10

From the depths of the easy chair, feet comfortably sprawled before him, a thoughtful Kek Huuygens stared with slitted eyes through a cloud of cigarette smoke across the park that faced his hotel, not seeing the wooded hills in the distance, but rather the high glass case in the library of the Hochmann mansion, and the famous collection of miniatures that it protected.

When had he first seen that fantastic collection? He had, of course, glimpsed it when he had come home with Stefan that first time, although the important thing that remained with him from that first visit had been his meeting with Jadzia. He had not seen the collection to appreciate it truly until possibly a year later, when his second-year art class had obtained permission for a special trip to the estate, and their elderly professor had stood in silent admiration for several seconds before turning and delivering them a lecture on miniature paintings in general, and the exquisite Hochmann collection in particular.

He could still hear the dry, pedantic voice with its poorly concealed undertone of excitement. “Miniature paintings, gentlemen—” there had been a slight pause “—and ladies.…”

Stefan’s sister, Jadzia, had come into the room and was standing quietly to one side, her large green eyes fixed upon him. He grinned at her and winked, feeling that warm, happy feeling of young love. My God, but his Jadzia was beautiful! She made a slight moue and tipped her head pertly, a signal that she would meet him as soon as he was free, in the summerhouse overlooking the lake. There was the slightest pursing of her lips in an indication of a kiss, and then she had left the room as silently as she had entered. He stared after her, marveling at his great fortune in being loved in return by anyone as wonderful as she, and then suddenly became aware that a dead silence had fallen in the room, broken at that moment by the professor speaking his name.

“With the kind permission of Mr. Janeczek,” the dry voice was saying with a sarcasm remembered all too well from the classroom, “possibly we might continue.…”

He remembered turning red, trying to smother a cough, and then forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture. The professor had smiled, a surprisingly human smile for that terror of the classroom, and had then turned his attention back to the collection.

“Yes, gentlemen, this collection is quite unique, and therefore quite priceless. To begin with, many—if not most—of the great artists of history have, at one time or another, delighted in demonstrating their extreme control of their media by producing miniatures—paintings complete in all detail, with all color and warmth, all richness and depth, yet on a scale so small that in many cases the full beauty of the work cannot be seen without the aid of a magnifying glass. Miniature painting dates back as far as the Romans, and was a highly developed art form in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian, and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures. In fact, many of these artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes.…”

He remembered shifting from one foot to another. Jadzia at this moment was undoubtedly scolding the steward to be sure the wine was at the proper temperature, seeing to it that the arrangements for their meeting were handled to her satisfaction. What a wife she’ll make! he thought. And then, later, in the summerhouse, when the maid had taken away the demitasse cups, Jadzia’s deep green eyes would be serious with love, probing his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her other hand carrying his to the warm curve of her breast.… He shut the scene from him, forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture.

“Hans Holbein the Younger was probably the first important representative of the art in Europe, and he was shortly followed by Clouet in France, and then by Hilliard and Isaac in England. And others, many others. Still, gentlemen, despite the fact that the art was widely practiced, this collection is absolutely unique.…”

He remembered how the professor had paused, his eyes gleaming, before continuing:

“And why is it so unusual, gentlemen? And therefore so valuable? Because, to begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, while, as you can see, the pictures you are now viewing are all landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form. Secondly, although the surfaces used for miniatures in those days varied from ivory to metal to—yes, gentlemen—even stretched chicken-skin, the examples you are privileged to see are all limited to one material—parchment. And lastly, while the Persians and others even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, you will note that none of the paintings here is greater in size than two by four inches.…”

The professor had paused, triumphant, almost as if he personally were somehow responsible for the existence of the collection simply because he had brought it to their attention.

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.

“I could tell him who you are,” she said. “You would never get back into that house again. We could be gone before you could get back in.…” She wished he would exhibit some trace of emotion, some indication of his intentions. “He has many friends here; in the police, in the government. He could make trouble for you. More than trouble—he could see that real harm came to you.…”

He nodded in quiet agreement. “Yes. If you told him, he could do that.”

She stared at him in confusion. Where was the boy who once had this same face, only younger; the boy she could mold to her slightest whim? Could it possibly be the same strong man she was facing now? She shook her head slowly. “You’ve changed, Mietek.”

“Kek,” he corrected her quietly. “Kek Huuygens. There is no Mietek Janeczek. He died in Warsaw. Together with his parents. And his sister.”

She stared at him. “And with me?”

“I don’t know,” he said evenly, emotionlessly. “I honestly don’t know.”

Her fear slowly receded; under that rigid façade, he was still Mietek Janeczek, and she was still Jadzia Hochmann. She could still mold him. Her voice became soft. “What happened to us, Mietek?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and stared down at her soft hand. “I often wondered how I would feel if we ever met. And I often thought that if we did, I’d ask you what happened to us.”

“You wanted to ask me why I did what I did. Why I married Willi.…” It was odd, but even now, under these circumstances, she could still manage to sound faintly accusing, as if it were somehow at least partially his fault. “Isn’t that what you wanted to ask?”

“No.” It was a lie and it sounded like one. He tried to shrug, bringing his eyes up, studying the perfect symmetry of her oval face, the full lips, the lovely curve of her throat. “It was a long time ago, Jadzia. We were children then.”

She shook her head stubbornly, unwilling to let the answer pass, subconsciously aware that only the full truth—or at least the semblance of full truth—could gain her her ends.

“We weren’t that much of children. I’ll tell you why I did what I did. I thought the war was going to be over in a matter of months. I thought Germany was going to win. And I thought—” her eyes were studying him, trying to gauge his reactions “—I thought, after your parents.… I thought I’d never see you again.” She shook her head slowly. “I also thought that if I married Willi, possibly things would be better, easier, for Stefan.…”

“For Stefan?”

“Yes. He wanted an officer’s commission. He wanted recognition for everything we—he, that is—had done for them.” She shrugged. “He was a fool. He should have known better. Once anyone has what they want from you, they throw you out. He’s dead, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He died a long time ago. The underground killed him.” She didn’t even sound interested. “If they ever find me, they’ll kill me too. They still have my name on the list, even after all these years. That’s why.…” She stopped.

“Why you’re still with Gruber?”

She seemed to like the question. “Yes. Here in Lisbon. Trapped here in Lisbon——”

“Trapped? Do you mean by me?”

A bitter smile crossed her face. She pulled her hand from his and unconsciously smoothed her skirt. “By everything. By not being able to leave this country without—” the thought automatically led to another; she looked at him curiously, almost calculatingly “—Kek Huuygens … so you really are Kek Huuygens … I read the reports the police gave Willi on you. Did you really do all the things they say you did?”

He smiled faintly. “I don’t know what they say I did.”

“They say you have no nerves. They say you can.…” She paused a moment, and then plunged directly to the heart of her problem; it was as if she could not help herself. “The paintings; you saw them this morning. They’re all we—I, have, Mietek. If they can’t be brought safely out of Portugal into Brazil——”

“What about the miniatures?”

“The miniatures?” She looked confused by the change in subject. “Do you mean the miniatures we had at home? Papa’s collection?” She shook her head. “Those were destroyed. Years ago, early in the war. The whole house was destroyed.”

She’s telling the truth as she sees it, Kek suddenly thought. She doesn’t know. Did Gruber keep them a secret from her purposely? Or does he actually think they aren’t that important?

She was looking at him curiously. “What made you ask about them?”

He shrugged. “Only that they were valuable.”

She nodded. “I know. Willi says the other paintings are valuable, too. He got them in various places; he was always bringing one or two back from places he visited. He says that in Brazil.…” She stopped suddenly, and then stared at Kek. “You hate him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“But it was the war, don’t you see? It was the war. In a war people kill other people, it doesn’t mean.…” She saw the look in his eyes and suddenly remembered his parents. She stopped and took a deep breath. “May I have a brandy, please?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Of course.”

“And a cigarette, please.”

He reached around, poured a drink, and handed it to her, then held a match as she drew on the cigarette. She drained the drink quickly, as if it were medicine, and then puffed nervously on the cigarette a few moments before crushing it out in an ashtray. She kept her head averted as she asked her next question. Her voice was low.

“You hate me, too. Don’t you?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’ve never hated you.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a brief light in her eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come. She stared down at the rug a moment and then raised her eyes, intent on his understanding the importance of her plight.

“Mietek, I have to get out of Portugal. I can’t stand it any more. Those paintings—what they represent—are my only hope. If there’s any trouble, if you do anything foolish now, and the police are involved in any way, it would ruin everything.” She waited for him to speak, and then went on with a touch of bitterness.

“You don’t know what it is to be in a place you hate, a place you hate because it’s like a dungeon you can’t leave. Oh, yes, I have a car, and I leave the house—I have to or I’d go mad—but do you know how far I’ve been from the house since I’ve been here? Not even to Estoril! I go out shopping, or I drive around the park sometimes, but that’s all. This is the second time in over eight years I’ve ever been in the center of the city.” She shrugged. “Even Willi goes out sometimes in his car—he’s afraid that mine would draw unwelcome attention to him. At night, he drives around the park, looking down on the city, and then comes home to hide.”

Her eyes were brooding; she leaned forward, staring at him. “And the people we see; we talk to? We occasionally eat with? Only people who are safe. Policemen that don’t dare say a word, or they’ll lose what Willi gives them to keep quiet. Government officials who pretend they’re in sympathy, but really laugh at us, I think, while they take all they can get. And their fat wives——”

“And Hans.”

“And Hans. He was a sergeant major, would you know it?” She shook her head. “And even Hans only stays because the cars will be his to sell, once we leave. His name is on the list, too.…”

She reached for his hand again; the brandy seemed to have warmed her, to have brought some life back into her. She gripped his hand strongly, the fingers of one hand stroking the back of his; she bent toward him, her perfume suddenly heady.

“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.…