Black Champagne

by George B Mair

  Ferguson looked irritated. ‘I phoned him.’ His voice sounded petulant and vaguely puzzled. ‘He’s not coming. Says he can take death or leave it, but that right now he feels like leaving it.’

  Krystelle’s features were suddenly frozen. She lifted her hands and slowly waved them in front of her. Grant knew that she had repainted elaborate crosses in lipstick after their bath and noted that she was also still wearing the silver and diamond bracelet which was now twinkling like some living crystal in the sharp hard light of the place. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it, David?’

  He figured that she was playing for time. But if things didn’t start running to form they might still feed piranha before the day was over. And he didn’t like the absence of Mr. Big. It was always good to see all of the enemy in the same place at the same time and know that there was a way of fixing each of them. He also saw that Ferguson seemed uneasy, as though he had suddenly lost confidence, and then the boy called Jo Go-Go ran across to Krystelle to sit near her feet where the girl spoke to him for a second or two before he again stood up, sauntered back to John, squatted on the ground and inscrutably drew a design on the thin sand at the edge of the shore.

  ‘Well, Ferguson?’ Grant was impatient for action. And if it had to be played off the cuff then he would play it off the cuff; but if it really was the end he would try to take one or two with him.

  Two of the commandos suddenly stepped forward at a word from Ferguson and clamped handcuffs round Grant’s right wrist, anchoring it to Krystelle’s left. He then pointed with his gun. ‘Think I’ll show you something before the fight. I didn’t like your story about the sharks, so move to the belvedere up there and stop when I give the word.’

  The couple moved as though on ice. A path lipped the straggling beach and then rose up a short broad staircase to the vantage point which they had both, almost automatically, nicknamed ‘the room’. It was about twenty feet square and at least six metres above the lake. The view was fantastic, and it crossed Grant’s mind that if ever they got out of this alive and were able to buy they would have a tourist attraction which would be investment enough to make their descendants millionaires.

  If there were any descendants!

  It looked like being the end of the road. Ferguson motioned Grant towards a table near the edge of the floor. The drop to the water below was sheer and Ferguson was laughing. ‘It’s just occurred to me that you might like to see how fast piranha can eat. An overture to battle, so to speak.’

  Krystelle turned suddenly round, dragging Grant’s wrist viciously as she moved to face Ferguson and his squad of bodyguards who were suddenly more sinister than ever above their crimson polo necks. ‘You granted David’s last request but now I want one. I want to meet your boss man. Why don’t you phone him again?’

  The man seemed momentarily disturbed but his voice was steady enough. ‘I’ve told you already. He won’t come.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Krystelle paused. The thing suddenly made sense and David may have been right after all. Maybe someone had monitored the telly. Maybe someone had watched her play with hypnosis. And if so they were beaten before the show had even begun. Unless her other gimmicks worked! She felt Grant’s finger rap against her wrist in a sudden burst of morse. ‘Bluff off cuff.’

  But it was easier to say than to do. Ferguson had the ball at his feet from now on there would be a surprise at every corner—especially if a brain like that of the little man from Asia was dealing the cards. ‘So what do you want us to do?’

  Ferguson snapped an order and four of the boys opened a door near the back of the ‘room’ while Grant felt Krystelle shiver slightly as they pulled out the carcass of a dead sheep from a sort of storehouse and dragged it to the edge of the floor, its head dropping over the side as it lay overhanging the waters below.

  Ferguson was watching them carefully. Both knew that it would give him immense satisfaction to see even one flicker of fear when he spoke. ‘I told you about our piranha. Or,’ he hinted sarcastically, ‘since you both speak Spanish, piraña. You will remember that in Amazonia they are feared even more than anaconda or jaguar: In fact they are balls of fury which make shark, giant catfish, swordfish or red dolphins seem like children’s pets. They’ll eat anything with flesh on it . . . even one another, since they can turn cannibal if kept in tanks, and they aren’t cowards because they’ll even attack alone. But the minute one single piranha draws blood the rest follow like a swarm of bees. Each of our little scavengers is about a foot long and its face is a nightmare with undershot jaws, a colossal mouth, bulging eyes and double rows of teeth which are sharp as an average hypo needle.’

  He paused for a second. ‘I’m really killing time to see if my boss is going to change his mind. And to be frank partly also to annoy you. But say the word if you want me to stop. After all, from your angle, where there’s life there’s hope. So do you want to hear more about the piranha?’

  ‘We’ll be delighted,’ said Grant evenly. Ferguson was making a mistake shown by few professionals. Never kill for fun. If death is unavoidable get it over with as humanely and swiftly as possible. Because for sure where there is life there is bound to be hope and a desperate man can sometimes use time to pull an ace of trumps. ‘And I’d even like to see one of your creatures.’

  Ferguson nodded briefly. ‘You will. But first how about listening? We had a helluva job getting the things out here. They each had to travel in a separate tank, but we eventually got a breeding ground going and after a year numbers were enough to satisfy every need. And this lake is over sixty feet deep. Enough for crowds! Incidentally, since you’ll be interested in this angle, one bite from a piranha removes a chunk of flesh about the size of a dollar and around half an inch thick. And in case you’ve got some idea that splashing or making a fuss will keep the fish away just forget it. Splashing actually attracts them. And clothes are no protection. The fish simply slash through garments just as they’ll slash through the fleece of that sheep to get into flesh. Watch now.’ He pointed to the carcass and two of the boys kicked it over the edge. It fell into the tranquil blue water almost below them, and in a second the surface was broken by hundreds of glinting thrashing bodies as the fish dived on the creature and savaged it to pieces within minutes. The water turned crimson red and then, abruptly, all was still except for a sheet of wool floating on the surface while some white bones sank, swirling, into the depths.

  Ferguson was staring into the water, fascinated, when a voice rapped out behind him. ‘Please don’t move, not one of you.’

  Grant froze. He had heard that voice a score of times on newsreel flashes or television. Mr. Big from U.N.O. had arrived at last and no doubt with his own private body-guard. He could feel the gun which dug into his flank and had sensed Krystelle stiffen as someone paused behind her.

  ‘Not one word, Mr. Ferguson. Not one flicker of movement. You probably don’t know that I was monitoring your most interesting interview with these people here. Or that I heard what you said about your feelings for me. Swollen-headed nincompoop I think was the expression. Nor do you probably know that the chief reason for delaying my own arrival was the fact that I heard the woman actually hypnotise you into shooting me at a suitable moment after my arrival.’

  Ferguson’s gun had dropped to the rocky floor and Grant heard his sudden intake of breath. ‘You’ve got things wrong, sir.’

  The voice became very quiet. ‘Not really, Mr. Ferguson. But why not make this demonstration really convincing? Why not let our prisoners see what the piranha do to a human body? How about jumping in and giving a demonstration?’

  Grant knew better than to move, but from the tail of his eye he saw Ferguson slowly turn round and glimpsed his face when he spoke. ‘You wouldn’t do that, sir? I tell you you’ve got things the wrong way round.’

  Grant saw a slender hand move forward into his line of vision. It thrust almost gently into Ferguson’s eyes and as the man jerked his head ba
ckwards a second push somehow caressed him over the edge. Each movement had an economy of effort which Grant marked and admired, but only later, when memory of Ferguson’s sudden screech for help had been half forgotten and he could blot out a last vision of the man’s distorted face hitting the lake. He screamed, Krystelle said, for over two minutes. And then, she said, the scream died away in a long sighing gurgle which told her that the fish had torn into his lungs. Grant sometimes marvelled at Krystelle’s clinical objectivity. For himself he knew only that there were roars of agony and a bitter shriek asking God to curse the man who had done it.

  ‘And now, Mr. Grant, or is it Doctor?’ The voice was very gentle. ‘Do please turn round. But be most discreet. Just turn round and sit down together with the young lady on one of these chairs.’

  ‘We’re handcuffed,’ snapped Grant.

  The voice sounded amused. ‘So you are. And the key is now either in the lake or else inside a piranha. So be it! You’ll be all the more amenable. But now put me up to date. I’m not quite in the picture and I’d like to know more about you.’

  Grant looked him steadily in the eye. ‘That was a condemnable thing to do to one of your own men.’

  The little Asiatic slowly polished his spectacles. ‘You Western people have such fascinating standards of value. He died in a few minutes whereas most people take months to expire from some malignancy or other. And he clearly intended to kill me, even if your lady friend hadn’t hypnotised him into doing it at a given time, so I would say that it was a clean and humane end to a dramatic situation which needed incisive measures.’ He adjusted his pince-nez. ‘But let’s get back to the subject. Why are you here? I know whither you shall go, but I do not know from whence you come—if you follow.’ He looked almost mischievously towards Krystelle. ‘And don’t try any hypnosis. My boys have orders to kill you rather disagreeably if they see you trying any silly nonsense, and in any case I’m a dedicated Zen Buddhist with some knowledge of the occult. So I doubt if you would manage. But let’s play all this in a low-pitched key and avoid trouble if possible.’

  Grant always knew when to pour out his heart, and he spoke dramatically and comprehensively for ten minutes at the end of which time the Asiatic facing him leaned back in his chair and beamed. ‘Very good, Doctor. No additions and few subtractions . . . certainly none which matter. So you’ve earned the right to a reasonable form of death. Various intelligence people now seem to know my name and my purpose in life. Your people have traced me to the source of our drugs. To the factory and distributing centre itself, in fact. But on the other hand no one can prove anything. The man who was captured in Paris only knows so much, and nothing which could take people immediately to this very secure hide out. While the list of my people in world embassies is intact and not even Ferguson’s number two in Paris could tell you where it is filed. In fact I doubt if Ferguson himself knew where it is filed because my safe is rather well protected and a little difficult to open. But the fact remains that I shall have to go to a lot of trouble to get ourselves reorganised, and since you are the only members of my opposition who can be easily punished I fear that you must both do penance.’

  Grant bluffed only once. ‘I have several friends who could have followed me here.’

  ‘Have you indeed,’ the politician was very bland. ‘I have naturally taken that into consideration and each entrance is under heavy guard. But now, dear Doctor Grant, don’t let’s waste further time. My boys need some fun, because life down here can be monotonous, and after all they are only youngsters. So we’ll let the fight carry on as arranged, with the outstanding exception that you will fight four boys who have not been conditioned by the young lady’s most expert hypnosis. May I introduce you?’ He pointed to a tall loose-limbed youth holding a Sten gun. ‘Meet Hank. A very accomplished fellow indeed. Fast with his feet and a humane killer. If he gets you, you may count yourselves very fortunate, because he breaks necks as though they were made of dried twigs. Now next to him we have that short, squat youth with the fetching smile and a Beretta pistol. Call him Bill. But don’t forget that his sister was raped and killed by two white men, that he did a jail stretch for assaulting a white policeman and that he is a cocaine addict. I gave him a shot just before coming down and he should be just correctly “high” in a few moments. When he is in form—which will also be in a few moments—he kills rather slowly with a strangling technique which is quite special. And my bet is that he’ll take the girl while someone else deals with you.

  ‘Now the other two are twins. We call them Frankie and Johnnie. They are of Zulu extraction originally, but they hate the man who sired them and left their mother to starve while she brought them up. So I figure it should be a race between Hank and them as to who will get you first. All clear? Hank, Bill, and Frankie and Johnnie. You two will fight with cuffs on, which gives you three arms, and you will start almost immediately. Now start walking. The contest would be better held on the sand beside the lake. Or have you any questions?’

  Krystelle nodded briefly. ‘I’d like to fight stripped. Clothes don’t figure in my calculations. And David feels the same.’

  The Asiatic stroked his chin, smiled and then nodded to a tall young man who seemed to be a special aide-de-camp. ‘Slit their clothes off with a knife, but don’t draw blood.’ He turned to Grant almost apologetically. ‘I don’t feel like removing these handcuffs, and since you won’t be needing clothes again you won’t mind my cutting them away from your well turned bodies.’

  Grant sighed with relief as he felt the last shred of cloth drop away from his skin. This fight was going to be a close thing at best, but with clothes the advantage would have been with the boys.

  The politician looked at them with admiration. ‘What a pity you must die! I feel a little bit like the hangman did when he inspected the mass murderer Heath from the prison window to estimate his weight. “Such a pity to destroy such a handsome man,” he said. Or words to that effect.’ He raised his hands expressively. ‘I regret it. But you must go. And to tell the truth I feel that a little revenge is not really out of place. I’m sure you can understand my attitude.’

  Grant sensed that the man was a neurotic, and his admiration of their bodies had set a chain of thought running. Somehow it meant that the Asiatic was dissatisfied with his own. And if he was going to die, at least he would die knowing that he had planted seeds of doubt into the man’s head. ‘Before we go, sir.’ He used the word ‘sir’ because it was one of the last courtesies which could possibly have been expected under the circumstances. ‘May I say just a few words?’

  The man stared but nodded politely while he folded his arms in Eastern style. ‘Be brief.’

  ‘I’m a doctor of medicine,’ said Grant slowly. ‘And I suggest that you see one of my colleagues as soon as may be practical. You show signs of illness which might be serious.’

  The man’s eyes smouldered restlessly. He breathed heavily for a brief moment and then he spoke. ‘As a farewell gift would you care to tell me your opinion . . . a spot diagnosis you would call it? But don’t expect a quid pro quo. Your opinion will have no strings attached nor will it earn you either a pardon or stay of execution.’

  ‘Then my bet is,’ Grant said slowly, ‘that you have an early stomach malignancy. It shows on your face and I would remind you that stomach X-rays are only about 80 per cent accurate so if I were you I’d sleep better only after someone had opened me up for a look see.’

  The man nodded politely. ‘I’ll bear your advice in mind.’ But Grant saw him blench slightly below his brownish olive skin, and his eyes had dulled with a spark of anxiety which showed that the bluff had worked. And it was a safe bluff, because any Asiatic who had to do that man’s kind of job, eat Western food and live irregular hours involving world travel on a grand scale was virtually certain to suffer from indigestion. ‘And one question,’ he said. ‘Why do you, a professional of all professionals, also break the golden rule which says don’t waste time about contriving elabo
rate deaths but get on with it fast and run no risk of complications?’

  The politician smiled, but Grant saw that his neck pulse was now racing at over one hundred. His bluff had rocked the man. ‘I’m taking no risks. This place is safe. And the boys need entertainment. So I’m letting them bet on the contest. Just how long you’ll last. Not who will win. Monotony can be a real problem down here but you can die with the satisfaction of knowing that you have both done something to relieve it. And now,’ he said quietly, ‘that will be all. Follow Hank to the sand and the fight begins when I fire this pistol. Understood?’

  Krystelle hesitated. ‘Have a look at my hands, sir.’ Her voice was dulcet sweet, and few men could have resisted as she held out her right hand in front of her. Grant looked and paused. Trouble was clearly in the air. She had drawn a travesty of a cross which even he recognised as a vèvè, or ceremonial emblem of a dreadful Baron Samedi and a voodoo sign of appalling significance. It was a broad cross with twirled ends to each limb and incorporating a skull with cross bones at the base. Properly used Grant knew that it could bring about the death of a West Indian or African almost overnight.

  ‘You see this, man, I’m a mambo, a voodoo priest, and this is the mark of Baron Samedi. You attended Youruba Temple in New York, because although you are a Zen Buddhist you got interested in the old religions of Africa after cavorting around the continent and spending time in the Congo. So I must tell you something, man.’

  Grant was spellbound, the Asiatic was staring, entranced at Krystelle’s hands and his face was ashen while she spoke. ‘Man, you remember that crossroads where our path from the room you were watching meets another? Jes’ remember that Maître Carrefour can be invoked only at crossroads. But Mr. Man from U.N.O., sir. I called on Maître Carrefour, the great Baron Samedi himself when we came to that crossroads. An’ you see this cross, the vèvè on my hands? I prayed to it when we called the Baron. So you can guess the rest.’