She didn't have much to say at dinner. She never did, at these things. There were other people there besides Sloane and his wife, Emily; obviously she and Julian, but a collection of assorted foreigners whose connection to Director Sloane she understood tenuously at best.
"Has anyone seen Mikhail flaunting himself on that American TV show, Sex & the City?" asked a tall, white haired gentleman named Alain Christophe. She guessed by his accent that he was from middle Europe, though she wasn't sure where.
"Baryshnikov has always been the chameleon," interjected Jean, a short mustachioed Frenchman. "At least he is playing an artist and not a dancer for a change."
She picked at the food on her plate. She was full. Under the table, she felt Julian's hand graze her thigh and she looked at him.
Sorry, he mouthed, and winked at her. Just then they noticed the table had fallen silent and were looking at them expectantly.
"It seems our conversation has bored our young friends," Sloane smiled at them, not insulted. His eyes glittered with amusement. "Sydney, we had just asked what you thought of Mikhail, if you'd seen the show?"
"Oh," she breathed, feeling her cheeks redden like they tended to when she was the center of attention and not on stage, "I haven't seen it, sorry…"
Sloane closed his eyes for a second, forgivingly. "No matter, it's not exactly high art," he conceded. "But always interesting when someone from our world manages to cross over."
There were murmurs of agreement from around the table.
"Perhaps we should move into the study for drinks," Emily suggested smoothly, covering the awkwardness of the conversation ending. "It looks as though everyone's finished anyway."
They drifted into the study, which was decorated with rich Oriental rugs and leather couches. On the mantle over the fireplace there was an elaborate, old-fashioned looking clock. She walked over and was inspecting it when Emily appeared at her shoulder.
"My husband collects devices invented by an Italian… philosopher, someone who was the chief architect to a Pope," Emily explained with a slight roll of her eyes, "Milo Rambaldi."
"Interesting," Sydney said, looking at the clock. She noticed its hands weren't moving, and that there seemed to be some kind of symbol engraved into the face. It was an oval with what appeared to be a less-than and a greater-than sign on either side of it.
"Arvin is practically… obsessed with his work," Emily laughed. "During the Enlightenment there was even a cult of followers who tattooed the sign of Rambaldi onto their hands, here," she indicated with her forefinger at the web of flesh between her hand and her thumb on her left hand, "In order to show their devotion. They were trying to find all the devices Rambaldi had designed, believing that they would fit together to form some kind of giant machine."
"What did the machine do?" Sydney asked, despite herself.
"It was supposed to deliver a message," Julian's voice said behind them. He had walked up without them hearing him.
"Oh, Julian," Emily turned and smiled sweetly, "You scared me."
"Apologies," he said, looking at the clock. "Supposedly Rambaldi's work would allow his followers to achieve eternal life, and bring about a new world order."
"Like the Nazis had interest in the occult," she said, feeling like she was showing off. She didn't really know that much about it.
"Actually, yes," Julian looked at her like he was slightly surprised. "Hitler did have a team working on the Rambaldi artifacts as well—most of their collection went to Russia as the spoils of war… Stalin himself is rumored to have had an interest in Rambaldi's work."
"Julian, please," Emily broke in, "Could we discuss something else, you know it all gives me the shivers."
"Of course," Julian acquiesced. "I didn't mean to—"
"Arvin's been talking this stuff up to Julian since he was knee-high," Emily explained to Sydney, "He has a bit more than a healthy interest in Rambaldi as well."