by Lynn Mason
She crept down to the curve in the stairwell and leaned against the railing. Sure enough, as she peered through the gap in the balusters, she could see Carmina, still clad in her scarlet dress. She and Konstantin stood whispering together in the doorway to the dining room, their figures mottled by nearby firelight.
What are they doing? she wondered. Those two had been plotting something ever since their arrival. But what? And could it have anything to do with Konstantin's attempt to win her loyalty?
“No!”
A terrified shout suddenly rang out from a nearby bedchamber. Sydney froze, listening. It had sounded like Hubbard.
“No! Don't!” cried the same voice, quaking with fright. Then a long, terrified scream.
Sydney raced up the stairs and down the corridor until she reached Hubbard's chamber. Rifat stood in the open doorway looking wide-eyed and scared. She looked past him into the room, but no one was there.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
Before he could answer, von Muller ran up, followed by Carmina and Konstantin, looking flushed from their mad dash up the stairs.
“What was that?” von Muller barked, fumbling shakily with the belt of his paisley-print robe. “Who screamed?”
“It sounded like Mr. Hubbard,” Sydney replied.
“What are you doing here?” von Muller asked Rifat, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I heard the scream,” Rifat answered, his voice high and trembly. “I came to see what was wrong.”
Von Muller pushed past him into the room. “Mr. Hubbard?” he called out. Sydney entered behind him, followed by Carmina and Konstantin, while Rifat remained on the threshold, stiff with fear.
“There is no one here,” Carmina observed, circling the four-poster bed.
“Over here,” Konstantin called. He stood in the dark far corner, motioning with his hand. The four of them approached, including Rifat, who'd snapped out of his trance.
On the wall in front of them, a pair of thick drapes billowed in the frigid breeze. Konstantin pulled the drapes aside, and they could see that the tall, double-lancet window was wide open.
“Look here,” Konstantin said, pointing down at the floor.
Von Muller grabbed a lit candle off a nearby table and held it forward. On the floor, several fresh drops of blood were being diluted by splatters of rain. Sydney followed the drips up the wall to the mullioned window panels. On the edge of one pane, something small and blue caught her eye. She reached forward and steadied the glass.
“Look at this,” she said, pointing to the small piece of blue cloth stuck on the sharp edge of the lead frame. “It is from Hubbard's shirt.”
“Then where is Hubbard?” Carmina asked. Almost instantly, a look of horror came over her face. “Do you think . . . ?”
Sydney leaned forward and poked her head out the window. The fierce wind snatched her breath from her, and icy rain pelted her face. As white veins of lightning illuminated the sky, she craned her neck and searched the area below.
But she saw no sign of Hubbard. Just the raging surf colliding with the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.
11
Now the storm raged inside as well as outside. Everyone was shouting, their voices combining into a discordant rumbling that rivaled the wind and thunder.
“Enough!” von Muller shouted through the din. “I wish to get to the bottom of this! Immediately!” He turned toward Sydney. “Adriana. What did you see?”
Sydney took a deep breath. “Nothing,” she said, mopping her rain-streaked face with the sleeve of her robe. “I only heard the screaming and yelling and came to investigate.”
“And what did you find?”
“I saw him.” She pointed at Rifat. “Then you and the others came.”
Her answer seemed to please von Muller. “I see,” he muttered. He spun toward Rifat. “So you finally saw a chance to eliminate your rival, Asam. We all know you hated him. And now you use my meeting as a chance to seek revenge!”
“It is not true!” Rifat glared at von Muller, his eyes so wide they seemed almost lidless. “You should ask them what happened!” He pointed at Carmina and Konstantin. “I saw them leave their rooms. They were up to something. They could have killed him together!”
Von Muller's face turned the color of skim milk. He turned and stared blankly at Carmina and Konstantin.
“Pendejo!” Carmina snapped at Rifat. “It is not true! We did not kill the stupid man.”
“Then what were you doing, Carmina?” von Muller asked, his voice oddly quiet.
“You should be asking this one!” Carmina jutted her chin toward Sydney. “I saw them. She and Hubbard. They were at her room, talking.”
All eyes fell on Sydney. A prickly feeling spread over her skin, but she held her gaze steady. “Yes, it is true. He came trying to charm his way into my bedroom,” she explained. “But I told him to leave and slammed the door. I can get rid of scumbags without killing them.”
“What about you, von Muller?” Konstantin asked, lifting a bushy brow. “Where were you when this . . . unfortunate incident took place?”
Von Muller looked affronted. “I was asleep in my chamber!”
Sydney peered at him closely. Something was glistening on his left cheek. “What is that?” she asked, pointing.
“What?” he asked.
She took the candle out of his hand and raised it toward him. “It appears you have blood on your face, Herbert.”
Konstantin and Rifat rushed forward, squinting at the tiny curved cut beneath his eye. Von Muller touched a finger to his cheek and stared, dumbfounded, at the red smear on his fingers. “I . . . must have cut myself shaving.”
“That is a fresh wound,” Rifat observed, narrowing his eyes at von Muller. “What man shaves at this hour of the night?”
Konstantin grabbed von Muller's chin roughly and stared at the wound. “To me it looks more like a scratch than a razor cut. Did you fight with someone tonight, von Muller?” he probed.
Von Muller angrily shoved Konstantin's hand away.
“I knew it! You killed Hubbard!” Rifat shouted. “You have led us all into a trap!”
“I killed no one!” von Muller cried.
There was a sudden pounding of footsteps, and Mrs. MacDougall, clad in a worn, quilted housecoat, appeared in the dim light, followed closely by Malcolm. The boy met Sydney's stare and glanced away guiltily.
“Sir? Sir, is everything all right?” Mrs. MacDougall asked, wringing her hands. “We heard a fearsome commotion.”
Von Muller smoothed the front of his robe and pushed past Rifat and Konstantin. “There has been an accident, Mrs. MacDougall,” he explained, his tone once again confident and commanding. “It appears that Mr. Hubbard has fallen out of his window.”
Mrs. MacDougall cupped her hands around her mouth. “Sweet Mother Mary!” she whispered. “Oh, the poor man!” Malcolm stood on his toes, eagerly trying to peer into Hubbard's room.
“Yes, it is regrettable,” von Muller said, shaking his head.
Konstantin snorted disdainfully.
“Perhaps we should all go to the parlor and calm down,” von Muller went on, glaring at Konstantin. “Would you fix us a pot of hot tea, Mrs. MacDougall?”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” she replied in a shaky voice. She pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbed her nose. “Poor, poor Mr. Hubbard,” she muttered as she headed down the corridor.
“And make me coffee,” Rifat called after her.
Mrs. MacDougall paused, turned halfway around, and narrowed her eyes at Rifat. “Yes, sir!” she replied, her voice an angry sizzle. Then she spun back around and waddled off into the murky darkness.
* * *
Sydney sat curled up in a heavy leather armchair, staring at the orange-red flames twisting in the fireplace. She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing them with her hands. The fire was blazing at full force, but she was still cold. A chill that came from intense suspicion clouded the room like a
n arctic squall. Von Muller and the rest of the guests were scattered about the parlor, scowling at one another or staring pensively into space. No one had wanted to venture outside to see if Hubbard's body could be located. It was understood by all of them that the authorities would not be notified. Only Malcolm slept, his body slumped against one side of the grandfather clock.
A rattling sound drew near. Sydney looked up and saw Mrs. MacDougall rounding the corner with her tea cart. The woman's typically cheerful features were pinched and pale, and Sydney could draw no warmth from them. She sighed and looked back into the fire. The one friendly face in the house had lost its merry luster.
As Mrs. MacDougall handed out cups of tea and shoved a coffee mug at Rifat, Sydney reviewed the evening's events.
Hubbard was clearly dead, and not by accident. But who had pushed him out the window? And why? The only ones she was sure hadn't done it were Carmina, Konstantin, and herself. Von Muller certainly looked suspicious with the fresh cut on his face, but what would be his motive? He and Hubbard had been on the same side during the meeting. And while they didn't seem to be close friends, there also hadn't been obvious hatred between them.
Not like Hubbard and Rifat. Sydney stared at the Turk as he sat frowning over his coffee. He'd definitely hated Hubbard. There were clearly financial motives, what with Hubbard's outfit wooing customers away from Rifat's business, and they'd opposed each other during the vote at the meeting. Plus, Rifat had already been standing in Hubbard's doorway by the time she'd made it down the hall.
Sydney bit the nail of her index finger, and the bitter taste of glue and polish filled her mouth. Her aloneness suddenly seemed even more pronounced than before. Her head was clogged with questions, but she had no one to share them with. She was a castaway in a foreign land, with no allies for miles around.
The grandfather clock made a loud, grinding noise and let out two somber bongs. Malcolm sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. “Two o' the clock,” he murmured sleepily. “Witches' tea.”
“Why are we just sitting here, doing nothing?” Carmina complained.
“What would you have me do?” von Muller asked. “Would you have me go out in the storm and search the ocean for Hubbard?”
“I like that plan,” Konstantin muttered.
Von Muller glared at him, for a total of two dozen times since they'd come downstairs.
“We can do nothing for Hubbard now,” Rifat said, absently fingering his beard. “Von Muller will simply have to explain to Hubbard's people why there is no one here for them to pick up tomorrow. But as long as we are all assembled,” he said as he set his mug on the table and rose to his feet, “we should at least continue our discussions about Prince Frederique.”
“Of course you think we should, Asam,” von Muller said stonily, standing to face Rifat. “Now that you have eliminated Hubbard, your side will carry the vote.”
Rifat took a step toward him, his face contorting with rage. “How dare you accuse me! You are the host! It is your fault if someone is killed. Especially if it is done by your hand!”
“You're the one who spoke of killing at dinner,” von Muller pointed out. “And you were the one we found at the scene. Why not admit it? Everyone knows it was you!”
“You lie!” Rifat was seething. Ropelike veins appeared on his neck. “You lied about the cut on your face! You lied about where you were!” He edged forward until he was inches from von Muller. His eyes were wild with fury, and saliva flew from his mouth. “You are an evil man! A devil! You tricked us all! You wanted us all here so you could . . . could . . .” Rifat stopped, a raspy, wheezing noise escaping from his throat. For a second he stood wavering as the fury in his eyes was replaced by fear.
“Asam?” Sydney said, rising from her chair.
Rifat's eyes bulged frightfully. He stared helplessly at Sydney, his mouth opening and shutting, emitting a horrible gurgling sound. He stumbled forward, clutching his chest until his knees gave out. With a final, choking gasp, he collapsed facedown onto the Oriental rug and was silent.
Mrs. MacDougall screamed. Carmina and Konstantin leaped from their seats while Sydney and von Muller rushed toward the struggling Rifat.
“Asam?” Sydney called, shaking his shoulder.
“Is he dead?” Malcolm asked, pushing through the crowd for a better view.
Sydney placed two fingers against the man's neck. She felt no pulse. “Yes,” she replied. “I think so.”
“Oh, it's horrible!” Mrs. MacDougall cried, turning away.
Konstantin made a slight tsk-tsk noise. “This is what happens to people who drink too much coffee,” he muttered. “A fatal heart attack at an early age.”
Sydney and von Muller rolled Rifat over. His lips and tongue were swollen, and a rivulet of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. Sydney looked into his wide, glassy eyes and saw that his pupils were the size of pinpricks.
“No,” Sydney said. “I do not think he had a heart attack.” She snatched his coffee mug off the table and sniffed the contents. Detectable in the coffee was an unmistakable almond-like scent. “In fact, I am quite sure Asam was poisoned.”
12
Rifat's body lay in the hallway, covered with a white tablecloth. From her seat in the parlor, Sydney could see the bottoms of his shoes poking out from under the Battenburg lace trim. It seemed improper, almost indecent for him to lie there that way, like some sort of lumpy carpet runner. But at least Konstantin and von Muller had thought to shroud him after they dragged him out of the parlor.
“I promise you, sir,” Mrs. MacDougall, said, pacing nervously by the window. “I didn't kill the poor man. I made the coffee just like before. I swear't!”
“Yes, Mrs. MacDougall,” von Muller said wearily. He stood in front of the fire, staring at the flames as if transfixed. “You have already told us that.”
A search of the kitchen after Rifat's death had revealed that someone had laced his stash of coffee with a salty-looking substance—possibly cyanide. Anyone could have done it. But Mrs. MacDougall felt particularly guilty at having brewed the fatal beverage.
Sydney absently fingered the ends of her wig and glanced around at the others. Across from her, Carmina sat draped across the gold chaise longue, looking bored, as usual. Konstantin had uncovered the parlor piano and sat picking out a gloomy dirge. Von Muller continued to peer into the fire, solemnly smoking his pipe. And Mrs. MacDougall kept walking back and forth, kneading her hands and occasionally emitting small, puppy-like whines. Meanwhile, Malcolm half-slumbered in a chair next to the fire he was supposed to be tending, oblivious to all the excitement.
She wondered which of them was behind the killings, and why. And, perhaps more importantly, who would be next?
Once again, she peered down the corridor at Rifat's splayed, duck-footed legs. She thought of his shoes, of how only hours before he had carefully slipped them on and tied them. Now the blood no longer circulated through those feet. Or his hands. Or anywhere in him. He would never take them off again.
Sydney had only seen a dead body once before, on her first mission. The sadistic Mercado de Sangre operative Raul Sandoval. She'd killed him in self-defense, electrocuted him with the sparking end of a live power cord. Seeing his inert, steaming body had been just as much a relief as a shock. But this was different. Rifat hadn't been a friend, but he hadn't been a threat, either. Watching him die had filled her with dread.
Shake it off, she told herself, shifting on the velvet seat cushion to block the view of Rifat's body. She had to keep her wits about her, for the sake of the mission—and her own survival. There was nothing she could do for him now. Besides, this was a man who'd made a living selling weapons of mass destruction to her country's enemies. She shouldn't waste too much time grieving for him.
“What are your plans for the summit now, von Muller?” Carmina asked, tossing her hair haughtily.
“Yes. Tell us your brilliant solution to our predicament,” said Konstantin, without lifting his gaze fro
m the piano keys.
“I think you should call off this dreadful meeting and send everyone home,” Sydney suggested, masking her uneasiness in Adriana's snooty, irritable tones.
Von Muller turned away from the fire and looked at them. “I cannot do that,” he mumbled. “I have no way of contacting anyone on the mainland. No equipment. Not even a flare. We can only wait until our parties arrive to retrieve us.”
“But that will be hours from now,” Sydney objected.
“Nevertheless, it is all we can do.” Von Muller traced his mustache with his fingers, looking grim and haggard. “Besides, we still have not accomplished our task. We have not decided what to do about the situation in Suratia. The vote is again tied.”
“Then we discuss it now and get it over with,” Carmina said with an angry sweep of her hand.
“I agree. Let us take another vote,” Konstantin added, shooting Sydney a self-assured smile. She knew he was convinced she'd changed her mind, that she would now throw her support behind assassination.
Von Muller seemed to notice the change in the Russian's demeanor. He narrowed his eyes at Konstantin, then Sydney. “No. It is very late and we are tired,” he said. “Perhaps we should all go back to bed and get some sleep so we can continue our strategy session in the morning.”
“And how are we supposed to sleep when two people have already been murdered?” Carmina asked.
“Quite right,” Sydney exclaimed. “None of us shall feel safe in our bedchambers.”
“The murderer would feel quite safe,” Konstantin pointed out. “Notice how calm our host is about returning to bed.” He fixed von Muller with a cold smile and leaned back against the piano, creating a discordant crash of keys.
Angry breaths ruffled von Muller's mustache as he met Konstantin's stare. His frown twitched and a faint blue line pulsed down the center of his forehead. “Very well, ladies,” he said, keeping his eyes on Konstantin. “Why don't we all go upstairs and repack? Mrs. MacDougall can assist us. We can then gather with our belongings in the parlor and spend the rest of the night together.”
