The Color Of Night (15 page)

After a while the autostrada turned inland for a while and then fell back to the coast. The angle of the sun, which was now well on its downward way to the horizon, had caused the color of the water to deepen, the bright blue now tempered with tones of brooding gray.

Strand was the first to break the silence.

“I know this is a shock to you…”

“A
shock,”
she said, her elbow propped on the windowsill, her hand holding her forehead as she stared straight ahead. “It’s goddamned grotesque, Harry.” Her voice cracked with anger and alarm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You might’ve said something.” She turned and looked hard at him. Her voice seethed. “I mean, you were a
spy,
for God’s sake! Would it have made a difference to me? I don’t know. But I could have had a choice, couldn’t I, Harry? Only you never
gave
me a choice. Now I’m involved in this… this mess, and it’s scary. It’s frightening. I can’t even… really, I can’t even get my mind around this, it’s so… so incredibly unreal.”

She turned away from him and rested her head in her hand again, once more turning her attention to the autostrada. She started to say something else and then checked herself.

“I’m not going to make excuses, Mara. Not going to try to justify any of it, but I need to tell you that I didn’t deliberately deceive you, if that makes any sense. It had been behind me for nearly five years. It wasn’t deception, it was silence. We’ve talked about our pasts. Haven’t there been things about your life you haven’t told me? Is it because you’re not ready to share it with me yet, or is it because you want to deceive me? There’s a difference, and it’s not that subtle. I didn’t keep this from
you.
I keep it from everyone. In time it probably would have come out.”

Mara did not respond. Strand glanced at her several times, but she remained silent. He thought he detected a change in her, a disturbance of another kind, but it was such a nebulous thing that he couldn’t define it.

“Look,” he said after a while. “We’ve got to talk this through at some point.”

“Jesus,” she snapped, “I’ve just got to think some more. That’s all. I just need to think…”

They drove on in silence again.

By dusk, as the sea changed colors and the lights along the coast threw down their glitter against the darkening water, they reached Genoa. They ate a quick, tasteless dinner at a gasoline-and-quick-food stop on the autostrada and then continued north, turning inland.

In another hour they were skirting Milan, still headed north, and in another half hour they were in Como. By the time they started up the torturous eastern shoreline of the western leg of Lake Como, it was well after dark. Even in the blue night the famed beauty of the lake and its shores was plainly evident as the dark, forested shoulders of the hills rose steeply from the cobalt water, bespangled with the tiny lights of villas and villages.

Bellagio was a small village on a lake that had many villages more chic than this where the haute monde preferred to amuse themselves in one another’s company. The little town was out of the way, which was the reason Strand had often retreated here, vanishing deliberately, his whereabouts unknown to anyone, whenever he had craved isolation from time to time over the years.

Perched on a heavily wooded promontory where the western and eastern legs of the lake met like the two branches of an inverted Y, Bellagio had stunning views of both sections of the lake, a visual perspective that rivaled any that Strand had ever seen for sheer beauty.

They checked into a suite of large rooms that Strand had reserved earlier—using yet another passport—at the old Hotel Villa Cosima.

In uncomfortable silence they put away their clothes and then took turns freshening up in the bathroom. When Strand came out, his hair slightly wet from throwing cold water on his aching neck, the suite was dark, but the doors were open to the balcony.

He stepped out and found Mara leaning on the balustrade, looking out over the lake. The cool blue darkness was still and silent except for the soft washing of the lake against the shore below, a movement like the shallow breathing of sleep. All of Bellagio was unconscious. He looked at the lights across the water, their sparkle blurred by the mist that was beginning to rise from the lake. It was an unreal beauty and a fitting sight for his state of mind. A water bird of some kind called from far along the shoreline, a solitary warbling, then ceased.

He went over and stood beside her. Neither of them spoke for a long time. And then she said:

“God help me, Harry, I believe you about all of this.” She paused. “The thing is,” she went on, “over these past three months, in my mind I’d gradually shifted from thinking of us as ‘me and Harry Strand’ to thinking of us as ‘we.’ That’s a big shift. I didn’t realize how big until… all of this.”

“Now you can’t do that anymore?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “No, I still think of us as ‘we,’ Harry. But fear changes things.”

“I know that,” he said. He was feeling his way, as if the darkness had gotten into his mind. “I’m sorry that you’ve got caught up in this. I honestly thought all of it was behind me and that it would stay behind me. I’d done everything in my power to make sure that it would.”

The quiet all around them seemed to absorb their voices. The lake sounds lingered in the darkness, cushioned on the dampness rising from the water.

“Do you remember in Rome, when I was telling you about all this,” Strand reminded her, “and I said you were going to have to make some decisions. This is what I meant.”

Their arms were touching as they leaned on the railing. He felt her move, shifting her weight on her long legs.

“I know,” she said. “I know it is.” She paused, and he thought that she swallowed. “It’s hard for me, Harry. It’s very hard.” She laced her arm through his and took his hand. “It’s just that I’ve reached that moment when you’re on the precipice and you’re looking down at the water and you’re very still. You know you’re going to dive. There’s no question of that. Still, you take a moment to gather yourself together. You concentrate. You resolve.”

Again he thought she swallowed.

“That’s where I am, Harry.”

The next morning he told her he had to take a brief trip and that he would have to be away for a day and a night. When he returned, he promised, he would tell her as much as he could. They would take all the time she wanted, and he would answer anything she asked. But first, he had to make this one trip. He would tell her where he had gone when he returned.

He reminded her that Bellagio had always been his personal sanctuary, that he had kept his retreats here a secret from everyone. He was sure that no one knew they were here. But to be doubly cautious, he felt it would be best if she remained within the hotel grounds and environs until he returned.

“Get a coat,” Howard said abruptly, standing in the open doorway.

“What?” Ariana was caught off guard.

“We have a meeting.”

The evening had turned overcast and dampish by the time they had walked two blocks up from the safe house to catch a cab. A mist had begun drifting down on the streets, which were already wet enough to cast reflections.

They didn’t talk at all as the cab made its way to Margaretenstrasse and headed into the inner city. The mist grew heavier and stippled the windows. By the time they crossed the Ringstrasse Boulevard and made their way to Freyung Square, the streets were crowded with the glistening dark canopies of umbrellas.

They left the cab at Palais Ferstel and entered the Freyung Passage, a bright shopping arcade that kept them dry in palatial surroundings until they came out on the other side of the block onto Herrengasse. From there it was only a few steps to the corner entrance of Café Central.

The Central had been Vienna’s most popular coffeehouse for over a hundred years, its grand ceiling supported by massive pillars and lighted by chandeliers in the best tradition of old-world elegance. Wood-paneled wainscoting added to the ambiance, as did the black-and-white attire of the waiters and waitresses who tended the open tables and booths and private corners with quiet and formal efficiency. The inclement weather had driven people inside, and the Central was full.

Howard paused and surveyed the crowd. Ariana had no idea whom they were looking for as they slowly began to penetrate the maze of tables. Her eyes instinctively roamed the faces, scanning the crowd for something familiar, a haircut, a way of sitting, the shape of a head. Then she saw him and caught her breath. She felt hot. Sitting at a table in one of the wood-paneled alcoves was Harry Strand, staring at her.

He was sitting so that he saw them immediately as they came through the doors of the Central. He had a few moments to deal with his surprise at seeing Ariana before she spotted him and started toward him. Howard saw her change course and followed her. Strand had no idea that Howard had been in touch with her—or that she was even in Vienna.

As they approached, Strand remained seated at his table, a window looking out to Strauchgasse on his left. They sat down without shaking hands. Ariana looked exactly the same as the last day he had seen her four years earlier. No new lines in her face, no more pounds on her hips. He wasn’t sure why that made him feel good.

“It’s good to see you,” he said to her.

Ariana smiled, but he noticed a nervous edge to it.

“Harry,” Howard said, pulling his chair up to the table.

“Bill, welcome to Vienna.” Neither of them smiled. Strand turned to Ariana. “I learned only yesterday that you were living in Rome. But you were gone. I was worried.”

“I’m fine, Harry,” she said. “Frightened,” she added, “but fine.”

Strand looked at Howard. “Not everyone is fine,” he said pointedly.

“No.”

A waiter took their orders, then left them alone.

“I’m sorry about Marie,” Howard said immediately. “I didn’t know about it, Harry.”

Strand noticed Ariana cut her eyes at Howard. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

Then Howard added, “Houston, too.”

Ariana frowned, puzzled, but said nothing. She might be afraid, but she could still think quickly.

“First of all,” Strand said, avoiding Howard’s condolences, “what do you know about Claude?”

“We only know he’s missing. That’s all,” Howard said.

Strand looked at Ariana. “What’s your situation here?”

Ariana told him about her warning system arrangement with Claude Corsier and how he had failed to respond. She was convinced Schrade was on to them. Afraid, she’d gone to Howard, hoping FIS would intervene.

“It was my only choice, Harry. I had no way of knowing about you… or anyone.” She paused. “I couldn’t handle it alone. I don’t apologize for it.”

“You’ll never owe me an apology for anything, Ana,” Strand said. “You know that.” He turned to Howard. “So where do we stand?”

“You know about Clymer?” Howard asked.

Strand nodded.

Again Ariana’s eyes shifted quickly. Howard hadn’t told her a damn thing. Again she checked herself. It couldn’t have been easy.

“Okay, the big picture is this. Schrade is after you. Washington is furious. They want to seize the money under the forfeiture laws. They want your neck in a noose.”

Strand grinned. “But…”

“You tell me, Harry.”

The waiter arrived with their coffee, a Pharisaer with a small liqueur glass of rum for Howard and an Einspanner for Ariana. He left a tiny plate of the Central’s chocolate wafers. Strand waited until he was well away.

“They don’t know how to get at it without having me expose the Schrade operation. So they’re in a quandary. They keep thinking about the money. They keep thinking forfeiture. They can’t bear the thought of us getting away with that kind of money and not being able to either seize it or hang me for it.”

“That’s about it,” Howard said, picking up his coffee and then sipping it. “The truth is, nobody in Washington has the balls to go after you on this. You stole a march on them, Harry.” He nodded at Ariana. “All of you. So, what they want to do is, we all just walk away from it. It’s a wash.” He paused. “But you’ve got to keep your mouth closed. It’s a real-life stalemate. That’s it.”

“No, that’s not nearly it,” Strand said.

Howard looked up from his coffee with an expression of mild, innocent surprise.

“Romy’s death was no accident, Bill. I’ve seen proof.”

Ariana gasped.

Howard stared at him. “Bullshit.”

“I want you to call him off.”

“Call him off? We’ve got nothing to do with the man anymore. We can’t do that.”

For a moment the two of them looked at each other across the table, hearing only the murmuring of conversations and the clinking of spoons and cups and saucers.

“Tell them to do it.”

“Jesus, you’re pushing them, Harry. That’s dangerous.”

“More dangerous than waiting for Schrade to get all of us? Am I going to have to look over my shoulder for my own people, too?”

“Your ‘own’ people? Don’t get righteous with me, Harry. I mean, you took the goddamned money—you want to get righteous?”

“FIS was letting it go. If you’d seized it, it would have been yours by forfeiture, but you were
letting it go
.”

Howard fixed his eyes on Strand. Another silence.

Strand sat back in his chair. He was aware of Ariana’s silent, waiting fear, a rare thing in a woman who had been willing to face it and fight it off for so many years. He looked out through the rain-stippled window to the glittering Strauchgasse. Who would have thought that this city, cleaned by a fresh July rain, could be freighted with so much menace.

He turned to Ariana, thoughtful a moment, then smiled.

“You’ve not changed,” he said, “not even a little.”

She was surprised at his sudden remark, having been concentrating on the growing tension between the two men.

“Do you remember Madame Sosotris, the famous clairvoyant in Athens?” he asked.