The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
‘Maddy?’
‘Maddy!’This was a shriek which shredded the static to a barely audible whisper. ‘Why would that double-crossing bitch be calling you? To laugh at you? To tell you that her new boyfriend is a better lover? That he wants to kill you?’
Unmistakably La Sarfatti.
I apologised even as she asked me when I had left Albania. The line faded again, and her voice became the distant shriek of a frustrated eagle. I was astonished to hear Albania mentioned again.
‘I have never been to Albania,’ I told her. I was not sure she could still hear me.
She faded back in. ‘We all thought you were dead,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know? Il Duce has put a price on your head!’
I was unable to take this seriously. ‘What am I? An enemy of the state? Or does he think there was something between me and Rachele?’
‘Something between you and Rachele? Aha! I always knew the bitch was too good to be true. That might explain it. We were told you’d sold all our military secrets to the Albanians.’
‘I have no sexual involvement with Signora Mussolini! The only military secrets I know are my own. My own inventions. I could scarcely renege on myself.’ I now remembered the missing case. No doubt the thing, containing miscellaneous spare drawings and photographs, had been stolen by Albanian agents when we transferred in Austria. They might well have been following me. I was a fool to be so naive. Now the pictures, which were of no particular use without explanations, were in enemy hands. They might even think the models were real!
I told her that it could all be easily cleared up. She must talk to Mussolini — or get him to talk to me.
‘Why would he talk to you, of all people, darling? He went to such elaborate lengths to get rid of you.’
Her story was becoming increasingly ludicrous. If I had not had the telegram from Tom Morgan I might not have believed a word.
‘That’s nonsense,’ I said. ‘Why would Il Duce want to get rid of one of his key men?’
‘Because he’s taken a fancy to his key man’s woman? You idiot, Max. He got you out of the way so that he could have a clear field with that little American bitch.’
‘Maddy?’
‘It suited her, too. She hates you now. I tried to explain everything, but she wouldn’t listen. Darling, I’m your only friend here!’
It seemed to me that Sarfatti had been intriguing far too much in Rome and that she had been poisoning Maddy’s mind against me. I felt attacked by an entire Amazon army. But why should I believe La Sarfatti? She must have several ulterior motives for calling me.
‘But my projects,’ was all I could think to say before the line grew noisy again. I had the impression she was telling me I had served my turn in some elaborate strategy of Il Duce. I did not for a moment think it likely, yet I had been surprised at Mussolini’s sudden decision for me to go to Germany and at Maddy’s complete refusal to see me.
She began to reply. She spoke of Spain and Greece and Albania, of a way to convince them there was absolutely no point in trying to resist an Italian army. Something about ‘psychological warfare’. It was another of her concoctions. She was addicted to intrigue and gossip.
‘. . . convinced the OVRA had caught up with you . . . Austria . . . the Albanians . . .’ Fewer and fewer words came through. Eventually I broke the connection.
I was cutting myself a line of cocaine from my diminishing store when a knock came at my door. I was expecting no one. I slipped my materials into a drawer and got up to answer.
At any other time I might have received my next visitor with considerable enthusiasm. I had dreamed of her ever since I had seen her on the Munich Express. But now I was alarmed, reluctant to admit her. She stood in the corridor frowning. Her wonderful hair caught the light from the window. She was dressed in layered silks of pale blue, yellow and light green. Her grey eyes held a slightly puzzled amusement. Her perfect skin glowed. Her perfect hand reached towards me.
‘Good afternoon, Colonel Pyat,’ she said.
TWENTY-SIX
I hardly noticed she had used my Russian rank and name. I kissed the tips of those well-shaped fingers. I stepped back to admit her to my room. I had anticipated this moment more than once, but now I was only shocked.
‘Good evening, Fräulein von Ruckstühl,’ I replied.
‘Oh, I’m still Kitty to you, Prince Maxim.’ She knew the effect she had and was enjoying my reaction. ‘I nursed a crush on you for years. I used to ask Esmé about you. Don’t worry. I’m not here to propose a liaison.’
I was not at that moment disappointed.
I apologised for the size of my room as I offered her one of my chairs. She shook her head. With swift, impatient grace she moved to the window and opened it slightly.
‘I thought I’d better tip you off,’ she said, taking out a silver case from her slim leather purse and lighting a flat Turkish cigarette. ‘My mother is nuts.’
‘Come,’ I said. ‘I was unable to get in touch with you. I had no intention of abandoning either of you. Her distress is understandable.’
‘That was for the best. She took up with an Armenian fur trader, and he got us both to Leipzig. Then she met Herr Oberhauser, and we moved to Munich. He’s stinking rich — or was the last I heard — and gave her everything she wanted. Except one thing, of course.’
‘A child?’ I thought she had mentioned a son.
‘That brat’s not yours. It was you she wanted. All her frustration turned to hatred. She’s paid detectives, clipping agencies. She’s got a full-sized file on your activities since you left Constance. Scrapbooks and everything. You’d be flattered. The French airship swindle. The American airship swindle. You seemed to specialise for a while.’
She put another cigarette into her holder and I lit it for her. Her gorgeous red lips were arched in a bow, an almost admiring smile.
‘I assure you, Kitty, I am not a swindler. I have, I will admit, been a little gullible on occasions. But that is my idealism.’
‘Believe me, Max, I don’t give a crap about your motives. I really am just here to warn you. My mother’s close to Herr Hitler. He used to come to our house. She’s helped him in all sorts of ways. I think she’s got a crush on him. She used to hold his head in her lap and stroke him. Pretty sickening stuff. Apparently he has lots of older women who like to look after him. A creep, of course. But that’s beside the point. She knows you’re Jewish, and she intends to let everyone else into the secret.’
‘You mean she believes I am Jewish.’ The implications of Kitty’s news were almost too much to take in.
‘Well, whatever you say. The old cow thinks she has proof. She says you were born in Odessa in the Jewish Quarter. She found that out from some relative of yours. A cousin? A girl?’
‘Wanda is dead,’ I said. ‘And so is Esmé. I was born in Kiev of old Russian stock.’
‘Well, she’s got it all down there in black and white. You have a little time. She wants to go to the Brown House and hand it over to the Führer personally. But he’s not likely to be back from Berlin for a while. You can easily clear up any business you might have in Munich. He’s not likely to have time for her just now. That’s it. I just came to do you a favour. She says your real name is Crick.’
‘I have never heard it before. She thinks it is a Jewish name? My name is the one I gave her. I have since Anglicised it to Peters. There is nothing sinister about that. In modern Europe it’s no longer fashionable to be connected with the Russian aristocracy. In fact, it is positively dangerous. I am a Christian of the Greek persuasion. I was born in Kiev and moved to St Petersburg. Certainly I knew people in Odessa. I spent my holidays there as a child! And I would, no doubt, have bumped into some Jews. Indeed, I had a friend —’