Night’s Landing

Seventeen

Even before Claude Rousseau spoke, Janssen realized the news from New York wasn’t good. “Nate Winter left for Tennessee this morning,” Rousseau said without preamble. “I don’t know why.”

Nicholas sat back in the black leather chair in the sitting room of his Herengracht suite. It was time to leave Holland and go back to Switzerland. But the Dunnemores were still here. Betsy.

“Sarah Dunnemore’s a pretty young woman,” he said.

“Agreed.” But Rousseau, a meticulous though unimaginative man, would be merely stating a fact, not extrapolating from it any reason for Winter to head south. “Do you want me to go down there?”

“If you have to. What’s Rob Dunnemore’s condition?”

“Improving.”

Why had someone shot him? Janssen stood up under the low, slanted ceiling and looked out his window at the street, bicyclists pedaling past the picturesque canal. His instincts seldom lead him astray.

“The FBI agent in charge of the investigation went to see Deputy Dunnemore again today,” Rousseau went on. “I doubt it was a courtesy call.”

“You think something’s up?”

“I don’t have any additional information. Until I do, it’s my advice that you go back to Switzerland and lay low until this thing gets cleared up.”

Always the thundercloud. It was why Rousseau would never be a real player. Nicholas opened an expensive humidor and lifted out a fat, fragrant cigar. “Find out why Sarah Dunnemore went back to Night’s Landing. Find out why Deputy Winter is there. I don’t want any interference in what you have to do. Again, no footsteps back to me. None. Understood?”

“Of course.”

Janssen hung up and lit his cigar. Europeans, at least, weren’t as fixated as Americans were on tobacco as one of the world’s great evils-a small consolation to living in exile.

He had to trust that Rousseau was up to the job. Tax evasion was a nonviolent crime, one for which many people had at least some sympathy, but the attempted murder of two federal agents and the fear generated by a sniper attack in Central Park weren’t something he wanted tied back to him in any way, even peripherally. He was under enough federal scrutiny as it was.

Rob Dunnemore and his sister were children of privilege and position, if not of immense wealth. Nicholas didn’t know what to make of them. They’d never had to struggle. Neither had Betsy, but she was naturally gracious and well-mannered.

It was possible Sarah had seen him at the Rijksmuseum. Likely, even.

Did it matter?

He was a fugitive simply because he’d failed to turn up for his trial on tax charges.

But the Dunnemores were friends with the president. They had their own reputations to protect. Having a wanted man turn up out of Betsy’s past would be a cause for concern.

Nicholas savored the flavor of his cigar as he put his questions out of his mind. He debated whether he should take the risk of hiring a prostitute tonight, then envisioned himself with Betsy, beautiful Betsy.

Oh, God.

Choking on a mouthful of smoke, he ran into the bathroom and stabbed out his cigar in the sink. He drank from the faucet, pushing back the image. Even now, he could see her at eighteen, smiling at him, taking an interest in him. What a misfit he’d been. An outsider.

The tension of not knowing what was happening in New York was getting to him. He hated waiting.

A prostitute, even in permissive Amsterdam, brought with it certain hazards, to his health, to his mental well-being-to his freedom if he had the wrong prostitute, one who recognized him, who talked. It had happened once. But he’d dealt with the problem before it had got out of hand. As he had Charlene Brooker.

As he would deal with any problem in New York.

His phone rang again. It wouldn’t be Rousseau. He had his orders. But few people had Janssen’s number in Amsterdam.

He picked up the extension but said nothing.

“I’m going to have something you want within forty-eight hours,” the voice on the other end, indistinguishably male or female, said. “Be prepared to wire five million U.S. dollars into my account. I’ll call with the number when I have what you want.”

Janssen sank back onto the leather chair. “Brooker?”

But the person on the other end had already disconnected.

Nicholas tensed the muscles in his hands to keep himself from throwing the phone across the room, instead carefully, quietly cradling it. Control was essential. He had to maintain his grasp of the situation at all times, or he’d never win.

What did the caller expect to have that was worth five million dollars?

Nicholas regretted having blurted a name. His men had lost track of Ethan Brooker weeks ago.

Was he responsible for the Central Park attack?

Was it a trap he’d set?

In hindsight, Janssen knew he’d handled the former Special Forces officer badly. By not presenting authorities with a suspect for Brooker’s wife’s death, Nicholas had put his entire operation-he’d put himself-in jeopardy. The only answer now was to have Ethan Brooker killed. The sooner the better.

Five million dollars. It was ridiculous.

Janssen didn’t call Rousseau back to tell him about the anonymous call. It wouldn’t affect his orders. He knew what he needed to do. If the trail in New York led to Ethan Brooker, distraught widower, army officer bent on revenge, then Rousseau would deal with it.

Leaning back in his chair, Janssen listened to the noise of the street below him. While he wanted to recapture the urge to have a whore, he couldn’t. He could only imagine his mother on her death bed in northern Virginia, calling for her only son-her only child-as she sobbed herself quietly into the grave.

He let the tears flow unchecked. There was no one to see them, no one in his life who cared or understood that he’d loved his mother.

“Why?” she’d cried to him over the phone. “Why didn’t you just pay your taxes like everyone else?”

But his life was so much more complicated than his mother had ever been able to grasp.

Now he didn’t even dare send money for her headstone.

The federal government would hound him forever. They’d never let him come home. They’d slap him in cuffs at his poor mother’s grave and stick him in jail until he stood trial. He’d added how many years to his maximum sentence by running? Five years, ten years? He didn’t even know.

His lawyers had urged him to surrender to U.S. authorities. They’d have been relieved if he’d turned himself over to Rob Dunnemore at the Rijksmuseum.

But Janssen knew if he went to trial, he’d be convicted, and if he went to prison, he’d never get out.

If his enemies didn’t rat him out, his so-called friends would. One way or the other, the feds would figure out that tax evasion was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to his crimes.

And once he was vulnerable, friend and enemy alike would find a way to kill him. He wouldn’t last a month in prison. The federal authorities couldn’t protect him.

No one would care that he planned to do good with the fortune he’d amassed. If the ends didn’t fully justify the means, he knew he wasn’t a bad man. Look at Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, J.P. Morgan, Hearst. Had they led exemplary lives? They all had skeletons in their closets.

“Mama, Mama,” he whispered. “What do I do?”

But there was no answer. She was dead, gone forever.