Disappeared

by Lynn Mason

  As they approached, he tipped back the umbrella, lifting the shadow from his face. His mouth was set at the same downturned angle as his thick mustache, and his small, sharp eyes flitted back and forth, appraising each of them in quick, calculating glances. But as soon as Sydney got within a few steps of him, von Muller smiled at her, lifted his hat, and bowed slightly.

  “Ah, Adriana,” he greeted. “Thank you for coming to my estate. We have much important business to discuss.” He grasped her right hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it.

  “I would say it's my pleasure, von Muller,” she replied, the twinge of Romanian lingering in her icy English greeting. “But, as you say, we are not here for pleasure.”

  Beside her, Pinelli snorted faintly.

  Von Muller's grin weakened slightly. “Yes. Well, won't you come up the path and wait while my men check your belongings? I apologize for this brutish behavior, but I am simply following the rules everyone agreed on.”

  By now a relentless drizzle was falling and a mass of black clouds was creeping toward the isle. Sydney allowed von Muller to share his umbrella with her as the group made its way up the winding stone path. Once they reached the relative cover of the stone archway, von Muller's henchmen set down Sydney's suitcases, frisked Donaldson and Pinelli, and checked their bag of equipment.

  “They're clean,” one of them grunted to von Muller.

  “Very good.” Von Muller gave them a regal nod. “You gentlemen are now free to inspect my home to make certain I too am abiding by the agreement.”

  Donaldson and Pinelli entered the house with their bag of detection devices, closely followed by one of von Muller's men. The other goon turned toward Sydney, his hands raised to begin frisking. Sydney stepped backward and clutched her coat tightly.

  “You will not touch me!” she barked at the man.

  The guy looked at von Muller.

  “Again, I apologize, Adriana,” Von Muller said. “But you must. It is the rule.”

  Sydney had, of course, known she would need to be frisked, but she couldn't imagine the real Adriana standing for it quite so easily. Fixing von Muller with a glacial stare, she opened her arms and allowed his crony to search her.

  “She's clean,” the man said once he'd finished.

  Sydney made a huffing noise. “I hope you are quite satisfied,” she said, lifting her chin. “Now will you welcome me inside? Or must I stay out here in the cold?”

  Von Muller held up a gloved hand. “Patience, Adriana. We must still search your luggage.”

  For the next ten minutes, the henchman rummaged through her suitcases while von Muller stood puffing on a pipe. Sydney tapped the toe of her boot against the stone step, trying to appear miffed as she cased the island, making mental notes of paths and landmarks. She then glanced upward, checking the layout of the roof parapet. She tried to picture herself up there, wearing Graham's harness, desperately waiting for a lift. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. It would be risky, especially at night. One false move and she could end up falling forward onto the stone steps she was standing on, or backward into the rocky cliffs that rose out of the sea to buttress the rear of the house.

  Von Muller's man finished checking her luggage, completely disregarding the special bustier and sunglasses. Just as he was zipping her bags back up, Pinelli, Donaldson, and von Muller's second bodyguard emerged from the mansion.

  “Our sweep turned up nothing,” Pinelli declared with a shrug.

  “What did I tell you?” von Muller said, tapping the bowl of his pipe against the stone wall to empty it. “Now we have all abided by the rules. Our men can leave and we can begin our affairs as respected colleagues.” He placed one hand on her elbow and gestured toward the entrance with the other.

  “Wait.” Sydney stood firm. “You,” she said, nodding at Pinelli. She pointed at von Muller. “I want you to frisk him.”

  Von Muller balked. “What? But my dear, that is not necessary. I have already been frisked by several of the other guests' people.”

  “That may be so, dear Herbert,” Sydney purred mockingly. “But you haven't been frisked by my men. Check him well,” she ordered Pinelli.

  Sydney thought she could detect the barest of smiles on Pinelli as he patted down von Muller and delved into his pockets. The look of narrowly contained fury on von Muller's face made her want to laugh. She'd only done it to teach him a lesson—to one-up him after he'd so thoroughly enjoyed violating her—so she was not quite prepared when Pinelli let out a cry of discovery and held up the umbrella. He unscrewed the long, pointed tip and pulled out a shiny steel pick with a thin, molded handle. The shaft was nearly four inches long and looked razor sharp.

  “What's this for?” Pinelli asked, grabbing von Muller and shoving him against the side of the house. Donaldson rushed up and pinned his opposite side. Meanwhile, von Muller's two men loomed menacingly nearby.

  “It's a mistake. That's all. An oversight.” He looked right at Sydney. “Adriana, I swear. I'd forgotten it was even there. I only pulled it out of my boat because it was raining.”

  Sydney walked toward him and placed her hands on her hips. “Do you often carry umbrellas with deadly tools hidden inside them, Herbert?”

  “I . . . I . . .” His bottom lip spasmed and his pasty complexion became even paler. “You know how it is, Adriana. The way we have to live. You can't be too careful.”

  Sydney pretended to consider this. She wasn't too surprised that von Muller had stashed a weapon and then lied about it (after all, she herself had sneaked in two prohibited devices), but she wasn't going to let him off that easy. “Very well,” she said after letting him squirm a good minute. “But I am afraid you will have to be more careful, Herbert. I will ask my men to take your little toy with them.”

  “Of course. Yes. Of course,” he said as Donaldson and Pinelli relaxed their grips. The other henchmen backed off, and von Muller stood up straight, pouting as he adjusted his clothes.

  “You may leave now, gentlemen,” Sydney said, gesturing toward the fishing boat with her fake fingernails.

  Donaldson and Pinelli glanced at one another. “You sure you'll be all right, madame?” Pinelli asked, glaring at von Muller.

  “Yes. Thank you,” she replied. “You will not try anything stupid, will you Herbert?”

  “No. Never, my dear. As I said before I only—”

  “Fine,” she interrupted. “Then let your men go so we can escape this tiresome cold.”

  Von Muller gave his bodyguards a dismissive wave and they ambled off in the direction of the speedboat.

  Donaldson picked up their bag of equipment and headed for the dock. Pinelli lingered for a few seconds, fixing her with an expression that subtly conveyed both caution and encouragement. Then he turned up the collar of his jacket and headed out into the swirling rain behind his partner.

  As she watched them go, a dense cloud seemed to close in all around her. She had to admit she was sorry to see them leave—even Donaldson. Her last line of help was disappearing into the mist.

  Or maybe not . . . Maybe she was the one disappearing.

  8

  Von Muller led her into a long, wood-paneled foyer. “The others are already here, waiting in the parlor,” he said, taking her coat. “I would appreciate it if you would not mention my mistake to the others.”

  Sydney smiled. “Of course not, Herbert. I realize they may not be quite as understanding as I was.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed his head, removed his hat, coat and gloves, and placed them in a large mahogany wardrobe along with her coat and muff.

  They then followed the hall into a large, ornately furnished sitting area where several people were already gathered. No one was speaking. And no one looked happy to be there.

  “Everyone,” von Muller called out as he entered the room. “Our last guest has arrived. Adriana Nichita has graced us with her presence.”

  Sitting on the sofa across from them was a beautiful woman with curly dark hair and ova
l, catlike brown eyes. She was wearing a high-collared sleeveless red dress that hugged her figure, ruby earrings, and a glittery jeweled pin in the shape of a butterfly. Her crimson lips were puckered in a pout. She crossed her long, shapely legs.

  “Adriana, Carmina Polito. She is here on behalf of Mercado de Sangre,” von Muller said, gesturing to the woman.

  Carmina gave Sydney a brief up-and-down glance.

  A broad-shouldered man on the other end of the couch snuck a peek toward the slit in Carmina's skirt. He was wearing a blazer over a black T-shirt and was handsome, in a dark, savage way. His dense black hair was slicked back over a jutting forehead. His brows were thick, and his nose was shaped like a crooked eagle's beak.

  “And this is Konstantin Baranov of K-Directorate,” von Muller said. The man in the blazer narrowed his eyes at him before turning his attention back to Carmina.

  A small man with a meticulously manicured black beard walked over to Sydney and grasped her hand. “It is so nice to finally meet you, madame,” he said in with a heavy Middle Eastern lilt. “I am Asam Rifat of the Red Star. I met your father once before he died. He employed many of my people in his East Berlin operations.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “It is good to find old friends here.”

  “Don't let Asam fool you. He's nobody's friend,” came a thick cockney accent from behind her.

  Sydney turned. A tall, slender man with delicate, almost pretty features was leaning against a grandfather clock.

  “What would you know about friendship, Hubbard?” Rifat asked, puffing up angrily. “You are nothing but a cheat and a liar.”

  “And you arms dealers are always so ethical, eh?” The man's pale blue eyes twinkled mischievously. Then he turned and smiled at Sydney. “Nigel Hubbard, at your service.”

  “Adriana Nichita,” she replied.

  Nigel's mouth twisted sideways as his gaze traveled up and down her body. “A pleasure,” he murmured. “We should definitely get together. We could do a good bit of business, you and I.”

  Sydney drew her breath, then decided Adriana wouldn't dignify his comment with a reply. Instead, she gave him a withering look and sat down in a nearby parlor chair with her back to him.

  “Well now.” Von Muller lifted his hands and pivoted to face the assembled crowd. “Since we are all here, why don't I see when tea will be ready?”

  He walked over to a rectangular wooden box on the wall next to the grandfather clock and pressed a small black button. A tinny buzzer sounded, traveling through the walls of the house. Within seconds a plump older woman rounded the corner into the room, followed by an equally pudgy boy who looked no older than nine.

  “You rang, m'laird?” said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Yes,” von Muller answered. “Adriana, allow me to introduce my hired help for the weekend. This is Mrs. MacDougall and her grandson, Malcolm.”

  “M'leddy,” Mrs. MacDougall greeted her with a tiny curtsying motion. Malcolm ignored her, fixating instead on the pendulum cabinet of the grandfather clock.

  “We are all quite famished, Mrs. MacDougall. Will tea be served soon?” von Muller asked.

  “Yes, sir. We've just been awaiting the young lass. 'Twill only be a minute. I'll have the boy come fer ye when it's served.”

  “Very good.”

  As she turned to head back into the kitchen, she caught sight of Malcolm opening the lower door of the clock. Mrs. MacDougall's smooth, kindly features instantly gathered into a fierce frown.

  “Stand offa that!”

  Malcolm jumped. “I was jus' lookin', Granny.”

  “Now what would ye be lookin' inside a coffin clock fer?”

  “Fer ghosties. Folks say the house is full o' spirits.”

  “Deevlick! Hands offa the furniture and hurry yerself into the kitchen afore I give ye a good thrashin'!”

  As they left the room, Sydney tried hard to maintain a look of bored contempt. The real Adriana probably wouldn't have found their interchange so amusing.

  “Well then,” von Muller began, pressing his palms together, “while we wait, we can review the rules. As you know, everyone is confined to the house.”

  “Pity,” Hubbard quipped, shaking his head. “What with the weather so sunny and cheerful-like.”

  “Also,” von Muller continued, raising his voice, “no one is permitted to go down to the cellar or up to the third floor of the house. Access is restricted to the ground floor and the second-floor bedchambers. We have twenty-four hours together before our bodyguards return to take us from the island. During that time, we must focus on our troubles in Suratia. Any other problems we have with one another,” he added, glaring from Rifat to Hubbard, “must be put aside for the sake of all.”

  “And how do we know we can trust each other?” Konstantin asked von Muller. His stare seemed to imply an unspoken challenge.

  “Because we are all here, Konstantin,” von Muller replied. “We have all of us abided by the no bodyguard, no weapons rules.” Sydney noticed he avoided her gaze as he spoke. “And because we have no time for treachery. If we waste our evening on petty quarrels, we will end up losing our hold on Suratia.”

  “Then we must begin discussions right away,” Rifat said, as he continued to pace the floor. Sydney wondered if he'd sat down at all since his arrival. “Prince Xavier could already be dead. Prince Frederique could be chasing out our people this very moment. Let's start now, while we are all together.”

  Von Muller lifted one of his hands. “Patience, my friend. We will talk after tea.”

  “But we have too much to consider!” Rifat went on, gesturing wildly with his arms. “Have your servant bring food here and we can eat while we talk! Isn't that better? Adriana, don't you think it wise?”

  He turned and looked hopefully at her, his dark, saggy eyes almost pleading. Sydney could tell Rifat thought of her as an ally. But openly aligning herself with him, especially this soon, could be a mistake.

  “I am sorry, Asam,” she said in a proud yet sympathetic tone. “But I will not eat like an animal. I will have a proper meal in a proper setting.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Rifat said after a moment's pause. “How silly of me to suggest such a thing.”

  Just then, Malcolm appeared, his round, rosy-cheeked face dotted with crumbs. “Gran says to come fetch yer tea.”

  “Finally. I'm starved,” Hubbard exclaimed, pushing past von Muller and Rifat to follow Malcolm toward the dining room.

  “What a vulgar man,” Rifat muttered, scowling at Hubbard's back. “Come, Adriana.” He held out his arm toward her. “Shall I accompany you?”

  Sydney stood and placed her hand on his arm.

  “Yes, yes. Come, Carmina,” von Muller said, offering his arm. “Ladies should be seated first.”

  Carmina rose to her feet and shook her long, dark curls off her shoulders. “Stand aside, Herbert,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “I am not a child. I shall seat myself.”

  * * *

  Hatred. That's what Sydney sensed. It was almost palpable the way it loomed over them, gathering weight and forcing all the oxygen out of the air.

  She had assumed the gathering would be somewhat uncomfortable, but she hadn't counted on it being this volatile. Mealtimes hadn't been all that happy at her own house, but as she sat at the long teakwood table with the others, she felt as if she were attending a highly dysfunctional family reunion.

  At the head of the table was von Muller, still glaring at Konstantin, who sat to his right. Next to Konstantin, Carmina perched on her padded, oval-backed chair, staring down at her long scarlet nails. On von Muller's left sat Nigel Hubbard, followed by Sydney and Rifat. She could almost feel the heat brewing between the two obvious adversaries.

  “What's taking so long?” Rifat demanded, tugging at his collar. “I thought the boy said all was ready.”

  “Be still, Asam,” von Muller muttered. “It is difficult to serve a meal when all the sharp instruments have been confi
scated.”

  Rifat shook his head. “I don't think your servants are competent.”

  “They are not my regular servants. We agreed I would hire locals, and the woman and boy passed all the inspections of your security crews.”

  “Nevertheless, at my estate we have strict consequences for making guests wait unnecessarily. Servants should—”

  “Bloody hell, Rifat. If you're such a damn expert, quit bangin' on about it and go show 'em how it's done.” Hubbard wagged his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

  Rifat's face resembled a red balloon about to pop. He glared past Sydney at Hubbard, making tiny fishlike motions with his mouth. Then he pushed back his chair and leaped to his feet. “You! You!” he sputtered, pointing at Hubbard. “I refuse to be treated like this!”

  Hubbard rolled his eyes. “Set your bum down and quit bellyachin'.”

  “Von Muller, if you expect me to fully cooperate in this endeavor, I must insist that—”

  “Sit, Asam,” Konstantin ordered. “Be calm. We are all comrades tonight.”

  “Are you all on the side of this madman?” Rifat shouted, pointing at Hubbard, who was slouched back in his seat, smirking. “Do you not see how he discredits me? It is not enough that his organization has been systematically stealing business from us, now he must be allowed to humiliate me?”

  He stared at each guest one by one, scanning them for traces of loyalty. Von Muller shook his head dismally. Konstantin yawned and stared off into the distance. Carmina rolled her eyes. Eventually his gaze reached Sydney.

  “We are all stranded here until tomorrow, Asam. I suggest you make the best of it,” she said, weighing her inflections carefully, and fixing her features in what she hoped was a completely neutral expression.

  Rifat looked sunken.

  “Here we are,” Mrs. MacDougall sang out cheerily as she entered the room, pushing an old tea cart. She and Malcolm circled the table, placing steaming bowls and heavily laden plates in front of each guest.