by Magnus Flyte
What were the names of those stupid dogs? Lucy and something? She was distracted.
All right. Time to bring the ship into port. Charlotte folded her mangled straw into a tissue and tossed it away. She picked up the phone and buzzed Madge.
“I’ll see Mr. Wolfmann now,” Charlotte said sweetly.
“Yes, ma’am. I will show him in.” Madge sounded relieved. Miles was probably sweating all over the furniture.
“Send him in, Madge. Don’t show him in.”
“Yes, Madam Senator.”
Charlotte remained seated. She picked up a folder from her desk and pretended to be absorbed.
“Shut the door behind you,” Charlotte said, without looking up from her papers. She listened to the sound of the door click and Miles clearing his throat. At one end of her office was a sitting area, with a fireplace, and there were two comfortable leather chairs facing her desk. Miles was treading water on the carpet in the middle of the room, clearly uncertain as to where to go. From her peripheral vision, she caught sight of a brown briefcase clutched in his right hand. Charlotte resisted the urge to leap over her desk and snatch it away. Timing was everything. She let Miles cool his heels for a minute, then two, then three.
Finally she looked up, casually. Miles was ashen, and needed a shave. His suit was rumpled. There was a dark stain on his tie.
“Have a seat,” Charlotte said, neutrally, not indicating one.
Miles shuffled back and forth on the carpet and finally decided on one of the chairs in front of her desk. Charlotte closed her folder and watched him impassively until he was seated. He held the briefcase in his lap, like a dog.
“Madam Senator,” Miles began bravely. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on here but—”
“Well, Miles,” Charlotte said, pleasantly. “It’s lucky for you that I know what’s going on, isn’t it?”
She let him digest that for a minute. She didn’t want to ask him to hand over the briefcase. She wanted him to offer it to her. She wanted him to remember that he had given her the letters. He would not be able to say that he had been forced, or any of that nonsense.
“You look a little tired.” Charlotte gave him a fractional smile. “If you had informed me beforehand of your travel plans I could have arranged a more comfortable flight.”
“I felt it best to act quickly,” Miles began, with an admirable attempt at professional sangfroid. “I had only just come into possession of the . . . the papers. I made a quick survey of them and determined that they were the ones you had commissioned me to . . . put aside for you. I placed the documents in my safe. Certain events at the palace of late made me feel that my own computer and cell phone might be compromised. I determined that it was best if I simply delivered the documents to you in person. I did not want to risk their exposure, or misplacement.”
Charlotte nodded sympathetically. She had wondered what sort of story he was going to come up with. Still, he held the briefcase in his lap. She noticed that his knuckles were white. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip.
“I thought I might hght I miave been followed,” Miles continued. “To the airport. In order to throw my pursuer off, I decided to pretend to book a flight to the Netherlands. My plan was to try to lose whoever was following me in the crowd, then double back and find a flight to Washington.”
“Goodness,” Charlotte said, mildly. “This is all sounding like one of those spy novels. You took considerable risks.”
“With all due respect, Madam Senator,” Miles said softly, “I think you know more about taking risks than I do.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
“Is that what you think?” Charlotte drummed the nails of her right hand sharply against her desk. She didn’t appreciate the implication one bit. An off-the-record joke or two about the old days with a couple of five-star generals or the Secretary of Defense (darling Todd, he ate out of her hand) was one thing, but she wasn’t going to allow Miles Wolfmann that kind of latitude. Perhaps it was time to remind him of the carrot, though, before she started employing the stick.
“Well, I certainly appreciate the eagerness with which you have fulfilled your commission,” Charlotte said, crisply. “I know you’ve been most anxious to secure a position as director of the Smithsonian, and as we discussed earlier, I think that is about to become a very real possibility. I take it you are still interested in the job? The post will be vacant in three months and will need to be filled quickly. I wouldn’t want to recommend someone who wasn’t interested. Especially when I know how seriously my recommendations are considered.”
“Actually,” Miles cleared his throat, “I’ve been offered a permanent position as head of the Lobkowicz Collection. It’s a very attractive offer.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Charlotte smiled. “I thought you’d be pleased. I thought you would enjoy saying no. I’ve always found it empowering, myself.”
“Oh.” Miles blinked.
“Naturally”—Charlotte shuffled some papers on her desk— “if you prefer to stay in Prague that’s entirely your decision. I should tell you, though, that under those circumstances I won’t be able to extend your current level of . . . protection.”
“Protection?” Miles swallowed and shifted in his chair.
“I’m afraid your suspicions were correct,” Charlotte sighed sadly. “You were followed to the airport. Luckily my man was able to get to you first and escort you here safely. Naturally I didn’t want to expose you to any unpleasantness when you’ve done such a thorough job of looking after the restitution of all those lovely little Czech goodies. I understand there’s to be quite a glamorous unveiling of the family holdings in September. I’m attending myself, did you hear? I could use a vacation.”
She could practically see the little cogs of his brain turning.
“I’m a little surprised that you are considering staying on. I should have thought the directorship of the Smithsonian was somewhat more alluring, but of course if you’ve changed your mind . . .” Charlotte let her words trail off.
“Protection?” Miles asked again. “But, now that you have . . . I mean . . . I thought this would be the would beend of it all.”
“It ends when I say it ends,” Charlotte said, evenly. “And not before. I think it ends with you in a corner office at the Smithsonian and a budget that would make the Lobkowiczes green with envy.”
“I . . .” Miles fumbled.
“How is the little prince, by the way? Your reports seem to indicate that you’ve found him slightly difficult to work with. And the Sarah Weston girl, too. I suggested you find a way to get the girl away from Max, break the whole thing up. Really, it can’t be that hard. The Weston person seems to have a knack for getting herself arrested.”
“I tried, but she’s clever,” Miles said defensively. Then he looked up at Charlotte nervously. “But she’s not . . . she’s not dangerous. Just ambitious. I think she’s hoping to make her career with some kind of breakthrough in Beethoven scholarship. And Max is probably just hoping to get hold of something he can sell off on the sly. He’s looking for something. Some family possession.”
“Something that’s not on the list?” Charlotte found herself mildly interested in this. She thought she knew about all the really good stuff.
“He and Nicolas Pertusato have been digging around,” Miles said. “And before, when Absalom Sherbatsky . . . there’s . . . I think it has something to do with Beethoven. But I can’t figure it out.”
“Hmmmm.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Miles amended hastily, looking even more green. There was nothing like a guilty conscience. It was better than fear for making people rat out their friends and colleagues.
“Well, I assure you the position at the Smithsonian will be far less . . . sticky,” Charlotte said, with a show of sympathy. “If there’s one thing I understand it’s how important it is to have room to do one’s work properly. Can’t have a bunch of amateurs looming over your shoulder. Or
Russian agents, for that matter. Pesky things. They always seem to want something. Even in these days of friendship and transparency.” She enjoyed watching Miles chew over this last bit.
“You said . . .” Miles’s voice was shaking and he stopped for a moment. Charlotte glanced at her wristwatch. Really, how much of her time was he going to take? The letters! They were three feet away! She was the chair of the Foreign Relations Committee. For God’s sake she could start a fucking war if she felt like it.
“You said that they were personal letters,” Miles said.
Charlotte really hated whiners.
“And that’s what they are,” Charlotte said. “They are my personal property.”
“I’d like your assurance, your word,” Miles bleated on, but Charlotte wasn’t listening. She could see his knuckles relaxing around the briefcase. Hers. They were almost hers. All she had to do was clear up a few details and get Miles out of her office.
“You have my word,” said Charlotte, once Miles stopped blathering on. “Yes.”
She stood up. Miles stood up. He placed the briefcase on top of her desk. Charlotte, exerting all of heing all r self-control, flicked it open and picked up the stack of letters. My God, she thought. They’re really mine. No one can touch me anymore.
And they were all there. One letter a week for three months, although the affair had lasted longer. She had resisted committing anything to paper, but Yuri had worn her down and she had been so very much in love. He had been able to make her do anything. Charlotte had a brief vision of her twenty-three-year-old self, crawling across the floor of Yuri’s bedroom in the palace wearing nothing but a garter belt, high heels, and a rope of pearls that had belonged to the 8th Princess Lobkowicz. “If you sit on my face,” Yuri had said, “then you can keep the pearls.” (Of course it had sounded better in Russian.)
“As a matter of interest”—Charlotte tossed the treasured packet back into the briefcase as if it was scarcely worth pursuing—“who found the letters? And where?”
“I did,” Miles said. “One of my researchers turned over a piece of cabinetry and I found the letters in a false drawer.”
“How interesting,” Charlotte said. “What a lucky find.”
“Everything goes through me,” Miles squeaked. “That was the system we agreed upon. But yes, I’m surprised they were found so soon. The library at Nelahozeves is huge and it’s a mess. The work of a lifetime, if not two. It was just sheer chance that I found them when I did.”
“Oh, well, they’re not so important really,” Charlotte laughed, feeling drunk. “Just some old silliness from my youth. Sentimental value. But with the Internet and twenty-four-hour news cycles it’s getting so difficult to have any kind of private life. Some things need to stay personal, don’t you agree?”
Miles looked like he was ready to pass out. Well, good. She was getting anxious, too. She needed a straw. She needed to be alone with the letters.
Miles was trying to make up for his earlier cowardice by shielding Eleanor Roland. Of course she knew who had found the letters. In the flue of a fireplace! So old-fashioned of Yuri. What a romantic!
The marchesa’s minion had turned out to be useful with that bit of information. Although Elisa had really overdone it with the elimination of Eleanor. Really, the marchesa was so . . . Italian.
“My cell phone?” Miles was asking, tentatively. “The . . . um . . . escort took it from me? I’ve been out of touch for a whole day now.”
“Of course,” Charlotte soothed. “Sometimes they are a little overzealous, but I understand it’s all standard operating behavior. I think everything will be absolutely smooth from now on. I’ll have your phone delivered to you in the car. Please allow me to have you driven back to the airport, and you’ll find a comfortable seat on the next flight to Prague. First class, of course. Thank you so much for all your terrific work!”
Charlotte was especially proud of the “terrific.” It struck just the right kind of chipper, down-to-earth, ordinary-gal tone that her jackass handlers were always pushing her toward. She’d have to remember that during the presidential campaign. “Terrific.” Charlotte steered Miles toward the door. She’d think about what to do with him later.
She had the letters. Miles waers. Mils in her pocket in ten different ways, which was reassuring. Now just a few odds and ends to clean up.
She needed to talk to her friend over at NSA. This friend had kindly alerted her when some unusual activity on a search engine site came on the grid. Apparently her name had been run along with the words “Prague,” “Lobkowicz
,” and “CIA.” Probably just another amateur conspiracy-theorist, but her NSA friend had done a routine swipe through IP addresses anyway, just to be safe. You had to do this kind of cleaning regularly, like going to the dentist. The computer used for the search was licensed to an eleven-year-old blind kid in Boston, of all things. A hacker? Well, Charlotte had asked her friend to run a background on the girl, and she should check on those results.
No, there were still things to do, but the circle was narrowing. The list was getting shorter. It was like the old days, when you could draw a line through a name and . . . poof . . . that was the end of it.
Lucy and Desi! Those were the names of those ridiculous little dogs! Success was giving her a new clarity. She patted Miles on the back and handed him over to Madge.
“Madge,” she sang brightly, scaring the hell out of her secretary. “Let’s make sure Mr. Wolfmann gets a souvenir pen.” God bless America, she thought, shutting the door.
THIRTY-TWO
“Suicide?” sputtered Sarah in disbelief.
Shuziko shrugged, helplessly. “The police went through Eleanor’s room and found a note.” Suzi took a sip of her beer. All day long they had wandered about the palace in a blank-eyed state of shock, picking halfheartedly at their work. The Prague Castle complex had been sealed off and Eleanor’s body was removed from the cage near St. Vitus Cathedral. Some sort of CSI: Prague crew had arrived. As Eleanor’s employer, Max had gone off to talk to the police, muttering something about hoping different cops were on duty than when he had been hauled in for violating St. George two nights earlier.
As they had sat down for dinner, Godfrey suggested they have a moment of silence for Eleanor. Bernard wept noisily through this. Even Daphne looked shaken. No one knew what to say and yet it was impossible not to talk about it.
“It makes even less sense than Dr. Sherbatsky.” Godfrey shook his head.
“That was the musicologist? Who was a bit off?” Fiona asked, looking at Suzi, who nodded slightly and glanced at Sarah.
“Two suicides in one summer.” Moses took off his glasses and wiped them sorrowfully. “I can’t believe it.”
“Sherbatsky was a different case,” Douglas Sexton said. “The man was a drug addict and a total nutter. Of course I sometimes thought Eleanor was a bit off, too.”
“She vas a very nice, very conscientious woman,” Daphne said, severely. “It vas not her fault that her subject vas insignificant.”
“She didn’t kill herself because her Ernestines were insignificant,” Suzi snapped. “She loved those poor old gals.”
“What did the note say?” asked Sarah. She was not buying the suicide for one second and couldn’t believe anyone else was. Who crawls into a cage and kills herself? Eleanor was just not that weird. But then again, none of the other academics knew what she knew. Eleanor had found the letters between Charlotte Yates and Yuri Bespalov. And someone had killed her for it.
All day Sarah’s mind had been working in circles. Who knew that Eleanor had seen the letters other than Max and Sarah? Miles. Janek Sokol. Anyone else? She thought about Marchesa Elisa, but she had not made an appearance at the palace since Sarah’s arrival.
She thought about the lone figure she had seen hurrying across the courtyard.
And she thought about Senator Charlotte Yates.
It was nearly time to leave for the concert. She had called Pols several tim
es during the day, and each time Jose had assured her that Pols was fine, was practicing or meditating.
Sarah had not wanted to distract her with the bizarre events at the palace. The girl was already in too deep.
• • •
A banner above the stage of the Rudolfinum pronounced the evening’s event—the 32nd Annual International Youth Piano Competition—in a multitude of languages. Sarah saw in the program that the five competitors ranged in age from eight to fourteen. Besides the American Pollina, there were Russian, Japanese, and Chinese boys, and a North Korean girl.
Each year the competition focused on a single composer, and this year it was Beethoven.
Of course, thought Sarah, feeling slightly persecuted by old LVB.
Seated in the orchestra section, Sarah looked at the tense faces of what she presumed were parents, extended family, coaches, mentors, and agents all around her. Clearly, there was a lot riding on this for these people. For the North Korean kid, maybe more than most.
The competition consisted of two rounds. The children would play a Beethoven piano sonata of their choosing in round one. Then they would be knocked down to two contestants. The finalists would play the same piece, for the victory.
Sarah decided that the 32nd Annual International Youth Piano Competition wasn’t really all that different from American Idol. She felt horrible that the shy and reclusive Pols was subjecting herself to what would surely be an ordeal, just because she felt she needed an excuse to be in Prague.
Or because she was scared for her safety, too?
She wondered what Miles was doing right now. Handing the documents over to Charlotte Yates? Being strung up somewhere and pounded by CIA agents? Although she no longer trusted him, she hoped he hadn’t been stabbed and left to die somewhere like poor Eleanor. Miles had gotten in over his head. And what was Eleanor? Collateral damage? Sarah shuddered. It was such a gruesome public display. Maybe that was the point. The blood and gore were a warning. Back off or you’re next.
