Spartan Gold - Cussler Clive (полная версия книги .TXT) 📗

The fit wasn’t perfect, but with a few safety pins Remi found in the bathroom she was able to tuck and gather the black V-necked evening gown until only a fashion designer would be able to tell it hadn’t been fitted for her. Remi did the same for Sam’s classic black tuxedo, cinching the waistband and gathering the shirt at the small of his back with a pin. With their faces washed, hair combed, and camouflage coveralls and backpacks safely stashed inside the bookcase, they gave one another a once-over, stuffed Sam’s pockets with a few essential items, then left.

Arm in arm, they started down the hall, which like the bedroom was decorated in somber dark wood, heavy rugs, tapestries, and landscape oil paintings. They counted doors as they walked but stopped after they reached thirty; assuming the room they’d just left wasn’t an aberration, it seemed clear this was Bondaruk’s guest wing.

“One problem,” Remi muttered as they reached the end of the hall and stepped into a high-ceilinged room flanked by a pair of brown granite spiral stairways. The rest of the space was divided into seating areas of well-worn leather chairs and divans. Here and there sconces cast soft pools of light on the walls. Arched doorways to their right and directly ahead led to other parts of the house.

“What problem?” Sam asked.

“Neither of us speaks Russian or Ukrainian.”

“True, but we do speak the international language,” he replied as another couple entered the room and strolled toward them.

“Which is?”

“A smile and a polite nod,” he replied, giving both to the passing couple, who returned the greeting. Once they were out of earshot Sam said, “See there? Magical.”

A waiter appeared before them holding a tray of champagne flutes. They each took one and the waiter disappeared.

“And if someone tries to strike up a conversation?” Remi asked.

“Have a coughing fit. It’s the perfect excuse to slip away.”

“So, which way do we go?”

“West. If his collection is here, that’s where we’ll find it. You have the sketch?”

“In my cleavage.”

“Mmm.”

“Behave yourself.”

“Apologies. Okay, let’s see how close we can get to the secure utility room before we see signs of security. I haven’t seen any cameras yet, have you?”

“No.”

Another couple approached. Sam and Remi raised their glasses, smiled, and kept going. “I just had a thought,” she said. “What if we run into Olga and her husband and they recognize their own clothes?”

“Well, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

The next room they entered was what Bohuslav had called in his survey the “Sword Room”; upon entering they instantly realized the name was woefully inadequate. Measuring seventy by forty feet, the walls were painted a flat black and the floor covered in black rough-cut slate. In the center of the room was a rectangular glass case lit from within by recessed spotlights in the floor. Smaller than the room by only a few feet and bordered by bloodred carpet runners, the case was filled with no fewer than fifty ancient edged weapons, from axes and swords to pikes and daggers, each resting on its own marble pedestal bearing a placard written in both Russian and English.

Eight or ten couples circulated around the room, staring in fascination at the case, their faces lit from below as they pointed at different weapons and murmured to one another. Sam and Remi joined them, but were careful to remain quiet.

History buff that he was, Sam immediately recognized many of the weapons: the famous claymore, the Scottish two-handed broad-sword; a bardiche, a Russian poleax; a short, curved French falchion; a shamshir, a Persian saber; an ivory-handled Omani khanjar; the Japanese katana, the samurai’s weapon of choice; the classic Roman short sword known as the gladius.

Still others were new to him: a British Mameluke saber; a Turkish yataghan; a Viking throwing ax known as the Mammen; a ruby-inlaid Moroccan koummya.

Remi leaned in close and whispered, “Not very original, is it?”

“What’s that?”

“A murderer having a knife collection. It would have been so much more interesting if this case were filled with porcelain dolls.”

They reached the far end of the case, rounded the corner, and paused to admire a gleaming, sickle-shaped Egyptian khopesh. From the other side of the case there came a murmuring of voices. Through the length of the glass case Sam and Remi could see couples stepping aside as a figure entered the room.

“The shark has arrived,” Remi murmured.

“And here I am without my bucket of poison chum,” Sam said.

Speaking in lightly accented English, Hadeon Bondaruk’s deep basso voice filled the room: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I can see by your expressions you find my collection fascinating.”

Shoulders back, hands clasped behind his back like a general inspecting a line of soldiers, Bondaruk strolled down the side of the case. “The tools of war often have that effect. As so-called civilized people we try to pretend we’re not captivated by death and violence, but it’s in our genetic makeup. In our hearts we’re all Neanderthals fighting for survival.”

Bondaruk stopped and looked around as though daring anyone to disagree with him. Seeing no challengers, he continued walking. Unlike his guests, he wore not a tuxedo, but a pair of black trousers and a matching black silk shirt. He was a lean man, with sharp facial features, glittering black eyes, and thick black hair tied into a short ponytail. He looked ten or fifteen years younger than his reported age of nearly fifty.

He paid no attention to his guests, all of whom respectfully stepped aside at his approach, the men watching him warily, the women studying him with expressions that ranged from outright fear to curiosity.

Bondaruk stopped and tapped the glass before him. “The kris dagger,” he said to no one in particular. “The traditional weapon of the Malay. Beautiful, with its wavy blade, but not very practical. More for ceremony than for killing.” He walked on, then stopped again. “Here’s a fine piece: the Chinese dao. Perhaps the best melee weapon ever produced.”

He continued on, stopping every few feet to hold forth on another weapon, offering either a brief history lesson or his personal impression of the weapon’s efficacy. As he neared the end of the case, Sam casually stepped backward, drawing Remi along with him until they were standing with their backs to the wall. Bondaruk, his face reflected in the glass, turned the corner and stopped to admire a six-foot-tall halberd. He stood less than six feet away now.

Remi tightened her hand on her husband’s forearm. Sam, his gaze fixed on Bondaruk, tensed himself, ready to charge the moment Bondaruk turned toward them. That he would recognize them wasn’t in doubt; whether Sam could subdue him and turn him into a human shield was the question. Without that advantage the guards would swarm them inside of a minute.

Finally Bondaruk said, “The halberd: Leave it to the British to come up with a weapon that is both ugly and purposeless.”

The guests chuckled and murmured their agreement, then Bondaruk walked on, turning the corner and beginning his strolling lecture down the opposite side of the case. After a few more comments, Bondaruk strode to the door, turned to the crowd, nodded curtly, then disappeared.

Remi let out her breath. “Well, he’s got a presence, I’ll give him that.”

“It’s cruelty,” Sam muttered. “He wears it like a cape. You can almost smell it on him.”

“I got the same odor from Kholkov.”

Sam nodded. “Yes.”

“I thought for a moment there you were going to go for him.”

“For a moment I thought so, too. Come on, let’s find what we came for before I change my mind.”