City of Dark Magic (8 page)

TEN

W
hile getting dressed for dinner, Sarah became aware of two very inconvenient physical facts. The first was that the slight frisson of sexual interest aroused by the Sexy Stabber at the castle gates had returned full force. She was, she had to admit, somewhat uncomfortably . . . aroused. The second was that traveling for eleven hours in a pressurized cabin had completely blocked up her sinuses. She had no sense of smell.

This was a bad combination. Sarah relied on her nose to steer her libido into appropriate waters. Without it, she couldn’t really answer for the results. This was especially irritating since she was about to meet a room full of colleagues, one of whom just might be responsible for the death of her professor. She needed to be at her sharpest.

Well, Sarah thought philosophically, it might not be so bad. After all, during her senior year of high school while working her way through the practice SAT tests in her workbook, she had scored the highest while masturbating. Though tempted to ask for a private room during the actual exam, she had restrained herself and still gotten 800s. Presumably she could make it through one dinner.

On her way back upstairs, Sarah glanced at herself in the Rococo mirror in the hallway outside the dining room. Her lips were slightly swollen and there was sweat on her upper lip. Her eyes had a glazed look. Damn it. A man had died! A man she knew and respected. Rumors were being circulated that he was a drug addict. Miles said he had made enemies in the group. She needed to find out who and why.

And she was horny as hell.

She pushed open the kitchen door. The long table was now covered with a painter’s white canvas drop cloth and crazily baroque candlesticks dripped white church-candle wax down its length. The benches were almost all occupied with people digging into Suzi’s roast chickens. It was like something out of a knightly engraving, tankards and revelers holding chunks of meat in their hands, while a large dog made hopeful rounds. Tiny Nicolas raised a goblet and winked at her. Only a monkey was missing. Which made her think of spanking.
Stop it,
she told herself.
Right now
.

“Sarah,” called Suzi, patting space on the bench next to her. Unknown faces looked up and called out greetings and she made her way through the room, shaking hands and smiling. She nodded at Daphne, who sat protectively close to Miles, who was arguing in Czech on his cell phone, and wellthlike somaved at Eleanor, who was chatting with Bernie. Sarah slid into the space between Suzi and a slim, red-haired guy in a paint-stained T- shirt.

“Sarah Weston, meet Douglas Sexton,” said Suzi. Douglas smiled and waved fingers glistening with chicken juices.

“Sorry, love, we can’t seem to find the silverware,” apologized Douglas in a cockney accent. “Or the napkins.” The sight of Douglas’s wet fingers, his British accent, and his pillowy lips had a distinct worsening effect on Sarah’s situation. Cut off from her nose, she was forced into intense awareness of other physical stimuli.

She looked around the table. In the dim candlelight, she took in the unfamiliar faces, and one she recognized eating alone at the end of the table.

“Max,” whispered Suzi. “Doesn’t talk, just eats and runs.”

Something underneath the table pushed against Sarah’s legs, trying to nudge her knees apart.

“Jesus,” Sarah said, half-jumping off the bench. An extremely large creature emerged, looking enthusiastic. It looked like a . . .

“It’s a
vlcák
,” said the man across the table from Sarah, smiling at her behind giant Buddy Holly glasses. He had introduced himself as Moses Kaufman, an expert in seventeenth-century decorative arts. “A Czechoslovakian wolfhound. Very closely related to the Eurasian wolf. He’s Max’s dog.”

“Ain’t he gorgeous?” Suzi said, thumping the fearsome animal on its hindquarters. “His name is Moritz.”

“After the 9th prince,” said Moses, helpfully.

“The 9th had the most gorgeous crossbows made for his children with staghorn tillers,” Suzi said. “Hey, Sarah, are you all right? You look a little funny.”

“Jet lag,” said Sarah, grabbing a piece of chicken off a platter.

“Have a cold
pivo,
” said Douglas, pouring from a dewy silver pitcher into a glass tankard. “Beer is the one thing Max doesn’t stint on.”

Sarah tilted her head back and let the cold beer pour down her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Douglas notice the drops that fell onto her slightly moist chest. She smiled what she hoped was a professional smile at him, trying not not
not
to think about how his slim forearms would feel wrapped around her. He was quite possibly the last person to see Sherbatsky alive, and was spreading rumors that he was a drug addict. Douglas could be dangerous.

“What’s your thing?” he asked her in a slightly husky, amused voice.

She met his cobalt gaze. Rather disturbingly, his eyes locked onto hers. She held his gaze for a few more seconds, just to challenge him, and then said a little coldly, looking away, “Beethoven.” She made a point of turning to the right and addressing Suzi in a totally professional way:

“Suzi, if I need certain supplies, who’s the best person to ask?” As Suzi turned to answer the question, Sarah felt a hand on her left knee. Light, unmoving, but present.

“Jana,” said Suzi. “She’s a miracle worker. But she does need time, if it’s something not available here. Customs iere>

Douglas’s fingertips brushed their way up her thigh like Suzi’s paintbrushes, sliding under Sarah’s knit dress and dropping down into the space between her legs. Sarah risked a quick glance down, just in case prying hands were visible to prying eyes. But the bulky canvas drop cloth hid their laps completely. Sarah ate her chicken and returned her gaze to Suzi.

“Tell me about your work with the weapons,” she said, hoping that was enough to keep Suzi talking for several minutes. Although it might not take several minutes. As Sarah shifted her weight onto her elbows and spread her knees slightly, Douglas agilely grasped her leg closest to him and pulled it over his own, giving him the perfect leverage to slide his occupied hand under the elastic of her panties. Sarah tried not to gasp, but as a musician she approved of anyone who had mastered good fingering.

Sarah continued eating her chicken, licking her fingers and taking the opportunity to bite them a little.

“You’re gonna read all about it in the Lobkowicz Collections guidebook, but the family used to have several hunting preserves,” explained Suzi. “To our ears that sounds sort of cruel, keeping animals just for the purpose of killing them someday for sport, but in fact it’s the only reason there’s any undeveloped forest land in Europe today. And it was the way they trained young noblemen for war. Plus it meant employment for hundreds of gamekeepers, gunkeepers, woodsmen, and stable boys. And it probably saved lots of species from extinction. Godfrey’s got the job of cataloging the animals still living in the Lobkowicz lands.” Sarah glanced across the table at the man Suzi had indicated as Godfrey. He had dark, furry brows and a deeply lined tan face.

“Tell Sarah about the critters,” Suzi said.

“There are stags, deer, wild boar, elk,” Godfrey said obediently. “Hares, an ancient oryx who likes popcorn, pheasant of course, ducks, geese, swans, tons of guinea fowl, peacocks . . .” Godfrey continued to list every possible type of bird and mammal as Sarah’s mind grew fuzzy. Douglas was feathering his touches, which was especially impressive, given the odd angle he had to work with. Must be the same delicate method he used to restore watercolors . . .

•   •   •

S
arah felt like she was about to lose it. She wanted to stand up and hoped Doug would follow her out into the hallway, but she simply could not tear herself away from his hand. She couldn’t actually
come
at the table during her first dinner with her new colleagues. Could she? She glanced across the table at Daphne, who smiled at her a little tightly. Miles had left the room to finish his cell phone call. Godfone shrey finished his list of animals and carried his plate off to the kitchen.

Sarah forced herself to rise, hoping her dress would fall correctly down over her thighs.

“Sorry, where’s the bathroom?” asked Sarah.

“Last door on the left down the hallway,” said Suzi. “Are you okay?”

“Just hot,” said Sarah.

She avoided eye contact with Douglas and hoped he would not follow her, even though she knew he would.

Sarah made her way down the dim hall and pushed into the bathroom, not turning on the light. Nothing killed lust faster than fluorescents. She pulled her panties down and put a hand on herself. She pulled a condom out of her purse. Best to be ready for anything. The door pushed open, and Sarah grabbed Douglas’s hand as it reached for the light switch.

“You’ll pay for this,” she said huskily, kissing him deeply. After a moment, he grabbed her ass with his hands and pulled her close. Sarah unzipped the fly of his jeans. Quite a cock on this cockney. Douglas seemed as ready as she was, and Sarah, also a master at fingering, had the condom on him in an instant. The room was very small, with barely room to maneuver. It seemed best to keep things simple.

“Wait,” she said, turning around and lifting her dress. From behind wasn’t the most personal way to have first sex with someone, but in terms of maximizing space it was a winner. It was also a position in which Sarah found it easy to come quickly and this was an emergency. She reached back to offer some guidance, something she had always done ever since a sexually confused hockey player (God, his uniform had smelled great) had tried for anal. She put her hands up against the bathroom wall and thrust her backside against him. He already had her on the edge of insane ecstasy, so the slight friction sent her quickly over the edge. And as she shuddered and gasped with pleasure, so did he.

“Thanks,” she said after the final tremors had faded. Spent in all senses, he rested his head against her shoulder. “Great job. I really needed that. But we better get back before people start to talk.” He nodded into her shoulder, obviously still overcome.

“You go first,” Sarah said, kindly. Douglas left.

Sarah splashed water on her face, pulled her panties on, and smoothed her hair, taking her time. She opened the bathroom door and started confidently back down the hallway. Now she could think straight. Bernard, the Rococo guy—what was his deal? He seemed jumpy. And she needed to meet the others. There was video footage of Sherbatsky’s death. Or was there? Maybe that was a lie. Now that she had broken the ice, so to speak, with Douglas, she might get him to tell her about these ridiculous drug accusations. As she reached for the door to the dining room, it opened. And Douglas stepped out, grinning at her.

“Wanted to be discreet,” he said. “Didn’t miss my chance, did I?”

Sarah blanched and turned back down the hallway.
Oh, Jesus help me,
she thought. Who the hell did I just have sex with?

Before she could begin to make a list of possible suspects, there was a loud crash of breaking glass and an agonized shout from the direction of the ballroom.

She aionle suspectnd Douglas quickly headed in that direction, followed by Suzi, Daphne, and some stragglers from the dining room. They were joined along the corridor by Miles and Godfrey, either of whom could have been her lover, she realized, along with any number of Polish workmen.

But as the crowd rounded the corner into the ballroom, she saw a figure silhouetted against the rising moon shining though the huge arched windows, and with a wrench of her gut she realized there was one more possible identity for the slim, talented swordsman who, though no doubt taken by surprise himself, had taken her to a place of ecstasy.

“Goddamn it, it’s gone,” shouted Prince Max, kicking a hammer that lay on the ground and smashing the remains of a glass case with his bare fist. “The cross is gone.”

Sarah looked at his angry eyes, at the blood streaming down his fist as he shook it at them.

“You’re scum, you’re all a bunch of fucking know-it-all scum, and I consider each and every one of you guilty until proven innocent,” he said, dialing what Sarah guessed was the police.

ELEVEN

C
harlotte Yates read through the latest e-mail message from Miles Wolfmann again. An eleventh-century crucifix had been discovered missing from Lobkowicz Palace sometime between eight and nine p.m., the night before, Czech time. The discovery of the theft was made by Max Lobkowicz Anderson, who had immediately alerted local authorities. During the subsequent search of the palace, the crucifix had been found in the bedroom of one of the visiting academics, who had excused herself from the communal dinner table some fifteen or twenty minutes before the discovery of the theft. This person—one Sarah Weston—denied any knowledge of the article and claimed to have spent the missing time period in the lavatory. She was, in fact, seen by several people exiting the lavatory. Her demeanor was described by two people as being “flushed” and “disoriented,” which Miss Weston attributed to a combination of jet lag and alcohol consumption. Miles Wolfmann did not believe that Sarah Weston had anything to do with the attempted—if that’s what it was—theft, and the fact that the crucifix had been found in plain sight on Miss Weston’s pillow seemed to point to some sort of practical joke by person or persons unknown. Miles Wolfmann had gathered the entire staff together and issued an extremely stern lecture, in which he was joined by an irritated special agent of the Czech police.

It was now five p.m., Washington, D.C., time, and Charlotte Yates decided that it
was
indeed the most ridiculous thing she had heard all day. And that was saying a lot, considering that she was the senior senator from Virginia, chair of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, and spoke to the President of the United States on a regular basis.

Charlotte sent a terse reply to Miles. She then turned to the file on her desk to review the material she had requested on Sarah Weston. The speed at which this material had arrived, the thoroughness of its contents, and the fact that its request had not been documented, was a source of satisfaction. But then, she knew the right people.

Charlotte Yates knew a lot of the right people and she had known them for a long time, and in ways that many of them would go to some lengths to deny, should it come to that.

It wasn’t going to come to that. Still, old habits died hard and some recent events—the Venice disaster—could not be repeated. Now was not the time to get careless with the details. She knew that better than anyone. So with everything else that had to get done today, at least ten minutes needed to be devoted to going over this Sarah Weston’s profile.

Charlotte reached for the gold cigarette case in the bottom left-hand drawer of her desk. The case—eighteenth century and encrusted with sapphires—was too ostentatious to display, but handling such objects gave Charlotte one of the few sensual pleasures she allowed herself. (The case no longer contained cigarettes. She had quit during the campaign of ’86, when a photo of her smoking had been snapped by some idiot and the headlines the next day ran, “The Next Senator from Virginia . . .
Slims
?”) Charlotte selected a short plastic straw, snapped the case shut, rubbed her thumb over a sapphire, and chewed the end of the straw thoughtfully.

Charlotte ran a practiced eye over Sarah Weston’s background information. Slipping into recruitment training learned long ago at the Farm, she found herself looking automatically for signs of a likely operative. From this angle, Miss Weston was not without interest. Extremely high IQ. Working-class background. Dead father. Very athletic. Personally ambitious. A looker, too. In the end, though, Charlotte would have stamped a NWV (Not Worth Vetting) on the file. No doubt Miss Weston was impressive, in her way, but a self-made musicologist wasn’t really Agency material. Charlotte Yates didn’t especially care for music. All that abstract mooning about. Words, that was what moved people. A good play was worth a thousand symphonies. The Greeks. Shakespeare. Schiller.

Still, a few things in Weston’s file struck a chord. Charlotte Yates had been orphaned young, desperately poor, and so brilliant that pretty much everyone hated her when the Agency picked her up. Those had been heady days. She had come to the attention of no less a luminary than John Paisley, director of the CIA’s Office of Security. He had been like a father to her, really. Taught her everything she knew about interrogation techniques and how to . . . get along with Russians. He got her the cushy assignment in Prague. She owed him a lot.

But Charlotte’s admiration of Paisley—like her collection of precious objects—was something she kept very, very private. Of course, they had never been able to
prove
that Paisley was a spy for the KGB or link him to Kennedy’s assassination. But Paisley had ended up in Chesapeake Bay with a bullet in his temple and a thoroughly discredited reputation. And Charlotte Yates ended up . . . well, she wasn’t done yet. There was an office with a pleasing oval shape on the horizon.

Anyway,
she
didn’t consider Sarah Weston to be a possible agent for the home team, but it was always possible the girl was a plant from one of her enemies.

Unlikely. But there had been a few odd things happening at the palace.

•   •   •

C
harlotte tossed the mangled straw into her wastepaper basket and selected another straw from the beautiful cigarette case.

The case had once been the property of the 9th Prince Lobkowicz. She had found it under her pit e billow one night in Prague with a message tucked inside:
The right to own beautiful things should be reserved for the beautiful.

A lovely present from Yuri, the first of many. Charlotte smiled. Poor silly little faux Prince Lobkowicz thought he could put his grubby little mitts all over whatever he wanted, but he’d never track this one down.

Oh, dealing with the situation at the palace would be so much easier if the cousin were in charge. Although if Venice proved anything, it was that Marchesa Elisa might possibly have a screw or two loose. This, too, was worrying.

Charlotte had met Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti at a Heritage Foundation event, years ago. The party had been a sea of beaded jackets and unflattering hairstyles, from which the young Marchesa Elisa, in a ravishing Givenchy sheath and impeccable French twist, had emerged like a finely honed stiletto. Charlotte had turned to an aide to inquire who the glamorous woman might be, and was somewhat startled to hear the name “Lobkowicz.”

After the Velvet Revolution, Charlotte had kept a close eye on events unfolding in Prague. She wasn’t worried that anything connected to her days there with the CIA would emerge, the Agency knew how to keep its secrets. But there had been other . . . involvements that the Agency didn’t know about. Memories in that part of the world were long, and then there was the matter of some personal letters, which Charlotte knew to be concealed somewhere in Lobkowicz Palace. Someone would have to know a very great deal to be able to trace those letters directly back to her, but Charlotte didn’t like the idea of them being out there, beyond her control. A too-thorough examination of the Lobkowicz goodie bag was another concern. So far the red tape had been reassuringly thick and tangled, but Charlotte knew it was important to stay several chess moves ahead. She had turned to an aide.

“What is she doing here?” Charlotte demanded. “Who is she with? What are her affiliations?”

“I’m not sure,” the aide bleated. “I’ll find out of course. Apparently she’s seated at your table for dinner.”

By the time dessert was served, the marchesa had confided to Charlotte in charmingly Italian-accented English her perturbation at being shut out of the Lobkowicz holdings.

“The heirs,” sniffed the marchesa, “are American. ‘A nation of lawyers and plumbers,’ my father used to say. The collection means nothing to them, they have no sense of history, of our family’s position, nothing. If the restitution process goes through, these Americans could get it all back and then put everything away in banks and vaults where no one can enjoy them! Or make a museum for ‘the people.’ My mother always taught me that the best way to keep jewels beautiful was to wear them next to your skin. What good is something that you can only look at?”

Charlotte had nodded sympathetically. Later, on a secluded balcony, she had offered the marchesa a cigarette from her sapphire-encrusted case. It had amused Charlotte—a poor orphan from Virginia—to offer a European aristocrat a smoke from a cigarette case that had once belonged to that same European aristocrat’s family. The marchesa was dying to get her hands on her family’s possessions, and here Charlotte was waving one of those items in front of her. Not that the marchesa would recognize it of course. The world was full of cigarette cases.

“Beautiful,” the marches marcha had said, her eyes glinting.

“Picked it up at a little antiques market in Prague,” Charlotte had replied, with an even smile.

“Ah, you know Prague?”

“I take an interest,” Charlotte had said. “Did you know I am on the board of the American-Czech Cultural Alliance?”

“Oh yes?” The marchesa exhaled smoke through her aquiline nose. “Then of course you might support the treasures of my family being shut away in a museum.”

A photographer wandered out onto the balcony and held up his camera. The two women stopped talking and posed. The photographer moved on.

“Perhaps not
every
treasure,” Charlotte had said, tucking the cigarette case away. “But these things move slowly, and a restitution process will be a very complicated affair. I assume the board would support some kind of museum. If so, I plan on being
very
involved with the administration of this. Your advice could be quite . . . valuable.”

“And if there is anything I can ever assist you with, I am more than happy,” Marchesa Elisa replied. “Perhaps at some point we may . . . cooperate.”

And that had been that, for a while. The various wheels in Prague had churned slowly, and quietly. Charlotte knew the marchesa was doing battle with the American heirs over the property, but she bided her time, waiting.

Recently things had accelerated. The current heir, one Max Anderson, was proving to be irritatingly clever with the red tape despite his youth and inexperience. The Nazis had been one thing. The communists another. But now there were
academics
crawling all over the palace. Of course, now Charlotte was quite a powerful person in Washington, but if her reach was longer, it was that much more exposed flesh. As the first woman to chair the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, the newshawks were always watching, hoping to catch her in a crying jag, or see a tampon fall out of her purse. Always better to let others do the reaching. Safer to be the one directing the puppet. The time to cooperate with the marchesa had come.

Elisa had access to the palace, and while Miles assured Charlotte constantly that he had his eyes on everything, that meant it was important to have eyes on Miles. Charlotte had told Miles to look for love letters from a woman to man. An American woman to a Russian man. In the 1970s. Harmless love letters. Of no historical interest whatsoever. A personal one to her only.

She wanted them back. She needed them back. Charlotte brought the cigarette case to her lips.

The right to own beautiful things should be reserved for the beautiful.

Oh, she had loved Yuri so. And he had loved her, too. Really, it had all been done for love. She had been young, and, yes, a little foolish.

Charlotte cast another quick eye over Miles’s report. Nicolas Pertusato was back at the palace. And apparently he’d been lurking in Venice at the time of the disaster. That little freak show remained the only person she couldn’t get a decent background report on.

Miles needed to get things under control or she was going to have to step in. Well, she would think about it on the flight to Venice. It was tiice>

But listen to the truth:

We will be judged by what we seem to be,

No one is ever tried for what they are.

My right to rule this kingdom is in doubt,

So must my part in her destruction be.

A fog best hides these good and evil acts,

The worst mistake is that which comes to light.

One cannot lose if one does not concede.