He was a tall, thin man who walked with a stiff military stride that no amount of practice had been able either to overcome or disguise. His sharp features still exhibited traces of their once-youthful handsomeness, although tiny scars at the nose and mouth proclaimed to the trained eye the passage at some time of the surgeon’s knife. The result would have made many of his past victims laugh — if it had not made them want to cry — for Gruber now sported a nose that more than hinted at being Hebraic in origin. It was very nearly the nose he himself had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction in the ovens. His thin wedge-shaped face was topped by thinning hair, dyed an impossible black, and the Hitler mustache he had once worn proudly was now trimmed to the hairline favored by the Iberians.
He moved down the length of the room, coming into the stronger light near the doorway, and brought one hand up jerkily like a toy soldier performing a movement, thrusting it out.
“Orlando. You’re well, I hope.” It was not a question. The cold politeness of the slightly harsh voice made no more attempt to disguise its underlying concern at the unexpected visit than it did to sound even faintly interested in the other’s well-being. For a moment Camargo felt a touch of resentment, then he forced it away.
“I’m fine.” He shook the outstretched hand and felt it withdrawn almost at once; he allowed himself to be led to a divan against one wall and seated. Gruber sank down in an armchair opposite him, staring at him with eyes that Camargo suddenly noted as being green. Odd, he thought; I would have sworn they were blue. He caught himself, remembering his manners. “And you? And your Senhora?”
Gruber waved a languid hand in disinterest. “Out shopping. One of these days Hans will simply have to learn to drive.” He dismissed the question, calmly studying the tense face before him. “And just what brings you here?”
“I...” Camargo hesitated.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No. I...”
Gruber’s voice became slightly impatient, the voice of a staff officer speaking to an enlisted man about some minor request. “Come, man! What’s the trouble?”
Camargo took a deep breath. “Do you remember a man called Morell? Michel Morell? My assistant, actually...”
Gruber nodded, his blue-green eyes narrowing slightly, becoming even greener. “I remember him quite well. You brought him to our last dinner party.” His tone seemed to indicate that if anything unfortunate came of that encounter, the one who would suffer for it would be Camargo. “Why?”
“Well...” Camargo looked about the room, searching for inspiration, finding none. The figures in the tapestry on the wall across from him stared back with impersonal disinterest. They seemed to be saying that in their time they had looked down on more authentic martyrs. His eyes came back to his host unhappily.
“Well, we were having breakfast today — we usually meet at Celotto’s in the morning — and he began this long-winded conversation about this man Huuygens, and then—”
Gruber frowned. “Who?”
“Kek Huuygens. He’s a man who — well, never mind. He has nothing to do with it in any event. He was just Morell’s way of leading up to the subject. The point is...” Camargo hesitated once again.
One of Gruber’s well-kept hands came up.
“Start at the beginning and tell me the whole story,” he said evenly, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. “Word for word. Everything Morell said, everything you said. Apparently something he said upset you, and even more apparently, it seems to involve me. So I want it all. Complete and in sequence.”
The stocky Camargo seemed relieved to be able to tell the story from the beginning, almost as if it somehow removed him from any complicity in the event, making him merely a spectator rather than a participant. Several times during the detailed account Gruber closed his eyes to concentrate better, and then opened them at once, preferring to watch the heavy face of the man across from him during the recital. In general, Camargo thought, relieved, he’s taking the threat to his well-being rather better than I thought.
He came to the end of his account and hesitated a moment. He had been leaning forward, speaking in the steady, clipped tones of one accustomed to making detailed verbal reports; now he shifted himself back in his chair, seeming to feel that a personal observation was needed to complete the story and balance it off.
“I’m sure that Morell simply wants some money,” he said, and was surprised to find Gruber smiling at him in a curious fashion. He frowned. “He must want money. Why else...?”
“Why else, indeed?” Gruber asked a bit absently, and his smile widened. “I think I should like to meet this Morell once again. In fact, under the circumstances, I think I should like to meet him as soon as possible. You will arrange it?”
“Of course, but—”
“Actually,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I would suggest you telephone him now, asking him to come out here. Immediately.” He raised a hand. “You need not be here when he arrives. You might find it to be... ah... embarrassing...”
The expression on Camargo’s face indicated his doubts as to the wisdom of the idea, but he came to his feet dutifully, moving to the desk in the corner. He raised the instrument, dialed, waited a few moments, and then spoke into it quietly. When he had finished he replaced the receiver and returned.
“He’ll be here in a few minutes — as soon as his driver comes back from an errand.”
“Thank you,” Gruber said, and came to his feet, his abruptness indicating the end of the interview. Camargo frowned down at the floor, dubious about leaving without all the finer details arranged.
“I shouldn’t give him too much money,” he said. “I can bring some pressure on him, if necessary. And also, despite his talk, I don’t believe he would actually say...”
“Actually say anything to harm me?” Gruber’s faint smile turned cruel. “I hope not. I should hate to think that any person you brought to my home would treat my hospitality so poorly.” His hand came up rigidly, held out. “Goodby. Thank you for coming.”
There was the sound of the door in the front hallway being opened and then closed. A moment later a woman passed down the hallway and then paused at the library entrance, glancing in. Gruber smiled.
“Come in, my dear. You remember Captain Braz Camargo, I’m sure. He stopped by for a moment, but he’s just leaving.”
The woman stepped forward, holding out one hand. Camargo bent over it; it seemed odd to him that the small hand was so cold, considering the heat of the day. He straightened up, feeling as always a touch of envy that an automation like Gruber should be the possessor of anyone this young, this beautiful, and obviously so much more blessed with finer sensibilities.
“Senhora,” he said politely, and stepped away.
Jadzia nodded, her eyes studying his face for the purpose behind his visit. “Senhor,” she said, equally polite, and waited until he had turned to shake hands one last time with Gruber. “Hans will show you out,” she said, and turned. Hans was standing silently at the doorway, his face a mask; Camargo would have sworn that nobody had called the servant. “And Hans,” the woman added coolly, “there are some things in the car...”
Their visitor followed the servant down the shadowed hallway. Jadzia moved further into the room and sank down gracefully on the divan. She studied the enigmatic smile on her husband’s face a moment and then frowned slightly.