“Tell him I’ll be down shortly.” She listened to Alexander’s footsteps moving along the teak-floored corridor. She was not so eager to see him that she would go downstairs without making him wait; that was part of the game between ladies and gentlemen. So she gave it another three or four minutes, and then taking a deep breath, she left the dressing room at an unhurried pace.
She walked along a corridor lined with suits of armor, spears, swords, and other medieval weapons. They belonged to the former owner of the house, a Hitler sympathizer, who’d fled the country when the Italians had been knocked around by O’Connor back in 1940. She didn’t care much for weapons, but the knights seemed to go with the teak and oak of the house, and anyway they were valuable and made her feel as if she were being guarded around the clock. She reached the wide staircase with its banisters of carved oak and descended to the first floor. The living room doors were closed; that’s where she’d instructed Alexander to take him. She took a few seconds to compose herself, held her palm up against her mouth to get a quick hint of her breath-spearminty, thank God-and then she opened the doors with a nervous flourish.
Silver lamps burned on low, polished tables. A small fire flickered in the hearth, because after midnight the desert breeze would turn chilly. Crystal glasses and bottles of vodka and Scotch caught the light and gleamed on a decanter against the stucco wall. The carpet was a blaze of intertwined orange and gray figures, and on the mantel a clock ticked toward nine.
And there he was, sitting in a wicker chair, his legs crossed at the ankles and his body in repose, as if he owned the area he occupied and would warrant no intrusion. He was staring thoughtfully at the mounted trophy on the wall above the mantel.
But suddenly his eyes found her, and he stood from the chair with smooth grace. “Margritta,” he said, and offered her the red roses he held in his hands.
“Oh… Michael, they’re lovely!” Her voice was smoky, with the regal lilt of the north German plains. She walked toward him-not too fast! she cautioned herself. “Where did you find roses in Cairo this time of year?”
He smiled slightly, and she could see his white, strong teeth. “Your neighbor’s garden,” he answered, and she could hear a trace of the Russian accent that mystified her so much. What was a Russian-born gentleman doing working with the British Secret Service in North Africa? And why was his name not Russian?
Margritta laughed as she took the roses from him. Of course he was joking; Peter Van Gynt’s garden did indeed have an immaculate rosebed, but the wall separating their properties was six feet tall. Michael Gallatin couldn’t possibly have gotten over it, and anyway his khaki suit was spotless. He wore a light blue shirt and a necktie with muted gray and brown stripes, and he had a burnished desert tan. She smelled one of the roses; they were still dewy.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “You’ve done your hair differently.”
“Yes. It’s the new style. Do you like it?”
He reached out to touch a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed it, and slowly his hand moved to her cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh and goose bumps rose on Margritta’s arms. “You’re cold,” he said. “You should stand closer to the fire.” His hand moved along the line of her chin, the fingers brushing her lips, then pulled away. He stepped closer to her and put an arm around her waist. She didn’t back away. Her breath caught. His face was right there in front of hers, and his green eyes caught a red glint from the hearth as if flames had sparked within them. His mouth descended. She felt an ache throb through her body. And then his lips stopped, less than two inches from hers, and he said, “I’m starving.”
She blinked, not knowing what to say.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he went on. “Powdered eggs and dried beef. No wonder the Eighth Army’s fighting so hard; they want to go home and get something edible.”
“Food,” she said. “Oh. Yes. Food. I’ve had the cook make dinner for you. Mutton. That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
“I’m pleased you remembered.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then he briefly nuzzled her neck with a softness that made the chill bumps burst up along her spine. He released her, his nostrils flared with the scent of Chanel and her own pungent woman-aroma.
Margritta took his hand. The palm was as rough as if he’d been laying bricks. She led him to the door, and they were almost there when he said, “Who killed the wolf?”
She stopped. “Pardon me?”
“The wolf.” He motioned toward the gray-furred timber wolf mounted above the fireplace. “Who killed it?”
“Oh. You’ve heard of Harry Sandler before, haven’t you?”
He shook his head.
“Harry Sandler. The American big-game hunter. He was in all the papers two years ago, when he shot a white leopard atop Mount Kilimanjaro.” Still there was no recognition in Michael’s eyes. “We’ve become… good friends. He sent me the wolf from Canada. It’s a beautiful creature, isn’t it?”
Michael grunted softly. He glanced at the other mounted trophies Sandler had given Margritta-the heads of an African water buffalo, a magnificent stag, a spotted leopard, and a black panther-but his gaze returned to the wolf. “Canada,” he said. “Where in Canada?”
“I don’t know exactly. I think Harry said up in Saskatchewan.” She shrugged. “Well, a wolf’s a wolf, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Then he looked at her, his eyes piercing, and smiled. “I’ll have to meet Mr. Harry Sandler someday,” he said.
“Too bad you weren’t here a week ago. Harry passed through Cairo on his way to Nairobi.” She gave a playful tug at his arm to pull his attention off the trophy. “Come on, before your food gets cold.”
In the dining room, Michael Gallatin ate his medallions of mutton at a long table under a crystal chandelier. Margritta picked at a hearts-of-palm salad and drank a glass of Chablis, and they made small talk about what was happening in London-the current popular plays, the fashions, the novels and music: all things Margritta missed. Michael said he’d enjoyed Hemingway’s latest work, and that the man had a clear eye. And as they spoke, Margritta studied Michael’s face and realized, here under the brighter light of the chandelier, that he’d changed in the year and five weeks since their last meeting. The changes were subtle, but there nonetheless: there were more lines around his eyes, and perhaps more flecks of gray in the sleek, close-trimmed black hair as well. His age was another mystery; he might be anywhere from thirty to thirty-four. Still, his movements had the sinuosity of youth, and there was impressive strength in his shoulders and arms. His hands were an enigma; they were sinewy, long- fingered, and artistic-the hands of a pianist-but the backs of them were dappled with fine dark hairs. They were a workman’s hands, too, used to rough labor, but they managed the sterling knife and fork with surprising grace.
Michael Gallatin was a large man, maybe six-feet-two, with a broad chest, narrow hips, and long, lean legs. Margritta had wondered at their first meeting if he’d ever been a track-and-field athlete, but his response had been that he “sometimes ran for pleasure.”
She sipped at her Chablis and glanced at him over the rim. Who was he, really? What did he do for the service? Where had he come from and where was he bound? He had a sharp nose, and Margritta had noticed that he smelled all food and drink before he consumed it. His face was darkly handsome, clean-shaven and rugged, and when he smiled it was like a flare of light-but he didn’t let her see that smile very often. In repose his face seemed to become darker still, and as the wattage of those green eyes fell their somber hue made Margritta think of the color in the deep shadow of a primeval forest, a place of secrets best left unexplored. And, perhaps, a place also of great dangers.
He reached for his goblet of water, disregarding the Chablis, and Margritta said, “I’ve sent the servants away for the evening.”
He sipped at the water and put the goblet aside. Pressed his fork into another piece of meat. “How long has Alexander worked for you?” he asked.
The question was totally unexpected. “Almost eight months. The consulate recommended him. Why?”
“He has…” Michael paused, considering his words. An untrustworty smell, he’d almost said. “A German accent,” he finished.
Margritta didn’t know which one of them was crazy, because if Alexander was anymore British he’d be wearing a Union Jack for underdrawers.
“He hides it well,” Michael continued. He sniffed at the mutton before he ate it, and chewed before he spoke. “But not well enough. The British accent is a masquerade.”
