Michael opened the terrace doors and slipped through them, closing them softly at his back. The suite was a mirror image of Blok’s, except the fireplace was made of red stones and the painting above it was a different vision of the Fuhrer. The place was quiet; Sandler must still be brimstoning. Michael walked toward the door, and saw standing near it a cage in which the golden hawk perched. Blondi wore no headmask, the hawk’s dark eyes staring fixedly at him.

“Hello, you little bitch,” Michael said, and tapped noisily on the cage. The hawk shivered with anger, feathers ruffling at the back of its neck, and began to make that hissing sound. “I ought to eat you and spit your bones out on the floor,” Michael said. The hawk crouched over, its body quivering like a lightning rod in a storm. “Well, maybe next time.” He reached for the doorknob.

He heard a faint, almost musical ping. Something clattered. Michael looked toward the hawk’s cage, and saw counterweights descending from the ceiling. A small chain was playing out. Michael realized he’d just snapped a trip wire between him and the door, and he had no more time for further deliberation because the counterweights pulled the cage’s door up and the golden hawk lunged out at him, its talons already shredding the air.

9

As Michael was balancing on the hotel’s ledge, Jerek Blok wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. Onstage, the spectacle involved a female midget and a burly Slav who obviously had been the idiot in some godforsaken Russian village. The man’s physical equipment, however, was huge, and he grinned at the Nazi laughter as if he understood the joke. Blok looked at his pocket watch; he was getting sated on debauchery, and after a while all asses-no matter how big or small-looked the same. He leaned toward Chesna and touched her knee in a gesture that was far from fatherly. “Your baron must not have a sense of humor.”

“He wasn’t feeling well.” As for that matter, neither was she. Her face hurt from all the false smiles.

“Come on, enough beer-hall entertainment.” He stood up and grasped her elbow. “I’ll buy you a bottle of champagne in the lounge.”

Chesna was overjoyed to be able to make a graceful exit. The show was far from finished-there were cruder, audience participation events yet to come-but the Brimstone Club had never been anything for her but a way to meet people. She allowed Colonel Blok to escort her to the lounge, thinking that the baron might at this moment be either on his way in or out of Blok’s suite. So far, there’d been no shriek of a plummeting body. The man-whatever his real name might be-was crazy, but he hadn’t lived this long in a dangerous profession by being careless. They sat down at a table, and Blok ordered a magnum of champagne and checked his pocket watch again. He asked the waiter to bring a telephone to the table.

“Business?” Chesna inquired. “So late?”

“I fear so.” Blok closed his pocket watch and put it away in his neat uniform. “I want to hear all about the baron, Chesna: where you met him, what you know of him. As long as I’ve known you, I’ve never thought you were the type of woman to be foolish.”

“Foolish?” She lifted her blond brows. “How do you mean?”

“These dukes, earls, and barons are cheap currency. You see them every day, holding court and dressed up like department-store dummies. Any man with a drop of royal blood pawns himself off as gold these days, when he’s really pig iron. You can’t be too careful.” He wagged a warning finger at her. The waiter came with the telephone and proceeded to plug its prongs into the proper socket. “Harry and I were talking this afternoon,” Blok went on. “He thinks the baron might be-how shall I say this?-interested in more than true love.”

She waited for him to continue; her heart was beating harder. Blok’s pinched nose had picked up a scent.

“You say you’ve only known the baron a short time, yes? And already you’re planning marriage? Well, let me get to my point, Chesna: you’re a beautiful and wealthy woman, with a great reputation in the Reich. Even Hitler loves your films, and God knows the Fuhrer’s favorite film subject is himself. But have you ever considered the possibility that the baron simply wants to marry you for your money and prestige?”

“I have,” she answered. Too quickly, she thought. “The baron loves me for myself.”

“But how can you be sure, without giving it time? It’s not as if you’re about to vanish from the face of the earth, is it? Why not give it through the summer?” He picked up the telephone, and Chesna watched him dial a number. She knew what number it was, and she felt her blood chill. “Colonel Blok,” he said, identifying himself to the operator. “Medical, please.” He spoke again to Chesna: “Three months. What could it hurt? I have to tell you, neither I nor Harry like the man. He’s got a lean and hungry look. Something about him doesn’t ring true. Pardon me.” He returned his attention to the telephone again. “Yes, Blok here. How was the operation?… Good. Then he’ll recover?… Enough to talk, yes?… And when might that be?… Twenty-four hours is too long! Twelve at the most!” He was speaking in his haughty colonel’s voice, and he winked at Chesna. “Listen to me, Arthur! I want Frankewitz-”

Chesna thought she gasped aloud. She wasn’t sure. What felt like a band of steel closed around her throat.

“-able to answer questions within twelve hours. Yes? End of conversation.” He hung up and pushed the telephone away as if it were something distasteful. “Now, we were talking about the baron. Three months. We can find out everything there is to know about him.” He shrugged. “After all, that’s my specialty.”

Chesna thought she might scream. She was afraid she’d gone as pallid as a corpse, but if Blok noticed he didn’t say anything.

“Ah, here’s our champagne!” Blok waited, drumming his spidery fingers on the tabletop, as the waiter poured flutes for them both. “To good health!” he toasted, and Chesna had to use all her skills to keep her hand from trembling as she lifted her glass.

And, as champagne bubbles tickled her nose, the counterweights fell, the chain rattled along its distance, the cage’s door slid up, and Blondi came out at Michael Gallatin.

The talons raked air where his face had been a second before, because Michael had ducked low and Blondi’s momentum carried her over him. She twisted in midair, her wings beating, and swooped upon him as he back- pedaled, his arms up to protect his face. Michael feinted to the light and dodged to the left with a wolf’s speed, and as Blondi flashed past him two talons ripped into his right shoulder and sprayed bits of black cloth. She turned again and let out an enraged shriek. Michael backed away, frantically looking for anything to defend himself with. Blondi spun around the room in a tight circle, then suddenly reversed direction and darted at his face, her wings widespread.

Michael dropped to the floor. Blondi shot over him, tried to stop, and skidded along the arm of a black leather sofa, clawing deep furrows in the cowhide. Michael rolled away, got to his knees, and saw an open doorway in front of him: a blue-tiled bathroom. He heard the beating of golden wings behind him, sensed claws about to dig into the back of his skull. He flung himself forward, rolling head over heels, and through the open door into the bathroom. As he spun around on the blue-tiled floor, he saw Blondi streaking after him. He grasped the edge of the door, slammed it shut, and heard a satisfying thunk as the hawk hit it. There was a silence. Dead? Michael wondered. Or just stunned? His answer came a few seconds later: the sound of frenzied clawing as Blondi attacked the door.

Michael stood up and gauged the boundaries of his prison. There was a sink, an oval mirror, a toilet, and a narrow closet. No windows, and no other door. He checked the closet but found nothing of use. Blondi was at work, tearing furrows on the other side of the bathroom door. To get out of Sandler’s suite, he had to get out of this room and past the hawk. Sandler might return at any moment; there was no time to wait for the hawk to exhaust herself, and little chance that she’d lose interest. Michael knew she could smell the wolf on him, and it was driving her crazy. Sandler evidently didn’t trust the Reichkronen’s security system; the thin trip wire he’d managed to wrap around the doorknob as he’d gone out for the evening was a nasty surprise for the curious. Once a hunter, always a hunter.

Michael cursed himself for not being more alert. The grisly photographs had been on his mind. But what he’d found out tonight would be worthless if he couldn’t get out. Blondi attacked the door again, her fury waxing. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw the ripped seam of his jacket. Some of the shirt was gone too, but his flesh was unscathed. So far. Michael gripped the edges of the mirror and lifted it off its mounting brackets. Then he turned it around, so the mirrored glass was aimed away from him. He lifted the mirror up over his face, like a shield,

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