“So it worked, eh?”
“Like chopped corn before a sow,” André said proudly. “Like a double dose of huile de ricin. Like a charm,” he added hastily, not wanting to be misunderstood. He grinned down at the instrument nestled in his massive hand. “Now, my friend, the problem is this — how does Michel manage to contact you?”
Kek’s chuckle grew to a laugh; he reached over with his free hand, retrieving his brandy and sipping it, savoring it. Anita stood patiently at one side, waiting until she could again prove useful. Kek returned the brandy glass to the desk, and then paid attention to the question, nodding.
“Well, now — certainly Michel would never disclose his methods of contacting a person. He’s far too experienced for that. I’d suggest he get in touch with me through devious channels and by employing mysterious means. If he thinks it will help, he can also use persons unknown.” He grinned. “Knowing Michel, I’m sure he’ll manage.”
“Good enough,” André said, satisfied. “I’ll tell him. He still isn’t too happy about this whole affair, you know, but he’s doing fine.”
“I never did believe he had completely forgotten that Boche lieutenant,” Huuygens said shrewdly. “What else?”
“Oh, yes. How long does it take these mysterious means and devious channels to get in touch with you? To locate you, that is? And also, of course, to interest you in a proposition?”
Huuygens pursed his lips, thinking. His gray eyes narrowed as he studied the question and came to a decision.
“Five days, I should say. Earlier than that, and it might appear that I was at the beck and call of any voleur — practically in the classified section of the telephone book, you might say. Later than five days, and the man might get the idea that I was too exclusive for his tastes, or that I didn’t exist at all. He might get impatient and look for another solution to his problem.” He paused a moment, thinking. “As to making the proposition interesting to me, I’m afraid that will have to wait. I don’t know what his problem is, so I can’t say how much it will cost to solve it. I’d suggest that Michel merely tell him that the fee will have to be discussed when I get there. I’d also suggest he could mention that, in any event, it won’t be cheap.”
“I’m sure,” André said, and grinned. “Punishment never is. One last thing: assuming it takes five days to get in touch with you, how much longer will it take for you to get here?”
“That depends. Not too long, I shouldn’t think. Two more days, probably, depending upon how far I have to travel, and what accommodations I’m able to make. If Michel were unfortunate enough to locate me in, say, Canada, or the Orient, it might be even longer.” His grin had returned; he was enjoying himself. “However, if he were lucky enough to find me closer — say in Paris — then I might be able to make it in as little as a day.”
“Let’s hope he’s lucky, then,” André said optimistically, and grinned. “Now let me try to translate that timetable. What you’re saying is that we’ll see you in about a week?”
“Right. I’ll call you when I’ve checked into a hotel. And thanks for the message.”
“De nada. Our service runs twenty-four hours a day.” André chuckled and hung up.
Kek placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned forward, clasping his hands together, squeezing them tightly. He allowed them to relax and they sprang apart, almost by themselves. He came to his feet, beginning to stride up and down restlessly, as if resenting the necessity of delaying the start of action as much as six or seven days, even though he knew his decision to postpone his arrival in Lisbon that long had been the correct one. He suddenly paused, staring at the rug without seeing it. In six days, then, he would see Jadzia... What would be her reaction? More important, what would be his own? He put the thought away, forcing it out of his mind. There would be time enough to think about that in the next week.
He swung about and found himself facing Anita; a chill came over the girl as she saw the way his eyes had unconsciously widened, as if he had completely forgotten her presence. She tried to smile bravely, although she was trembling inside.
“Kek? You’re going away?”
Huuygens nodded. “In about a week.”
“Where?”
“To Lisbon.”
“And will you be gone long?”
He shrugged and took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “A week, probably, if all goes well.” The gleam faded. “Or less, if it doesn’t...”
Anita studied his face with worry. “But I thought — I mean, you said that the customs — I mean, will they let you go?”
Kek suddenly grinned. “You mean the business of the chocolates? Oh, yes! I even received a formal apology from them, although I’m afraid it was given a bit grudgingly. But it was given, which is what counts.” He looked at her a moment as if seeing her for the first time, and then snapped his fingers. “How would you like to go out dancing? It’s not too late.”
“If you wish,” she said in a tiny voice.
“I wish,” he said, and placed a finger under her chin, raising her head, staring into her troubled eyes. “As a matter of fact, I wish very much. And when I come back from Lisbon, I’ll bring you—”
“Don’t bring me chocolates. Don’t bring me anything.” Her eyes looked deep into his. “Just bring me back yourself.”
Kek laughed. “All right,” he said, equably, and raised his shoulders. “Although, to be honest, I have as much trouble getting that through customs as anything else...”
Book Three
8
From the safe height of the Air France Viscount, Kek Huuygens stared thoughtfully out of the window; a brandy — his third in the short time since leaving Paris — stood on the small tray before him, and a cigarette burned steadily in his fingers. In the distance the hazy horizon seemed marked by a gentle curve; he smiled to himself a bit grimly. There was an old proverb: The world turns, but it also returns. In a few hours a world he had thought dead and buried would return, if only for a few days. And just how would he utilize that remarkable resurrection? He crushed out his cigarette, finished his brandy, and watched the well-formed stewardess remove the glass and tray. Don’t think about what is coming up, he said to himself; don’t waste the time. Take it step by step. When the proper hour comes, you’ll know what to do.
He relaxed and stared down, content to admire the beauty of the scene. The shallow sandbars north of Lisbon had turned the blue ocean into a series of white-capped waves reeling drunkenly toward the shore; they looked, from the air, like a lace-edged skirt flapping in the breeze from some huge, cosmic clothesline. Beyond the wide beach the white apartments and hotels of Estoril stood in even, geometric rows, glistening in the early morning sun.
The plane banked steeply, dropping lower, and the broad Tejo itself was beneath them. The Tower of Belém slid past, foreshortened, and then the tiny docks harboring toy ships; a second sharp bank and the city, sheltered in its irregular amphitheater of hills, drifted below. Through the leafy cover of trees the boulevards could be seen, and then the growing height of the apartments along the Avenida Gago Coutinho. The plane whined in protest as its wheels descended, grunted as they locked in place, and then spread its flaps philosophically, checking its headlong rush. The stained concrete runway of Portela airport hastily rose to meet it. Kek unbuckled his seatbelt and stared through the window as the plane wheeled to a stop before the administration building. Lisbon. Step Three...