“Mietek — you’ve got to help me. You’re the only one that can. Those paintings are my only hope, they’ve got to get into Brazil safely. Do you understand?” She watched him carefully, and then continued, speaking slowly. “Willi isn’t the only one who knows the people in Brazil who will buy them. I also know who they are and where they are. I also know how to contact them...”
He studied her almost clinically. “Do I understand you? You mean, get them into Brazil, with or without Willi?”
“Yes.” Her voice was emotionless; only the brightness of her eyes betrayed her tenseness. “Yes. With or without Willi...”
He leaned back, his gray eyes half closed. “I see.”
“I knew you would...” She bent forward suddenly, drawing him toward her, pressing her lips on his mouth lightly at first, but then with mounting pressure. Her lips opened; her sharp teeth bit down softly on his lip, and then she pushed him away, coming to her feet quickly, purposefully. She stripped her jacket from her, and then her blouse, dropping them to the floor; her eyes were bright with excitement, fixed almost hypnotically on his. She seated herself on the bed and then allowed herself to fall back; her green eyes were almost black with emotion. Her hair spread out across the white bedspread like an opened fan, framing her lovely face.
“Mietek, come here...”
He knelt by the bed, almost unconscious of his actions, his mind blank to everything but her presence there. She drew his head to her full breasts, arching her back convulsively as his lips touched her, and then reached for his hand, pulling it with urgency to her thigh, pressing it tightly with her tense fingers.
“Touch me, Mietek; touch me, touch me...” There was a thickness in her voice, an almost drunken abandon, but there was also an underlying thread of triumph. “Oh, Mietek, Mietek, oh, my darling Mietek...”
The plan came to him in the night, almost complete in detail.
He had half wakened and turned on his side, unconsciously reaching for the warm body that had locked with his in such frenzied passion that afternoon. His hand encountered only the bare sheet; the perfume Jadzia had worn still clung sweetly to the pillow as witness that it had not been just a dream.
He rolled over, clasping his arms behind his head, staring up at a ceiling only faintly visible in the moonlight that glanced in the open window. Other than the pure animal pleasure of satiated completion that he felt, his mind was deliciously empty. And that nature which abhors a vacuum filled it at once with a plan.
It did not greatly surprise him. Ideas came to him with considerable ease, and often at unpredictable times, and he never argued with the quirk in his mental processes that made it possible. Nor did he ever explore too deeply which particular circumstance actually triggered the flow of ideas.
He knew, of course, that with this scheme he would have to be more exigent; but he also knew, almost instinctively, that the basic idea was a good one. There were obviously many details to be worked out carefully and intelligently; facts to be remembered and others to be obtained — such as the direction in which the ornate wrought-iron gate swung, and to what extent he could depend upon André. Or Michel, who might be called upon, almost certainly without his own knowledge. There was a great deal to do, but bedtime was not the time to do it, nor bed the proper place in which to do it. Especially not this bed, with its host of contradictory memories.
With or without Willi, eh? Sweet girl...
Tomorrow morning would do to start work. He nodded to himself, pleased that at last he had a working basis for the operation, and then rolled over, closing his eyes. A faint smile touched his lips as a final thought came before sleep claimed him again.
With or without Willi, eh? Hardly a choice...
11
By noon the ashtray had been filled and emptied several times into the wastebasket beneath the desk, but the brandy bottle had not been touched. The remains of several pots of coffee and three sandwiches accounted for both his breakfast and his lunch. Twice, the comely camarera had been sent away when she came to straighten out the room, and even now was petulantly sorting linens in the tiny closet at the end of the hall, wondering unhappily just what there was about her to cause the handsome gentleman in 607 to remain a gentleman.
Kek crushed out his cigarette and leaned over, studying the final list on his desk, the result of hours of untiring thought. He lit another cigarette automatically and came to his feet, moving to the window, staring down unseeingly. His mind checked each of the many steps of the plan, going over them for the tenth time or more, reviewing the timetable he had established, trying to find some fault, some chink in the unassailable and inevitable logic of the scheme. He could find none. There were always, he knew, unknown factors that cropped up unexpectedly; these would have to be dealt with at the moment, as best they could. The mark of success was nearly always the ability to handle such unknown factors smoothly and without panic. But far more important was to arrange things so that something that should have been foreseen and calculated did not suddenly appear as a surprise.
He turned back to his desk, dropping into the chair there, frowning at the list once again, and then nodded decisively. It was a good plan, with every opportunity of success, and he had studied it long enough. It was now time to put it into practice. With the feeling of relief that always came at this stage of a job, he crumpled the paper and applied a match to it, placing it in the ashtray to burn itself out, and then mixing the still-warm ashes with the matchstick.
The telephone rang; he tossed the matchstick on top of the other debris in the ashtray and reached over to pick up the receiver.
“Hello? Yes?”
“M’sieu Huuygens?” The question was obviously rhetorical, or the caller would not have continued. “This is Senhor Echavarria...” The guttural voice was without emotion. “Do you have any news?”
“News?”
“How are your plans going?”
Kek smiled faintly, staring at the still-smoking ashes. He reached out and retrieved the matchstick, stirring them a bit more. “Very well.”
“Good! And do you have any idea yet as to how long it will be until...” The voice trailed off significantly.
Huuygens closed his eyes, pictured the timetable a moment, and then reopened them. “At the moment it’s a bit difficult to say, exactly. It depends to a large degree on what I am able to accomplish today. My visa will be ready tomorrow, but there’s also the question of selecting the right — transportation...”
“Of course.”
“Still, I hope we may be able to finalize our business on Friday.”
“In four days? So soon?” The guttural voice sounded surprised.
Kek assumed a cold tone. “Time is money, m’sieu. As it is, I shall have to spend a week in travel that I had not originally calculated.”
Gruber hurried to clarify his position. “I’m not objecting to the time, I was merely rather amazed. For me, the sooner the better. Would you suggest I call you on Thursday, then? In the evening?”
“That would be fine. By then I should be able to give you the exact time.”
“Good. And now that that’s out of the way,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I might mention that my wife informs me that she met you yesterday. And seemed quite convinced that you are the ideal man for the — ah, the assignment.”
“Oh?” Kek sounded noncommittal, but he frowned, wondering what the other was leading up to.
“Yes. She also appeared to be quite attracted to you,” Gruber went on, and suddenly chuckled. The chuckle disappeared as if swallowed, replaced by the original suave tone. “Quite enthusiastic. You would have to know my wife better to realize how rare that is with her. Unfortunately...” His voice trailed off apologetically.