she turned and led her small group away. The count was confused, he felt like calling her back to ask her more questions or simply to slap her for her impertinence. The familiar tone with which she spoke to him, it was not right, especially not with the footmen watching. As the group of women slowly vanished across the field, becoming one with the cold darkness, he thought he could hear them singing in low tones out to the night.
Their song brought the wolves in. It was a large, hungry pack running fast, too many to fight off. The wolves curled round on every side, quickly closing the circle around the carriage. Someone tried to pass a gun up to the driver, from his perch he could have done some damage to the pack, but in his panic he lost his balance and slipped, falling down as the wolves dove in.
The count kicked at them, trying to keep them at bay. It was only once they had taken him down, when a wolf’s breath was in his face and he could see the glint of the moonlight in its bright grinning teeth, that he finally remembered the girl. He could not quite believe it, it seemed impossible, but there was no time to wonder.
Sitting on the bench in Paris, Zoya shivered and shook off the recollection. To distract herself, she opened her purse and pulled out a small mirror. She was curious to see what those shadows in the American’s apartment were up to. Muttering a tiny trick spell, she aimed the reflection carefully and coaxed the stubborn light to bounce and curve to her will. As she worked, the ancient echoes of Grigori’s desperate screams faded into the folds of her memory, along with all the agonies of stallions, servants, and centuries.
XII
The happy sound of a clarinet was playing as Will came to. His hands were bound, his mouth gagged with some cotton cloth—what was it, a washcloth? A dirty sock? He hoped not. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was lying on the couch in his living room. Boris was standing against the doorframe, looking sleepy. The woman named Ned was busy at the desk, a tiny camera in her hands, taking pictures of what Will guessed was the Bayer file. An Artie Shaw record was playing on the turntable as Oliver stood by Will’s open closet, trying on various hats. Hearing Will waking up, he looked over with a smile. “Ah, you’re alive! Excellent, we were growing weary of waiting. I was just going to teach Boris here how to play pinochle, you know, to pass the time a bit.” He came and plopped down next to Will on the couch. “Jake had to go home to rest. Poor boy suffers from narcolepsy and there’s no medication for that. When I first met him back in school he would fall asleep on the football sidelines and the coaches all feared he’d had a concussion. Now he falls asleep in bars and comes off like the village drunk. Then last month he fell asleep in the front row of a preview for Roussin’s new play, the result of which, my lord, the poor playwright almost killed himself. Can you imagine? Context changes so much. Care for a drink?”
Will looked at him in dumb disbelief.
“Oh, let’s take the silly gag off. Sorry about that. It’s only that I didn’t want you going bonkers when you came to. What would the neighbors think? Boris, please.” The Russian untied the table napkin from around Will’s head and took what appeared to be a balled-up handkerchief out of his mouth.
“And my hands?” Will sputtered.
“Of course, of course.” Oliver blushed. “Clearly, this sort of nonsense really isn’t my forte. Boris?” The Russian untied Will’s wrists and Oliver handed him a drink. Will sat there with a knot of rage in his gut while he tried to play along with their game.
“Want to tell me why your friend’s photographing my file?” asked Will.
“Oh yes,” said Oliver, looking over to the desk as though he had forgotten Ned was there. “Well, every Monday Ned here goes to the embassy and gives the agency—not your agency, mind you, but the one we work with—a packet. If they don’t get the packet, they don’t pay us. Used to be we were on a regular retainer, but lately, I have to say, the Central Intelligence Agency has not been acting all that intelligent.”
Will sipped his drink and wondered what time it was. The record came to an end and the room was quiet except for the sound of Ned’s small camera clicking away and the soft slipping of the ice melting in their drinks. Oliver wandered over to the shelves and started looking through the record collection. “You’ve got some great stuff here, Will. Oscar Peterson, Teddy Wilson, very impressive. I would have thought you’d be more an aficionado of those sexed-up Negro spirituals Elvis Presley sings so well.”
Will still didn’t answer; he was too busy stewing with anger at himself and the mistakes he had made. Watching Ned at his desk working with her little camera, he realized he should not have brought the Bayer file home, it was not secure there, the apartment had no safe or even a file cabinet with a lock on it. But then again, he reminded himself, there had been no reason to expect anyone would ever break in like this. Will thought about informing Oliver that the file was already heading to their mutual friend Brandon, but he sensed that offering any more information would not be prudent. Better to stay quiet. He wondered what Brandon would think if he knew Oliver and his friends had gotten hold of the file. It wouldn’t be good. He could already imagine Brandon’s condescending look. Will realized he might be sent back to the States even sooner than he had expected.
“What made you come here? How did you know I would have anything you’d even want?” he asked.
“Oh.” Oliver shrugged. “At some point you mentioned that you were in research, so we thought we would pop by and see if you’d researched any subjects we might be interested in. Now, I don’t know if they’ll be interested, but it’s worth a shot.”
“How did you find my place?”
“Ah, a marvelous invention called the telephone book,” Oliver said, lowering the needle on the turntable. Lionel Hampton’s vibraphone started playing.
Will ignored his sarcasm. “Okay, well, so tell me this, how do you know I won’t call the police the minute you leave?”
Oliver went over to where his overcoat hung casually on the chair. Digging into the pocket, he pulled out a brown paper bag. “Well, here’s why. This bag contains your knife. We took it off you while you were resting and now it’s covered with your fingerprints. So, yes, I suppose you could call the police, but the minute one of us is picked up, that very knife of yours gets stabbed right into the side of some poor Pigalle prostitute.”
Will was shocked. “Wait, seriously? You’d kill a woman over this?”
Now it was Oliver’s turn to look incredulous. “Oh heavens, no, that would be some rude work. First of all, we need the girl alive to tell the policeman how you attacked her. Secondly, we like the girl. You’d actually like Celia too, she’s a zaftig one, quite roly-poly with a massive set of bosoms. They’re like a pair of great pointy Luftschiff Zeppelins. She claims they were the secret to her splendid success back when she danced in the Folies Bergere.”
“So, then you’ve done this before?”
“Boris has, Ned has, me, I’m only along for the ride.” Oliver leaned forward. “Look, I am so sorry about all this. It was a terrible mix-up. I suppose I had too many in me the other night, we had quite a time, didn’t we? And somehow I got the impression that you were with the agency. In fact I could swear you said you were. Anyway, I fear I’ve revealed some things I shouldn’t have, a bit more than was proper. Not very professional on my part, but there you have it. So, what to do? Originally, I had a much more innocent plan for the knife, but now I’m afraid I need a bit of leverage here. You understand, right? I’d be pretty sore if I were standing in your shoes, I know, but I can’t afford to have you running around like the proverbial loose cannon. Don’t worry, please, be a good fellow about it if you can. You have to understand, I’m merely trying to manage a rather sticky situation.”
Will was quiet for a moment, puzzled by Oliver’s clumsy blend of justifications, rationalizations, and attempts at friendly sympathy. “I can’t let you copy that file,” Will finally said.
Oliver shrugged. “Fine. I don’t want to be unreasonable. Give me some other shiny toy I can distract them with.”
Will nodded. “I’ll try. Tell me what they’re interested in so I know what to look for.”
Oliver shrugged. “Anything, really. Scraps on Algerians, hints on Russians, rumors of some potent or burgeoning movement, Fascist, Communist, doesn’t matter. Bits and bobs and curiosities, that’s all the agency wants. If it happens to be relevant to their work, they’ll pay me a little more for it.”
“Well, you’re not going to find anything along those lines at the advertising agency.”
“You’d be surprised. For instance, that Bayer file’s nice because they’ve been specifically asking us for anything related to the pharmaceutical world.”
