In the Shadow of Men

by Darren Swart

  McPherson moved them swiftly through the vestibule, almost leading them into a trot. A short hall separated the vestibule from an even larger marble chamber, with massive columns sprouting intricately carved marble arches. Marty practically skipped over the rich orange hews of the Italian marble floors. Every footfall clattered hollowly, as they passed through the chamber. Marty caught glimpses of scattered works of art, one of which was most certainly a Van Gogh. McPherson’s grip tightened on his handcuffs, as they moved on from the chamber into a plush paneled hall. The thick Karastan carpets deadened their footfalls. Marty sensed a flurry of activity behind the walls. He could not explain why he felt there were people watching them, but he sensed that something or someone was there.

  After what seemed an eternity, McPherson stopped before a paneled door. He opened the door and pushed Marty forward. He stopped Marty at the door and held his manacles tightly from behind. In what seemed like a split second, the cuffs were off and Marty was pushed off balance into the room. The door slammed shut behind him and the unmistakable click of the tumbler sounded. Marty smiled to himself. He wondered why they were locking him in. He couldn’t find his way out of this labyrinth. He rubbed his aching wrists and looked around the room. The main room was larger than his condo. The fourteen-foot ceiling was a graceful fresco of blue skies and puffy white clouds, with tree branches and birds along the edges. It was like looking up on a warm spring day. The room was divided into functional zones; one for entertaining, one for business and one for reading. Each area was furnished with contemporary furniture balanced with priceless artifacts for contrast; ancient Chinese jade carvings adorned rose wood tables. A Chippendale Escritoire Desk with the finest watermarked bonded paper was laid out, ready for a quick letter to a dear friend. Built-in cherry bookcases framed a fireplace large enough to roast a pig. A dozen different flower arrangements were scattered throughout the room, with a comparable number of tiffany lamps. The walls were a series of tailored panels covered in Chinese silk and gleaming with gold fleur de lis patterns. The wallpaper alone was probably worth more than his annual salary. A small bar was tucked discreetly in the corner with a dozen different liquors, including a bottle of Glenlivet. While tempted, he thought better of it. He moved toward the windows. He could just make out the iron bars through the stained glass. It didn’t look like he was going anywhere tonight.

  An enormous sleigh bed awaited him. The cover had been turned down and a mint awaited him on the pillow.

  He ran his hand across the coolness of the silk linens, wondering if he were being kidnapped or coddled to death. Even at his six-foot-two-inch frame, he had to hop onto the bed. He kicked his shoes off. Each landed with a thunk in the floor. He laid back and closed his eyes. It was time to make some calls.

  ****

  The delicious combination of cool wet sand between her toes and warm sun on her skin felt delicious. She looked down her brown toes, as they wiggled in the sticky white sand. She smiled at the deep maroon of her toenails. They were just the right color. Satisfied, she smiled at them. They strolled along the edge of the surf, looking out over the breaking waves of aquamarine water. The surf seemed to rinse her free of pain and guilt, as it washed over her feet. She said aloud, “I hate my thighs. They’re too big.”

  A familiar voice responded with, “I think they’re perfect the way they are.”

  She turned to face her love beside her in the surf. His strawberry blond curls tussled by the ocean breeze. “You really think so?”

  Boyish dimples materialized, as he smiled. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find anything wrong with your legs, or anything they’re connected to. Call me crazy.”

  She giggled. “Okay… Crazy.”

  He flashed a lopsided grin.

  Dreamily, she asked, “Where are we, Sweetie?”

  “Someplace safe. I wanted you to know I was okay.”

  She locked her arm around his hip and pulled him close. “Can we stay here for a while?”

  His hand fell comfortably to the small of her waist. He pulled her tight against him and kissed her head, tenderly. “As long as you like.”

  A delectable ocean breeze teased her nostrils. She closed her eyes and drew it in. The beach was theirs. It was different than any shoreline she had seen. A large cranberry sun sat on the horizon, purple tinted sands sparkled and danced in the setting sun, and silver crests on topped the azure blue waves. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  He said simply, “Row, row, row your boat…”

  She smiled and looked back at her toes.

  He continued, “I need to know something, though.”

  She pouted. “Must we talk shop so soon?”

  “Sorry. McPherson led me away at knifepoint. I’m in a castle near Innsbruck. The funny thing is when we flew here, the plane was almost identical to the one we came to France on. I get the feeling that Franz and Dick are working for the same person.”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were a lovely shade of violet and deeply serious. “That makes sense. Digger said Franz lied to us when he was asking the old man where you went. I suspect it means he knows more than he’s telling.”

  “Don’t underestimate him. These people have the kind of power to make us disappear.”

  She gave him a wicked little grin. “Yeah, I know. But you see, in this particular snake pit, I’m one of the snakes. Franz knows me. He knows what I’m capable of. I think I’m pretty sure I can get him to cooperate.”

  Along the edge of the ocean, the skies turned a lovely shade of amber, cresting the now orange setting sun. Clouds crossed over a deep backdrop of violet. She looked up at Marty. “It’s so beautiful. Did you create that for me?”

  “O, speak again, bright angel; for thou art

  As glorious to this night, being over my head,

  As is a winged messenger of heaven

  Unto the white upturned wondering eyes

  Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him

  When he bestrides the lazy-passing clouds

  And sails upon the bosom of the air.”

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye. “That’s beautiful.”

  He smiled. “Romeo and Juliet; Act Two Scene One.”

  She wrapped her free arm around him and pulled him tighter, wishing they never had to wake up.

  ****

  Had he been able, he would have noticed the ugly red glare of the digital clock which read 5:00 am to remind him of what time he first noticed the horrible pain in his jaw. It was like a toothache, but worse. Half-asleep, he tried to move his hand toward his jaw when he realized he couldn’t move his hand at all. Adrenaline surged through his system, as his eyes popped open. All four limbs were securely tied to the thick wooden bed posts. In the darkness, he could only see the outline of her shape over him. However, her scent was unmistakable; musky, yet enticing. Had he not been scared senseless, he might have been aroused. He could feel her hot breath on his ear, as she whispered in sultry voice, “Where is Martin Wood?”

  He strained futilely at his bonds. “My dear, have you gone mad? Untie me this instant, so we can discuss this civilly. I know you and Wood have developed some sort of relationship, but this is sheer madness.” His eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see her eyes. They were two narrowed slits, glittering in the darkness.

  “Wrong answer.” She laid the dagger beside him. Franz relaxed, thinking she would release him when, to his dismay, she picked up a hand towel and dragged it slowly along his belly toward his mouth. Fearing what she would do next, he clamped his mouth shut. He could just make out her sneer in the dim light. Without warning, she slapped his bare stomach with an open hand. As he yelped, she stuffed the towel in. His eyes bulged in panic. She picked up the blade and let the cold metal slide innocently along his side. She watched as small bumps of flesh came to attention on his fat little belly. He tried to move away. Despite the coolness of the room, beads of perspiration bathed his body, as he frantically s
hook his head and made gurgling noises into the towel. She watched his nostrils flare, while panicked breaths labored through the small openings. Tears traced a slow path over his round cheek and into his ear.

  She studied him for a moment. The blade reached his hand where it stopped. Her free hand moved so quickly, he never saw it. She gripped his pinky finger in an iron grasp. Ever so slowly, she inserted the blade under the nail and into the soft tissue beneath. Agony wrenched a muffled scream into the towel, as he writhed in pain. He rocked back and forth, trying to break free. She turned the blade slightly. His eyes grew wide and his nostrils almost closed, as he sucked in air. Suddenly, she withdrew the knife and sat back. A single drop of blood dripped from his finger to the sheets below. She watched, as his sweat-slick body relaxed back onto the bed. His gaze still darted back and forth. Moving the blade away from his hand, she laid it beside him on the bed. She reached down and pulled the towel from his mouth.

  He lay there, panting. “Y-you don’t understand. He’ll kill me.”

  “Trust me, dear Franz. I do understand. But what you need to ask yourself is—do you want to die slowly being tortured to death, or quickly and cleanly by McPherson’s bullet with your name on it? It shouldn’t be too hard to find a castle one hundred kilometers East/Northeast of Innsbruck.”

  Even in the relative darkness, she could see his eyebrows knit in confusion. She lowered herself closer to his ear and whispered huskily, “If you don’t take me to him, I will rent this room, put out a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and take you apart one small piece at a time.”

  He swallowed hard. “I’ll take you to him. Please… just don’t hurt me anymore!”

  She whispered softly to him. “Okay. But remember, play nice. You don’t want to get on my bad side. I’m sure there are lots of cozy rooms between here and Innsbruck.”

  “I-I understand. I wouldn’t d-do that.”

  She stood and moved to the foot of the bed. Lithely, she moved between the posts at the foot of the bed. Almost seductively, she caressed his naked foot. The blade chimed as she sliced the rope from his foot with blinding speed. She moved like a cat, one that was playing with its prey. She slid the knife back in the leather scabbard under her pants leg. It felt good to be back in the game.

  Franz looked at her, disdainfully. “May I at least be allowed to dress before we leave?”

  “By all means.”

  “In private?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen bigger raisins.”

  He blushed. She could see it even in the darkness. Within a few moments, they were standing in front of Digger’s door. Franz knocked softly. Much to his surprise, Digger immediately opened the door. Digger dropped his bag at Franz’s feet. In his best British accent, he said, “I say, Jeeves, would you be so kind as to stow that in the boot?”

  Franz wondered which was worse; being killed by the duke, or being mocked by insufferable Americans all the way there. Neither option seemed very palatable.

  Chapter 32

  Marty awoke to the smell of lilac. Confused, he wondered if he was still dreaming. You aren’t supposed to smell in your dreams. He drew in a deep breath and stretched. Still clothed, he was under the covers. He sat up and threw back the covers. As he did, he came eye-to-eye with a small dapper man standing beside the bed. Dressed in the standard attire of a valet, he looked like he had been strapped to a board. His English was crisp and clean like his uniform. “Good morning, Sir.”

  Marty yawned, rubbed his eyes and blinked. The dapper man wasn’t pointing a gun at him. That was a good sign.

  He mumbled, “Mornin’.”

  The little man looked around, as though there were someone else in the room. He whispered to Marty, “Are you from Tex-ass?”

  Marty snorted, “Nah man, a might farther north.”

  He didn’t wait for a response and walked to the bathroom, which was no exception to the rest of the suite. All of his essential grooming needs were already laid out for him in perfect order. He wondered if Brice was hiding under the bed. He smacked his lips and rubbed the rough stubble on his chin. He felt grimy for some reason. He contemplated how to broach the subject for a change of clothes, only to find them laid out for him as he walked back into the bedroom. Again, Marty struggled to see the downside of the whole kidnapping scenario. He quit trying to reason it all out and grabbed a navy polo shirt and a pair of khakis. He looked at the thin little man and asked, “Underwear?”

  The valet replied, “Behind the door in the washroom, Sir.”

  He nodded and meandered back to the bath. He gave the shower the once over and realized that it was big enough to wash his car in. Hot water began to peel away the layers of slumber. He stood there, soaking in the steam and letting the hot water wash across his back and shoulders. He thought about what he should do next. Knocking out the valet and stealing his uniform was out of the question. The man was half his size. He decided to play it out and hope Gillian would find him in time. As he stepped out of the shower, he felt like a new man, only to find the valet waiting patiently with a towel. He smiled at the little man nervously and said, “Thanks, Guy, I’ve got this.” He took the towel from his hand.

  Unperturbed, the small man responded, “Very good, Sir, Will there be anything else?”

  Marty smiled. “No, thanks anyway.” He wondered what he had in store after this. He wandered back out to the main room, dressed but barefoot. Shoes were laid out in a variety of styles. He chose a comfortable pair of Italian loafers. They were possibly the most comfortable pair of shoes he had ever worn. Marty realized he didn’t know the man’s name who had been so dutifully attending to his every need. With a polite smile, he asked, “My apologies, Sir, but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  The valet seemed confused for a moment. He wasn’t used to a guest trying to get acquainted. He responded “It’s Hans Sir. My name is Hans.”

  Marty extended his hand. Hans timidly extended his own. Marty grabbed the little man’s hand and shook, vigorously. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hans.”

  Hans’ eyes grew large. No one ever touched the hired help. The American was clearly insane. Marty continued to smile, as he asked, “So what’s on the agenda for today, Hans?”

  Hans responded quietly, “Breakfast with the Master, Sir. I am to escort you to the Small Dining Hall.”

  With a degree of false bravado, Marty said, “Tally ho then. Let’s be off, shall we?”

  Wide-eyed, Hans blinked at Marty.

  ****

  Anna inspected herself in the mirror. She smoothed her blonde hair to ensure that there were no strays. She turned side-to-side. There were no wrinkles in the perfectly tailored uniform. Her uniform was starched to the point that it almost wouldn’t bend. The new Butler, Klaus, had briefed each of the staff, individually on the arrangements. The American would be coming to breakfast. There were to be no mishaps. She had not seen this much excitement since President Dubrovsky of the Russian Federation had visited more than two years ago. The American must be important for the duke to take breakfast with him. She practiced her curtsy once again in the mirror, hoping that the move would please her master.

  ****

  The small dining room turned out to be a misnomer by most standards. The room was as big as his high school gym. The rich walnut table was big enough to play shuffle board on. Flower arrangements of plump orange tiger lilies dotted the table in several locations, giving the room a smell of polish and flowers, like a funeral parlor. There were only two place settings. A small army of servants feverishly worked along the edges of the room preparing coffee, tea, juices and other beverages Marty couldn’t identify.

  With innocence, Marty looked at Hans. “So, Hans, which seat would you like?”

  Horrified, he responded, “Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t possibly do that.”

  Marty shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Okay, see you on the racket ball court in about an hour.”

  Hans looked confused, bowed slightly,
and backed away from him. Marty snickered, as he sat. He had hardly gotten settled in the chair when a blonde angel approached him. In perfect English, she curtsied and asked, “Coffee, sir?”

  “Sure.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whipped?”

  He paused and smiled. “Just cream and sugar will be fine. Thanks.”

  She curtsied again and moved to the side bar, where several urns were set up. She returned to the table a moment later and waited patiently until Marty tasted it. The aroma was seductive. It was amazingly strong and yet it lacked a certain bitterness, which added a perverse irony to his current situation. “This is the best coffee I’ve ever had, what is it?”

  She stared at for a moment, surprised at the politeness of one of the duke’s guests. She smiled radiantly when she responded, “Kopi Luwak. It is flown here daily from Manila.”

  He nodded and smiled, enjoying the sweet richness of the flavor. I could get used to this. He looked over the brim of the cup in time to see a polished man walking briskly toward him. With an athletic grace, he covered the distance quickly. His coal black hair was kissed with a touch of silver at each ear. Crystal blue eyes moved constantly, giving nothing to chance. His mouth was framed by an envious cleft chin, yielding a rugged handsomeness. The royal blue tones of his Armani blazer accented the razor sharp crease in his khakis. It gave him a finished, relaxed look. Marty instinctively stood as he approached.

  He smiled, as he closed in on Marty. Double rows of pearls greeted Marty when he smiled. In a smooth tenor, he greeted Marty openly, “Ah. Good morning, Martin. Duke Frederick Lindenspear. Please call me Frederick.”

  Members of the staff exchanged glances. No one had ever heard such an informal greeting from the duke.

  Marty extended his hand in greeting. With an easy smile, he responded, “My pleasure, sir.”

  The duke’s grip was firm and assertive. But then, so was Marty’s.