“I'm not sure,” he lied, not inclined to share his suspicions with the local police. Kiray's men were probably long gone, and his own security men could protect Carrie now that he knew Rifat's intentions. He didn't have a lot of confidence in the power of a Midwestern police department over a man who had outmaneuvered every intelligence agency in the world.
“Any idea who they might be, mister-”
“Fersten,” he volunteered. “Carey Fersten. No, I'm sorry, I don't.”
“Do you have a license for that side arm?”
“Yes, sir.” His voice altered into that sincerity he'd found convenient when dealing with military officers and police the world over. “Were any of the men chasing my daughter apprehended?”
“Well, mister,” one officer said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, reminding Carey of a young Humphrey Bogart. “It's possible these girls have seen one too many TV shows. If you ask me, I'd say childish imagination and hysteria. Either of these girls hyperactive?” he soberly inquired, switching to a concerned doctor role.
Hysteria would be a convenient explanation, Carey thought, eager to avoid further dealings with the police. Just as he was about to agree with the officer's interpretation, another policeman noted, “Someone busted that apartment door. No finesse. The jamb was in splinters.”
All the men's eyes traveled to Carey's Beretta lying on the floor, and the spokesman for the group who was apparently an amateur actor, ominously said, “You know the guys chasing these girls?”
Shit. The hysteria theory was out. Now how much of the truth was necessary to appease them? As little as possible. Talk of terrorists and international arms dealers would provoke endless interrogation… not to mention all the auxiliary agencies who would race in to take a piece of the action. And in the meantime, Rifat was safely in Italy, anyway.
“It's possible my ex-brother-in-law was involved… an obsessive practical joker-”
“This was a joke?”
Carey shrugged. “He takes drugs, he's wealthy, and he's got too much time on his hands. He shouldn't have come over here.”
“From where?”
He could see they were all thinking Colombia or Jamaica. “Germany. His family owns the Von Mansfeld Munitions Works.” His inclusion of Egon's last name was deliberate; he'd discovered at a young age that titled folk were like baseball stars or Hollywood actors, attractive celebrities treated with a combination of insatiable curiosity and awe. And Sylvie's name had been a star attraction in the tabloid story, as well as in today's press conference.
“You the guy on TV today?”
Bingo. And now we alter course away from terrorists and kidnapping. Carey nodded.
“And she's…” The man hesitated, slightly embarrassed when he recalled the headlines repeated on TV.
“My daughter.”
“I suppose your brother-in-law thought it would be a good time-”
“To play one of his irritating pranks on me. He probably heard about the press conference. Ex-brother-in-law, by the way.”
“Sylvie von Mansfeld's your ex-wife, then.”
“Yes.” He knew what they were thinking; he could tell by the smiles forming on their faces. Sylvie's early films had been well publicized, and her nubile young body was as familiar to the world as it had been to him. “We've been divorced for several years,” he politely added.
“Just a prank, hey?” La Dolce Vita after thirty years in the press was an accepted reality. How many thousands of photos and sensational stories had been published throughout the world depicting the amoral and bizarre amusements of the leisured money class? While most people worked their way toward retirement one predictable day at a time, the beautiful people looked for ways to amuse themselves.
“I'm afraid so. Look, if I could make amends for your inconvenience…” He turned on his most charming smile. “Say a contribution to some police fund? It's the least I could do for all your hassle.”
And after a few more moments' discussion they traded business cards, Carey apologized one more time, and said his business manager would send a check. “Thank you very much for responding so promptly to my daughter's call for help.” Carey and the two girls waved good-bye from the building entrance.
Theresa and the office staff were introduced to the two security men who would be, Carey said, “keeping an eye out for photographers.”
Then Carey and the girls returned to the apartment, where he called Allen first, then talked to Molly, apologizing for leaving so abruptly. He explained that he'd recognized someone in the crowd. Yes, everything was fine, and he'd see her in ten minutes when Allen brought her home. The birthday girl, he reminded her, was waiting for the party to begin.
While Allen and Molly were driving over, he helped the girls prepare for Carrie's party, and then went into Molly's drafting room to make some calls. Although Kiray was probably halfway to Rome, Carey couldn't be sure another attempt might be tried. And if it wasn't Carrie's birthday today, he would have immediately removed her from any possible danger. The split second after he knew Pooh was safe, he had decided to take Molly and his daughter away to safety. Although his decision was firm, he realized diplomacy would be required when he told Molly.
Tomorrow morning he intended to bring Molly and Carrie north to his father's estate. Bernadotte had a sophisticated security arrangement to protect his home, thanks to all his old contacts in MI6. An intelligence officer attached to the British army in the last years of WWII, he'd never lost his love of gadgetry.
The most difficult task was going to be convincing Molly to leave her business for a time. Perhaps he could coax her with the idea of a family vacation in which he and Carrie could become better acquainted. He could already hear Allen screaming about overruns. “Fuck it,” he muttered and called his father.
Their conversation was simple, but Bernadotte understood his son's purpose once Egon's name was mentioned. “By all means,” he said, “stop by and see me.”
Carey hadn't mentioned Carrie or Molly in the event the phone was tapped. He respected Rifat's intelligence. But Bernadotte knew from experience that Carey never called ahead to discuss his impending visits. Apparently something was in the air. When he replaced the receiver, he smiled and went to find his housekeeper. They were going to have houseguests. And if he interpreted his son's tone of voice properly, one was going to be a female houseguest. An unprecedented event for Carey.
In the few short moments since the police had departed, the entrance to the Merchandise Mart was awash with reporters who'd trailed Carey from the press conference. His abrupt departure hinted prominently at another story, and a crowd of reporters were milling about on the sidewalk. The two security men were hopelessly outnumbered.
When Allen's car pulled up, reporters surged over to it like a wave of curiosity. Allen and Molly alighted from the sleek black car, and the security men did their best to clear a path through the jostling throng.
“Did ya have a lovers' quarrel?”
“Hey, Allen, are you the lady's new escort?”
“Where's the little girl?”
“Is Carey here?”
“Has Carey skipped town?” He was not known for his faithfulness. The nasty barb was punctuated by the whirring click of camera shutters.
“Leave the lady alone, guys,” Allen said as he shoved his way through, one arm protectively around Molly's shoulder. “You heard all the news at the press conference.”
“You gonna be able to keep him, lady, in your love nest?”
Molly's face flushed pink at the crude question and her temper began a slow simmer. Now instead of some duchess being chased from a hotel or a starlet photographed nude on a secluded Adriatic beach, she was the newest object of their attention. The situation was without precedent in her extremely normal life and it annoyed her. Because of Carey's reputation, she became an occupant of a love nest. Personally, she viewed her old factory turned Merchandise Mart as an energetic business employing forty some people, catering to wholesalers in the approximate neighborhood of a quarter million customers a year. Hardly the accepted connotation of “love nest.”