City of Dark Magic (23 page)

And it doesn’t seem right
, Sarah thought.
And we’re all thinking it.

But she was curious about the key, and Nico’s reaction to it. Every item in those family portraits was important, signified something, Daphne had told her that. What did the key signify? Or was it really just an old house key?

Nothing in Prague was that simple.

“I need some air,” she said. “Anyone want to take a jog in the Deer Moat?”

•   •   •

A
few minutes later, she found Max, as she somehow knew she would, loitering by the Toy Museum, his arms full of papers. He unclipped Moritz’s leash and the dog disappeared in the direction of the Deer Moat. They started walking together. At this early hour, the castle grounds were still empty.

“The last time all the windows were glazed was when my grandfather had it done in 1937,” Max said, nodding at the papers he was carrying. “It’s going to be expensive.”

She brushed her hand against him. Max looked at her and narrowed his eyes. Sarah wasn’t sure she could trust him, but she was sure about some other things.

Max pushed her into a stone alcove.

The way his breath moved the hair around her ear was just too much to take.

“Hopefully I’ve established my credentials if we get caught again,” Max said.

He pulled her skirt up and shoved his hand under it. His look of triumph at how wet she wasw wet sh made her want to slap him. Who did Max think he was?

“They open the gates for the service workers in eight minutes,” said Max. Sarah unzipped his fly. He was already as hard as she was wet. He pushed her against a bronze bas relief of St. Catherine being martyred on the wheel and put one hand under her left thigh, lifting it up and inserting himself into her in one motion. She groaned, desperate to feel his skin, running her hands under his shirt along his back, pulling him as deep inside her as she could. St. Catherine dug into her back. She felt a surge of satisfaction as Max’s list of windows fluttered to the ground.

Six and a half minutes later, they were once again on their way toward the front gate. Sarah’s legs were a little wobbly, but she felt amazingly refreshed and no longer irritable. Even Max’s whistled rendition of “Fly Me to the Moon” didn’t annoy her.

The sun was making the stained-glass windows in St. Vitus’s glow as if there were a bonfire within.

“Uh-oh,” said Max, looking up at the windows. “Hang on.” He dashed back for his dropped list. “My windows.”

When he returned, he glanced around and then started speaking quickly and quietly.

“So, I was actually waiting out here to tell you something, before you decide to jump me again.”

“Oh please,” Sarah said, haughtily. “You are the one who keeps shoving me up against statues at all hours of the day and night.”

“Lucky for me there are a lot of statues around.” Max grinned, wolfishly.

“So what were you wanting to tell me?” Sarah asked. She could see service workers at the gates now. “Is it about the key that Moses found? I thought Nico seemed kind of amped about it.”

“What? Oh no.” Max frowned. “Nico gets excited about anything shiny. It’s about these.” Max waved the drawings. “When they reglazed the windows in 1937 there were 518 of them. Now there are only 517.”

They walked along in silence for a beat.
A missing window
. Like the children’s book from fourth grade. For Cindy and Sally the missing window meant only one thing: a secret room. Max had been in her fourth-grade class. Would he remember the children’s book? She was sure he would have no idea what she was talking about, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“The 6th Prince Lobkowicz walled off part of a room at Roudnice,” said Max. “During the Silesian Wars. His library was walled off for thirty-six years. The occupying army never knew it was there.”

“Maybe your granddad did the same,” Sarah said. “Maybe he walled his library up here, before the Nazis came.”

“And with the threat of the communists, he would have left it walled up even after he was back in the palace in 1945. And been glad it was walled up when he fled in 1948. And never told anyone about it. Sarah, listen. Do you remember that book, from the fourth grade?” Max said. “You probably don’t. It was about—”

“Remember?!” exploded Sarah. “I’ve been looking for that book my whole life.”

“My grandfather wrote it,” said Max. “He had only a few copies printed up,s printe just for the family. I brought it in and gave it to the teacher to read.”

Sarah tried to process this.

“But the kids in the story . . . Cindy and Sally . . . they were American.”

“I think . . .” Max worked it out in his mind. “It was a message to his descendants, in case we ever got back here . . . Trying to tell us there’s a hidden room in the palace.”

Max was already turning back toward Lobkowicz Palace. Moritz ran up and rejoined them, tongue lolling.

Sarah grabbed Max’s arm. “Do you still have a copy of the book? I never got to hear how it ended. Because, you know . . .” Sarah was horrified. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“I’ll find one for you,” Max said, pulling out one of his ridiculous handkerchiefs.

And then a shrill scream punctuated the quiet morning. There were shouts coming from the second courtyard.

It’s not over,
thought Sarah. She and Max began to run.

•
   •   •

T
hey came around the corner of St. Vitus and ran through the arch into the second courtyard just as the first security guards and vendors were arriving from the other direction. There was a fountain, but that wasn’t what was catching the workers’ attention. A few paces from the fountain was the ancient well Eleanor had pointed out that first day, with its huge ornate metal cage. Sarah had always thought the cage was large enough to hold a person, and now she had her proof.

A woman’s naked body, caked with blood, hung from the hook suspended in the cage. The courtyard became a blaze of activity as security guards began shouting into their radios.

Sarah was trembling, and felt sick. Max had tried to grab her, to shield her.

But Sarah had seen the face of the woman in the cage. It was Eleanor.

THIRTY-ONE

C
harlotte Yates reached for her jewel-encrusted cigarette case. She was up to a six- or seven-straw-a-day habit now. A sign of stress. Really, though, people were acting so stupidly. It was disappointing. It was dreary. And yes, it was a little stressful. She was woman enough to admit it.

Take Miles, for instance. Miles was a boor. Did he think he could stand morosely in plain sight on Charles Bridge at five-thirty in the morning with a briefcase under his arm and
not
be spotted? He was lucky her agent didn’t push him into the river, a time-honored Czech tradition, as she recalled. Of course it would have been better for him if he had tossed the briefcase over, if that’s what he was thinking. Instead, he added foolishness to foolishness and took himself to the airport. Her agent followed, presumably along with whomever the Russians had assigned to watch the hapless Miles. Didn’t the man have a masters in art crime? You would have thought he’td have picked up a few ingenious ways to smuggle over the years. One supposed he was opting for the “hidden in plain sight” school of intrigue. Well, security at Ruzyne Airport wasn’t going to blink twice at a sheaf of letters, but what exactly was he thinking, booking a flight to Amsterdam? Was he planning on hiding her letters at his little Dutch girlfriend’s apartment? Clearly Miles wasn’t firing on quite as many pistons as she had thought. It was a good thing the letters had been found now, before things got really complicated. The body count was still at a manageable number, but it wasn’t like she could devote endless hours to this project. She had a country to covertly run, for Christ’s sake.

There had been some confusion at the airport as a Russian agent had attempted to intercept Miles on his way to the KLM ticket counter. Luckily
her
agent was a former decathlete.

Miles had been gently persuaded against a flight to Amsterdam. She hoped he had enjoyed his flight to Washington. Naturally she had given her agent instructions that Miles be put in the coach section. She was a Republican, after all! First class was for friends, lobbyists, and donors, not lily-livered minions. She had given her agent instructions that Miles wasn’t to have anything broken, but it can’t have been too comfortable not being allowed to go to the bathroom for eleven hours. You just never knew what people might have down their pants, and she had told her agent: no mistakes. Of course, the agent could have simply relieved Miles of his briefcase back in Prague, but it was better this way. Charlotte liked to employ the personal touch.

It was irritating that Miles thought he could cross her. Her! This was what came of wearing fake glasses and eggplant-colored pantsuits. People started to think of you as unthreatening. Moderate. Empathetic. It was like during her Senate campaign, when she’d had to compromise by adding caramel highlights to her hair and getting a couple of bichons frises. Oh, it was all such crap, but you had to give the “voters” these sorts of tokens or they’d never get over your being intelligent
and
a woman. Charlotte briefly wondered what happened to those dogs. What were their names?

Miles was waiting outside her office now. He’d been waiting for two hours. They’d let him use the bathroom, poor dear, since the video surveillance in the johns here was excellent. You could even zoom in. Which is how she knew that Miles wasn’t very impressively endowed, although she should be charitable and allow for some shrinkage. Fear could do that to a man, and he had had eleven hours on a plane with a gorilla-sized agent breathing pretzels in his face.

Charlotte gnawed her straw. Truth was, now that her letters were within her grasp (right outside her office!) she was feeling a little dizzy with relief. And the memories were flooding back.

Oh, Yuri. What a lover he had been. She remembered making love standing up in a shadowy corner outside the palace one night, some forgotten piece of statuary jabbing her in the back as Yuri held her by the throat, muttering Russian words of endearment. He had given her the hammer
and
the sickle, by God. Charlotte crossed her legs. They just didn’t make them like that anymore. Nowadays she was lucky to get some mild flirtation from some leather-faced NRA lobbyist. Forget about doggy-style on an eighteenth-century canopied bed by a certified KGB agent who said things like “beg for it, my little Yankee poodle.”

What were the names of those stupid dogs? Lucy and something? She was distracted.

All right. Time to bring the ship into port. Charlotte folded her mangled straw into a tissue and tossed it away. She picked up the phone and buzzed Madge.

“I’ll see Mr. Wolfmann now,” Charlotte said sweetly.

“Yes, ma’am. I will show him in.” Madge sounded relieved. Miles was probably sweating all over the furniture.

“
Send
him in, Madge. Don’t show him in.”

“Yes, Madam Senator.”

Charlotte remained seated. She picked up a folder from her desk and pretended to be absorbed.

“Shut the door behind you,” Charlotte said, without looking up from her papers. She listened to the sound of the door click and Miles clearing his throat. At one end of her office was a sitting area, with a fireplace, and there were two comfortable leather chairs facing her desk. Miles was treading water on the carpet in the middle of the room, clearly uncertain as to where to go. From her peripheral vision, she caught sight of a brown briefcase clutched in his right hand. Charlotte resisted the urge to leap over her desk and snatch it away. Timing was everything. She let Miles cool his heels for a minute, then two, then three.

Finally she looked up, casually. Miles was ashen, and needed a shave. His suit was rumpled. There was a dark stain on his tie.

“Have a seat,” Charlotte said, neutrally, not indicating one.

Miles shuffled back and forth on the carpet and finally decided on one of the chairs in front of her desk. Charlotte closed her folder and watched him impassively until he was seated. He held the briefcase in his lap, like a dog.

“Madam Senator,” Miles began bravely. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on here but—”

“Well, Miles,” Charlotte said, pleasantly. “It’s lucky for you that
I
know what’s going on, isn’t it?”

She let him digest that for a minute. She didn’t want to ask him to hand over the briefcase. She wanted him to offer it to her. She wanted him to remember that he had
given
her the letters. He would not be able to say that he had been
forced
, or any of that nonsense.

“You look a little tired.” Charlotte gave him a fractional smile. “If you had informed me beforehand of your travel plans I could have arranged a more comfortable flight.”

“I felt it best to act quickly,” Miles began, with an admirable attempt at professional sangfroid. “I had only just come into possession of the . . . the papers. I made a quick survey of them and determined that they were the ones you had commissioned me to . . . put aside for you. I placed the documents in my safe. Certain events at the palace of late made me feel that my own computer and cell phone might be compromised. I determined that it was best if I simply delivered the documents to you in person. I did not want to risk their exposure, or misplacement.”

Charlotte nodded sympathetically. She had wondered what sort of story he was going to come up with. Still, he held the briefcase in his lap. She noticed that his knuckles were white. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip.

“I thought I might hght I miave been followed,” Miles continued. “To the airport. In order to throw my pursuer off, I decided to pretend to book a flight to the Netherlands. My plan was to try to lose whoever was following me in the crowd, then double back and find a flight to Washington.”

“Goodness,” Charlotte said, mildly. “This is all sounding like one of those spy novels. You took considerable risks.”

“With all due respect, Madam Senator,” Miles said softly, “I think you know more about taking risks than I do.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes.

“Is that what you think?” Charlotte drummed the nails of her right hand sharply against her desk. She didn’t appreciate the implication one bit. An off-the-record joke or two about the old days with a couple of five-star generals or the Secretary of Defense (darling Todd, he ate out of her hand) was one thing, but she wasn’t going to allow Miles Wolfmann that kind of latitude. Perhaps it was time to remind him of the carrot, though, before she started employing the stick.

“Well, I certainly appreciate the eagerness with which you have fulfilled your commission,” Charlotte said, crisply. “I know you’ve been most anxious to secure a position as director of the Smithsonian, and as we discussed earlier, I think that is about to become a very real possibility. I take it you are still interested in the job? The post will be vacant in three months and will need to be filled quickly. I wouldn’t want to recommend someone who wasn’t interested. Especially when I know how
seriously
my recommendations are considered.”

“Actually,” Miles cleared his throat, “I’ve been offered a permanent position as head of the Lobkowicz Collection. It’s a very attractive offer.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Charlotte smiled. “I thought you’d be pleased. I thought you would enjoy saying no. I’ve always found it empowering, myself.”

“Oh.” Miles blinked.

“Naturally”—Charlotte shuffled some papers on her desk— “if you prefer to stay in Prague that’s entirely your decision. I should tell you, though, that under those circumstances I won’t be able to extend your current level of . . . protection.”

“Protection?” Miles swallowed and shifted in his chair.

“I’m afraid your suspicions were correct,” Charlotte sighed sadly. “You were followed to the airport. Luckily my man was able to get to you first and escort you here safely. Naturally I didn’t want to expose you to any unpleasantness when you’ve done such a thorough job of looking after the restitution of all those lovely little Czech goodies. I understand there’s to be quite a glamorous unveiling of the family holdings in September. I’m attending myself, did you hear? I could use a vacation.”

She could practically see the little cogs of his brain turning.

“I’m a little surprised that you are considering staying on. I should have thought the directorship of the Smithsonian was somewhat more alluring, but of course if you’ve changed your mind . . .” Charlotte let her words trail off.

“Protection?” Miles asked again. “But, now that you have . . . I mean . . . I thought this would be the would beend of it all.”

“It ends when I say it ends,” Charlotte said, evenly. “And not before. I think it ends with you in a corner office at the Smithsonian and a budget that would make the Lobkowiczes green with envy.”

“I . . .” Miles fumbled.

“How is the little prince, by the way? Your reports seem to indicate that you’ve found him slightly difficult to work with. And the Sarah Weston girl, too. I suggested you find a way to get the girl away from Max, break the whole thing up. Really, it can’t be that hard. The Weston person seems to have a knack for getting herself arrested.”

“I tried, but she’s clever,” Miles said defensively. Then he looked up at Charlotte nervously. “But she’s not . . . she’s not dangerous. Just ambitious. I think she’s hoping to make her career with some kind of breakthrough in Beethoven scholarship. And Max is probably just hoping to get hold of something he can sell off on the sly. He’s looking for something. Some family possession.”

“Something that’s not on the list?” Charlotte found herself mildly interested in this. She thought she knew about all the really good stuff.

“He and Nicolas Pertusato have been digging around,” Miles said. “And before, when Absalom Sherbatsky . . . there’s . . . I think it has something to do with Beethoven. But I can’t figure it out.”

“Hmmmm.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Miles amended hastily, looking even more green. There was nothing like a guilty conscience. It was better than fear for making people rat out their friends and colleagues.

“Well, I assure you the position at the Smithsonian will be far less . . . sticky,” Charlotte said, with a show of sympathy. “If there’s one thing I understand it’s how important it is to have room to do one’s work properly. Can’t have a bunch of amateurs looming over your shoulder. Or Russian agents, for that matter. Pesky things. They always seem to want something. Even in these days of friendship and transparency.” She enjoyed watching Miles chew over this last bit.