CHAPTER 5
The shower head was enormous, matched only by the force of the waterfall cascading over Napoleon's head. He tilted his neck back and let it gush over his face, then turning if off, stepped out onto the cool marble floor.
He had sent his suits to be pressed and they were there waiting for him in the bedroom, almost vying with each other for his attention. He had shaved as closely as he dared without hurting himself and he rubbed his chin as he flicked through his ties and pulled out the one best fitted for the occasion.
The file on Cecilia Luft was in his case, and pulling it out, he lay out the various sheets on the small desk in front of the window while he continued dressing. The same image he had gazed at with Illya lay on top; the awful glasses spoiling what he guessed would be an attractive face beneath them. Undoubtedly, she was the link between the Adler Society and whatever the vaults of her bank might contain.
He had memorised the details of his new identity, and in particular the extreme attitudes and connections that the researchers in Section Five had so meticulously constructed for him. In order to get past the door on Robert Adam Street, his background was going to have to be watertight, and if the Adler Society was of the rather sinister political persuasion that Aaronheim thought it was, then he was going to have to show that it was untainted by any Jewish connections.
He thought suddenly of Kuryakin's face when Konstantin Blau had been mentioned. Underneath the information on Luft was a sheet detailing all the information UNCLE possessed on the lives of the three Blau brothers. It was very likely from the brief overview of Konstantin Blau's life in front of him, that the man had been in Kiev at the same time as the Kuryakins, a period Illya discussed very rarely and Solo never pushed his partner to reveal; but perhaps Illya wasn't the right Kuryakin to ask. He made a mental note to at least suggest to the Russian that his mother might be a useful source of information if he was prepared to ask her.
He checked his watch and glanced at himself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. He had chosen a suit which was expensive looking but fairly restrained, with a tie which didn't shout out at anybody. He ran his comb through his hair once again, and headed downstairs.
He saw her at once, waiting in the reception area, sitting rather upright among the understated opulence of the casual sofas and chairs. It was obvious that the staff were aware of their meeting, a waiter hovering in the background, ready to be of assistance.
'Fraulein Luft'. He came forward and rather formally shook her hand.
'Sie sprechen Deutsch?' She looked surprised; he supposed she had assumed that Americans just didn't speak foreign languages, and certainly not as well as his near fluent and accentless German suggested. They continued in German, which seemed to please her, and ensured that they would probably not be understood by most of the hotel staff.
Up close, Napoleon's initial assessment of her was confirmed. Without the glasses, he was sure she would be infinitely more attractive. He tried not to think of his partner's matching pair, now, according to Tess, dispatched, literally, to the dustbin of history. He signalled to the waiter lurking near the bar and ordered two vodka martinis, hoping that she wasn't as straight-laced in the drinking department as she appeared to look in other areas.
Considering they were about to have dinner, she looked more as if she was about to attend a board meeting of the bank. She was wearing a rather formal suit of stiff grey material, only relieved by a rather beautiful jewelled broach on the lapel of the jacket. Her hair was very dark, held back in a kind of bun at the nape of her neck which Napoleon usually prided himself on being able to release fairly easily when the time came.
The thought of probably having to seduce her made him frown slightly as he surveyed her across the table. This part of his job, as he thought of it, had always been effortless, made easier by his natural admiration of any woman who at least had the potential to be attractive, and his absolute confidence in his own powers of seduction. When he had fallen in love with Josefina, his world had shifted; his appreciation of women had not dimmed, but somehow, the pursuit of them, the need to pursue them had lost some of the power and fascination it had had before. Now, it felt less pleasurable, and so many women seemed rather dull compared to his shining, beautiful wife. Nevertheless, as Illya had reminded him, it was essential that he succeed in this part of the mission, whatever the cost.
As they moved into the dining room, he could feel her appraising him, the eyes behind the hideous glasses already coming to a decision. Although it was busy, they were placed in a corner away from others, inviting confidence.
'I hope you didn't mind me representing Herr Blau this evening, Herr Zweigart' she began. 'I'm afraid that he is in Paris until tomorrow evening, on business you understand'.
'Oh I understand, Fraulein Luft; and please, call me Marshall'. She gave a little nod, then, as an afterthought it appeared, said 'Cecilia. My name is Cecilia'. Napoleon smiled.
'Cecilia. A lovely name. The patron saint of music, if I remember. Do you enjoy music, Cecilia?' She pursed her lips a little and took a sip of wine.
'I don't have a great deal of time to listen, but I go to the Opera with Cyrus and Ottilie when I'm in London. We went to a performance of Tristan last week at Covent Garden. Do you like Wagner, Marshall?'
Napoleon sighed inwardly, wishing he'd listened more carefully to Kuryakin's conversation with some music nerd from Section Eight last week about the Ring Cycle. Dredging up the Russian's words, he said, 'Yes, I have the Solti recording of the Ring Cycle; probably one of the highest points in the history of music recording, don't you think?' She gave him a long look, Napoleon praying that she wouldn't turn out to be more of an expert than he was, though that wouldn't be difficult. Luckily, she seemed impressed, and let the subject drop.
He had escaped further interrogation about his musical tastes, but other areas of his life were subject to far greater scrutiny. Someone had done some fairly extensive and very thorough research into his background, which Miss Luft had seemingly committed to memory. With ruthless efficiency, she questioned him about his wealth, his political views and his family background and present commitments. Interestingly, he thought, as she picked her way through his life, she failed to mention anything about his wish to buy paintings. Solo concluded that unless he passed this test, he wouldn't even get near Blau, never mind the Adler Society.
As they lingered over their coffees, Napoleon decided that he had had enough interrogation for one evening. He rose to his feet, and, taking her hand, pulled her up gently to her feet.
'I don't know about you' he said, switching to a rather more relaxed sounding Californian English, 'but I'd quite like to continue this discussion in a more private place'. Afterwards, he had to admit that it had been a slight gamble, but as with a good many of his gambles with women, it seemed to pay off. She blinked at him a little, then picking up her handbag with her other hand, followed him out of the restaurant.
He had left the bedroom with the bed turned down and the lights dimmed, as ever confident of his plan being fulfilled. Inside the bedroom, he presumed she might turn into someone rather more passive than the competent businesswoman he had dined with earlier in the evening. If he thought that, then he was destined to be disappointed.
She surveyed the room in a professional manner, before carefully removing her suit, locating a robe in the bathroom and, to Napoleon's surprise, hanging her clothes in the wardrobe, along with her handbag and coat. He had managed to remove his gun and hide it under the mattress before she returned from the bathroom, but otherwise, he remained fully dressed, apart from his shoes, which he'd kicked off as he had hidden the gun.
'Come here' she said. Napoleon hesitated for a few moments before stepping forward. If he thought he was adept at undressing a potential lover, he was merely an apprentice compared to this woman. Within seconds it seemed he had been stripped of his clothes and pushed on to the bed, Cecilia rapidly positioning herself astride him. Coming round from the shock of his undressing, he suddenly noticed that her hair was now loose and that her glasses had disappeared.
Her eyes, now uncovered, were a remarkable green, which, with her almost black hair, gave her a decidedly feline appearance. He noticed her run her tongue over her lips before she plunged forward and locked him in a kiss of such force that he was momentarily struggling for breath as her head forced his back onto the soft pillows of the bed. Her hands felt as if they were simultaneously exploring several quite different parts of his body at the same time; he began to breathe more deeply, trying to regain some sort of control over her as she gripped his penis firmly and guided him into herself, her teeth now grazing his chest as she heaved and grunted away on top of him.
Solo clenched his jaw and gripping her, rolled over and on top of her, bringing his knees up until she lay under him and he could see her eyes, feral flashing eyes, glinting in the bedside lamp's glow. For a moment, their eyes locked in silent study of each other's face, until Napoleon continued on with what she had begun.
After a period of satiated silence, she sat up, dragging the pillows up behind her.
'You have exceeded my initial expectations, Herr Zweigart' she said rather huskily. Napoleon felt his lips twitch momentarily at the comment, which sounded like something his partner might say after someone in the lab had performed some experiment particularly efficiently.
'I must admit' he began, turning towards her, 'that I had no idea when we met you would turn out to be such an . . . interesting business partner.'
Cecilia snorted slightly, running her finger round his chin and across his lips.
'You have an interesting profile' she said, suddenly getting out of the bed and walking towards the wardrobe. She pulled back the door and taking out her clothes, began to dress. Napoleon watched her out of the corner of his half-closed eyes; opening her black leather handbag she drew out a small card, and walking back to the bed, placed it gently on the bedside table, before leaning over and kissing him.
'If you are serious about your art collection, liebling, there is a, what shall we say, 'get together' in New York soon, which you would do well to attend, Napoleon turned slightly, supporting himself on his arm.
'I'd like that' he replied, 'Yes, I'd like that very much'.
He lay back for a few moments after she'd left, reflecting on the evening, now the night. Getting out of the bed, he walked quickly towards the shower and waited until it was capable of drowning him in its force before stepping in.
Xxxxxxxxx
Illya heaved his rucksack up onto his shoulder and crossed the wide road, the intense glare of the sun making it difficult for his eyes to scan for the person he sought on the other side. He lowered the bag onto the floor in front of the broad expanse of bus station wall in front of him, and rummaged through the front pocket, drawing out a small rectangular case with a deep sigh of satisfaction. He had seen them in a shop just near to the hotel; it was really a pharmacy, but it also sold the usual selection of lotions and anti-bite creams to protect foreigners against the sun. And in addition, there was a small, but reasonably-priced selection of sunglasses. Putting on the pair with the solid black frames brought a smile to his face.
He shoved the case back in the pocket, and stood up, colliding with the body of a man practically on top of him.
'Blind as a bat without the sunglasses as usual, Kuryakin?' Illya's glare dissolved into a smile as the now familiar figure of David Kaplan materialised in front of him.
'It would help if you weren't leaning over me when I was trying to stand up' Illya replied, before Kaplan grabbed him in an immensely strong grip and began to hug the life out of him, before placing him back, slightly winded, on the pavement.
'You're looking good' he said, as they gazed at each other, before turning towards the bus entrance behind them. 'A few more muscles than the callow youth who lurked behind the test tubes in the Physics lab, eh, boychick?'
Illya grinned at the image of himself from what seemed like another lifetime ago. Kaplan, only two years older, seemed so much more attuned to the world then than his fellow Russian, and from the start of their friendship, had always referred to Kuryakin in this way. Illya glanced at his friend as they pushed their way through the crowd and onto the single-decker bus, slinging their bags above them while Kaplan handed him a bottle of water he had produced from a small shoulder bag he slung onto the seat. The years since they had met had broadened the other man, and he was now sporting a thick black beard, but otherwise he looked as he had done the day he had strolled into Illya's lab in search of a fellow countryman he had been reliably informed needed introducing into society.
The bus was crowded with a cross-section of Israeli society intent on surviving the hot journey between Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv as comfortably as they could. Illya noticed how young a lot of them seemed; the men casually dressed in the clothes of agricultural workers, the girls, the unmarried ones at least, with long brown hair and cotton dresses, some of them even wearing trousers denoting their probable work on the land. He scanned the eager, happy faces for anyone who seemed out of place, and not seeing anything untoward, sat back and took a long drink from his bottle, guessing what might be coming next.
'So, boychick, what exciting things have been happening in your life since we last met?' Kaplan began. Illya could see that he had already noticed his wedding ring, which he had left on for once, on this particular mission.
'Job-wise or otherwise?' he began, glancing elliptically at his friend, who had now settled in to what Illya knew was to be a long conversation.
'Oh I know about your job' Kaplan almost whispered, 'that's how you're here, my boy. No, my parents will kill me if I do not extract from you every detail about your life' he added, grinning and punching Illya gently on the shoulder.
Kaplan's parents had figured quite largely in Illya's life until they had left for Israel just before Illya had finished at Cambridge. He had been virtually adopted by them, David's mother spending many evenings discussing Illya's forebears in the vain hope of finding a female Jewish ancestor which she was certain he must have.
'You would make a fine husband to Mrs Rosen's daughter, you know, David, her father is a solicitor, good family'.
'Enough, bubbala, the poor boy does not want a wife, especially not that wife' David's father, a huge man physically, who Illya considered to be the finest chess player he had ever encountered apart from Napoleon, would boom from the corner of the room, where he always seemed to be consulting some text book connected with his work at Kew Gardens, caring for the Royal Horticultural Society's world famous collection of trees.
'How are your parents?' Illya interposed, hoping it would buy him time; 'and what about you, David?' David, seemingly easily distracted, related the story of his family's exodus to Israel, and their eventual settling in the Kibbutz near Haifa to which they were now headed. Their story mirrored the story of Israel itself; the post-War influx of Jewish settlers after the Holocaust, and the desire for some kind of collective living in order to use their talents to make the land productive and to find, at last, the peace and security they had yearned for.
'I run a clinic at the Kibbutz with my wife Irena' David continued, and we have Adam and Judith.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph of a rather jolly looking woman in a scarf, with two children held tight by her, gazing happily into the camera's lens. 'My parents are well, and are looking forward to seeing you immensely' he added. 'So, boychick, since we won't be discussing that other matter until we reach somewhere more private, are you going to tell me about yourself or do I have to ring New York and ask to speak to that partner of yours with the unusual name?'
Illya sighed, and then drew out his wallet.
'As you have already noticed my ring, you've probably realised that I'm married. That's my wife, Thérèse, and these are my children; from the top, Pablo, Pascale, Anastasiya, Valentin and Mikhail.' He could see Kaplan's eyes bulging as he scanned the photograph, and looking at it, Illya felt a sharp sense of longing enter his own heart too.
'Mazel tov! Your wife is a beauty and your children, well they are truly olive shoots around your table, my friend!'
'Before you ask, Pablo is adopted, and Pascale, well you remember the French woman, Marie-Laure, that I told you about?' David glanced at him and smiled. 'Marie-Laure died' Illya continued quietly, so I, I mean we adopted her too. The other three are of our own making, as it were.'
David handed the photograph back to him and sat back on the seat.
'You have a fine family, and you have done a righteous thing with the two eldest children' he said. 'But I have to say that you are the last person I thought . . .'
'That's what they all say' Illya replied wearily. 'Still, no doubt your mother will think all those evenings of training me as a putative Jewish husband must have paid off.' Kaplan gave a great roar of laughter, followed by another punch on Illya's shoulder.
'Yes, my haimischer mensch, we are in for a long evening, you and I.'
Xxxxxxxxx
'Illya, come in; have you arrived?'
'Of course, but I haven't got a great deal of time, Napoleon. I am due at David's parent's living quarters in a few minutes, for an evening of grilling about my family.'
'Well, you'll have plenty to talk about, comrade', Napoleon grinned into the communicator. 'Have you made contact with Aaronheim yet?'
'Give me a chance, we've been on a bus practically all day. I'm meeting him tomorrow with David. Apparently, he is very nervous; he thinks there is someone at the Kibbutz who wants the documents and him out of the way.'
'Well, be careful then; try and blend into the background if that's possible.' Illya sighed. 'It should be, seeing that there are a lot of students from all over the world here. I may have to stay a few days to earn my keep as it were. How did you get on with Miss Luft, by the way?'
Napoleon grimaced a little, then related the events of the evening to his partner.
'Their main concern was seeing if I was truly kosher, if you take my meaning' he said. They're obviously hyper-sensitive about anyone getting into the Society who shouldn't be there, but at the same time, they obviously want my dough and, it seems, my off-shore banking connections.'
'So, do you think you've been approved?'
'It looks like it. The delightful Miss Luft is meeting me in New York to personally escort me to a small cocktail party with a very exclusive invitation list.'
'Be careful' Illya warned rather gravely, 'if Cyrus Blau follows in the family tradition, being discovered could turn out to be very unpleasant.'
Napoleon suddenly thought of his partner's expression the day in Waverly's office they had discussed Konstantin Blau. Something about the man was making the Russian very jumpy, and he needed to get to the bottom of it before the mission went any further.
'Um, Illya . . .'
'I'm sorry Napoleon I have to go now. I'll catch up with you in New York; Kuryakin out.' Napoleon looked at the communicator again and then flicked the cap.
'Open Channel T. Oh good afternoon Billie. Can you have some research done for me by the time I return, say for Thursday? The name is Blau, Konstantin. Yes, I know we have some already, but I need to know more about his movements during the war, and in particular, the time he spent in Kiev, OK? Oh, and also, I want to know about his brother, Darius. See if they've made any progress in tracking what happened with him after the war. Thanks honey. Solo out.'
Napoleon sat in the plush armchair by the side of the desk in his room. A growing pain in his gut told him that the connection between the two Blau brothers, this Society and Miss Luft must be leading to something. And somehow, the other brother, Konstantin, still seemed important in understanding the point of what was going on at Robert Adam Street, London. He only hoped that whatever Illya could get from Orin Aaronheim would go at least part way to explain it.
xxxxxxx
The hard bed and basic furniture had a distinctly monastic feel about them, but everything necessary for living was provided, and at least there was privacy in the bedroom if not in the bathroom. Illya unpacked his few clothes, then, with a little difficulty, pulled the small wardrobe away from the wall, and taped his gun against the back of it, before shoving it back and shoving the rucksack inside. He grabbed his towel and washbag and headed for the shower room. The facilities reminded him of numerous institutions he had lived in; a line of showers, a line of sinks, and to complete the scene, a line of urinals.
He looked at himself in the mirror above one of the sinks, making a mental note to daub some cream on his exposed parts to prevent the already reddening skin on his face and ears getting more seriously burnt. There were a few other men in the room, most of them looking as if they'd spent a considerable amount of time outdoors. David had pointed out to him the extent of the Kibbutz's estate as the small bus from the town had bowled through the fields. Sunflowers nodded their heads towards them as they passed, and in the distance, an orchard of what looked like Avocado trees reminded him of Napoleon's comment in Waverly's office. Something about his tone in their last conversation had alerted Illya to his partner's mood. In the past, a liaison with a beautiful woman like Cecilia Luft would have been something the American relished, the equivalent of caviar and champagne to the connoisseur of fine dining. But that was before Josefina. Illya had no concerns that his partner would act the part with the Swiss woman, but whether he would enjoy it to the same extent remained to be seen.
The room looked the same when he returned, or at least it would to the average occupant. Except that the tiny filament Illya had fastened across the door had been broken. He threw his dirty clothes and wash bag down on the bed, and opened the wardrobe. Everything was ostensibly in order, but he knew immediately that the rucksack had been searched. The other filament which he had attached between the wardrobe and the wall was intact. Dropping his towel, he pulled on some clean underwear, a pair of thin casual trousers and a cool white shirt, before sliding his feet into a pair of leather sandals that he'd picked up in Jerusalem. He pulled the rucksack out, and carefully slid out his knife and a set of small tools which had lain undiscovered in the stiff base of the bag.
A great hammering at the door announced Kaplan, who, without waiting, immediately entered the room, giving Illya just enough time to secrete the knife and tools in his clothes before he straightened and greeted his friend.
'You know we eat communally' David began, as they walked outside in the cool evening breeze. 'My parents will be disappointed, but Aaronheim knows you're here, and he asked if he could see you tonight, after dinner.' Illya nodded.
'I'll talk to them at dinner. Don't worry, I've brought enough pictures to keep your mother happy, at least for now' he replied.
The dining hall was awash with the hubbub of a whole community engaged in one great communal activity. Unlike the UNCLE commissary, here vast refectory tables stretched away down the room, a sea of expectant faces seated on corresponding long benches on either side, and from a large serving hatch at the end of the room, bowls of something Illya knew would taste delicious being distributed by a band of eager young men and women.
David waved towards the back of the room and began to drag Illya along between the rows, acknowledging greetings from various families as they pushed their way through. Illya could see Kaplan's parents now, his father rising to his feet as they approached.
'Shalom, my boy. It is good, very good, to see you' Isaak Kaplan murmured, in the tone Illya remembered well from many nights staring into the older man's face as he outmanoeuvred Kuryakin on the chess board. His wife was now standing too, pulling Illya down between them like a little boy between his parents.
'Oy veh, you are such a man now!' she said enthusiastically into his ear, kissing and hugging him several times before David was able to restrain her. Illya gazed longingly at the food in front of him, as Mrs Kaplan continued to ply him with a whole series of questions designed to elicit every detail of his life from the last ten years.
'Let the man eat his dinner, mama, then he will answer all your questions' David insisted, simultaneously introducing the Russian to his wife and children who were obviously used to the elder Mrs Kaplan's interrogation techniques of shy young men like the one sitting opposite them that evening.
The noise of the hall suddenly evaporated as a man stood up. Illya judged him to be the Rabbi from the mere power of his presence in the room. A series of blessings later, the meal began; as Illya expected, a wonderful series of home-cooked dishes which brought back happy memories of evenings where Mrs Kaplan had devoted herself to 'putting some meat on that boy's bones.'
Towards the end of the meal, Illya felt David dig him in the ribs and nod towards the end of the table immediately parallel to them.
'Aaronheim. That's him, the one with the curly hair and the blue Yarmulke'. Illya looked across the room surreptitiously. Orin Aaronheim was sitting talking to a woman with a red scarf tied round her head who Illya presumed was his wife, six children bearing an obvious family resemblance, sat adjacent to them at the table.
'Yes, like you, he has been blessed with a large family' Kaplan whispered. 'Do you want me to introduce you?' Illya grasped his arm and forced him back immediately onto the bench.
'David, don't even look in his direction again. When the meal is finished, I want you to go back to where we agreed, and leave me to do my job. Do you understand?' Kaplan saw something in the set of Kuryakin's face that hadn't been apparent before. For a few, transient seconds, it was if another man was sitting next to him, before the familiar relaxed smile of his former friend returned.
'Now,' he said, turning slightly towards Kaplan's mother, and passing her a little wallet of photographs, permit me to explain . . . .'
xxxxxx
The Aaronheim home was part of a set of one story buildings set apart from the main complex and the other, larger accommodation areas. Illya assumed that the larger families lived here, judging from the little park close by with its play equipment he was now personally very familiar with, and the number of families walking in the same direction as he now took away from the dining hall.
Whoever had searched his room was keeping a very low profile; even to his experienced eyes, nobody seemed to be obviously interested in the blond student spending his vacation working on a Kibbutz. After a few minutes of loitering in and around the houses, the others dispersed; some to their homes and others going in the direction of what looked like a large musical gathering in an attractive amphitheatre between the houses and the main complex. He could hear the sounds of guitars being tuned, then a low, melodious voice beginning to sing some traditional sounding folk song, other voices joining in until their voices echoed seductively round the amphitheatre.
Despite the considerable heat of the evening, Illya noticed that the wooden shutters on the outside of the windows were closed. He frowned slightly, and glancing behind him, knocked at the door before trying the handle. Strangely, the door was locked. In New York, he mused, this would not be as extraordinary as it was here, in fact he realised that this was the first locked door he had encountered since arriving. It seemed both pointless and probably risky to remain standing there. Looking behind him quickly, he sauntered round the corner of the building until he stood in the shadow created by the house and its adjacent neighbour. Behind his head, a small shut up window looked out blankly at the corresponding window in the house opposite it. Unlike the tightly closed opening behind him, the other window was obviously open from the noise of children's voices emerging from it, the shutters loosely held together to keep the cool in and the light out. Illya grimaced at the shutter, before twisting round his watch and pulling a thin thread from the winding mechanism. Luckily, the noise of the explosive was minimal, the shutters obligingly swinging open to reveal the window shut fast against him.
The room was in profound darkness, just the shadow of an interior door apparent from the window. After a few moments of intense staring, Illya began to discern other shadows. On the floor lay what was becoming clearly the body of an adult woman, and wedged against her, six smaller bodies lay disturbingly still. Illya turned away from the window, allowing himself a few seconds to reflect on the implications of the scene in the room. Even if the Aaronheims were dead, then he still needed to enter the house. His mind flickered back to the scene in the dining hall earlier in the evening; the family at the table reminding him of his kitchen, of his children. He shut his eyes, squeezing the image out until he could ascertain the truth of what had happened inside this house.
Picking up a small stone, he rapped it hard against the pane. The glass shattered easily, allowing him to turn the catch and push the windows open. With a slight heave, he scrambled over the ledge and landed lightly on the hard glazed floor of the room. He froze for a moment, waiting for any reaction from any other part of the house. When none came, he crept silently towards the huddled figures on the floor.
As soon as he touched them, he could feel they were alive, though quite deeply unconscious. Aaronheim's wife, with her red headscarf still intact, lay in a prone position on the floor, the children lying almost symmetrically round her, three either side. He touched one child's cheek, pushing back the dark curly hair that had fallen over her face as she lay wedged against her mother.
The door was slightly ajar, it being obvious immediately that the rest of the house was also in darkness. Illya opened it just enough to creep through, cursing himself for not thinking this situation might occur and not doing something about his hair and his shirt, which were both now faintly glowing in the murky light. He moved silently down the corridor and stood where he could see into the main room. A figure sat motionless in the middle of the room. The position of the chair was unnatural enough for Illya to know that its occupant was not there voluntarily, and he inched forward into the room, drawing his knife out from his leg as he moved, until he was just behind the chair.
There was a slight movement from the chair, to which Illya could now see its occupant was firmly tied. He heard Aaronheim start to talk, but it was impossible to decipher what he was saying through the tape which was plastered across his face. Illya came round slowly, until the terrified man in front of him could see who he was.
'I'm going to pull this off, OK?' he whispered, waiting until Aaronheim looked a little less hysterical. Something about the shape of the man suddenly made him hesitate. Aaronheim's eyes were frantically attempting to indicate something on his body. Even before he ripped off the tape and Aaronheim screamed out, he knew what it was. He clapped his hand over Aaronheim's mouth.
'You have a bomb attached to you. Please remain very still.'
When he felt Aaronheim's breathing begin to slow, Illya withdrew his hand.
'My wife, my family . . .'
'are alive.' Illya drew up a chair opposite him and sat down, so that he was now facing the device he could see just inside Aaronheim's shirt, taped to his body.
'I'm going to defuse this' he said calmly, pulling his set of tools out of his trouser pocket, 'and then you can tell me what happened.'
They had been in the house when the family returned from supper.
'They weren't familiar to me, but we have a lot of people through here, particularly in the summer' he had begun. 'One of them, the woman, took my wife and children into one of the bedrooms. They said that they would be killed if I didn't do as they asked. They wanted the papers of course. When I refused, they put this on me. They gave Rebekah and the children something. Claimed that they were being kind, so they wouldn't suffer when the bomb blew this place apart.'
Illya grimaced, and then, putting on his glasses, started to examine the device.
'So presumably the idea is to destroy both you and the papers?' he said, not looking up. After a few seconds Illya looked up into Aaronheim's face, wondering why there was no response. The man was locked into an expression of absolute paralysing fear.
'Don't worry,' Illya continued calmly, 'this device has a little while to go before detonation. It's relatively simple to . . .ah yes I see . . just . . .there!' With a smile of encouragement, he triumphantly held up the little device in front of the now completely collapsed man in front of him.
'Oy gevalt! You have saved us!' he exclaimed, moving the chair forward alarmingly, until Illya detached him from it.
'Mr Aaronheim, just sit for a few minutes and listen. Your wife and family are safe; we'll just have to wait until they wake up, but I should imagine it won't be long. They won't have sedated them much' Illya began, putting his hands on Aaronheim's shoulders to steady him. 'From what I can see they will be expecting this device to detonate shortly, and I think it may become necessary not to disappoint them.' Aaronheim stared wildly at him, and then at the device, as if it would somehow explain what the man in front of him meant.
'The people who did this to you are very determined' Illya said. You may not like what I'm going to suggest, but I think, in the short term at least, it may be the only solution. Do you have the documents here?' Aaronheim nodded, then reached his hand slightly under the table he was sitting by. A small drawer sprung out, the contents of which Aaronheim grabbed and extended to Kuryakin.
Illya stuffed them into his trouser pocket, and then pulled out his communicator. 'I am going to ask my colleagues to find you and your family somewhere safe to stay until we can resolve this' he said, patting his pocket. 'What these people are expecting to see is this house exploding with you all inside. I propose modifying this device so that the explosion is effective, but hopefully not too destructive to surrounding buildings. However, we will all need to get clear of the building before it detonates.'
He smiled resignedly at Aaronheim. 'I'm sorry, it will mean your home being destroyed.'
Aaronheim leaned back and wiped his head with a large handkerchief.
'Make your call, and I will try to rouse my family' he said, getting up and heading for the door. He turned back as he was going out. 'The camps teach you many things, Mr Kuryakin, the most important one being that people come before things, yes?' Illya nodded and flicked open his communicator.
xxxxxx
Aaronheim and his wife were sitting on the bed cradling the three youngest children, the other, older children huddled near them in the darkness of the room. Something about them pierced Illya's memories, casting him back to their apartment in Kiev; he could almost see himself standing, similarly pressed to his mother as these children were, as his uncle stood in front of them holding the two small suitcases containing the only possessions they were able to take with them. Similarly, a couple of bags and another suitcase now stood ready.
He could see that the younger children, including a baby not much smaller than his own beloved boys, were still sleeping, perhaps mercifully on reflection. Going over to the bed, he gently lifted the baby and held him tightly to his chest, as he signalled to them to move to the window.
'As soon as we are out of here, go straight to the clinic. Dr Kaplan will check your wife and children over, and then we will move you to a place of safety' he whispered. Without needing prompting, Aaronheim pulled a chair to the window and climbed through, Illya passing out the luggage, and then helping his wife and the children through. He looked down at the sleeping baby attached to his shirt, his tiny hands pushed up by his face as if praying, the dark eyelashes fringing the tiny cheeks below his mop of curly hair. He kissed the top of the baby's head and passed him through, before turning back.
'Mr Kuryakin, come on!' he heard Aaronheim's insistent voice from outside the window. He could see them all there, five anxious faces and three sleeping ones standing motionless again outside, as the sound of the concert drifted into the house; a single, sweet voice accompanied by drums, then more voices, the powerful rhythms filling the room with expectation.
'Go!' Illya urged, 'I have to make sure of the device, then I'll join you at the clinic.' They hesitated fractionally, before disappearing into the shadows. Illya breathed out heavily, and returned to the other room.
He sat down on the chair and picking up the device from the table, began to remove some of the explosive charge. He could feel his shirt sticking to him slightly, the little timer in the bomb reminding him that he had five minutes to finish and be out of the vicinity before the house went up. He had tried this before, knew he could achieve it, knew he had to, otherwise other lives would be forfeit and it would be his responsibility. The image of the Aaronheim baby filled his mind as he worked. None of their children had Tess's looks, not really, and he felt momentarily sad about it as he remembered the soft curly head on his chest. He shook his head and smiled. Perhaps one day there would be room for another at the table. He got up and carefully placed the device on the chair, dragging some cushions and throws over it before glancing at his watch. He caught himself saying a quick prayer to St Jude before retreating rapidly out of the room.
The impact of the blast threw him out of the window he had been halfway through into the dark space between the houses. He felt the path rise up to meet him as an assortment of wood and glass ricocheted across his body. Staggering to his feet, he could feel the power of the fire's roar behind him as he continued to force himself forward in a stumbling run away from the building.
The beautiful music of the evening had now given way to a wave of discordant screaming as Illya was aware of the chaotic thudding of feet round and past him. He could feel blood trickling into his mouth from somewhere on his face, combined with a steadily growing pain in his back. Squeezing his eyes together to allow him to focus, he began to force his buckling legs to stay upright, to carry him at least a little further. Looking down he could see that his trousers seemed to have been shredded, his bloody knees poking through as he attempted to move. Then, as he began to sink, he felt arms supporting him, lifting him until with bleary eyes he could gaze into familiar ones staring worriedly into his.
'Up to your usual last minute tricks, I see, old man'. Illya frowned, glancing from one side of him to the other.
'Vaz?' What are you . . . I mean . .'
'Lucky for you, old chap, Fernando here and I just found ourselves available to give you a little of the old heave-ho' Fernandes continued cheerfully, watching Kuryakin turn his head slowly and give his brother in law a confused look before his eyes began to close in a clear sign to the other agents that he had reached the limits of his considerable endurance.
The clinic was lit up as they arrived, Fernando now carrying Illya in a fireman's hold for the last few yards until he could be laid on a bed in one of the examination rooms. Fernando could tell that the Russian was trying to say something as a woman who seemed to be connected to the doctor in some way began to strip off his clothes, her eyes narrowing as she exposed the injuries on Kuryakin's back.
'David. Need to ask . . .' Fernando heard the rasping voice whisper, before a man with a thick beard appeared and knelt down by the silent figure on the bed.
'They have gone. Your friends here organised it. Don't worry, they will be safe until we've patched you up, my boychick' Kaplan quietly explained, his hand on Kuryakin's head. Now, I'm going to give you something for the pain which you won't admit to, and then we'll sort this mess out' he said, taking a syringe from his wife and turning Illya's arm outward, sliding the needle into a vein.
'Good, that'll make our job easier' he said rather seriously to the two agents standing silently either side of the Russian. Vaz signalled to Fernando as Kaplan and his wife began working on Illya, murmuring in gentle tones to each other as they eased the debris out of his back and cleaned the wounds.
'I'm going back to his room to collect his things, then out to Haifa to check on our new guests' he murmured. 'Stay here until we know what his condition is; and you need to get in touch with his partner, who, if I know him, will want to know everything, in detail, old boy. Get my drift?'
'Absolutely' Fernando replied, wincing slightly as he watched David Kaplan suturing a deep wound on Illya's shoulder. 'Oh, and make sure you get whatever is secreted somewhere in those' Fernandes said, glancing down at the pile of Illya's clothes on the floor. 'I don't want him to have gone through this for nothing.' He melted away as Fernando leaned down, and drew the slim package from the remains of Illya's trousers, together with his communicator, and, nestling in the pocket of his shirt, a battered picture of a girl with long brown curly hair.
CHAPTER 6
The sheet beneath him felt rough against his cheek, heightening his awareness of just how sore his body felt. Illya forced his eyes open fractionally, then shut them again and attempted to roll back from the prone position he found himself in. The pain from his back made him gasp involuntarily, making him realise that moving probably hadn't been such a good idea after all.
'Sleeping beauty awakes, at last.' For one moment he could have sworn he had heard Napoleon's voice. He could see Fernando across the other side of the room lying on a leather examination couch, stir and sit up, his curly hair slightly flattened against his head as he swung his legs round and stood up.
'Were you supposed to be guarding me?' Illya said hoarsely, his mouth feeling like a dried up sponge.
'No, I am, considering you've managed to half blow yourself to pieces.' Fernando grinned as Napoleon walked across the room and knelt down by his partner's head. Illya pursed his lips slightly, before Napoleon reached back and put a small plastic cup of water to his partner's mouth.
'Sip, slowly. You know the score' he said, pulling a chair to the bed.
'What are you doing here?' Illya croaked between sips, 'I thought you were living the playboy life in London.'
'Well luckily for you I was still there when Fernando let me know where you were, so I thought I had better untangle the mess you seem to have gotten yourself into . . again.' Fernando could see Kuryakin's face blanch slightly and his lips squeezing together into a line.
'Everything has gone according to plan; well almost according to plan' Illya hissed as the door swung open. Napoleon put the cup back on the bedside cabinet, his face creasing into a wicked smile.
'Ah, your favourite activity is about to begin, comrade. Shall I move and give you a little room girls?' Illya heard him say as he saw his friend's legs and the chair move away from the bed.
'What is going on? Oh.' A large trolley came to rest beside the bed.
'Napoleon? Where are you?' Napoleon appeared and crouched down between the trolley and the table. 'Rescue me' the Russian whispered, his eyes reminding Napoleon of the twin baby Kuryakins.
'Mr Kuryakin. You are still covered in plaster debris from your hair to your feet due to that mysterious explosion that your friend here tells me was due to a faulty gas bottle. Now, if you two would like to come back later, we'll attempt to make this one here a little more respectable.' Fernando recognised the older of the two nurses as Mrs Kaplan, who was rolling her sleeves up in a purposeful way, as the younger girl, whom he noted had the most beautiful brown eyes, filled a large bowl with water from the sink behind them.
As Napoleon and Fernando backed out of the room, he could see the two nurses advancing on Kuryakin, who was now starting his usual playing awkward routine.
'Illya, cooperate!' Napoleon said, trying to keep his face at least moderately serious looking. 'We'll come back when you're fit for decent company.'
xxxxxx
He was lying on his side when they returned, his wet hair combed back firmly from his face and his expression that of a little boy who'd been sent to bed early.
'Ah, there you are. Thank you for abandoning me into the hands of those women. They practically drowned me, you know.'
'I'm sure you loved every minute of it' Napoleon smiled, sitting on the bed next to his scowling partner. He could see that the Russian had sustained numerous superficial injuries, including some bad grazes and a developing black eye on his face, as well as the more serious, deeper lacerations on his back.
'You'll be pleased to know, partner mine, your little explosion didn't injure anyone else, apart from you that is, and there was minimal damage to other buildings. Vaz has talked to the Aaronheims, and we're going to move them to a safe house further south, when we move you to Jerusalem'. Illya frowned, pulling his hair back over his forehead with his fingers.
'What do you mean, move me to Jerusalem?'
'He means, boychick, that you need a little longer in the caring hands of the medical profession than you think you do, and your partner here thinks you should be somewhere away from here'. David Kaplan walked in cheerfully, glancing at his patient before turning to Napoleon.
'I'll give you his records before you leave. The deeper wounds will need about a week, perhaps a little more, before the sutures can be removed, and I've put him on a course of antibiotics which I'd be grateful if you could make sure he finishes' he added, smiling. 'Apart from that, it's just bumps and bruises that should heal naturally.'
'I am here, you know. And I'm perfectly able to understand my prognosis and treatment.' They turned round to be greeted with the usual arctic glare, accentuated by the black eye and grazed cheeks.
'Well then lie back and take your medicine like a good boy' Napoleon said, as with perfect timing, Kaplan's wife returned with two syringes laid in a metal dish.
'Two injections?' Illya moaned, as with a determined pull, she rolled him towards her until his face was virtually wedged against her midriff, pulling down his pyjama trousers at the same time.
'This is a loading dose and he can have the rest in tablets' she said, jabbing the syringe into the waiting skin on his buttocks. 'And the other is your sedation, which I told you I would give you if you didn't rest' she said, plunging the other syringe in, and rubbing the spot.
'But I don't need . . .' Illya's head fell forward slightly, his face now in repose. Mrs Kaplan gently rolled him forward into a prone position and arranged the pillows behind him.
'I know he's only just come round, but I can tell he's going to be trouble unless we can keep him under for a couple of days' she said smiling, and stroking the now drying hair back from his sleeping face.
'Well you won't get away with that again' Napoleon replied. 'He'll be wise to your plans, but by the look of him, he could do with the rest.' David Kaplan nodded, a more serious expression filling his normally lively face.
'I didn't tell him, but he was one lucky mensch' he said, drawing the sheet back to expose Kuryakin's back, naked except for the bandages criss-crossing it. 'See this? That could easily have severed his spinal cord if it had gone any nearer. That is why he needs to keep still, fershtay?'
'Yep. I understand' Napoleon replied, raising his eyebrows a little. 'Will he be safe to move soon?'
'Yes; we'll keep him sedated for a few days, then he can wake up to the sights of Jerusalem. He'll be fine after that, and Aaronheim can visit him there. I know Orin is very anxious to talk to him about the papers. I think that he thinks Kuryakin will understand why he feels like he does.
'Oh?' Napoleon said, 'why?'. Kaplan sighed a little and looked out of the window before returning his gaze to the man lying peacefully in the bed.
'Because he thinks he understands about the camps, and about what it means to lose everything; and in Aaronheim's case, I mean everything' he said.
Xxxxxxx
The space was stifling, the smell of dust and soot invading his nostrils with a gritty, pungent smell of smoke and fire. It was impossible not to touch the sides of his prison without feeling the choking, soft dirt on his hands and face, but the darkness was absolute; if he was covered from head to toe with the stuff he couldn't see it, only smell its presence. The softness of the toy bear was a comforting contrast to the coarse sootiness of the enclosure, and he held the bear to his face, drinking in its solid furry presence. He could feel his heart beating steadily in the black silence, his ears strained for noise, for her voice to return and free him.
He could hear voices, female voices distantly, then the slam of a door, then silence. A tumultuous banging followed immediately; lower, rougher voices and boots stamping, stamping into the room. Cringing, he heard the sound of things, precious things being smashed, then the wrenching open of the door and the grinding of the hangers on the rail so close by he almost could hear the breathing of those who were so near. He felt his own breath coming in great, shaking gasps, his body rigid against the soft toy. He closed his eyes and felt his hand close on the little medallion in the pocket of his shorts.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner.
The old prayer, heard a thousand times, swept over him, wave like, rising and falling with his frantic efforts to keep control of his pulsating heart. The sounds of the Fritzes, for he recognised them now, receded a little, but with the wardrobe door open, his vigilant ears caught again the sound of another, harsher male voice filling the space beyond him. He gripped the bear until he could feel his finger nails either side of the soft arm, biting his lip as the door was banged shut violently. But the man was still there, he knew he was still there, and now she was there too.
Then there were only low sounds; a bed creaking, low animal-like grunting, a higher-pitched sad moan followed by hard footsteps and a final, heavy slam of a distant door. He was unable to stop himself from allowing a sob to leave his body, or to prevent the warm liquid from spilling out, insidiously soaking his clothes, now turning to chilling cold that matched the despair in his heart. He dropped the bear and began to scream into the darkness; a long sad sob. .'mamaa'. . .
'Illya, Illya! Wake up. Wake up!' Napoleon put his hand on his partner's shoulder and felt his arm grasped in a harsh, frantic grip, the Russian's face momentarily filled with a frightening mixture of confusion and terror until the world of his present reasserted itself.
'OK? Just lie back and stay calm, then perhaps you can let me in on where you were just now' Solo said, trying not to let the worry spread too easily across his face.
Illya lay back gingerly on the sheets, a look of discomfort communicating itself to his partner.
'I'm sorry, I can't understand why I should . . .' He stared unhappily at his partner, and then slightly reddened. 'Napoleon, I will explain, but you need to help me with something first. It appears that my dream was a little too real in at least one department. Er . .' He looked down, Napoleon following the direction of his gaze.
'Oh, right. I'll get the sheets' he said gently.
'When will Aaronheim arrive?' Illya asked. He looked a little more himself now, Napoleon thought, a bath and some clean, dry pyjamas bringing restoration of the calmness the Russian usually displayed.
'After lunch. Was it thinking about him that brought it on?'
'The dream? Probably.' Illya pushed the pillows up behind the bed, and crossed his legs, Buddha like, on top. 'I've been thinking about this Blau business. No doubt you've been making someone work overtime in the Research Department, and know at least some of what I'm going to tell you'.
'That Konstantin Blau was in Kiev when you were living there? Uh-huh. But you surely can't remember him, can you? I'm guessing that you were only what, six, when he was doing his rounding-up job'. Illya nodded, frowning.
'So how did you manage to evade . . . ' Napoleon nodded, tapping his finger on his cheek. 'Ah, that's what the dream is about, am I right? Marina hid you'. Illya ran his tongue along his lips and rubbed his hand through the back of his hair.
'The owner of the apartments had lived in ours immediately before us. I think he moved out for somewhere bigger. Anyway, he had made a space in a redundant chimney in his bedroom, ostensibly for hiding his valuables from anyone who might come looking' Illya said, smiling a little wanly. 'He had positioned an enormous, or so it seemed to me as a child, an enormous wardrobe in front, making a secret door into the space from the back of the wardrobe. Mama told me much later that a Nazi officer had spotted a photograph of me at the hospital, and they came looking shortly afterwards.'
'And she hid you in there?' Napoleon asked incredulously. 'It must have been tiny.'
'As you never cease reminding me, I was on the small side' Illya smiled back, 'in this case, fortuitously.'
'And he did come looking?' Illya nodded.
'Oh yes. I'm pretty sure, thinking about it now, that it was him in the room, with my mother.' They stopped talking for a few moments, as if the events of that long-ago day needed to be reflected upon by both men.
'Well, presumably your mother will know who he is and can tell us' Napoleon said eventually. Illya leaned back slightly on the bed and sighed.
'She won't talk about it, at least to me' he said quietly. Something happened in that room, Napoleon, something I think we can both guess at and which I cannot expect her to tell me unless she wants to. The dream, in the dream I can hear the noises in the room, I can hear him and her, and I am still powerless to help her, just as powerless as I was then.'
His partner's anguish was almost palpable in the still, sunny room. Napoleon shuddered inwardly at the scene, a bleak contrast to his more or less idyllic, safe childhood far from war, violence and evil intent. He sat on the bed and looked at Kuryakin, wishing he could offer some way of mitigating the pain emanating from the Russian's whole body. It seemed a pretty low thing to pursue the connection, but Marina's experience with Blau could give them valuable information, particularly if what Napoleon thought about the elder Blau brother might turn out to be true.
'Do you think she would talk to me? Or perhaps to Peter?' Illya came out of what Napoleon thought was a long reflection, and said,
'What would be the point? She might talk to one of you, but he's dead isn't he? Why put her through all that for what, background information? Besides, you'll have to wait till she gets back from their holiday. They've taken Pablo and Pascale to Liverpool to stay with our parents in law, then I think they're going to Scotland for a week.'
'What, with the kids?' Illya smiled again, much to Napoleon's relief.
'No. The McCafferys are taking them to Mallorca for the whole summer. If you remember from that day when your wife tried to organise our lives for us, when this is all over, we are all supposed to be joining them, which could be in about November, by the way this is all working out'. Napoleon grinned, remembering Josefina with one of her yellow legal pads, head to head with the Russian.
'Ah yes. Well, I think we'll all be needing a bit of R and R if we can pull this one off' he replied. He got up from the bed and walked towards the window. The mid-day sun was high in the sky, beating down on the ancient city and contrasting the extremes of the bleached, ancient rock of the Western Wall and the bright gold of the Dome of the Rock. One city, so many religions; mysterious, ancient. It seemed a fitting place to be discussing this complex mission with its tentacles stretching out into the past, even into the deeply personal and private past of his partner's life.
He turned round and looked at Illya, now lying back on the pillows with his eyes closed. The Russian's face still bore the marks of the explosion, or his flight from it; the bruising was now entering its yellow phase, and the large graze across his cheek looked brown and crusty on the delicate features.
'Have you read the papers Aaronheim gave me?' Illya said quietly, eyes still closed.
'Uh-huh. And very interesting they were too. I'm certainly won over to the case for a connection between the nice people at the Adler Society and the lost paintings. What I'm less clear about is the role Cyrus Blau is playing in all this, and why he should want all this money, apart from the obvious reasons of course.' He saw Kuryakin's eyelashes twitch slightly and his brow contract and become smooth again almost as if his thoughts could be viewed being processed beneath the thick fringe of golden hair.
'I thought he was an Art Dealer in London.' He opened his eyes and stared at his partner. 'You know something else about him, don't you?' Solo leant back against the wall and sighed.
'Yeah. And you're not going to like it.' He walked back towards the bed and sat down in a low armchair by the side of his partner.
'He is an Art Dealer, but not just that and not just in London. You're right, I did get the girls in Research to do some more digging.' He hesitated, inviting another flicker of his partner's eyelashes.
'And . . .?'
Napoleon sighed, this time more deeply. 'And, they discovered that brother Cyrus, as well as having an extensive dealership in the United States, with a shop and a very exclusive home in New York, is also connected with academic institutions in our fair city, notably those with expertise in the field of conservation, and, more importantly, of art authentication'. Illya opened his eyes and looked quizzically at his partner.
'That is very interesting, and suggests that the likelihood of him needing the services of someone in those fields may be quite high, but, Napoleon, I'm still puzzled as to why you think I shouldn't like it.'
'Because, Illya, he has just given a very large donation to, and is now on the board of governors of, the Steinhardt School.' Kuryakin's eyes flew open and he jerked forward, bringing his legs over the side of the bed and, with obvious pain, getting to his feet.
'Don't try to stop me, Napoleon' he gasped, pulling the wardrobe door open and looking worriedly into its empty space.
'Carry on, but you won't get very far in pyjamas' Solo replied, shutting the door and gently sitting his partner down on the side of the bed. He sat down in the chair again, taking his communicator out and twisting the cap while he watched Kuryakin sitting disconsolately on the bed.
'Listen, we'll be back in New York very soon, and Illya, Waverly knows about Blau and where his connections are. I'm sure he's put something in place as far as Tess is concerned.'
'I don't want her involved, Napoleon' Illya said, rather despairingly. 'After the business with Mitchell, I can't put her through any more, it's just not . . fair.'
Napoleon looked up into his friend's face. The powerful emotions he had witnessed in Kuryakin's story of his childhood seemed to be repeating themselves again, this time with regard to his wife.
'Illya' he said quietly, 'she is involved. Putting Blau aside for a moment, she is already connected to this case. Look.' He drew out the envelope Aaronheim had given Illya, and spread the contents onto the bed in front of him. The Russian reached over and picked up a long air mail envelope from the pile of documents. He stared at the writing on the cover for a minute, before withdrawing the flimsy paper from inside. He could see immediately whose hand it was; the even italic, so familiar to him, covering the translucent sheets with her usual combination of personal details of family and formidable academic knowledge, her sensitive, intuitive nature flowing through her questioning of Aaronheim and her response to his story, his pain.
I know that one day your lovely painting will be restored to you, dear Orin, and perhaps my family and yours will meet beneath it to offer thanks, and to say Kaddish for those who will not be with you on that day.
'Did you know she was writing to him?' Illya shook his head, returning the letter to its envelope. 'Aaronheim said he didn't realise at first she was your wife. I think he is quite smitten with her; he told me she was one of the few gentiles who were able to fully understand the significance of regaining the picture for him.'
Illya smiled, thinking of the copy stuck to their study wall, and of the similarly beautiful woman working at the desk below it.
'Well we'd better try and get it back for him' he said simply, continuing to sift through the papers on the bed.
xxxxxxx
Napoleon recognised the familiar landmarks of the run-in to La Guardia and nudged his partner. The journey from Jerusalem had been difficult for the Russian; his back, though healed enough to have the sutures removed, was still sore enough to cause him considerable discomfort, especially in a sitting position on board the aircraft that he had insisted upon for the flight back.
They had pored over the documents again together after Kuryakin's meeting with Aaronheim, and he had now made a neat précis of the information gained, as well as a list of the papers. As well as copies of the works of art themselves, with reserve prices attached to each copy, there was a list of bidders, together with a diary of meetings in Switzerland, London and New York, before the auction eventually took place, at an undisclosed location.
'There are several things about this that puzzle me, Napoleon' Kuryakin had said after they had returned the documents to the attaché case Solo was carrying on the journey. 'If these pictures are being sold, then what is the Adler Society doing with the money? Helping old Nazis to have their day in the sun, or what?'
Napoleon glanced behind him. In the first-class compartment which they had surprisingly been upgraded to, there were few other travellers; several businessmen he guessed, and a few rather affluent looking couples, including a woman with a rather alarming shade of blue rinsed hair several seats back whose strident voice and excessive demands managed to cover their conversation quite well. Illya sighed as they were subjected to yet another example of her unreasonable behaviour with the air stewardesses.
'I have to agree with you about the money' Napoleon said, signalling to the stewardess. 'Which is why I think you will have to get up close and personal with Mr Cyrus Blau before much longer.'
'I can hardly wait' Illya grumbled, taking his glasses off and thrusting them into his jacket pocket. He noticed that unusually, Solo was looking quite serious still, as the Stewardess handed them their menus for the lunch about to be served.
'I'm afraid that isn't all' he said. 'As you said, it's fairly obvious that the boys at the Adler Society are not funnelling the money towards the Jewish Benevolent Fund. I have to say that it looks as if there might be one Nazi in particular who might be benefiting from the auctions, though where he is, and why he needs all this money is not, at least to me, entirely clear'.
Illya put his menu down and stared at his partner, his still damaged face now showing the same pain Napoleon glimpsed as he woke from the dream in the clinic at Haifa.
'I presume by that you mean Konstantin Blau' he murmured.
'So it appears.'
Illya stood up at once and, without speaking, headed for the toilets at the back of the cabin. Napoleon glanced round, his ears immediately assaulted by a high-pitched complaint from the blue-rinse woman behind. He could see a bevy of stewardesses swarmed around her seat, the Russian nowhere to be seen.
'Something wrong?' he whispered to a harassed looking red-headed stewardess passing by.
'You could say that. Your friend, the blond one, managed to knock into Marion just as she was serving Mrs Waggoner. We won't hear the end of this one'. It seemed rather a long time later that the Russian finally regained his seat, his face a little calmer, even quite cheerful, Napoleon thought.
'Where've you been? My stomach is rapidly losing the will to live' Napoleon complained, glancing up as Kuryakin plonked himself down in the adjacent seat.
'I was making my peace with Mrs Waggoner' he grinned ruefully. 'It appears I caused an international incident on the way down the aisle, so Nora asked me to apologise so that she'd get off their backs'.
'Nora?'
'The redhead. Anyway, peace is now restored, in fact . . .' he pulled a card out of his pocket. 'If ever I'm in Versailles, Kentucky, I'm to look them up, as long as I promise to get a haircut first' he said smiling, and pushing his hair to the side.
'Well we wouldn't want to disappoint the good folks of Versailles, now, would we?' Napoleon said, flicking the blond hair as Illya bent to study the menu.
'Napoleon, is there something you're not telling me?'
Napoleon twitched his lips a little, pleased to see some humour returning to his partner's face.
'While you were away, Waverly was in touch. Um, suffice it to say, he does want you to get together with our friend Cyrus.' The smile which he had been attempting to hide broke out on his face.
'Wait till you hear the plan' he said. 'You'll love your part. Love it.'