The Last Supper by Charles McCarry

Author:Charles McCarry [McCarry, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780715641996
Publisher: Gerald Duckworth & Co

— 3 —

If Wolkowicz, with his sensitivity to the moods of others, suspected his wife’s adultery, he did not betray his suspicions to Darby or to Ilse by so much as a gesture, and he never mentioned them to Christopher. But he often left the Sewer during his shift on duty, leaving Christopher in charge. The schedule was ideal from the point of view of the lovers: when Darby was off duty, Wolkowicz was on duty, fifty feet underground, sealed in a secret installation. This gave Ilse and Darby a sense of freedom: they lunched together in restaurants, went to tea dances in hotels, strolled through the Prater.

Nevertheless, Wolkowicz, using all his professional skills, watched them, collecting evidence. One day he came to work an hour early, bringing Christopher with him. He carried a large yellow envelope, the flap secured with tape. He closed the steel door behind him and threw the envelope onto Darby’s desk.

Darby lifted his amused eyes. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Open it up.”

Darby slit the seal and emptied the contents, a stack of glossy photographs bound with a rubber band, onto the polished surface of the desk. Darby removed the rubber band and began to look at the pictures. A look of mild interest spread over his face. Rosalind, standing beside him, flushed and bit her lip.

“Christopher,” she said, “shall we go check the machines?”

Wolkowicz stood in front of the door. “Stay put,” he said, “both of you.”

Darby, still amused, looked from Rosalind to Wolkowicz to Christopher. He separated the photographs into two stacks and put the larger stack back into the yellow envelope. Then he held up the top photo from the smaller stack: it was a clear, perfectly exposed candid portrait of Darby and Ilse, naked together in an overstuffed chair.

“I’ll have copies of each of this lot,” Darby said. “I don’t think the outdoor shots are up to much, do you? Too many clothes.”

Wolkowicz took the photographs out of Darby’s hand. Darby offered no resistance.

“What we have here, in this sewer,” Wolkowicz said, “is a very good operation. Nothing should spoil it. So what I want is peace and brotherhood down here. But at four o’clock this afternoon, I want you to meet me, Darby, out in the woods. Christopher will bring you to the place. I’ll take Rosalind with me now.”

Darby wasn’t smiling, but no hint of guilt or embarrassment crossed his face. “Is Ros to be a hostage?” he asked.

“Just show up,” Wolkowicz said.

On the way to his rendezvous with Wolkowicz, while Christopher drove, Robin Darby chattered. “You’re remarkably like your father,” he said. “Not in looks, really—it’s the manner. You seem to have the same sort of super-absorbent mind. Rather scary, actually; your father was otherworldly. Ros loaned me the book of your poems. The poetic voice is quite similar. Is all that deliberate? Do you consciously emulate him?”

“We’re almost there,” Christopher said.

The Mercedes was rolling along a narrow road in the woods. The windshield was steamy. Christopher rolled down the window and the sound of the tires crunching on the snow came inside.

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