Night’s Landing

Twelve

Nicholas Janssen waited until after midnight Amsterdam time for the call from Claude Rousseau, who should have arrived in New York yesterday afternoon. Janssen was still in the Dutch city, isolated in a suite of rooms in a seventeenth-century gabled house that had been converted into a very small, very private hotel along picturesque Herengracht, one of the finest canals in Amsterdam.

He was surrounded by men he paid well to protect him. He had no other relationship with them. Nicholas didn’t delude himself. They weren’t family, they weren’t friends.

Even at his chalet in Switzerland, he was isolated, his fugitive status in the United States hanging over him. His international jet-setter neighbors distrusted him. Swiss natives wanted nothing to do with him. He knew about the dubious origins of the fortunes of some of the people who snubbed him. Tax evasion was the least of what their fathers and grandfathers had done.

But it was the least of what he’d done, too.

Finally the call came. “Rob Dunnemore is improving and should make a full recovery,” Rousseau said. “His sister is on her way back to Tennessee.”

“The second marshal? Winter?”

There was the slightest hesitation. “He could become a problem.”

“But the FBI have their shooter, don’t they?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Janssen sat forward in his leather chair next to an open window. The low ceilings in the old building made him claustrophobic. The call was secure-the owner of the hotel, who understood his clientele, had the best technical people in Europe regularly sweep for bugs, check with their sources for any attempt to tap the phone lines, legally or otherwise. But, still, Janssen was careful with what he said. “You’ll do what needs to be done, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Rousseau had arrived in New York only yesterday but exhibited no sign of jet lag. “I’m in touch with your man here. We’re working together on the problem.”

“No ties back to me. None.” Janssen didn’t need to remind Rousseau that he had access to Rousseau’s family-his mother, his ex-wife, his two teenage daughters. “Is that clear?”

“Very,” Rousseau said calmly.

“Keep me apprised.”

After he hung up, Janssen lit his pipe and lifted his feet onto a leather ottoman. His dogs, two Rhodesian ridgebacks who always traveled with him, lay atop a thick Persian carpet. They were his best, most trusted companions. Like him, they had learned discipline, patience.

But they were of a kind, and they had each other. He had no one.

The wealth he could reveal openly wasn’t particularly impressive-it was the wealth he concealed that one day he would blend with his legal fortune, that would widen eyes and open doors. Then he could lead the life he’d always imagined for himself. He’d have the woman he wanted, the position, the power, the respect.

By then, perhaps Stuart Dunnemore would have died in his sleep, and Betsy would be free.

She’d need time to mourn, of course, but not that much. She had to know she’d outlive Stuart-she’d had to be preparing herself, even now, for going on without him.

But first, Janssen knew he had to get her to help him deal with the fact that he couldn’t return to his own country without facing prosecution and the certainty of a prison sentence. Betsy would eventually see that it was unfair. That he’d paid for whatever mistakes he’d made and could offer the world more as a free man.

No, his legal status wasn’t first. He tightened his grip on his pipe and controlled a wave of irritation.

Dealing with the situation in New York was first.

He prayed that the Dunnemore twins hadn’t seen him in Amsterdam -that the shooting in Central Park in no way involved him and any of his people.

But if they had, if it did, Nicholas was prepared to act. Too much was at stake for him not to.