The world was in its usual state when he watched CNN. There was trouble in the Middle East, a small earthquake in Japan, and a bomb scare at the Empire State Building in New York that had driven thousands of terrified people into the street, which only served to remind him of the night before, as he watched Olivia walk out of the Place Vendome and followed her. And as he thought of it, he suddenly wondered if he was losing his mind. The announcer on CNN had just said her name, and there was a blurred photograph of her back in the white T-shirt, as she hurried away, and an even fuzzier photograph of a man a good distance behind her. But all you could see was the back of his head, and no other distinguishing feature.
“The wife of Senator Anderson Thatcher disappeared last night, during a bomb threat at the Hotel Ritz in Paris. She was seen walking from the Place Vendome at a hurried pace, and this man was photographed following her. But no further information about him is known, whether he was following her maliciously, or according to plan, or simply by coincidence. He was not one of her bodyguards, and no one seems to know anything about him.” Peter realized instantly that the photograph was of him as he first followed her from the square, but fortunately no one had recognized him, and it was impossible to identify him from the picture. “Mrs. Thatcher has not been seen since approximately midnight last night, and there are no further reports about her. A night watchman says he thought he saw her come in early this morning, but other reports claim that she never returned to the hotel after this photograph was taken. It is impossible to say at this time if there has been foul play, or if perhaps, with so much political strain, she has simply gone somewhere, perhaps to take respite with friends in or near Paris for a few hours, although as time goes on that appears less and less likely. The only thing we do know for certain is that Olivia Douglas Thatcher has vanished. This is CNN, Paris.” Peter stared at the screen in disbelief. A montage of photographs had just been shown of her, and as he continued to watch the TV, her husband came on, and a local reporter conducted an interview with him for the English-speaking channel Peter was watching. The reporter implied that she had been depressed for the past two years, ever since the death of their young son, Alex. And Andy Thatcher denied it. He also added that he felt sure that his wife was alive and well somewhere, and that if she had been taken by anyone, they would be hearing from the responsible group shortly. He seemed very sincere and amazingly calm. His eyes were dry, and he showed no signs of panic. The reporter said then that the police had been at the hotel with him and his staff all afternoon, manning the phones and waiting for word of her. But something about the way Andy Thatcher looked made Peter think he was whiling away the hours by working on his campaign, and not as frantic about his wife's whereabouts as anyone else would be. But Peter was suddenly terrified as he wondered what had happened to her after she had left him.
He had left her at the hotel shortly after 6 A.M., and he had seen her go into the hotel. What could possibly have happened to her? He felt more than a little responsible, and wondered if it was foul play, and if she had been grabbed on the way to her room. But as he turned it around in his mind, he kept stopping in the same place. The thought of kidnapping worried him so much, and yet it felt so wrong to him. And the words Agatha Christie kept rolling around in his head again and again. He couldn't bear the thought that something terrible might have happened to her, but the more he thought about it, the more he suspected that it hadn't. She had walked away the night before. She could easily have done it again. Maybe she really couldn't face going back to her life, although he knew that she felt she had to. But even last night she had told him that she didn't think she could do it for much longer.
Peter began pacing around his room as he thought about her, and a few minutes later, he knew what he had to do. It was awkward, certainly, but if her safety depended on it, it was worth it. He had to tell the senator that he had been out with her, where they'd gone, and that he had brought her back to the hotel that morning. He wanted to mention La Favière to him too, because the more Peter thought about it, the more certain he was that she had gone there. It was the one place where he knew instinctively she would take refuge. And as little as he knew her, it still seemed obvious to him. And although Andy Thatcher surely knew how much La Favière meant to her, perhaps he had overlooked it. Peter wanted to tell him about it now, and suggest that they send the police there at once to search for her. And if she wasn't there, then he felt sure she was truly in trouble.
Peter didn't waste time waiting for the elevator. He headed straight for the stairs, and ran up two flights to the floor where he knew they were staying. She had mentioned her room number the night before, and he saw instantly that there were police and secret service standing in the halls, conversing. They seemed subdued, but not in any particular gloom. Even right outside her suite, no one seemed particularly worried. And they watched him as he approached. He looked respectable, and had put his jacket on as he left his room. He was carrying his tie in his hand, and he wondered suddenly if Anderson Thatcher would see him. He didn't want to discuss this with anyone, and it was going to be embarrassing telling him that he had had coffee with his wife in Montmartre for six hours, but it seemed important to Peter to be honest with him.
When he reached the door, Peter asked to see the senator, and the bodyguard in charge asked if he was acquainted with him, and Peter had to admit that he wasn't. Peter told him who he was, and felt foolish for not having called first, but he had been in such a hurry the minute he realized she was gone, and wanted to share as quickly as possible where he thought she might be hiding.
As the bodyguard stepped into the suite, Peter could hear laughter and noise within, he could glimpse smoke, and he was aware of what sounded like a lot of conversation. It almost sounded like a party. He wondered if it had to do with search efforts to find Olivia, or if, as he had suspected earlier, they were actually discussing the campaign, or other political issues.
The bodyguard came back outside in an instant, and apologized politely for Senator Thatcher. Apparently, he was in a meeting, perhaps if Mr. Haskell would be good enough to call, they could discuss their business over the phone. He was sure Mr. Haskell would understand, in light of everything that had just happened. And as it so happened, Mr. Haskell would have. What he didn't understand was why they were laughing in that room, why people weren't scurrying around, why they weren't panicking over losing her. Did she do this all the time? Or did they just not care? Or did they suspect, as he did, that she had just had enough for now, and had taken a hike for a day or two to gather her wits about her?
He was tempted to say that his message had to do with the senator's wife's whereabouts, but he knew he could have been wrong too, and he was realizing more clearly now, as he thought about it, how awkward it was going to be to explain their tryst of the night before in the Place de la Concorde. And why exactly had he followed her? Badly put, the whole thing could have created a huge scandal, for her as well as him. And he realized now that he had been wrong to come. He should have called, and he went back to his own room to do that. But as soon as he did, he saw her photograph on CNN again. This reporter was exploring the idea of suicide rather than kidnapping. They were showing old photographs of her dead child, and then shots of her at the funeral, crying. And the haunted eyes which stared back at him begged him not to betray her. They interviewed an expert on depression after that, and talked about the kind of crazy things people did when they lost hope, and they suspected Olivia Thatcher had when her son died. And Peter wanted to throw something at them. What did they know of her pain, her life, her grief? What right did they have to pick her life apart? They went all the way back to photographs of her at her wedding, and at her brother-in-law's funeral six months after she'd married Andy.