Foreign Affairs

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It was well past midnight, she thought, when she opened the door and listened again. No voices, no pots clattering, just silence. She was in a hallway, and there were other doors like her own, numbered. She was in three. The household workers must be asleep in one, two, and four. No light shined from under the doors. She took off her shoes and, holding them in one hand, moved slowly and silently down the hall, emerging into a kitchen, large and commercial-looking. There she found a door that seemed to lead farther to the rear of the house. On her way she spotted a waiter’s corkscrew and stuffed it into her jeans pocket with the lock pick; she wasn’t sure why, but it had a blade that might come in handy. It occurred to her later that she could have found a proper knife in the kitchen.

She opened the door, which led into another hallway and several storage rooms. She could see another door at the end, and she made her way to it. Locked. The top half was of glass panes, and she could see trees moving in the darkness and hear the wind blowing. She inspected the lock with her fingers. There was no thumbscrew; it must be locked with a key.

She felt the ledge above the door: nothing. She ran her fingers along the inside wall, and found it: a teacup hook, with a key dangling from it. She felt her way back to the lock, slipped the key into it, and turned. It opened. She removed the key and let herself out, locking it behind her. It would stop anyone chasing her, until they could find another key.

She leaned against the door for a moment to let her heart slow its beating and her eyes become accustomed to the darkness. She fought the exhilaration that came with being free; she still had to be careful. She stood on the edge of a broad deck and saw an opening in the handrail ahead. She crossed the expanse quickly and stopped at the opening. There was a path, and it led upward.

Then she heard a terrible sound: someone was trying to open the door behind her, and in a moment they would know the key was gone. Rain began to fall. She moved ahead quickly, feeling her way. The path began to narrow as she climbed. Then the clouds broke for a moment, long enough to let some moonlight through. She saw that the right side of the path was a sheer drop into a void, and there was only a rope handrail between her and that void.

The moon vanished again, leaving her in pitch darkness, with only her memory of the scene to guide her.

She plunged ahead into the black night, doing her best to stay to her left. Then she fell, stretching her arms out, trying to catch the rope. Instead, she caught a blow to the head.

46

Everyone seemed happier at di

“How about a drone?” Stone asked. He had had a recent experience with drones that had frightened him with their capabilities.

“We have access to drones,” Lugano said.

“So have we,” Dante echoed.

“What would you do with a drone?” Lugano asked.

“I don’t know: spy on him? Get a closer look at the house? Maybe figure out where they’re holding her?”

“We’ve got detailed plans of the house,” Lugano pointed out, “and as for where they’re holding her, my money’s on one of the maids’ rooms. From what we heard on the phone call, I don’t think Hedy’s bunking in with Casselli.”

“If we could get Hedy out first,” Stone said, “I wouldn’t mind firing a Hellfire missile into the place. In fact, I’d be glad to pull the trigger.”

“Overkill,” Dante said. “We wouldn’t have anyone left to try, and I very much want a trial.”

A servant brought an envelope to Lugano. “This just came by messenger,” he said. “It’s addressed to you and Mr. Barrington.”

Lugano opened it and found another envelope inside, along with a letter on handsome stationery with a crest at the top. “It’s from Baron Klaucke,” he said. He read from the letter. “‘This arrived today. It may have been intended ironically. Please add it to the evidence I am providing.’” Lugano opened the other envelope and extracted an invitation. He read it slowly. “It doesn’t say who it’s from, but there’s an ornate C at the top.” He read: “‘The pleasure of your company is requested for a housewarming. Drinks, di

“When?”

“Saturday, in three days, drinks at seven.”

“Why would Casselli invite Klaucke to his party?”

“Because he’s a baron? Maybe Casselli is a snob.”

“I think we should accept on Baron Klaucke’s behalf,” Stone said, “but without an RSVP.”

They moved to the living room for coffee and brandy.

“We can’t attack,” Jim said, “but Stone’s right, we can infiltrate.”

“Disguised as guests?” Stone asked. “I don’t think we could pass for Casselli’s friends.”

“But,” Jim pointed out, “there will be a lot of other people in the house—staff, catering perso

Dante brightened. “On another occasion we smuggled our people into a large event as workers. It could work again.”

“How would you manage it?” Stone asked.

“The same way we did before: we find out who’s catering the affair and what sort of music is being provided. We substitute our people for some of theirs.”

“I play bass,” Lugano said, raising his hand. “Most Sunday nights at a jazz club.”

“One of my assistants plays very good jazz guitar,” Dante said, “in the ma

“Stone is likely to shoot himself in the foot,” Dino said, “but he plays pretty decent piano.”

“Oh, no,” Stone said, “I’m the rustiest piano player you ever heard.”

“Let’s hear something,” Lugano said, taking away Stone’s drink and pointing him at the piano in the corner.

“Casselli’s file says he’s a music lover,” Dante said, “with a particular fondness for the Great American Songbook.”

“All right,” Stone said, “I’ll play you some Rodgers and Hart, but it will sound a lot better if you’re all talking at the same time.” He sat down and played “My Romance,” and got a round of hearty applause from the group.

“You’ll do,” Jim said. “Where have you played?”

“I picked up spending money when I was at NYU, at a little club on Bleecker Street called the Surf Maid.”

“I’ve been in there,” Jim said. “A nine-foot grand with stools around it and a bar.”

“That’s the joint. I warn you, I don’t have the chops anymore for up-tempo stuff.”

“Okay, we’ll keep it sedate.”

“So we have ourselves a trio,” Dante said, taking out his phone. “I’ll get on the search for what agency is supplying the music and what caterer has the job, then we’ll start threatening them.” He walked to one side of the room and began speaking Italian into the phone.

“Problem,” Stone said. “Casselli knows me—we had lunch, remember?”

“Don’t worry,” Jim said, “one of the great skills harbored in our Agency is that we are masters of disguise. We have a guy who can turn you into Ray Charles.”

“I don’t do blackface,” Stone said.

“You could do George Shearing,” Viv contributed.

“I don’t look anything like Shearing.”

“Just the dark glasses. You can play blind—you just never look directly at anybody. If you’re talking to someone, you look over his shoulder somewhere. But you can’t look at your hands when you play.”

“Dark glasses and a mustache might do it,” Jim said. “Maybe a better nose.”