She realized she was the kind of woman her mother had once told her to stay away from, back in Germany before that insane maniac had brainwashed the country. But that was part of this life, too, and the danger invigorated her. Better to live than exist, she thought. Who had told her that? Oh, yes. He had.
She ran an ivory brush through her hair, which was blond and styled like Rita Hayworth’s, full and falling gently over her shoulders. She had been blessed with a fine bone structure, high cheekbones, light brown eyes, and a slim build. It wasn’t hard to keep her figure here, because she didn’t care much for the Egyptian cuisine. She was twenty-seven years old, had been thrice married-each husband more wealthy than the first-and she owned a major share in Cairo’s daily English newspaper. Lately she’d been reading her paper with more interest as Rommel advanced on the Nile and the British fought valiantly to stem the Nazi tide. Yesterday’s headline had been ROMMEL HELD TO A STANDSTILL. The war would go on, but it appeared that, at least this month, Hitler would not be saluted east of El Alamein.
She heard the soft purr of the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow’s engine as the limousine pulled to the front door, and her heart jumped. She’d sent the chauffeur to pick him up, following the instructions she’d been given, at the Shepheard’s Hotel. He was not staying there, but had attended a meeting of some kind-a “debriefing,” she understood it was called. The Shepheard’s Hotel, with its well-known lobby of wicker chairs and Oriental rugs, was full of war-weary British officers, drunken journalists, Muslim cutthroats, and, of course, Nazi eyes and ears. Her mansion, on the eastern outskirts of the city, was a safer place for him than a public hotel. And eminently more civilized.
The Countess Margritta stood up from her dressing table. Behind her was a screen decorated with blue and golden peacocks, and she took the pale sea-green dress that was hanging over it, stepped into it, and buttoned it up. One more look at her hair and makeup, a quick misting spray of Chanel’s new fragrance over her white throat, and she was ready to go. But no, not quite. She decided to undo a strategic button so the swell of her breasts was unconfined. Then she slid her feet into her sandals and waited for Alexander to come up to the dressing room.
He did, in about three more minutes. The butler rapped quietly on the door, and she said, “Yes?”
“Mr. Gallatin has arrived, Countess.” Alexander’s voice was stiffly British.
“Tell him I’ll be down shortly.” She listened to Alexander’s footsteps moving along the teak-floored corridor. She was not so eager to see him that she would go downstairs without making him wait; that was part of the game between ladies and gentlemen. So she gave it another three or four minutes, and then taking a deep breath, she left the dressing room at an unhurried pace.
She walked along a corridor lined with suits of armor, spears, swords, and other medieval weapons. They belonged to the former owner of the house, a Hitler sympathizer, who’d fled the country when the Italians had been knocked around by O’Connor back in 1940. She didn’t care much for weapons, but the knights seemed to go with the teak and oak of the house, and anyway they were valuable and made her feel as if she were being guarded around the clock. She reached the wide staircase with its banisters of carved oak and descended to the first floor. The living room doors were closed; that’s where she’d instructed Alexander to take him. She took a few seconds to compose herself, held her palm up against her mouth to get a quick hint of her breath-spearminty, thank God-and then she opened the doors with a nervous flourish.
Silver lamps burned on low, polished tables. A small fire flickered in the hearth, because after midnight the desert breeze would turn chilly. Crystal glasses and bottles of vodka and Scotch caught the light and gleamed on a decanter against the stucco wall. The carpet was a blaze of intertwined orange and gray figures, and on the mantel a clock ticked toward nine.
And there he was, sitting in a wicker chair, his legs crossed at the ankles and his body in repose, as if he owned the area he occupied and would warrant no intrusion. He was staring thoughtfully at the mounted trophy on the wall above the mantel.
But suddenly his eyes found her, and he stood from the chair with smooth grace. “Margritta,” he said, and offered her the red roses he held in his hands.
“Oh… Michael, they’re lovely!” Her voice was smoky, with the regal lilt of the north German plains. She walked toward him-not too fast! she cautioned herself. “Where did you find roses in Cairo this time of year?”
He smiled slightly, and she could see his white, strong teeth. “Your neighbor’s garden,” he answered, and she could hear a trace of the Russian accent that mystified her so much. What was a Russian-born gentleman doing working with the British Secret Service in North Africa? And why was his name not Russian?
Margritta laughed as she took the roses from him. Of course he was joking; Peter Van Gynt’s garden did indeed have an immaculate rosebed, but the wall separating their properties was six feet tall. Michael Gallatin couldn’t possibly have gotten over it, and anyway his khaki suit was spotless. He wore a light blue shirt and a necktie with muted gray and brown stripes, and he had a burnished desert tan. She smelled one of the roses; they were still dewy.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “You’ve done your hair differently.”
“Yes. It’s the new style. Do you like it?”
He reached out to touch a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed it, and slowly his hand moved to her cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh and goose bumps rose on Margritta’s arms. “You’re cold,” he said. “You should stand closer to the fire.” His hand moved along the line of her chin, the fingers brushing her lips, then pulled away. He stepped closer to her and put an arm around her waist. She didn’t back away. Her breath caught. His face was right there in front of hers, and his green eyes caught a red glint from the hearth as if flames had sparked within them. His mouth descended. She felt an ache throb through her body. And then his lips stopped, less than two inches from hers, and he said, “I’m starving.”
She blinked, not knowing what to say.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he went on. “Powdered eggs and dried beef. No wonder the Eighth Army’s fighting so hard; they want to go home and get something edible.”
“Food,” she said. “Oh. Yes. Food. I’ve had the cook make dinner for you. Mutton. That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
“I’m pleased you remembered.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then he briefly nuzzled her neck with a softness that made the chill bumps burst up along her spine. He released her, his nostrils flared with the scent of Chanel and her own pungent woman-aroma.
Margritta took his hand. The palm was as rough as if he’d been laying bricks. She led him to the door, and they were almost there when he said, “Who killed the wolf?”
She stopped. “Pardon me?”
“The wolf.” He motioned toward the gray-furred timber wolf mounted above the fireplace. “Who killed it?”
“Oh. You’ve heard of Harry Sandler before, haven’t you?”
He shook his head.
“Harry Sandler. The American big-game hunter. He was in all the papers two years ago, when he shot a white leopard atop Mount Kilimanjaro.” Still there was no recognition in Michael’s eyes. “We’ve become… good friends. He sent me the wolf from Canada. It’s a beautiful creature, isn’t it?”