“You went to see him?” I asked. Sergei and Marcel never seemed to have had much in common.
“It was a few years back, when I first came over here,” Sergei said. “You know the bastard. He wanted to sell me a piece of some company he had.”
“Did you buy it?”
“Of course.” Sergei smiled. “I don’t like Marcel but the one thing he does know how to do is make money. I didn’t even know what the company did but he made me president and every three months like clockwork I get twenty-five hundred dollars in dividends.”
Giselle looked at me. “I remember that time in Texas—” Then she looked at Sergei and stopped.
I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get going.”
I kissed Giselle on the cheek. Sergei took my hand. “You look tired and drawn,” he said. “Try to slow down.”
“I will once this mess is over.”
“And come up your first free evening,” Giselle said.
“I’ll try.”
I watched them get into the big Rolls-Royce with the gold crest on the door. They waved as the car pulled away, and I began to walk west. It was only a few blocks over to Park, where Marcel lived, and I got there a minute or two early.
When I rounded the corner a man was just leaving. He jumped into a taxi as I turned up the steps and rang the bell. I looked after the disappearing cab. There had been something familiar about the figure, but it was dark and I hadn’t seen his face.
A light flashed on overhead and I was aware that the butler was studying me on the closed-circuit television. Then the light went off and the door slowly opened.
“Come in, Mr. Xenos,” the butler said, “Mr. Campion is expecting you.”
I followed him into the house. He took me up to the private elevator to Marcel’s apartment and held the door. “Press the top button, please.”
The door closed and the elevator started up. I got out on Marcel’s floor. Marcel was just coming out of the guest room as I walked into his living room.
“Dax!” he exclaimed. “How good to see you again. A drink?”
I nodded and we walked over to the bar. Marcel took down a bottle of Scotch and poured some over the rocks. I took the glass. “How about you?”
Marcel shook his head. “Doctor’s orders—it’s bad for my ulcer.”
“Cheers,” I said. I took a swallow. “Hope he didn’t take you off anything else.”
Marcel laughed. “No, just liquor.” He pressed the button under the bar. “Take a look at that.”
I looked at the television screen. This time there was only one girl in the guest room. She was lying on the bed, completely nude, a bottle of champagne on the night table. She turned, reaching for a cigarette, and Marcel hit the off button. “Not bad, eh?”
I nodded.
“She’s new. I just took her on the other day. You get bored with all of them after a while. They’re all after the same thing—money.”
I didn’t say anything. What did he expect—romance?
“The cunts!” Marcel shouted, suddenly angry. “I think I’ll have a drink after all. The damn doctors don’t know everything.”
I waited until he had poured a drink. “I don’t want to keep you.”
Marcel looked at me. “Have you heard anything from el Presidente?”
“No. Everything seems to be temporarily quiet.”
“Do you think he can keep things under control?”
“I think so,” I said. “Especially if we can discover the source of the guns and stop them.”
Marcel took the hint. “I have the papers you wanted.” He came out from behind the bar and went over to a desk. He took some papers out of the drawer and brought them to me.
I looked down at them. The shipping invoice was obviously in the name of a fictitious company and would probably be of no help, but the check in payment for the freight was legitimate. I turned the credit invoice over. The check number, the name of the account, and the bank were written across the back.
The account name was not familiar but the bank was. C.Z.I. I took a deep breath. This was more of a break than I had hoped for. It was one of the De Coyne banks.
“Does it mean anything to you?” Marcel asked curiously.
“Not much,” I answered noncommittally, slipping the papers into my pocket, “but I’ll look into it in the morning. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”
“I hope you have better luck than I did,” Marcel said, “I found out nothing. You know how those damn Swiss banks are.”
“I’ll let you know. I hope all your captains are checking their cargoes. I wouldn’t like it if el Presidente discovered any more guns coming in on your ships.”
“They’re all alerted,” Marcel answered quickly, “and I think they’ll be careful. But you can never tell. They like an extra buck now and then.”
“For your sake I hope they restrain themselves. One more shipment and I’m afraid the old man will cancel your franchise.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
I looked at Marcel curiously. He didn’t seem at all disturbed over the threat, though the loss of the franchise would take his ships out from under the Corteguayan flag and quite probably put him out of business. Then I decided that he must have everything under control and thus didn’t have to worry.
“Well, I’ll be going,” I said. “If I keep you too long your friend might fall asleep.”
I put my glass down on the table and suddenly I knew who the man was I had seen leaving. Prieto. One of my cigars lay half smoked in the ash tray. I remembered giving Prieto several a few days ago when he had said he liked their bouquet. I told Marcel good night and went down and got into a taxi.
I leaned back in the seat. Prieto. I wondered what his connection was with Marcel. I couldn’t figure it out. But I had learned one thing at least. Prieto had not gone to the Guayanos meeting.
Fat Cat was waiting up for me.
“Well, how did it go?” I asked.
Fat Cat handed me a set of printed pages. “It’s all there,” he said. “He had it all ready for the press.”
I didn’t look at the papers. “Who else was there?”
“I didn’t see Prieto.”
I was silent.
“Oh,” he added, as if it were an afterthought, “I saw the girl.”
“Did she see you?”
He nodded.
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She did,” he answered, a mocking smile around his eyes, “but I didn’t understand it. It was something about meeting her at Reuben’s tomorrow at midnight. I don’t know anyone by that name, do you?”
181
“Dax, this is my father.”
The thin-faced, pale man in the faded gray cardigan got up from behind the old wooden table. He held out his hand. His touch was thin and papery but somehow firm.
“Dr. Guayanos.”
“Señor Xenos.”
His lips moved stiffly, as if he were under some kind of strain. He glanced at the other men in the room, who were watching us silently. “You have already met my brother,” he said. “The other gentleman is a good friend who enjoys my every confidence.”
I nodded. I could understand the reason for not naming him. But nothing was lost, since I recognized him instantly. Alberto Mendoza, a former army officer whom I had once met at a reception. I wondered if he knew that I had identified him.
We remained standing awkwardly for a moment, then Guayanos turned to the others. “Would you excuse us? I would like to speak with Señor Xenos alone.”
Mendoza looked hesitantly at us.
“It is all right,” Guayanos said quickly. “I am sure that Señor Xenos intends me no harm.”
“Perhaps not,” Mendoza said in a somewhat surly voice, “but the car might have been followed. I do not trust Prieto—”
Guayanos’ brother spoke up. “The car was not followed. I am sure of that.”
“How would you know?” Mendoza asked. “You were dr
iving.”
I did not speak. There was no point. I had let myself be blindfolded at Beatriz’s request. I did not even know where we were.
“We weren’t followed,” Beatriz said flatly. “I watched from the rear window all the way.”
Mendoza shot another sullen look at me, then silently walked from the room. Presently Beatriz and her uncle followed him. Once the door had closed behind them, Dr. Guayanos turned to me. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” I sat down in a chair opposite him.
“I knew your father,” he said. “A great man and a true patriot.”
“Thank you.”
He sank back into his own chair. “Like your father I was at first entranced by el Presidente. Then I became disillusioned.” He glanced down at his thin white hands. “I could never understand why your father did not come out in opposition to el Presidente.”
I looked straight into his eyes. “Because he believed that enough blood had already been shed in Corteguay. He did not want it to begin again. He was convinced that first the country must be rebuilt. It was to that end he devoted himself.”
“So did we all,” Guayanos replied quickly. “But after a while it became apparent to even the most stupid of us that all we were doing was perpetuating el Presidente in his power. He took credit for everything that was accomplished.”
“I see nothing wrong in that,” I said. “From what I have observed of heads of state all over the world, they do exactly the same. And tell me this, Doctor. How much of it would ever have been accomplished had el Presidente not been there?”
Guayanos did not answer.
“Today all our children attend school until they are fourteen. Before el Presidente came to power only the rich could afford such schooling. Today forty percent of our population is literate, prior to that something like three percent—”
Guayanos held up his hand. “I know the statistics,” he said wearily. “But they do not justify the corruption and the personal wealth el Presidente accumulated at the expense of the people.”
“I agree. But it was still a great improvement over the past, when nothing at all filtered down.”
I started to reach into my pocket for a cigarette and saw him start. “May I smoke?”
He relaxed. “Of course.”
I took out a cigarette and lit it. “But all this discussion of the past proves nothing. It is the future with which we must concern ourselves. I think even el Presidente has come to that conclusion.”
“Why suddenly now and not before?” Guayanos asked. “Nothing in the past seemed to concern him except the preservation of his own power.”
“I can’t answer that. To do so I would have to be able to enter his mind and know what he was thinking. My own feeling is that he is beginning to recognize his own mortality. He would like to be remembered as the great benefactor.”
Guayanos was silent for a moment. “I don’t believe that,” he said flatly. “I think he is frightened. Frightened by the temper of the people, by their attraction to the guerrilleros, by the fact that open revolution has begun to threaten.”
“If you really believe that, Dr. Guayanos, you are making a mistake. El Presidente is one of the few men I know who does not know the meaning of fear. Moreover, he is clever and intelligent and he does think. He recognizes that these men you call guerrilleros are the same men who for years were called bandoleros, and whose very existence was devoted to loot, rapine, and murder. He also understands the political use made of them by the Communists. But the situation is volatile and many may die unnecessarily to gain what could be achieved by peaceful means.”
Guayanos studied me for a moment. “You speak very much like your father.”
I smiled. “I would not be his son if I did not.”
“Then you think el Presidente is sincere in his offer of an election and amnesty?”
“I do. Why should he wish to see more bloodshed? He knows that unrest is holding back the progress of the country. If it were not for the bandoleros, the tourist trade alone could add fifty million dollars a year to our national income.”
“Has a date been set for the election?”
I shook my head. “What for? No one has come forward to offer himself in opposition. An election with only one candidate would be a farce.”
“What guarantees would be made for the safety of his opposition?”
“What guarantees would you require?”
He stared at me. “The freedom to move about the country as I wish, access to the newspapers and radio without restraint, the right to protect myself with men of my own choosing, even though some of them might be foreigners, and the election to be supervised by an impartial observer such as the United Nations or the Organization of American States.”
“That seems reasonable to me,” I said. “I will relay your suggestions to el Presidente. Now in turn may I ask something of you?”
He nodded, warily.
“Are you in a position to guarantee that illegal opposition to the government will cease?”
“I could make no such guarantee and you know it. My contacts with other groups are loose and tenuous at best. But I will say this. There would be no further opposition from my group, and I would use my influence on the others, too.”
“Thank you. That was what I wanted to hear.”
“I have no desire, either, to see further bloodshed.”
I rose. “For the sake of our country let us hope there will be none.”
Guayanos came around the table and walked to the door. Before he opened it he looked back at me. “I did not thank you for what you did for my brother. He has a quick temper; sometimes he does foolish things.”
“Beatriz already explained that to me,” I said, “but I did only what I thought was right.”
For a moment it seemed as if Guayanos wanted to say something more but instead he opened the door. “Come in,” he called. “Señor Xenos and I have finished.”
He turned and said almost regretfully, “I hope you will not mind if we ask you to submit again to the blindfold?”
I shook my head.
Beatriz came toward me, the black cloth in her hand. I leaned forward to make it easier for her. As I did I caught a glimpse of Mendoza’s face over her shoulder, and suddenly I knew why he had acted toward me as he had. The reasons weren’t solely political. He was also in love with Beatriz.
When the blindfold came off we were back in front of Reuben’s. I blinked my eyes as I looked at Beatriz. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”
She stared into my eyes for a moment, then shook her head. “I think I had better go back.”
I reached for her hand. She let me hold it but did not return the pressure. “I must see you,” I said. “Alone. Not like this.”
She didn’t answer.
“Beatriz, I meant what I said that night. I wasn’t playing games.”
She looked at me, the tears seeming to blur the green of her eyes. “I—I don’t understand you at all.” She took back her hand and turned away. “You’d better go.”
Silently I started to get out of the car.
“Dax, my father will be safe?” she asked. “You meant what you said?”
“Yes, Beatriz, I meant what I said.”
“If—if something were to happen to him,” she said huskily, “I would never stop blaming myself.”
“Nothing will happen to him.”
A moment later I watched as the car turned south on Madison Avenue. For the first time I felt depressed and discouraged. A vague sense of impending doom seemed to settle around my shoulders. I shook my head angrily. Why should I feel like this?
I went into the restaurant and ordered a drink. The whiskey burned its way down and I could feel myself lift. But it was a false kind of lift. It would not be too far in the future that I would remember my words and wonder how I could ever have been such a fool as to make the one promise I could not keep.
182
El President
e listened silently while I told him over the phone about my meeting with Dr. Guayanos. I listed the conditions he had asked for, and as I read the last, about impartial observers, there was a moment’s silence. Then el Presidente’s voice came roaring over the wire. “The son of a bitch! He’s asking for everything except my vote.”
I had to laugh. “I have a feeling he’d ask for that, too, if he thought he’d get it.”
“What do you think? If I agree will he come back?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t like it. If we agree to impartial observers it will be the same as admitting we were wrong.”
“What difference does that make?” I asked. “You do not expect him to win, do you? Your victory should make it sufficiently clear that you are wanted by the majority of the people.”
“That’s true. All right, I’ll agree to his conditions with one of my own added. And this one has nothing to do with him, only with you.”
“What is it?”
“That you join with me as my nominee for vice president. It has been on my mind for a long time now. I will not live forever. I want to be sure that the government continues in good hands.”
This was something I had not counted on. Grudgingly I realized that the old man had me boxed in. If I really believed in what I said, I would have to go along with him. And if I did, it would effectively eliminate me as a future opposition candidate by placing me squarely in his corner.
“Why do you hesitate?” he asked sharply.
“I was surprised, and I am overwhelmed by the honor. But do you think you’re doing the right thing? I could be a handicap to you. There are many at home who do not approve of me.”
I did not go into the reasons. He knew them as well as I. The church, for one. There was not a Sunday that passed but from one pulpit or another I was castigated as a profligate and playboy.
“If I am not concerned,” el Presidente asked, “why should you be?”
“Your excellency, I am both delighted and honored to accept your generous offer.”
“Good.” His voice lightened. “Then you may inform the traitor that his terms are accepted. And that the date set for the election is Easter Sunday.”
Harold Robbins Thriller Collection Page 162
