Killers of a Certain Age(45)

“You didn’t like her on day one and you still haven’t warmed up to her,” I began.

“It isn’t that, Billie. You were right to trust her. She’s a remarkable girl. But she is a girl.”

“She’s the same age we were when we signed up for the Museum,” I said, snatching back the T-shirt and shoving it into the duffel.

“And my mother was having babies at twenty. What’s your point?” she said mildly. “Times change. She should have a chance to see the world. And not the way we did.”

I moved to pick up a stack of underwear, but she put out her hand to take mine. “Billie.” I stopped moving.

“She’s seen more of the world than you can possibly imagine,” I said.

“I know. We’ve had a few interesting chats,” she said, her hand still on top of mine. “I know where you found her and how you got her out of Ukraine. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” I said simply.

Helen smiled. “Contrary to what you think, I like her. Very much. And I don’t want to see her end up like us.”

“What are you saying, Helen? That we somehow missed out? That we wasted our lives and we’re nothing but washed-up cautionary tales?”

“No,” she replied. “But aren’t there things you wish you’d done differently? Things you wish you’d made time for? People you wish you hadn’t let go?”

I snatched my hand out from under hers. “Minka is part of the team and she’s coming to England. End of story.” I clamped my mouth shut before I said anything I’d regret—probably about her freezing up in Jackson Square and losing her nerve.

I started shoving the rest of my clothes into the duffel, cramming a pair of boots on top of a shirtwaist dress I didn’t even remember owning. Helen watched me for a minute, then got up.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said quietly as she shut the door behind her.

She hadn’t said his name, but I knew exactly who she was thinking of, and when I crawled into bed without undressing that night and waited for hours to crash into sleep, it was because I was thinking of him. Taverner.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


NOVEMBER 1981


Billie has a theory that every life has a soundtrack. Some people are big band people or smooth jazz. Others are pure Baroque opera theatricality. Her soundtrack is not that glamorous. “Delta Dawn” was on the jukebox when her mother left her—age twelve, sitting in a strip mall pizza joint—and never came back.

And “If You Could Read My Mind” is being played by a soft-rock combo in a hotel bar in Chicago when she is passing time, waiting to meet up with her partner for the first job after a debacle in Zanzibar. Vance Gilchrist, her mission leader for the assignment, has been unstinting in his report and she realizes she will be watched to see if she makes a habit of going off piste. This is a chance to redeem herself and she means to make the most of it.

She sits at the bar, nursing a glass of tepid Chablis while the singer invokes ghosts and wishing wells, and feeling faintly sick to her stomach with anticipation as she goes over the coded exchange they are supposed to use to establish contact.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

She glances up and falls—at least that’s how it feels. It is a second, maybe two, before she answers. But two seconds is a long time when your life cracks open.

He isn’t handsome, not like the polished-up pretty boys Natalie favors. This one needs a second look, but that look is a killer. He has maybe five inches on her, and an easy, loose-limbed way of holding himself that only comes with the bone-deep confidence of knowing there is nothing on earth you’re afraid of. He wears a washed-out Henley and faded jeans with a battered leather jacket and a pair of Frye boots that have seen a dozen years of hard wear. A narrow silver bracelet circles one wrist and a knotted cotton braid wraps around the other. He has the sort of light brown hair that goes gold with too much sun, just unruly and wavy enough to bury your fists in when you’re kissing hard. His beard and mustache are about two days past needing a trim if you mind about that sort of thing. Billie doesn’t.

He has been looking down the bar to signal the bartender, but he turns to her and gives an almost imperceptible start, a brief widening of deep brown eyes and the slightest parting of the lips.

“Oh.” It isn’t a whisper; it is an exhalation, a statement. He gives her a long look that seems to say, It’s you. Finally.

“Yeah,” she answers. He turns back to the bartender and lifts his hand as he levers himself onto the stool beside her. A minute later the bartender sets a beer in front of him, the liquid in the bottle fizzing gently. He swings it to his mouth and takes a long swallow, looks hard at her, then takes another.

“I don’t think I have it in me to play this cool,” he says finally. He takes another deep drink.

“Me either. Or maybe I’ve just seen too many Streisand movies. I mean, the way she looks at Robert Redford and he looks back . . .” She lets her voice trail off. She isn’t wrong about what is happening, and the fact that he feels it too seems like a very small miracle. But she doesn’t believe in miracles. She reminds herself they are strangers. Perfect, combustible strangers.

“Shit,” he says, putting the beer carefully onto the bar. “As much as I’d like to forget about the job right now, there’s no way we can—”