“Merci,” said Harvard. Bad luck, he thought, He did not relish the idea of moving about that close to the hotel; any other INF members in the area would likely be on the lookout for him as soon as his escape became known. But, he decided, he had no choice. It was already late afternoon of the third day since the kidnapping. If he waited any longer, he ran the risk of the ransom being paid and losing his chance for a fee.
Leaving the café, Harvard hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the railroad station. It was only a short drive away, across the Rue de Portier behind the huge casino building. Emerging from the taxi, he walked briskly into the station and from inside one of its doors studied the building which housed the ballet theater. It was set on magnificent grounds, which at the moment were being tended by a cadre of municipal gardeners wearing dark green coveralls with a Monaco state patch on their left shoulder. Most of the men seemed to be working independently, some on the lawn, some on flower beds, shrubbery, trees.
Leaving the train station, Harvard crossed the street and began strolling the grounds, pausing here and there, pretending to study the building’s architecture and landscaping. Near the rear on one side of the building, he came upon the tool and supply shed used by the gardeners. Just inside the door was a bin containing clean, folded sets of the green coveralls. An attendant was farther inside, with a clipboard, appearing to inventory bags of fertilizer.
“Monsieur,” Harvard said in French, “pardon, but could you tell me the time?”
With only a cursory glance, the attendant told him the time. Harvard thanked him, shoved a set of coveralls under his wind-breaker, and walked away.
In some bushes, Harvard hid the windbreaker and donned the coveralls. Then he began exploring the theater building much closer up, being careful to avoid contact with other men in green coveralls as he did. Everything was locked up tightly, not a door or window offering access. But near the rear on the opposite side, he discovered a low basement window concealed by shrubbery. Finding a small rock, he wrapped his handkerchief around it and with one sharp tap broke a single pane enough to remove a piece of it large enough to reach inside to the lock. Within a minute, he had slipped inside.
The basement of the theater was dark and silent, and Harvard felt himself begin to perspire. In the light filtering from outside, he located a stairway and climbed slowly to the main level. Passing through a door at the top, he found himself in the backstage area of the performance arena. Quietly, moving one slow step at a time, he made his way from one shadowy part of the floor to another, pausing to listen intently for any sound. The silence was eerie, and the darkness, even after his eyes had adjusted to it, seemed menacing.
Harvard moved farther into the deepness of the place, feeling around ropes and props and weights and all manner of other stage apparatus. His eyes shifted constantly, trying to penetrate the void around him, his head turning in all directions as his ears searched for sound; his neck and torso now slick with sweat, but his mouth bone-dry, throat constricting, stomach becoming acidy, hands beginning to tremble—
Then he stopped, stood as if welded motionless, and stared at a thin line of light coming from a door that was cracked open an inch.
Slowly, inches at a time, he moved over to the door. From inside, he heard a faint rustle of paper, nothing more. Leaning closer, he peered through the crack. Inside the room he could see the end of a cot, and on it part of a woman’s bare feet and calves.
Bracing himself for any consequence, Harvard used one finger to push the door open an inch farther. More of the woman’s bare legs came into view, up to mid-thigh. He also now saw, between the door and the cot, the back of a straight chair with a shoulder holster and automatic pistol hanging from it.
Another inch. The woman was wearing ice-blue satin bikini panties. A man was sitting on the straight chair in his undershirt, his back to the door, reading a newspaper. Harvard judged himself to be about eight feet from the shoulder holster. Trying to wet his dry lips, trying to keep his hands steady, he began to slowly push the door far enough open for him to step inside.
The woman on the cot, he saw as more of the room came into view, was Adriana Marshall. She was wearing a sheer halter bra on top, raised up on one elbow, idly thumbing through a magazine. Harvard got the door open wide enough and stepped toward the gun. Adriana looked up; her eyes widened and she drew in her breath audibly. The slight noise caused the man on the chair to look over. Seeing Adriana’s eyes focused on something behind him, he leapt to his feet, whirling around, but he was not quick enough. Harvard beat him to the gun by a microsecond and leveled it at him. The man froze, hands raised outward.
“Keep very still,” Harvard ordered. He flicked his glance to Adriana. “You all right?”
“I — yes — what — what are you doing here?”
“Working for your father. Where are your clothes?”
“Over there,” she pointed to a closet.
“Get dressed. Quickly.” As Adriana moved nervously to the closet, Harvard studied the man he held at gunpoint. He was rough-cut handsome, with chiseled features under a pasture of thick black hair. There was a hint of a smile on his lips and no fear to be found in the level gaze of his flat blue eyes. “Are you Kenna?” Harvard asked.
“That’s right, mate. Brian Kenna. Since you know my name, you must also know that I’m commander-in-chief of the Irish National Front, which means I’m in a position to negotiate with you.”
“Save it,” Harvard told him. He glanced over at the closet, where Adriana was removing clothes from a hanger.
“Whatever her old man’s paying,” Kenna said, “I can do better for you out of the ransom. It’s five million, y’know.”
Harvard shook his head. “Taking money from you would be the same as joining your organization. That doesn’t appeal to me. People are working very hard to make a peace in Northern Ireland, and all you’re doing is trying to sabotage it. You want to keep the war going because you think it makes you a big man. Commander-in-chief. Of what? Bombing pubs? Ambushing soldiers and policemen? Seeing little kids get shot down in the street? No, Kenna, I wouldn’t be good at any of that—”
His words were interrupted by the unmistakable feel of a pistol barrel against the back of his head.
“Lower that gun,” Adriana Marshall said evenly. “Do it now or I’ll kill you.”
Son of a bitch, Harvard thought. I don’t believe this.
When Harvard lowered the gun he held, Brian Kenna stepped forward and relieved him of it. Adriana, still in bra and panties, stepped around Harvard and stood next to Kenna. Smiling, he kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’,” he said. “I knew I got you your own gun for a reason.”
With one finger, Adriana touched a religious medal hanging around Kenna’s neck. “I think this St. Christopher medal I gave you brought us luck.”
“Could be, darlin’. Put on a robe now; I don’t want this Yank getting his eyes full of my woman.”
“So the whole kidnapping was arranged,” Harvard said.
“Every step of the way,” Kenna confirmed. “Y’see, Adriana inherits five million dollars from her late grandmother’s estate when she reaches age thirty. This was just a way for her to get it three years early.”
“You mean for you to get it.”
“Her, me, what’s the difference? It’s all for the organization. She believes in the cause same as me. Now then, where’s Tim and Beamon?”
“Probably in jail. Last time I saw them, the harbor police were running them down.”
“I see. And you got away — again. You’re a slippery one, Yank. I don’t mind telling you, you’ve had us jumping these past two days. But now we’re almost down to the wire on that ransom, so it’s time to stop playing games. I’m going to have to settle you down somewheres myself.” To Adriana, he said, “Get my shirt and coat for me, luv.”