that held a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. “And there are teacakes left over from yesterday. I thought they’d be good with ice cream and some fresh sliced peaches.”
“What can I do to help?” Poppy asked.
“Why don’t you set the table,” Heloise said. “The everyday dinnerware will be fine, won’t it, Miss Carolyn?”
“Certainly, certainly.” Grandmother waved her hand in dismissal as she sat down in one of the big wicker chairs.
Although the Chappelles were no longer wealthy, Grandmother continued to live a comfortable lifestyle. She still played bridge with her snooty friends, still maintained a membership at the country club, still resided in the home where she had raised her family, and still kept a housekeeper, although after all these years, Heloise was as much friend as servant.
“The old bat has no idea that if it wasn’t for Saxon putting money in her bank account on a regular basis, she’d be living from hand to mouth,” Poppy’s mother had told her. “The crazy fool thinks she’s still rich.”
Sometimes her mom wasn’t a nice person.
Poppy often wished she could live with Grandmother all the time, not just during the summer. But when she had mentioned the idea to her mother, she’d gone ape-shit and threatened all sorts of things, including telling Grandmother the truth about her finances—that she was actually flat broke and living off her son’s charity. When she turned twenty-five and had full access to her trust fund, she would help Uncle Saxon take care of Grandmother.
Sometimes Poppy hated her mother.
Luke paid Aldo Finster in cash. In exchange for the sixty-two thousand euros, Luke was escorted to a parked car outside his hotel that evening around eight o’clock. The driver got out, opened the door for Luke and waited while Luke slid into the backseat.
“Good evening, Mr. Sentell,” the car’s backseat occupant said.
“Jurgen Hirsch, I presume?”
“As good a name as any other and one I use on occasion.”
“I understand from Herr Finster that you’re the ideal tour guide for me.”
In the shadowy darkness of the car’s interior, Luke’s eyesight adjusted, enabling him to see more clearly. Jurgen Hirsch, blond, muscular and probably no older than he, studied Luke, his gaze focused on Luke’s face.
“There is someplace in particular you wish to go, someone you wish to see?”
“I’m looking for a man who calls himself Malcolm York.”
Dead silence.
Luke waited, his gaze riveted to his companion’s.
And then Jurgen Hirsch’s lips tilted upward in a cold, calculating, unemotional smile. “I, too, have heard the rumors about a man by that name. But it is my understanding that Malcolm York is dead and has been for sixteen years.”
“Then there is nothing you can tell me about him that I don’t already know, but perhaps you can tell me more about these rumors.”
“You are very persistent, Mr. Sentell.”
“I’m fifty thousand dollars persistent, Herr Hirsch.”
Hirsch laughed. A look of amused curiosity glimmered in his icy blue eyes. “Have you ever heard of Anthony Linden?”
“Who hasn’t heard of Linden, the infamous former MI6 operative who went rogue. What does Linden have to do with Malcolm York, other than both men are dead?”
“Ah, but that is what makes their association so interesting,” Hirsch said in his lightly accented English. “Rumors are that Anthony Linden is alive and well and has been working as a professional assassin for the past ten years.”
“And?” Luke knew where this was going, a gut feeling he didn’t like.
“Rumors abound, of course, but the most recent rumor circulating among my associates is that Linden is working for York.”
“An interesting rumor, especially since both men are presumed dead.”
“Sometimes rumors have a basis in facts. I have no proof that the billionaire Malcolm York who lived on the Pacific Island of Amara is alive, but I know for a fact that Anthony Linden is very much alive because I had drinks with him six months ago, the night before he left for America.”
Griff took Luke’s call at 2:30 Eastern Time that afternoon. When their brief, private conversation ended, Griff called Sanders into his study and then closed and locked the door.
“Do you remember a man named Anthony Linden?” Griff asked.
“A former SIS agent, I believe. He was permanently terminated ten years ago.”
