The art of diplomacy
Thank you lovely beta sghtsfsmmr for working on such short notice.
Chapter 1.
The party was what she would normally specify as being posh. The Italian guests that were attending seemed overdressed to her foreign eyes but she knew that the opposite would mean a death sentence in this country. It never ceased to amaze her how easily Italians could deliver cachet to any given gathering, no matter how casual and she was glad to have picked a minimal yet elegant dress that could serve either social decorum. She would blend in perfectly within the elite white in-crowd present.
She had to admit, the Villa Taverna, the residence of the American ambassador in Rome, was quite impressive. She was currently wandering through the family rooms filled with guests and marvelled at the beauty of the house. Heavy draped windows and matching silk wallpaper framed multi paned windows that showed a marvellous vista: the renaissance style gardens. There was a lot of art on the walls, mostly 17th and 18th century oil paintings. She sighed at the open windows and unfiltered light. How the love for art went hand in hand with neglect still amazed her about Italy. Maybe it was the sheer quantity of works of art that made their guardians less protective of them.
Her dress clung to her sweating skin. The hot summer evening had not eased the pressing atmosphere and the old mansion was not air conditioned. She downed her glass of champagne, leaving it on a window sill, and moved through the crowd towards the central hallway that led towards the garden.
When she finally reached the outside air she sighed in bliss when a slight breeze cooled off her skin immediately. A waiter with champagne slid past her and she fished from within the lot a tall glass without making him stop. Careful not to get stuck with her heels in between the ancient stone steps, she descended towards the green oasis of renaissance control and rigidity.
Cypresses stood tall and proud at the far borders of the garden, casting shadows on box hedge and roses. Greek statues stood out bright against the green scenery, thankfully their whiteness was muffled by green algaes. For a moment she wondered if the renaissance garden design would have developed like this if they knew how colourful these statues were when made in ancient greece. Walking closer, her art historian's eye recognized the gods that were honoured and represented within this 16th century universe and realised with a slight disappointment, that only one of them was the real deal. Even the garden design had a make belief quality about it. Such a shame.
She stopped in front of the original, scrutinising the statue, recognizing the hand of Praxiteles and realised that she was wrong. This was the Hermes of Olympia, the little Dionysus perched on his arm. It was a copy. It would have made her evening brighter were it an original. She shrugged, taking another sip from her glass.
It did not matter. She was not here to admire art and she pulled her iPhone out of the bodice of her dress. It was the last side of the house that she had not been able to film yet. This was her opportunity, for the guests were all flocked around the house. She opened the film app and checked the settings. Yes. Ultra slow motion. Best to pick out all the details of the building itself and the way it connects with the surrounding ones.
A voice startled her and she locked her phone immediately.
"I thought networking was tonight's purpose, not admiring classical sculptures?"
Behind her stood a smartly dressed man, piercing blue eyes, and warm blond hair falling into easy curls and curves around his face. His skin was slightly toned, like that of a surfer. He went to stand next to her, and in a forward manner, he put his hand on the small of her back, steering her to look once again at the statue. He took a sip of his own glass, then said with a smile: "Well, well, well, who is this beauty then?"
She answered without thinking: "Hermes of Olympia. But it is a copy."
He stared at her, grinning, his eyes wise. "Is that so?"
"The original is in the Archeological Museum of Olympia"
"How do you know it is Hermes? Don't these gods usually have attributes?"
She nodded in affirmation. "It is because of the infant on his arm. Hermes was charged with raising the infant Dionysos by his father Zeus, after he had cared for the child himself."
The man's grin disappeared slowly while listening to her. Then he said with a serious tone; "Cared you say, yet I heard that Zeus was fickle and uncaring to either his prize women, or his offspring."
She blinked at him, caught off guard by his choice of words and sombre demeanour. Apparently, he had some knowledge of the classics. "Well, the story goes that Zeus cared for this child from the moment its mother had died until it was ready to be born. Nine months of nursing an infant, that sounds like a caring father to me. Either way, Hermes is said to have a very good relationship with his father. He was his messenger after all."
He stared at her then, his eyes slightly narrowed, mouth a straight line. The blond curls caught a green hue from the sunlight on leaves around them. "I think the myths are exaggerations of reality."
"Reality? They are only myths!"
It took him a few moments to regain his composure, but then he smiled again. "Yes, I guess you are right." He stared at the statue for a moment, sipping his drink. Then he stated, "But with all this knowledge, you must be the Cultural Attaché of the American Embassy, am I correct?"
The lack of research on his part, made her turn towards him with one eyebrow raised. "You have to do better than that next time."
He mimicked her in his expression while she cast her most charming smile at him. It hit him right in the face and he returned it in like with a dazzling one of his own. But she knew a real smile when she saw one, and this was not it.
"I will then." And with those words he left her with Hermes and his infant charge in the garden.
Xxxxxxxxx
She had finished her research on the perimeter carefully and undetected when she decided that she should immerse into the party to avoid suspicion. She was here on professional business after all, as Bernardo Siguel, philanthropist, philosopher, diplomat and confidant of the Spanish Royal family, was her target here. And she felt certain that she was the only one that knew about his affiliations with the Sheikh that she was looking for.
Winding her way through the throng of people, she got held up by George Dolmani, the cultural attache of the Iranian Embassy. "Zana! Darling! How lovely to see you here! You are dressed to impress, I see." He winked and gave her two loud kisses on each cheek.
"George! How good to see you! Is it a fruitful hunt tonight?" She plucked a glass from a tray presented by a waiter and gave it to him, since he seemed empty handed.
He accepted without question and sipped from the cool bubbles with a generous expression. His slightly too white smile seemed enhanced by his dark skin. He was handsome except for his slightly crooked nose.
"Alas! No such luck. All the men are either taken, or straight. Nothing left but to drink."
She laughed out loud. And they fell into an easy conversation, discussing the current political climate in Iran and the trade relations with Italy.
While George was complaining about the everlasting American boycotts and the more easy relation with the Italian government, her eyes were caught by a mop of silver grey hair. It was her target, Siguel, and she effectively ended her conversation with George to catch him in time.
She winded herself through the crowd once more, until she spotted him again. She sidestepped to pass a group of laughing women in colourful cocktail dresses and then she stood eye to eye with him. With irritation she noticed that he was talking to the man from the garden. They seemed close, Bernardo's arm hanging loosely over his shoulders, talking into his ear. The blond laughed at something he said and then his blue eyes flitted upwards connecting with hers.
He must have noticed her irritation, for he grinned wolfishly at her, after which he immersed himself into the conversation once more, pulling Bernardo away from her towards the bar in the other room.
Who is he? She felt frustration growing. She knew every single person at this party, except him. With his handsome blonde features. Who is he?
The rest of the evening passed in a blur, but there was no chance to talk with Bernardo, for he was with the unknown male the rest of the night.
When she spotted him outside closing the door of Bernardo's car in person, she could not help but approach him. "Why did you hog him?"
His blue eyes were darkened by the impending night. He watched her thoughtfully. "Because you are up to no good."
She felt her heart skip a beat at his words. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing good will come from it. You will damage all diplomatic traffic for the years to come."
She felt the blood run cold in her veins. What did he know?
She downed her glass in one go then said sternly. "I have no idea what you mean. Have a good night, mister…. ?"
He narrowed his eyes but answered her nevertheless, "Atlantiades, Cyllian Atlantiades."
"Well, Cyllian, have a good night for what it's worth."
She turned to retrieve her car at the door. He called after her. "And your name?"
Without turning her head she said: "You have to do better than that!" She could have sworn she felt him smile.