Blue Damask (13 page)

     “I’m sorry, Miss Schluss, I didn’t hear that.”

     She answered louder, “Yes.”

     Mr. Frank gave her a long look before asking, “And it was reported that you attacked this assassin with your bare hands and prevented him from killing Lord Sonnenby.”  His voice was tainted with disbelief and his eyes travelled over her. Obviously she was no physical match for a murderous Turk.

     She squeezed her hands together.  “Lord Sonnenby was my patient. 
Is
my patient.  I could not sit still and watch him be murdered.”  She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

     “Right.  And then Lord Sonnenby proceeded to beat the assassin to death with his fists.”  He glanced up from the notebook.  She nodded silently, remembering.  He bent over the notebook again and then, “Afterwards Lord Sonnenby had some kind of mental collapse, yes?”

     “I would not call it a ‘mental collapse’ Mr.—“

     “What is your professional term for what happened to him after the attack?”

     “He suffered a delayed reaction to traumatic stress.  It was expressed as catatonia.  It was very short and he recovered fully.”

     “Mr. Marshall says in his report that incident is what convinced him to keep the straightjacket off.”

     “Yes.”

     “And the handcuffs as well.”

     “Yes.  Lord Sonnenby would be dead if he had been in any kind of restraints.”

     “And later in Istanbul there was an automobile accident involving unidentified Turkish assassins.”

     She just nodded.  Apparently Mr. Marshall was excellent at providing his superiors with reports.

     “He had not been in restraints in the car?”

     “No.  He was in the back seat with me.”

     “I see.  And do you have any reason to believe that Lord Sonnenby requires restraints from this day forward?”

     “No, actually the presence of restraints seems to act as a catalyst for extreme anxiety that leads to violence.  He is—“

     There was a roar and a crash in the next room.  The French voices began to shout and the military men in the hallway passed their open door at a pounding run.  Mr. Frank leaped from his chair and leaned into the hallway, his arm on the door frame.  She pushed under his arm and leaned out as more men ran past into the next office. She heard shouting and the sounds of furniture being disturbed and upended.  She tried to squeeze past Mr. Frank, but he grabbed her shoulder.

     “Wait.”

     “I think Lord Sonnenby might be causing this ruckus, Mr. Frank.”

     “I am certain of it, madam.”

     “Then you must let me go.”

     “In a moment, when they have him subdued.”

     Elsa looked up at his face, composed and calm as if the flurry of noise and destruction were not bouncing off the walls six feet away from him.  She twisted her shoulder and slipped by him.  The next office was whirling like a storm of paper and pencils.  File folders erupted and swirled in the air from a tornado that was Sonnenby.  Elsa tried to enter, but a uniformed guard held her by the arms.

     “Let me go.”

     “Not yet,” he answered.

     She could see from the door that Sonnenby was being stalked by three men, one of whom held a straightjacket open, ready to embrace him.  The buckles dangled and jerked as the man moved the canvas restraint back and forth, following Sonnenby’s movements, as if catching a man in a straightjacket was like scooping up a butterfly.

     Sonnenby’s face was red with exertion and his eyes wide with panic as he raised his fists and swung at his attackers.   Elsa tried to break free but the grip on her arms tightened painfully.  She watched as two more men flanked Sonnenby. As he threw another punch forward, he was tackled from behind.  His knees bent and he fell.

     Elsa could see no more as five men leaped and disappeared from her vision behind a desk.  The shouting and noise increased, however.  She heard Sonnenby curse.  In a moment all was silent.  A lone piece of paper floated to the floor and the cowering office workers slowly stood straight again.  The grip on her arm relaxed and then disappeared as the guard strode forward into the room and left her at the doorway.

     She took a deep breath and followed in the wake he created as men parted in front of him.  Sonnenby lay face down, trussed like a goose in the straightjacket.  He knew better than to struggle.  She could see the resignation in the way the back of his head tilted.  His chin was tucked under him and his brow rested on the shining linoleum.  The brass buckles were lined up on his back, some of them tightened to the very last grommet.

     “This is not necessary,” she said in a low voice and the men around her chuckled without humor.  She glared at them.  “He is not dangerous.”

     “Tell that to Miller.”  All heads turned to a man holding his jaw with one hand while a co-worker pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.  Another man knelt and Elsa saw the hypodermic in his hand only moments before the needle sunk into Sonnenby’s neck.

     “Oh,” she breathed sadly.  “Oh.”

     “Who are you?”  This question was barked by a tall man in an impressive uniform who appeared suddenly beside her.

     She opened her mouth, but Mr. Frank appeared at her elbow and answered for her.  “General, she is Elsa Schluss, Lord Sonnenby’s therapist.”  When there was no immediate response from the general, he added with emphasis, “From
Vienna
.”

     This distinction obviously made all the difference, for the general raised an eyebrow as if he suddenly understood.  He turned to Elsa.  “Miss Schluss, I beg to differ.  Lord Sonnenby has a history of mental breakdown and has demonstrated his intent to harm.  On the other hand,” he looked at the motionless Sonnenby on the floor, “you are correct that he is no longer dangerous.”  He turned to Mr. Frank.  “Please take Miss Schluss back to the hotel.  Her services are no longer required.”

     “No!”  Elsa shrank from yet another attempt to grab her arm.  “Obviously my services are required.  Look at him!”

     The general walked away.  Two men stepped forward and lifted Sonnenby to his feet.  Elsa tried to see his face, but Mr. Frank steered her toward the door.  She turned her head as far as she could to try to get a glimpse before she was ushered back into the next office.  The sounds of furniture being righted and paper being straightened and stacked followed them into the quiet of the room.  Mr. Frank had her by one arm and with his other lifted the receiver of the telephone.

     “No.  Please take me to Lord Sonnenby.  He is ill.”

     She didn’t hear what Mr. Frank said into the telephone.  Her ears were turned to the hallway where she heard a man’s shoes scraping the polished floor as he was lifted and dragged to the stairwell.  She twisted her arm and broke Mr. Frank’s grip, then ran into the hall.

     Two men were muscling Lord Sonnenby to the end of the corridor while two more were ready to open doors and help get him down the stairs.  She caught them up and made them stop.  “Henry,” she squeezed through a gap in the arms and legs and planted herself in front of him.  His eyes were closed and he was breathing through his mouth.  His hair was plastered over his face and he was very pale.  He was wrapped like a caterpillar in a cocoon with arms crossed in the sleeves of the jacket. The jacket was too tight, making it hard for him to breathe.  People panic when they can’t breathe. She put a hand on his jaw and said his name again, but there was no response. The sedative was working.  Then Mr. Frank caught her and pulled her away from him toward the wall.

     “The jacket is too tight,” she said.  “At least loosen it around his chest.”

     The men holding Sonnenby continued down the hall as if she had not spoken. Elsa heard regular thumps as he was dragged down the stairs.

     “Where are they taking him?” she asked.

     “Don’t know.”  Mr. Frank turned her and steered her back to the office.  “Government business.”  He said it like he was used to that being the final word.

     “No,” she tried to plant her feet, but her little shoes were no match for his muscle and she was dragged like Sonnenby in the opposite direction.

     “I’m sorry, Miss Schluss, but it looks like the interview is over.  I am sorry we did not reach an amiable conclusion that would benefit all parties concerned.”  He bent to pick up her briefcase and pressed the leather handle into her palm.  “I will hand you over to Mr. Bain, who will escort you to your hotel.”

     “Hotel?”  Elsa clutched her briefcase.

     “Ma’am?”  Mr. Bain appeared in the doorway and made a wide gesture with his hands to indicate that she was to precede him down the corridor towards the main entrance.  She looked over her shoulder toward the stairwell where Lord Sonnenby had been taken.  Mr. Bain stepped into her line of sight and repeated, “Ma’am.”  His tone had become flat and no-nonsense.  It was as if he had added “government business” to the meaning of the honorific.  Calling her “ma’am” did not sound so courteous anymore.

     She inhaled sharply and turned away.  So be it.  This was a government office.  British government, not hers.  She had accepted a mission and had completed it.  Sonnenby had arrived in Damascus on his own two feet and unbound.  What happened afterwards was not her concern.  She read that message in Bain’s eyes as he took another step into her personal space, forcing her to step backwards before she realized she was being manipulated.

     “Very well, Mr. Frank.  Mr. Bain?”  She tiled her head at him to imply that she was ready to be steered to the car.

     Frank disappeared into his office and Elsa made sure her heels clicked on the linoleum in a very practical and professional manner all the way to the end of the corridor, down the stairs and into the drive where a car was waiting in the dusty gravel.

     She sat in the back as primly as possible, touched the back of her hair as the driver got behind the wheel. Mr. Marshall will tell her what will become of Lord Sonnenby this evening.  He may be released and she will accompany him back to Europe. She set her briefcase on her knees and folded her hands over the top.  To the hotel then.  Perhaps they serve flan in Damascus.

     She frowned as two more men got in with her.  One in the front beside the driver and one opened the door opposite and slid in on the bench seat and closed the door.  She cleared her throat as if to speak, but the driver said as he cranked the engine, “These men need a ride to the hotel as well.”

     “Of course,” she said and was ashamed at how weak her voice sounded.  She imagined a confident, authoritative voice and planned to use it the next time one of these government men asked her a question.

     The car pulled away from the ministry building and turned to the left instead of to the right.  Elsa looked out her window trying to see the tall three story hotel which had towered over the palm trees and low cedars.  She thought it had been to the west of the ministry building. To the right. Perhaps the car needed fuel.  That would explain a detour.

     She sat up a little straighter in her seat.  She pretended to be interested in the busy streets outside the window, but instead she was focusing on quelling the feeling of unease that started in the center of her chest and moved out to her limbs, filling them with a shivery weakness.  Out of the corner of her eye she watched the three men.

     The driver was the most at ease.  He seemed to know exactly where he was going and took the turns with confidence.  The passenger up front opened and closed an attaché several times, as though he needed something to do with his hands.  Beside her, the man who shared her seat seemed to be fumbling in his jacket.  She saw him pull out a handkerchief.  When she looked at him he gave her a thin smile and touched his forehead with the white cloth.

     The car bumped as it left the main road and turned onto a rougher surface.  Elsa tightened her grip on her briefcase.  She knew for certain they were not headed to the hotel.  In front of her the beautiful wasteland stretched out until it filled all six windows of the sedan.  The car wobbled and bounced on the single lane dirt road that was no more than two tire tracks in the sand and gravel.  The men sat a little stiffer in their seats and she could no longer hear any of them breathing.

     She cleared her throat.  “Gentlemen.  We seem to be heading in the wrong direction.  I believe the hotel is on the west side of Damascus.”   She was going to ask politely if there was another stop before the hotel, but then she caught the faint unmistakable odor of ether.

     She turned quickly to see her seatmate with his hands together, the handkerchief between them flipping them back and forth.  She did not wait to process any more information.  She leaned back against her door, took a deep breath and held it, then brought her knees up, turned and kicked.  She meant to get the vial out of his hands, but her kick was vigorous enough to bounce the cloth and glass vial off the underside of the roof of the car and drop them both in the front seat between the driver and his passenger.

     There was a moment of surprise as the man beside her recovered from the shock of being kicked.  He quickly recovered and turned, his big hands raised to grab at her.  Her heeled shoes were still in the air over the seat, so she kicked him in the arm and then the crotch.  She had no time to think of anything else, for the car swerved and threw both of them against her door.