The Collector
Page 118
“Step out of the car, please, and follow me.”
They crossed golden pavers to what she’d taken as an elaborate garden shed. Inside, another man studied an array of monitors.
Security station, she realized, and goggled—at least internally—at the gadgetry. She’d have given a lot to play with it.
“I’ll need to inspect the contents of your bag, Ms. Emerson.”
She clutched it to her, put on a look of irritation.
“We require you both to be scanned and wanded before entering the house. Are you carrying any weapons or recording devices?”
“No.”
The man nodded, held out a hand for Lila’s bag. She surrendered it with a show of reluctance as a woman stepped out of another doorway with something similar to the wands used at airport security.
“Raise your arms, please.”
“This is just silly,” Lila grumbled, but obeyed. “What are you doing,” she demanded when the man removed her multi-tool, her mini can of first aid spray, WD-40 and her lighter from her bag.
“These items are restricted.” He opened the box where she kept her tapes—double-sided, duct, packing and Scotch. Closed it again. “They’ll be returned to you when you leave.”
“Underwire bra,” the woman announced. “Step over here for a manual check.”
“A what? Ash.”
“You can wait outside, Lila, if you don’t want to go through security.”
“For God’s sake. It’s a bra.”
They’d warned her, she thought, but now that it was happening as predicted she felt her heart hammering. She pressed her lips together, looked deliberately at the wall as the woman ran her hands briskly along the wire supports of her bra.
“Next it’ll be a strip search.”
“Not necessary. She’s clear,” the woman said, and walked to Ash.
“Ms. Emerson, considering the numerous items in your bag on our restricted list, we’ll keep your bag, and contents, in our safe here until you leave.”
When Lila began to protest, the security woman called out, “Recorder,” and removed the pen from Ash’s pocket. She smirked a little as she tossed it on a tray.
“It’s a pen,” Lila said, and frowned at it, but Ash shrugged.
“I wanted some backup.”
“Oh! Is it like a spy thing?” Lila reached for it, scowling as the woman drew the tray out of reach. “I just wanted to see.”
“It will be returned to you at your departure. You’re cleared to enter the house. Please follow me.”
He led them out, circled around to the main entrance.
The double doors opened from inside. A woman in a severe black uniform nodded. “Thank you, William. I have it from here. Mr. Archer, Ms. Emerson.” She stepped back into a kind of foyer where glass walls closed it off from a wide entrance hall with soaring ceilings and a central staircase at least fifteen feet wide with the fluid curve of banisters gleaming like mirrors.
And a world of paintings and sculpture.
“I’m Carlyle. Have either of you engaged in the use of tobacco products in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No,” Ash told her.
“Have you been in contact with any animals in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
“Any illnesses in the past week, treated or not treated by a medical professional?”
“No.”
“Contact with children under the age of twelve?”
“Seriously.” Lila rolled her eyes, and this time answered herself. “No. But we have had contact with human beings, including each other. Is a blood test next?”
Saying nothing, the woman took a small spray bottle out of her pocket. “Please hold out your hands, palms up. This is an antiseptic product. It’s perfectly safe. Mr. Vasin will not shake hands,” she continued as she sprayed their hands. “Please turn your hands over. Do not approach him beyond the point you’re given. Please be respectful and touch as little as possible on the premises, and nothing without Mr. Vasin’s permission. Please come with me.”
When she turned, the glass panels opened. She walked across tiles, golden like the stones, with a central tile rug depicting the Romanov coat of arms.
They walked up the stairs—in the center where no one’s hands could reach the rich gleam of the railings.
Art filled the walls on the second floor as it had on the first. Every door they passed remained tightly shut, and each had a security swipe.
Here, there was no open, airy feel, but a carefully restricted one. A museum, she thought, to hold his collection. A home by default.
At the final door, Carlyle took out a swipe card, then leaned forward to put her eye to a little scanner. How paranoid was a man, Lila thought, to require a retinal scan to enter a room in his own home?
“Please sit in these two chairs.” She indicated two high-backed armchairs in merlot leather. “And remain seated. You’ll be served a light refreshment, and Mr. Vasin will join you shortly.”
Lila scanned the room. Russian nesting dolls—old and elaborate—filled a display case. Painted lacquer boxes another. Windows tinted pale gold let in soft light and views of a grove of what she thought were pear and apple trees.
The sad eyes of somber portraits stared sorrowfully at the visitors, surely a deliberate arrangement. She couldn’t deny they made her feel uncomfortable, and a little depressed.
Central to the room stood a large chair. Its leather gleamed a few shades deeper than the other seating, its back rose higher and boasted a thick frame of carved wood. It sat higher as well, she noted, on legs formed into the griffin.
His throne, she thought, giving him the position of power. But she only said, “This is an amazing house. It’s even bigger than your family’s in Connecticut.”
“He’s playing it for all it’s worth. Making us wait.”
“Now, Ash, don’t lose your temper. You promised.”
“I don’t like games,” he muttered, seconds before the door opened. Carlyle came in leading another uniformed woman who wheeled in a tray holding a pretty tea service of cobalt blue painted on white, with a plate of cookies decorated with tiny bits of fruit, a bowl of glossy green grapes. Rather than napkins, a glass bowl held individual wipes with the griffin seal.
“The tea is a jasmine blend, made for Mr. Vasin. You’ll find it refreshing. The grapes are grown here on the estate, organically. The cookies are traditional pryaniki, or spice cookies. Please enjoy. Mr. Vasin will be with you momentarily.”
They crossed golden pavers to what she’d taken as an elaborate garden shed. Inside, another man studied an array of monitors.
Security station, she realized, and goggled—at least internally—at the gadgetry. She’d have given a lot to play with it.
“I’ll need to inspect the contents of your bag, Ms. Emerson.”
She clutched it to her, put on a look of irritation.
“We require you both to be scanned and wanded before entering the house. Are you carrying any weapons or recording devices?”
“No.”
The man nodded, held out a hand for Lila’s bag. She surrendered it with a show of reluctance as a woman stepped out of another doorway with something similar to the wands used at airport security.
“Raise your arms, please.”
“This is just silly,” Lila grumbled, but obeyed. “What are you doing,” she demanded when the man removed her multi-tool, her mini can of first aid spray, WD-40 and her lighter from her bag.
“These items are restricted.” He opened the box where she kept her tapes—double-sided, duct, packing and Scotch. Closed it again. “They’ll be returned to you when you leave.”
“Underwire bra,” the woman announced. “Step over here for a manual check.”
“A what? Ash.”
“You can wait outside, Lila, if you don’t want to go through security.”
“For God’s sake. It’s a bra.”
They’d warned her, she thought, but now that it was happening as predicted she felt her heart hammering. She pressed her lips together, looked deliberately at the wall as the woman ran her hands briskly along the wire supports of her bra.
“Next it’ll be a strip search.”
“Not necessary. She’s clear,” the woman said, and walked to Ash.
“Ms. Emerson, considering the numerous items in your bag on our restricted list, we’ll keep your bag, and contents, in our safe here until you leave.”
When Lila began to protest, the security woman called out, “Recorder,” and removed the pen from Ash’s pocket. She smirked a little as she tossed it on a tray.
“It’s a pen,” Lila said, and frowned at it, but Ash shrugged.
“I wanted some backup.”
“Oh! Is it like a spy thing?” Lila reached for it, scowling as the woman drew the tray out of reach. “I just wanted to see.”
“It will be returned to you at your departure. You’re cleared to enter the house. Please follow me.”
He led them out, circled around to the main entrance.
The double doors opened from inside. A woman in a severe black uniform nodded. “Thank you, William. I have it from here. Mr. Archer, Ms. Emerson.” She stepped back into a kind of foyer where glass walls closed it off from a wide entrance hall with soaring ceilings and a central staircase at least fifteen feet wide with the fluid curve of banisters gleaming like mirrors.
And a world of paintings and sculpture.
“I’m Carlyle. Have either of you engaged in the use of tobacco products in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No,” Ash told her.
“Have you been in contact with any animals in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
“Any illnesses in the past week, treated or not treated by a medical professional?”
“No.”
“Contact with children under the age of twelve?”
“Seriously.” Lila rolled her eyes, and this time answered herself. “No. But we have had contact with human beings, including each other. Is a blood test next?”
Saying nothing, the woman took a small spray bottle out of her pocket. “Please hold out your hands, palms up. This is an antiseptic product. It’s perfectly safe. Mr. Vasin will not shake hands,” she continued as she sprayed their hands. “Please turn your hands over. Do not approach him beyond the point you’re given. Please be respectful and touch as little as possible on the premises, and nothing without Mr. Vasin’s permission. Please come with me.”
When she turned, the glass panels opened. She walked across tiles, golden like the stones, with a central tile rug depicting the Romanov coat of arms.
They walked up the stairs—in the center where no one’s hands could reach the rich gleam of the railings.
Art filled the walls on the second floor as it had on the first. Every door they passed remained tightly shut, and each had a security swipe.
Here, there was no open, airy feel, but a carefully restricted one. A museum, she thought, to hold his collection. A home by default.
At the final door, Carlyle took out a swipe card, then leaned forward to put her eye to a little scanner. How paranoid was a man, Lila thought, to require a retinal scan to enter a room in his own home?
“Please sit in these two chairs.” She indicated two high-backed armchairs in merlot leather. “And remain seated. You’ll be served a light refreshment, and Mr. Vasin will join you shortly.”
Lila scanned the room. Russian nesting dolls—old and elaborate—filled a display case. Painted lacquer boxes another. Windows tinted pale gold let in soft light and views of a grove of what she thought were pear and apple trees.
The sad eyes of somber portraits stared sorrowfully at the visitors, surely a deliberate arrangement. She couldn’t deny they made her feel uncomfortable, and a little depressed.
Central to the room stood a large chair. Its leather gleamed a few shades deeper than the other seating, its back rose higher and boasted a thick frame of carved wood. It sat higher as well, she noted, on legs formed into the griffin.
His throne, she thought, giving him the position of power. But she only said, “This is an amazing house. It’s even bigger than your family’s in Connecticut.”
“He’s playing it for all it’s worth. Making us wait.”
“Now, Ash, don’t lose your temper. You promised.”
“I don’t like games,” he muttered, seconds before the door opened. Carlyle came in leading another uniformed woman who wheeled in a tray holding a pretty tea service of cobalt blue painted on white, with a plate of cookies decorated with tiny bits of fruit, a bowl of glossy green grapes. Rather than napkins, a glass bowl held individual wipes with the griffin seal.
“The tea is a jasmine blend, made for Mr. Vasin. You’ll find it refreshing. The grapes are grown here on the estate, organically. The cookies are traditional pryaniki, or spice cookies. Please enjoy. Mr. Vasin will be with you momentarily.”
