The Baltic War(89)

Chapter 20





Amsterdam, Holland


"He was only here for a short time, woman," Gretchen Richter said accusingly. "Not even a month!"



Rebecca Abrabanel looked serene.



Sitting on a divan in the USE embassy's salon next to her fiancé Adam Olearius, Anne Jefferson laughed softly. "God, she does that better than anyone I've ever known."



Rebecca looked toward her. "Are you referring to me? Does what?"



Anne laughed again, louder. "Oh, sure, play the innocent. That Mona Lisa look. Serene. Inscrutable."



"What nonsense," said Rebecca. "I am simply not given to pointless passions"—she stuck a finger at Gretchen—"like this one here."



Gretchen's eyes widened, her expression going from accusatory to outraged. "Pointless passions? Pointless passions? You—you—have the nerve to accuse me of such?"



She clapped a hand on the broad shoulder of her husband Jeff, sitting next to her on another divan. "I remind you that he and I have shared the same bed here for months now—and used it to good purpose, rest assured! But you do not see me"—here she slapped her midriff, which was surprisingly slim given her impressive bust and hips—"pregnant again, do you? Whereas—you! He was here less than a month!"



Rebecca shrugged, somehow managing to do it without losing a trace of the serene expression on her face. "You are more disciplined than I am, Gretchen. Besides, fine for you to preach the virtues of the rhythm method, rigorously and ruthlessly applied as only you could manage the miserable business. But I remind you—as you pointed out yourself—that you have had your husband available the remaining three weeks of every month. I did not. I was supposed to tell him, poor fellow, that he chose the wrong time of the month to fly into Amsterdam? Ha."



She looked out the window at the snow-covered streets. "I say it again. Ha. Besides, what does it matter? I enjoy having children. If it had not been for Baruch I think I might have gone mad here, so much do I miss my little Sepharad."



Jeff Higgins glanced over into a corner of the salon, where Baby Spinoza—as everyone called him except his adoptive mother—was sleeping in a crib. "He's a cute kid, Becky, I'll give him that. Even if he is a genius."



But Gretchen was not to be so easily diverted. "All kids are cute, it's in the nature of the creatures," she said dismissively. "How else could they survive? But two are quite enough for any reasonable woman, if she plans to spend her life engaged in worthwhile work beyond using her tits. I leave aside the small matter that this irresponsible vixen chose to get herself pregnant in the middle of a bitter siege."



Rebecca looked at her.



"Fine. Not-so-bitter siege. It's still a siege. And who knows how long it will last? If your new baby is not born in rubble, so he—worse yet, she—will be born into starvation and disease."



Rebecca was still looking at her. Gretchen threw up her hands.



"Damn Mona Lisa! Fine, Becky. Tell us how long the siege will last."



Rebecca's serene smile returned. "Do not be silly, Gretchen. How could I possibly do that? But what I can say, based on my meeting with the prince of Orange yesterday, is that—"



"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" Anne Jefferson rose to her feet and extended her hand to Adam. "I think it's time for us to be out of here. Seeing as how my fiancé is officially the agent of a foreign and possibly hostile power. Which for some damn reason y'all seem to keep forgetting."



"Hardly that, dearest," Adam said, rising. "The hostile part, I mean. I will allow a foreign power, but it's absurd to think my employer is going to be engaging in hostilities with anyone. Alas for him, the duke of Holstein-Gottorp is in the position of a mouse surrounded by cats. Hungry cats, to make it worse. His strategy these days is entirely that of the sensible small rodent caught in the open. Hold completely still and hope no predator notices you."



Jeff waved his hand. "Oh, hell, Adam, sit down. By this time"—he glanced around the room—"I don't think any of us is worried that you'll spill our beans on anybody's else plate. And if you did, who cares? Who would you tell? The cardinal-infante already knows what the beans look like."



"Not the point," replied Adam, shaking his head. "You may not care, but I do. Much as I'd personally prefer making my living as a mathematician, I do not live—neither do you, any longer—in that magical up-time world where great universities paid people simply to teach and research mathematics. No, alas, here I need a job. And since my existing credentials are as a diplomat, I think it best that I not—how would you say it?—tarnish my resumé, I believe."