They hailed a cab and were soon descending the stairs to Guy's weathered door. But taped to the door they discovered an envelope, with MONSIEUR BENJAMIN written on the outside. Benjamin took down the envelope and opened it. Inside was a note, in French, with Guy in a florid signature at the bottom. Benjamin quickly scanned its contents.
"What does it say?" asked Natalya.
"Well, it says that he is terribly sorry- terriblement desole -but that he had to meet someone in Cannes this afternoon. He asks that we meet him there around three o'clock."
"In Cannes?" Natalya said. "Is he serious?"
"Actually, it's not that far," Benjamin said. "Just twenty-five kilometers or so down the coast. But not actually in Cannes. He says there's an island, just off the coast. St. Honorat. He wants us to meet him there, as it's more approprie for our kind of business."
Natalya looked suspicious. "This makes no sense. Perhaps it would be wise not to go."
"And then what would we do for passports?" asked Benjamin. "Have you decided to risk using your own?"
Natalya frowned, shook her head. "I think you believe this is as strange a request as do I."
"Yes, I do," he agreed. "But I don't see any option. And I've heard of this place. There's a monastery there, a very old one. It's supposed to be quite… scenic," Benjamin finished with a smile. "Consider it another triumph of the Commissar of Sightseeing."
CHAPTER 39
During the twenty-minute ferry ride from Cannes to the island of St. Honorat, Benjamin read aloud from a guidebook they'd purchased, the better to blend in with the other tourists.
"The Isle St. Honorat had begun its long history as an outpost fort, part of the southern coast's defenses against Saracen pirates. The Abbot of Lerins, Aldebert, brought his small flock of monks to the windswept promontory of the island and established a monastery that shared its primitive shelter with a military garrison. The first square, thick-walled fortifications were begun in 1073, built on the even older foundations of a Roman outpost. When the military left, the monks stayed, managing over the centuries to construct an impressive walled monastery at the center of the island. Its interior guards a vineyard where the monks produce an excellent wine, as well as a brandy famous in the region for its sweet taste and high alcohol content. Over the centuries, the twin towers of the original Norman fort had fallen into disrepair, but recently they were partially restored, and now they rise up again, proud reminders of St. Honorat's ancient and rich past."
They looked to the island and saw those very towers: square, blunt, older it seemed than the island itself-and the tallest objects visible for miles. It was easy to imagine Norman soldiers standing guard atop them, watchful eyes turned to the vast ocean beyond.
Benjamin and Natalya disembarked at the small dock on the island. There were paths leading both left and right, and a small building up the low hill where, it appeared, one could buy food and refreshments.
"What now?" Natalya asked.
Benjamin looked at his watch. "We have a little time before our appointment. I suggest we walk around and try to appear like a married couple on vacation."
Natalya took his arm, snuggled up against him, put a wide smile on her face.
"Like this?" she said.
Benjamin laughed. "Perfect," he said. "Now, if only we had a camera."
"Perhaps we can buy one in that shop," she said, pointing up the hill.
Once that was done, they continued on along the path that ran around the edge of the island, edged on one side by a rocky beach and the stretch of the transparent blue waters of the bay, and on the other by groves of Aleppo pine trees. Here and there were the remains of ancient walls and foundations of long-ruined buildings. They stopped now and then, one or the other of them posing before the ocean or the trees, trying in every way to appear like unconcerned tourists enjoying their honeymoon on an exotic Mediterranean island.
But as three o'clock approached and they made their way out toward the promontory with the Norman-style towers where they were to meet Guy, Benjamin felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He had a very bad premonition about this entire escapade. But he didn't want to share his anxieties with Natalya. Better, he thought, to play along with Guy's instructions, but stay vigilant.
Finally they approached the tower where they were to meet Guy. They were about a hundred yards away. The ocean stretched out flat and infinite on three sides, while behind them there was the rocky, sparse ground of the broadened pathway. The bell tower of the monastery was visible in the distance, rising up above the poplars and Aleppos, which waved back and forth in the strong breeze off the ocean.
"Seventy-two steps," read Benjamin from the brochure. "One for every chapter in something called The Rules of St. Benedict. " He saw the look of skepticism on Natalya's face. "I have an idea," he said. "Why don't I climb all those nasty steps myself. I'll get the passports and meet you back in the courtyard of the monastery. Here." He handed her the camera. "You can take more pictures."
Natalya looked up at him, placed her palm against his cheek.
"Very chivalrous," she said. "But I believe I have more experience with such things than a librarian does."
Benjamin was about to object when a man approached them on the pathway, coming from the tower.
He was tall, quite thin, with old-fashioned wire-rim glasses, wearing a pullover sweater. His brown hair was trimmed very close to his skull-like Benjamin's now-and as he came closer Benjamin noticed he had the most intense blue eyes he'd ever seen. He walked with a certain ease and confidence, as though he were on a holiday lark without a care in the world.
"Excuse me," he said, coming up to them. "Are you friends of Guy's?"
Benjamin wasn't sure what to say. Before he could think of something, the man continued. "He couldn't make it. Held up on business. And in his business… well, they don't exactly keep regular appointments, do they."
"I'm sorry," Benjamin said. "I'm afraid I don't-"
"Know what I'm talking about?" the man finished for him. "Of course you don't. And of course you don't know anyone named Guy. Neither do I." He turned and looked at Natalya. "And of course this morning your charming wife didn't have blond hair and perfect vision."
Still Benjamin was silent while he tried to think of something appropriate but not incriminating. His first thought was that this was someone from the French police and that they were about to be arrested.
"Look," Benjamin said, "I don't know you, and I don't know what-"
"But you do know you'll be wanting these," said the man. He held out a manila envelope. Benjamin looked at it as though it were something explosive. "Take it," the man said. "Everything you need is inside. Along with a bonus."
"Bonus?" Benjamin asked, finally accepting the envelope. He began to open it.
"Not here," the man said, stopping his hand. "Just something to perhaps make things easier… where you're going." He looked back toward the tower. "I wouldn't bother with the tower," he said. "Those damn steps are a real killer."
And with that, he nodded to Natalya, said, "Good luck," and then continued on down the path, resuming the appearance of a tourist on holiday.
For a moment Benjamin and Natalya simply looked at each other. Then they laughed, and, with a final glance at the tower, turned and headed back down the path toward the ferry dock.
***
It was some time before anyone else came down the path-this was indeed past tourist season, and St. Honorat was not one of the typical stops even during season. But this couple had come all this way and they weren't about to go without visiting the famous Norman tower, seventy-two steps or no.
And so they made their way through the ruins, found the crumbling steps, carefully picked their way up first one flight, then another… until finally they stood at the summit, breathing heavily. They walked to the thick portico in order to get a better view of the wide ocean beyond.
It was then they noticed a man sitting on a stone bench in a cloistered part of th
e tower. The husband took out his camera, approached the man on the bench-apparently he wanted to ask him to take their picture. But when he spoke, the man on the bench didn't answer. He just sat there, slumped slightly forward. He was heavyset, wearing a blue leisure suit, with a very round face and a stark white streak in his brown hair. He looked almost peaceful, as though he were taking a nap.
"Excuse me," the man with the camera said, touching his shoulder.
At the touch, Andrei tipped sideways and fell off the bench with a thud. It was only then the tourist noticed a bright red spot on Andrei's white T-shirt and a small pool of blood that had gathered beneath the bench.
CHAPTER 40
"Well, it looks like everything is here."
Benjamin and Natalya were sitting on a couch in their hotel room in Cannes, the Hotel InterContinental. It was centrally located, a beautiful example of Belle Epoque architecture-and, most important, huge, somewhere they felt they would be lost in whatever crowds were around in the off-season. Spread out before them on the coffee table were the contents of the manila envelope the man on St. Honorat had given them.
There were two passports, both French. Benjamin was now Charles Levebre, born in Marseilles; and Natalya was his wife, Sophia Levebre, nee Martel, originally of Lyon. In the passport photo, the brunette hair and glasses made her look slightly older, much more ordinary, and somewhat less intelligent.
"Looking at this photo," Natalya said with obvious disappointment, "I do not know why you ever married me."
"Obviously for your wit," said Benjamin. "And you haven't seen mine." He showed her his passport photo. The bad lighting and shorter hair made him look like a criminal posing for a mug shot. "Why did you marry me?"
"For your carte de solvabilite, " she said. "Of course."
But he didn't respond. He was examining something else from the envelope. Besides their visas, he'd discovered what the man on St. Honorat had meant by a "bonus."
"They're press credentials," he said, waving the laminated cards at Natalya. "Apparently we work for a magazine in Paris, La Matrix. "
"It sounds very avant-garde," said Natalya.
"At least we're employed," Benjamin replied, and Natalya laughed-for the first time since their strange encounter on St. Honorat.
They'd found they could take a flight from the Nice airport the next morning to Moscow, then a train to Dubna. Nice was less than thirteen kilometers to the east, so they'd decided to spend the night in Cannes. And Benjamin had decided it was time for a distraction.
"Look," he said, "we're in one of the most elegant hotels in one of the most expensive cities in Europe, with an almost bottomless bag of money. Let's see how much we can spend on dinner tonight. Let's be Charles and Sophia Levebre, wealthy honeymooners with a cash gift from their billionaire Uncle Renault-"
"Is that not a car?" Natalya interrupted, smiling.
"-and forget everything else," he continued. "Just for tonight." He reached over and took her hand. "All right?"
As they quickly discovered, there were any number of five-star restaurants nearby, any of them equal to the task of making a dent in their finances. When Benjamin-or Charles, as he made sure to have Sophia call him-made it clear that they desired the highest in elegant surroundings and that money was absolutely no concern, the clerk looked both ways, then leaned conspiratorially over the desk.
"I should tell you to eat in our own restaurant," he said in French. "But I believe you will find what you're looking for at Gaston-Gastounette. It's on quai St. Pierre."
Benjamin gave him a twenty-euro tip, thanked him, and then thought of something else. He told the clerk that he and his wife had left on their honeymoon avec la grande rapidite and without many clothes. Could he recommend a good clothing store nearby? Somewhere they could also buy luggage?
The clerk looked at him as though he understood the situation exactly, winked, said something about affaires du coeur, and directed them to a nearby store he promised offered the best in haute couture.
An hour and many hundreds of euros later, the clothes and luggage were on their way back to the InterContinental, and they continued on to the Gaston-Gastounette.
The hotel desk clerk had been right: the furnishings were elegant, recalling a time before the glitterati of the film festival years, when the wealthy of the Cote d'Azur came to Cannes to pretend it was still a time of Empires. Even better than the decor was the view: they were able to get a table next to a window overlooking the old port and marina, with centuries-old buildings rising up the low hills, swept back and creating a huge amphitheater around the bay.
Since they'd just been in Nice but hadn't had chance to sample the salad named after the city, they decided to start with salade nicoise; and, since they would soon leave the coast for the deep inland of Russia, Benjamin suggested they try the house specialty: tortellini and boiled mussels. When they asked the waiter for a wine recommendation, he told them that, frankly, their cellars did contain what he considered simply the best they'd ever offered, but if price was a consideration… "Pas du tout," said Benjamin. Then, the waiter said, there was only the Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Montrachet, 1999.
"C'est bon," said Benjamin, and the waiter bowed, removed their menus, and disappeared most discreetly.
"Guy was right," Benjamin said. "Married couples do get better treatment."
Natalya was staring out the window at the sunset over the bay. She smiled, but she was obviously thinking about something else.
"I think your father can take care of himself," Benjamin said. "If that's what you're worried about."
She turned and looked at him. "Very empathetic," she said. "I am not used to that, from Americans."
"What exactly," said Benjamin, " are you used to from Americans?"
Natalya studied him for a moment. "Let us just say that my extradiplomatic contacts have not always been positive."
Before Benjamin could answer, their wine arrived, and they waited while it was uncorked and Benjamin was offered the chance to sample it. He sipped it and was very impressed; nodded to the waiter, and both their glasses were filled.
Alone again, Benjamin lifted his glass. "Let's drink to a new detente, " he said.
Natalya smiled, raised her glass, and they clinked. She tried her wine, and also looked impressed.
"I do not usually like white wine," she said, "but this…"
"Worth every euro," Benjamin said. "Ah, the advantages of ill-gotten gains."
"Which makes me wonder," Natalya said, "just how these gains were, as you say, gotten?"
Benjamin frowned, set his wine down. "I only know that Samuel Wolfe trusted Anton."
"And you trust this Samuel Wolfe?" Natalya asked.
"Yes," Benjamin said without hesitation.
"After you knew him for only two days?"
"Two and a half," corrected Benjamin. "And yes, that may sound… hasty. But there was something about the man…"
"Was?" asked Natalya.
Benjamin realized he'd only mentioned to Natalya that Wolfe had "disappeared" during the fire at the Foundation, not that it was likely he'd actually been in the building and, quite probably, died in the explosion. And he couldn't quite bring himself to suggest that, even now.
Natalya saw his hesitation.
"So there are still some things you are not telling me," she said. Benjamin started to say something, but she stopped him. "That is perhaps as it should be," she said. "You have known me even less time than you did Mr. Wolfe."
Benjamin looked at her. The shorter brunette hair may have dimmed her brilliance slightly, but it hadn't extinguished it. He still thought she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.
"Tell me about your father… Sophia," he said, pouring her more wine.
And so she did. As their meal was served-delicious and quite garlicky mussels in a light cream sauce with tortellini-she told Benjamin a little of how her father had come to be a rocketchiki.
"He was a true believer, an
d to him this was the most patriotic way he could serve the Motherland," Natalya said. "I asked him once, would he actually have pressed his white button, had it come to that?"
"And what did he say?" Benjamin asked.
"He said he could not have reported for duty each week unless he knew, in his heart, that he could do such a thing." Natalya looked into her wine. "In fact, it was when he felt he no longer could answer yes to that question that he resigned."
"And that was after he'd read about the gulags?"
Natalya went very quiet. "Not just read," she said.
"What do you mean?" Benjamin asked.
Natalya looked up, forced a smile.
"We are to distract ourselves, yes?" Benjamin nodded. "Then let us talk about something else. You, for instance. I know nothing of your past, Mr. Levebre, yet here I find myself married to you."
Benjamin laughed. And so through the rest of the meal it was Benjamin's turn to tell Natalya stories of his childhood: growing up in upstate New York, the son of another "academician" (using Natalya's term), an historian from a long line of historians. "My father used to tell terrible jokes," he said. "He would say, 'History has quite a long history in this family.' " Benjamin smiled. "We would all groan, but he didn't care. He was a very carefree person, for the most part."
"For the most part?"
"There was one subject that would make him go almost nuclear, as we used to say, and that was when he felt someone was exploiting the Founding Fathers to justify intolerance. He thought it was an insult to the Constitution, to everything they'd fought so hard to achieve. 'Don't they understand?' he'd say. 'The whole point was to have the freedom to piss each other off!' "
Natalya laughed. "I think I would have liked your father," she said. "And I believe you will like my father."
Benjamin looked up, raised his glass again. "Then let's toast to new friends," he said. They tapped glasses.
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