City of Dark Magic (22 page)

“Let us call it Prague,” Janek said, somberly. “It is a city of secrets and dark whisperings, my friend. Even you are not immune. You must think this over very carefully, but I cannot advise you. This is a matter for your conscience.”

More silence, then at last Miles’s voice, tired but resigned.

“I know what you are saying. Tomorrow, I will . . . well, tomorrow.” Sarah heard more chair squeakings and what sounded like the safe being shut. “I’ll let you out and then I have decisions to make.”

“Ah, yes. And tomorrow I will return to Nelahozeves and my hunt for the intrigues of some eminent dead people. You see, I am not immune either. But it is safer, I think, to read the love letters of those whose crimes are long forgotten. Ghosts, my friend, are very quiet.”

Sarah thought she might actually pass out, the relief was so great. Miles and Janek were leaving, they were walking out of the office! She and Max had not been caught!

She thought about what she had heard. An American woman, CIA, had an affair with KGB agent Yuri Bespalov in the 1970s, and had become a double agent herself. That woman, Miles had said, was now very public, very powerful, and “a friend to the museum.” And she was looking for the letters Eleanor had found.

“Miles said he was coming back,” Sarah whispered. “We need to get out of here.”

Max was already opening the closet door and pulling her with him. They sprinted down the hallway. They heard a door slam close by. Someone called out in Czech. Someone answered. Was that Miles’s voice? They ran down the stairs, almost falling, and sprinted down a passage. Max turned a corner, slipped down more steps, pulled her through an absurdly short door and into another hallway. Sarah had no clue what part of the palace they were in, until suddenly she realized they were in front of her own bedroom. Max opened her door and they fell
in, shutting the door behind them and leaning against it, gasping for breath.

Sarah’s windowless room was even darker than the office.

“Are you okay?” Max wheezed.

Sarah shook her head, then realized he probably couldn’t see her.

“You?”

“I’m okay,” Max whispered. “What do we do now?”

“My goodness, what have you been up to?” said a familiar bassoon voice, from somewhere behind them in the room.

Sarah scrabbled around the wall till she found the light switch. Nicolas Pertusato was sitting cross-legged on Sarah’s bed. Even more disturbingly, he was wearing Sarah’s “Beethoven Rocks” T-shirt. Sarah shut her eyes. The little man was not wearing pants.

TWENTY-NINE

C
alling him “Nicolas” felt a tad formal under the circumstances. “Nico,” hissed Sarah, “for God’s sake put some pants on.” She averted her eyes only after noticing that the tiny man had more than tiny parts. Rather largely-out-of-proportion parts, actually. No wonder his wife looked so happy. “And then you can explain what you’re doing here.”

“I would be happy to clothe myself,” said Nico with a grin, “except my hands are tied. Literally.” He nodded over his shoulder, and Max and Sarah looked sideways at each other.

“Rock paper scissors?” said Max.

Sarah gave Max a look. She tossed a towel over Nico’s exposed lower half and Max went over to the bed and began wrestling with the ropes that bound the little man’s hands to the bedstead.

“
Mille grazie,”
said Nico, flexing his arms and shoulders and pulling the towel around himself. “I’ll be troubling you no longer.”

“Uh-uh,” said Sarah, cringing at the thought of Nico’s junk on her pillow. “Explanation. Now. Or we’ll tie you back up again.”

“I could demand the same of you two. It’s almost three in the morning.”

“Talk,” said Sarah. Her tone made even Max sit up straighter.

“I was taking a bath,” said Nico. “Rather enjoying a nice long soak. You were so kind, Max, to give me a room to sleep in here for late nights although Oksana complains—”

“Cut to the chase,” said Max.

“Someone came into the bathroom. I said ‘
occupato,’
but before I could turn around, whoever it was knocked me over the head. Look.”

Sarah and Max saw that Nico did indeed have a large purple goose egg on the back of his head. Sarah touched it and he flinched.

“It’s real,” he said crabbily.

“Don’t you lock the door when you take a bath?” asked Sarah.

“What’s the fun in that?” said Nico. “Anyway, I woke up here, naked and tied to the bed. Thanks to a summer in Siberia with a team of performing acrobats, I was able to maneuver my way into your T-shirt. I made a valiant effort to get into your pants, but they were out of reach. Now, what is
your
story?”

“We were out for a walk,” said Max. “Meteor shower.”

“You share so many of Tycho Brahe’s interests,” said the little man. “Though
his
dwarf was rather a sourpuss, I understand.”

“Could you tell anything about the person who hit you over the head?” asked Sarah, trying to suppress the vision of someone throwing a wet, naked, unconscious Nico over their shoulder and hauling him fireman-style all the way down here. “Male? Female?”

“Alas,” Nico said. “I know nothing. It is not often that I am taken by surprise. It’s actually quite thrilling. One gets so bored.”

“Why grab Nico and leave him here?” asked Sarah after they had sent Pertusato on his way.

Max shrugged. “A message? A warning? A joke, like the cross? No one would hear him scream from here. But they had to know you weren’t in your room.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sarah agreed. “Earlier tonight
someone
locked me out on the roof.
Someone
got really tired of waiting for Nico to finish his bath and dumped him here. The same someone, or are we being invaded by a mischievous army?”

“Let’s focus on the letters,” said Max. “What’s all that CIA stuff?”

"Minion Sarah thought about the dancer Stefania, who’d had her legs crushed. And about Andy the spy. Spying for whom? The CIA? Or someone else? If he knew the letters were in Miles’s safe, then it seemed likely that his death was connected to those letters. And to whichever prominent ex-CIA agent was now hunting for them.

“Ca
n you trust Max?”
Pols had asked
. “Or are you just in love with him?”

“Did you tell Miles to fire me?”

Max looked shocked. Really shocked? It was hard to tell.

“Of course I didn’t,” he said. “You don’t think I would try to do that, do you?”

No. Maybe. No.

Except you lied about that letter from the Hotel Gritti Palace. And what’s between you and your cousin Elisa? And how is she wrapped up in all this?

Sarah shook her head, then looked over at him. “What were you hoping to find?” she asked. “In Miles’s safe?”

“Any clue as to what the hell is going on,” sighed Max, heading out the door. And once again, Sarah knew he was lying.

THIRTY

S
arah’s first move in the morning was to call Pols. Jose answered the phone.

“We’re exhausted,” he yawned. “All of a sudden,
bam
. Pols, she tell me she want to stay in hotel and practice. Me, I want the room service. But Boris no like anyone strange coming into room.”

“Perfect,” Sarah said. “I think Pols should rest as much as she can before the competition. We wouldn’t want anything . . . anything to go wrong.”

After all the talk of CIA spies roaming the palace, Sarah was now well and truly paranoid.

Is anyone listening to my phone? Do you hear me? You touch that kid and I will destroy you.

Magically, Jose seemed to pick up on her thoughts. His next words came loudly and with careful pronunciation.

“Oh yes, she want to practice and rest. Then we go to competition. Then we go home. Her mama and papa want to make sure that she safe and sound and get back to Boston right away. And I no want to upset such powerful people, of
course
.”

Not bad, Sarah thought. Pols’s parents weren’t especially powerful even among the bohemian trust fund set, but at least if someone was listening they would get the idea that the girl was only here to perform and leave.

“I wish she could see a little more of Prague,” Sarah sighed theatrically. “Well, not see, of course, but experience. She’s so interested in all the old history. She told me she had tried to look up something online about the American-Czech Cultural Alliance but her voice-activation thingy was screwing up and sending her to random sites.”

Work with me, Jose.

“Oh yes,” Jose sighed. “She complain about thish. We are not so good with computers, Pols and me. So we get book on Bohemia from library. Much better. Bye, Sarah. We call you later.”

•   •   •

H
er anxiety about Pols’s Internet searches somewhat abated, Sarah slipped out to do a little searching of her own. She didn’t want the things she was looking for to show up on her own computer, using the palace server.

“Know where I can get Wi-Fi?” she asked the Sexy Stabber. When he failed to respond, she made her way down Thunovska and eventually found a funky restaurant with Miles Davis posters on the wall and a bank of computers.

Who was a prominent and powerful American woman who was ex-CIA and would have been in Prague in the 1970s? Superspy Robert Hanssen and feminist icon Gloria Steinem showed up when she googled that. Hanssen was out by gender, and Steinem’s time with the CIA was too early for 1978 hijinks.

Sarah sighed and listened to Miles Davis riff for a moment. Something else was in the back of her mind. Pols had said something about a photo of Elisa and Senator Charlotte Yates. Elisa wasn’t American, and anyway she was the wrong age. But Yates was certainly prominent. Could
she
be the Spy Who Loved Yuri? Feeling slightly ridiculous, she googled “Charlotte Yates.” There was the Wikipedia entry, the Senate website, and a bunch of news items. Charlotte Yates had an honorary doctorate from Virginia Tech, had been various journals’ and organizations’ Woman of the Year (most recently the
Ladies’ Home Journal
Woman of the Year for upholding family values). She was unmarried and apparently considered something of a catch, except as the most powerful woman in the Senate she intimidated all potential lovers and needed a sexier haircut, according to
Us Weekly
. God, the press was horrific.

An article in Italian about the Venice poisoning caught Sarah’s eye. Charlotte Yates was mentioned in passing, something weird about black food.
Fuoco
was in the headline, which Sarah knew meant “fire.” She had Google translate the article for her, which was an imperfect science. “People dead gondolier say yell fire,” said the article, or rather the computerized translation. Sarah was startled to see there was a quote from someone referred to informally as
La Lobkowicz
, who was crying tears of relief that she had left the party early. Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti. Max’s cousin. So she had been at the event.

Sarah clicked on another article about the poisoning, this one in English. Senator Charlotte Yates had accompanied home the body of a prominent American who had been killed in the terrorist poisoning at the fund-raiser in Venice. Al Qaeda had taken credit for the attack. Yates of course denounced their brutality and called for those on the side of right around the world to rise against them.

Sarah could find no photograph showing Charlotte Yates and Elisa together, and no connection between them at all, although she did find the same site that Pols had found, saying that the senator served on the board of the American-Czech Cultural Alliance . . . the board that had been influential in working with the Czech government during the restitution process. A board that Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti would have had a great interest in influencing.

And then there it was. Right there on the Charlotte Yates Wikipe Yates Wdia page.
Charlotte Yates worked at the CIA briefly in the 1970s.

It did not give any further details.

Sarah looked around, then quickly clicked off the computer and sat back to think.

It was purely circumstantial evidence. Sarah certainly had no proof that Charlotte Yates was ever in Prague, or that she was a double agent, or even an agent at all. She might have just been a low-level policy analyst working in Washington. But in her gut, Sarah felt that Pols might have been right. Or nearly right. Pols had been trying to warn her that Marchesa Elisa was enlisting the help of the senator in order to get to the Lobkowicz fortune. But maybe it was the other way around. The senator wanted to install the marchesa as heir to the fortune in case those letters surfaced. Perhaps it was Senator Yates who was pressuring Miles to make Max seem unstable. It was unclear how much Elisa knew about her powerful friend and her motives for helping her try to regain her family’s lost treasures. What Sarah felt certain of was that if Charlotte Yates had been a double agent, she would kill to get her hands on those letters.

•   •   •

S
arah slipped back into the palace, unable to stop herself from looking back every few steps to see if she was being followed. She tried to slow her heart rate as she shut the big door behind her. She must go to breakfast with the other academics. She must act normal. God, she was dreading Eleanor’s chirpy chatter. But at least it would cover her own distracted silence.

Fortunately it was very quiet. Suzi was doing a crossword puzzle. Bernard was sewing seed pearls onto a costume for the masquerade ball. Daphne was methodically dismantling a sausage. Nicolas was fully clothed, and reading a hardbound ancient copy of
Orlando Furioso
. Fiona Upshaw the Delft expert was examining a map of Prague, and Godfrey was hanging over her, making suggestions. Moses Kaufman was forking eggs into his mouth while reading bits of the
Herald Tribune
out loud. Douglas, who never missed an opportunity to brush up against Sarah, offered her a plate with a lusty, “Sausage?”

“Coffee,” she said, firmly. Suzi poured her a cup without looking up.

Max entered with Moritz and began engaging Godfrey in a conversation about wild boar. Godfrey responded enthusiastically. Max did not meet her eyes.

Sarah tried to put her thoughts into some kind of order. Who was missing this morning? Janek. Miles. Eleanor. The same three people who knew the contents of the letters.

“Anyone seen Miles?” asked Douglas. “I need to have a chat about how to hang the Crolls. I insist on being well-hung,” he said with a knowing grin at Sarah. Max took a savage bite of toast.

“Miles took an early plane to Washington,” said Daphne with a possessive tone. “Family emergency.”

Fuck
, thought Sarah, not looking at Max. Washington. Her suspicions about the senator tripled. Was Miles giving the letters back to their owner, then? And if so, was that the end of the story? Charlotte Yates would get her evidence and all would be peaceful in the palace? Was she obligated, in some moral sense, to tell what she knew? What did she know? What proof did she have?

“I hope Miles is back for the costume ball,” Suzi said. “Bernie made him a Ladislav costume.”

“Ladislav’s the one in yellow?” asked Moses Kaufman. “The one with the key stuck in his puffy pants?

Daphne sighed as if they were all idiots. “Yes. Ladislav was Zdenek’s brother. He plotted against Rudolf II and died in exile.” Sarah remembered the painting now. There was something sinister about Ladislav, who had his cape tossed casually over his shoulders like a movie star, his hand on the hilt of his sword and a large medallion around his neck.

There was another question troubling Sarah.
How much of what she had figured out should she share with Max? What did Max know about his cousin?

“If Miles doesn’t make it back in time, I’ll be Ladislav,” said Max amiably.

There was a ripple of reaction around the table. They weren’t used to Max being friendly to their schemes. Everyone, Sarah realized, was wondering what it meant. And so was she.

Moses turned to Max, his thick Buddy Holly glasses flashing in the morning sun just beginning to stream through the windows. “I found something yesterday. Since Miles isn’t here, I suppose I should give it to you? It might interest you, if you’re going to be Ladislav. I’ll go get it.”

Moses left the kitchen. General conversation about the costume party continued. Douglas was planning something special for the music. Godfrey wanted to know if it was okay to invite locals; he had become friendly with some members of the Czech Department of Wildlife. Fiona asked Bernie if he might help her with her costume, but Bernard shook his head, frowning over his piece of embroidery.

Moses returned with a small wooden box. He opened the box and produced a large golden key. It glimmered, and every eye in the room was drawn to it as he held it out to Max with a smile.

“I found it in a compartment in the ebony altarpiece that Rudolf gave Polyxena and Zdenek as a wedding gift,” he said. “It looks like the key in Ladislav’s pants, doesn’t it, Daphne? From the portrait? Although I hardly think it can be the same one. You should get a replica made for your costume, Max. This one’s kind of heavy, although it’s not actually gold. I think it’s lead, covered with gold paint.”

“That,” said Daphne, “should be locked in Miles’s office now. Ve should all be giving vatever ve find to Jana. And you should be vearing gloves.”

“I’ll give it to Jana,” said Nicolas. Sarah noticed his outstretched hand trembled slightly, and his eyes were glittering. Max stood up and reached for the key. He exchanged a look with the little man.

“You should be wearing
gloves
,” Daphne said, almost spitting.

Nicolas turned to her. His bassoon voice was low but unexpectedly harsh and Sarah was surprised at the anger in it.

“The key is the property of the Lobkowicz family. You will remember that everything in this palace is the property of Maximilian Lobkowicz Anderson. He can touch whatever he wants, however he wants to. You will be quiet.”

Daphne stalked from the room.

The room was silent.

“What’s a four letter word for ‘steinbock’?” Suzi asked, after a moment.

“Ibex,” said Godfrey.

They were all still watching Max.

“Thank you,” he said simply to Moses. “It’s probably an old house key, but I’ll check the database and have it sent out for dating.” He turned to address the silent academics. “If you find anything new, please bring it to Jana or myself. And for the record, I have turned the majority of my . . . my family’s castles and properties over to the local governments where they are situated. Nelahozeves and Lobkowicz Palace will become museums. When Roudnice is restored it will be leased to film companies and the revenues from these may provide employment for many people, including many of the people in this room. Good morning.”

He left the kitchen, with Nico close at his heels.

But he still put the key in his pocket, Sarah noticed.

“Shee-it,” said Suzi.

“He is correct,” Fiona said in her clipped voice. “This is a private museum, not a government one. It is all his personal property.”

There was a brief silence as everyone absorbed this.

“It’s hard to remember,” Godfrey said, peacefully. “All of this belongs to one man.”