Carter found the house, knocked on the door, and waited.
The door was opened by a short, stout Hausfrau with grayish hair. She looked surprised.
“Ja? What do you want?” she said.
“Is Herr Kirchner at home, please?” Carter asked with a smile. “I would like to talk with him.”
The woman hesitated a moment. “I will see if my husband is awake yet. He works late, you know,” she added. “Wait here.”
She closed the door and left Carter standing in the snow. It was several minutes before the door opened again and a man stood on the threshold. He was only half dressed. His nightshirt was bulging over his pants. He was dough-faced and shapeless.
He squinted at Carter. “Ja?”
Carter explained his needs and the chalet by name without naming its owner.
Kirchner blustered, waved his hands pointing at the falling snow, and in no uncertain terms declared that Carter was crazy.
The Killmaster held up an American hundred-dollar bill. The man snatched it and pointed to a vintage, open Jeep at the curb. “Wait.”
Carter chuckled to himself as he swept the seat with his hand. If anyone from the other side was keeping track of Lorena Zornova’s visitors, he thought, he was leaving a trail a mile wide.
Carter managed to step from the Jeep even though his legs were frozen. The last of the great foul-weather Grand Prix drivers, Hans Kirchner, roared off just as Carter rescued his bag.
He managed to wade through the thigh-high snowdrifts and ring the bell of the chalet. She must have seen the Jeep arrive because the door opened at once.
“I didn’t think you’d make it.” Her voice was low, husky, and the words came out as if Garbo had announced that she wanted to be alone.
“Some of me didn’t, I think,” Carter muttered. “I’m frozen.”
Lorena laughed. “You should have dressed warmer.”
“Lorena, are you going to leave me standing out here all night?”
“Sorry.”
She stepped aside and he entered the hallway. The door slammed and she took his coat. Her lips brushed his cheek.
“Good to see you.”
“Brandy, woman,” he growled. “Now.”
“This way.”
Carter followed her down the hall and into a small sitting room, cozy, with a roaring fire. He watched her pour brandy into two large snifters.
She looked good.
Did he expect three years would change her appearance? Not Lorena. Her face was a little grave, there were shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes, and she had gained a pound or two, maybe. But she was still the same.
The thick blond hair spilled down from her head over her shoulders, every lock shining and in place. The contours of her face were soft and delicate, the skin pale and clear. The mouth was a red banner across her face, unfurling at the lower lip in a gentle pout.
The dress she wore was of softest wool with a gently draped back. It molded itself lingeringly to her ample curves, then flared slightly so that it swirled as she walked.
“You’re staring,” she said as she handed him one of the snifters.
“Don’t I always?” he shot back with a grin. “Salud.”
They touched glasses and sipped the brandy. Carter shivered and moved to the fire. She sank into a vast, pillow-bedecked sofa, the crossing of her legs a whisper of sound.
Carter again raised his glass. “Old times,” he said.
“And old faces,” she replied.
“Change that old to familiar and I’ll drink to it.”
She laughed. “You look much nicer when you smile.”
They drank.
She put down her glass and took a cigarette from a black lacquer box on the coffee table, offering him one. He got them lighted with very little shaking of numb hands and sat down.
Lorena studied him. “I’ll guess you’ve taken on about a pound a year,” she said. “Three pounds.”
“Eight,” he replied. “Pounds, that is.”
“Otherwise,” she continued, “you don’t look much different. Except in the eyes. Mature? Grave?”
“Cynical.”
Immediately her face closed. “Yes, aren’t we all.”
“You want to tell me why the hell you dragged me across the Alps in a blizzard?”
“Must I, right now?” she replied, making a face.
“You wanted to see me right away, remember?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “But you haven’t even bothered to kiss me hello.”
Carter cocked his head to one side. “This doesn’t sound like Lorena Zorkova.”
“No, it doesn’t...”
“But—” He shrugged, and leaned forward to brush his lips across hers. “There.”
“Christ, Nick,” she groaned, “you’re so damn romantic.”
“I know. Speak to me.”
She crushed her cigarette in an ashtray, fell back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. “It’s a long story, Nick. I starts in 1944. I was just a year old.” She paused and opened her eyes to stare at him for a second. “Now you know I’m a middle-aged woman.”
“You’re being coy again.”
“Sorry.” She smoothed her dress and shifted her position. “Of course, my real name isn’t Zorkova.”
“I never thought it was,” Carter replied.
“Have you ever heard the name Romanovsky?” “Several times. It’s a common Russian name. We probably have two hundred Romanovskys in our files.”
“Prince Valentin Romanovsky?”
Carter thought for several minutes, then shook his head. “No, but that wouldn’t be unusual. After the revolution, there were damn few princes around.”
A smile curled her lips and her eyes narrowed to slits. “So true. Prince Valentin Romanovsky was my father. Princess Sophia of Romania was my mother. I also have a brother, Sergei.”
“Was, and have?” Carter said, his brow furrowing in curiosity.
“My brother is still alive. My parents are dead. That’s where the story begins...”
For the next hour, Carter sat transfixed as she told him the events of that evening so many years before. He didn’t move until she paused. Then he took her glass, liberally filled it and his own, and resumed his seat.
“What happened then, after the Russian sergeant raped your mother?”
“My father went mad. The Russian left the room. By then his two men had searched the house. They hadn’t found me in the upstairs rooms. When the shooting started, my nurse hid both of us on top of the canopy above my bed.”
Here she paused and took a long drink of brandy. Carter lit fresh cigarettes for them both and let her take her time.
“My bedroom had two doors, one into the hall, the other directly into the family chapel. We saw the sergeant remove the jewels from the rear of the altar. He brought them into the bedroom and carefully compared them to a list he had. When he seemed satisfied, he hid the jewels in his clothing and built up some twigs and papers in the fireplace. He was about to light it, when two soldiers appeared in the doorway. He asked them if it was done. Both of them nodded. Then he killed them, both of them. He sprayed both of them with his rifle, his own comrades.”
“You remember all this so clearly?” Carter asked.
“Not really. I was only a baby, and by then my nurse, Nanya, was covering me with her body to make sure I wouldn’t cry out. But later, I heard every detail many, many times.”
“Go on,” Carter said.
“The Russian dropped a match to start the fire, and then bolted from the room. Nanya dropped to the floor and rushed to the fireplace. For years after that, she told us that she never really knew why she saved the papers the Russian was trying to burn. Something just told her to do it.”