Walking in Darkness Page 3

  But there was something. That was for sure. Every instinct warned about that.

  Then Gowrie visibly forced himself to break off from her, tore himself out of his trance, turned on his heel and was on his way, surrounded by his entourage, without answering her question. But Steve saw him turn his head to speak to a security man moving at his shoulder.

  The other man nodded, spoke in turn to a couple of others, and Steve saw them spin off, and, without running or seeming in a hurry, push their way back towards the blonde girl. Steve was closer; without stopping to think about the wisdom of intervening, he moved like greased lightning to get to her before they could.

  He took her elbow and began walking her out, talking rapidly, urgently, while she looked up at him in startled surprise.

  ‘My name’s Steve Colbourne, I do a weekly round-up of political news on NWTV, you may have seen me, if not I assure you I’m very respectable and trustworthy. Can I buy you a drink, or do you want those very ugly guys behind us to put an armlock on you?’

  She stiffened and instinctively started to turn, but he went on softly, ‘No, don’t look back at them, pretend you don’t even know they’re there. It’s called the survival instinct, animals practise it all the time. Haven’t you ever seen a bird freeze and pretend to be a statue? It works, too; the psychology is shrewd. It throws a possible predator off. They aren’t sure what’s going on or what to do so they wait and watch, and that gives the bird time to plan its escape.’

  She turned her head to look up at him, and he smiled at her. By then they were engulfed in the departing tide of media flowing through the exit; Steve held on to her arm to make sure she didn’t get away. He was picking up her scent by then, a cool, light fragrance that reminded him of a spring morning. It went with blonde hair and blue eyes and long, long legs. What the hell was going on between her and Gowrie? She had something on the guy, that was certain – and she wouldn’t be the first beautiful young woman to sell herself to a powerful old man. History was littered with them. Steve surprised himself by not wanting her to be one of them.

  He could hear her breathing next to him. They were shoved close together by the crush of bodies moving out of the great ballroom, with its chandeliers and high, wide windows framed by heavy red velvet drapes, into the luxurious lobby of the hotel, and Steve felt the warmth of her skin under the cream silk dress she wore, almost felt he heard an over-rapid beating of her heart.

  She was scared, he thought, but when he shot a sideways look her profile seemed calm, unflurried. Was she always this tranquil – or did she lose her cool in bed? He frowned, imagining her with Gowrie. Did that sleek blonde hair get rumpled and tousled? Was she hot? She didn’t look as if she was highly sexed, but then with women appearances were always deceptive.

  In the hotel lobby the blonde pulled free, glancing back at the same time. Steve looked back, too, and found the two security men right behind them. Their lizard eyes slithered over him, recognized his face, and then ignored him. They were only interested in the girl.

  ‘Miss, can we have a word? You aren’t wearing an official press badge, Miss . . . what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Narodni, Sophie Narodni.’ She looked at one, then the other. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We work for Senator Gowrie, Miss Narodni. Did you say you worked for a press agency?’

  ‘Yes, the Central European Press Agency. Have you got any identification on you? I like to know who is asking me questions.’ She smiled sweetly.

  ‘Certainly, Miss Narodni.’ The taller of the two, a man with very bronzed skin, flipped back his suit collar to show a badge. She leaned forward slightly to read it. He would be getting a nostril full of her delicious scent, thought Steve, watching with amusement.

  ‘Thank you.’

  A little flushed suddenly, the guy lifted the clipboard he held, consulted the sheaf of paper clipped to it, running a finger down a list.

  ‘Oh, yes, the agency is listed, but we have a Theo Strahov down as their representative.’

  ‘He couldn’t make it, he was taken ill, so he sent me.’ She pulled out of the small cream leather purse she held in one hand a plastic-enclosed security card and showed it to them. The shorter man took it from her; both stared at it.

  ‘You’re supposed to wear this, Miss Narodni.’

  ‘I couldn’t pin it on my dress, it would have ruined the material and it is expensive.’

  Her accent was a little stronger now, perhaps she was more nervous than she seemed? She gestured to her dress and the security men stared at her silk-covered breasts.

  Steve had never liked private security guys; they always ended up trying to hijack police powers, believing themselves to be above the law; they were arrogant, crude-minded sons of bitches. These two were prize specimens.

  Absently, without taking his eyes off her breasts, his lizard tongue flicking out to wet his lips, the taller one said, ‘We should have been notified of the change. Did you show your identification to the man on the door?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They frowned; somebody was going to get into trouble for letting her in without checking her.

  ‘We will have to have proof of your identity, Miss Narodni, and proof of your address, perhaps a letter addressed to you there? Or your driving licence?’

  She went back into the purse and came up with an airmail envelope, which she handed them. They both studied the address, one of them scribbled it into a pad he took from his pocket, murmuring it aloud as he did so. Steve memorised it.

  ‘So you live on the Lower East Side? How long have you been there?’ they asked her as she took the envelope back.

  ‘Not long. I am staying with a friend; she is the tenant of the apartment.’

  ‘Friend’s name?’

  ‘Lilli Janacek.’

  They wrote that down too. Steve was trying to work out exactly what was going on – if she was involved with Gowrie he would know all this stuff, so why were his men asking her these pretty obvious questions?

  ‘What does she do?’ they asked.

  Simon, the producer, had come up, was hovering, curious and at the same time impatient. He asked through his teeth, ‘What’s going on? We’ve been waiting for you. Shall we pack up or do you want to do an intro to camera while we still have the same background?’

  Speaking out of the corner of his mouth, and trying at the same time to hear what was being said by the others, Steve muttered, ‘We could do a piece outside later, with the hotel façade behind me – change of background always makes a piece feel denser, gives it more variety. We might get a couple of talking heads to go with it, get some input on what New York thinks.’

  Sulkily Simon nodded. He was only twenty-five, smooth-skinned, still faintly naive. He had only made producer a few months ago and was still unsure of himself, but he was touchy about his new status. He wanted to be the one who decided when they shot what, but he didn’t dare argue with Steve, who had far more pull with the network.

  ‘See you in the bar,’ Steve told him, and Simon went back into the ballroom.

  ‘You American?’ the taller security guy asked the girl, who shook her head.

  ‘I’m Czech.’

  That excited him. A foreigner, that was something he could get her for. ‘Have you got your visa and passport on you? How long you been in the States?’

  She was still outwardly calm. Her face, her voice, had not altered under the pressure of their questions, their hard, suspicious faces. She showed them her passport, the visa in it. ‘As you see, there is no time-limit on my stay here. I have very good references. The agency will give you my details. You’ll see their address on this envelope. It’s a letter from the head of the agency. Can I have it back, please?’

  The short guy reluctantly handed it back.

  ‘Your friend, this Janacek woman – she here on a visa too?’

  ‘She doesn’t need one – she was born here, in America, right here in New York, in fact. Why are you asking me
all these questions? Did Senator Gowrie send you?’

  ‘The senator?’ As if she had pressed a button they exchanged looks. The tall one said, ‘Of course not, we haven’t spoken to him. You weren’t on our list, that’s all. We had to check you out. That’s our job. Well, thank you, Miss Narodni.’

  They walked away towards the lifts and Steve got the impression of a tactical retreat – now why had they suddenly taken fright and left? This got more interesting by the minute.

  Sophie Narodni began to walk across the lobby towards the main exit; Steve quickly caught up and fell in step with her. ‘About that drink?’

  She gave him a startled look, as if she had forgotten all about him. ‘Oh. Sorry. I don’t have the time.’ He got the impression she then really noticed him for the first time. ‘You’re a TV reporter, aren’t you? I saw you in there. You asked him a question.’

  ‘Steve Colbourne.’ He offered his hand, smiling, and after a brief pause she held out her own hand.

  ‘Hello.’ Her hand was slender, cool to the touch; she took it away almost at once. ‘Do you know him? I mean, have you actually met him?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Her eyes widened, startled. ‘Me? No, oh, no.’

  He got the impression the question had scared her, and of course if she was Gowrie’s secret mistress it would. He wouldn’t find out by a frontal assault. He smiled again. ‘No? Well, I do a political programme on network TV once a week. I don’t know if you’ve ever caught it?’

  Blankly, she shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’

  He didn’t know whether or not to believe her. But maybe she never watched TV? ‘I give a round-up of life in Washington, news from Congress, gossip, interviews with major players . . .’

  ‘Major players?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Important politicians,’ he translated. ‘Until recently Don Gowrie wasn’t one of them. He’s come up on the outside, out of the blue, surprising everybody, including me, and I’ve known him for years.’

  Steve felt the leap of her attention; looking into her blue eyes he was certain that, whether or not she was sleeping with Gowrie, there was something going on here and he had to know what it was.

  ‘When you say you know him . . . have you ever met his family?’ she asked. ‘His wife . . . his children?’

  ‘Come and have that drink, and we’ll talk,’ he invited again, and knew that this time she would not turn him down.

  They didn’t go into the bar where the rest of the press were beginning to gather again – they walked past it, across the lobby, threading through little groups of chattering hotel guests, and went into a circular bar with smoked glass windows, low-lit, panelled, with a soothing hush that made Sophie’s stretched nerves quiver with relief. She had been on edge for days, knowing what was ahead of her, and now it was over. She sat down, sighing deeply as she leaned back against yielding red-velvet cushions. She had almost forgotten the TV reporter and when he sat down next to her it made her start, her eyes jumping up to stare at his face.

  Her first impression of him had been that he was a big man with a hard face, not so very different from the security men who had been interrogating her a few minutes ago, and looking at him more closely didn’t change her impression, although he was not so much big as muscular and tall. She didn’t know much about men’s clothes, at least in America, but even a casual glance told her that he looked expensively dressed: well-pressed dark grey suit, crisp white shirt and a discreet tie. If you were in front of a camera all the time obviously you had to look good, and he did, although the elegance of the suit did not disguise the formidable structure of the body under it.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, watching her in his turn, and Sophie felt his curious, probing stare like a needle under her skin. It wasn’t safe to relax, she thought; she still needed to be on her guard. What was this man after? Why had he come over to her like that? Why had he hung around while the security men questioned her?

  Sophie’s mouth went dry; she was stranded, high and dry, on the sands of shock and anxiety again. She wished she hadn’t come in here with this stranger; she needed to be alone, to think. She ought to be working out what to do next. She had had one plan and one only, and now she had gone through with it. She had started something without being quite sure what would happen if she did, and she was scared. She kept remembering Don Gowrie’s expression when she asked her question, the way he had swung to stare. What had gone through his mind? What was going on in his head right now?

  She tried to tell herself she needn’t be scared, he wouldn’t dare do anything to her – but she couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the jangling of her nerves. Maybe she should have gone about this some other way? Maybe she should have written to his wife? But she hadn’t quite dared do that. Far too dangerous to put anything on paper. She had tried ringing his home but neither he nor his wife or daughter were ever available and the distant, icily polite voice which answered each time had scared her too much for her to risk leaving any messages.

  ‘Can’t you make up your mind what to have?’ the reporter repeated and she blinked.

  ‘Oh . . . yes . . . a glass of white wine, please.’

  A young Mexican waiter in black skin-tight pants and a close-fitting waistcoast had sauntered over; he was visibly pleased with his own lithe body, walking like a matador, a look of inner attention on his face, the look of a man listening for the roar of a crowd. Sophie couldn’t help smiling at him and his dark eyes glowed at her as if waiting for her to throw him a red rose.

  ‘A glass of white wine for the lady, and a whisky for me,’ the reporter said.

  ‘Glass white wine, whisky, certainly, sir,’ the waiter said in a warm, Spanish-accented voice, and sauntered away.

  ‘Sophie . . . you don’t mind if I call you Sophie? I’m Steve. Tell me about yourself,’ the TV reporter said with the practised manner of one who was a professional interviewer, and she wished to God she dared talk freely to him. If only she knew someone here in New York well enough to trust them, talk to them. This city was so huge, so crowded, yet she knew nobody well enough to talk to them, but then it was nothing new to her, that feeling of isolation. Since she was very small she had been lonely, she had been cut off from other kids her age because of her stepfather’s job; they didn’t trust her, thought she might spy on them, tell on them. Even her mother had no time for her once she had other children. Sophie had been driven to talking to the dead because the living ignored her. That was crazy, wasn’t it? Or at least not normal, talking to your dead sister because you had no one else to talk to.

  When she got older she had tried to make friends, but maybe she hoped for too much, needed too much, made it all too important; her need, her air of desperation, had driven people away instead of attracting them. Even when she left the village and went to Prague to university, she had only made acquaintances; she had gone around for a couple of years in a big group, one of the crowd, but never getting very close to anyone.

  The men had, it was true, wanted to date her, and didn’t waste much time or finesse in trying to get her into bed. Sex seemed all they were interested in, but Sophie needed something better than sex – she wanted to be loved, but that had always eluded her.

  ‘Everyone calls you the snow queen,’ one young man had said. ‘And they’re right, that’s what you are. Frozen from the neck down. Who wants a woman like that?’

  She remembered the way she had felt as he spat the words at her, the misery that had swamped her. They had been in his car; he was driving her home from a concert. She could still hear the music they had just been listening to, light, lilting Strauss waltzes, mocking the way she felt afterwards, staying in her head for years after that night.

  The very air in Prague was full of music; you could go to a different concert every night, many of them totally free, most of them offering cut-price tickets. As you walked around Prague you were always having cheaply printed flyers advertising concerts thrust into your hands. Peop
le put on concerts wherever they could, the more expensive ones in imposing concert halls or palaces in which nobody had lived for several lifetimes, some in the open air in summer, in the streets of the Old Town, in one of the many parks which threaded the city with green. There wasn’t just classical music, either; there was jazz or folk music in bars, or in hotels or clubs, sung masses in churches like the church of St Nicholas, the High Baroque church, glittering with gilded cherubs, where Mozart had once played the elaborately decorated organ.

  They had been parked under a lime tree just outside the grey concrete block where she lived. While he tried to kiss her, his hand had slid up inside her skirt, she had felt his fingertips stroking between her legs, soft, warm, tormenting, making her burn.

  She had drunk a few glasses of wine over dinner, it must have been the heat of the wine in her veins that made her want him to go on. She had ached to let the feeling build, to let him make love to her, although she knew she wasn’t even close to falling in love with him.

  But he had made his move too soon. She was still sober enough to stop him, and he had lost his temper, his face red. ‘What’s wrong with you? What are you saving it for, you frigid bitch?’

  She never went out with him again, but what he had said had really got under her skin. A year later she had gone to bed, quite deliberately, to prove to herself that she wasn’t frigid, with a boy from her village, a farmer’s son she had known at school. They had had a brief summer romance but it died out as suddenly as it had begun, like a passing storm over the green woods around her home. A little lightning, a little thunder, and then peace.