With the gun in his coat pocket, and the pocket pressed into Harvard’s side, Kenna escorted him to the rear stage door, Adriana going ahead of them to turn on enough light for them to see. “We’re going for a little drive, mate,” Kenna said at the door. “Out in the country, where I can handcuff you to a tree this time. But if you get funny and try anything slippery, I’ll pack you in right on the street and take my chances getting away. I don’t want to kill you, Yank, but if I have to, I will. That’s a promise.” He kissed Adriana on the cheek again. “Get your clothes on and pack up. Soon’s I get back, we’ll move to another location.”
Nudging Harvard with the gun, he said, “Okay, move out.”
Exiting the building by the stage door, Kenna prodded Harvard toward a Volvo parked on an adjoining lot. As they proceeded along, several theater workmen stared curiously at the pair, Kenna glancing around edgily, Harvard still wearing the stolen green coveralls. Soon several of the workmen were in a group, talking and gesturing toward the pair. Kenna, noticing the attention, coaxed Harvard to walk faster. But before they could get to the car, one of the workmen shouted to a pair of municipal policemen patrolling the grounds.
“Hey, gendarme, there is something funny there!” he yelled, pointing. “That man in green is not one of us! He has stolen those coveralls!”
Frowning, the policemen altered their path and intercepted Kenna and Harvard at the edge of the lot.
Paying only cursory attention to Kenna, the officers began to question Harvard about the green coveralls. Harvard shrugged and pretended he could not understand them.
“What the bloody hell are they saying?” Kenna asked crossly.
“I don’t know,” Harvard lied blandly. “Perhaps if we were to show them our passports—”
“We’ll show them nothing,” Kenna said tightly. “Get in the car or I’ll blast you and them—”
Several of the workmen then straggled over, talking among themselves, and out on the street a police car patrol noticed the gathering and pulled over, its two occupants hurrying to join their fellow officers.
“You going to shoot everybody, Kenna?” Harvard asked.
Kenna glanced around helplessly, then took his gun hand out of his pocket.
Turning to the policemen, Harvard said, in perfect French, “Officers, I am an American tourist. I stole these coveralls as a joke. But this man here,” he indicated Kenna, “is an Irish terrorist, and he has a handgun in his coat pocket.”
Two officers quickly seized Kenna and wrested the automatic from his pocket. A police van was summoned, and moments later both Harvard and Kenna were hustled off to jail.
Two hours later, Brian Kenna was pacing nervously up and down in a cell when the jail corridor door opened and a turnkey let Harvard enter. He walked up to Kenna’s cell.
“I’m leaving now, Kenna. Just wanted to say goodbye.”
“How the hell did you get out?” Kenna demanded.
“By admitting the error of my ways, of course. I went before the police magistrate and pled guilty to minor mischief in the theft of the coveralls. My fine was one hundred fifty francs, which I barely had enough money to pay. I am now a free man.” He forced himself to look solemn. “You, on the other hand, are charged with possession of an illegal concealed firearm, a much more serious matter. If I were you, I’d learn to speak French; you’re going to be in here for quite a while.” Glancing at the turnkey, Harvard lowered his voice. “However, I might be able to help you—” He gestured for Kenna to come closer to the cell door, and he himself also stepped closer, as if to speak confidentially. Instead, when Kenna was close enough, Harvard reached in and snatched the St. Christopher medal from his neck, breaking the chain that held it. Kenna grabbed for him through the bars, but Harvard moved quickly away.
“Give that back!” Kenna snarled.
“So long, Commander-in-Chief,” Harvard said, walking away.
Back at the ballet theater, Harvard entered this time through the unlocked stage door. He found Adriana in the same room, dressed in slacks and a jacket now, sitting on the cot, a small bag at her feet. When Harvard entered, she snatched up the gun Kenna had given her and leveled it at him. He merely shook his head calmly.
“It’s over, Adriana,” he said quietly. “Kenna’s in jail.”
“You’re lying—”
“No, I’m not. Here—” He tossed the St. Christopher medal onto the cot. “It’s over.”
Staring at the medal, the young woman’s shoulders slumped. She lowered the gun and Harvard came over and gently took it from her hand.
“Come on. I’ll take you to your father.”
Head bowed, she began to cry softly. With one finger under her chin, he raised her face and brushed away her tears.
“Look, I won’t tell your father the kidnapping was faked,” Harvard said. “Kenna can’t admit it, so no one will ever know. In three years, you’ll get your inheritance legitimately. Maybe by that time, you won’t want to give it away. And maybe by that time, there’ll be peace in Northern Ireland.” Picking up her bag, he put an arm around her shoulder. “Come on, now.”
Together, they left the theater.
Harvard managed to slip Adriana into the Hotel de Paris by a rear door. There was an emotional reunion with her distraught father in his suite. Afterward, Henry Marshall’s aides accompanied Adriana to her own suite to be examined by an American Embassy physician, and put in the care of a private nurse for the rest of the night.
After his daughter left, Marshall turned to Harvard. “You have my gratitude, Mr. Harvard.”
Harvard smiled slightly. “I value that, sir. But we also discussed a fee—”
“No, you discussed a fee. I rejected it, remember? In fact, if you will recall, I specifically declined to enter into any arrangement with you on the ground that it might further endanger my daughter’s Life.”
“But I got her back,” Harvard appealed, beginning to feel ill. “I got her back safely and unharmed—”
“That’s not the point,” Marshall argued. “The fact of the matter is, we had no agreement, young man. But, as I said, I am grateful. Come see me back in Chicago and I’ll find a job for you in my firm.”
“A job?”
“Yes, a job. Work. Lots of people do it.”
“But, sir—”
“That’s my final word on it,” Henry Marshall said emphatically. “If you’ll excuse me now—” Marshall opened the door of the suite and gestured to his private security guards. “Escort this gentleman to the elevator.”
Harvard stared incredulously at the millionaire manufacturer for a moment, then looked at the grimly determined expressions of the security guards, and shook his head wryly at the futility of further argument. Feeling like a fool, he let the security guards walk him through the hall and put him on the elevator.
On the way down in the elevator, Harvard wondered briefly if Henry Marshall would have paid him had Harvard revealed that the kidnapping had been contrived instead of real. Not that it mattered; Harvard had made a vow with himself not to do anything that would hurt Adriana, and he intended to live up to that vow. She would have enough problems getting over this affair without him adding to them.
Walking glumly to his room, Harvard felt a malaise settle over him as he realized how completely broke he was. He knew he could live well for a couple of months on his credit cards, until they continued to remain unpaid, and then he would be bankrupt. His future, which somehow had always seemed to have a buffer, a cushion against absolute failure, was at the moment more bleak and dismal than ever before in his life.