little boy.”
“You pay lip service to art and politics,
“We’re all in it for something.” She grinned. “Nice photo of you in the paper. You’re wanted, rich boy.”
He clenched his hands in his pockets, felt the balled-up Metro ticket. What was it with women searching for thrills? The old Polish woman, and now her.
“We can’t stop environmental pollution with pipe bombs,” he said. “Those men—give me their names.”
“Why’s it important?”
“They framed me.”
“Then shouldn’t you be the one running?”
He pulled out his cell phone. “The Ministry of Sanitation’s eager to shut this place down. By the time they arrive, I’ll be long gone.”
She bent and picked up her straw sack from the floor. “Big talk. Good night, sweet prince.”
He shuddered. “What?”
“Great piece in the paper. Says you’re in line for the nonexistent Polish throne.”
He grabbed her arms, twisted them behind her.
“I like it rough.” She rubbed her denim-clad legs against him.
He snatched some wire from the floor and looped it around her wrists several times. She squirmed and twisted, trying to kick him. He dumped her bag out on the floor and the contents scattered over the clumps of black gun powder. Eyeliner, a copy of
“Nice little side business for you.”
“Not everyone lives off a trust fund,” she said. “I couldn’t buy supplies and live on the stipend they give me for art school.”
And he was supposed to feel sorry for her?
“That’s your rationale for making bombs?”
He took the wad of francs from her pocket. Folded inside the fifty-franc notes he found a business card—blue, half torn. On it was written:
“Halkyut Security bought pipe bombs from you ten minutes ago?
She kicked him in the shins.
He doubled over in pain. But he grabbed the copper wire, caught her espadrille-shod feet, and bound them.
“Who’s G?”
“Haven’t you heard of the G-spot?” There was mockery in her eyes.
He limped to the corner, stuffed his sleeping bag into his pack, and shouldered his rucksack.
“Last chance to tell me.”
She twisted on the floor, thumping her heels.
He walked to the door, turned the doorknob.
“He’s called Gabriel,” she said, “that’s all I know. A pickup man. Never makes a direct buy.”
“Liar, you have the francs in your pocket! Where’s he taking them?”
“Get these wires off my feet,” she said. “Who knows? It’s business, they don’t tell me.”
But she knew. He hit the light switch, plunging the studio into darkness.
“Wait!” Her bound feet kicked the floor. “Undo the wire.”
He edged toward her. “I’m waiting.”
“They’re not even rigged with a timing device. They’re just for show; they won’t go off.”
“He pays money for pipe bombs that won’t go off? Right!”
“No one’s dumb enough to light the fuse and stand there! That’s the only way . . .”
“Good luck. As far as the terrorist squad goes, you’re implicated. An accomplice.”
Her lip trembled, her arrogance melted. For the first time, he saw fear in her face.
And it came back to him where he’d seen the blond
“
The truth for the first time. For a moment he felt sorry for her.
“You won’t tell on me, will you? I took care of you, made you feel good.”
Pleading. To think he’d almost slept with her. Disgusted, he set the francs on the floorboards out of her reach.
“I asked you where he went.”
“You’ll untie me?” Her eyes were on the money.
He nodded.
“A town house on the Ile Saint-Louis.”
“Which one?”
“Hotel Lambert.”
He froze. He’d worked there at catered parties. The baron hired impoverished aristos as help. It amused him. And paid for Krzysztof’s living expenses.
“You think I live on a trust fund? Titles don’t come with trust funds. Get real,
He slammed the door shut.
JADWIGA RADZIWILL, WEARING a fifties-style cocktail dress that he supposed had fit her once, stood at her apartment door.
Right, and he’d left his white horse outside. “Mind if I pick your brain?”
The eye makeup crinkled in the crow’s-feet of her powdered face. “Only my brain?” she asked, disappointed. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sheltered a political fugitive, young man!” Her blood red painted lips grinned. “A little excitement keeps us young, eh, Bibo?” She nuzzled the foul-smelling little dog in her arms.
Krzysztof stepped inside and was surrounded by the smell of dust and heat. Dark oil paintings hung between crowded bookshelves. He doubted whether she ever opened a window. The place needed ventilation, especially because of the dog.
A spinning Japanese candle-lantern on the table sent swirling stars over the velvet draperies and the fissures in the cracked ceiling. Second thoughts crossed his mind, but he didn’t have many options.
“Your exploits sent your uncle into apoplectic shock, I imagine, young man.”
He didn’t want to think of his uncle right now. He was too absorbed by the accusations against him and by chagrin at his own naivete.
“Like the old days.” Her thickly mascaraed eyes gleamed as she bent in a mock curtsy, her joints creaking. “Now sit down. Put your hands over the crystal ball. I read the future, you know. My forte.”
He didn’t need his fortune told to know how bad things looked.
She wore calfskin gloves, like old
“May I use your phone?” he asked.
“If you have a drink to celebrate,” she said and headed to her drinks table.
