As he located and pulled the bell cord on the post, his gray eyes automatically studied the house and its surroundings, noting the old but well-kept car drawn to one side of the driveway, and the high wall with its barbed wire. He was not surprised to find himself cool and completely dispassionate; it was the development of that ability that accounted for his success.
A man dressed in the garb of a servant was descending the steps. He came to the gate, accepted Kek’s name politely enough, unlocked the gate, and then locked it again once his visitor had entered. There seemed to be an ominous ring to the metal as it latched; a certain finality, a statement from the gate that beyond that point mistakes would not be tolerated. He took a deep breath and followed the stocky servant into the house, waiting once more as the outer door was closed and locked. In the dimness of the hall he stared about, his senses straining for some hint of Jadzia’s presence; other than the faint odor of some forgotten perfume, he could not note it.
There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind him; he turned and found himself facing a revolver held like a rock in the servant’s hand. For an instant a chill swept through his rigid composure. Betrayal? But there was nothing in the calm mien of the servant to indicate anything but duty being performed in a routine manner. The chill passed as quickly as it had come. Huuygens’s jaw tightened; his voice indicated his disapproval.
“And just what is that thing supposed to be for?”
Hans was not in the least perturbed either by the question or the tone of growing anger; nor did the revolver waver for an instant. “You will pardon me,” he said in very guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a search.”
“A search?” The mercurial eyebrows rose in honest surprise. “What on earth for?”
“For weapons.” The servant’s voice was even, reciting a litany, obviously not for the first time. They must have some interesting gatherings here, Kek thought. Check your guns at the door. “Senhor Echavarria has many valuable things in the house. I have been told who you are, and also that you are expected, but still...” Hans made no attempt to sound apologetic, or even greatly interested. “It is the rule.”
Kek shrugged and raised his arms; his attitude seemed to say that he never carried weapons, and any fool with half an eye should be able to recognize the fact. The servant studied the athletic figure a moment, and then changed the routine.
“If you would just lean against the wall, please. With your feet back just a bit. Lean with both hands, please...”
It must take a long time to get guests to the table if they go through this all the time, Kek thought, but nonetheless followed his instructions. In his lifetime he had been subjected to greater inconveniences than mere searches, and he was far from unfamiliar with those. A weird thought crossed his mind: if Jadzia were to enter at that moment, would she find the scene comical? Or merely normal, like the delivery of the milk?
Hans completed his inspection and stepped back, pocketing the revolver in the same movement. Huuygens shrugged his jacket back into place, tugged his shirt-sleeves to a more comfortable position, and studied the stocky servant a bit sardonically.
“If you are quite finished...”
“Sorry, sir.” Hans turned smartly and led the way to the library, quite as if there had been no interlude in the hallway at all. He announced Huuygens to the man within and then withdrew, the perfect servant, closing the door firmly behind him. Which makes three closed doors, two of them locked, Kek thought, and smiled grimly to himself. Well, we never did figure on getting out of here à la Douglas Fairbanks, anyway; we always intended to use brains rather than brawn. Let’s not forget it.
The man coming toward him was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and had his hand outstretched, almost as if it were a sword being held up to run him through. Kek tried to view him dispassionately, and found it quite easy. He’s only a client, he said to himself. He’s not Gruber at all. Gruber doesn’t exist. Net yet...
“My dear M’sieu Huuygens,” the thin man said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am most happy to meet you. Most happy indeed!” Huuygens found his hand being pumped enthusiastically, and then released; the hand transferred itself to his elbow, guiding him cordially to a wide divan against one wall. “Please be seated. Would you like a drink?”
How the man ever expects anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish, with that guttural accent, heaven alone knows, Huuygens thought, and smiled faintly. At least the monster is polite; he offered me a drink, and he was kind enough not to refer to his servant’s habit of holding guns on people.
“Yes, I would. Thank you,” he said, and sank down on the comfortable cushions.
“Whiskey or cognac?”
“Cognac, please,” Huuygens said cordially, and watched the tall, thin man march to a cabinet in one corner, open it, and pour two measured doses into glasses. The care with which the amounts were calculated indicated quite clearly to the seated man that Gruber wished to be certain his hospitality was sufficiently generous, without taking any chance that heads would not be clear once their discussion began. Teutonic thoroughness, Kek thought, and studied the figure of the man he had hated so many years. No, now that he’s actually before me, he doesn’t disturb me at all. Possibly because he has ceased to be a person. Now he’s just a symbol, a thing to be punished.
Gruber returned, handed him his glass, and sank down in a chair to one side. He raised his glass. “Salud.”
“Salud.”
They sipped, and then Gruber leaned back, his green eyes bright as he studied the calm figure before him. “You have quite a reputation, M’sieu Huuygens.”
Huuygens acknowledged the implied compliment with a polite tip of his head. “Thank you.”
“And yet you seem younger than I would have thought.”
Huuygens shrugged lightly. “Youth, m’sieu, is a relative thing.” Whatever that means, he thought to himself, and grinned inwardly. An idiotic statement, to be sure, but no more idiotic than his. He drank a bit of his cognac and waited.
“Yes,” Gruber said absently, and set aside his glass, leaning forward. “M’sieu Huuygens, I have checked on you thoroughly — or, to be perfectly honest — as thoroughly as I could. I don’t want to waste any more of your time than is necessary, I’m sure you are a busy man. Still...” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
The green eyes came up. “Well, I’m just not sure that you are the man I need.” He paused a moment and then went on. “May I ask you a question that you may think impertinent?”
Huuygens waved a hand. “My feelings, m’sieu, are rather calloused.”
“Good. I mean—” Gruber let it pass in favor of more important things “—M’sieu Huuygens, what is the largest thing you have been able to bring through customs undetected?” He hurried on, as if anxious not to be misunderstood. “I’m not attempting to query you on your methods, but I’m sure it is fairly easy to bring in — in — well, small things. Concealed. I’ve read...”
Huuygens shook his head sadly. “M’sieu. If you wish something taken from Lisbon concealed on my person, I suggest we are wasting time. And that my trip has been an unfortunate error. Each time I pass through a customs gate, they search me completely. Completely!” He set aside his glass and came to his feet with dignity. “It would be much simpler for you to carry the item yourself. I thought—”