Mae shook out the tablecloth and laid the table with Delft plates and silverware for five. Shortly before six, the doorbell rang. Felix barked, ears pricking at the chime. Mae led him to her bedroom, shut him inside, and returned to open the suite’s door to two men. One, smartly dressed, mid-sixties, had white-blond hair that set off tanned, somewhat leathery skin and very white, very straight teeth He held a folio case under his arm. The other, a tall and wiry dreadlocked black man, smiled a smile that didn’t touch the brown eyes behind small, wire-framed glasses. He wore messenger bag across his chest. He’d been in the lobby earlier this afternoon, sitting near Llewelyn with the messenger bag in his lap.
“Good evening.” Mae said.
“Hoi, Kurt Albert. Roger Llewelyn is expecting us.” He pointed, “This is Hans Weed.”
“I’m Valentine. Please come in.” Mae said, stepping aside to let them pass. “May I take your coats?”
Albert handed Weed the case and shrugged out of a raincoat as Llewelyn made a stage entrance, sauntering into the sitting room, leaving the door to his bedroom open wide. “Kurt, my God man, don’t you age?” he boomed.
“As per our mutual deal with Satan, not any more than you do, Roger,” Kurt Albert said with an accent that had mastered the difficult th sound of the English language.
The two men laughed and shook hands, Llewelyn saying, “I ordered a rijsttafel, you know, ‘when in Rome’ and all that.”
“Brave of you. Some dishes can be devilishly spicy—and I love spicy food!” Albert fanned a hand in front of his mouth and turned to Weed. “My minion.”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer demon, sir,” soft-spoken, deep-voiced Weed said, and went on smiling his fixed, flight attendant smile, handing Albert the briefcase and Mae his damp coat. He wore a black roll-neck sweater, a dark grey jacket, an old-fashioned digital watch—the kind with a calculator—and amethyst beads that he pulled down from the right sleeve of his jacket and adjusted on his wrist. His dark eyes remained fastened on her, amiable, phony smile cemented in place. It was unsettling.
With creeping disquiet, Mae returned his ersatz grin with a nod, turned about, set the coats on a chair near Llewelyn’s bedroom, and adjusted hair that fell into her eyes. Earlier, she’d tended to her hair quickly when it was damp with rain, but it had dried with a mind of its own. Loose hair was an impractical irritation when working; a guest finding hair in their food or stuck to the side of a glass was a sign of unprofessional carelessness. She knew the state of her hair didn’t reflect carelessness as much as it did the havoc of the afternoon. Residual effects of the last two days had left her with a burrowing, dishevelled, utter lack of equilibrium, which cognitively she knew was perfectly normal for the death and shocking inhumanity she had witnessed, for the violence she had experienced. Again.
What was the word Kitt had used? Resilient? Yes, that was it. She was resilient. She bounced back like the lock of the hair curling and spilling over her eye. She paused at the edge of the room, near the swinging door to the small kitchen, pushing back hair, studying the guests, waiting to spring back like a lock of hair, like cake that had baked to perfection. Suddenly feeling undercooked and gluey instead, she took a breath and seized well-practised activity, clinging to the simple, yet productive, professional task of offering drinks to Llewelyn’s guests who weren’t really guests, and entered the sitting room. “May I offer you a beverage or cocktail?” she said. “I have several off-dry whites, a rosé, a chilled pinot noir, and a ripe but not overly spirituous Australian shiraz, as well as beer and other spirits.”
Weed looked her up and down once more and sank into a roll-armed chair. Albert removed a manila file folder from his case and set it on the coffee table in front of Llewelyn. “This is for you later, Roger,” he tapped the folder, “as per our discussion. I believe you’ve already had a look at the documents Weed delivered earlier. You’ll enjoy what he turned up this afternoon, it’s tucked in the blue file.” He took a seat in the wide armchair, crossing his legs, arm draped casually over the back of the seat. “We’re briefed and we’re ready.”
“Splendid. Any questions about how this will run?” Seated on the sofa, Llewelyn tipped his chin and waited.
“Where is your man?” Weed said quietly, his timbre as low as bassoon, his English tinted by Dutch inflection.
“The Major will be along with the woman shortly. I hope. I am famished.” Llewelyn cast his eyes to Mae.
She stood at the end of the sofa, waiting to proceed. Before Arthur and his AIVD team had arrived, she’d been briefed too, her part explained; she was Professor Boothroyd’s butler—not much of a stretch, Llewelyn wanted to keep things simple, convincing, as normal as possible for her—while dinner ‘guests’ Albert and Weed had been, in one way or another, ‘victims’ of theft from the secure storage facility at the Luxembourg freeport. Everyone had a cover and a story to match. The commonality was that they had, one way or another, met Ruby Bleuville.
“Before we get on with it,” Weed sat back and played with the amethyst beads around his wrist, “I believe there was an offer of a drink.” The man glanced up at Mae. “Water,” he said, smiling, his voice soft, warmth absent from his unsmiling eyes.
“I’ll have the pinot noir,” Albert nodded politely and Felix began to howl, the noise a muted, ghostly, wavering WooOooooOoo.
Llewelyn subtly cleared his throat. “Mrs Valentine, see to the little man.”
“Of course.” Mae crossed to her bedroom, where the dog was corralled for the evening. Along with scooping up poo, Kitt had taken it upon himself to pick up a packet of Dent-a-chews bones before they’d returned from walking the dog. She gave Felix a cuddle and a chew stick, and returned to the sitting room. Weed’s rich brown eyes followed her as she entered, his gaze boring into her as Llewelyn tidied papers and tucked them into the blue folder on the coffee table. “May I get you a drink, Professor?” she said, the periphery of her vision picking up Weed continuing to study her.
“I’ll have my chai, thank you.” Llewelyn poked his thumb in the direction of the dining table. “We’ll dine as soon as my man arrives.”
Weed shifted in his seat, drew a handkerchief from a pocket and sneezed, the sound dampened by the folded wad of cotton.
“Will you excuse me?” Mae headed for the kitchen and organised a tray with a wine glass, a tumbler of water, a Delft tea cup. She a spooned loose, aromatic spiced chai into a small teapot. Once the electric kettle had boiled, she poured water into the teapot and the doorbell chimed, Felix letting out another muffled bark. She went to welcome the last two guests, only to find the two waiters from earlier had returned with the food. Mae led them to the dining room. The short man wheeled the delivery cart across the polished wood and carpet, and placed covered warming dishes from the cart onto the dining table.
As the pair departed with the delivery trolley, Kitt appeared—with Tanja Goedenacht. “It was quite a disaster,” he said, his attention fixed on Tanja Goedenacht, his bottom-lip biting expression mirroring hers. Then the woman smiled at him as if he’d shared something a little embarrassing, something a little intimate.
The plan had been for Kitt to meet Ms Goedenacht at a bar near the hotel before bringing her to dinner, and here they were, together, looking a bit beguiled by one another. “Good evening, sir,” Mae said, stepping into a momentary time-machine that re-acquainted her with the not-so-distant past.
In unison, the pair looked at her, Ms Goedenacht’s arm through the crook of his elbow. “Oh, hello,” Kitt said. He gave Mae a casual nod of thanks as she ushered them inside and took the young woman’s black coat.
“Leslie!” Llewelyn rose and crossed the room, hand extended. “Dear boy, we were about to start dining without you!”
“Professor Boothroyd, good to see you again.” Kitt shook his superior’s hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Mae stood aside. Rehearsal was over. The play had begun. Weed stopped watching her and turned his heatless, dead-eyed smile to Ms
Goedenacht. Jaysus, the soft-spoken, amethyst bead-wearing man was the Dutch version of Kitt.
“Come in, come in.” He gestured, to the others, “Gentlemen, this is Leslie Templar, and…well, I think it’s safe to say you’re not Mr Vlaming.”
“Mr Vlaming couldn’t make it, Professor, this is Tanja Goedenacht.” Kitt said.
Tanja released Kitt’s arm, gathered her loose dark hair, dropped its long onyx length over the front of her shoulder, and extended her hand. “Aangenaam.”
“Tanja, meet Professor Boothroyd.”
Llewelyn, now ‘Professor Boothroyd’, took Tanja’s hand and smiled his charming matinee idol smile. “It’s Caratacus, dear boy, Caratacus. We’re all friends here,” he said, warmly, gesturing to the sitting room, leading the way, “
Mae turned to Kitt. “Your coat, sir?” she said before mouthing, ‘Caratacus?’
One brow arched, Kitt slid a finger up her wrist as he handed over his coat. He followed Brigadier Professor Caratacus Boothroyd Llewelyn as he ushered Tanja to a sofa and presented her to his other guests. “Let me introduce Kurt Albert and his friend Hans Weed.”
“Hi.” Weed rose, gave a small wave, and blew his nose.
“Goedenavond, Goedenacht!” Kurt stayed seated and bobbed his head, laughing. “That’s not the first time you’ve heard that joke, is it?” he said, grinning.
Smiling, Tanja sat. “No, it’s not.”
“Did someone tell a joke?” Llewelyn leaned in. “I love a good joke!”
“It’s a bad joke, Caratacus,” Weed said, “a play on the surname Goedenacht, which translates to good night, Albert said ‘goedenavond, goedenacht,’ or ‘good evening, goodnight.’ Not exactly comedy genius.”
Kitt swivelled to look at Mae, waiting behind everyone with unobtrusive patience, hands clasped. “Sorry. I didn’t get your name,” he said just loud enough to be overheard.
“I’m Valentine. The butler, sir.” She stepped forward. “May I offer you and Ms Goedenacht a drink?”
“What’s everyone else having?” Tanja glanced about at the others.
“Mr Weed is having water, Mr Arthur a bit of red wine, the Professor, chai, but I can offer you white wine, beer, bourbon, Scotch, vodka, gin, and rum.”
“Oh, chai, I’d love the chai, please.” Tanja crossed her legs and three men watched her wiggle down the salmon-pink dress that had bunched up her thighs. She adjusted a black necklace, pulling a heart-shaped pendant from her bosom.
“I’ll take bourbon, thank you,” Kitt said, watching Mae watch Tanja and the men. Absently, his wife rolled the necklace he insisted she wear through her fingers, feeling for the diamond ring he’d given her. It was there, hanging between her reading glasses and the largest gold coin. For nearly two decades, she’d worn Caspar’s ring the same way, and she fiddled with the platinum and diamond the same way she had her first husband’s wedding ring. Her hair, usually so tidy in a French braid or twist, was tousled, loosened strands drooping in the back, a lock over her forehead, but the style held together the way Mae did. She’d dug in, locked herself into being productive, focusing on work she was accustomed to, but locked-in woman and twisted hair would both unravel. The signs were already there. “I’ll have bourbon, Mrs Valentine,” he said again.
He jarred her back to the moment by his use of Mrs, and Mae half-turned to Kitt, dropping the necklace. “Of course, sir. Ice?”
“Yes, thank you.” He smiled, held her gaze for a moment, seeing fear, anger, and…contrary determination. With a nod, she moved off to the kitchen.
Mae picked up where she’d left off, making the chai, pouring Yellow Label Two Roses Bourbon over ice, filling a water goblet and a glass with wine. She took the tray of drinks to the sitting room, and served them. “Dinner is ready when you are, Professor,” she said, as she poured Tanja and ‘Caratacus Boothroyd’ milky tea with a Christmas-like scent.
“Thank you, Mrs Valentine,” Llewelyn said and Felix let out another ghostly little WooOooo.
“Do you have a dog?” Tanja smiled.
“Indeed, I have.” Llewelyn grinned back. “Would you like to meet him?” He glanced at Mae.
“Please.” Hans lifted his handkerchief, dabbing his nose. “I’m allergic to dogs,” he said.
Mae stayed where she was. Allergic? Right. Felix would remain in her room as the show went on, actors playing their roles. Her role was to remain passive and attentive whilst fading into the background.
“You were saying you’d retired, Caratacus?” Albert asked.
“Yes, I was at Wageningen University. And you, Hans?”
Weed went all method, embracing his role and acting the hell out of it, his accent something middle American. “I’m a jazz musician—banjo and clarinet. No, you haven’t heard of me. I’m not a front man, but I am, if I can blow my own horn, well-known in the industry. I play,” he said with a rumbly, sniffy laugh, “well with others. I also compose music for television in the Benelux.”
“He’s done the music for Ongeluk, a popular series about stupid criminals.” Albert smiled. “The British picked up and called it Bad Luck and made very serious, but they kept Hans’s score.”
“Maybe you’ve you seen Bad Luck, Leslie?” Weed said.
“Lots of it.”
“It’s quite dark.” Llewelyn gave a gleeful smile. “But that’s what makes it so enjoyable.” He put his hands together. “Righty-o. Shall we eat?”
Wine in hand, Arthur got to his feet and made a beeline to the table, choosing a seat, lifting the lids from covered dishes, steam rising from the beef rendang. The others followed suit. Mae moved to the end of the sideboard where the bar had been set up. Kitt put his drink next to a plate, pulled out a chair for Tanja Goedenacht, and took the place beside her.
This rijsttafel—a Dutch-Indonesian fusion cuisine—spread many small dishes, from beef rendang, pork babi kecap, vegetable gado gado, to rice, fruit, and egg rolls across the table. Arthur examined everything on offer, and spooned small portions of whatever was savoury onto bone china. He scooted closer to the table, bumping it, shaking it, knocking a hard-boiled egg from a bowl. The egg rolled across the tablecloth and tumbled to the floor.
“I’m kinda curious. How did you meet Leslie, Tanja?” Weed asked, watching Mae pick up the egg and wipe up bits of yolk from carpet with a tea towel.
“We met this morning, actually, at De Hortus—the Botanic garden in Amsterdam. He was interviewing my boss.” She gave Kitt a smile.
“Tanja works for Jan Vlaming, a gentleman Hedison’s may not have actually dealt with in what appears may be another case of identity fraud.”
Tanja’s smile wavered. “Is this a business dinner for you, Leslie?”
“Just a little one,” Kitt nodded contritely. “These gentlemen have stories that may interest you, and perhaps alleviate Jan’s concerns about implicating himself.” He looked at Kurt Arthur. “Would you mind telling Tanja what happened?”
“Fraud,” Arthur heaved a small huff and licked a reddish sauce from his thumb. “Seems your boss and the Professor and I all have Hedison’s and fraud in common. Hans and I met the Professor and Leslie earlier this year to discuss fraud. Two years ago, I sold a painting at auction with Hedison’s, only to have Hedison’s tell me it was a forgery and then proceed to sue me to repay them the amount of the original sale, plus ten percent interest, as well as the art examiner fees and legal fees.”
Tanja’s pretty mouth dropped opened, brows arched, serving spoon frozen between the bowl and her plate. Yellow rice fell from the spoon and landed opposite the red hard-boiled egg stains on the tablecloth. “Hedison’s is suing you?”
“Hedison’s was suing Mr Arthur.” Kitt said, laying a skewer of satay chicken onto his plate. “Please go on, Mr Arthur.”
Forkful of food at his mouth, the AIVD director exhaled, laid his bite aside, and showed his chops as an actor. “Maybe you read about it, or saw news reports on television. The painting, a Judith Leyster, had been in my family for
generations, hanging on the dining room wall at my family home. My family home is very old and very expensive to keep. Like many estates in the UK, we run a bed and breakfast and only open it to the public at fixed times during the year, or sometimes by appointment, to help with the costs. Prior to my attempt to sell the painting, we were preparing to undertake extensive restorations to the house and move many things, the painting included, to storage at the Freeport in Luxembourg, but we were able to keep portions of the house open as we made out preparations. During that time, I had a small group come to stay. Among them was an American woman, very pretty. She worked for an auction house in Texas. We chatted. I showed her the painting. We talked about the safety of freeports over the usual climate controlled secure storage facilities. I am fortunate that Hans reads the news often. A few months ago, he came across a story about counterfeit wine, antiquities smuggling, and theft of stealing from freeports by a ring of criminals headed by a woman with a master key fob. I had my solicitor contact Hedison’s.”
“Potverdorie, my boss had jewellery stolen from a facility in Luxembourg,” Tanja sipped chai to wash down a bite of gado gado. “This is why you wanted me to join you for dinner, Leslie.”
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.” Kitt looked at her and wiped away the tiny sheen of sweat that had sprung up on his top lip. The bebek goring—fried duck with hot and spicy chili paste—packed quite a punch.
Weed must have found the food a bit hot as well. He coughed, had a long gulp of water, and dabbed his upper lip. “You were blinded by a pretty woman, Kurt. Bet your boss was too, Tanja.” He had another sip of water and passed the bebek goring to Llewelyn.
“She was a beautiful redhead,” Arthur said over the ting-ting of Llewelyn tapping a spoon of fried duck onto his plate.
“You do love redheads, Kurt.” Weed shook his head and had a rather savage bite of a chicken satay skewer, his eyes sliding to Mae.
Mae filled a water glass on Weed’s right and moved along to Albert, making her way around the table.
True to Your Service Page 17
