“Fair enough.” One brief up-and-down motion and Gruber smiled. It was rather a malicious smile. “One more thing, M’sieu Huuygens. My wife was rather worried about trusting you, and I told her I thought I knew how to guarantee it, at least in our case.” His smile remained rigid. “In making your plans, there is one further fact you must take into account. I wish the details arranged in such a manner that at no time are the paintings physically out of my sight. That is an essential condition.”
Huuygens stared at him; the mercurial eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”
“No excuses, please.” Gruber’s voice had suddenly become hard. “That is an absolute essential. It isn’t that I distrust you, or the means you plan to employ, but there is far too much at stake here for me to take the slightest chance.”
“You plan, then, on traveling on the same ship?”
“Yes.”
Huuygens frowned. “As a general rule, my efforts are expended in getting things through customs. Not people.” His frown changed into a sudden smile as a thought struck him. “Other than myself, of course.”
Gruber was not amused. “Well?”
“Do you have your passport? Because I’m afraid I’m not a forger.”
“I have my passport.”
“And a valid visa for Brazil?”
Gruber nodded. “Yes. We both have.”
“Both? Ah, yes — your wife. She travels with you, then?”
“Yes. If we come to an agreement, you will have an opportunity to meet her.”
But not in your presence, Huuygens thought. Because the shock of that meeting for Jadzia could lead to anything from denouncement on the spot to inadvertent betrayal. Well, where and when he would meet Jadzia was something that would have to be worked out. He looked up.
“And Hans? Your servant?”
“No. He stays here.” Gruber was becoming a trifle impatient. “Well, m’sieu?”
Huuygens refused to be rushed. “You realize that you’re making the problem much more complicated?”
The thin man smiled sardonically. “But not impossible, I’m sure. Not for the famous M’sieu Huuygens. And certainly not for the extremely large fee he is demanding.”
“Plus expenses,” Huuygens added, almost idly.
“Expenses?”
“I hadn’t planned on an ocean trip.” Kek smiled apologetically. “As you said, m’sieu, it isn’t a question of mistrust, but only one of sound business practice. The time involved is an unfortunate loss, but...” He shrugged lightly. “The rest will do me good. And I haven’t been to Brazil for years.”
Gruber studied him. “We’re agreed, then?”
“We’re agreed.”
“Good.” The thin man smiled, pleased. “I was certain we would make an arrangement. And now that that’s settled, if you would care to see the... ah, the merchandise?”
Huuygens rose to his feet with that hesitancy of one waiting to be shown something. Gruber walked across the room with his military strut and drew aside the tapestry that hung on the opposite wall; its absence revealed a small door set in the side of the room. A combination of two keys was required to open the two locks; the thin man flicked on a light and stepped aside, allowing Kek to enter. The gray eyes surveyed the room carefully; it had apparently been a serving pantry of some sort when Gruber had first obtained the house, but now it was a vault. The walls had been lined with steel, as well as the ceiling, and Huuygens was sure that under the soft carpet on which he was standing the floor had been similarly equipped. He glanced up. One small vent located at the juncture of a wall and the ceiling provided fresh air from some outside source; from the rising whine of a concealed motor, he suspected the fan was activated when the door was opened.
“Well?” Gruber was looking about in evident pride.
Kek stepped forward. Hung on every available square inch of wall space were framed pictures. There was a small wooden table set in the center of the room, but there was still ample space to study the collection properly.
Gruber chuckled in self-congratulation.
“You should feel honored. You’re the first person ever to see this room — other than my wife, of course. Hans and I did all the work ourselves.”
Huuygens nodded politely, stepped to the first painting, and then felt a tingle at the base of his scalp. Could it be, despite the cordiality of their entente, that Gruber had only been playing with him? He moved to the second, and then to the third, his nerves becoming more tense with each picture. Certainly it was possible; because the paintings he was studying were a series of poor copies produced by obviously second-rate students. His eyes narrowed slightly. Could the German honestly believe he had a fortune in his hands, if only these pictures could be sold, or was he standing behind him now, waiting with that cruel smile of his for Huuygens to betray himself?
He turned slowly, every nerve on edge, and knew at once that it had been no trap. The tall, thin man was staring at the mounted pictures with such pride, such rapture, such avarice, that Huuygens felt his alarm disappear, to be replaced with a stab of contempt. You poor animal! he thought. Is this what you have guarded all these years? Is this trash the legacy you brought from your career of murdering and torturing? Is this the future you have been dreaming of? Living on the proceeds of what these miserable daubs will bring?
A wild desire to chortle almost overwhelmed him; he forced it down, willing himself to composure, walking slowly from picture to picture, pretending to study them, to admire them. A second thought came without volition: poor Jadzia! She should have spent more time listening to the discussions on art between Stefan and himself and less in worrying about her most recent gown! He completed his tour of the small room to find Gruber watching him closely.
“Well? What do you think?”
Huuygens shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m no art expert. Their value—”
“I don’t mean that,” Gruber said impatiently. “I realize that art isn’t your field. I mean, now that you’ve seen what I want brought into Brazil, can you handle it?”
“Are these all?”
“Yes. No!” Gruber turned to the table in the center of the room. He slid open a drawer, reached within, and brought out a small envelope. “There are also these.”
He opened the envelope and tossed the contents out onto the table top. For a moment the desire to laugh came back to Huuygens; from his position they appeared at first like an assemblage of postcards. In addition to the garbage on the wall, he thought, what else do you want smuggled into Brazil? French postcards? He came forward, bent over the desk, and then froze in almost uncontrollable shock. Despite his iron control he felt a tremor of excitement shoot through him, felt his mouth grow tight with tension.
What he was observing was a series of small rectangles of vellum, bright with color. For the first time since he had left Poland, he was looking at the famous Hochmann collection of miniatures! It was not possible; they had been destroyed! He closed his eyes a moment and then opened them avidly, staring down. The most famous, the most valuable collection of miniature paintings in the world, here! Locked in a drawer in a small room that housed the world’s worst copies! He clenched his jaw, tried to breathe deeply without being noticeable, but his eyes were still slightly dazed as he looked around. Gruber, fortunately, was paying him no attention. Instead, he was smiling down at the tiny rectangles much as one will smile at children playing in the park.
“Rather pretty, aren’t they?” He turned around. By this time Huuygens had managed an expression of polite interest. “I thought of taking them with me in my luggage, but since you’re handling the rest, you might as well include these.”