The Hart Chalet, perched 1,200 metres above Chestnut Mountain, seemed like a better choice.
Down in the valley, the ice rink was still shrouded in blue lights, the smell of press and wet tarmac. Up here, however, the snow was pristine and the air colder. The access road wound its way for 16 kilometres through dark fir trees, their branches sagging heavily under the fresh snow. The chauffeur had even had to fit snow chains and reverse three times. Jennifer had sent him straight back down to the valley before it got any snowier. There were enough guest rooms in the chalet for everyone.
Behind the chalet’s tall windows, a log fire was burning, into which Jennifer had scattered a few grains of incense. Max stood in the dining room, surveying the long table with the critical tenderness of a man who, whilst unable to prevent a disaster, could at least host properly.
The dining room was spacious enough. Dark wooden beams, light stone walls, an open fireplace, a bay window overlooking the snow-covered exterior, and a table set for six guests, although Max treated it with such nonchalance as if, if necessary, he could easily accommodate a small international conference with soup plates.
Silver cutlery, cobalt-blue porcelain, old-fashioned lead crystal glasses, freshly baked garlic bread in linen-lined baskets.
When Jennifer and Jonathan entered, Max turned round.
“Mr Hart. Mrs Hart.” He looked at them both, then shook his head slightly. “I only caught the last few minutes of the press conference on the telly whilst I was making the cream of leek soup, but I’d like to congratulate you.”
Jennifer took off her gloves. “On saving world peace or on escaping from the hall?”
“For the brilliant press conference,” said Max. “You’ve turned a murder case, a broken foundation, a fleeing doctor and two young men who obviously need privacy urgently into a story about sporting fairness. That wasn’t just elegant. It was almost indecently effective.”
Jonathan took off his coat. “Max, you’re getting poetic.”
“I’m getting old, Mr Hart. One allows oneself to make observations.”
Jennifer smiled wearily. “How bad did it look?”
“From the outside?” Max raised an eyebrow. “Heroism, responsibility, two rivals overcoming national rivalry to overpower a potential murderer. That’s what I call relaxation. Mr Hart as the magnanimous saviour of a community that will probably only realise tomorrow that it no longer has a hall. Mrs Hart as the woman who conducts a press conference like others conduct an orchestra. And then the solemn thank-you speech by Dr Amara El-Amin: when have the Harts ever been praised directly by a UN representative?”
“That sounds better than it was.”
“That’s the point of a press conference, Ma’am.”
Jonathan went over to the fireplace, warmed his hands briefly, and then looked out of the window. Down in the valley, hardly anything could be made out, just a pale glow of artificial light behind the snow.
“The disposal is going to be ugly,” he said.
Max nodded. “Your explanation was convincing nonetheless. Hart Waste Destruction Industries will cover the costs, the council remains solvent, and the asbestos won’t lie dormant in the walls for another thirty years like an evil spirit with planning permission.”
Jennifer unfastened her necklace and placed it on a small dish on the sideboard. The moonstones reflected the light from the fire, whilst the black coral fragments remained dark.
“Jonathan offered to cover the disposal costs too quickly. A modern eco-power plant is supposed to handle the disposal using tidal power. Somewhere in Tarifa on the Spanish south coast. I really hope we don’t have to pay any special fees in the Panama Canal when we clear this hazardous waste through customs at Miraflores.”
“Jennifer,” said Jonathan.
“Darling, I love you for that. But you did it before the third journalist had even put his hand down.”
“I’d seen a man die, had to restrain a tournament doctor, and admired a few children in uniform. It made me feel sentimental.”
Max cleared his throat. “The technical department has already called. Their people are looking into a cost-effective way of encapsulating the material in a sealed-off estuary in Spain, as soon as the contaminated construction waste has been shipped through the Panama Canal after being sealed and containerised. There won’t be any press enquiries, because the material will be shipped as ‘cocoa beans’.”
Jennifer stopped in her tracks.
“Max, isn’t that fraud?”
“I’m just repeating what I was told; it’s only fraud if we get caught. And even then, it’s easy to dump the rubble below the waterline into the canal or the sea before inspectors can check the cargo manifest.”
Jonathan raised both hands. “Cocoa is a funny cover. Perhaps we should press the asbestos fragments into beans?”
Max straightened a soup spoon. “I took the liberty of informing the technical department that, given the word ‘cost-effective’ in connection with asbestos and the sea, Mrs Hart would presumably want an excellent advertising agency on standby should there be any eco-ethical investigations. I recommended Brian Kinney.”
“Max,” said Jennifer warmly, “you’re a darling.”
“I try my best, ma’am.”
Jonathan turned to her. “Together, we always find the perfect solution.”
Max took a step back from the table. “Speaking of getting: there’ll be enough food for everyone. I’ve assigned Dr Scully to the Japanese suite, Agent Mulder to the French, Captain Hollander to the Soviet, and Captain Rozanow to the British. For Shane, I’ve prepared something you can eat with a injured shoulder without having to act like a hero. For Ilya, something hot enough to thaw a red facade.”
Jennifer laughed freely for the first time that evening.
“Max.”
“Culinary-wise only, ma’am. There’s a small wild boar pâté as a starter, followed by leek cream soup and souvlaki, which you can eat off the skewer with one hand, and extra-garlicky tzatziki. For dessert, to match the snow outside, I’ll be making crème brûlée, with an extra pinch of cinnamon. And for Comrade Rozanov, with a dash of vodka under the caramel.”
Jonathan looked at the laid table. “And Fox?”
“I’ll make coffee for Agent Mulder; after all, that was the reason he turned off towards Chestnut Mountains. Using the mocha set you brought back from Manama.”
Jennifer and Jonathan looked at him at the same time.
Max raised his head. “Proper coffee. From what Mrs Hart said on the phone, it seems the man has been repeatedly cheated out of his coffee this evening. That’s no way to treat a federal agent, even a strange one.”
“And Dana?” asked Jennifer.
“Russian tea with a drop of rum and half a slice of lime in the teapot.”
Jennifer nodded appreciatively. “You’re outrageously good tonight.”
“I had a quieter audience than you. And four extra guests are no problem in this house. I’ll be preparing breakfast on my own tomorrow as well, because I’ve given the rest of the staff the day off due to the heavy snowfall. The road will certainly be impassable for four to five days, but there are plenty of supplies.”
Jonathan picked up one of the folded napkins and put it back down. “Toolidle has disappeared.”
Max looked up. “Disappeared?”
“Not broken out, but taken over.”
Jennifer stepped to the window and giggled. “Two men in dark coats. They were either gangsters from China, the KGB or the CIA; maybe even the Mexicans—who knows these days.”
“Mexico?” asked Max.
Jonathan nodded. “That word came up less often than Austria.”
Max’s face grew serious. “So the cadets’ quadrille wasn’t impressive enough for our US media; that seems to be typical these days.”
“At least it bought Shane and Ilya some breathing space,” said Jennifer. “Maybe just a few hours. But sometimes breathing space is all you need before people start setting a false story in stone.”
Jonathan looked at him. “The fact that we, as generous sponsors, are covering the scholarship costs and inviting the two heroic captains to a private dinner with us should keep the peace for the whole month.”
Max placed the pepper mill and the small salt shaker on the table. “May I ask how Captain Hollander is doing?”
Jennifer didn’t answer straight away. The fire crackled. Outside, snow drifted against the windowpanes, soft and persistent.
“Injured,” she said at last. “Nothing life-threatening, but more than just his shoulder. I hope he’ll be able to play again soon.”
Max set down the last glass.
“And Captain Rozanow?”
“Just as bewildered, but at least without a bandage.”
Jonathan joined her at the window. “You positioned them well at the press conference.”
Down in the valley, they’d spun a story: two captains standing together in a crisis. A doctor who was led away. A philanthropist whose death remained unexplained for the time being. An arena that had to be demolished. A Hart couple generous enough to pay for the clearance, and clever enough not to let the most dangerous truths slip into the microphone.
But up here, in the warm dining room, the story wouldn’t be enough.
Here, Shane and Ilya would have to look at each other.
Dana would ask questions, even though Fox would hear the gaps. Jonathan would try to add fuel to the fire. And Jennifer herself would ensure that no one in this room took on the wrong role out of fear. Max lit two more beeswax candles.
“Shall I stoke the fire?”
Jennifer turned round.
“Yes, please, two more logs, big ones.”
“Certainly.”
Jonathan placed a hand on her back. “Ready?”
Jennifer looked at the laid table, the fire, the bay window, the snow and the six seats, which seemed like both an invitation and a trap.
“No,” she said. “But at least we’re still better dressed than Dana.”
Jonathan smiled.
Max raised an eyebrow. “That, ma’am, is likely to remain one of the few certainties as the evening progresses.”