by Morris West
‘While you and I, my friend, have to try to stay sane inside it. Good luck!’
‘Amore?’
‘Che c’è?’
‘Do we have to go out for dinner?’
‘No. What do you want to do?’
‘Stay in bed with you.’
It was the time after the act of love, and they were lying, folded drowsily in one another, in a hotel bed in Washington DC. Spada turned his face to her breasts and said softly:
‘Sto tanto contento, tanto tranquillo.’
Anch’io amore . . . tanto tranquilla . . . When we booked in, I hated the room. Now I don’t want to leave it.
‘It’s good to be alone together.’
‘Dolce come zucchero!’
‘Femmina! Sei tutta femmina, Anna mia.’
‘I like talking Italian with you.’
‘You always used to – in bed.’
‘Eh! . . . When you gave me time to talk ! . . .’
‘We have to talk soon, Anna.’
‘About what?’
‘How we’re going to arrange our lives.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ She anchored him close to her, with arms and legs. ‘I’ve thought about it over and over. We go on living the way we always did. I don’t want guards and cameras and alarm bells by our bedside. I know! I was scared before, but not now. Life’s too short for all that. Let’s enjoy it – just like we’re doing now . . .’
‘Hey! This is something new. What’s happened?’
‘While you were out I called Uncle Andrea in Rome. I told him all the things that were happening and how worried I was. First he scolded me. He said no woman had the right to rob her husband of his manhood. Then he told me how things were in Italy right now, with the shootings and the kidnappings – more than one a week. He said: “Anna, remember something. A parasite in the blood, a clot in an artery, can kill you quicker than a bullet. But the worst enemy of all is fear . . .” Waiting for you here, I thought about that. I remembered that my being afraid stopped us making love, made me into a woman I hated; and in the end you would have hated her too . . . So we go on, amore! You do what you want. We have our good times together. We go to the theatre, the concerts, the opera, like always. Teresa and Rodo will arrange themselves. We cannot always be their nurses . . . Capisci, amore? C’è il mio cuore che parla.’
‘Sono tanto grato.’
‘Come grato? Ti lo debo, marito mio.’
‘There are no debts between us. Just love.’
‘Like this?’
‘Oh yes, yes!’
But even in the long, sweet aftermath, he could not tell her that the Scarecrow Man sat watch in the lobby, while Major Henson, swarthy and taciturn, prowled the corridors with the house detectives.
Oddly enough, it was the Scarecrow Man – that least domesticated of humans – who showed him how he must profit from the change in his family situation. In a brief, furtive conference before they left Washington he explained :
‘… Now, you must rid yourself of the siege mentality. You have taken all possible precautions. Go about your business in the normal fashion. Stop looking over your shoulder; because, truly, you will see nothing. You must learn to trust Henson and myself, even when we are not visibly present. This is our trade, remember; and you will agree that we are good at it… But, once you accept that there are no guarantees, you will live much more calmly…’
Spada nodded a sober agreement; then asked:
‘How do you assess the risk to my family?’
‘Small.’ The Scarecrow Man was definite. ‘In Europe we should have to be concerned with kidnapping. But here it is less fashionable, and the end less profitable. There is, in my view, more danger for your wife than for your daughter and son-in-law. They are in a sense already disposed of; out of the battle. To attack them again would be counter-productive – bad propaganda. No! You are still the prime target!’
‘For how long?’
The Scarecrow Man shrugged.
‘Who knows? Years perhaps. Think how long Stalin waited to have Trotsky killed. I’m afraid you have to wear this sort of thing like a peptic ulcer . . . bland food, bland thoughts and as much good humour as you can command.’
‘You’re a real Job’s comforter,’ said Spada with a grin.
‘Comfort’s another business,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘I’m paid to keep you alive.’
‘I may want you to start travelling again soon . . . contact with the Proteus groups. I’ll want them to start feeding us information on a regular basis.’
‘How soon?’
‘A month, six weeks.’
‘The later the better,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘I need time to build a screen around you – and I have to have people I can trust. Henson’s a good organiser, but he thinks like an Anglo-Saxon.’
‘And you?’
‘I told you when we first met, Mr Spada. I am a mathematical man. I understand everything and feel nothing at all.’
It was a chilling thought – but there was still a grain of hope in it. Anatoly Kolchak had spoken of a world controlled by illusionists. The Scarecrow Man had no illusions at all; yet, wondrously, he still had the courage to endure the bleak damnation of existence.
Immediately after their return to New York, Anna set about reviving their social life: a cocktail party for friends neglected too long, a series of theatre nights and concerts at Lincoln Center. Teresa and Rodo, they decided, should take over the Bay House. They needed the quiet, and a separate place in which to work out a life together. Spada divided his week between the Poseidon Press and the Raymond Laboratories and an occasional discreet visit to the Club, just to affirm that the plague was not really catching after all.
He found an ironic amusement in the confusion of his colleagues, who, having dismissed him either as a spent force or a tainted contact, were reminded of just how much equity he held in the market, and how easily he could upset it if he chose. It was on one of these visits, with Maury Feldman and Mike Santos, that he had his first contact in months with Max Liebowitz. They had just sat down when Max passed by with a plate of salad in his hand, to take his place at the long table. Spada invited him to join them. He was obviously embarrassed, but he covered well, and took the vacant seat. Maury Feldman made a joke of the event.
‘It’s good for the market, Max. All big voters of Spada Consolidated munching away in harmony. We’ll be up three points before the close of business.’
‘I like us the way we are.’ Liebowitz decided to ignore the humour. ‘A little undervalued. That way none of our floaters are likely to dump stock for profit.’
‘I’m always a buyer, Max.’ Spada teased him quietly. ‘We’ve got a nice thing going for us with Raymond Laboratories.’
‘How nice?’ Max stiffened like a pointer waiting for the game to fall.
‘Well, we bought at fifteen . . . Give me a few more months, I’d say we’ll be worth twenty-five . . . Of course, my services come high.’
‘How much are we paying him?’ Liebowitz turned to Maury Feldman, who laughed him down.
‘Relax! Where’s your sense of humour, Max.’
‘I mislaid it.’ Liebowitz was irritated. He addressed himself to Mike Santos. ‘I hear we’re not nearly as popular at the Pentagon as we used to be.’
‘Let me explain that,’ said Spada in the same mild fashion. ‘I talked to Secretary Hendrick and to the FBI. The suggestion was made that someone in the corporation was setting me up . . . You know, a call here and there, a discreet suggestion that I might be keeping the wrong company.’
‘Madness!’ said Max Liebowitz irritably. ‘What bird is so stupid as to shit in its own nest?’
‘But you see what happens, Max.’ Feldman laid a restraining hand on his wrist. ‘Once you make a man politically unpopular, you set him up like a target in a shooting gallery. You make it sound as though nobody cares what happens to him . . . There’s a contract out on Spada’s life. Already he’s had a letter-bomb d
elivered to his home!’
Max Liebowitz was shaken. He set down his knife and fork and reached for a glass of water.
‘And you say that this is arranged from inside the company?’
‘No, Max.’ Spada explained patiently. ‘The two things are separate. The threat to me comes from outside; but it helps if I’m unpopular in my own home town. You know this better than anyone. You support the Zionist lobby because you know that Mister Nice Guy always gets a better shake than Mister Sour Puss.’
‘So you wonder who makes trouble for you in Washington?’
‘Right.’
‘Not I,’ said Max Liebowitz. ‘In the board-room, yes. That’s business. But outside, no! I have said nothing to anyone. I swear it on my mother’s grave.’
‘If you tell me that, I believe you. Max.’
‘I tell you.’
‘Then who’s the enemy in the house?’ asked Mike Santos.
‘We don’t know,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘Rumour is always a nameless child.’
‘We have to know.’ Max Liebowitz was excited again. ‘Someone spreads dirt at our door, it hurts us all! For instance, my information is we may lose out on our bid for the new Minotaur Guidance System.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ John Spada was shocked. ‘I thought it was in the bag. Well, Mike?’
‘Max exaggerates,’ said Mike Santos easily. ‘There are still two more committees to pass the bids.’
‘But we’re in trouble in the first one, no?’
‘Not trouble, John, a little heat, that’s all.’
‘Another thing,’ Liebowitz was launched now into his bill of complaints. ‘The Norden Trust unloaded fifty thousand shares of Spada Consolidated this morning.’
‘Then I presume I bought ’em,’ said John Spada. ‘I’ve got firm orders out for any stock that comes on the market. Unless you beat me to it, Max.’
‘No I didn’t,’ said Max Liebowitz. ‘The deal wasn’t made on the floor. It was a private transaction with Morgan Guaranty as nominee for the buyer.’
‘Norden Trust are supposed to be friends of ours.’ Spada was puzzled and angry. ‘Why didn’t they offer to us first?’
‘Or to me,’ said Max Liebowitz. ‘I do a lot of business with them too.’
‘It seems to me,’ Maury Feldman crumbled a bread roll between his fingers, ‘with all respect, Mike, we need a little more information than you’re giving us.’
‘I don’t have it,’ said Mike Santos flatly. ‘I told you, we’re not too popular in Washington and I’m trying to rebuild some bridges. As for the share transfer – hell! – it only happened this morning.’
‘My point,’ Maury Feldman persisted, ‘is that it shouldn’t have happened at all. You’re paid to stay on top of things like that.’
‘There are only twenty-four hours in a day, Maury.’
‘Then delegate!’ said John Spada. ‘Let someone else lick the stamps.’
‘Now hold it!’ Santos flushed. ‘We’ve had certain crises, remember? I didn’t create them; but the mess landed on my desk. I’ve been clearing it up as best I can; but it all takes time and some pretty devious diplomacy.’
‘Tell us about the Minotaur contract.’ Max Liebowitz shovelled salad into his mouth. ‘What’s the hold-up?’
‘Security,’ said Mike Santos reluctantly. ‘They want John’s clearance lifted before they’ll go to the next committee stage. I’ve been fighting to keep it current.’
‘But you didn’t tell me that,’ objected John Spada. ‘You gave me the impression that the matter was settled.’
‘And that’s what I still hope will be the case.’
‘Hope is a cardinal virtue,’ said Maury Feldman drily. ‘But it doesn’t put butter on toast.’
‘You should have told me straight,’ said John Spada. ‘I’m a big boy. I can spell the words on the wall of the John!’
‘Me,’ said Max Liebowitz, ‘I’d like to know who’s spreading the dirt and who’s trading us out of our shares in a private market.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Mike Santos curtly, ‘I don’t like having my ears pinned back in the Club! Thanks for the lunch, gentlemen!’
He crumpled his napkin on the table and walked away. The three men looked at each other. Max Liebowitz shook his head in mock sadness.
‘Oi veh! Conan Eisler may not have so many brains; but he does know the rules of the game.’
‘I’m sure Mike knows them,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘I wonder if he’s not trying to shade them a little.’
‘In whose favour?’ asked John Spada.
‘Fifty thousand shares.’ Max Liebowitz disposed of the last of his salad and mopped the dressing from his mouth. ‘It’s a very nice packet to build on. I truly would like to know who’s holding them.’
As he rode up-town with Maury Feldman, Spada put his anxieties into words:
‘It’s a hell of a note, Maury; but do you think Mike could be going sour on us?’
Feldman shrugged unhappily.
‘Men get drunk in high places. Sometimes they get illusions of grandeur.’
‘He lied to me about the security clearance.’
‘It’s a bad word to use in law. I’d agree he gilded the proposition.’
‘And what about the shares? He should have known…’
‘I’m wondering if he bought them himself.’
‘Fifty thousand at thirty-five dollars apiece. That’s a million seven. No way he could raise it – besides, that’s insider trading. We could send him up the river.’
‘If you could prove it – and in a nominee situation it’s damn near impossible. Besides, as you say, a million seven is very, very rich . . . Unless someone else is footing the bill.’
‘I don’t see it, Maury. What’s he got to sell – or pledge for that matter?’
‘You,’ said Maury Feldman softly. ‘You and Proteus. We know there’s a market, don’t we?’
‘God Almighty! . . . But no! I can’t believe it. We’ve never had a traitor yet.’
‘That’s inflation for you. A really good Judas gets a lot more than thirty pieces of silver.’
It helped sometimes to be flippant; it was a useful shorthand in which to deal with the complexities of a huge power-structure like Spada Consolidated. But, neither Spada nor Maury Feldman was prepared to discount the risks of a traitor – or even a too ambitious servant within the organisation. The base was so broad, the information so valuable, the opportunities for action so diverse, that a venal executive could make millions out of a carefully planned malfeasance.
The danger to the Proteus organisation was even more acute. Mike Santos had not yet been called upon to participate in its activities, but the mere knowledge of its existence and its structure, was a weapon in his hand. Spada and Feldman debated the problem for two hours, while Maury’s doodlings became more erotic and more fantastical. Finally, Spada summed up wearily:
‘… Item one: we may be doing Mike a grave injustice. Item two: he’s gone rotten and we have to get rid of him. Item three: we don’t need judicial proof – just enough to nail the indictment on his door and frighten him into telling us what game he’s playing and with whom.’
‘So we investigate him.’
‘Leave that to me,’ said John Spada grimly. ‘Before I’ve finished, I’ll know what goddam soap he uses in the bathtub!’
‘And if he doesn’t check out clean, we blow him out of the water.’
‘Better if he hangs himself,’ said John Spada. ‘I’ll happily bury him in the potter’s field.’
The precarious calm which he had enjoyed since his return from Washington was shattered now. He was out of the eye of the hurricane, and back in the boiling darkness of the storm. When he left Maury Feldman’s office he walked the thirty blocks to his apartment, forcing himself to reason, steadying himself for the domestic encounters of the evening.
He would not tell Anna. There was no point in upsetting her with news that he still could not explain
to himself. He thought of calling Kitty Cowan, the most obvious monitor of events in Spada Consolidated. Once again he decided on silence. Kitty’s loyalties were long; but her temper was very short and he could not risk a premature explosion in the glass tower. He needed cool counsel, and a conspirator’s finesse. So he stepped into a bar, called a Manhattan number and left a message for the Scarecrow Man.
When he reached the apartment, Anna was out. She had left a message saying that she was at the hairdresser’s and that she had arranged with Carlos to pick her up and drive her back. On his desk in the study there was a registered letter. The stamp and the postmark were Swiss but the letter was handwritten by Kurt Deskau in Munich. Deskau’s handwriting was tight and crabbed, the style prosaic and stilted, so that it took Spada some time to decipher the whole text. It was not an encouraging document.
My dear friend,
I break a good habit and put sensitive matters on paper. When you have read this, destroy it. I am paid as a policeman and not as a political journalist.
I have followed, in the European press, the accounts of your doings in Argentina. I rejoice that you were able to secure your son-in-law’s release; though I am well aware of the risk you incurred and the dangers that must still threaten you. It is these dangers which prompt me to write.
I do not have to explain to you that police work has now become an international trade. All national forces communicate with one another, even though they do not expose all that they know. However, to the degree that we have common concerns, as with hijacking, terrorist activities, drug-running, fugitive murderers or grand thieves, we do co-operate.
I have been recently in Italy to confer with the police on the Moro affair and the possible involvement of German elements in the kidnap. I have also been to Stockholm, Amsterdam, Vienna, and to a three-day international police seminar in Paris. So I have picked up some important information. As a good clerk, I list it by numbers.
First: you, yourself, have become notorious. Everybody agrees that the Argentines were fools to attack your family; but many are frightened by the idea of an enormously wealthy man meddling in the political underground. You will smile when I say it, but criminals and police have a very private life together, and they don’t like outsiders.
