back of his glove. The hawk immediately stepped from Sandler’s shoulder onto the glove, its talons clenching down. “I find nobility in savagery,” Sandler said as he admired the golden hawk. “Maybe that’s why I want Chesna to marry me.”
“Oh, Harry!” She smiled at Michael; the smile had a warning in it. “I never know whether to kiss him or slap him.”
Michael still hadn’t gotten past the remark about the British POWs. He smiled, too, but his face felt in danger of cracking. “I hope you’ll save the kisses for me.”
“I’ve been in love with Chesna ever since I met her. It was on the set of… what movie was that, Chesna?”
“The Flame of Destiny. Heinreid brought you for a visit.”
“Right. I suppose you’re a fan, too, Baron?”
“Her number-one fan,” Michael said, and he placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed it. A film actress, he’d realized she must be. And a highly successful one, at that. He recalled reading something about The Flame of Destiny; it had been a Nazi propaganda film, made in 1938. One of those movies full of Nazi banners, gleeful crowds cheering for Hitler, and idyllic landscapes of Germany.
Their glasses of white wine, the whiskey and soda, and the platter of raw chopped meat arrived. Sandler took a swig of his drink and then began to feed Blondi pieces of the bloody meat. The hawk gobbled them down. Michael smelled the coppery aroma of the blood, and his own mouth watered.
“So, when’s the happy day?” Sandler asked, the fingers of his right hand smeared with crimson.
“The first week of June,” Chesna answered. “We haven’t set the exact day yet, have we, Frederick?”
“No, not yet.”
“Happy for you, I might say. A tragedy for me.” Sandler watched a hunk of meat go into Blondi’s hooked beak. “Baron, do you do anything? Besides watch over the family estate, I mean?”
“I manage the vineyards. Also the gardens. We raise tulips.” That had all been part of his biography.
“Ah, tulips.” Sandler smiled, his gaze on the hawk. “Well, that must keep you very busy. Royalty is a wonderful occupation, isn’t it?”
“If you can stand the hours.”
Sandler stared at him; something glittered like a knife’s edge-anger? jealousy?-down in the dark brown, soulless eyes. He pushed the platter of meat a few inches toward Michael. “Here,” he said. “Why don’t you feed Blondi.”
“Harry,” Chesna told him, “I don’t think we need to-”
“All right.” Michael picked up a piece of meat. Sandler slowly moved his gloved hand forward, so Blondi’s beak was within Michael’s reach. Michael started to offer Blondi the bloody food.
“Careful,” Sandler said quietly. “She likes fingers. And then how would you pick your tulips?”
Michael paused. Blondi stared fixedly at the meat between his fingers. He could feel Chesna van Dorne tense beside him. Sandler was waiting, expecting the rich and idle tulip baron to back down. Michael had no choice but to continue the movement his hand had already begun. As his fingers neared Blondi’s beak, the hawk began to make a soft, menacing hissing noise.
“Uh-oh!” Sandler said. “She smells something about you she doesn’t like.”
It was the odor of the wolf, caught in his pores. Michael hesitated, with the meat about four inches from Blondi’s beak. The hissing noise was getting higher and harsher, like steam from a scalding kettle.
“I think you’re really upsetting her. Shhhh, girl.” Sandler pulled his hand and the hawk away from Michael, and blew gently on the back of Blondi’s neck. Gradually the hissing noise subsided. But Blondi’s gaze was still riveted on Michael, and he could sense the hawk wanted to leap from its leather perch and flail its talons at him. Like master, like hawk, he thought; there was no love lost at this table.
“Well,” Michael said, “it’s a shame to let good beef go to waste.” He put the meat into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Chesna gave a horrified gasp. Sandler just sat, stunned and disbelieving. Michael sipped casually at his wine and dabbed his lips with a white napkin. “One of my favorite dishes is steak tartare,” he explained. “This is almost the same thing, isn’t it?”
Sandler’s trance broke. “You’d better watch your groom-to-be,” he told Chesna. “He seems to enjoy the taste of blood.” Sandler stood up; for the moment, their game was over. “I have business to attend to, so I’ll say goodbye for now. Baron, I hope we’ll have a chance to talk later. Of course you’ll be attending the Brimstone Club?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“If you can eat raw meat, you should love the Brimstone Club. I’ll look forward to our next meeting.” He started to shake Michael’s hand again, then looked at his own blood-smeared fingers. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t shake hands?”
“No pardon necessary.” His knuckles weren’t ready for another pressure contest, anyway. Sandler, the hawk latched to his gloved left hand, gave Chesna a brief bow and then strode away out of the lounge.
“Charming,” Michael said. “I’ve met nicer snakes.”
Chesna looked at him; she was indeed a good actress, because her face retained the dreamy expression of a happy lover while her eyes were chilly. “We’re being watched,” she said. “If you ever try to stick your tongue down my throat again, I’ll bite it off. Is that clear, darling?”
“Does that mean I’ll get another chance?”
“It means that our arrangement of betrothal is fiction, not to be confused with reality. It was the best way to explain your presence and get you into this hotel.”
Michael shrugged, rather enjoying needling this composed blond Nordic celebrity. “I’m just trying to play my part.”
“You leave the acting to me. Just go where I tell you to go, do what I tell you to do, and speak when you’re spoken to. Don’t volunteer any information, and for God’s sake don’t try to match egos with Harry Sandler.” She gave him a distasteful frown. “And what was that about the raw meat? Don’t you think that was going a bit too far?”
“Maybe so, but it got that bastard out of here, didn’t it?”
Chesna van Dorne sipped her wine but didn’t answer. She had to admit that he was right. Sandler had been upstaged, and the big-game hunter wasn’t one to take that lightly. Still… it had been amusing, in a bizarre way. She glanced at the man over the rim of her glass. Definitely not the tulip-plucking type, she decided. Without all the grime, the shaggy hair, and the beard, he was very handsome. But his eyes disturbed her in a way she couldn’t define. They looked… yes, she decided; they looked like the eyes of a dangerous animal, and reminded her of the pale green eyes of a timber wolf that had frightened her when she was twelve years old and visiting the Berlin Zoo. The wolf had stared at her with those cold clear eyes, and even though bars separated them, Chesna had shivered and clung hard to her father’s hand. She’d known what the wolf was thinking: I want to eat you.
“I want to eat something,” Michael said. The raw meat had sharpened his appetite. “Is there a restaurant here?”
“Yes, but we can order room service.” Chesna finished her wine. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.” He was staring at her, and she avoided his gaze. She summoned their waiter, signed the check, and then took Michael’s arm and led him out of the lounge like a thoroughbred dog on a leash. Once they were in the lobby and striding toward the row of gilt-doored elevators, Chesna turned on her magnificent smile like a klieg light.
As they neared the elevators, a man’s husky voice said, “Miss van Dorne?”
Chesna stopped and turned, her smile aglow, ready to charm another autograph seeker.
The man was huge: a living bunker, standing about six-feet-three and at least two hundred and sixty pounds, with thick shoulders and arms. He wore an SS aide’s uniform and a gray peaked cap, and his face was pale and emotionless. “I was told to give you this,” he said as he offered Chesna a small white envelope.
Chesna took it, her hand that of a child’s compared to the man’s. The envelope bore her name.
Michael’s heart lurched. Standing before him was the man called Boots, who had kicked and stomped Gaby’s uncle to death in the barn at Bazancourt.
“I’m to return a reply,” Boots said. His hair was cropped close to the skull, and his eyes were pale blue and heavy-lidded; the eyes of a man who saw everyone else in the world as frail constructions of flesh and bone. As Chesna tore open the envelope and read it Michael glanced at the SS aide’s thickly soled jackboots. They reflected the candles of the chandelier on their glossy surface, and Michael wondered if they were the same boots that had knocked Gervaise’s teeth from his head. He felt the man watching him, and he looked up into the dull blue eyes.
