Heat of Passion

by Harold Robbins

  I hadn’t thought of any of this until the merry-go-round suddenly stopped and I was thrown off and landed on my head. Bernie hadn’t done me a favor—may the egotistical bastard burn in the everlasting fires of hell. But his screwup had given me more than a wake-up call about my money. Things were still a little blurry because I was still dizzy from the crash landing, but I could see that what I had called living was just a series of isolated events—this week’s fuck, this week’s fun—rather than a whole performance. Like the title of a book I was supposed to read in college but never got all the way through the Cliffs Notes, my life had been all sound and fury, signifying nothing.

  “No friends, no nothing.”

  The driver asked me what I’d said. At least, I think that’s what he asked. In my father’s time, the drivers had hard-to-understand Brooklyn accents. Now they had hard-to-understand accents that came with turbans and green cards. Camel jockeys, sand niggers, towel heads, those were the sort of derisive names my acquaintances—ex-acquaintances—called them. But none of the people deriding the drivers did as much work in a year as these people did in a week. What would it be like to have to drive a taxi and live in a rat hole so you could send money home to your family in the Third World, a family that would starve without it? What goes on in your mind, in your gut, when the rear passenger door of your cab opens at night and you see a guy getting in that looks like he backs out of liquor stores, high on crack, holding a Saturday night special and wearing a ski mask—and tells you to take him to a place where it’s dark and lonely and no one hears gunshots and screams? What kind of crap do these people take from johns and whores and druggies and people who puke and piss—

  I shivered and shrugged off the idea of ever driving a taxi. When I got that poor, I’d go the Midnight Cowboy route and make oral contracts in Central Park rest rooms before I’d take the crap a poor bastard who drove a cab in New York City took.

  When I got out of the cab, I tossed the guy a hundred, over twice the fare, and told him to keep the change. My days as a big spender were over, but it was important to me not to feel broke.

  15

  I was going through airport security when I saw a woman about my age, maybe a couple years older, passing through the metal detector ahead of me. I liked the view from the back and it got even better when I saw the rest of her. She was a redhead, one of my many weaknesses.

  A book had slipped out of her open bag as it went through the security scanner. I grabbed it and called after her as she was walking away.

  “You dropped this.” I looked at the title. The Social Economics of Third World Famines.

  “I think I saw the movie,” I said, grinning and handing her the book.

  She gave me a look that would chill a rabid dog. “Did you enjoy the part where children are cannibalized for food?”

  Oh, shit. She was that kind. Idealistic. Out to save the world.

  She joined a group of three men and another woman heading down the concourse. If it hadn’t been for the put-down, I probably wouldn’t have given her another thought. She was attractive, but definitely subzero. I’m not one of those men who grovel at the feet of women who step on them, but it always makes the chase more interesting when there are hurdles to jump. Besides, there was that red hair.

  I got behind the group at the gate check-in. When it was my turn with the young Portuguese woman behind the check-in counter, I indicated the redhead across the room.

  “I want her bumped up to first class, with the seat next to mine. I don’t care what it costs.” I still had my American Express Card. I couldn’t have left home without it.

  “Is that your wife?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “You’ll have to tell me.”

  The woman gave me an appraising look. “Your Portuguese is very good, Mr. Liberte.”

  “My mother was Portuguese.”

  “We have rules about these things.”

  “Americans have rules about these things. Portuguese have too much soul to let a technicality stand in the way of romance.”

  “Why don’t you just ask her yourself?”

  “I tried to put the make on her with my usual charm and wit and stuck my foot in my mouth. She’s a very serious woman with world-shattering matters on her mind.”

  “And you?”

  “Completely degenerate with a one-track mind.”

  The woman sighed. “Yes, you certainly have Portuguese blood in your veins.” She gave the redhead a look and checked her computer. “Marni Jones, Dr. Marni Jones. She’s ticketed with a UN group.”

  “How do I get her seated by me?”

  “What are your intentions with Dr. Jones?”

  “To make love with her when we reach Lisbon.”

  She nodded. “Well, that’s certainly nothing the airline would object to. As long as you wait until you disembark. The seat next to you is open. Boa sorte!”

  I barely acknowledged Dr. Jones as she hesitated in the plane aisle, looking at her boarding pass. Still appearing preoccupied, I got up so she could take the window seat. I didn’t want to show too much interest at first. It’s better to let an ice princess make the first move. We were airborne and served drinks before she spoke to me.

  “I’ve never flown first class before. Thank you.”

  I shrugged. “Can’t trust anyone with a secret nowadays. Did she tell you why I wanted to sit next to you?”

  “She said you planned to seduce me.”

  “And?”

  “I took the upgrade. But only for a better meal and a comfortable seat, Mr. Liberte.”

  “If you knew me better—”

  “But I do know you. The check-in clerk gave me this.”

  She pulled a People magazine out of her attaché bag. The cover proclaimed the Fifty Most Eligible Bachelors. She opened up to the story. “ ‘Win Liberte loves fast cars and fast women. He is rich, spoiled, drives a car that goes two-hundred miles per hour on public streets, dates supermodel Katarina Benes, and has never worked a day in his life.’ ”

  “Wow,” I said, “sounds like a great guy.”

  “Mr. Liberte—may I call you Win?”

  “Mister is fine.”

  “Mister, you are irrelevant.”

  “Christ, I’ve been called plenty of things, but what the hell is irrelevant? It sounds like a social disease.”

  “In a world in crisis, with wars, revolutions, starvation, injustice, and social upheavals gripping whole continents, do you know where fucking some bimbo while driving two hundred miles per hour on the freeway ranks?”

  I had the feeling she was going to tell me, so I cut her off at the pass.

  “Do you know what I think about the starving Africans and Asians?” I leaned closer. “We solve the world’s hunger problem by feeding half of them to the other half.”

  “I was wrong—you’re not irrelevant. You are a completely self-centered, avaricious, and degenerate bastard.”

  It didn’t take long to find out she was with a UN mission to Angola, stopping off for a conference with Portuguese aid officials before heading down to equatorial Africa.

  “Angola suffers from the Third World curse of natural resources, a petro-diamond syndrome. In almost every sub-Saharan country, the discovery of oil or diamonds has brought death and misery rather than peace and prosperity. In Angola, Sierra Leone, the Congos, it’s the same story over and over. Rebel warlords grab the oil wells or diamond-mining territories and use the output to buy the arms that keep them in power. They kill not by the hundreds or thousands, but murder, maim, and rape by the tens of thousands, millions have suffered or died.”

  “Tell me more about Angola,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I’ll buy the country someday.”

  “As I told you, it’s a war zone. Until 1975 it was a Portuguese colony. It broke away after years of fighting the Portuguese, but independence only changed who was fighting. From the time of
independence up to today, there’s been civil war between a group called the MPLA and one called the UNITA. The MPLA controlled the government and was backed by the Russians with thousands of Cuban troops; the UNITA was backed by the CIA.”

  “Good guys and bad guys.”

  “Bad guys and worse. President Reagan called Savimbi, the leader of the CIA-backed UNITA rebels, a hero. People in Angola call him a homicidal maniac, a psychopath, and worse. He steals children, takes them in when they’re starving on the streets, gets them hooked on drugs, gives them army rifles, and turns them into killers. The rebels and the government are supposed to have reached a peace accord, the Cubans have gone home, but no one’s serious about peace—war is too profitable. Savimbi has grabbed the diamond area, the government’s got the oil fields, they’re fighting covertly and overtly, and everyone’s happy except the millions of people who are starving.”

  “What do you have to do with all this?” I asked.

  “I monitor how much UN aid actually reaches the people who’re supposed to get it. This is my first trip to Angola, but I understand that if even half of it gets properly distributed, I should cheer.”

  She paused and gave me that icy look again. “I read that your family’s in the diamond business. You understand why they call them blood diamonds, Mr. Liberte, don’t you? Because they’re soaked with the blood of innocents.”

  I nodded and muttered something noncommittal about my family’s diamond business.

  “I recall that the House of Liberte is on the list of diamond-mine owners in Angola,” she said. “Have you even been to Angola to see what horrors the diamond industry has created there?”

  That was it, of course, my name was on the shit-list. She knew what a swine I was before she even met me. She looked like she was going to plunge the airline fork she was eating her salad with into my heart. I didn’t dare tell her that my present goal in life was to see if there was a way to squeeze enough blood out of my diamond mine to put me back in the style of life I’d had before the Fall.

  “Marni, did your mother pack you on her back during the sixties’ Berkeley demonstrations when you were a baby?”

  “Is that how you view concern for world suffering? As a throwback to the sixties? You are the most completely uninformed individual on the world outside your own selfish pleasures I have ever encountered.”

  “I’ll change, I promise.”

  “Mr. Liberte, do you know what I like about you?”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing. But now that we have that out of the way, will you have dinner with me in Lisbon?”

  “I’d rather eat with a viper.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  16

  Lisbon

  Coming out of customs and into the main concourse, I made one last try with Marni.

  “Are you sure you won’t have dinner with me?” I asked.

  “In all honesty, I should buy you dinner for the verbal assault you put up with for thousands of miles. But I’m going to be terribly busy with UN activities here in Lisbon—meetings every day, dinners every night—so I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on repaying you.”

  “Too bad, it’s going to be awful lonely here in Lisbon, not knowing a soul.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re going to be lonely.” She nodded over my shoulder. A woman was holding up a handkerchief with WIN written on it in lipstick. She laughed and waved the handkerchief when she saw me staring.

  “Good hunting,” Marni said, walking away.

  “I’m João’s wife,” Simone told me. “Sorry about the handkerchief but other than your sex and age, I didn’t know who to look for.”

  She spoke English with an intriguing accent. I needed practice with my Portuguese and lapsed into that after the intro.

  Simone drove a pearl-white vintage Rolls Royce Silver Cloud convertible. A little too tame and conservative for my tastes in transportation, but she looked good in it.

  She radiated naked sensuality. Her black hair, green eyes, and pale skin—which was almost as pearly as the car—accentuated the diamonds she wore. Big ones—on her ears, around her neck, on her wrists and fingers. They all had unique settings but she wore no other gems except diamonds. That was unusual. Most women mixed their jewels, adding some rubies or sapphires for color, although I noticed on a choker several yellow and green and even a rare light pink diamond. While the colors looked good, I knew they were not the best-grade diamonds. The choker would be worth a fortune if the colored diamonds were flawless fancies, not the sort of thing you wore to pick someone up at the airport. But even with serious flaws, the gems would have been worth a hunk.

  Rather than appearing ostentatious, the jewels looked good on her, like a diamond collar around the neck of a sleek jungle cat.

  I did a quick calculation of the age difference between her and João, who had to be about my father’s age, which would make him in his late sixties or early seventies. About twice Simone’s age, which I guessed to be around thirty-five.

  A hot young woman, a rich old man, probably not a match made in heaven, but I hadn’t seen João yet. Maybe he was a Portuguese Jack La Lanne.

  Something didn’t strike me right about Simone. She had an edge to her. Not so much the hard veneer some women get who’ve been treated roughly and have had to fight to survive. I saw a little of that in Katarina, a “don’t tread on me” attitude. Simone’s demeanor was quieter, more subtle, but infinitely more threatening. While Katarina might be tempted to scratch my eyes out, I suspected Simone was capable of kicking me in the balls and putting a knife at my throat if I pissed her off.

  I saw the first sign of it when we stepped out of the terminal. She had illegally parked the Rolls in front of the terminal—the arrogance of the rich. A traffic cop with an attitude written on his face was waiting—being able to chew out an illegal parker was probably the high point of his week. He didn’t get three words out of his mouth before she gave him a verbal tongue-lashing. I didn’t know a lot of Portuguese street slang, but I got the idea that it wasn’t the sort of talk Lisbon traffic cops often hear from women driving Rolls Royces.

  “Bastardo,” she said as we pulled away from the curve. “Petty little people with petty little rules.”

  “Remind me not to try and enforce any of my rules on you.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like policemen.” She laughed again. “I usually don’t launch such attacks on them. This one must have reminded me of someone I ran into when I was a girl.”

  It made me wonder what kind of past life she led that had brought her into conflict with cops. And if her present life still offered the opportunity.

  “You must think I’m horrible.”

  “No, actually, I need to improve my Portuguese vocabulary and I just learned some new words. I’m just not sure what sort of people I can use it on.”

  She laughed again. She laughed easily, freely, without reserve, just as she went to anger quickly and without restraint. I found myself immediately attracted to her sexually. I’ve heard it’s inbred into men to be attracted to women like United Nations Marni who make a man give chase, no doubt some sort of primeval instinct learned around the cave. Maybe so, but there’s also another kind of woman a man is irresistibly attracted to, the same sort of attraction a moth has batting its wings on the edge of a volcano. Women like Kathleen Turner in Body Heat, Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice, Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, and as far back as Lorelie and the Sirens, femme fatales have had an animal magnetism that leads a man to his ruin. Some bad men have that fatal magnetism, too, attracting good women to them.

  I told myself to keep my zipper pulled up tight. From what I’d heard about João from my father and Bernie, he was tough—not just in a business sense, but in a lethal way.

  In my mind, I saw him as the godfather of the Portuguese Mafia. Not to mention that the Portuguese had that Latin machismo that made it all right for a man to screw around, but made it punishable by de
ath for a man to mess with their women. An American husband was more inclined to throw a punch at a trespassing male than a knife or bullet. Getting carved up in Lisbon and suffering a pauper’s grave for eternity wasn’t on my agenda.

  “I’m surprised your father never brought you to Portugal,” she said. “João and he did business together long before you were born.”

  “Probably timing, things just didn’t come down right. My mother died when I was eight, my father a few years later. He never made a trip to Portugal after I was born. My mother’s health was bad and I understand he and João had worked together for so long it wasn’t necessary.”

  “I can set you up with her,” Simone said.

  “With who?”

  “The redhead you were trying to hustle as you got off the plane.”

  “Run a dating service?”

  “No, I noticed she’s wearing a UN food badge. She and her colleagues are here to meet with Portugal’s Angola aid society.”

  “You know someone with the society?”

  “Intimately. I’m the chairwoman.”

  Finding out she headed a charitable relief organization was no more surprising than if she had said she was an astronaut. Not that there’s a contradiction about a sensual animal being the chairwoman of an African relief society. But Simone didn’t seem like the charitable sort. Or a pillar of high society. My instant surmise was a connection between aid to Angola and Angolan diamonds, at least for her husband.

  She laughed at the look on my face. “João has a special interest in Angola.”

  “Have you been there?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Once. I almost died because I wouldn’t eat anything or drink anything and left the country as soon as I could. Whatever you’ve read or heard about it doesn’t match experiencing it.”

  She indicated the scenery we were passing. “All concrete buildings and freeway from the airport, but downtown Lisbon is a beautiful old city. Sintra, where we live, is less than thirty minutes from downtown, but it’s a different world. The village and its surroundings are considered one of the most scenic places in Europe. The United Nations declared it a World Heritage monument.”