Like Inspector Poirot, The Enabler was a small dark Belgian, but unlike the inspector, he didn’t have a ridiculous moustache.
Lord Stiletto put his cutlery together on his plate, tines down, and drained the last of the Château Lafite. Their host had truly presented them with a meal of a lifetime. A sudden explosion outside shook the building and a dozen glass chandeliers made the music of war. Cannon fire had punctuated the meal, occasionally drowning out the marvellous strains of the string quartet, but their host assured them that in fact they were quite safe.
“I believe you have been here before?” commented The Enabler, offering the two friends cigars. Lord Stiletto politely declined, took his empty pipe out of his pocket, and gripped it firmly between his teeth.
“I understand you are looking for a package?” continued the debonair Belgian.
‘Schripp had passed on the cigar but took a generous sip of their host’s splendid port.
“Yes, and yes,” replied Lord Stiletto. “I was able to render a certain assistance at Smolensk and we have mislaid a certain wax sealed package.”
“And what does this package contain?” The Enabler asked with a mischievous look.
The two friends looked aghast but maintained a subtle silence.
“I understand The Rabbit has taken delivery of the package,” the Belgian continued dryly, “and it seems to me he has just been playing games with you.”
‘Schripp could feel his temper rising but with a breath in and out returned to his usual equanimity.
“We have had some difficulty retrieving the package,” Stiletto admitted, as the Maître d’ poured more port into his glass, “but we have every confidence in your services. You come very highly recommended.”
The Belgian’s next words filled the two adventurers with dread, and the normally unflappable Stiletto almost spilt his port.
“The package is in the hands of The Hrym.”