chewing the bunting to shreds. One of the streamers to Drottningholm, site of the King’s summer palace, moved crabwise against the tide. Durell found a path bordered by tulips and walked under beech trees to a small refreshment kiosk. The tall spars of the ancient sailing warship loomed high above the budding tree limbs.
He bought coffee and looked at his watch. He was precisely on time. A governess with three blond, cherubic children was eating ice cream, there were three tall men in unsmiling conversation, with topcoats whipped about their legs, two girls who immediately eyed Durell speculatively—and no sign of the Muzhik or Colonel Traskin.
He went inside the glass-enclosed booth and sipped his coffee at a table where he could see the path that led down to the Vasa exhibit. The old warship was still being worked on to restore hex former gilded splendor. Workmen had rigged a scaffold on the lee side and were caulking her planks. The sounds of their mallets came as small muffled thuds.
“Herr Durell?”
A small boy stood at his table. Durell nodded. The boy pointed. “Your friends, sir, they wait over there. They sent me to tell you.”
“Thank you.”
He went out into the wind again, down the path where the boy had pointed. A statue of a grotesquely stout woman stared from her reclining position over the choppy channels. Two men stood regarding the modern sculpture with disapproval. It seemed safe enough. No one else was near. But Durell felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather when he met the Muzhik’s eyes.
“So you are the Cajun,” Smurov said thickly. His small cruel eyes regarded Durell as if he were a prime slab of beef in the butcher’s shop. “You came alone?” He spoke English with an atrocious accent.
“According to agreement,” Durell said.
They did not shake hands. Durell did not offer to. Smurov was thick-lipped, and built like a beer barrel, with heavy hands hanging loosely at his sides. Durell was not deceived by the man’s apparent clumsiness. He knew that Smurov could move with lightning speed and massive strength, if necessary. The Muzhik’s eyes gave plain evidence of his hatred. Then he smiled, a grimace like a crocodile’s yawn. “You know my associate, Colonel Vladimir Ivanovich Traskin?”
“I have heard of him, of course.”
The second man was tall, with a sensitive face, intelligent eyes; he looked uneasy beside Smurov. There was tension evident between the two Russians, bearing out Durell’s estimate of their partnership.
Traskin offered his hand. Durell took it. Smurov rasped, “Comrade Colonel Traskin does not know you, Cajun, as I do.”
“And I know you, Muzhik,” Durell said.
Smurov’s face went blank. Traskin spoke in a cultivated Oxford accent. “Gentlemen, we are here together concerned with a problem of common interest. Our orders are to put aside the past and cooperate with each other.” Durell said to Smurov: “Is it possible?”
“I am obedient,” Smurov said. “But I am not a fool. I do not trust you. At any other time and place—”
“Yes.” Traskin intervened again. “But the situation is different. We are allies, as in the Fatherland War.”
“We shall see,” said Smurov.
“Shall we move out of the wind?” Durell suggested. Traskin said smoothly, “We could drink to our bargain —-and discuss the—ah—weather, yes?”
They fell in on either side of Durell. He did not object. There was a large restaurant, heavily patronized by visitors to the zoo, up the hill near the center of the park. A table waited for them, and Smurov ordered starka . Traskin chose aquavit and Durell managed to get American bourbon.
“Sk ál," Durell said.
“Sk ál ,” Traskin replied, and smiled gently.
Smurov downed his liquor with a greedy gulp, then leaned over the table and breathed onions at Durell. There was a quiet murmur of voices around the smorgasbord table, shafts of sunlight from the high windows that yielded a
He bought coffee and looked at his watch. He was precisely on time. A governess with three blond, cherubic children was eating ice cream, there were three tall men in unsmiling conversation, with topcoats whipped about their legs, two girls who immediately eyed Durell speculatively—and no sign of the Muzhik or Colonel Traskin.
He went inside the glass-enclosed booth and sipped his coffee at a table where he could see the path that led down to the Vasa exhibit. The old warship was still being worked on to restore hex former gilded splendor. Workmen had rigged a scaffold on the lee side and were caulking her planks. The sounds of their mallets came as small muffled thuds.
“Herr Durell?”
A small boy stood at his table. Durell nodded. The boy pointed. “Your friends, sir, they wait over there. They sent me to tell you.”
“Thank you.”
He went out into the wind again, down the path where the boy had pointed. A statue of a grotesquely stout woman stared from her reclining position over the choppy channels. Two men stood regarding the modern sculpture with disapproval. It seemed safe enough. No one else was near. But Durell felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather when he met the Muzhik’s eyes.
“So you are the Cajun,” Smurov said thickly. His small cruel eyes regarded Durell as if he were a prime slab of beef in the butcher’s shop. “You came alone?” He spoke English with an atrocious accent.
“According to agreement,” Durell said.
They did not shake hands. Durell did not offer to. Smurov was thick-lipped, and built like a beer barrel, with heavy hands hanging loosely at his sides. Durell was not deceived by the man’s apparent clumsiness. He knew that Smurov could move with lightning speed and massive strength, if necessary. The Muzhik’s eyes gave plain evidence of his hatred. Then he smiled, a grimace like a crocodile’s yawn. “You know my associate, Colonel Vladimir Ivanovich Traskin?”
“I have heard of him, of course.”
The second man was tall, with a sensitive face, intelligent eyes; he looked uneasy beside Smurov. There was tension evident between the two Russians, bearing out Durell’s estimate of their partnership.
Traskin offered his hand. Durell took it. Smurov rasped, “Comrade Colonel Traskin does not know you, Cajun, as I do.”
“And I know you, Muzhik,” Durell said.
Smurov’s face went blank. Traskin spoke in a cultivated Oxford accent. “Gentlemen, we are here together concerned with a problem of common interest. Our orders are to put aside the past and cooperate with each other.” Durell said to Smurov: “Is it possible?”
“I am obedient,” Smurov said. “But I am not a fool. I do not trust you. At any other time and place—”
“Yes.” Traskin intervened again. “But the situation is different. We are allies, as in the Fatherland War.”
“We shall see,” said Smurov.
“Shall we move out of the wind?” Durell suggested. Traskin said smoothly, “We could drink to our bargain —-and discuss the—ah—weather, yes?”
They fell in on either side of Durell. He did not object. There was a large restaurant, heavily patronized by visitors to the zoo, up the hill near the center of the park. A table waited for them, and Smurov ordered starka . Traskin chose aquavit and Durell managed to get American bourbon.
“Sk ál," Durell said.
“Sk ál ,” Traskin replied, and smiled gently.
Smurov downed his liquor with a greedy gulp, then leaned over the table and breathed onions at Durell. There was a quiet murmur of voices around the smorgasbord table, shafts of sunlight from the high windows that yielded a
Similar Books
