Page 138 of Blood Game

“I put a call into Danny,” he finally said, still staring down the driveway that cut back through the orchard of the Marchand property.

“I had him check with some people he's worked with.” Fingers drummed the steering wheel. He still didn't look at her.

“The man at the gallery in Paris goes by the name of Faridani.”

The name meant nothing to her.

“The Paris gallery is a front,” he continued. “Faridani funnels money from the sale of stolen artifacts to a terrorist groupthat has claimed responsibility for several attacks and bombings throughout Europe, and the UK.

“He came on the art scene two years ago,” he went on to explain. “He popped up occasionally prior to that—at university in London, well-educated, but always on the fringe of things, rumored to have been seen with some of the bad characters over the last few years. He turned up again as an authority on Middle Eastern art, acquiring pieces for private parties.”

There was more, she could tell by the expression on his face in the glow from the instrument panel, the way he stared down that dirt track. He was someone else now, someone she'd only glimpsed the past few days. He didn't put the car in gear, but instead kept staring down the road that cut through the Robillard orchards.

“Faridani is the name he goes by. His real name is Hasan Malik.”

Malik. The same name as Jonathan Callish's wife!

Her thoughts reeled.

Did Callish know? He had to. Was he somehow involved? She took that next step.

It made sense. Cate had worked with Callish on the collection of her father's photographs for the gallery showing. It was possible he already knew about the photograph of the tapestry when they went to see him that day in London. That meant that his wife probably also knew about it.

Had he or someone else—his wife?—then followed to the Blue Anchor? And after that?

She felt almost physically sick at the possibility that Jonathan Callish was involved in this, that he might have had something to do with Cate's death.

He saw the expression on her face, the disbelief, then the struggle against other emotions. Betrayal was a bitter pill.

He put the car in gear and eased down the dirt track that angled back alongside the orchard, the lights of the farmhouse gleaming in the distance.

The Robillard farmhouse was typical of old farmhouses in the French countryside, with white plaster walls, low-hanging eaves, and the half-door that had once been painted red but had faded over the years to a pale salmon color, and like the café in Montigny, looked as if it had stood for centuries, except for Valentine's car parked in the side yard, and an old tractor that sat between rows of barren trees in the glare of lights from the rental car.

A black-and-white dog shot out the door and ran straight at them. Valentine immediately called him back—the notorious Ju-Ju. He stopped, looked back, then ignored her and did the typical dog thing and anointed a tire on the rental car, then shot back for the house.

“My grandfather's dog,” Valentine said, meeting them at the door. “He is good at chasing the crows from the orchards.”

“We met,” Kris replied as Ju-Ju sat on the floor, tail thumping.

A large country table sat in the middle of the kitchen, with four chairs that had once been painted blue but were now faded. Shelves lined the wall on either side of the window above the porcelain sink. Blue-and-white plates and an odd assortment of bowls and cups lined the shelves. The slate stones on the floor were worn smooth.

This, Kris thought, was where a young girl who became known as Jehanne had lived as a child. This was where two brothers had lived and gone off with their father to fight the war and never returned. And it was where young Albert Marchand had returned after the war almost eighty years ago, and married Micheleine's younger sister.

Time. It was etched into the surface of the table, on the chipped bowl with the apples in the middle, and the worn stones of the floor.

“My grandfather is in the other room. It's warmer in there.” Valentine led them into the adjacent room.

Albert Marchand, twelve years old at the end of the war, was now an old man. He sat in the chair before the fire, dressed in a heavy sweater and work pants, wisps of white hair molding his head. Heavily veined hands lay over a book he'd been reading. They were the hands of someone who had worked hard all of his life, and now sat before a warm fire in the woodstove.

What did he know? Kris thought. What would he remember?

“I have brought friends,” Valentine announced, crossing the room, and laying a hand on his shoulder.

The eyes that looked over at them were old eyes, eyes that had seen too much in eighty-five years, but still sharp, curious.

“Eh? Friends?” he asked.

Conversation in French followed, most which Kris couldn't follow. She heard both their names as introductions were made, then Cate's name was mentioned, and that sharp blue gaze fastened on her.