Yesterday's Enemy

By Barbara Erlichman

After being fired from the Academie des Artes in Paris, art historian Katrina McLeods job options are extremely limited. Although over-qualified, she agrees to inventory the Baron de Gervays art collection at his remote chateau in Provence. Her mundane job soon turns into a nightmare as she finds herself enmeshed in Gervays plot to smuggle terrorists out of France.

During the day, Nick Santini can be seen taking land surveys for a ski resort that his company plans to build just a few miles from the chateau. Its his nighttime activities that he needs to keep secret.

Katrinas smart enough to know she cant handle the situation alone. After learning Nicks true identity, she accepts his offer of help. With the French Riviera as a backdrop, they race against the clock to trap Gervay and prevent a planned terrorist bombing in New York City.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491717271

Barbara Erlichman

British-born and educated, Barbara Erlichman came to New York where she met her future husband and they opened a rare coin and collectibles company. She is the author of One of a Kind, Yesterday’s Enemy and The Judas Hoard. Barbara and her husband now live in Florida. Contact at [e-mail]

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Yesterday’s

Enemy

Barbara Erlichman

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

YESTERDAY’S ENEMY

Copyright © 2014 Barbara Erlichman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Cover photograph from Dreamstime.com | ID 18892818 © Tomas1111 | Royalty Free Stock Photos

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1728-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1727-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921986

iUniverse rev. date: 12/30/2013

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to take a moment to thank all the people who have given me so much encouragement and support. In particular, I want to thank Eve Blake, Susan Forman and Brenda Sorg for their editing, insights and suggestions, which so improved Yesterday’s Enemy.

And, of course, thanks to my wonderful husband, Jay, my severest editor and most loyal supporter who’s always making sure my writing is the best it can be.

To all of you, thanks for everything.

CHAPTER ONE

A fter the rutted autostrada that connected Turin with the French border, Dominic Santini rated the drive from Nice to St. Veran as child’s play. Despite the precipitous curves as the highway zigzagged through the Alpes-Maritimes, he slowed for only the more troublesome bends. Headlights boring through the darkness like twin lasers, Santini drove almost automatically, still furious at being summoned to Beraletti’s head office two days earlier. By moving to such a remote part of Provence he’d hoped to escape the meeting mentality for a while. In fact, the job’s autonomy was its major selling point, the motivating factor when he’d volunteered for the assignment. Attending conferences couldn’t have been further from his game plan.

As the village of Montrace loomed up out of the night, Santini’s temper improved slightly. He was over halfway home, and passing the last cottage, he floored the gas pedal. He knew this stretch of Route 202 like the back of his hand. In the month since his arrival he’d traveled the area constantly, establishing himself as a familiar figure. With just his surveying equipment for company, he could often be seen on the higher elevations, industriously filling page after page in his notebook.

Rounding another switchback, Santini saw flickers of light in the distance. He was almost at St. Veran, his villa just a short drive beyond. In the comfort of his own living room he’d be able to relax for the first time in almost three days, refine the strategy session into a viable plan.

Entering the village, Santini reduced speed slightly as a courtesy to the residents of his temporary home, but at the end of the main street his foot again hit the gas. The oncoming truck careened around the bend with no warning, the two-lane highway almost blocked by its massive bulk.

Swearing loudly, Santini veered to the right, the Fiat tearing up the grass berm edging the highway. Instinctively, he wrenched the steering wheel in the opposite direction and felt his tires fight for traction. For a moment the car wobbled precariously as the truck thundered past. In no mood to call the local mechanic, Santini concentrated on keeping his car out of the ditch. His eyes never left the berm until he was sure all four wheels were back on level ground. Only then did he look at the road ahead and momentarily froze. Trapped in the white glare of his headlights stood a woman.

* * *

As she strolled along the deserted highway, Katrina McLeod felt a faint stirring of optimism. Head cleared by the crisp mountain air, she could be more objective about the last week. See that being fired from her job in Paris might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. After all, teaching was neither her passion nor her vocation. And, career-wise, the position was a dead end anyway. But that didn’t mean she wanted to lose it. As everyone predicted, jobs in the art world were hard to come by, her Masters in Art History of little use as a door opener. Months of rejection followed her graduation from the University of Pennsylvania, so she couldn’t believe her good fortune when Dr. Jerome called the previous September. The Academie des Artes in Paris desperately needed a lecturer for two semesters, announced her favorite professor. Was she interested? Although the Introduction to Art History class was only high school level and didn’t pay much, Katrina never hesitated. Within a week she was in France.

For six months life was perfect. In addition to teaching, the course included escorting her American students to various European museums. Which for her was the best part—until the last field trip to Holland. Accused of négligence brute by the Academie’s board of governors, she was fired the moment she returned to Paris. Thanks to Jeanne, though, she was getting a second chance.

Jeanne Desmartin, the Academie’s dean of students and Katrina’s only ally, had proved to be a true friend. First, she’d begged the administration to reconsider, and when that failed, set about finding Katrina a job with equal vigor. Seated in Jeanne’s cluttered office, Katrina watched glumly as the older woman scanned a letter on the top of the pile on her desk.

I know taking inventory of an art collection isn’t much, but at least it’s a job, Jeanne observed pragmatically. Unfortunately, it also means leaving Paris. The collection belongs to the Baron Edouard La Tache de Gervay. It’s at his chateau in Provence.

Provence. Land of troubadours, chivalry and sunshine, mused Katrina. Not to mention Matisse, Renoir and Van Gogh. They’ve been my idols since my first trip to the Metropolitan Museum in New York. I was in the seventh grade and right then I vowed to visit their studios some day.

Well, it looks like some day’s here, although there might be a problem. The job request specifies a student.

Without proper working papers there’s little else I can do, said Katrina. And if the owner makes a big deal about wanting a student, say I’m working on my Ph.D.

I don’t like to lie. Jeanne’s frown turned into a smile. But how much harm can it do?

None, said Katrina firmly. And I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. Anything’s better than going home six months early. I told everyone I’d be away a year and a year I intend to stay.

So be it, said Jeanne, picking up her desk phone.

Within minutes she was connected to Baron Gervay, but much of the ensuing conversation was too quick for Katrina’s elementary French. Finally Jeanne hung up, expression perplexed.

I can’t think why the baron’s only interested in hiring a student. She shrugged and smiled. It seemed to be important, though, so I gave him the line about your being a Ph.D. candidate and that seemed to satisfy him.

If this guy’s so anxious to have a student then I’ll be happy to oblige. After all, those days aren’t too far behind me.

As long as you can do the job, your status at the Academie is totally irrelevant, Jeanne pointed out. And if the baron ever learns the truth, what’s the worst that can happen?

I’ll get fired. Again. Her voice turned bitter. Here I am, twenty-eight years old and still trying to reach first base with my career.

Becoming an art consultant is like everything else—it’s not what you know but who you know, Jeanne reminded her. I guarantee the baron has lots of contacts so this could be your big break.

Katrina’s face brightened. Good point. Maybe I can salvage something from my year in France after all.

Glancing at her notes, Jeanne said, You’re to fly to Nice the day after tomorrow. The baron’s secretary will make the travel arrangements and the chauffeur will be at the airport to take you to the chateau.

* * *

Two days later Katrina was in Provence. Waiting at Baggage Claim was the baron’s chauffeur, a fatherly man who treated her like visiting royalty. Helping her into a silver Mercedes S600, Maurice indicated the rain-shrouded Alpes-Maritimes and warned that an hour’s drive to St. Veran still lay ahead. They took the first exit off the autoroute, the two-lane highway climbing steadily as it snaked through sprawling pine forests. A veil of fog hovered over the area, wispy tendrils swirling around the tree trunks like lost souls.

St. Veran turned out to be little more than a huddle of stores and cottages surrounding a solitary church, its slate roof dulled by a sheen of moisture. An eight-foot high wall marked the end of the village, the long stretch of weather-beaten stones finally broken by a pair of iron gates. Maurice drew the car to a gentle halt and punched a code into the key pad set discreetly into the wall. The gates swung open onto a graveled driveway but dense woods blocked any sign of the chateau. Eventually the trees parted to reveal a fairytale castle set in the middle of manicured grounds. As if on cue, a shaft of late-day sunlight pierced the pewter sky, bathing the turrets and spires in a golden glow.

At the massive front door, an English butler greeted Katrina with grave formality before taking her to the Baron Edouard La Tache de Gervay. Although the baron welcomed her warmly, his comment that she seemed far too qualified gave her a twinge of conscience. Quickly she assured him that assembling an inventory was a unique research opportunity, the glib lie appearing to satisfy him. Later, while settling into her cozy cottage just a short walk from the chateau, Katrina knew her life was turning around.

Once unpacked, she decided to walk into St. Veran since the rain had stopped. There were no street lamps, making the flashlight she’d found in a kitchen drawer a necessity. A pleasant half-mile stroll led straight into St. Veran’s main street, but the single bar and handful of stores were all tightly shuttered for the night. The lack of action delighted her. She felt safe in this tiny village, hoped the truth wouldn’t catch up with her.

Relaxed for the first time in days, she sauntered back to her cottage, intoxicated by the scent of pine clinging to the damp air. The roar of an engine broke the stillness as a fuel truck hurtled along the narrow highway, but after six months in Paris she wasn’t surprised at the driver’s speed. Guided by the beam of her flashlight, she continued walking until a pair of car headlights suddenly erupted out of the darkness. For the space of a heartbeat Katrina remained trapped in their glare.

* * *

Pure instinct catapulted her into the adjacent tangle of briars and she felt a violent rush of air as the car swerved back onto the highway. A door slammed, and pulling herself clear of the brambles, she lashed out at the figure racing toward her.

"Idiot, she ranted. Imbécile. French deserting her, she switched to English. Don’t you know better than to drive through the countryside like a maniac? Just because you’re behind the wheel doesn’t give you the right of way."

"Je m’excuse."

Too irate to register the surprise behind the apology, Katrina raged, Even though it’s late, people don’t have to stay inside.

Breathless, she lapsed into silence and glared at Santini. The darkness concealed his features but she could see that he was a couple of inches taller than average and his dark hair needed trimming.

I hope you aren’t hurt, Santini said in halting French.

I don’t think so, she answered, her French equally tentative. Fortunately, my coat protected me.

Can I give you a lift somewhere? he asked.

In no mood for pleasantries, Katrina snapped, No. I live right here. Just leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage for one night.

Aware of being followed, she stomped off to her cottage and unlocked the front door, banishing the darkness with a flick of the light switch. The soft glow gave the illusion of safety, although the man seemed more curious than threatening. Concealed by shadows, Santini studied her with interest. Copper-colored hair brushed the collar of her coat, the loosely-tied belt revealing a slender waist. A scowl marred an otherwise attractive heart-shaped face and sparks glinted in sea-green eyes.

You seem to be all right, he said.

I am, she bit out, despite knees that suddenly felt weak as delayed reaction set in.

Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. He paused. Are you American?

Yes.

Here on vacation?

No. I work for the baron.

You work for Gervay? Incredulity edged Santini’s question.

You have a problem with that? asked Katrina.

Of course not, said Santini and, spinning around, hurried down the path.

Taken aback by his abrupt departure, Katrina said nothing as he disappeared into the darkness but when his car roared into life she slammed her door and jammed the lock into place.

Welcome to St. Veran, Kate, she muttered. If he’s like the rest of your neighbors, don’t bet on making too many friends.

CHAPTER TWO

S antini awoke late to a feeling of disquiet that intensified as he recalled his encounter with the American woman. Even a cup of strong coffee failed to dispel his unease. Not only was he concerned by the woman’s inexplicable presence, he certainly didn’t need someone else around who liked to be out late. So far, his nocturnal visits to the chateau remained undetected.

But nothing else had gone right. Although the cellars were relatively easy to access, locating the tunnel was far more difficult. And that’s when the problems really started. There was no door, only solid rock.

After two return trips proved equally unsuccessful, he’d asked for verification. An email came back within the hour from Ralph Proctor, Beraletti’s Managing Director. The coordinates were correct. It was just a matter of locking onto them. The Beraletti team had done some more investigating, Proctor continued, and found a just-developed portable sensor, capable of probing even the densest rock. One was on order and should be in Santini’s hands within a few days.

Tempering the good news, the delay would impact their already tight schedule, adding to the pressure. And although Santini was busy during the day, time hung heavily at night. Despite driving into Carnet several times during the past month, he was still viewed with suspicion by the local bar goers, his Italian-accented French setting him apart as a foreigner. But he hadn’t come to the region to make friends, and his solitary existence and isolated villa suited him fine.

The sensor arrived the same day he was summoned to Beraletti’s head office to give a progress report. There was no progress, Santini fumed to himself. Didn’t his emails make that perfectly clear? Lack of progress or not, though, he had no choice but to head out to Turin.

Now, still angry over the lost days as he rinsed his coffee mug, Santini’s concern increased. Until he could learn more about the American, his own plans would have to remain on hold.

While shaving, Santini decided to visit St. Veran’s one bar. The local gathering place was an excellent source of gossip, and if that failed there was always Madame Labat’s little grocery store. Experience had taught him never to buy too much food at one time, and he often picked up nuggets of information along with sorely-needed staples.

The sky was almost clear of the morning’s clouds by the time Santini parked outside the church. A cobbled lane led back to Route 202 where, for a few hundred yards, the highway doubled as St. Veran’s main street. The bar stood right in the center, its corner site providing an unrestricted view of the village’s few stores and the granite war memorial. Despite the aroma of fresh coffee, the metal tables and chairs set out invitingly on the sidewalk were empty. Regular customers favored the tables at the back of the narrow bar but the gloomy interior was currently deserted.

Choosing a table by the open French window, Santini studied the one-page menu. For a few minutes Etienne Jamin, the bar’s owner, deliberately ignored him but he finally left his usual spot at the scarred wooden counter and ambled over. Eyes fixed on his note pad, he wrote down Santini’s request for a glass of local rosé wine and paté before wordlessly disappearing into the kitchen. Used to the hostility he always generated, Santini unfolded his copy of Nice Matin and pretended interest in the first page.

Jamin returned with the wine as Marcel Tanvier entered the bar. An ascetic-looking man with a dour personality, the baron’s longtime secretary had even accompanied his employer into retirement a year earlier. His permanent move to St. Veran surprised everyone. With few interests outside of work, the native Parisian and was still regarded as an outsider by the close-knit community. Barely acknowledging Santini, Tanvier crossed the well-worn marble floor to a table in the rear, his reflection little more than a spectral blur in the flyspecked mirror behind the bar. Unasked, Jamin grabbed a bottle of Pernod from one of the glass shelves and poured a generous amount into a glass as he walked over to Tanvier.

Santé, he remarked, leaving the bottle on the table.

Merci, murmured Tanvier, the glass already at his lips.

A black-swathed figure materialized out of the shadows with a plate of bread and paté. Grabbing it, the owner marched over to Santini and banged the plate down onto the table. Back at the bar, Jamin picked up an already-spotless glass, which he began to polish vigorously.

How is the mademoiselle settling in? he asked. To most people Jamin was amicable and talkative, even managing to coax conversation out of Tanvier.

There’s no need to concern yourself about her. Everyone at the chateau is fussing over the girl. From the secretary’s tone, he was clearly the exception.

Doesn’t surprise me, replied Jamin. She’s a pretty little thing and we don’t get many Americans living here. Can’t say she looks old enough to be an art expert though.

Mademoiselle McLeod, an art expert, scoffed Tanvier. She’s a student, exactly as the baron requested. All he wants is an inventory of his art collection.

Jamin let out a whistle. That’s some job. I’m sure she’s qualified but shouldn’t Monsieur have hired someone more established?

He feels those people are only qualified to rob him blind.

Good point, Jamin conceded. Still, I’m surprised he hired a foreigner. My wife was talking to Lisette and she said the American’s French isn’t great.

All she needs is a dictionary. The job’s not difficult, merely writing a description of each painting. Had Monsieur asked me, I would have done it.

Sounds like she’s very fortunate. Has her own cottage, too. Too bad they didn’t show such consideration to you, observed Jamin with a trace of malice.

Tanvier’s expression never changed. I’m very comfortable at the chateau. My suite’s private and allows me to come and go as I please. Her duties in no way overlap mine and wouldn’t affect me if they did. I have the baron’s respect. I’ll make sure he knows if she does anything wrong. Draining the last of his Pernod, he refilled the glass. Pretty face or not, she won’t last long then.

Santini signaled for the bill. He’d almost choked on his wine to hear that McLeod was at the chateau to inventory the Gervay art collection. Of all the possibilities he’d considered, that was not one. Certain Gervay had an ulterior motive, Santini was anxious to fill in his boss on the latest developments. Let the experts at headquarters figure out what was going on.

* * *

Three sneezes in rapid succession couldn’t dampen Katrina’s enthusiasm. With its trunks and chests, the musty attic was a part of history. Scattered on the floor were letters and receipts dating back more than a hundred years, tangible pieces of the Gervay family’s venerable past. Since first hearing about them, Katrina itched to investigate and this was her first opportunity. Some were easy to decipher but many needed more study. It was her favorite type of sleuth work and once the inventory was finished, she’d be free to devote herself entirely to the bills of sale.

I didn’t think the job was so demanding that you’d have to work on a Saturday, commented an amused voice in English.

Deep and male, it was edged with just enough accent to be intriguing. Looking up, Katrina found a younger version of the baron towering over her. Although the chiseled features were similar, no gray threaded the black hair, and these obsidian eyes sparkled with promise. The younger man was also slightly taller and, in riding boots and breeches, overwhelmingly masculine.

Flustered, Katrina scrambled to her feet. You must be… Unsure how to address a baron’s son, her voice trailed off.

I’m Philippe and you must be Mademoiselle McLeod. Taking her hand, he brushed her fingers with hard lips, a gesture that was entirely without artifice and completely Gallic. We’re very lucky to have you.

I’m the lucky one, she replied, withdrawing her hand as unobtrusively as possible. For all his obvious charm and good breeding, she had no desire to become involved with Philippe La Tache de Gervay, heir to the family title and fortune. According to Nanette Clement, the castle’s chatelaine, he was resting between marriages.

You won’t think so for long, especially if you do it all the time.

Are you kidding? smiled Katrina. This is fascinating.

You certainly impressed my father. He spent all last night praising you. You still don’t look old enough to be the expert he claims, even though he swore you passed his test with no problem.

I’m older than I look, don’t let the jeans fool you. As always happened when someone questioned her ability, Katrina’s tone grew cold. And as for that portrait of your great-grandmother, anyone can tell it’s by Sargent.

I can’t, Philippe laughed. My father said you even knew the year it was painted.

The approximate year, she corrected him, slightly mollified. The evening gown and hairstyle are typical of that era so it wasn’t very difficult to figure out. I still have a lot to learn, though.

Judging from your resume, you already seem too qualified to be helping us.

Unable to remain angry when talking about her favorite subject, Katrina’s tone softened further. No art historian is ever considered too qualified, and being here is a wonderful educational opportunity. We historians are forever on the learning curve.

One can never know too much. His expression unexpectedly hardened. About anything.

Startled by his mood change, Katrina rushed to humor him. Absolutely. Which is why I’m so happy to be here.

That still doesn’t mean you should work on Saturday, so take the rest of the day off. I’ll clear it with the boss, he grinned, charm firmly back in place. And make sure he gives you weekends off from now on.

Thanks, but working doesn’t bother me. I’ve nothing better to do anyway, replied Katrina.

The break will do you good, he insisted. And since you aren’t busy, how about having lunch with me? We can drive into Carnet.

Katrina wavered. She was woman enough to be flattered by masculine attention, especially from someone as attractive as Philippe. You’re sure?

My time’s my own until tonight when there’s a family party for my aunt’s seventy-fifth birthday. He grimaced. Not a particularly exciting prospect so I deserve to be able to eat one meal today with someone of my own choosing, especially a captivating foreigner.

Despite his extravagant words Katrina remained grounded in reality. The offer of lunch was a casual gesture, made on the spur of the moment. I’d enjoy seeing the area. It was raining when Maurice drove me here. But I must change out of these dusty jeans.

You’re still beautiful. A caressing note entered Philippe’s voice.

No amount of willpower could stop the blush from staining Katrina’s cheeks and she concentrated on returning the papers to the open trunk. I’ll come back when it’s time to match bills of sale to specific paintings.

No need to work up here, he said, kneeling beside her to help tidy up. "The air