“May I interest you in a cigar? And perhaps a taste? The cigars just came in; they’re from Honduras. As for the cognac, I’m afraid that VSOP is the best I have to offer. I hope it is to your liking.”
Kappler smiled broadly.
“No to the cigar, thank you. But cognac? Of course! I thought you would never ask. And, yes, Very Superior Old Pale is indeed my personal choice. Anything more expensive is simply that—overpriced.”
“Agreed,” Dulles said, putting his pipe to his mouth.
Dulles then picked up one of the snifters so that its large bowl rested in his palm. He took the open bottle of Rémy Martin and, having tilted the large snifter so that it was almost sideways, then poured cognac till it filled to the rim. He turned the glass upright and offered it to Kappler.
“Thank you,” Kappler said, taking it and holding it up. “To old friends.”
Dulles, meeting Kappler’s eyes, touched snifters, adding, “And always new opportunities.”
Not breaking eye contact, they took healthy swallows.
Kappler exhaled dramatically.
“Superb!” he announced.
“Yes,” Dulles began, “truly nectar of the gods—”
He stopped when, from afar, there came the sudden striking of the Zeitglocke.
“Ah, and we now hear from the great Greek god of time, Chronos!” Wolfgang Kappler said dramatically.
He held up the index finger of his left hand and added, “Which reminds me . . .”
He reached into the bulging left pocket of his suit coat. With a grand gesture, he produced a small black felt clamshell box wrapped with a simple crimson cord. He presented it to Dulles.
“It would be my great honor, Allen, if you would accept this small token to commemorate our long and deep friendship.”
The look on Dulles’s face showed he was somewhat uncomfortable. While Kappler almost always came bearing a gift—at their very first meeting more than a decade earlier he had presented him with an exquisitely cut crystal ashtray—Dulles had never become accustomed to his generosity.
Dulles’s look was not lost on Kappler, who motioned gently with the box, holding it closer to Dulles.
“Please,” Kappler said with great sincerity.
Dulles looked from Kappler’s eyes to the box then back to Kappler.
Dulles smiled. “Well, if you insist, but—”
“I do insist, my dear friend,” Kappler interrupted, and smiled back. “And don’t be ridiculous. It has been through your fine effo
rts that I have made a handsome fortune.”
Dulles took the black felt box and slipped off the crimson cord. The clamshell hinged open, and inside, nestled on a small black silk pillow, was a yellow gold–cased Patek Philippe with a brown leather skin strap. The stylish champagne-colored face, under a high-domed crystal, had black hands for the hour, minute, and second movements, as well as two smaller dials on either side, where the numbers “3” and “9” would have been. On the right side of the case were golden push buttons, one above and one below the knurled knob used to set the time.
“It is absolutely gorgeous. And my favorite, Patek Philippe.”
“Our last visit, we spoke of timepieces,” Kappler said, nodding toward the simple but elegant Patek Philippe on Dulles’s wrist, “and I thought you would appreciate having a more sporty one with complications. It is a 1463 J Chronograph. Eighteen-karat yellow gold.”
Dulles caught himself grinning, and heard himself say, “I think my life has plenty of complications without purposefully adding more.”
Kappler now dutifully smiled.
“Yes. I understand. As do we all. But of course I refer to the complications—the mechanical functions beyond the hands showing hour, minute, and second—that make watches more desirable to the connoisseurs.”
“This is really too nice to wear,” Dulles said.