wing chair inside the library and move toward a table and take a cigarette. Her back was straight and stiff. She had changed her clothes and wore a flannel gray skirt and a dark red sweater that accented the sweeping raven wings of her hair. He could not see her face clearly, but there was enough in the way she moved to help confirm his estimate of the trap.
There were French doors in the north wing of the house, opening into the unused dining room. Durell moved silently toward them, trying the bronze lever handles very slowly, very gently. The doors were not locked. He left them as they were, being too inviting, and did not enter that way.
Another door, leading into what had been the servants’ quarters in the same wing, was tightly closed. Durell worked at the lock with a small instrument he carried in a pocket of his wallet. In three minutes the door swung open and he stepped inside out of the rain.
This end of the house was closed off and unheated during the winter months, and the air felt cold and clammy, smelling of the salt-water tides in the Chesapeake. The darkness was like black velvet across his eyes. He knew his way, however, and eased down a short corridor that had windows opening to the marshes nearby and the scrub pines edging the cove. The riding light of the pungy winked through the rain; and then he was beyond the windows, at a stairway that led up to the servants’ bedrooms. He reached the second floor this way and drifted toward the center of the house and the main staircase of the central hall. Light shone ahead of him, edging up from the lower floor. He was careful not to let his shadow slide along the wall ahead of him.
There was no sound at all from below.
He waited and listened.
Then he heard Deirdre say something indistinct, her words muffled by the library doors. A reply came—a man’s voice, brief and sharp. Then silence. He seemed to hear the house breathing, sighing, waiting through the muted rattle of the icy rain outside. He moved down swiftly then, stood in the center hallway, aware of shadows all around him. His hands
and whole body were integrated either for attack or defense. Deirdre made a sudden muffled sound of pain.
Durell opened the library door, going in fast with the swing of the panel. Something moved in a blur beside him. He felt the jolt of the blow on his left forearm, saw Deirdre swinging to face him, the back of her hand to her mouth. Terror shone in her eyes. He saw the second man behind her and the glint of the gun in his hand—and he knew they had been waiting for him exactly like this, aware of his rejection of the open dining-room doors, thinking one step ahead of him all the way—until this moment.
Both men were good at their business. It was Bela Korvuth who stood behind Deirdre—a small, meek-looking man except for his eyes and his smile, this killer from the Hungarian AVH. The second one, Zoltan Ske, stepped from behind the door. His face was nervous, thin and horselike, with disheveled straw hair. The gun in his hand prodded at Durell. His English was perfect, even to a faint New York accent.
“You will be so good as to stand quite still, friend.” Korvuth nodded and said, “We've been waiting for you, Mr. Durell.”
“I know that,” Durell said. He looked at Deirdre. “Are you all right?”
“They’ve been here for hours,” she whispered quickly. “Here, in this house. They’re going to kill you, Sam.”
He looked at Korvuth. “Can you tell me why?”
Korvuth’s smile was cold and bleak. “Perhaps because of Stella, and what you did to her. Because it has been decided by higher echelons that you are too dangerous and should be eliminated to end your record against us. We know all about you, Mr. Durell. You have been on our list for some time.” “I’m flattered that they sent an expert like you. But you didn’t come over here just for me.”
“Naturally not. I have other errands to perform.”
“But none are really the main
There were French doors in the north wing of the house, opening into the unused dining room. Durell moved silently toward them, trying the bronze lever handles very slowly, very gently. The doors were not locked. He left them as they were, being too inviting, and did not enter that way.
Another door, leading into what had been the servants’ quarters in the same wing, was tightly closed. Durell worked at the lock with a small instrument he carried in a pocket of his wallet. In three minutes the door swung open and he stepped inside out of the rain.
This end of the house was closed off and unheated during the winter months, and the air felt cold and clammy, smelling of the salt-water tides in the Chesapeake. The darkness was like black velvet across his eyes. He knew his way, however, and eased down a short corridor that had windows opening to the marshes nearby and the scrub pines edging the cove. The riding light of the pungy winked through the rain; and then he was beyond the windows, at a stairway that led up to the servants’ bedrooms. He reached the second floor this way and drifted toward the center of the house and the main staircase of the central hall. Light shone ahead of him, edging up from the lower floor. He was careful not to let his shadow slide along the wall ahead of him.
There was no sound at all from below.
He waited and listened.
Then he heard Deirdre say something indistinct, her words muffled by the library doors. A reply came—a man’s voice, brief and sharp. Then silence. He seemed to hear the house breathing, sighing, waiting through the muted rattle of the icy rain outside. He moved down swiftly then, stood in the center hallway, aware of shadows all around him. His hands
and whole body were integrated either for attack or defense. Deirdre made a sudden muffled sound of pain.
Durell opened the library door, going in fast with the swing of the panel. Something moved in a blur beside him. He felt the jolt of the blow on his left forearm, saw Deirdre swinging to face him, the back of her hand to her mouth. Terror shone in her eyes. He saw the second man behind her and the glint of the gun in his hand—and he knew they had been waiting for him exactly like this, aware of his rejection of the open dining-room doors, thinking one step ahead of him all the way—until this moment.
Both men were good at their business. It was Bela Korvuth who stood behind Deirdre—a small, meek-looking man except for his eyes and his smile, this killer from the Hungarian AVH. The second one, Zoltan Ske, stepped from behind the door. His face was nervous, thin and horselike, with disheveled straw hair. The gun in his hand prodded at Durell. His English was perfect, even to a faint New York accent.
“You will be so good as to stand quite still, friend.” Korvuth nodded and said, “We've been waiting for you, Mr. Durell.”
“I know that,” Durell said. He looked at Deirdre. “Are you all right?”
“They’ve been here for hours,” she whispered quickly. “Here, in this house. They’re going to kill you, Sam.”
He looked at Korvuth. “Can you tell me why?”
Korvuth’s smile was cold and bleak. “Perhaps because of Stella, and what you did to her. Because it has been decided by higher echelons that you are too dangerous and should be eliminated to end your record against us. We know all about you, Mr. Durell. You have been on our list for some time.” “I’m flattered that they sent an expert like you. But you didn’t come over here just for me.”
“Naturally not. I have other errands to perform.”
“But none are really the main
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