Spartan Gold

Another couple approached. Sam and Remi raised their glasses, smiled, and kept going. “I just had a thought,” she said. “What if we run into Olga and her husband and they recognize their own clothes?”

“Well, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

The next room they entered was what Bohuslav had called in his survey the “Sword Room”; upon entering they instantly realized the name was woefully inadequate. Measuring seventy by forty feet, the walls were painted a flat black and the floor covered in black rough-cut slate. In the center of the room was a rectangular glass case lit from within by recessed spotlights in the floor. Smaller than the room by only a few feet and bordered by bloodred carpet runners, the case was filled with no fewer than fifty ancient edged weapons, from axes and swords to pikes and daggers, each resting on its own marble pedestal bearing a placard written in both Russian and English.

Eight or ten couples circulated around the room, staring in fascination at the case, their faces lit from below as they pointed at different weapons and murmured to one another. Sam and Remi joined them, but were careful to remain quiet.

History buff that he was, Sam immediately recognized many of the weapons: the famous claymore, the Scottish two-handed broad-sword; a bardiche, a Russian poleax; a short, curved French falchion; a shamshir, a Persian saber; an ivory-handled Omani khanjar; the Japanese katana, the samurai’s weapon of choice; the classic Roman short sword known as the gladius.

Still others were new to him: a British Mameluke saber; a Turkish yataghan; a Viking throwing ax known as the Mammen; a ruby-inlaid Moroccan koummya.

Remi leaned in close and whispered, “Not very original, is it?”

“What’s that?”

“A murderer having a knife collection. It would have been so much more interesting if this case were filled with porcelain dolls.”

They reached the far end of the case, rounded the corner, and paused to admire a gleaming, sickle-shaped Egyptian khopesh. From the other side of the case there came a murmuring of voices. Through the length of the glass case Sam and Remi could see couples stepping aside as a figure entered the room.

“The shark has arrived,” Remi murmured.

“And here I am without my bucket of poison chum,” Sam said.

Speaking in lightly accented English, Hadeon Bondaruk’s deep basso voice filled the room: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I can see by your expressions you find my collection fascinating.”

Shoulders back, hands clasped behind his back like a general inspecting a line of soldiers, Bondaruk strolled down the side of the case. “The tools of war often have that effect. As so-called civilized people we try to pretend we’re not captivated by death and violence, but it’s in our genetic makeup. In our hearts we’re all Neanderthals fighting for survival.”

Bondaruk stopped and looked around as though daring anyone to disagree with him. Seeing no challengers, he continued walking. Unlike his guests, he wore not a tuxedo, but a pair of black trousers and a matching black silk shirt. He was a lean man, with sharp facial features, glittering black eyes, and thick black hair tied into a short ponytail. He looked ten or fifteen years younger than his reported age of nearly fifty.

He paid no attention to his guests, all of whom respectfully stepped aside at his approach, the men watching him warily, the women studying him with expressions that ranged from outright fear to curiosity.

Bondaruk stopped and tapped the glass before him. “The kris dagger,” he said to no one in particular. “The traditional weapon of the Malay. Beautiful, with its wavy blade, but not very practical. More for ceremony than for killing.” He walked on, then stopped again. “Here’s a fine piece: the Chinese dao. Perhaps the best melee weapon ever produced.”

He continued on, stopping every few feet to hold forth on another weapon, offering either a brief history lesson or his personal impression of the weapon’s efficacy. As he neared the end of the case, Sam casually stepped backward, drawing Remi along with him until they were standing with their backs to the wall. Bondaruk, his face reflected in the glass, turned the corner and stopped to admire a six-foot-tall halberd. He stood less than six feet away now.

Remi tightened her hand on her husband’s forearm. Sam, his gaze fixed on Bondaruk, tensed himself, ready to charge the moment Bondaruk turned toward them. That he would recognize them wasn’t in doubt; whether Sam could subdue him and turn him into a human shield was the question. Without that advantage the guards would swarm them inside of a minute.

Finally Bondaruk said, “The halberd: Leave it to the British to come up with a weapon that is both ugly and purposeless.”

The guests chuckled and murmured their agreement, then Bondaruk walked on, turning the corner and beginning his strolling lecture down the opposite side of the case. After a few more comments, Bondaruk strode to the door, turned to the crowd, nodded curtly, then disappeared.

Remi let out her breath. “Well, he’s got a presence, I’ll give him that.”

“It’s cruelty,” Sam muttered. “He wears it like a cape. You can almost smell it on him.”

“I got the same odor from Kholkov.”

Sam nodded. “Yes.”

“I thought for a moment there you were going to go for him.”

“For a moment I thought so, too. Come on, let’s find what we came for before I change my mind.”

CHAPTER 39

The farther west through the mansion they walked the fewer party guests they encountered. While the mansion and its wings were laid out as a peace symbol, the main portion of the house was an octagon with sitting rooms, parlors, dens, and libraries surrounding a central foyer. After twenty minutes of wandering they found themselves in a darkened conservatory filled with potted palms and hanging-trellis half walls overflowing with flowering vines. Through the arched glass ceiling they could see diamond-speck stars against the black sky. To their left, through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, was a long porch surrounded by hedges.

Set into the northwest wall was a single door. They made one circuit through the conservatory to check for cameras and to make sure they were alone, then headed to the door. It was locked.

Sam was reaching into his pocket for his pick set when a voice behind them said, “Excuse me, sir, may I ask what you’re doing?”

Sam didn’t give himself a chance to think, but simply reacted on instinct. He turned on the man and barked in what he hoped was passable Russian-accented English, “Finally! Where have you been? Do you know the humidity-control sensors have been going off in there?”

“Pardon me—”

“You are security, yes?”

“Yes, sir. However—”

“Mr. Bondaruk told us to come straight here, that someone would meet us. We’ve already been standing here for what, dear, five minutes?”

Remi didn’t miss a beat, nodding firmly. “At least that.”

The guard narrowed his eyes at them. “If you’ll wait just a moment I’ll confirm—”

“Fine, do what you must, but let me ask you this: Have you ever seen what condensation can do to a nine- hundred-year-old bardiche with a Mongolian red maple handle? Have you?”

The guard shook his head, his portable radio halfway to his mouth.

Sam said, “Here, look at this palm—this is a perfect example of what I’m talking about . . . do you see the leaves?” He took a step forward and to the guard’s left, pointing at a nearby palm tree. Already distracted by his own radio, the guard reacted with natural curiosity, turning his head to look at what Sam had indicated.

In that fleeting moment Sam reversed direction. Spinning on his right heel, he swept his left foot in a short arc, hooking the man’s right ankle and kicking it out from under him. Even as the guard stumbled backward Sam was spinning again, this time with a perfectly timed uppercut that caught the man squarely on the chin. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.