Michael grunted softly. He glanced at the other mounted trophies Sandler had given Margritta-the heads of an African water buffalo, a magnificent stag, a spotted leopard, and a black panther-but his gaze returned to the wolf. “Canada,” he said. “Where in Canada?”
“I don’t know exactly. I think Harry said up in Saskatchewan.” She shrugged. “Well, a wolf’s a wolf, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Then he looked at her, his eyes piercing, and smiled. “I’ll have to meet Mr. Harry Sandler someday,” he said.
“Too bad you weren’t here a week ago. Harry passed through Cairo on his way to Nairobi.” She gave a playful tug at his arm to pull his attention off the trophy. “Come on, before your food gets cold.”
In the dining room, Michael Gallatin ate his medallions of mutton at a long table under a crystal chandelier. Margritta picked at a hearts-of-palm salad and drank a glass of Chablis, and they made small talk about what was happening in London-the current popular plays, the fashions, the novels and music: all things Margritta missed. Michael said he’d enjoyed Hemingway’s latest work, and that the man had a clear eye. And as they spoke, Margritta studied Michael’s face and realized, here under the brighter light of the chandelier, that he’d changed in the year and five weeks since their last meeting. The changes were subtle, but there nonetheless: there were more lines around his eyes, and perhaps more flecks of gray in the sleek, close-trimmed black hair as well. His age was another mystery; he might be anywhere from thirty to thirty-four. Still, his movements had the sinuosity of youth, and there was impressive strength in his shoulders and arms. His hands were an enigma; they were sinewy, long-fingered, and artistic-the hands of a pianist-but the backs of them were dappled with fine dark hairs. They were a workman’s hands, too, used to rough labor, but they managed the sterling knife and fork with surprising grace.
Michael Gallatin was a large man, maybe six-feet-two, with a broad chest, narrow hips, and long, lean legs. Margritta had wondered at their first meeting if he’d ever been a track-and-field athlete, but his response had been that he “sometimes ran for pleasure.”
She sipped at her Chablis and glanced at him over the rim. Who was he, really? What did he do for the service? Where had he come from and where was he bound? He had a sharp nose, and Margritta had noticed that he smelled all food and drink before he consumed it. His face was darkly handsome, clean-shaven and rugged, and when he smiled it was like a flare of light-but he didn’t let her see that smile very often. In repose his face seemed to become darker still, and as the wattage of those green eyes fell their somber hue made Margritta think of the color in the deep shadow of a primeval forest, a place of secrets best left unexplored. And, perhaps, a place also of great dangers.
He reached for his goblet of water, disregarding the Chablis, and Margritta said, “I’ve sent the servants away for the evening.”
He sipped at the water and put the goblet aside. Pressed his fork into another piece of meat. “How long has Alexander worked for you?” he asked.
The question was totally unexpected. “Almost eight months. The consulate recommended him. Why?”
“He has…” Michael paused, considering his words. An untrustworty smell, he’d almost said. “A German accent,” he finished.
Margritta didn’t know which one of them was crazy, because if Alexander was anymore British he’d be wearing a Union Jack for underdrawers.
“He hides it well,” Michael continued. He sniffed at the mutton before he ate it, and chewed before he spoke. “But not well enough. The British accent is a masquerade.”
“Alexander cleared the security checks. You know how stringent those are. I can tell you his life history, if you want to hear it. He was born in Stratford-on-Avon.”
Michael nodded. “An actor’s town, if there ever was one. That’s got the Abwehr’s fingerprints all over it.” The Abwehr, as Margritta knew, was Hitler’s intelligence bureau. “A car will be coming for me at oh-seven-hundred. I think you should go, too.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Away. Out of Egypt, if possible. Maybe to London. I don’t think it’s safe for you here anymore.”
“Impossible. I’ve got too many obligations. My God, I own the newspaper! I can’t just clear out on a moment’s notice!”
“All right, stay at the consulate. But I think you should leave North Africa as soon as you can.”
“My ship hasn’t sprung a leak,” Margritta insisted. “You’re wrong about Alexander.”
Michael said nothing. He ate another piece of mutton and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“Are we winning?” she asked him after another moment.
“We’re holding,” he answered. “By our teeth and fingernails. Rommel’s supply network has broken down, and his panzers are running out of petrol. Hitler’s attention is fixed on the Soviet Union. Stalin’s calling for an Allied attack from the west. No country, even one as strong as Germany, can wage war on two fronts. So, if we can hold Rommel until his ammunition and petrol dries up, we can force him back to Tobruk. And past that, if we’re lucky.”
“I didn’t know you believed in luck.” She arched a pale blond eyebrow.
“It’s a subjective term. Where I come from, ‘luck’ and ‘brute strength’ are one and the same.”
She pounced on the opportunity. “Where do you come from, Michael?”
“A place far from here,” he replied, and the way he said it told her that there would be no more discussion of his personal life.
“We have dessert,” she said when he’d finished his meal and pushed the plate away. “A chocolate torte, in the kitchen. I’ll make us some coffee, too.” She stood up, but he was faster. He was at her side before she could take two steps, and he said, “Later for the torte and coffee. I had another dessert in mind.” Taking her hand, he kissed it, slowly, finger by finger.
She put her arms around his neck, her heart hammering. He picked her up, effortlessly, in his arms, and then plucked a single rose from where they were arranged in a blue vase at the table’s center.
He took her up the staircase, along the hall of armor, to her bedroom with its four-poster bed and its view of the Cairo hills.
They undressed each other by candlelight. She remembered how hairy his arms and chest were, but now she saw that he’d been injured; his chest was crisscrossed with adhesive bandages. “What happened to you?” she asked as her fingers grazed his hard brown flesh.
“Just a little something I got tangled up in.” He watched as her lace slip floated to her ankles, and then he picked her up out of her clothes and slid her against the cool white sheet.
He was naked now as well, and seemed larger still for the knots of muscle exposed to the candlelight. He eased his body down beside hers, and she smelled another odor under his faint lime cologne. It was a musky aroma, and again she thought of green forests and cold winds blowing across the wilderness. His fingers traced slow circles around her nipples, and then his mouth was on hers and their heat connected, flowed into each other, and she trembled to her soul.
Something else replaced his fingers: the velvet rose, fluttering around her risen nipples, teasing her breasts like kisses. He drew the rose down along the line of her belly, stopped there to circle her navel, then down again into the fullness of golden hair, still circling and teasing with a gentle touch that made her body arch and yearn. The rose moved along the damp center of her desire, fluttering between her taut thighs, and then his tongue was there, too, and she gripped his hair and moaned as her hips undulated to meet him.