by Lynn Mason
“Eat, Asam,” Sydney said, touching his arm with her fingers. “Perhaps things will not feel so dire if you have nourishment.”
“No! I do not trust anybody. I do not trust him!” He pointed at von Muller. “And I will not risk eating his food!”
“Enough!” von Muller shouted, slapping his palm on the tablecloth. “There is nothing to fear, Asam. Because we did not allow her many cooking tools, Mrs. MacDougall made these pies herself and brought them with her to my house. The soup she made fresh here. My only intention is that you be fed and comfortable for the meeting.”
“Then if there is nothing to fear, why not have the boy taste my food?” Rifat gestured toward Malcolm.
Von Muller laughed. “You are being dramatic, Asam.”
“If you and your servants truly can be trusted, then they will not mind doing as I ask.”
Von Muller stared over at Mrs. MacDougall. She turned and nodded at her grandson. “Go on with ye, lad. Give 'em a wee taste.”
“No!”
“Do as I say, boy!”
“No! I don't like mutton pie!”
“Mind yer manners, Malcolm! Taste the good man's broth and pie afore I duff ye!”
Malcolm scrunched up his face and stomped over to Rifat. He picked up the spoon and slurped down a mouthful. Then he grabbed the fork and held it poised over the large helping of pie. He paused for a moment, his features contorting into several fierce expressions for Rifat. Then he scooped out a tiny morsel and popped it in his mouth.
“There!” von Muller exclaimed. “Are you satisfied, Asam?”
Rifat watched the boy chew and swallow before relaxing back into his seat. “I am contented. But I must make one more demand.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a foil package. “It is coffee, from my country. I ask that your servants make it for me and no one else. It is all I will drink while I stay here.”
“Very well, sir,” Mrs. MacDougall replied. She trotted over and took the parcel from Rifat. She then gave him a fresh spoon and fork. Meanwhile Malcolm trudged poutily back to the kitchen.
“Good,” von Muller said, gesturing ceremoniously about the table. “Now we can all have a pleasant meal.”
For the next several minutes the party ate in relative silence. Mrs. MacDougall bustled about the table, filling everyone's wineglasses and pouring Rifat a cup of his special brew. The bleak mood of the gathering had become even heavier after Rifat's outbursts. But the housekeeper hummed as she went along, seemingly oblivious to the labored pace of the meal and the sneers volleyed between guests.
Sydney tried to swallow enough food to keep up her energy, but her heightened state of alert seemed to be suppressing her appetite. Having to stay in character while scrutinizing the others was already wearing her down. Eating was a chore in itself. She felt trapped between Hubbard's leering stares and Rifat's sporadic huffing and puffing. Von Muller seemed restless as well. He kept shifting in his chair, tapping his utensils, and sneaking furtive glances toward Carmina and Konstantin.
There was definitely something going on between the K-Directorate and Mercado de Sangre reps. Sydney had noticed strange body movements ever since they sat down at the table. They rarely exchanged looks. In fact, it was almost unnatural what little heed they paid one another. And yet their postures belied a keen, almost rhythmic awareness. When one shifted, the other followed. When one's hand disappeared beneath the table, the other's did as well. Sydney was certain they were passing messages, but she wasn't sure what to do about it.
“Enjoyin' your pie?”
Sydney turned to see Hubbard smiling at her. “I've had better,” she replied.
“I bet you have.” He leaned in closer. “A tall bird like you ought to have more than that. What's the matter? Afraid of poison like Asam?”
She turned away, focusing instead on the candles flickering in the iron light fixture overhead. “I am not afraid,” she said, lifting her chin. “It is difficult to eat properly without the appropriate utensils.” She looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. “I do wish I had a sharp knife.”
“Bread pudding, m'leddy?”
Sydney glanced up and saw Malcolm standing behind her. The cart was in front of him, now laden with bowls of piping hot pudding.
“No,” she replied with a wave of her hand.
“Don't tell me you're watchin' your figure, luv,” Hubbard crooned. “Y'know that's my job.”
Sydney was just raising her hand to deliver a slap when a yelp of pain rent the air behind her. She spun around and saw Rifat leap to his feet, swiping madly at his lap, where large, steaming mounds of pudding were rolling off his trousers onto the floor.
“The boy!” he sputtered, shaking his fist at Malcolm, who was cowering in the nearby corner. “He did it on purpose! I asked him to take a bite and he dropped the pudding on me!”
Carmina and Konstantin burst out laughing, while Hubbard leaned back his head and guffawed loudly. Mrs. MacDougall stalked over and grabbed Malcolm's upper arm. “Now look what ye did, ye fool lad!” she hollered, shaking him. “Apologize to the good sir!”
“No! 'Twas an accident! I swear!”
“Apologize afore I smack ye!”
“I'm sorry!” he yelled at Rifat, who was still swabbing the top of his pants.
“Good. Now git yer hide in the kitchen and start the washin'!” Mrs. MacDougall pushed him toward the exit. “Go on now, scoot!”
As Malcolm skulked past her, Sydney noticed his mouth curl up in a subtle sort of glee.
Mrs. MacDougall scowled after him and then turned back to Rifat. “I apologize fer me grandson, sir,” she said, her sweet old lady voice returning. “He's got a good heart, but he can be a bit daft at times.” She grabbed a fresh linen cloth and bent over to help him.
“Get away from me!” Rifat shouted. Mrs. MacDougall slunk back in fear.
“Cheer up, Rifat,” Hubbard quipped. “This could be the only time you have a hot thing in your lap.”
Carmina and Konstantin burst out laughing. Even von Muller looked amused. Sydney pretended to go along with the others and gave a ladylike titter into her hand.
“Stop!” Rifat bellowed. “I will not be treated this way!” He turned and shook his fist at Hubbard. “I could kill you! I could kill you all!” he roared. Then he threw down his napkin and stomped out of the room.
Hubbard shook his head. “Poor Rifat. It's a shame his bodyguards didn't consider bread pudding a weapon.”
9
After tea the group drifted into a large, wood-paneled library to begin the official discussions. The room was large and drafty, its ceiling so high, it was cloaked in darkness. Only a minimal light and warmth radiated from the freshly built fire in the stone fireplace. Sydney felt small and exposed.
Outside the storm raged on. The light tapping of rain had grown to a melancholy rumble. Occasionally there was a crash of thunder, which rattled the panes of glass in the tall, arched windows. Otherwise, the room was silent, the only other sounds being the crackling of the fire and the steady tread of von Muller's shoes as he paced in front of a long, polished teakwood table.
They were waiting for Carmina, who had excused herself to freshen up. As Sydney sat in a high-backed lounger near the fire, she took the opportunity to review what little information she'd gathered on the others.
Rifat was back, having changed clothes, but he was still sulky. He slumped in a brown leather armchair, glowering repeatedly at the rest of them. Sydney noticed he'd stopped trying to ingratiate himself with her, assuming, perhaps, that she was already in league with the others. He was by far the most fretful and fidgety of the bunch.
Nigel, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself more than anyone. He stood leaning against a large bookcase that ran the length of the back wall, smiling smugly as he flipped through the leather-bound volumes. Sydney didn't know what to think of him, but his incessant ogling was making her uncomfortable. Rifat clearly hated him, and the others simply disregarded him�
��neither overtly with nor against him.
Von Muller, for one, seemed far more interested in Carmina and Konstantin. Sydney watched him pace, chomping on his pipe and staring at Konstantin out of the corner of his eye. Konstantin seemed very much aware of him, too. He looked casual as he slouched back lazily on the red camelback sofa, but beneath his dark, bushy brows, his eyes flitted continually toward von Muller.
“This is inexcusable,” Rifat grumbled. “We are wasting far too much time.”
“Enough, Asam,” Konstantin muttered. “We are growing weary of your complaints. We waited for you to put on fresh pants. Now you can wait for the lady.”
The door opened and Carmina walked into the room. The men's postures immediately lifted. Nigel quit slouching against the shelves, von Muller ceased pacing, and Konstantin rose from the sofa. Carmina appeared to take no notice, and yet Sydney thought her movements looked a little too choreographed as she sashayed to the other end of the sofa and sat down. For someone who worked as a spy, Carmina seemed to command a great deal of attention.
Von Muller clapped his hands together. “Let us now begin. As you know, our position with the Suratian monarchy is in serious jeopardy,” he said, assuming an authoritative stance on the other side of the table. “If Prince Frederique assumes the throne, our security within that country—indeed, throughout Europe—will be seriously damaged.”
“Yes, yes. We know!” Rifat exclaimed, waving his hands impatiently. “What are we going to do about it?”
“This afternoon, before my bodyguards left with all my communication equipment, I received a final update on the situation. Prince Xavier is alive, but deteriorating. And it appears that Prince Frederique is anticipating trouble. According to my people, he is secluded somewhere in the palace and has been gathering troops. Whatever we decide to do, we must do it quickly.”
“The question is not what we do, but how we do it,” said Konstantin in a patronizing tone. “It is clear that we must assassinate Frederique.”
Von Muller's jaw twitched. “I believe there are five other delegates here who have a right to say what we do. Carmina, my dear. What do you think on this matter?”
Carmina shrugged. “I think we must kill him,” she said, almost casually.
Von Muller shook his head. “But it is not that easy.”
“It's always easy to kill,” she countered, her black eyes glittering in the candlelight.
“The big cheese here has a point,” Hubbard said, stepping forward and nodding at von Muller. “If we kill the bloke, we've got to make it look like an accident. Otherwise, the rest of the country will turn against us no matter who takes power. It's got to be a bang-up job. No mistakes.”
“Then send my people to do it.” Konstantin sneered. “This is not a job for petty thieves like you.”
Hubbard grinned wryly. “It ain't a job for bloody mentals, either.”
Konstantin shook a fist at Hubbard, shouting a string of Russian curses.
“Stop!” von Muller cried. “We must work together!”
Just then, a rattling noise interrupted the bickering. Mrs. MacDougall trotted in, holding a large silver tray between her hands. “‘Here's a pot o' tea an' some tarts,” she said, casting a merry smile around the room. “Now then . . . who's up for a steamin' tassie?” She lifted a teapot in one hand and a cup and saucer and the other.
“None for me,” von Muller said curtly.
“Thank you, mum.” Hubbard stepped farther into the light. “I'll have a spot.” He took a cup and retreated to his corner, taking loud, slurping sips.
Von Muller tapped his foot irritably while Mrs. MacDougall flitted about, offering drinks to the rest of the guests. Carmina and Konstantin waved her away and she bustled over to Rifat.
“I told you before, I do not drink tea,” he bellowed irritably. “I want coffee.”
“Thought ye might, so I brewed a separate pot. There now. There's a fresh cup for ye.”
Rifat took the mug from her outstretched hand and stared into the vapors snaking up from the rim. He didn't smile, but his expression became softer, less prickly.
“Would ye like me to take a wee nip of it?” Mrs. MacDougall asked. “Just to ease yer mind?”
“No.” Rifat shook his head. He hunched over his cup and grunted something that seemed to pass for gratitude to Mrs. MacDougall.
“Ye're welcome,” she said, moving on to Sydney.
“Thank you.” Sydney tried to sound nonchalant, but she eagerly snatched the bone china cup, leaned back in her seat, and cradled it beneath her face, letting the steam warm the chilled tip of her nose.
“Would ye be wantin' anything else, sir?” Mrs. MacDougall asked von Muller once she'd finished her round.
“No, no. That is all,” he said. “You may leave.” He waited until she'd pulled the door shut behind her and then thumped his index finger against the table. “Now. We must decide what to do.”
“I believe this man is right,” Rifat said, pointing to Konstantin. “We should kill the prince, and we should use our best operatives to do the job. Why do we care what Mr. Hubbard says? Why is he even here? His outfit is only good at dealing weapons and trafficking petty street drugs.”
“Good enough job for you, eh, Asam?” Hubbard fired back.
Von Muller ignored them. “Let us hear from another.” He turned toward Sydney with a slick smile. “Adriana, my dear. Please, tell us what your thoughts are.”
Sydney felt a tingly rush as everyone turned toward her. She fiddled with one of her earrings, ransacking her mind for the best approach. “I think . . . ,” she began, “that if I am to pledge money and trust the future of my family's organization with Mr. Baranov, then I have a right to know how it will be done.”
“Hear, hear,” chimed in Hubbard.
“I am sorry,” Konstantin said, “but I will not share my methods with people in this room.”
“Perhaps we do not need to assassinate him ourselves,” von Muller proposed. He restarted his pacing, stroking his mustache as he walked. “Perhaps we could fund one of his uncles—one who is most sympathetic to us—to challenge him for the throne?”
“Nah, that would take too much time.” Hubbard shook his head emphatically. “And I, for one, don't want to be doing business in the middle of a civil war zone.”
“Then what do you propose?” Konstantin asked.
Hubbard emerged from his shadowy corner and stood in front of the table. “Why don't we pull out of Suratia altogether? We could woo another nation into becoming our safe zone of operation in Europe.”
“No!” Rifat leaped to his feet. “Don't think I don't know what you are doing. You have been planning this all along! You are already in trouble with Suratia for not paying your fees, so you have nothing to lose.”
“You're the one in hot water with Suratia, Asam,” Hubbard said, smiling derisively. “It was your men that offed the old biddy in the marketplace.”
Sydney didn't know what he was talking about, but Rifat certainly did. “That was an unfortunate accident!” Rifat shouted. “Is this the lie you have been spreading? Of course. Now I know. You have already begun courting a new country. And you have been making sure that my people do not gain favor so you can take over our part of the market!”
Hubbard burst out laughing. “You're barking! Bloody mental!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Von Muller raised his hands. “Why don't we take a vote? How many here feel that assassination is our only recourse?”
For a moment, everyone stared at one another. Then Carmina, Konstantin, and Rifat raised their hands.
“And how many feel we must consider other options?” Von Muller raised his hand and looked around.
“Aye,” Hubbard assented, lazily throwing his right arm in the air.
Sydney felt all eyes turn toward her. Slowly yet resolutely, she raised her right hand. At least now they'd have to continue their debate, and perhaps reveal more of their secrets.
“Your vote-taking
comes to nothing, von Muller,” Rifat grumbled. “Now what shall we do?”
“We continue the debate,” von Muller replied, looking pleased.
Carmina suddenly rose from her chair. “I am tired of all this childish fighting,” she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “I wish to go up to my chamber and rest.”
“Yes. Yes, you are quite right, Carmina,” von Muller said. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the morning?”
“No!” Rifat's entire body shook in anger. “There will be too little time! We must have this settled before our people come for us.”
“Er . . . is anyone thinking what I'm thinking?” Hubbard nodded toward the flashing, quivering window. “It's bloody Baltic out there. There's a good chance our teams can't fetch us tomorrow.”
Sydney felt a tugging inside her. She hadn't thought of that. What if they were stranded there for days? A whole heap of potential problems suddenly loomed. She'd need new excuses for her professors, and for Francie. She'd be stuck eating cold meat pies with a bunch of sullen, paranoid lunatics. And worst of all, her risk of being exposed as a fraud would become greater—much, much greater.
“The skinny pickpocket is correct.” Carmina's red lips curled disdainfully. “We could be stuck in this wretched place for a long time.”
“All the more reason to go to bed,” Konstantin said, rising from his seat. “We should continue in the morning. Perhaps after some rest everyone will be thinking more clearly.” He scanned the group, narrowing his eyes at von Muller, Hubbard, and, finally, Sydney. She mirrored his stony gaze, but inside, her uneasiness magnified.
“Yes, I agree,” Sydney said, getting to her feet. “Let us turn in now, Herbert. We are all of us exhausted.” She really was tired, having slept so little since leaving L.A. Plus, she was anxious to get up to her bedchamber and check the lighthouse beam for any messages.
Carmina was the first to charge out the door, followed by von Muller, Hubbard, and Rifat. Konstantin lingered behind while Sydney took her last few sips of tea. His presence unnerved her, but she forced herself to appear unflustered, focusing on the warm, rejuvenating drink.