by Morris West
‘The bastards! The bloody sadistic bastards! . . . What will happen to her now?’
‘She’ll recover physically from most of it; though there will be sequelae, and she’ll need regular observation for a long time.’
‘How is she mentally?’
‘Well, she’s lucid, calm and apparently stable. The best sign is that her concerns are centred, not on herself, but on her husband and the fellow-prisoners she left behind. She’s a very brave woman, John. You should be proud of her.’
‘Can she have any more children?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Does she know that?’
‘She’s a physician. She has to suspect it. She’s also a wise woman; she’ll come to terms with the fact.’
‘I hope to God you’re right . . . Join me in a drink?’
‘Sure.’
The pretty stewardess, with the Spada emblem on her breast, served the drinks, hovered uncertainly for his smile of thanks and then drifted away, disappointed. Spada took a long swallow and then sat, staring into the glass. Finally, he asked:
‘Would you do me a favour, Doctor?’
‘Of course.’
‘Write up your notes in a form that can be published. I want them circulated to the press and every medical journal.’
Timmins shook his head.
‘I can’t do that without the consent of my patient. I don’t think now is the time to ask for it.’
‘Forget it then.’
‘There’s something else, John.’
‘What?’
‘The press – keep them away from her. No point in making her relive the outrage all over again.’
‘I’ve thought of that. There’s an ambulance waiting at Kennedy. We’ll take her straight to your clinic Her mother can stay there with her.’
‘She’ll need you too, John.’
‘She needs her husband more.’
‘What are his chances?’
‘Slim. You saw what they did to Teresa even when they knew they were going to release her. Imagine what they’ve done to one of their own nationals – and their bitterest critic! We’re living in Bedlam, Doctor. A madhouse run by psychopathic butchers!’ He slewed round suddenly in his seat to face the Doctor. ‘Is she still asleep?’
‘She’ll be out for a while yet. Why?’
‘I’ve got to see her. I’ve got to remember what they’ve done to her.’
‘John, please!’
‘Show me!’
Timmins shrugged, unbuckled his seat belt and led the way back to the rear compartment. He made a sign to the nurse, who walked forward to talk to the stewardess. Timmins asked once more:
‘Are you sure you want this?’
‘I’m sure.’
Timmins laid back the sheet and lifted the surgical robe, so that Teresa’s whole body was exposed. Spada looked at her a long time, then he bent and kissed the scars, and covered her again like a sleeping child. He said simply:
‘Thanks. I know now what I have to do.’
Then he turned on his heel, walked back to his seat and ordered another drink.
It was midnight when they touched down in New York, and two in the morning before Teresa was settled in the clinic with a special nurse in attendance and Anna lodged in the room next door. Spada was amazed at how calm Anna was, how determined to lend strength and reassurance to her daughter She was brutally fatigued. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears; but she sat, quiet, composed and tender, until Teresa fell asleep. Then she took Spada’s hand and led him into the next room. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him and then held him at arm’s length while she told him:
‘You’re a good man, Giovanni. We are both lucky to have you. You should go home now. Carlos has left a supper for you.’
‘Will you be all right here?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I have to go away again, very soon, Anna.’
‘I understand. That is what I want to tell you: leave Teresa to me. This is women’s business now. When she’s better, I’ll take her down to the Bay House. Where will you be going?’
‘Better you don’t know, Anna. I will say one place and be in another. I promised Teresa . . .’
‘I know what you promised her: you will bring Rodo back; but I want you back too. Remember that, amore.’
‘Always, Anna mia. Always. But I have to be free for a while to come and go, appear and disappear without questions. What I do has to be my business – only mine, understand?’
‘You don’t have to spell things for me, amore. I read them in your eyes.’
‘Do you blame me?’
‘No. You are the head of this family. You have always protected us. Whatever you do, there will be no reproaches from me. Go home now, amore. Go home and sleep.’
They embraced again and he wished, for one wild moment, that she would ask him to stay; but she pushed him gently to the door and went to take a last look at Teresa, drugged and tranquil, in the next room. As he walked down the dim corridors and out into the chill morning air, he felt as though a stranger had stepped into his skin: some dark and sinister duellist, eager for his hour on the killing ground.
Next morning, when he passed by the clinic on the way to his office, he heard, for the first time, Teresa’s own account of her arrest and imprisonment. At first he tried to dissuade her from the telling; but she would have none of his objections. She told him fretfully:
‘Please, Papa! I have to talk. I learned that from the others. Some of them had been through far worse things than I; but they all agreed it was best to talk things out, even the beastliest acts. If you didn’t, you felt so mean and dirty and cowardly that you could go crazy. To stay sane, you had to keep things in a human proportion. So, let me talk, Papal Part of it’s a confession and I need that too.’
‘No one in the world has a right to judge you, bambina!’
‘Just let me tell it, Papa. You’re risking so much for Rodo; you have to know what these people are like . . .’ She began, in a fashion so clinical and dispassionate that she might have been detailing a case for the house surgeon on his morning rounds. ‘… I was at home after a long day at the clinic. Just before midnight I had a telephone call from one of the Sisters, asking me to go to an address in one of the low quarters of the city. I went. I found a group of people, some of whom I knew, with a young man who had been wounded during a police roundup. I took a bullet out of him and patched him up enough so that he could be moved to safety. Then I went home. Twenty-four hours later, I was arrested. They blindfolded me and took me to a place which, I was told later, was called the Fun Palace. It was the headquarters of the secret security police. I waited three hours in a cell. Then they took me to the office of one Major Ilario Sanchez O’Higgins. He was a man in his late thirties, very handsome, very polite. He read me a fairly accurate account of my actions on the previous night. He pointed out that I had committed a criminal act – although he was not yet prepared to press the charge. He understood that my motives were pure, merciful and non-political. However, I had unwittingly become involved with political and criminal elements. Therefore, he required me to give full information on all the persons concerned in the night’s affair. That done, I should be free to go and resume my normal life as a welcome guest in Buenos Aires.
‘I told him I could not do that. He asked why. I explained that I was bound by the Hippocratic oath, which forbade me to disclose anything which I might learn in the practice of the healing art. He accepted that. He even paid me a compliment on what he called my “professional fidelity”. Then, very persuasively, he began to argue another case: that, in abnormal conditions, conditions of crisis for a community, or mortal danger to its citizens, other considerations must prevail. He even quoted the classic argument of Aquinas for situations of moral dilemma: “the greatest good of the greatest number”. I told him that in the forum of my own conscience, I alone must judge. He accepted that too; he hoped I would grant him the same liberty of cons
cience in the performance of his duty. I agreed that I must.
‘Then he said – and I remember the words very clearly: “I regret, dear lady, that I must now consign you to a season in hell. If you wish to be released from it at any time, call for me and answer my questions. Unless and until you do that, there is no hope for you . . .” His meaning was plain. If I did not co-operate, I should be handed over to the torturers. An hour later, I was in their hands. I remained there for seven days . . . In the end I had told them everything they wanted to know. I betrayed Rodo, our friends, everybody and everything.’
‘Seven days is an eternity,’ said John Spada quietly. ‘In the war, even with our best men, the most we could bet on was forty-eight hours. So you mustn’t blame yourself – even for Rodo. If they hadn’t got him this way, they’d have found another.’
‘I know that in my mind. My heart tells me something else. If we hadn’t fallen in love, if we hadn’t married, if I hadn’t been carrying his child, Rodo would have had a better chance . . . This is the horror they make. Even love is a weapon in their hands.’
Suddenly she began to tremble, as if in the onset of fever. She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
Spada wiped the clammy sweat from her forehead and her hands. He bent and kissed her.
‘Sleep now, bambina. I’ll bring your Rodo back.’
Even as he whispered the promise, he wondered how fearful its fulfilment might be – and whether a certificate of death might not be a gentler gift than one of the grotesque victims of the Fun Palace.
CHAPTER FIVE
He was hardly settled at his desk when Kitty Cowan came in to tell him that Max Liebowitz had arrived, unannounced, and demanded to see him immediately. For a single, angry moment Spada was tempted to refuse; then a saner thought presented itself: Max Liebowitz was too prickly a man to risk a snub without good reason; better to receive him and be done with it.
Liebowitz was a small man, dapper, brusque and snappish, as if he suffered from a chronic dyspepsia. This morning, however, he was subdued, almost amiable. His first words were an apology.
‘I do not mean to intrude; but after what I read in the papers, I had to stop by and tell you I am very grieved for what has happened to your daughter.’
‘That’s kind of you, Max.’
‘I understand these things. I lost many relatives in the camps. Some of the men responsible are now respected citizens in South America.’
‘It’s a dirty world down there.’ Spada found himself at a loss with this unfamiliar adversary.
‘It’s a dirty world everywhere,’ said Max Liebowitz. ‘I have been thinking we should not make it dirtier for each other.’
‘What’s on your mind, Max?’
‘It’s not easy to say. So let me walk you round it, eh?’
‘As you wish.’
‘So! . . .’ Liebowitz fished a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish his spectacles. ‘I have the Channing votes in my pocket – enough to fight with, enough, maybe, to win with at a stockholders’ meeting. I have more than the votes. I have a sentiment, shared by many, that one-man rule is not to last forever. You are not – excuse the expression – a dynasty like the Fords or the Mellons or the Rockefellers. So, the future for the corporation is not clear. It could even be risky. We need better insurance than we have for a continuity of management. For that we are prepared to fight…’
Spada said nothing. Liebowitz gave him an odd, strained smile.
‘Do you think maybe we could have coffee? I missed breakfast this morning.’
‘Sure.’ Spada buzzed Kitty Cowan. ‘Send in some coffee and cookies.’
‘I prefer a doughnut,’ said Max Liebowitz.
‘Doughnuts,’ said Kitty Cowan on the intercom. ‘Coming right up.’
‘You were talking about a fight,’ said John Spada.
‘I was,’ said Max Liebowitz. ‘But now, not. I hear things that I did not know before. Your friend, Feldman, serves with me on a committee that tries to help our people in the Soviet Union. He tells me you have personally intervened in the affair of Lev Lermontov. Also there is the business of the bank in San Diego. We are caught for half a million. I call Waxman. He tells me we are supporting the family of the man who steals from us.’
‘And you agree with that, of course?’
‘I don’t. I think it a stupidity; but I respect the man who commits it. Also, I think he has more trouble than he needs at this moment.’
‘What are you trying to tell me, Max?’
‘Please!’ Liebowitz waved the question away. ‘You have moved Mike Santos upstairs. That too, I like. I don’t know if he’s as good as Conan Eisler; but…’
‘Better, Max! Much better!’
‘Maybe, maybe. At least I am prepared to wait for results.’
‘How long?’
‘One year from the day you resign.’
‘And when do you figure that will be?’
Before he had time to answer, the door opened and
Kitty Cowan came in with the tray of coffee and doughnuts. She lingered long enough to ask:
‘Have you seen the Wall Street Journal, chief?’
‘Not yet,’ said John Spada. ‘I came straight from the hospital. Why?’
‘There’s a piece about Spada Consolidated.’
‘I have it with me,’ said Max Liebowitz.
He fished in his breast-pocket, brought out a cutting and laid it in front of Spada. Kitty gave Spada a warning wink and left the room. Spada picked up the cutting and read:
… An ominous silence broods over the glass tower of Spada Consolidated. John Spada has never suffered fools gladly. It seems unlikely that he will wear, without cancour, the injuries inflicted on his daughter and the suspicious disappearance of her husband in Buenos Aires. Senior Spada executive, Mike Santos, insists that the “business-as-usual” sign means what it says; but old hands in the market predict dramatic moves in the near future. Spada has a notable reputation as a strategist and this correspondent would advise his readers to watch the stock carefully . . . and keep an eye on the news columns as well.
John Spada folded the clipping and handed it back to Liebowitz with a shrugging comment:
‘So, the newshounds are baying the moon. They’ll soon get tired of it.’
‘But they may wake the wolves as well,’ said Max Liebowitz quietly. ‘I told you we needed more insurance.’
‘And the premium is my resignation?’ Spada’s tone was cold.
‘Not quite.’ Max Liebowitz broke a doughnut in half and dipped it in his coffee. ‘I figure there’s a deal we could make. I vote the Channing stock in your favour at the next meeting. You are confirmed as President. You then arrange that you will continue for one year only, after which a successor will be appointed. You will move upstairs as Chairman of the Board.’
‘And the successor would be . . .?’
‘If he measures up, Mike Santos. If he doesn’t, it’s Conan Eisler.’
‘So, you take over without a proxy fight.’ John Spada gave him a thin smile of admiration. ‘I hand you my head on a golden dish, and there’s not even a drop of blood on the floor. Very neat, Max!’
‘I think so.’ Liebowitz dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘It takes the strain off you. It defuses a nasty political situation for the company. It gives the stockholders the continuity they need.’
‘Tell me something, Max. What do you really expect me to say?’
‘Only that you’ll think about it,’ said Max Liebowitz placidly.
‘I’ll do better than that,’ said John Spada. ‘You wipe Conan Eisler off your slate. You agree to confirm Santos as President with a five-year contract. You accept Maury Feldman as Chairman of the Board. You go in as Vice-Chairman, and I’ll move out immediately.’
Liebowitz gaped at him in amazement.
‘You mean . . .?’
‘Exactly what I say, Max.’
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea.’
‘It’s too sudden. It could depress the stock. We need more time to prepare the market, guarantee a smooth transition . . .’
‘Take it or leave it, Max! But if you leave it, I’ll give you the bloodiest proxy fight this town has seen in ten years. Right now, I’m just in the mood for it.’
‘I don’t see what you stand to gain by a hasty move.’
‘Nothing, Max – at least nothing you would understand . . . Well?’
‘I need time to . . .’
‘No time, Max! Now or never.’
Liebowitz shifted uneasily in his chair. Spada sat silent, watching him with hooded, hostile eyes. Finally Liebowitz made a shrugging gesture of defeat.
‘You play rough . . . but OK! How do we arrange things?’
‘I’ll talk to Maury Feldman. He’ll be in touch with you. By the way, if you breathe a word outside, the deal is off.’
‘There’s no call to make threats.’
‘It’s not a threat, Max. It’s friendly advice. Be content that you’ve got what you wanted. Don’t try to finesse me! There’s an old Italian proverb: “Never stir the fire with a sword”.’
The moment Max Liebowitz was gone, he picked up the red phone on his desk and spoke for twenty minutes with Maury Feldman.
At midday he called Hugo Von Kalbach in Bavaria and asked:
‘The arrangements we talked about, Meister. Any progress?’
The old man’s reply was guarded.
‘In principle it is possible. In fact, it would be best to meet, face to face, with my friend. You will find he shares your interest in fishing.’
‘Good. I’ll be coming to Munich in a few days.’
‘Then you must stay with me.’
‘Delighted.’
‘How is your daughter?’
‘Recovering.’
‘And her husband?’
‘No contact yet. We are working on his case.’
‘I pray for your success. Please cable or telephone your flight number. I shall send a car to meet you at the airport.’
‘Thank you, Meister. Auf Wiedersehen.’
His next call was to a number in Turin. Castagna answered it. Their conversation was brief.
