CHAPTER 7
Illya could hear the laughter cascading down the stairs like a waterfall, the children's higher-pitched screams and chuckles combining with his wife's lower tones. She was talking to them in French, her accent rather southern sounding, slower and more mellow than the Parisian French he had spoken as a student.
'Non, non, non, Valentin! Donnez le bateau á Mikhail, s'il-te plâit.'
As he slid up the stairs and deposited his bag in the bedroom, the twins sounds of splashing and screaming continued. He smiled and, taking off his jacket and tie, headed for the noise. Four faces looked up from the bath, the sounds temporarily silenced, before the children all surged towards him, their arms stretching out in one mass of slippery pink wetness.
'Non, non, Valya, Misha, attendez-vous! Tasiya, va-toi a papa . . lentement'
Before he could grab a towel the little girl had climbed swiftly and rather acrobatically out of the bath and was in his arms. Holding her back, Illya managed to wind the towel round her and grab her again, until only her face and astonishing red hair were peeping out of the top.
'Why do you always have to do that?' Thérèse murmured; her eyes boring into him, while her lips seemed to be saying something different. He glanced at her sitting there, the twins pulled towards her like little plaster angels he'd seen on the ceilings of baroque churches. Keeping hold of the now squirming Tasiya, he leant across the bath and kissed her, not minding the wet hand now running through his hair.
'I'm sorry. It's proved to be quite a useful habit' he said, trying not to drink in her breasts too much and lose concentration on the task in hand, namely one gyrating, noisy two-year old. He carried the squealing little girl into her bedroom and unwrapped her on the bed, forcing pyjamas onto her kicking legs before she could escape and start using it as a trampoline.
xxxxxxx
'How do you manage on your own? I could hardly keep Anastasiya still, never mind the twins' Illya said, throwing himself back onto the sofa, silence now reigning on the first floor.
'I'm not on my own a lot of the time. Frankie comes round after classes; you remember, she's living next door now?' He did remember. His mother had virtually taken over his academic supervision of the girl, and now she had escaped the noisy, crammed Portelli household in favour of the rather quieter and more refined atmosphere that Peter and Marina had created in the house next door.
She leant over and took his hand, pulling him up and leading him downstairs to the kitchen. Every room in the house seemed to feel warm and welcoming to him, as if the place knew he was returning each time and had made a special effort to draw him into its cocoon of safety and normality. He furrowed his brow at the smells emanating from the oven.
'Um, how did you . . .'
'Jo. We have an arrangement, since you two don't feel able to announce your arrival until you're walking through the door, or in your case, cheri, standing in front of me. That's how I know you've been at the office this morning, she replied, turning towards him and pulling him towards her. She noticed his expression before he had the chance to relax his body from the tension her touch had created.
'Is it bad?' she murmured, scanning his face, while her hands gently held him against her body. He laid his head on her shoulder, allowing himself to be enfolded by her for several, delicious minutes.
'It was quite bad, but it's better now' he said at last, reasoning that she would see for herself soon enough.
He could see that she had made an effort with the food, although he still wondered how on earth she managed. Tartiflette, a Savoyard recipe he loved, followed by Iles Flottantes, an almost magical combination of soft meringue and custard which guaranteed his submission to her will anytime it appeared on the table.
'Are you softening me up for something' he muttered, helping himself to the remains of the bowl. Thérèse smiled and put down her spoon.
'No doubt your partner in crime told you about my meeting with Waverly' she began, looking through her eyelashes at him.
'He did mention it'. He put down his spoon and looked at her sitting opposite him, the evidence of their young family all around them in the clutter of high chairs, toys and various works of art displayed in the room.
'Illyusha, I know you won't like it, but I'm in a very good position to help Orin, and . . ', she gazed across at him intently, and pushing her hair away from her face, turned her head slightly towards the window, watching the remains of the day flood the room with a deep, golden haze. 'You should understand, you of all people' she ended, returning her gaze to him.
'I do understand, but Teresita, this could be very dangerous.' Illya hesitated, his head slightly bowed.
'Mr Waverly told me that he thinks the money is going to fund some sort of right-wing activity' Thérèse continued, 'and you know, I can easily believe that Cyrus Blau is a Nazi sympathiser. He seems so, well, cultured, he's given a small fortune to the school, but there is something inherently chilling in his manner which, however charming he is on the outside, fills me with a kind of disgust. And apparently, according to my Head of Department, he's looking for someone to do a little authentication work for him.'
Illya sucked his lip a little and got up.
'I presume that's why Waverly wants you to involve yourself with this mission.' Thérèse got up and very gently put her arms round his waist.
'He wants us to move out of this house for a few weeks, until it's over' she began, reading the worried expressions flitting across his face as she talked. 'The School doesn't know I'm married. I registered with them ages ago before I met you, and my old supervisor has moved to Harvard. We're going to move into some apartments so that you can be near the children, but actually have a different address. They'll be safe on the days I'm working, now that the nursery is open. Did Napoleon tell you about your new role?' She smirked slightly, running her finger round the faint marks still on his face.
'No, but I have the feeling from the silly grin on his face that I'm not going to like it.' Illya replied, remembering his partner's expression on the plane. 'I'm not considered fit for active duty at the moment, so no doubt this will give us time to move and Section 8 to do their worst.'
xxxxx
Thérèse smoothed the oil over the outstretched back in front of her, her mouth clenched to prevent her from uttering any extreme reaction to the network of scars she could see laid out before her. Beside the red wheals of his recent injuries, lay the fainter, whiter marks of other encounters, which she had also lovingly massaged, endeavouring to mitigate the violent effects of his career on his body. When she had finished, she lent over and kissed the scars, before rolling over next to him.
'Thank you.'
'I thought you were asleep' Thérèse murmured into his ear, licking its rather pointed edge and stroking back the thick blond hair from the side of his head.
'Just waiting for you to finish' he muttered into the pillow, before turning slightly until he was lying on his side watching her. He pulled her gently towards him, drinking in the faintly perfumed smell her hair always seemed to exude.
'I can see that you've managed to force back the pain for the benefit of pleasure' Thérèse sighed, smiling and pulling him down as he began to conduct his usual exploration of her breasts with his mouth.
'To a Russian, it comes naturally' he murmured.
xxxxxxx
'Can you ascertain Mr Kuryakin's whereabouts?' Waverly asked the clerk as she handed him a set of files which he unceremoniously dumped on the table and swung round towards Napoleon.
'Er, I think he's in Section 8, sir' Napoleon replied, a smile breaking out on his face at the memory of Kuryakin's scowl on the plane.
'What, already?' Waverly replied, glancing at the folder in front of him.
'I think they're just outlining some possible ideas to him.'
'Well I hope he doesn't take too long, we need to discuss this matter before the gathering you are attending takes place. I think it may be pivotal in understanding who is involved in this organisation, and more important, the purpose of all this.'
The door behind them slid across as Waverly finished speaking, revealing the Russian, a broad smile unusually illuminating his face, carrying two large carrier bags full of what Napoleon took to be garments of some sort. He left them in the corner of the room before taking his place next to Napoleon, the smile still lurking on his features as he glanced at his partner. Napoleon hadn't seen him for a few days since they had returned from Israel, and he wondered whether the three day growth of beard on Kuryakin's face was due to weariness or some other, less obvious reason. Whatever it was, Waverly seemed to be ignoring it.
'Ah, Mr Kuryakin, at last,' Waverly said rather sharply, directing a momentary glance towards the two bags behind the agents.
'I'm sorry sir, we were just checking that the clothes still fitted me' Illya said, glancing rather lovingly towards the two bags, to Napoleon's amazement.
'I thought Rudi had more interesting plans for you' he said, looking Illya up and down.
'There's been a slight change of plan since you were last briefed, Mr Solo' Waverly interrupted. He pushed a file off the pile and spun the table round. 'As you know, we've advised Mrs Kuryakin to re-locate to an UNCLE apartment during the next phase of this affair. She shouldn't need to get overly involved, but we need to make sure there are no possible repercussions from her contact with Mr Blau. You, Mr Solo, will continue your role so that hopefully, you can persuade Miss Luft to reveal to you a little more about her part in the matter. We are hoping as well that Mrs Kuryakin can discover a little more about the whereabouts of the youngest brother, the part of this jigsaw that is a little opaque at the moment, I feel.'
'And Mr Kuryakin?' Napoleon enquired, still aware of the mysterious bags which his partner seemed so proud of lurking behind them.
'Ah yes' Waverly replied, looking over his glasses at them both. 'Naturally, Mr Kuryakin is concerned about the risk to his wife, so we thought we could er, enable him to at least be physically near to her, as well as giving him a role which I hope will encourage Mr Cyrus Blau to involve him in his organisation and divert his attention away from Mrs Kuryakin.'
Napoleon frowned. Obviously Illya knew what Waverly was talking about, but his explanation meant absolutely nothing to him. He opened the file and drew out a couple of photos from within as a large version of the first flickered into life on the screen behind Waverly's head.
'This is Fynnes Court, the country home of Cyrus and Otilie Blau' Waverly said baldly. 'We have reason to believe it may be here that the private auctions take place, and that also from here Mrs Blau continues to operate her, um, 'activities'.'
The first image, a rather beautiful English manor house in what looked like extensive grounds, gave no indication of what might be found within. The house was large, with a central block balanced by two symmetrical wings in the Palladian style. A circular gravelled path ran round a large formal fountain in front of the main doors, which were reached by short, equally symmetrical flights of stairs on both sides.
'Very grand' Napoleon commented, gazing at the house, 'he must be quite the Lord of the Manor in those parts.'
'Indeed' Waverly said, flicking the screen on to the next images. As each image appeared, the outward, respectable appearance of the house started to peel away, as if a beautiful dolls house had been opened to reveal something more shocking inside.
'One of our agents from the London office managed to gain entry, posing as an, um, assistant' Waverly murmured. He transmitted these images before he disappeared.'
The first pictures seemed relatively normal, a series of rooms on the ground floor obviously photographed from the garden with a powerful lens.
'Look at the staff. Notice anything?' Illya said, with a knowing look on his face. Napoleon leaned forward, peering at the images closely.
'Ah yes. Very nice boys' he replied, eyebrows slightly raised. In the rooms there appeared to be a number of young men working, seemingly preparing for a social occasion. Without exception, they were all dressed in black; their trousers made of what looked like leather to Napoleon, and on top, plain, black turtle neck sweaters.
'I'm getting the drift about your possible new occupation, comrade' he murmured, as Illya leaned closer.
'Keep looking' Illya replied, sighing slightly.
The images changed suddenly to what was obviously the occasion the young men had been preparing for. The long dining room was now afire with what appeared to be thousands of twinkling lights, the table loaded with a huge selection of food placed round what looked like a very large model of an Indian elephant. Huge swathes of bright red and purple silk billowed on the walls like giant sails, the French doors thrown open onto the terrace which was bedecked with low chaise-longues and giant cushions in equally rich dark shades. The young men could now be seen dressed in altogether different outfits, the black uniform replaced by extremely tight-fitting velvet trousers, their heads enveloped in matching turbans. Their upper bodies remained bare, glistening in the darkness as they drifted among the guests, large trays of drinks of food held high.
'They look as if they're wearing . . .'
'Make-up.' Illya sighed again and nodded.
The last images were the most shocking. The guests were now in what looked like a very large cavern, the walls painted a deep purple, and no windows in evidence. Napoleon winced slightly at the range of objects being used by those present; things that he and Illya had also experienced at the hands of various sadistic torturers over the years. He glanced at his partner and saw that his face had taken on the appearance he usually adopted when confronted with deeply disturbing sights. Indeed, it had indeed lost any expression at all, appearing blank and featureless. Only he knew that the truth behind the mask was different.
Waverly suddenly turned off the screen and swung round to face them.
'I think we can safely assume that this is one of the darker sides of Mr Blau's operation' he said quietly, 'and that his wife is, let us say, 'in control' of that side of it. I am hoping that this forthcoming gathering in New York will provide you both with leads to the true purpose of all this' he said, waving his hand at the files. 'If this auction goes through, a great deal of money will pass into the control of this Adler Society , and it is imperative, gentlemen, that we find out exactly what it is being used for, and put a stop to it.'
xxxxxx
'You wouldn't like to fill me in with exactly what those are for?' Napoleon enquired, taking the coffee from Connie as Illya rooted through one of the bags on the desk behind them.
'Of course, but if you'd read the file I've just given you, you'd see' Illya replied, dragging out what looked like an extremely worn tuxedo from the pile of clothes now spilling out on the desk. Napoleon got up and grimaced at the clothes laid out in front of him.
'These seem a little familiar to me, Illya, especially . . .' he leant over and pulled out a creased wine-coloured jacket from underneath an assortment of white shirts and black ties.
'Yes, Napoleon, these are the clothes my wife and my so-called twin managed to dispose of while I was out of the country, and which, thankfully, a kind person in Section 8 purchased from a local thrift shop.' Illya removed his jacket and began to try on the tuxedo, before grabbing the wine coloured jacket and returning it to the bag.
'Um, the dinner jacket feels a little tight' he said, unbuttoning it and pulling it off before returning it to the bag with the other clothes.
'Not really surprising, since, if I remember, you bought that in London' Napoleon answered, wrinkling his nose at the garment. 'You were as thin as a garden rake then, remember?' Illya smiled, putting on his jacket.
Napoleon grabbed the file and began to glance through it.
'So you're not going to be cavorting round at Fynnes Court in those lovely velvet pants and eye liner' Napoleon said, flicking through the paper.
'Well, it might come to that, but I sincerely hope not' Illya replied, scratching the rather significant stubble on his chin. 'Rudi feels I should present something of a challenge to both Cyrus and Ottilie, if you take my meaning. Hopefully, at least one of them will employ me in some capacity.'
The outline of the Russian's new identity was set out in the file. Dietmar Krause, a German who had been a lecturer at Tübingen University, but who now, after being involved in some scandal with a male student, had resigned and taken a post in the Modern Languages Department at Steinhardt.
'The School here doesn't know about my murky past, but if Blau starts to dig he will find it, and no doubt use it against me' Illya said, leaning forward to look at the file. 'By coincidence, my small, depressing apartment is next door to a rather lovely young widow who just happens to be working at the same establishment' he added.
'Well, what a surprise' Napoleon said wryly, putting down the file. 'I suppose the rather unkempt look you appear to be developing is all part of the disguise too.'
'Exactly. I am hoping that Blau will invite me along to the party and that my lovely neighbour will feed enough information about my many attributes to him so that if the opportunity arises, I will be the natural choice ' he said, standing up and beginning to pick up the clothes which he had left on the desk. He disappeared out of the door towards the rest room, returning a few minutes later in a battered looking suit which Napoleon vaguely remembered him wearing in their early days together in New York. Returning to the bags, Illya dug round and then extracted a smaller plastic bag containing what looked like a pot of something and a comb.
'Now, Napoleon, I need your help to perfect my look' he said seriously, drawing out a chair from the desk, and putting the bag down. 'I'm due at the department soon, and then I have to go home and consult with my neighbour.'
'Ah, that's what you call it now' Napoleon murmured, taking up the bag and pulling out the comb and pot. 'You could do this yourself, you know, and besides, you need a little off the sides and back, don't you think?'
'Probably, but you'll just have to make the best of it for the moment' Illya said, sitting down, his hair immediately falling forward in a soft blond fringe across his face.
'Right, sit back and mark well, my wild-haired friend.' He opened the pot and scooped out a large dollop of the hair cream onto his hand. 'Solo's patent method for hair control . . .'
xxxxxxxxxx
Thérèse opened the rather heavy door and stepped inside. A small sea of faces turned momentarily towards her, retaining their gaze as they looked her up and down with varying degrees of interest, admiration and envy.
'Everyone, this is Thérèse McCaffery.' She had been encouraged to brave the staff room by the head of department, Harriet McLintock, who had swept into her tiny room earlier in the morning. The School itself was relatively quiet, the undergraduates being down leaving just the staff, as well as some postgraduate and doctoral students who were mainly lurking in the library, or, like herself, preparing for the next term before the holiday season really took hold.
Her gaze in turn swept across the room, but unlike the others, focused on the location of one person. She had hinted to Harriet McLintock that she was interested in conservation, and gratifyingly, she had immediately promised to recommend Thérèse to an important donor, whom she thought shared similar interests.
'Cyrus, I think you've already met Tess. I think she may be the person you're looking for.' Thérèse looked up, her eyes meeting the chilly gaze of the man she had described to her husband the night before.
He was of medium height, and of a slim, wiry build which gave him a rather angular, bony appearance. She judged him to be no more than forty if that, his dark hair showing very little grey, and his face relatively unlined. She gazed calmly at him, noting his blue eyes fixed upon her. Something about him, as he brought his hand up to shake hers reminded her of another man, a distant memory she couldn't quite connect with.
'Miss McCaffery, I'm delighted to be able to make your acquaintance again' he began, his tone and language underpinning the stiff formality of his body. Suddenly Thérèse felt awkward and gauche, her carefully constructed background story melting before this man like candle wax under a flame. Before she could reply, he had started speaking again, asking her about her thesis, his face becoming more relaxed as she explained.
'I'm trying to get it finished this year' she rushed on, 'I need to work, you see, with the children to support.' She could hear her husband's calm voice now, going through the story with her, another pair of blue eyes anxiously looking at her as she repeated it.
'They will check it out, and there is no way you will be able to hide the fact of our children from them, so try to mention the fact in passing without drawing too much attention to it' he had said.
Blau's eyebrows rose momentarily, and he paused, before putting down his cup on the window sill behind them.
'Permit me to say that you do not look old enough to have a child, never mind . . .'
'Three. I have twin boys and an older girl' Thérèse replied, desperately searching in her mind for a way to return the conversation to less dangerous subjects, but Blau seemed eager to pursue it, staring out of the window and saying 'I'm sure they are very fine-looking children if they resemble you, Miss McCaffery. And their father . . .?'
Thérèse looked down momentarily, her eyes closing and focusing on Illya's instructions. Blau's penetrating gaze pulled her back, making her feel as if the room had somehow moved away, leaving them in a void which no others could enter. She began to turn her wedding ring round her finger, the three inter-twining rings silently moving over each other.
'He's dead. He er, never saw the twins. We've been on our own for a year now since the accident. I . . find it difficult to talk about it . . about him.' Frighteningly, it seemed all too easy to fake the emotions Blau read on her face. An image of Joel Henry from Section 19 walking towards her flashed into her memory, together with the accompanying clutch of a stone hand on her heart as she forced herself to ask him if her husband was dead.
Blau said nothing for a moment, then she felt him place his hand gently on her shoulder, a genuine, or so it appeared, look of compassion etched on the rather gaunt face.
'Miss McCaffery, please accept my apologies for the loss of your husband, and,' he added, 'for my rather crass and unnecessary intrusion into your personal life.' Thérèse smiled, and leant against the wall to glance out at the courtyard below them. A man with rather heavy-framed glasses was sitting on one of the benches positioned to catch the shade of the trees edging the quadrangle, his light-coloured hair plastered down and combed away from his face in an ugly, unflattering style. At the same moment he glanced up, the sun catching his glasses and causing them to glint strangely in contrast to their dark edges. Thérèse couldn't stop herself from gasping slightly.
'Do you know him?' Blau asked, squinting in the direction she was looking. She was suddenly aware of a look of recognition mixed with a kind of interest which was different to the one he'd shown Thérèse as he turned to face her again.
'Um yes. He's actually my neighbour. He's German, or perhaps you know that already?' she said. Blau glanced out again and then smiled.
'Yes, we have met. He's also new here. He seems, what shall I say, a little introverted; perhaps he needs a friend to bring him out of himself' Blau murmured, smiling at Tess.
'Um, you're quite right. I've left him invitations for a few things going on in the neighbourhood, but he prefers to be alone with his books and his music' she replied, a smirk working its way onto her face. In fact the apartment Illya was now supposedly living in bore not a little resemblance to what was now the first floor of their house in Grove Street. She remembered walking round the empty rooms with Napoleon when Illya had been in the Ukraine; the sparseness of the place was indicative of him and his life as it had been lived then. In his bedroom, the tiny wardrobe had held so few clothes it had been somewhat embarrassing to place them with hers, their sombre colours in direct contrast to the riot of colourful and exotic garments in the adjacent space.
'I find it hard to believe that he could turn down the offer of such a charming companion' Blau replied. 'Perhaps he finds children difficult.'
'Perhaps' Thérèse replied. She was wondering how he was going to cope with the tiny apartment they were going to live in now. Perhaps it was as well that he would have 'his' apartment to retreat to when the stress levels rose. Blau seemed to be searching for something in his jacket. After a few attempts, he drew out a card, upon which something formal-looking was printed.
'Miss McCaffery, talking of my country, I wondered whether you would be interested in attending a gathering of a group of us who are interested in preserving our northern European cultural and artistic heritage? It's a formal occasion in the dress sense if you take my meaning, but I think you will enjoy the company.'
Tess took the card, feeling her pulse slightly quicken as she scanned it. At the top, an engraving of an eagle dominated the card, its beady eye somehow holding her in its stare from the creamy card in her hand.
'Er, this Adler Society?' she murmured, looking up at him.
'It's as I said, a cultural society for us Germans and Austrians far from home. You won't be alone; I've even invited your neighbour Mr Krause from the Languages department; perhaps he will escort you if I ask him.' Tess frowned and looked up.
'I'd love to go, but, like Cinderella, I don't really have anything to wear, let alone the money to do anything with this' Thérèse replied, grabbing her hair and twisting it round on top of her head before she let it fall down in a heavy pile down her back. Blau smiled and slightly inclined his head.
'If you would permit me, I will supply the dress, in the best fairy tale tradition' he said gravely. 'I have a Fortuny in my collection which I think will complement your eyes perfectly. As for your hair, I would be happy to pay for you to visit a salon just to be able to see if any hairdresser could improve on perfection, Miss McCaffery.'
Thérèse managed to suppress the laugh she felt coming at his complement, replacing it with a more gracious smile of acceptance. She paused, before placing the card in her shoulder bag.
'Alright then, I can't pass up the chance of wearing a Fortuny, can I?'
She could see Paula Behrens, another lecturer in the Department heading towards her as Blau, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, moved away and out of the room.
'Wow, you certainly know how to turn it on' she said into Tess's ear as she turned to look out of the window again, noting that her neighbour had now disappeared.
'What do you mean?' she said, as the other woman, without any embarrassment, ran her hand through Tess's hair.
'You mean you didn't know? All the other girls have been trying to get him to take an interest since he arrived. You just walk in and he's all over you like a rash' she said, now putting her arm round Tess's waist. Tess had been warned about Paula and as Harriet put it, 'her tendencies' when she had joined the department. The fact that Tess had three children didn't seem to have changed Paula's opinion that she was a legitimate target for her affections, and she had called at the apartment on several occasions in the two weeks Tess had lived there.
Tess gently extricated herself and stared at Paula.
'I don't think so' she replied, 'he's just looking to enlarge his circle of friends and picked on me as a fellow newbie and someone from his part of the world, that's all. Besides, I don't know for sure, but he seemed more interested in my neighbour sitting down in the quad than in me.' Paula smirked, shaking her head.
'You are surely joking' she said, laughing. 'I mean, I can't believe he's interested in that dork you've got for a new neighbour, that's for sure. I saw him going out last night when I called round. He looked like he was wearing a suit some guy from the Y had just given him, and his hair, Jeez, what does he do to make it look like that?'
Thérèse frowned at her description and the image of the man she'd seen below. She had only seen Illya after dark for the first week she had lived in the apartment, and, for the last week, not at all, while no doubt, he prepared for what was to come.
'Well you've seen him at closer quarters than I have, so I'll just have to wait for that pleasure' she replied, putting her hand in her shoulder bag and feeling the invitation there.
'Oh, Paula, are you free this Friday evening?' she said suddenly. Paula's eyes lit up a little, making Thérèse feel rather guilty about her request. 'Um, Mr Blau has asked me to attend a function, and I was wondering whether you'd babysit?'
'What, the gruesome threesome? I'd love to' she said surprisingly. I'll come round early and we can do bedtime stuff, if that's OK with you?'
'Love it' Thérèse said warmly.
xxxxxxxx
'Well, is Cinders going to the ball?'
Thérèse could barely stifle a scream, although whether it was at the fact that Illya was standing behind the door when she came in to her little room, or just at the appalling way he looked, she couldn't really tell. She threw her bag onto the desk at the end of the room, before turning and hugging him. At last she held him back from her slightly, looking him up and down, grimacing in confirmation of Paula's now only too accurate description.
'Paula said you looked like a dork . .'
'And you agree with her.' Illya sighed and then smiled. 'Well, that's good then, my disguise has fulfilled its purpose of appalling my colleagues, even those of dubious tastes.' Thérèse pulled him down onto the small settee that was squeezed into the room at the side of her desk.
'Illya, these clothes you're wearing, they seem horribly familiar' she began. He nodded, a rather triumphant smile on his lips.
'That's because they're the clothes you and your blond friend tried to dispose of last year' he replied, pressing back a lock of hair that had dared to free itself from the plastered mass on his head.
'And your hair is truly hideous. It looks like you haven't washed it for a month' Tess said, gingerly touching the top of his head and then rubbing her hands together as if something poisonous was on them.
'Mm. Well I'm hoping that either Cyrus Blau or probably his delightful wife will take the bait and take me in hand' he replied. 'Now, as I was saying, did he fall for you and invite you to the party, or does he also need glasses?'
'Oh, yes he did, invite me to the party, that is. But Illya, it's not me he's really interested in, at least I don't think so.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that however charming he appeared to me, when he gazed out of the window and saw you, his expression changed; it was as if you were the real object of his affections.'
Illya nodded slightly and exhaled rather deeply.
'It seems then that my disguise is proving rather less offputting than I'd imagined' he murmured wistfully.
CHAPTER 8
'Sure you don't want to be accompanied by your very own personal assistant and legal advisor?' Jo asked, swinging Fabian round her as his father adjusted his bow-tie in the mirror behind them.
'Sure I'm sure. I think two McCafferys might be more than enough for the evening' Napoleon replied, picking up his jacket and putting it on, before flicking off imaginary atoms of dust from the shoulders. Jo put Fabian down, and watched him settle amiably to banging a set of shapes through some wood with a small hammer.
'Where are you meeting her?' Jo murmured, her eyes calm, jewel like in the evening shadows of the room. Napoleon turned and pulled her slightly towards him.
'It's not like before' he said, wishing already that it was her he would be with him that evening, and not the dark-haired banker expecting him at the Arts Club.
'Napoleon, you don't have to say anything, I don't want to know' she said looking at him darkly. 'I knew what you did when I married you, and as far as I understand it, nothing has changed. I love you, you love me, end of.' Napoleon nodded, wondering if there was another woman like her, another woman who would endure the kind of relationship they had. As far as he knew, Kuryakin had not been put in the same position since his marriage, although he had come very close to it with that Russian woman in Gorky. Strangely, the Russian seemed calmer about the possibility of sex with another woman, than he did. He shook his head at the reason for it and found none.
'Yes, you look out of this world - happy?' she continued, moving away from him and lifting the little boy up. 'Say nighty-night to daddy, Fabi' she whispered into the little boy's abundant brown curls as he lunged forward towards his father.
'Ni ni dad' he said in a piping voice, his golden brown eyes glowing faintly. Napoleon kissed him and then lent down, checking that the gun secreted there was safely attached to his leg, before leaving the room, the sounds of his wife and son ending abruptly as the door shut.
Cecilia Luft was waiting in her room at the hotel a few blocks from the Club, her appearance a dramatic contrast to their previous meeting. The formal suit was now replaced by a long black sleeveless dress, fitted under the bust with a stiff bow, her hair swept up into a chignon to complete the austerely beautiful outfit. She had poured two martinis before he entered, one of which she handed to him, before draping a delicate stole round her shoulders. Picking up the other glass he handed it to her.
'Chin chin' Napoleon offered, slightly tapping her glass with his own. 'Let's hope for a very pleasant and successful evening.'
'Oh yes, Mr Zweigart, pleasant and successful, that would be good' she said quietly, her mouth drawing into a thin line before she sipped at the drink.
The evening was establishing itself as their taxi drew up by the Club, the glowing rooms splashing their warmth across the road towards the silent, gated park opposite. Napoleon had entered the public rooms of this place on previous occasions, usually to attend less stressful social occasions. They passed through the main rooms on the ground floor, where he could see that another party was in full swing, a series of round tables laid for dinner, at which the guests sat laughing and drinking, their faces flushed with the excitement and enjoyment of the celebration, and each other. A wide staircase led to the upper floors.
'We shouldn't be disturbed by these others' Cecilia Luft said disparagingly, indicating 'the others' by a slight wave of her gloved hands. 'Our occasion is taking place on the top floor, where the public is not permitted.' Napoleon continued to follow her up, the noise of the party fading away as they passed the library on the first floor. Now shrouded in darkness, the leather couches lurked in the shadows unoccupied, waiting for the readers to return with the new day. Luft seemed unwilling to engage even in small talk until they had reached their destination at the top of the stairs, and eventually he dropped behind her, glancing behind as they walked up. As the staircase turned into the final flight, Napoleon had a direct view down to the floor below. The sound of voices alerted him to the approach of others, as four figures appeared below him.
The first two were arm in arm, a dark-haired man accompanying a tall woman with an elfin hairstyle resembling Josefina's apart from its colour, an intense metallic silver. As she passed through the first floor lobby, Napoleon saw that she was wearing a very tightly fitting purple dress which only served to accentuate her elongated androgynous figure. As they moved out of sight Napoleon paused, waiting for someone he hoped he might recognise. Thérèse appeared a few steps behind the other two and walked across the lobby toward them, wearing a striking and unusual dress of a sort of deep sea colour, striking because it was constructed of tiny pleats which clung to her figure with pleasing effect. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a sort of Grecian style, making her look taller and incredibly elegant. And then Napoleon glimpsed the final figure in the group characteristically running up the stairs to catch the others.
He caught himself groaning under his breath at the appearance of his partner. The badly fitting tuxedo confirmed that it was indeed too small, even for the still slim but now rather more muscular figure of the Russian. His shirt looked clean but worn, contributing to his overall shabby appearance, completed by his now fully grown beard and concreted hair, which Napoleon thought looked as if it hadn't been washed since he had plastered the stuff on Kuryakin's head days before. As Napoleon reached the second floor entrance he saw Illya glance up, a ghostly smile illuminating his lips before he looked down and planted a thick rimmed pair of glasses firmly over his eyes.
Napoleon wrenched himself away from the stairs to see that Cecilia Luft was now speaking to a man at the entrance to the second floor rooms. A small table had been placed there, at which another man sat checking off the guests on a register as they passed through, the man standing behind him giving each a cursory glance before opening and shutting the doors. As he approached the table, it was apparent that his name had already been submitted. He felt Luft grip his arm tightly and propel him towards the opening.
The arrangement of space differed from the ground floor; a series of smaller, more intimate rooms opening onto the corridor to the side of the lobby, whilst a larger and grander area lay directly ahead. At one end of the room, a small stage showed evidence that before long there would be some live music to accompany the proceedings, whilst in another more remote corner of the room a permanent bar was beginning to serve those who had already arrived.
Napoleon could see that Cyrus and Ottilie appeared to know about most of the guests, and were already moving between them, whilst a short stocky man in a hideous tuxedo stood talking to Thérèse in the corner near the bar. Before he could see where Kuryakin had got to, he felt Cecilia firmly moving him towards the area of the room where the Blaus stood, talking to a rather tall man with brown hair resembling wire wool.
'Ah Cecilia, as elegant as ever' Blau began, his gaze immediately moving in the same direction as his wife's, who had fixed Napoleon with a penetrating stare from the moment they had begun to move across the room towards them.
'May I present Mr Marshall Zweigart of Valencia, California. Marshall, this is Cyrus Blau, and of course his wife, Ottilie' Cecilia said in a rather emotionless voice. Ottilie turned slightly and moved closer to Napoleon. Close up, he could see her eyes, a rather chilling light grey strangely matching her metallic hair. Against the colourlessness of her eyes and hair, her bright red lipstick seemed like a bloody gash on her thin pale face.
'Mr Zweigart, Cecilia has told us all about you' she began in a low-toned voice with a hint of an accent. 'I'm so looking forward to a more intimate relationship in the future.' Napoleon glanced at Cecilia, whose unreadable expression rivalled anything his partner could pull.
'I sure hope so,' Napoleon replied, smiling, and aware of Cecilia standing behind him.
'We'll have a little chat later when the proceedings are under way' Cyrus interrupted, 'and in a more private place, Mr Zweigart.'
A long table at the side of the room was in the process of being filled with a selection of canapés, the serving staff then melting away to reveal the splendid display of food. Napoleon guided Cecilia to one of the small round tables clustered round the platform before heading towards the bar. It was obvious that his fellow guests hailed from a diverse number of countries from the sound of the languages being spoken as he shoved forward to place his order. Returning from the bar he could see that Cyrus and Ottilie, together with Tess, had joined Cecilia, a selection of food being brought to the table by the serving staff. Thérèse gave him a long look before turning and whispering something to Cyrus. Napoleon could sense her fear from the look in her eyes and her occasional sharp glances round the room in search for the same person he was hoping to see before much longer, her gaze returning to Blau as he spoke.
Ottilie's piercing stare swept round the table before coming to rest on Thérèse.
'Mr Zweigart' Cyrus began, 'May I introduce you to, er, Miss . . .'
'McCaffery. Therese McCaffery' she interrupted, 'I work in the History of Art Department, at Steinhardt.' Napoleon leaned over and kissed her hand, squeezing it momentarily as he raised his eyes to hers.
'Delighted, Miss McCaffery. It sure is useful to have another art expert on board' he said, suddenly aware that his partner was sitting on the table immediately behind Thérèse, engaged in conversation with a man who looked as if he might be from one of the countries of southern Europe.
Before anything more could be said, a tall blond man appeared behind Cyrus and murmured something into his ear as Napoleon became aware of the noise of an argument taking place in the foyer. Cyrus Blau frowned, and turned back to the others, his fingers beginning to tap a beat on the table.
'Is there a problem? Napoleon said, glancing over his shoulder towards the increasing noise outside the room.
'It appears that we have a guest whom no-one can understand' Cyrus replied in a cutting tone, staring at Solo. 'I thought this had been taken care of.' Thérèse gave Cyrus a look which Napoleon had seen before, usually directed at the Russian when she wanted to subtly remind him of something he should have remembered himself.
'But I believe we may have someone here who can help' Cyrus said, 'you remember I mentioned him to you darling, that other colleague of Miss McCaffery's here.' Napoleon was suddenly aware of both Blaus looking at each other, and then directing their gaze elsewhere. Ottilie's lips pulled into a sneer as she gripped her husband's arm.
'But he is so . . . ugly' she murmured, her nose crinkling as if a putrified corpse had suddenly been dumped on the table in front of her. Cyrus smiled rather unpleasantly and then spoke to the silent blond behind him, nodding in the direction Napoleon was hoping he might nod towards.
'If you employ him you must give him to me first, darling' Ottilie purred, staring fixedly at Cyrus, and luckily not noticing the look on Thérèse's face as Illya approached the table.
Cyrus stood up, facing Illya. Napoleon could see that they were all staring at him now, Tess' stare being dovetailed into the similar expressions of the other members of the party.
'Ah, Herr Krause. May I introduce my wife Ottilie, Miss Cecilia Luft, a business partner, Mr Zweigart from California, and lastly, of course you know Miss McCaffery, do you not?' Illya glanced rather myopically round the table before his eyes finally came to rest on Thérèse.
'Yes, we're acquainted' he said, returning his gaze to Cyrus.
'I wonder, with your knowledge of European languages' Cyrus interrupted rather brusquely, 'whether you could help us out. We appear to have a guest with whom we have a communication problem.' Illya gave a slight nod of his head towards the door.
'I noticed. He sounds as if he is Czechoslovakian, probably from Slovakia. He's probably perfectly capable of speaking German, but is trying to make a point, which,' he added, curling his lips slightly, 'is typical of those of the Slavic race, don't you think?' Cyrus Blau got up and came round the table.
'Come with me' he said, his manner expecting compliance. With a shrug, Illya followed, giving Napoleon a fleeting raise of his eyebrows before he followed Blau out into the foyer.
Ottilie gave a rather theatrical shudder before leaning forward towards Thérèse.
'How do you tolerate such a . . hideous creature living next to you?' she hissed, putting her hands to her face, her long, red nails lurid against the pallor of her skin.
'Perhaps he just needs a little help' Thérèse replied, drawing back slightly.
'Perhaps', Ottilie replied, gazing at them both. 'It appears that my dear husband has given you a little help,' she added, her eyes now fixed on Thérèse. 'You certainly bring that old dress to life doesn't she, Marshall?' Napoleon fought back a smile as Tess's eyes flashed, the brown becoming a dark, gold flecked
bronze in the subdued lighting of the room.
'The dress would be nothing without the beauty of the wearer' Napoleon murmured, looking at Tess, then fixing Ottilie with a rather serious expression. The awkward silence was immediately broken by the appearance of the tall blond man again, this time standing behind Ottilie.
'Mr Blau would like you to join him' he said obsequiously, stepping back as Ottilie rose from her seat and giving her a long, lascivious glance. She leaned over towards the others on the table, her pale eyes almost silver, and the antithesis of the woman who sat opposite her.
'I suppose this means that our repulsive little friend has proved himself to be useful' she sneered, before slinking away behind the ubiquitous blond.
Cecilia, who had sat silently during the previous conversation, turned to Napoleon, her hand sliding onto the silver evening bag she had left on the table.
'Will you excuse me for a moment, Marshall, I, er, need to powder my nose.' Napoleon rose, his hand knocking the bag out of her grasp and onto the floor, where with a slight thud it disgorged its contents.
'Oh gee, I'm so sorry' Napoleon said, as Tess immediately squatted down and began to help Cecilia retrieve the scattered objects. Giving Solo a barely concealed glare the Swiss woman walked off through the room and out of the doors.
'Keep up that ridiculous grin you've had on your face all evening' Thérèse said, 'while I just slip you something.' Napoleon raised his eyebrows fractionally before throwing back his head and appearing to share in something exceedingly funny with the petite brunette by his side. As she gently slapped him on the arm and leaned towards him, he felt her press something small and stiff into his hand. Without looking down it was easy to slide his hand into his pocket, before a waiter appeared with what looked like a very good vodka martini in his hand for Thérèse. As he headed for the men's room after a decent interval he caught sight of Tess raising the martini, an imperceptible wink following the raised glass.
It was a small, square envelope made of heavy white paper, within which there
seemed to be an equally heavy and expensive looking card. He glanced down at the card in the safety of the cubicle and let out a low whistle. After standing on the toilet to check for any unwelcome listeners he reached for his communicator.
'Open Channel D. Mr Waverly please, priority.'
xxxxxx
'Ah, Ottilie, we've been waiting for you, liebling.' Illya glanced up as Ottilie Blau swept into the small room they were sitting in, surprisingly filling it up with her presence, as she rather gracefully sat down on the sofa next to her husband. The room was one of those opening onto the corridor leading to the larger area where the party was being held, from where Illya could now hear the sounds of a small band beginning to play.
It had been relatively easy to placate the uncommunicative guest, who turned out, as Illya had thought, to be from a part of Slovakia which he knew well, and who he had eventually persuaded to use the German language Illya knew he probably possessed. He was aware throughout it all of Blau standing near and making an assessment, as he longed to thank this Slovakian for making his job a little easier for once. However, as he glanced at Ottilie, Illya knew for certain that her approval was also a requisite in him gaining entry into whatever enterprise these two were so obviously engaged in.
The conversation continued in German, Illya attuned to Blau's Austrian accent which was still audible despite his long exile from his native land. From the beginning it was hard for him not to smile at Ottilie's continuing discomfort at his appearance, which he presumed was the main reason for her involvement.
'Mr Krause, Blau continued after Ottilie had sat down, 'as I was saying before, I think we can offer you a more, shall we say, interesting career advancement than your present position. However, we need to be sure that you are prepared to be completely committed to our, er, business, and to the way we conduct our affairs.' Illya glanced at Ottilie, who was looking at him with unconcealed disdain, before saying,
'And what would be the nature of my 'commitment?' Blau glanced at his wife again.
'What my husband means, Herr Krause, is that while you work for us, you must be prepared to give yourself to us, you know, body and soul.' As the last words left her lips, Illya saw her looking at him again, as if she could remove his clothes and consign them to outer darkness just by gazing at them long enough.
'And if I find this level of commitment not to my liking?'
Blau sniffed slightly, then turned away, coming back to face Illya with a thin paper folder in his hand.
'Then you will find Mr Krause, that your life takes a decided turn for the worse', Blau replied, opening the folder and disgorging its contents onto the coffee table between the two sofas. 'I think you may be interested in these' he continued. 'When Miss McCaffery suggested your name to me as someone whose skills would be useful to our Society, I took the liberty of making a few enquiries.'
Illya glanced at the two images and the written statement in front of him. The first was what he had been expecting; a report from Tübingen University listing his academic history, or rather the history of Dietmar Krause, ending with his rather hasty resignation after an embarrassing affair with the son of the Professor of Theology had gone wrong. UNCLE's connections with University Departments proved useful in providing cover from time to time, but this thought was lost in his shocked reaction to the two images which lay by its side. He snatched up the first one and examined it carefully, picking up the other one before putting them both down slowly onto the table.
They were obviously taken in a club, but one that Illya didn't recognise, except that he was sure it was in England, probably London. Both images showed him, with rather longer and certainly much cleaner hair, wearing what looked like a paisley shirt and dark, velvet trousers. In the first image, he was leaning against the bar, a drink in his hand, smiling rather demurely into the lens of the camera. The second image seemed to have been taken later in the evening, and several drinks later. He was seated this time, but on another, unrecognisable man's lap, engaged in a kiss which caused Illya to be grateful for the shaded lenses hiding his startled eyes.
Ottilie snatched the images up and stared at them, before staring at Illya, then returning her gaze to the photographs.
'Are you sure these are genuine?' she said to Blau, who nodded, amused by catching her out in what was obviously a game she usually won.
'Yes, they have not been tampered with. It seems that Mr Krause is hiding his light under a rather soiled barrel' he replied. He removed the images from Ottilie's grasp and turned to Illya.
'You see, Mr Krause, my wife and I have spent the last twenty years surrounded by beauty. This is our world and we are accustomed to it, as it were. Beautiful objects, works of art, artefacts from around the world. And beautiful people too. We do not enjoy being in the company of ugliness.'
'When I left Europe, I left all that behind' Illya began rather tersely. 'I'm not sure I want to return to it' he said, gesturing towards the images, 'again.' The Blaus glanced momentarily at each other before Ottilie leaned forward.
'Take off your glasses, Didi.' Illya frowned, inwardly fascinated by her choosing to use the diminutive of his name at this point. He hesitated fractionally, before slowly removing the heavy frames and laying them on the table on top of the images. As he looked up, Ottilie gave a slight gasp, her steel eyes widening, before a slow smile began to elongate her thin red lips.
'Your eyes are more alluring than the picture reveals' she purred, before turning away from him and nodding slightly to her husband, leaning over and whispering the words 'you promised' in his ear.
Blau leaned his head slightly to the side and contemplated Illya before shrugging his shoulders and returning the papers to their folder. Illya sat back and closed his eyes momentarily.
'When would you like me to begin' he said, aware of a slow exhaling of breath from the other side of the sofa.
'Oh tomorrow, Mr Krause, it will have to be tomorrow. Ottilie is an expert you see.' Illya sat up, frowning slightly.
'An expert in what?'
'Oh, an expert in taking something that has become, let's say tarnished, and restoring it to its former beauty, ja?'
Xxxxxx
Illya glanced round the room, frowning at Napoleon's absence. He could see his wife talking to Cecilia Luft. Luft turned and suddenly stared at him in a way that made Illya feel a little perturbed. He came up to the table as they stopped talking as the women looked up at him expectantly.
'Mr Blau would like to speak to Mr Zweigart. Happen to know where he is?' he said rather coldly, addressing them without really appearing to look at them.
'I think he went to the bathroom' Tess said, smiling at him. He appeared to have lost his glasses, or at least taken them off; his eyes momentarily held her gaze before he sauntered off in the direction of the men's room.
'I wonder if he proved helpful, you know, with that man' Tess said, watching Illya weave his way characteristically through the sea of people who were now making their way towards the dance floor.
'Oh, I'm sure he was' Cecilia replied, looking towards her. 'Cyrus always appreciates cleverness, and rewards it.'
xxxxxxx
'Oh there you are; Blau wants to see you, then I'll meet you outside, OK?'
Solo nodded as Illya unzipped his trousers and glanced behind him at the American leaving the room. The images in the London Club were still on his mind, interwoven with the piercing look he had seen on Cecilia Luft's face a few minutes before. It appeared that, whether by luck or design, he had now secured a place in the Blau organisation for himself which was necessary if the plot was to be unravelled. He left the bathroom and began to descend the stairs, the noises of the Adler Society party gradually overwhelmed by the louder music of the gathering on the ground floor. People had spilled out of the main room, and small groups were now either lounging in the foyer, or smoking in the street outside. Illya pushed his way through the melée by the front doors, noticing Solo standing across the street at the entrance to the gated park opposite the club.
Napoleon stubbed out his cigarette as his partner approached, and turned to gaze into the shadows created by the trees.
'Successful meeting?'
'Uh-huh. I persuaded him that not only do I have a very large amount of money to spend on art, and especially on anything by Chagall, but that my political attitudes might be a little right of . . .
'Attila the Hun?' Kuryakin grinned, leaning for a moment on the gate as he looked at Napoleon.
'Precisely. I think there may be something going off on the political front that may explain why they need to make such a lot of dough in such a hurry.' Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows towards Illya. 'So, how did your interview go? I noticed Mrs B making a beeline towards you.'
'Very funny. Well, you will be pleased to know that I am now employed by Blau as a representative and interpreter. He wants me to bring the paintings back from Switzerland, and then act as some sort of interpreter in the sale. He certainly has a novel way of recruitment' Illya concluded, looking sharply at his partner.
'Ah, he showed you the photographs' Solo replied.
'You know about them?' Napoleon turned round and leaned against the gates, facing Illya.
'We realised that they would try and find out about you, when Tess suggested your name to Blau,' he began. 'I just thought we could give them something which they would think gave them a hold over you, that's all.'
'And you never thought to let me in on your plan?'
'We thought it might be more effective if you appeared, well, surprised by them' Napoleon continued, ignoring the scowls radiating from Kuryakin. 'I knew you would guess where they were taken, and probably, how we'd done it.' Illya looked down, still frowning.
'Did you have to involve Misha?'
'He was happy to help out. I thought the shirt was rather fetching – one of his own range he tells me. Did you know he'd gone into fashion design?' Illya sighed, his eyes closing slightly.
'Yes, Tess told me. They keep in touch.' He looked up for a moment, staring into the darkness of the park. 'And before you say any more, we are going to call in on the way to Mallorca, if we manage to sort all this out, that is.'
'Good.'
Illya looked back at Napoleon, noticing that something else was on his partner's mind.
'Is there something else?'
'You could say that' Solo said quietly. 'I managed to accidentally on purpose cause Miss Luft's bag to drop to the floor, where your wife retrieved this.' He drew the card out of his pocket and showed it to the Russian. 'She's becoming rather good at all this spy business' he added, smiling. Illya didn't look up, intent on examining the card. Napoleon could see that as he turned it over, his expression hardened into a pale, rigid mask.
'Yes, too good' he muttered, then looked up. 'I presume you contacted Waverly with the news that our Miss Luft is in some way connected with the Bolt organisation, whatever it is now' he said, handing back the card to Napoleon.
'Oh yes' he replied softly. It seemed rather incredible that after several years of coming up against a brick wall in his attempts to find out what had become of Lee-Hua Bolt and her organisation, a link had more or less fallen literally into his hands from a totally unexpected source. The familiar logo was displayed on the little card, together with a telephone number. There were no names, either printed or written. 'The number, you'll be interested to know, belongs to a clinic near Hamilton, Bermuda; you know, very private, very expensive, very unwilling to divulge any information whatsoever.'
Illya leaned against the railings for a moment, staring across the street. Solo felt as if he could see on the Russian's smooth forehead a series of images flashing past, images too painful and personal even for Napoleon to refer to. It was enough that they were both aware of them.
'What are you going to do?' Illya said eventually, his voice catching Napoleon by surprise after what seemed like an eternity of silence.
'About Luft? Carry on of course. They're sending someone to Bermuda to dig around a bit and see if they can discover the connection. In the meantime, we both have to continue, right?' Illya turned round, his hair, despite the thick grease welding it together, glinting faintly under the street lights.
'And what about Tess?' Kuryakin said hoarsely, 'she didn't see the card, did she?' Napoleon put his hand on his partner's shoulder for a moment, feeling the tension of the body beneath the worn jacket.
'No, and I don't think she needs to be party to any of this' Napoleon replied. 'It may be that if there is a connection to Bolt, they won't have realised who is involved. That's why I need to keep up my burgeoning romance with Miss Luft and you, my friend, need to ingratiate yourself with your new employers.'
'I'm supposed to be meeting her in Geneva before the auction, to collect the goods.'
'I'm sure you'll enjoy that' Napoleon replied, 'she's quite a girl.' Illya stared at him then continued, 'that is after Mrs Blau gets her hands on me.' He could see Napoleon beginning to smirk as he leaned against the railings again.
'About time. I was beginning to think you might take up this look permanently.'
'Well actually, I shall be relieved to get rid of all this' Illya replied, running his hand across his chin. 'In this weather, my head feels as if it's going to explode with the heat. Apparently, Cyrus and Ottilie are unaccustomed to having to be close to unattractive members of society like myself.'
'Ah, well I'm sure that after she's finished with you, you'll be rivalling those boys at Fiennes Court.' Napoleon replied, a smile writhing across his lips at the discomfort of the Russian.
'And what are you going to do while I'm being transformed?' Illya groaned.
'Well, I think I am going to have a long chat with Miss Luft in her hotel room tonight. Depending on what she says, I'll come round and brief you tomorrow, before you head off to the beauty parlor.' Illya grimaced, a frown fixed to his brow in the darkening gloom.
'OK, but between ourselves, remember.'
Napoleon appeared behind Cecilia Luft as the band started to play again, the female singer launching into a rather lingering rendition of 'Misty' as he indicated the dance floor to the Swiss woman. As soon as they were fully immersed in the dance, he felt her grip his arm tightly and move closer until her face was almost pressed into his own as they moved amongst the other couples.
'We'll talk in my room later, if that's alright, Mr Zweigart' she murmured.
'Fine, Miss Luft, say eleven?'
Xxxxxxx
'Drink?'
Cecilia Luft flung down her stole and bag on the bed and with a slight twist of her ankles, released her feet from her shoes as she headed for the fridge. She reached for a glass from the display on the counter, and dropped in some ice cubes, drenching them with some cold bottled water from the remains of the fridge's stock. Ignoring Napoleon, she walked back and threw herself into one of the easy chairs at the other end of the bedroom.
Napoleon poured himself a Bourbon and followed her, looking out the window for a moment, before turning and waiting for her to speak.
'So, Mr Zweigart, Cyrus tells me that you want to join our Society.'
Napoleon put down his glass and leaned on the wall a little.
'If by that you mean I want the art, then you're absolutely right' he said simply. 'Of course I want the art and I can afford it. The problem's always been getting access to anything worth looking at' he began. 'Frankly, I don't give a damn who owned it before, because according to Swiss Law, or so my lawyers say, once I've been the owner for a few years, they're mine just as legit as if I'd bought them on the open market. As for your Society' he added, taking a sip of his drink, 'your friend Cyrus has made a pretty convincing case for the kind of political pressure a group like yours could have on our political system, seeing that the jackasses we have in power at the moment are becoming a little too un-American to get my dollars in any hurry.'
'Yes, so I understand' Cecilia murmured. 'I'm sure you'll be an asset to the Society, Herr Zweigart, especially since you have such an impeccable racial heritage. So, how much do you know about the Swiss banking system?'
'Well, I know it has a reputation for secrecy, but I'm a little sketchy on the history' he replied, smiling a little. She returned his smile, her face slightly softened in the bronze glow of the lamp.
'During the war, it is estimated that the Swiss National Bank may have received up to four hundred and forty million US dollars in gold from Nazi sources, three hundred and sixteen million of it having been looted, probably from Jews in the main part' she began. 'Then of course, there were a vast quantity of confiscated art works, which the Nazis plundered from Museums and also private collectors. Of these, at least twenty per cent have never been returned, a considerable number of which now reside in bank vaults, their provenance unclear. Leaving aside the gold, it is more than likely that dealers in Switzerland colluded with the Nazis in acquiring these works, and then stored them in numbered accounts within the vaults of a number of banks.'
Napoleon gave a low whistle and then steepled his fingers in front of his lips.
'That's quite a haul' he said softly. 'So, excuse my ignorance Miss Luft, but if the art and the money are in the numbered accounts, how are you people going to get your hands on it? I thought those accounts were virtually unassailable.'
'Call me Cecilia' she said, as if it were an order, putting her drink on the floor, and curling her legs round her on her chair.
'Ordinarily, the accounts are virtually impregnable' she continued. 'Information regarding them is restricted to senior bank officers and any claim needs to be accompanied by stringent proof, including death certificates. Numbered accounts are only handled by a small number of select bank employees, and of course no names are used, just code words for each account. However, once the art passes into the hands of other parties, legally speaking, the Swiss accept that any acquisition is deemed legal and permanent if the person purchasing the work did so in good faith and has possessed it for five years, as you said. '
'You haven't answered my question' Napoleon said, finishing his drink and walking back to the bar.
'I've been working for Franck Merkel since I left University, and I've had to fight my way to the position I hold now, Mr Zweigart' she began, a kind of snarl animating her lips. 'I imagine you've heard of the glass ceiling? Well, being a banker, you must be aware of how much that ceiling is in place in the financial sector, as far as women are concerned.'
'But you managed to break through to the top?'
'Not quite. Franck Merkel is a private bank, owned and run by a small, and greedy group of Swiss men descended from the original families of Franck and Merkel, who were apparently brothers-in-law.' Napoleon smiled momentarily.
'Well brothers-in-law can work together very successfully, so I understand.' Luft frowned, before putting down her glass.
'As I was saying, in the case of the present family, as in the case of their ancestors, the scales are weighted heavily against women, however talented. In my case, I was promoted eventually to a position of seniority, but it was made clear to me that I was never to expect anything more than this.'
'And your position gives you access to the numbered accounts?'
'Some of them. I met Cyrus and Ottilie at a bank social occasion. Ironically, Cyrus has accounts there, as do some of his more affluent clients.'
'And now you are going to help Blau to take the art?'
Luft sighed, and looked straight at him.
'Going to? I have been helping him for a little while, Marshall. It was important, of course that some research had to be done first.'
'What sort of research?'
'As far as possible, we've made sure that there are no living relatives who might be trying to trace their property, if you take my meaning' she said. 'There was one man, but that problem was taken care of, and no longer need be of concern' she added. 'The bank holds records of these owners, and so it has been comparatively simple to manufacture death certificates for these people, while I provide the entrée as it were, to the codes and, of course, to the vaults.' Napoleon put down his glass and came to sit opposite her. He was still no clearer as to the eventual purpose of the auction, beyond netting Blau vast sums of money. Whatever it was, the Adler Society was keeping it very close to its chest.
'Of course we will need someone to authenticate and introduce the art at the auction, which is why I presume Cyrus is grooming that McCaffery woman. And then of course, he has had to replace his agent.'
'Why, did he find another position?'
She replaced her glass on the table behind her and gave Solo a long, meditative glance.
'Employees of the Society don't generally find 'other positions' as you so quaintly put it, Marshall. If I remember rightly, his body was found in the Thames, a few miles downstream from where he jumped in; I think it was Waterloo Bridge. Apparently, it's a popular suicide choice in that part of the world.'
Napoleon remained silent for a few moments, before re-filling his glass and returning to the chair facing Cecilia's.
'So' Cecilia continued suddenly, 'that rather odious German Cyrus has just recruited will come calling at the bank soon, and I will help him to walk away with a collection of art worth, in total at least two hundred million dollars.'
xxxxxx
'Napoleon, how much do you know about Darius Blau?'
The communicator had gone off luckily just as he shut the door of the cab. Obviously there was no news yet from the Bermuda regarding Bolt and the Clinic, but Napoleon hadn't expected any. He was faintly surprised when Jack O'Neil's voice from Section Five boomed into the back of the car.
'Um, as far as I understand, he was just a boy at the end of the war, about ten years younger than Cyrus ' he replied, leaning back as the cab made a sharp turn into the traffic.
'Yes, absolutely true. We've been doing a bit of digging around in the Allied military records at the end of the war. It makes interesting reading.'
There was a short silence, allowing a slow spreading feeling of doom to take hold in Napoleon's stomach.
'It seems the boy wasn't with your man Cyrus when he pitched up in England in '49' O'Neil continued, his Irish accent very clear through the communicator.
'Military records? Wasn't he a bit young?'
'Sure he was, but his older brother wasn't, was he now?' Napoleon scratched his head, wondering where this was going. O'Neil was obtuse at the best of times, but now he seemed almost incomprehensible.
'I'm sorry Jack, I don't see how either Cyrus or Darius could possibly be connected to the German military, unless you mean . . . .'
'Now you're catching on, boyo. I don't mean Cyrus; we have clear records to show that he was in Munich at the end of the war, and stayed there until he left four years later. No, I mean big brother, Konstantin.'
Napoleon exhaled slowly, and sat back in the back of the cab. 'So, you have a military record of Konstantin Blau and his youngest brother in '45? He said after a while.
'Precisely. As usual the American boys were a little slow on the uptake as far as spotting the Nazis was concerned. He pitched up at a military centre near Regensberg with the boy in tow, which I guess put them off the scent. Apparently, he used the same surname, but called himself by brother Cyrus' name. He claimed that they were civilians to begin with, and I guess the boy can only have been about six years old, if that. Anyway, this is the interesting part. Guess who the interrogating officer was?' Napoleon stared into the communicator.
'No idea. Go on, surprise me.'
'None other than that big cheese relative of Darryl Moore's up at West Point. Yep, you guessed it, boyo, and I've got it in writing before me, so I have.' There was a slight pause and a rifling of paper before he continued, 'Interviewing officer, Captain Eugene Dawkins.'
'Well, that is very interesting.'
'I thought you might like it. But it gets better. We looked at the lists of German officers processed through that centre. Blau's name does not appear, neither is the boy recorded anywhere either, so obviously that little story about him being taken by the Ruskies is beginning to sound all wrong.'
'Meaning that . . .'
'Meaning that, somehow Blau escaped from that place while he was in detention. Now, as you know, Napoleon, escaping from any military installation is difficult, but escaping with a child is virtually impossible.'
'So. . ..'
'So I did a little investigation into the Brigadier's family background, so I did. He married in '36, and by the time he was deployed into Europe in '44, they were still childless.' Napoleon lent his head back onto the seat of the cab. The night of Darryl's engagement party came back clearly to him, the figures of Eugene Dawkins and his wife stood with the Waverlys, and by their side, the figure of their only child, Michael. He could hear O'Neil talking, but the dawning realisation of what he had just discovered prevented him from speaking.
'Napoleon! Are you still there, boy? Did you hear what I said now?'
Napoleon shook himself and leaned forward as the cab veered round the corner and stopped outside his apartment block.
'Er yes, absolutely. What you're saying is that Michael Dawkins and Darius Blau might just appear to be one and the same person.'
