Midnight in Madrid rt-2

by Noel Hynd

  Then she said, “The gown is very nice. And you know that’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?”

  “How I got here! Being undressed and re-dressed by strangers, your staff, presumably.”

  “I had you brought here,” he began, “in an unorthodox way because I could not take the chance that you might be followed if I summoned you here on your own. I didn’t wish to meet with you in a public place, for the safety of both of us. But I do wish to help you with whatever request you’re here to ask of me. As for being undressed and re-dressed by strangers, my staff, as you say-that didn’t happen. The men I sent to bring you to me knew that the utmost care was to be taken and you were not to be harmed in any way.”

  “Just terrified!” she said, interrupting.

  “It had to be done like that,” he insisted. “Then you were brought here. You were handed over to me with the gentleness and care that one would use in placing a raw egg in a mother’s hand. I carried you upstairs myself, and I changed you myself. So the eyes of no strangers were upon you. I am an old friend.”

  She felt a cringe within her. “Seriously. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Acquaintance? If I’m neither friend nor acquaintance, why do you come to Switzerland to ask favors of me?”

  “You’re a business associate.”

  “Well, I hope to eventually be more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your lover, perhaps. Soon.”

  “When hell freezes over,” she shot back. “Where are the rest of my things?” she asked above his laughter.

  “Your clothes are in the closet of your room,” he said.

  “I know that. What about my gun?”

  He leaned forward and reached to the side drawer on his desk. He opened the drawer and pulled it out. The Browning was in its holster, the magazine removed. He laid the weapon and the magazine on the desk in front of him, complete with bullets. With the gesture of an open hand, he offered them to her. She walked to the desk and picked up both. She held them and folded her arms.

  “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about why you’re here. I might be able to help. Coffee? Tea? I have a staff here. You must be hungry.”

  “Food and some answers,” she finally said. “Those are offers I can accept.”

  Federov rose from his desk and led the way, offering an arm that Alex declined by ignoring. There was an awkward moment as Federov slowed, but then he continued. They passed through the expansive front entry hall and into the dining room, passing a set of double doors that Alex had not noticed the first time. She also now saw that there was a single place set, as if to await a late-rising guest, which, of course, she was.

  Federov motioned graciously to her seat. She took it and he held the chair. Somewhere along the way since she had seen him last, he seemed to have taken up the study of manners, though he wasn’t always an “A” student.

  She sat. He moved to a place at the head of the table, allowing an empty chair as an interval, obviously so as not to crowd her. Now that her fear had subsided, as had her shock at being abducted, she realized she was quite hungry.

  Federov leaned forward and reached to a small bell on the table. He rang like an English aristocrat of the nineteenth century. A small woman named Lucy emerged from the kitchen and gave Federov a nod and fixed Alex with a smile that suggested that she thought that Alex was a girlfriend of the boss since she had spent the night.

  “What would you like?” Federov asked. “For breakfast, I mean.”

  “What are you offering?”

  After a moment of discussion and negotiation, it was settled on scrambled eggs, toast, milk, and tea. Lucy gave a polite nod, vanished, and was soon making noise in the kitchen.

  Alex turned back to Federov. She fingered the stone pendant that hung on the gold chain around her neck. Federov noticed the touch. She moved her hand away.

  “Before you have questions for me,” he said, “I have many for you.”

  “Go ahead,” Alex said. “You ask me one, then I’ll ask you one, How’s that?”

  That, nodded Federov, was just fine.

  “You’re an intelligent woman,” he said. “When I was changing you into your robe,” he said, “at one point all you had left was that stone pendant. Why do you continue to wear it?”

  “It saved my life once,” she said. “Who knows? It could again.”

  “Saved physically or saved spiritually?”

  “Both.”

  “So it’s a religious symbol?”

  “Yes, it is. Praying hands.” She paused. “I used to wear a gold cross, one that my father gave me when I was a girl. I lost it on that bloody day in Kiev.”

  “Ah,” he said. He seemed ill at ease in recalling the event. “I’m sorry. You lost a lot that day.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And yet you still believe in a benign God and these Christian superstitions,” he said, returning the conversation to the pendant.

  “I choose to, yes,” she said.

  “Because you always have?” he asked. “Because that’s what you were brought up with?”

  “I believe because I sense a presence out there that’s bigger than this world or any person in it,” she said. “I believe because sometimes my prayers are answered and because my faith offers meaning to my life. And why are you asking me this?”

  “Because I’m interested. If there’s something to this religion thing, why would I want to miss it?”

  “You seem to have missed it so far,” she said.

  “Never too late. Isn’t that what they say? I was brought up in an atheistic society, so that’s what I was trained to believe. Well, perhaps I’m midway through my life. Or perhaps someone will shoot me tomorrow. Arguably, I could become ‘born again,’ no? Like your Jimmy Carter.”

  “I suppose, over the course of human history, stranger things have happened. Look,” she said, “in my society we have a choice of whether we want to believe or not. This is what I believe.”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “But I could also say it’s all nonsense,” he said. “And it enhances your life in no meaningful way. Religion is irrational. Not just yours, but Islam, Judaism, Buddhism. All of them.”

  “Is that what you think or are you engaging me in a debate?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Then I can easily prove belief in God as rational,” she answered.

  “Let me hear you do it. In any language you wish.”

  She stayed in English. “Have you ever heard of ‘Pascal’s Wager’?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Pascal’s Wager is one of the most famous arguments in the philosophy of religion,” she said. “It was first devised by Blaise Pascal, the seventeenth-century French philosopher, in his book Pensees. He suggested that rational people should believe in God even if it is impossible to prove whether he exists, simply because it is a better bet.”

  “A better bet?” Federov laughed. “A fixed horserace is a good bet.”

  “Suppose you believe in God, but God doesn’t exist. Then there’s nothing to lose. But assume He does exist. The prize for a believer could be as high as eternal life in paradise. Nonbelievers, on the other hand, might roast in hell.”

  “Like I probably will?” Federov said.

  “Weigh the gain or loss in wagering that God exists,” Alex said. “Pascal theorized that if you gain, you gain all. If you lose, you lose nothing that you already had. Wager then, without hesitation that God exists and live your life accordingly. You would be irrational not to.”

  Federov blinked. In the kitchen, Lucy had turned on a television. Distantly, Alex heard some sort of inane quiz show, this time in French. At the same time, not that Alex was ready for surprises, two more surprises sauntered by-a pair of majestic Abyssinian cats whom Federov introduced as Lara and Tonya.

  “Zhivago?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Most people miss that.” He laughed. “When I li
ved in Odessa I had a dog named Zhivago. A wolfhound.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said.

  “And Pascal,” he said, moving the discussion backward, “I’ll bet this Pascal was a Jew.”

  “For the record, Pascal was a French Christian. He offered his wager to persuade nonbelievers to believe.”

  “Apparently it didn’t work,” he said with a laugh. “The French are endlessly godless people.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I am too. You are right. Tell me something else,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m a retired man. I am not an educated man, but I have begun to do a lot of reading. And thinking. I believe I have a soul, so I’m looking for salvation for my soul perhaps. None of us lives forever, and I’ve done terrible things in my life, just as terrible things have been done to me. Tell me about forgiveness.”

  “I’m not a theologian,” she said. “I’m merely a churchgoer, and honestly I don’t go as often as I should or might like. If you’re really interested, maybe you should go to a church or two and see what suits you. They’ll be glad to have you once they get over the shock of seeing you there.”

  “I like the way you insult me,” he said. “I don’t let very many people get away with it.”

  “And I don’t allow very many people to abduct me.”

  “Do you practice forgiveness yourself?”

  “I try to. That’s what Jesus taught.”

  “Then you should forgive me for abducting you and for changing your clothes.”

  She had never underestimated the retired gangster’s intelligence, if in fact he was retired, which she wondered about. But in doing so much reading, his articulation had improved. In a way, she wondered how he could be the same thug who had murdered people in Ukraine and New York and had beaten prostitutes that had worked for him. Then again, her own faith said much on the subject of spiritual redemption. All sinners were invited into heaven’s open door through faith. With such peace with God also came the inner peace of the certainty of salvation. This was not the first time that Federov had expressed a fascination with her faith. Was it a sham or some sort of test?

  “All right,” she said. “How’s this? You’re forgiven by me for yesterday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “Perhaps I won’t.”

  She began a counterattack in her argument.

  “But of course I can only forgive you on a personal level. Only God can forgive sins completely, and you don’t believe in God, so there’s no way you can pray for forgiveness.”

  “Perhaps I will change. Perhaps if you stay with me, if we spend time together, you will sway me with your example.”

  “I’ll tell you this much,” Alex said. “Man receives forgiveness through a sincere expression of repentance to God, and Jesus taught that He completes this in the act of forgiving others. Forgiveness is about healing, and through forgiveness, Christians embody their mission to live as a people who are reconciled to God.”

  “All because Jesus forgave those who executed Him?” Federov asked.

  “Think of that act as a rock dropped into the middle of a pond. An example by which all other acts can be judged. The means for humans to forgive other humans is the same means as God’s forgiveness of mankind, the death and resurrection of Jesus. When Jesus said, ‘Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us,’ He was giving clear instructions on that relationship.”

  “Curious,” he said. “How do you know all this?”

  “Bible study. Whether you want to believe in it or not, it’s literature, it’s history, it’s the culture of much of the world. So it’s worthy of study and discussion.”

  “Then keep talking.”

  “Why are you leading me through all this?” she demanded, almost angry.

  “Because I am intrigued. And I’ve never met anyone who was so well-versed in your Christian philosophy. Please. Do me these favors, and I will owe you several.”

  “The disciple Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times-or seventy times seven,’ I forget which.”

  “So tell me. Those people who attacked your president in Kiev and had your future husband killed. In your heart, have you forgiven them?”

  “That’s a nasty, difficult question.”

  “We agreed to exchange questions and answers. So that is my question, and I want my answer.”

  She barely needed to think about it. “No,” she said. “I haven’t forgiven them. Not yet.”

  “So you who wear the stone of praying hands around your neck, you are not Christian, either. You’re no better than I.”

  “There are differences.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m trying.”

  He nodded. “Point,” he said, leaning back from the table. “Nor do I think I’ll ever be there.”

  Lucy appeared with a breakfast tray. She set the eggs and toast before Alex as Federov fell silent. Tea was in an antique teapot. She opened two fresh jars of preserves and set them within arm’s reach. Then Lucy quietly vanished back into the kitchen.

  “It’s time for me to ask you a question,” Alex said.

  “Please.”

  “How did your people get into my room and how did you know I was in Geneva?”

  He smiled.

  “I knew you were in Geneva because you did what I told you to do,” Federov said, addressing the second half of the question first. “You checked into the Hotel de Roubaix. I own the hotel. I have a list of names of people. I’m to be alerted immediately if any check in.”

  “And how did your people get into my suite? The door was bolted.”

  “When you checked in, your name triggered giving out one of my special suites. There’s a passage into the room from a passage within the walls between rooms. They came through your closet.”

  “And you probably have the suite bugged and somewhere there are surveillance cameras too, I’d now guess,” she said.

  “You catch on quickly.”

  He paused and looked as if he were about to add something. “I watched you shower after you arrived. You are a genuinely beautiful woman.”

  “I ought to slap the daylights out of you.”

  “You already forgave me for yesterday.”

  She began her breakfast. She felt his eyes upon her.

  “We could make a wonderful team, you and me,” he said in a more subdued tone. “I need a smart wife.”

  “Continue with your courses at charm school and keep searching.”

  “I have more than twenty million dollars in the banks in Geneva, Lausanne, and Zurich. My wife would never have to work. You would be a very wealthy woman. You could assist me with my American taxes and help run my companies. We-”

  “We should talk about The Pieta of Malta,” she said. “ That’s what we should do.”

  “What is that?” he asked. “ The Pieta of Malta?”

  “A piece of third-century Christian art, possibly the inspiration for Michelangelo’s great work. It was stolen from a museum in Madrid a few weeks ago.”

  “You think I have it?” he laughed.

  They both knew it was a serious question.

  “I don’t even know what it is,” he said. He held up two empty hands, as if to suggest that sometimes he told the truth but this time he really was telling the truth.

  “One of my associates turned up your name in association with a Colonel Tissot in Switzerland,” she said. “My associate seemed to suspect a link.”

  Federov’s eyes narrowed.

  “I do business with many people,” he said. “Or at least my remaining companies do.”

  “My source suggested a closer contact than just general business,” she pressed.

  “That might be the case,” he said. “Would this be a Laurent Tissot? Gene
va?”

  “I believe so,” she said.

  “He’s a weapons dealer,” Federov said. “But you knew that.”

  “Yes, I did,” she said. “But now I’ll offer you a tidbit, in case you were unaware. Tissot was a weapon’s dealer, not is. He’s out of the business now. Permanently.”

  For a moment, Federov looked surprised. “Oh. I see,” he said. “I did not know. That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

  “Let me present a theory to you, Yuri,” she said. “A suggestion of what might be going on. You don’t mind listening, do you?”

  He didn’t bat an eyelash. “I don’t mind,” he said.

  “There was an attempt on my life in Madrid. Someone thought I needed to be killed because I was a contact between American intelligence and you. That suggests you know something of value to us, even if you don’t know exactly what it is. The only common link in all this is the late Monsieur Tissot, who brokered the deal for the missing art. Or so we think.”

  “All right,” said Federov, who was following.

  Alex, who was warming up to this, kept her gaze on Federov’s eyes. Squarely.

  “And of course the late Monsieur Tissot isn’t in much of a position to speak to us now, is he? Little too late for him to cut himself a deal, if you know what I mean.”

  Federov pursed his lips and smiled a little. “Right you are,” he said.

  “So I guess that brings us to the paramount question that I have for you,” Alex said. “What business might you have done with Tissot? When, where, and why? No use to go into ancient history, either. We’re looking for activity within the last six months.”

  “Well,” he said, with a very Ukrainian and very arrogant shake of his head. “I don’t know these things off the top of my head. I’d have to check with the people who run my companies.”

  “Which companies?” she asked.

  He was silent.

  “Which companies, Yuri?” Alex repeated. “Come on now. This is important.”

  “And this all figures into some stolen artwork?”

  “We suspect much more.” She added as a hint, “This is a major opportunity for you to get Washington off your case, Yuri. A chance that might never come again.”

  “Ah, yes, I see,” Federov said. “Yes, I’m still having difficulties with your Internal Revenue Service. Several million dollars’ worth.”