The Lost Sisterhood (41 page)

“Wait.” Paris tried to rein her back in. “I meant it kindly.”

“I know.” She turned to face him, struggling to swallow her distress. “And you have been nothing but kind to me. I am an ungrateful rat—”

Paris smiled and took her by the chin. “Such a lovely one.”

Myrina swallowed again. “Please let us go back to your cabin in the hills? Just for a few days?”

He nodded. “As soon as your sisters have left, we will go. You will hunt for food, and I”—he pulled her back into his arms—”will hunt for
you.
”

Just then, as they sealed the plan with a kiss, there was a knock on the door.

“The king requests your presence in the temple,” said a voice.

When he saw Myrina’s disappointment, Paris said, “Why don’t you
come with me? They might as well get used to you being there. Where is the crown I gave you? Better put it on. The temple is where we receive our enemies.”

T
HE TEMPLE OF THE
Earth Shaker was a stern and forbidding place. Built with the same giant boulders Myrina had noticed at the entrance to the citadel, it did indeed give the impression of being the home of an immortal being who took no pleasure in human comforts. There were no furnishings, no finery of any kind; even the pillars holding up the tall ceiling were plain and unadorned, impressive merely by their vast girth.

The only one seemingly at ease in this stony vault was the deity himself: a gilded colossus reclining—as if asleep—on an elevated stone shelf that ran along the entire back wall of the temple. There was no food put out for him, no leafy wreaths or votive presents laid out beneath his couch; his only entertainment were four flawless yearlings walking freely around the temple, eating hay off the floor.

Entering the building by Paris’s side, Myrina found King Priam poised on an elevated platform in the middle of the temple room, surrounded by an assembly of armed guards and somber noblemen.

When she had first met the king, he had struck her as being just another man; today, however, he wore a horned crown and a fur-lined robe and looked majestic indeed. “Father,” said Paris, joining him on the podium with Myrina in tow, “what is the occasion?”

“It is good that you have both come,” said King Priam, gesturing at a herald, “for your first well-wishers are waiting at the gate: the ever-prowling lions of Mycenae.”

Myrina felt Paris stiffen, and she sensed the thunderous surf of the ocean beyond the city walls. She had worked hard to forget the grisly events in Mycenae, but now it all returned to her in an attack of breathless panic: the dead prince on the floor, the stench of blood, the wailing slaves left behind….

There was nothing she could do to slow the steps of Fate. A tumult at the temple entrance prompted Myrina to turn to see a group of men struggling to restrain a white horse. When they finally had the animal
under control, two men—one old, one young—came forward to address King Priam, the elder leaning heavily on the younger.

Only then did Myrina recognize the old man as Agamemnon, Lord of Mycenae. It was less than a year since she had seen him enthroned before the great fire pit in his reception hall, but those few months had gnawed at him with the hunger of decades.

“My friend,” said King Priam, stepping forward with open arms. “You have blessed my country with your presence.”

To which Agamemnon, stooped with age, looked up and said, “Would that someone bestowed a blessing on
me.
For your son’s last visit marked the beginning of an evil time.”

“I am grieved to hear it.” King Priam donned a frown of concern. “Grieved and surprised. My son”—he held out a hand to make Agamemnon aware of Paris’s presence—”told me he found Mycenae thriving.”

“Yes, well”—Agamemnon paused to cough, and the sound reverberated throughout the temple—”your son left my country before the tragedy became apparent. He must therefore be ignorant of my woes.”

“Indeed I am,” said Paris, stepping partly in front of Myrina, perhaps to obscure the men’s view of her.

“That mask you gave me—” Agamemnon fought back another cough. “It has marked me for the grave. But I do not blame you. Nay, I have come to ask for help.” Gesturing at the men behind him, Agamemnon had them bring the white horse forward. “And to pay tribute to the Earth Shaker. For months we have had unfavorable winds and high seas, or we should have come earlier.”

“A handsome present,” said King Priam. “Now, tell me who you have with you. I see it is not your son.”

Agamemnon grimaced and patted his young companion on the arm. “This is my nephew, the heir of Sparta. Menelaos is his name, and he was betrothed to my daughter. But”—the old king paused for air—”my daughter has been abducted from my house; no one knows where she is. And my son—” Unable to go on, the Lord of Mycenae gestured for his nephew to speak on his behalf.

Young Menelaos of Sparta was not an unattractive man, but as soon as he began talking, Myrina sensed that here was someone who had
been brought up to kill without reserve and to whom authority was synonymous with truth. “A foul attack,” he began, with staccato obedience, “was launched against peaceful Mycenae. The enemy was a tribe of women who fight like men and cut off one breast to better throw the javelin. We call them
Amazones
—women without breasts. Some say they have found shelter here at Troy.”

“That is outlandish!” exclaimed King Priam. “I have never heard of such women. Have you?” He stared at Paris, who shook his head, equally shocked. Fortunately for Myrina, no one bothered to question her on the matter; she would almost certainly have been unable to feign ignorance.

“Do you give me your word?” asked Agamemnon, straightening. “For I have sworn to come after them with sword and fire.”

King Priam spoke without hesitation. “My word is yours. If I ever see such unnatural creatures—why, I will likely kill them myself.”

“They murdered my son,” Agamemnon went on, his anger giving him renewed strength, “and stole away my daughter Helena, the only child born of my loins who may survive me. I do not have much life left in me, but what breath I have I will use to get her back. Will you join hands with me?”

Myrina looked on in horror as the two kings shook hands. Could it really be true that the surly Helena—presently in Ephesus, wearing Myrina’s jackal bracelet—was King Agamemnon’s daughter? “I am not going home,” she remembered the girl saying, her face white with agitation. “My father will kill me. He
will.
He killed my mother. And my sister. I know he did.” If that father was indeed Agamemnon, Myrina could well believe it. She could even forgive the girl for running away—had it not been for her spiteful subterfuge.

What was to be done? Myrina scarcely knew. Glancing at Paris, she wondered if he knew that the abducted princess had left Mycenae on board
his
ship. But Paris was no longer following the exchange between his father and Agamemnon; he was staring at a slender silhouette standing in the temple door, hair in disarray. Kara.

Lashed by premonition, Myrina seized Paris by the arm, willing him to rouse the guards. But it was too late; Kara could not be stopped.
Running up the aisle to Agamemnon, she threw herself at his feet, hugging his knees so violently he had to put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder to steady himself. “Kind Father!” she cried, even as the guards dragged her away. “I am here!”

“Wait!” Agamemnon waved at the guards to leave her. “I am not a man who kicks away a woman in supplication. Speak up!”

“They took me away against my will.” Kara looked up at Agamemnon through tears of fear and relief. “I never meant to go.”

The Lord of Mycenae looked down at her, speechless. Then his eyes narrowed. “I have seen this madwoman before—”

“Enough!” exclaimed Paris, stepping forward. But it was too late; Kara had been recognized.

“How did this moonstruck creature end up here?” Agamemnon asked, his voice rising in fury. “She was the one who—” He buried a hand in Kara’s hair and pulled her up with all his might, drawing a panicked scream from her. “Who killed my son, you miserable whore? Did you?”

“No!” cried Kara, trying to free herself. “No! I told them not to—”

“Where are they?” Agamemnon pulled her by the hair again, flinging her across the floor. “Tell me! Where are they?”

“Stop! Please stop!” Kara held a protective hand over her belly. “I am carrying your grandchild—”

Agamemnon stalked forward to slap her across the face. “Then I will kill two with one blow. Speak up, madwoman! Where is my son’s murderer?”

Sobbing beyond control, her face smeared with tears, Kara at last raised her hand and pointed a trembling finger at Myrina.

Wonders are many, yet of all Things is Man the most wonderful…. He can entrap the cheerful birds, Setting a snare, and all the wild Beasts of the earth he has learned to catch

—S
OPHOCLES,
Antigone

ISTANBUL, TURKEY

A
T LEAST THREE HUNDRED GLITTERATI HAD ACCEPTED THE INVITA
tion to Reznik’s masquerade, and the whole house reverberated with migrating crowds and echoed laughter. There was no furniture or décor to soften the noise—no sofas, no rugs, no curtains; it was all concrete, steel, and glass, with marble sculptures self-consciously poised in every corner, artfully illuminated by spots. Had someone told me the building was still under construction I could well have believed it; it took a certain kind of person to feel at home in an étagère of naked concrete, even if the view spanned two continents.

The guests, by contrast, were everything but monochrome. Not just the women, but also several of Reznik’s male guests were attired in grotesque, theatrical dress that made James look reassuringly handsome and normal, even in his Aladdin costume. There were half-naked supermodels wearing scant costumes glued directly onto the skin and designer werewolves with diamond-studded collars; as it
turned out, the shimmering, swirly peacock face paint Rebecca and I had commissioned at the Kanyon shopping mall was ridiculously understated.

“There he is,” said James, pointing out a man dressed as a Spanish bullfighter in the flamboyant crowd.

Tall and rigid, his white hair tamed by a brush cut, Grigor Reznik stood out among his dazzling entourage as a man of impeccable fashion and military discipline, whose smile never extended beyond his lips.

Suddenly chilled by foreboding, I said, “Perhaps we should forget about that manuscript—”

“Don’t be such a stink, Morg!” James deftly snatched three champagne flutes from a passing tray. “Here, drink this and loosen up. Both of you. We do
not
want him getting suspicious.”

Between sips of champagne I wondered how many of Reznik’s guests knew who he really was and what he had done before moving to Turkey. Did they know about his secret police and the rat-infested asylums where, as a Communist Party boss, he sent political prisoners? Did they know that even now, in his so-called retirement, Reznik left broken men like Dr. Özlem in his wake, and that he had ignored warning after warning from the Turkish authorities regarding his criminal involvement with the antiques trade? Any moment now, I couldn’t help thinking, an Interpol SWAT team might kick down the designer door and haul everyone away to jail in a haze of tear gas. And yet here we were, Reznik’s supposed friends—all three hundred of us—drinking his champagne and validating him with our presence.

As we made our way through the crowd, I saw a vaguely familiar figure weaving in and out of sight before disappearing through a doorway. “Did you see that tall blonde in the silver mouse suit?” I whispered, pulling at Rebecca’s arm.

“Who?” She stretched left, then right, but couldn’t spot the woman.

“She’s gone now,” I said. “But I’m positive it was the one who stole my phone in Nafplio. She obviously works for Reznik.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because she actually believed me or because she questioned my sanity.

James turned to look at us both with raised eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” I muttered, making sure my evening bag was still securely closed—the satin purse with Granny’s notebook, which I now kept close to me always. “Excuse me.”

Retreating into a strobe-lit powder room, I leaned against the marble counter and tried to calm my nerves. The feeling I had had when we first arrived—of impending disaster—was back in full force. In an optimistic cranny of my heart, I had nurtured the faint hope that Nick would attend the party after all and had primped accordingly. But … if he was really there, how would I even recognize him among so many masked people?

As I stood there in front of the mirror, a beautiful Latin woman in a tight-fitting cat suit emerged from the toilet stall. A silver pixie crop made her look old and young all at once, and I was momentarily mesmerized by the almost palpable power emanating from her body. When our eyes met in the mirror, however, the woman shot me a glare that was nothing short of venomous. Only after the door had closed behind her did it occur to me that I might have seen her before, somewhere else. There was something oddly familiar about her eyes….

When I emerged from the bathroom, Reznik was addressing his guests in fluent French. I caught only the tail end of his speech, but it concluded with a somber toast. “To Alex,” said Reznik, holding up his champagne flute, “who died a year ago today. And to justice.”

“What’s wrong?” whispered Rebecca, as music and conversation resumed. “You look as if—”

“Enough dawdling!” said James. “This is our chance.”

It required some determined elbowing to get access to our host, but once we succeeded, James was rewarded with a firm embrace. “Moselane!” exclaimed Reznik, in a clipped Slavic accent. “I am glad you are here. I want to talk with you.” He gave James a meaningful look and would likely have said more, had he not been distracted by my proximity. Glancing at me, he looked irritated at first, but then his eyes widened in appreciation. For a few breathless seconds I thought he had
somehow recognized me, but his next words suggested otherwise. “Very nice,” he said, looking from me to Rebecca. “I see you share my appreciation for rare and beautiful things.”

“I do indeed,” replied James, with admirable calm. Then, after introducing us to Reznik with false names, he went on to say, “I have told these lovely ladies that you have quite a few … unusual artifacts. They are both
very
excited at the prospect of seeing your library.” The way James said “library” suggested he meant bedroom. “I hope you won’t disappoint them.”

I could see Reznik’s fingers tightening, ever so briefly, around the stem of his glass. Then he chuckled and said, looking first at Rebecca, then at me, “I can’t refuse the interest of one beautiful woman, much less two. If you like, I will show you my little … museum.” He cast a casual glance around the room. “But let us wait until the ambassador leaves. I will find you.”

W
E PASSED THE NEXT
hour in mindless conversation, pretending to enjoy ourselves. James was a natural; he had something to say about every sculpture and every other guest, and made sure we were never without champagne. “That is Reznik’s son, Alex,” he said at one point, nodding at a large marble sculpture of a young man modeled after Michelangelo’s
David.

“Beautiful,” said Rebecca. “He must have been young. How did he die?”

James glanced around to make sure we were not overheard. “The police said it was a car accident, but Reznik didn’t believe them. He’s convinced Alex was murdered, and that the crash was a cover-up. Who knows? At some point Reznik has to stop chasing ghosts. This party is a good sign. At least he has taken the gun out of his mouth for a night.”

We looked at a few more sculptures before Rebecca excused herself to go to the bathroom. No sooner had she disappeared than James leaned toward me and said, with cheerful detachment, “I fear Bex is lamenting the absence of our bodyguard.”

I stooped down to study three small busts that turned out to—yet again—be of Alex Reznik, aged five, ten, and fifteen respectively. “I can assure you she was as relieved to see Nick go as you were.”

“Really?” James tried to catch my eyes. “She seems a little … pensive.”

I suspected he was fishing for my own feelings on the subject, but I was in no mood to indulge him. After two days with full exposure to James’s sparkling egotism, my patience had long since ebbed. “Bex has been under a lot of stress lately, and it’s entirely my fault.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He put a hand on my naked shoulder. “No one could have a better friend.” When I didn’t react, James stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the busts. “I mean it, Morg. You’re very special to me.”

As he stood there in his sagging Aladdin turban, for a moment James actually looked as if he meant it—as if he truly wanted to be in love with me. When I didn’t respond, he smiled uncertainly and said, “We’ve both been playing the long game, haven’t we?”

His expression was so hopeful I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, not just because I didn’t love him anymore, but because he seemed completely unaware of the fact that he didn’t love me, either. In his rush to defeat Nick he had assumed a role of protector, and now—rule jockey that he was—James felt obliged to speak the lines that came with the part, forgetting to ask himself whether he really meant them.

“I always knew you were a keeper,” he went on, taking my hand. “Queen material. I just didn’t want to start something and then … mess it up.” When I still didn’t respond, he continued, almost angrily, “I love you, Morg. You know I do. Why else would I come to rescue you?”

“
Rescue
me?” I pulled back my hand. “Who told you I needed rescuing?”

James flinched, perhaps just then realizing how upset I was. “Katherine Kent. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true? What have you told her?”

I was so baffled it took me a moment to produce a reply. “Nothing,”
I said at last. “I left her a message in Algeria, but I haven’t spoken to her at all since I left Oxford. Not a word.”

James frowned, clearly irritated that our conversation had been sidetracked by such a minor concern. “You must have told her
something.
How else could she know you’d be arriving in Troy on Friday or Saturday?”

Just then I saw Rebecca making her way back toward us, looking more than a little frazzled. But I was so preoccupied with James’s revelation of Katherine’s knowledge and interference that it took me a moment to regain my senses and pay attention to my friend’s dramatic account of a pickpocket apparently working the crowd and a woman being carted away by ambulance after an allergic reaction.

Half-listening, half-not, I became aware of someone staring at me across the room. Looking up, I saw a man in a dark suit, no tie, standing by himself against the far wall. When our eyes met, a current of warm excitement ran straight through me, from head to toe.

It was Nick.

But instead of greeting me or coming toward us, he turned around and walked up the stairs to the second floor.

“Excuse me.” I handed my glass to Rebecca. “I’ll be right back.”

Gathering my skirts around me, I hastened across the room to follow Nick upstairs, only to see him disappearing, yet again, up glass steps to the next level. Slightly out of breath, I, too, continued to the top floor of the house, half of which had been laid out as a rooftop garden. Seeing Nick nowhere inside, I stepped tentatively through the open panoramic door, trying to spot him among the potted plants and trees.

Only a few other guests had found their way to the dark terrace—men mostly—and they were all silently smoking, taking in the dazzling nightscape of the only city in the world with one foot in the West and another in the Orient. It didn’t take me long to determine that Nick was not there, and I felt myself drooping with disappointment. He had
seen
me all right, but for some reason he didn’t want to talk with me.

I turned to go back inside … and there he was, standing right behind me.

“You!” I exclaimed, shocked and relieved at the same time. “Why did you walk away like that?”

Instead of replying, Nick pulled me into the shadows. A firm hand behind my neck, another around my waist … and then his lips fell on mine with unstoppable voracity. Long gone was all his levelheaded languor, or any pretense; what he wanted was perfectly apparent. And I wanted it, too. The moment he let go of me, I took him by the lapels and drew him right back in.

We had been too close for too long, and something had to give, starting with the chastity belt that had girded my passions ever since a certain fencing master had cut me to the quick and cantered back to Barcelona. If Nick was indeed, as Rebecca had predicted, horseman number four, then—I decided then and there, with a scorching gush of exaltation—I was more than ready to straddle the apocalypse.

“I like your costume,” I whispered after a while, realigning his lapels.

To which Nick replied, his voice ragged, “I’m not dressed up.”

“You are
always
dressed up.” I looked him in the eye, trying to guess his game. “What’s going on?”

He pushed a renegade wisp of hair behind my ear. “You didn’t really think I would leave you just like that?”

“I wasn’t sure—”

“Brave, beautiful Diana.” Nick leaned his forehead against mine. “Goddess of the hunt. Will you tear me to shreds now? Isn’t that what happens to mortal men who get too close?”

The question made me laugh despite myself. “Only when they see the Goddess naked. Which you haven’t. Yet.” That little extra word jumped out, all by itself, before I could stop it, and it made Nick pull me right back against his chest and bury his face at the crook of my neck, as if he was going to take a bite of me.

“I think I just did.”

We would undoubtedly have stayed on the rooftop terrace for a small eternity, unable to call any one kiss the last, had not James and Rebecca eventually come looking for me.

Nick saw them stepping through the glass door before I did, and
managed to pull me further into the shadows before James called out, “Morg? Are you here?” Seeing there was no answer, they soon gave up and left, their voices babbling with confusion as they headed back downstairs.

“Oh dear,” I whispered, my gloved fingers pressed against my mouth. “This is all so terrible.”

“Why?” Nick let go of me. “You don’t love James. Isn’t it time to put him out of your misery?” When I didn’t reply, he reached into his inner pocket and took out a checkbook. “When you make up your mind,” he said, scribbling an address on the back of a blank check, “you can find me here.” He tore the check in half and handed it to me.

“For how long?”

“Until tomorrow morning.” He put the pen and checkbook back in his pocket. “That’s when I get new orders.” He smiled wistfully. “The boss thinks I’ve been enjoying myself too much lately. Time to pull for the team again.”