other two men brought the bags.
Michael walked into the lobby of the Reichkronen, entering the Nazi sanctum. It was a huge chamber, where pools of light from low lamps spilled over dark brown leather furniture and Persian rugs sparkled with golden threads. Above his head was a massive, ornate chandelier where perhaps fifty candles burned. Flames roared from logs in a white marble hearth that could serve as a garage for a Tiger tank; centered over the hearth was a large framed painting of Adolf Hitler, with gilded eagles on either side. Chamber music was playing: a quartet of string musicians, performing a Beethoven piece. And seated in the overstuffed leather chairs and sofas were German officers, most of them with drinks in hand, either engaged in conversation or listening to the music. Other people, among them a number of women, stood in groups, chatting politely. Michael looked around, getting the full impact of the monstrous place, and he heard Mouse give a soft, terrified moan just behind him.
And then, a woman’s voice, as beautiful as a cello: “Frederick!” The voice was familiar. Michael started to turn in its direction, and he heard the woman say, “Frederick! My darling!”
She rushed at him, and her arms went around him. He smelled her scent: cinnamon and leather. She clasped him tightly, her blond curls against his cheek. And then she looked him in the face with eyes the color of champagne, and her crimson lips sought his mouth.
He let them find it. She tasted like a crisp white Moselle. Her body was pressed hard against his, and as the kiss went on Michael put his arms around her body and darted his tongue out to tease her lips. He felt her shiver, wanting to pull away but unable to, and he slowly caressed his tongue back and forth across her mouth. She suddenly seized his tongue with her mouth and sucked on it with a force that almost tore it from its roots. Her teeth clamped down on his tongue, trapping it with none-too-gentle pressure. This was the civilized way to make war, Michael thought. He squeezed her tighter, and she squeezed him with a crush that made his backbone pop. They stood like that for a moment, locked mouth to mouth and teeth to tongue.
“Ahem.” A man cleared his throat. “So this is the lucky Baron von Fange.”
The woman released Michael’s tongue and pulled her head back. Crimson spots seethed in her cheeks, and her beautiful pale brown eyes glittered with anger beneath thick blond brows. But there was a joyous smile on her mouth, and she said with a rush of excitement, “Yes, Harry! Isn’t he beautiful?”
Michael turned his head to the right, and stared at Harry Sandler, who stood perhaps three feet from him.
The big-game hunter, the man who had engineered the murder of the Countess Margritta in Cairo almost two years before, grunted skeptically. “Wild beasts are beautiful, Chesna. Especially when their heads are on my wall. I’m afraid I don’t share your taste, but… it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Baron.” Sandler thrust out a large hand, and the golden hawk that perched on his leather-trimmed left shoulder spread its wings for balance.
Michael stared at the hand for a few seconds. He could see it gripped around a telephone, ordering Margritta’s murder. He could see it tapping out a radio code to his Nazi masters. He could see it squeezing the trigger of a rifle and sending a bullet through a lion’s skull. Michael took the hand and shook it, keeping a polite smile on his face though his eyes had gone hard. Sandler increased the pressure, trapping Michael’s knuckles. “Chesna’s been boring me to death with stories about you,” Sandler said, his ruddy face grinning. His German was very good. He had dark brown eyes that shed no warmth, and the pressure of his grip on Michael’s hand continued to mount. Michael’s knuckles throbbed. “Thank God you’re here, so she won’t have to tell me any more.”
“Perhaps I’ll bore you to death with stories of my own,” Michael said, his smile broader; he made sure he showed no indication of the fact that his hand was about to break. He stared into Harry Sandler’s eyes, and he felt a message pass between them: survival of the fittest. His knuckles were jammed together, caught in that bear claw of a hand. One more ounce of pressure, and the bones would crack. Michael smiled, and felt sweat crawl down under his arms. He was, for the moment at least, at the mercy of a killer.
Sandler, showing his square white teeth, released Michael’s hand. Blood stung as it rushed through the cramping fingers. “As I said, a pleasure.”
The woman, who wore a dark blue dress that fit her lean body as if it had been poured on, had blond hair that fell in curly ringlets around her shoulders. Her face, with its high, sharp cheekbones and full-lipped mouth, was as striking as a glimpse of the sun through storm clouds. She took Michael’s arm. “Frederick, I hope you won’t mind that I’ve been boasting about you. I’ve told Harry the secret.”
“Oh? Have you?” What next?
“Harry says he’ll give the bride away. Isn’t that right?”
Sandler’s smile slipped a notch, which didn’t matter much since it was false to begin with. “I have to tell you, Baron: you’re in for the fight of your life.”
“Am I?” Michael felt as if the floor had turned to ice, and he was trying to keep from stepping through a thin spot.
“You’re damned right. If you weren’t around, Chesna would be marrying me. So I’m going to do my best to dethrone you.”
The woman laughed. “Oh, my! What a delight! To be fought over by two handsome men!” She glanced at Wilhelm and Mouse, who stood a few feet away. Mouse’s face was tinged with gray, his shoulders slumped under the immense weight of the Reichkronen. The luggage had already disappeared, whisked into an elevator by the bellboys. “You may go to your quarters now,” she said, with the air of someone who was used to giving orders and being obeyed. Wilhelm gave Mouse a firm nudge toward a door marked Treppe-Stairs-but Mouse only went a few paces before he looked at Michael, his expression a mixture of panic and bewilderment. Michael nodded, and the little man followed Wilhelm to the stairway.
“Good servants are so hard to find,” Chesna said, oozing arrogance. “Shall we go to the lounge?” She motioned toward a candlelit enclave on the other side of the lobby, and Michael allowed her to guide him. Sandler walked a few paces behind them, and Michael could sense the man was sizing him up. Of course the woman named Chesna was the agent Michael knew as Echo; but who was she? And how could she mingle so freely with the Reich’s bluebloods? They were almost to the lounge when a pretty young dark-haired girl stepped in their path and said shyly, “Excuse me… but I’ve seen all your pictures. I think you’re wonderful. Might I have your autograph?”
“Of course!” Chesna took the pen and pad the girl offered. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotta.”
Michael watched as Chesna wrote, in large and dramatic letters: To Charlotta, All My Best, Chesna van Dorne. She ended with a flourish and handed the pad back to Charlotta with a dazzling smile. “There you are. I have a new film coming out next month. I hope you’ll look for it.”
“Oh, I will! Thank you!” The girl, obviously thrilled, took her autograph back to where she’d been sitting, on a sofa between two middle-aged Nazi officers.
In the lounge, which was decorated with framed symbols of German infantry and armor divisions, they chose a secluded table. Michael took off his topcoat and hung it on a wall hook nearby. When the waiter came, Chesna ordered a Riesling, Michael asked for the same, and Sandler ordered a whiskey and soda and a platter of chopped meat. The waiter seemed to be used to the request, and he left without comment.
“Harry, must you carry that bird everywhere?” Chesna asked teasingly.
“Not quite everywhere. But Blondi’s my good-luck charm.” He smiled, looking at Michael. The golden hawk-a beautiful creature-stared at Michael, too, and he realized that both the hawk and its master had the same cold eyes. Its talons gripped the patch of leather on the shoulder of Sandler’s expensively tailored tweed jacket. “Do you know anything about birds of prey, Baron?”
“I know enough to avoid them.”
Sandler laughed politely. He had a square-jawed, crudely handsome face with a crooked boxer’s nose. His reddish hair was cropped short on the sides and back, and a small flame-colored wisp of hair fell over his creased forehead. Everything about him exuded haughty confidence and power. He wore a red-striped necktie and a pale blue shirt, and on his lapel there was a small gold swastika. “Smart man,” he said. “I captured Blondi in Africa. It’s taken me three years to train her. Of course she’s not tame, just obedient.” He took a leather glove from inside his coat and worked it onto his left hand. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? Did you know that I could give her a signal and she’d rip your face to shreds within five seconds or so?”
“That’s a comforting thought,” Michael said. His testicles felt as if they’d drawn up.
“I trained her on British prisoners of war,” Sandler went on, taking a step into no-man’s-land. “Smeared some mouse guts on their faces, and Blondi did the rest. Here, girl.” He gave a low, trilling whistle, and offered Blondi the
