Devil's Eye (6 page)

“
Mrs. Davis. Did you hear about Jeannie McConnell?”

“
Why, yes, I did. Poor thing. She seems to be missing. Why I would never let our Samantha be so long out of sight, never mind living alone nowadays.”

“
I know, Mrs. Davis,” he replied, realizing the question was futile. “I know. You take care of yourself, now.”

“
I want to see you at our home soon, y’hear?” She pressed his hand and smilingly turned to her circle of companions.

“
Soon, Mrs. Davis. Give my best to your family—and to Samantha,” he added as an afterthought.

The reception hall was filling, but Colonel Caine had not noticed Victor Sherwyck. He took a glass of champagne from one of the caterers mingling among the guests with serving plates of drinks and hors d oeuvres. This one was a woman with heavy makeup and hard looking eyes. She seemed preoccupied, not bothering to offer the champagne as she passed. Those with a taste for a glass either asked her for one or—as Caine had just done—deftly grabbed a glass as she jostled not too politely among small groups of the Washington notables positioning themselves to see or be seen in the reception hall.

Snippets of conversation included references to Jeannie McConnell, but few people knew even the sketchiest details: only that she had not been seen for more than a week.

“
Crime is just so rampant…” said one woman he passed.

“
Do you think she’s a jogger?” asked another. “They never caught the attacker in the parks, did they?”

Caine took a hefty gulp from his champagne glass as he sauntered by, wishing it was bourbon, while his eyes kept scanning the hall for a glimpse of Victor Sherwyck. There was no sign of the well
‐
placed financier and seemingly hereditary confidant of presidents. No one could miss his slim, even gaunt features that presented a commanding, aristocratic air and whose position and influence—no less his wit and cynical wisdom—magnetized people.

He expected to spot the man among the guests who were there to preview a cultural exhibit highlighting the historical and national character of states formerly submerged within the Soviet Union, but now members of the NATO alliance. Sherwyck would most likely be among some ambassadors or other dignitaries present.

Then he saw her; a tall, well
‐
proportioned woman, speaking with several guests. With her was his friend, Alvin Carruthers, assistant curator of The Smithsonian. The woman was in quarter profile and even from a distance attracted Caine’s interest.

The young woman shifted slightly and caught the Colonel’s eye.

She looked at him for the briefest of moments then turned back to her circle of companions. There was something familiar about her. He worked his way in her direction, exchanging greetings and clipped comments with acquaintances.

As Caine approached, the woman stepped to a nearby exhibit, while Carruthers chatted with a silver
‐
haired gentleman and his wife.

“
Chris, how are you?” Carruthers invited as the Colonel neared. “We don’t see you in Washington too much.”

Caine joined them still looking in her direction, while the assistant curator introduced the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton are two of our very generous benefactors, Chris. We pamper them as best we can.”

Everyone smiled a jovial, social smile.

The Knowltons politely dismissed Carruther’s comments, but were nonetheless pleased by his flattery in front of this urbane looking stranger with closely trimmed hair.

“
We’re firm believers in maintaining our national institutions,” Knowlton said. “We’re happy to be able to do so.”

“
A very noble gesture,” Colonel Caine replied sincerely.

“
The Nation’s Attic!” the assistant curator intoned, repeating with pride the standard colloquial description of the Smithsonian Institution.

“
Well, it certainly is and I’m glad,” Knowlton said emphatically. “It’s good to have a place where we can display everything we are as a nation. It’s a symbol of ourselves and a real treasure for generations to come.”

“
As you can see, this particular exhibition is not quite
us
,” the assistant curator said. “It’s a special presentation from the nations of the former Soviet Union that have since joined NATO.”

“
A wonderful idea,” Colonel Caine said politely.

“
I don’t think so,” Mr. Knowlton replied authoritatively. “Why irritate the Russians at a time like this? Surrounding them with their former satellites as members of an organization that was specifically created to challenge the Soviet Union? Those new republics are chaotic, corrupt.”

“
That sounds a little arrogant, don’t you think, Mr. Knowlton,” Colonel Caine replied with a stiff smile. “They’re no more corrupt— and I dare say a little less so—than Russia itself. Besides, it seems the new Russia is getting harder to distinguish from the old Russia.”

“
That’s a very naïve sentiment, Mr….Mr….”

“
Caine, Colonel Christopher Caine.”

“
A military man, no less,” Knowlton spluttered, as his wife looked on indignantly. “Those people have no tradition of democracy. Look what happened in Iraq after all those years of our involvement. They were better off before, if you ask me. There was peace and stability. Just like in the former USSR.”

“
We had no tradition of democracy either, Mr. Knowlton,” Caine replied firmly, but politely. “Many of our founding fathers were smugglers for profit and we weren’t too enlightened either. Let’s remember that Cotton Mather had a degree from Harvard University when he incited the hanging of innocent men and women in Salem. It seems our Anglo
‐
Saxon tradition evolved from absolute rule of monarchs and a belief in witchcraft.”

Knowlton was momentarily nonplussed while a startled look came over Mrs. Knowlton.

“
You can’t disallow democracy on the grounds that it’s untested,” Caine continued. “It was untested in every place it took root.”

“
So?” Knowlton managed to say.

“
Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Carruthers chimed in, but to no avail.

Knowlton, refined and distinguished in his black tie, took on an air like he had just been sullied. Colonel Caine had violated the etiquette of this reception, which was so outwardly defined by the dress and social demeanor of the guests.

Mrs. Knowlton looked sternly at the Colonel, as if he had dared penetrate some private domain. She wordlessly took her husband by the arm and briskly led him away.

“
Damn it, Chris!” Carruthers fumed. “What’s gotten into you? They’re two of our major benefactors!”

“
Seems the guy’s a little too sensitive. So’s his wife.”

“
They donated two million towards the redesign of the Hope Diamond Exhibit and the Gem Hall. You could have been a little more civil with them.”

“
Wasn’t I?” Caine took a quick gulp of his champagne and wondered why the couple reacted so forcefully. “He seems too apologetic of dictatorships.”

“
He’s an industrialist. He’s used to giving orders. Companies are autocratic.”

“
And I suppose he thinks governments should be too,” Caine concluded. “He forgets autocracies fail, just like rigid companies.”

“
I don’t care what he thinks, Chris. That’s probably a good couple of million dollars scratched off the donors list.”

“
Oh, don’t worry, Al. I’m the one he’s perturbed about. Not you. Not the Institution. I’m just passing through.”

“
They’ll probably think I’m unfit because I’m a friend of yours. Not fit for their beloved Smithsonian. They have influence. They’ll have me fired.”

Caine smiled at his friend, enjoying his theatrical display of concern. “Don’t worry, Al. It takes more than that to get you fired.”

“
I’m in a precarious business. A lot of my perceived talent and my position depends on rich patrons.”

“
You don’t have to tell
me
about precarious,” Caine retorted.

“
Well…” his friend conceded.

“
Look around, Al. This hall’s full of millionaires looking for prestigious tax breaks.”

“
Yes, it is,” Carruthers replied longingly. “Although that’s not my department.” He seemed assuaged and no longer upset with his friend.

“
Have you seen Victor Sherwyck?” Caine asked.

“
I know he has an invitation, but I haven’t seen him. If you hadn’t insulted the Knowltons,” he said, resurrecting the moment, “maybe they could have told you something. They’re good friends.”

“
I see,” Caine replied. “But it’s Sherwyck I want, not his friends.” “He’s also a donor. Just don’t insult him either. I have to be sure

everybody’s happy at these events.” “Well, make me happy, Al, and introduce me to the young lady.” “Ahh, yes, I figured,” Carruthers answered slyly. “It’s Laura,

Laura Mitchell. Dr. Laura Mitchell.” “How about if you first apologized to the Knowltons?” “For what?” Caine asked indignantly as he slowly and dramati

cally pulled back his jacket to reveal his pistol in a mock threat. “All right, all right. I’ll introduce you. But you’re going to owe me one.”

Chapter 6

She was facing away from them studying a mask in a display case

featuring an assortment of statues—all of them devils.

“
Laura, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Carruthers said.

She turned to them champagne glass in hand. Caine stood transfixed.

A recurring vision flashed before him. He was in the midst of a confrontation on a dusty road in the outskirts of Beirut. A single shot from somewhere had provoked a firefight between some armed men in a crowd and a military patrol, to which he had been attached as an adviser. Caine was running for cover when he almost stumbled over a young woman lying near a building. She was on her back. Her black dress was hiked up to her thighs. The fall had disarranged her dress and the neckline revealed a soft, full curve of an uncovered breast. Caine impulsively stretched out his hand to help her to her feet, but she stared blankly at the sky with her lips barely parted. Only then did he notice a small, but steady trickle of blood flowing down her temple and mingling with her long, black, unbridled hair. She was dead. A deep feeling of rage overtook him. He felt awkward for extending his hand to a dead woman and dreamed evermore she was reaching out to take his.

She extended her hand. “Hello.”

Caine’s heartbeat quickened. He was thunderstruck. It was as if the girl had risen from the dusty street, just as Caine had willed over and over in his obsessive dreams. The resemblance was uncanny and sent a shudder down his spine.

She was medium height, but her high heeled shoes made her seem taller, stately. Her long auburn hair seemed to glisten in the lights. The young woman’s dress snugly caressed her body. Around her neck was a slim golden chain with a large amber pendant. Her eyes were large, round and green
‐
blue. Her lips, though closed, suggested a sensuous mouth. They seemed to be curving into a modest smile.

“
Hello,” she repeated.

“
Hello,” he responded robot like, looking at her intently.

“
I’m normally flattered,” she said. “But you’re staring.”

“
I’mmm... sorry,” he replied hesitatingly.

“
My, my!” Carruthers intoned. “Have I finally seen Samson undone? He’s usually much more composed, Laura.”

“
Please, Al! You’re embarrassing the poor man.”

“
Thank you,” Caine responded.

“
That’s all right. I did say I was flattered,” she replied with a disarming smile.

“
It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said slowly, regaining his demeanor.

“
It’s nice of you to visit the exhibition,” she said sweetly.

“
I noticed you admiring this mask.”

“
Not so much admiring as minding,” she said, turning to the display. “I’m acting as an interpreter for this part of the exhibition.”