That was the Hochmann collection — and what had happened to it? He crushed out his cigarette and lit another immediately. In Paris he had heard that the Hochmann mansion had been bombed, destroyed. The Oberfuehrer had escaped death, and the Hochmann family had also been spared; they had been away from the house. At the time his relief in knowing that Jadzia had not been harmed had overshadowed all else. He had assumed, in common with others, that the collection had gone up in smoke, together with the thousands of books and the valuable china and the hand-carved furniture and all else, including the new refrigerator...
And now the miniatures were here in Lisbon, part of a package Gruber intended him to take through the customs of both Portugal and Brazil. Where Gruber had managed to get that other assortment of framed garbage, God alone knew! Certainly not from the walls of the Hochmann mansion; the old count would not have given the best of them storage space in the coal cellar. And Gruber, obviously, had no notion of their worthlessness.
This thought led to another. It was possible, therefore, that Gruber also had no idea of the true value of the miniatures; certainly he had treated them casually enough. Though Jadzia surely should know; she was raised with them. Ah, well, he thought, a minor mystery and not of great importance.
He frowned slightly. Ten thousand dollars to get the paintings out of one country and into another... With canvases that numerous and that large, it posed an interesting problem. He crushed out his cigarette and leaned back, closing his eyes, one hand coming up to tug at his earlobe. It was a pretty puzzle, and the solution this time had to satisfy more than the requirements of a client. It had also to satisfy him.
The telephone beside him buzzed quietly. His eyes came open; he frowned as he reached for the instrument. Who could be calling? André? Michel?
“Yes? Hello?”
“M’sieu Huuygens?”
He felt a sudden tightening of his nerves; an almost visceral chill. His large hand clenched the smooth plastic more tightly. How could he ever have thought he had forgotten that throaty, intriguing voice? Or that he would ever be impervious to it?
“Yes, this is M’sieu Huuygens.”
“M’sieu Huuygens, this is Senhora Echavarria. I have spoken with my husband, and he has told me of your conversation, and your — your arrangement. I...” There was a momentary pause, but it was not one of embarrassment; her tone still retained the old note of command. Even her accent is the same, he thought; it had never changed from those ancient days when she was studying her academy French in Warsaw.
“Yes?”
She continued evenly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you met my husband. I feel I should like to meet you personally before you — before you consider the arrangements final.”
Kek tried to analyze his reactions dispassionately. You knew this was going to happen when you started this business, he said to himself; be honest. You not only knew it; you wanted it. You hoped for it. Well, here it is. Admit that it was as much to see Jadzia as it was to punish Gruber that you came here in the first place. He took a deep breath.
“I quite understand, Senhora. At your convenience.”
“I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If I might come up?”
“Of course.”
There was a click as the telephone was disconnected; he hung up slowly and came to his feet. His jacket was lying on the bed; he slipped into it and unconsciously passed his hand over his thick hair and then brought it down to straighten his necktie. He walked to the window and stared down. A small beige sports convertible stood at the curb before the hotel — where none had stood when he had returned; he was suddenly sure it belonged to Jadzia. It was just the type of car she would want: fast, exaggeratedly modern without being openly ostentatious, and undoubtedly quite expensive. He grinned impetuously and felt a certain relief from his tenseness because of it. Let’s not be ungentlemanly, he said to himself; it’s also the type of car you prefer yourself.
There was a rap at the door; he swung about, his back to the light of the window, his voice raised slightly, but noncommittal in a manner he was far from feeling. “Come in.”
The knob turned; the door swung back. He tried to study the woman in the opening dispassionately, but despite the effort he felt his pulse begin to beat faster. She looks so much the same! he thought. The wind had ruffled her black hair a bit; it made her look as she had when she was coming in from a brisk canter, wheeling her horse to a stop before the stables back in Poland. She was dressed in a light sports suit, with an open jacket over a low-cut blouse; the curve of the breast represented complete fulfillment of that early promise. Her stomach was flat, her legs long and beautiful. Yes, Jadzia, he said to himself, I knew you would only change to improve. The fact, somehow, seemed to please him.
“M’sieu Huuygens?”
“Yes, Senhora.”
She closed the door behind her and moved forward; even in that short space he could see the boyish stride of old had been replaced by the natural grace of a mature woman. She paused before him, opened her mouth to speak, and then slowly closed it. Her air of polite indifference disappeared, followed first by a questioning look of bewilderment, and then almost instantly by shock, and then by fear. It was the fear of an animal caught in a trap, a trap unfairly placed. Her eyes widened; one hand rose swiftly to her throat, as if for protection.
“Mietek!”
“Hello, Jadzia.” His voice, to his own surprise, was even and gentle.
She stared at him a moment longer, as a bird stares at a snake that both fascinates and repels it, and then turned, her eyes searching the room desperately. They came back to him, attempting to understand the reason for his presence here, trying to recover from the shock of seeing him.
“Where is M’sieu Huuygens?”
“I’m Kek Huuygens.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“It’s the truth, Jadzia.” His voice remained gentle, convincing. “I’ve been Kek Huuygens since the war. Since I left Warsaw, as a matter of fact.”
“You’ve been Kek...”
He reached out, taking her hand; it was cold. She allowed it to lay impassively in his for a moment, and then suddenly her fingers tightened convulsively and without volition. Her eyes widened and then closed as a spasm of pain crossed her face. Kek could almost see her mind racing. Had she, by coming here, unwittingly betrayed the fact that Echavarria was Gruber? Would he, Huuygens, have known otherwise? Had she, by inserting herself into the affair, threatened the entire scheme with disaster? Her eyes finally opened, deep, dark green pools of fright, staring into his, trying to calculate the damage she had done, attempting to assess her own guilt.
“Sit down, Jadzia.”
She sank to the bed obediently; he seated himself across from her in a chair, bending forward, still holding her hand. Her eyes continued to search his face, seeking relief from her thoughts.
Her voice was low. “You knew, didn’t you? You recognized him.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I recognized him.”
“You would,” she said, and there was grudging admiration in her voice. “You’ve never seen him in your life, but you would. I think I always knew you would.” She closed her eyes and then opened them at once, as if she would be too vulnerable without his face before her. There were several moments of silence before she spoke again. “What are you going to do?”
He studied her white face. “What do you want me to do?”
Her eyes clouded with fear of a trap again, and all the terrors such a trap would mean. She bit her lip, fighting desperately to retain her normal position of attack, searching for cogent arguments. One came; it was weak, but all she could summon at the moment.