“And why,” she asked, her musical voice curiously muted, “should Captain Camargo be visiting us? Without being invited?”
She had spoken in German. Gruber dropped into a chair opposite her, and leaned forward. He grinned; it split his thin face wolfishly. “To bring us good news, although he doesn’t know it. He’s somewhat of a fool, Camargo...” His grin disappeared as suddenly as it had come. His green eyes fixed themselves on his wife’s face, reveling as always in her cool beauty, the fine features, and the fire he knew too well lay beneath. “Just how long have you hated living in Lisbon, Jadzia?”
“How long?” She studied him evenly, and then shrugged lightly. “How long has it been that we’ve lived here? Virtual prisoners?” She thought a moment and then nodded, satisfied that her answer had been accurate. “That’s how long—”
“Prisoners, yes,” Gruber admitted. “But you far less than me. At least you’ve been able to get about with the car in the daytime; I’ve had to stay inside this house except for a few excursions at night...” He bit back the rest of his complaint, realizing the uselessness of such discussion, and returned to the point, watching his wife’s face with a touch of triumph. “We may be able to leave Portugal, possibly...”
The girl sat up; for the first time a touch of animation came to the lovely face. “Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? And go to Brazil? In Brazil, I could—” the animation suddenly disappeared, replaced by suspicion — “Is this another one of your grand illusions, Willi? Because if it is...”
“Grand illusion?” He shrugged, but his green eyes continued to glitter with excitement. “Maybe. But at least it’s a chance.” He clasped his thin fingers together, staring at her across the ridges. “There’s going to be a man here soon; you may remember him from our last party. His name is Morell, a Frenchman — without a country, like so many others we could name. But, unfortunately, no more sympathetic for that. In any event, he started to work on Camargo this morning; to try to get some money from me—”
“He recognized you? At the party?”
Gruber’s shoulders came up. “I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s too important. Obviously, he knows I’m not Spanish but German. Living here under a false name. Whether he recognized me as a person isn’t the point. What he did recognize was a chance to make some money.”
Jadzia stared at the floor. “Those parties were a mistake...”
“I’m not so sure.” To her surprise, Gruber was smiling broadly. “But let me go on. This Morell had a wild story of trying to help me, but — forgetting all his protestations — what he was actually doing was threatening me. Threatening to report me to the United Nations commission looking for art objects lost — or stolen — during the war—”
“What?” Her face had turned white.
He held up a hand and shook his head. “No, my dear. Don’t worry. I’m quite sure the man had no real intention of doing anything of the sort. What would it gain him? No, he simply wants money. Like all the others. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and he’ll be handled easily enough. That isn’t the point.”
“Then, what...?”
Gruber’s smile remained; he leaned forward even more. “The point is far more delicate. When this Morell was talking to Camargo this morning, leading up to his blackmail attempt — because that’s what it was — he mentioned a man named Huuygens—”
Jadzia frowned uncertainly. “Huuygens?”
“That’s the way it sounded to me. Kek Huuygens, or something very like it.”
“And who is he?”
“I think he’s a man we can use,” Gruber said, and rubbed his hands together. “Camargo isn’t the brightest man on earth — and I doubt that this Morell is, considering the heavy-handed way he handled this matter — but still, bless them both, they gave me an idea. Morell merely mentioned this Huuygens as a means of leading up to his main purpose, but still—”
“And just who is this Huuygens?”
“Well,” Gruber said, “he’s apparently well known in the underworld as a man who makes his living taking things through customs. Things which customs normally wouldn’t allow...”
Jadzia studied his face a moment, and then shook her head. “I know what you mean, Willi, but I don’t like it. A man like that could never be trusted.”
“Possibly not. On the other hand, possibly yes. His reputation seems to be that he can. For a price, of course, but it’s a price I’d be prepared to pay if it meant getting out of Portugal.” He came to his feet, beginning to pace the library, his thin hands clasped behind his back. He swung about and came back to the divan, frowning down at the woman seated there.
“Unless we can take our things with us, of course, we can’t leave at all. We’re getting to the point, financially, where we will soon have to start selling things, and whether Camargo knows it or not, this Morell was telling the truth about this commission. I don’t mean they’re heading for Lisbon on the next plane, but it’s really only a matter of time. To sell anything, particularly at this time, would be extremely dangerous.” He thought a moment. “Also, of course, Lisbon today is probably the worst market in the world.”
“I realize all these things,” Jadzia said patiently, “but I still think it would be very dangerous trusting something to a complete stranger, and a stranger who, by his profession, is patently a thief.”
“Not a thief, my dear,” Gruber corrected gently. “An agent.” He paused and then smiled; the smile broadened as a further thought came to him. “As a matter of fact, I think I know how I can take steps to guarantee his honesty. At least in our case.”
“And how would you do that?”
Gruber shook his head. “Don’t worry, it can be done.” He rubbed his hands together as he considered the idea that had struck him; the more he thought about it, the better he liked it.
Jadzia shrugged. “And how would you get in touch with this man?”
“Ah,” Gruber said, as if pleased that the question had been asked. “That is where our friend Morell comes in. This Huuygens — if he isn’t a figment of somebody’s imagination, and Camargo assures me he’s real enough — has to be able to be contacted somewhere, by someone. He could scarcely operate if nobody in the world could get in touch with him. And I’m sure that our wise Frenchman-without-a-country can manage it, if anyone can.”
“Again for a price?”
“Again for a price, yes. But...” He shrugged. “He was expecting to be paid, and he will be. It will be a different service he performs, that’s all. I doubt that a man like Morell cares why he gets paid, as long as he does.” He took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming. “Once we get to Brazil, it will be worth it. Werner is there, and Egglehof, and — well, many of our old friends. Who know their way about.” He shook his head. “Imagine! To be able to walk the streets, even if it’s only a small village in the interior, to have friends who aren’t vultures like Morell and Camargo. Oh, yes; it will be worth it!”
There was a faint tinkle from somewhere in the dim recesses of the house, like the muffled sound of a music box buried beneath pillows for the illicit enjoyment of some child. It was oddly pleasant in the musty room, and a moment later the shadow of Hans moved silently past the library door, a wraith destroying without intent the almost gay mood of the bell. Gruber swung about, his posture military, his green eyes alert.
“That will be Morell now, I should think.” He smiled down at the woman, a triumphant smile, revealing even, white teeth. “I think it would be best if I spoke to him alone...”
7
Anita, her long blonde hair falling over her pretty face, brought her attention from the gay prints on the wall of Kek’s apartment back to her drink on the bar. She stared into its depths, wondering what there was about the placid gin and tonic that somehow failed to harmonize with her mood, and then suddenly reached out with a tinted fingernail to submerge one of the ice cubes. The drink responded by releasing hundreds of tiny bubbles. Satisfied, she swung about on her stool, looking at her companion with one of those bursts of inspiration that made her such an interesting and unpredictable girl.