City of Dark Magic (38 page)

FIFTY-EIGHT

E
very detail was perfect. Uniformed waiters were ready with trays of hors d’oeuvres. Champagne was chilled and ready to be poured. A table of crisp white gift bags stenciled in gold with “Lobkowicz Palace Museum” contained a Brueghel puzzle, Croll watercolor stationery, a Polyxena bookmark, and a pair of earrings copied from those worn by Maria Manrique de Lara. Plus a handy envelope for making donations to the museum. In the reception rooms, musicians were poised to play. In each display room, an academic was ready to give the guests an up-close and personal take on the treasures within. It was elegant and yet intimate at the same time, although the presence of the U.S. Secret Service slightly marred the effect. Sarah hung her credentials around her neck and made her way through the ground-floor rooms. Some children and adults milled about and she stopped, turned back. There was something familiar about the man with his back to her in the toreador outfit . . .

“Jose?” she said, aghast.

He turned, and suddenly she saw that Pols was there, too, a violin case in her hand.

Oh my God,
she thought.
This is not good.

Pols was wearing an off-white full-skirted dress trimmed with pearls and red ribbons. She looked like she had stepped out of one of the paintings on the museum walls. This made Jose’s toreador outfit look both appropriate and stylish. Boris the mastiff was also present, in his service bib to which a jaunty red bow had been added.

Sarah hugged the little girl tightly. Boris licked Sarah’s ear. “I hate physical contact,” said Pols.

“I know,” said Sarah, hugging her again. “What are you doing here?”

“The board of the museum invited the finalists from the competition back to play at the opening. We arrived this morning. I wanted to surprise you.” Pols leaned in close. “I keep having dreams of fire,” she whispered.

Sarah looked at Jose, her eyes saying,
How could you let this happen?

Jose shrugged. “She is unstoppable force,” he said.

“It’s not safe,” Sarah hissed at him.

“Don’t worry, Sarah,” said Pols. “The Holy Infant will protect me.”

Sarah groaned inwardly as Jana came into the room with a headset on.

“The senator is on her way,” she announced. “Places, everyone!”

Pols and the little Russian, Japanese, Chinese, and North Korean prodigies took their seats and began to play a fugue.

“I’m right upstairs,” said Sarah to Jose as Jana pulled her away.

•   •   •

N
icolas met her on the stairs. He pulled her into a curtained recess and pressed something into her palm.

“I lied to you,” said the little man, “when I told you that I did not know what happened to the second key that the master made. I did know what happened to it. I took it.” He pulled a gold key out of his suit pocket. It hung from a thin gold chain.

“The master melted down a crucifix and made these two keys. They are identical. I should like you to have this one.”

“I can’t take that,” Sarah said. “It belongs—”

“To whom?” the little man asked. “To Max? He already has one. It’s downstairs on display. To me? It was not made for me. To history? History will not miss it. I would like you to have it. Remember that I am a little psychic and if I think you should take it, you should take it.”

He pressed it into her palm.

“I admit that despite Oksana, up till now this century has been a little dull. Forgive me for not falling into a frenzy of excitement over Facebook and
American Idol
. I admit iTunes is very useful. And Oksana is good at sexting. My point is that you have reinvigorated me. And I feel a certain . . . protectiveness toward Max. I think he will make a very good Prince Lobkowicz. Most of them started out a little strange, too.”

“Thank you for the key,” Sarah said. She hung the chain around her neck and tucked the key out of sight into her cleavage. Nicolas smiled.

•   •   •

A
large man in a black suit with an earpiece disappearing into his collar was stationed in her room.

“Hiya,” said Sarah. The man smiled in a friendly way. Sarah showed him her credentials and he produced a flat wand like the ones used in airports.

“A matter of routine,” he said calmly, waving it over her body. The wand buzzed over Sarah’s watch, and the gold key. As the man bent over, Sarah saw the gun in his holster. She swallowed.
Charlotte Yates could have me killed tonight,
she thought.
She’s done it before. She could do it again
.

“Guess you drew the short straw,” said Sarah. “I bet you’d rather hang out in the Gun Room.”

The man smiled politely but said nothing.

Sarah looked at the lute player.

“Play now?” he asked.

“Yeah, go for it,” Sarah said.

They waited.

•   •   •

S
arah trained her hearing to the rooms behind her. She listened to Suzi jabbering away, then a sudden silence. Then a cluster of voices, a woman’s laugh. Miles’s voice. Suzi’s again. The Secret Service agent stepped forward toward the door. The lute player fumbled a note, then started again. A rustle of silk, and then Sarah turned to greet the most powerful American senator.

Charlotte Yates did have presence, Sarah had to give her that. The off-white Valentino gown was utterly elegant, the hair was perfect, her smile could break glass. She exuded a sense of control, of power, of authority. She held a glass of champagne in one ringed hand, and a Lobkowicz Museum goodie bag in the other. An emerald bracelet glittered. Her teeth were perfect.

Three more black-suited men followed her in. And Miles.

“Sarah Weston, allow me to introduce—”

“Hello, I’m Charlotte Yates,” she said to Sarah. She turned to the Secret Service agent who had been guarding Sarah’s room. “Oh hello, Tad.” She handed the goodie bag off to Tad. He seemed used to this.

Her handshake was firm.

“Madam Senator, we’re honored to have you,” said Sarah, making good eye contact. It was important to stand up to your enemies, her father had always said. Look them in the eye. Do not be cowed by bullies.

“Sarah is a musicologist from Boston who joined us this summer,” said Miles.

“How nice for you,” said the senator. “Tell me about all these lovely things.”

Sarah couldn’t believe the woman’s cool. But she could match it.

“Of course. This is the centerpiece of our—the Lobkowicz—collection. The 1806 score of the
Eroica
Symphony, which Beethoven dedicated to his patron, Joseph Franz Maximilian, the 7th Prince Lobkowicz. The story is that the composer had originally meant to dedicate the work to Napoleon, but after Napoleon crowned himself emperor, Beethoven was so disgusted that he scratched out the dedication. Whether this is true is a matter of debate, but certainly Beethoven was never a man to accept the domination of authority figures.”

“How interesting,” said Charlotte. “I don’t suppose Napoleon was too bothered by the feelings of a musician though.”

“There is a story,” said Sarah, “that after Napoleon’s victory at Jena, Beethoven remarked, ‘It’s a pity I do not understand the art of war as well as I do the art of music. I would conquer him!’”

“How funny,” the senator said. “It would seem the only ego larger than a politician’s is a musician’s!”

Everyone in the room chuckled. Charlotte’s eyes remained locked on Sarah.

At that moment Max and Marchesa Elisa walked in. In black tie and tails, Max looked like a prince from the 1930s. Like his grandfather. The marchesa shimmered in red. She looked like a flame.

“Senator Yates, I am so sorry we were not here to greet you,” cooed the marchesa. “A little problem with your security. I am mortified. Please forgive us. My name is Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti.”

“Of course,” said the senator smoothly. “You may not remember, but we actually met years ago, I think.”

“I’m charmed
you
remember,” Elisa said. “And please let me introduce you to my fiancé, Max. He is also a Lobkowicz, but we are from different branches of the family, so it’s all quite correct.” The marchesa smiled and then, very deliberately, turned her smile to Sarah.

“Welcome to the Lobkowicz Palace Museum,” said Max very stiffly.

“You are both to be congratulated,” said Charlotte. Sarah’s nose alerted her. Envy. The senator was simmering in envy. But even more than that, Sarah thought she detected a kind of recklessness in the woman, madness even.

“What a wonderful thing you have created here,” the senator said.

“We have managed to bring many things back to their rightful place here in Prague,” Max said. “But of course some things disappeared forever during the Nazi occupation. And under communism as well. A researcher like Miss Weston here has had many obstacles. The Nazis kept records. The communists simply stole.”

Max’s eyes were steely.

Your father would be proud of you,
Sarah thought.
Your grandfather, too.

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed perhaps a fraction of an inch.

“Luckily, all that is behind us now,” Max said. “We can leave the past behind,
all of it
, and start fresh. I confess the task has at times . . . overwhelmed us . . . this summer in particular, but now we look forward to sharing the collection with the Czech people, and I personally am determined to devote my attention
entirely
to the preservation of these wonderful works of art. We are all honored by your presence here tonight, Madam Senator. I hope in some small way our museum will serve as a cultural bridge between the Czech Republic and the United States. Perhaps in the future we might lend certain things to American museums and institutions.”

What are you doing?
Sarah thought.
You’re telling her that it’s over. That she has nothing to fear from you. That all you want is to keep your precious museum open.

He’s doing what his family has always done,
a voice inside her head answered her.
He’s keeping what he values most safe. He’s doing it for you.

Because I love you.

“What a charming speech,” said Charlotte. “I can imagine you will not find fund-raising difficult with that level of eloquence. But if you do, you and Elisa must call upon me. I would be pleased to be of some help in your endeavor. Now please, let us continue our tour. I am quite enchanted with it all.”

And with that, she was gone, sweeping out Miles, the marchesa, and the Secret Service with her. Max gave Sarah one swift look over his shoulder.

“Should I stop playing now?” the musician asked. Sarah nodded. The senator’s perfume lingered in the air, nauseating and threatening.

But it’s over,
she thought.

Then why did she feel danger all around her?

Sarah ducked into the bathroom in the corridor to splash water on her face. Stefania was there, holding a stack of linen hand towels. Sarah took one and said thank you to her in Czech, but Stefania just stared straight ahead.

“Stefania? Are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“No,” said Stefania after a beat. “I
hear
a ghost. And now I know what she look like.” And with that the woman handed the stack of towels to Sarah and walked out of the bathroom. Sarah put them down and followed her out, but she was gone.

Sarah walked to the long window facing the courtyard and leaned her head against the cool pane. From there she was able to watch the senator’s departure. The white silk column of her dress disappearing into the waiting car.

But she still felt Charlotte Yates’s presence in the air. Her nose wrinkled. Something wasn’t right. Her nerves were jangling. Danger. She smelled danger.

It wasn’t over.

•   •   •

T
he doors were opened to the rest of the invited guests, and a mob of Czechs, French, Spaniards, Italians, and wealthy Americans poured in.

Sarah stood in the Music Room and greeted guest after guest, pointing out the treasures, telling anecdotes, explaining the restoration process. She tried to seem professional, calm, and engaging, but her senses were on high alert. Images of fire flitted through her brain.