be laughed at once more. They stopped at the glares of the young women and, when the Pearls advanced upon them, shrank back.
Russalka stamped an exquisite foot. “You will take us immediately to the Terem Palace.” She pouted in a manner that had cost her long hours in front of a mirror to master.
The Neanderthals shuffled uncomfortably.
“Ahem. Well. I dunno if we’ve got the authority to do that,” Herakles said hesitantly. “Ma’am.”
“I am quite certain you do not. But in the ambassador’s absence, authority for our well-being passes to the treasurer, am I right?”
“Yeah, but Zoesophia ain’t here.” “Then it passes to one of us.”
“I don’t-”
“Authority passes to somebody, right?” Russalka said testily. “And that somebody isn’t you, is it? It is not. Which leaves us. It’s only reasonable.”
Herakles’s face twisted as he followed her chain of logic, and then twisted again as he sought an alternative to it. But there was none, and he was incapable of disobeying legitimate authority, so at last he sighed in resignation. “I guess I got no choice. We can leave immediately.”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot!” Russalka said. “Of course we can’t. First, we must get dressed and made up.”
Though this was her first time walking them, the streets of Moscow were perfectly familiar to Zoesophia. She had come to Russia knowing everything about the city that was known to the Byzantine secret service (which was a great deal more than the government of Muscovy suspected), and her subsequent study of maps and books had been filled in by a careful questioning of men who had thought her interest lay purely in themselves.
She was on her own at last. She would need a place to stay, money, contacts, and access to the highest levels of government, of course. Which meant that she had to find the right patron. Somebody powerful and ambitious-and it would not hurt if he were already half in love with her. Zoesophia was just starting to sort through her eidetic files when she noticed a man several blocks ahead, making his way unhurriedly through the pedestrian traffic. He turned onto Tverskaya and disappeared. She might not have noted him at all were he not inhumanly tall and lean, a caricature of lankiness, a very scribble of a man. It was Wettig, whom she had overheard Chortenko command to murder Baron Lukoil-Gazprom.
The baron. Of course. Zoesophia mentally closed her files.
She didn’t bother following Wettig but went the long way around, because she already knew where he was going. The baron was staying at the English Club these days, as the result of a marital break between himself and the baronessa. Zoesophia didn’t know the exact details, but she had heard enough gossip to make an educated guess. Baron Lukoil-Gazprom was an uncomfortable hybrid of the romantic and the sadist, and unable to reconcile the twin impulses within himself. Thus, he could never find sexual satisfaction with a woman he respected, nor respect any woman who gave him that satisfaction. Which was no recipe for success in a marriage.
Timing her arrival at the club so that Wettig would reach the baron’s suite without glimpsing her, Zoesophia paused to take stock of her appearance. She was expensively dressed, in the Russian manner, with a fortune in Byzantine jewelry. She must pass for a noblewoman, then, and a foreigner to boot. She wrapped one of her scarves about her head in a manner that suggested she was trying to conceal her identity.
Then she walked quickly to the door, opened it halfway and slipped within.
“May I help you?” the doorman said politely, positioning himself so that she could not get by.
All in a rush and with a strong St. Petersburg accent, Zoesophia said, “Please, I am here to meet a man, it is extremely important, you must let me go to his room.” Then, as the doorman did not move aside, she lowered her voice, as if embarrassed. “This is nothing I would normally do. But I have no choice.”
The doorman pursed his lips and shook his head. “If you’ll give me the resident’s name, I can have him sent for. Or else you may wait for him in the lobby.”
“Oh, no! That is far too public. My God, the scandal if my…no, I must wait in his room. There really is no alternative.” Zoesophia wrung her hands in an excellent approximation of agony. There were many rings on her fingers. She twisted off one of the smaller ones, and let the diamonds catch the light. Then she seized the doorman’s hands. “I am in such a terrible fix, you see. I am not the sort of woman who would ever do this, had I the choice, you must believe me.”
When she released the man’s hands, the ring stayed behind.
“I am extremely sorry,” the doorman said in a voice that brooked no argument. “But unescorted ladies are never allowed into the club under any circumstances.”
Then he turned his back on her, so that she could slip inside.
In a cabinet made of ice in Zoesophia’s memory palace was the baron’s dossier. From it she extracted the information that he roomed in Suite
24. But she went instead to a vacant smoking room on the second floor, from which she could look down on the street. Standing motionless by the window, she waited until she saw a tall and yet so broadly built as to be stocky figure with the proud bearing of a former general coming up Tverskaya. She counted to twenty and then went to the baron’s suite and hammered on the door.
“Gospodin Wettig!” she shouted, loudly enough for everybody on the floor to hear. “Open up! Chortenko has changed his mind-you must not kill the baron until tomorrow!”
The door flew open. “Are you mad? Stop that-” Wettig began. Then he recognized her and his jaw fell open.
Zoesophia placed a hand on the man’s chest and pushed him into the room. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
Wettig recovered almost instantly. A very sharp and wicked-looking knife appeared in his hand. “Speak quickly and truthfully.”
“You and I are in the same business,” Zoesophia said, “and therefore colleagues. I beg of you to understand that I would not do this were it not absolutely necessary.” She took the knife from the assassin’s hand and slashed downward, slitting her dress from neckline to navel. Then she cut a long gash down the side of one breast. (It would heal quickly, and whether it scarred depended on whether she wanted it to or not.) All this she did before Wettig could react.
At the far end of the hall, now, she heard the solid, confident footsteps of the baron. So, even as Wettig lunged at her neck, arms extended, clearly intending to choke her, she sidestepped his attack, slapped the knife back into his hand, and screamed.
Outside, the baron thundered to the door. The knob rattled.
Zoesophia seized the assassin’s knife-hand in both her own, swung Wettig around, and bent over backward, striking the melodramatic pose of a virtuous woman vainly trying to fend off a brutal attacker.
The door burst open. All in a glance, Baron Lukoil-Gazprom saw exactly what Zoesophia meant for him to see: the knife, her terror, the assassin, her breast. Wettig’s expression might not be perfect for the tableau she had created, being more confused than murderous. But the baron was not a particularly observant man. In any case, his face flushed so red his veins stood out. With a bellow of outrage, he swung his gold-knobbed cane at Wettig’s head.
It was a blow that might well have stunned the man, but no more. So Zoesophia pushed the knife hilt up into Wettig’s chin, shoving the head into the oncoming knob. Thus converting the blow to a mortal one.
There was a sharp concussive crack and the assassin fell heavily to the carpet.
“I… I came here to warn you,” Zoesophia said, letting her eyes brim up with tears. As Wettig fell, she had held onto the knife. Now she looked down as if seeing it for the first time and let it drop from suddenly nerveless fingers. She put on a terrified expression that she thought of as kitten-lost-in-a-snowstorm. “He was going to… to… kill you.”
Then she clutched the baron with both hands and pressed her body tight against his in a manner designed to leave a wet smear of her warm breast blood on his white dress shirt.
Resist this! she thought.
…11…
