by Emma Lathen
He was looking drawn and weary. Inexorably, the Noss Head negotiations had begun on schedule. By day Cramer was sitting in the chair that everybody had expected to see occupied by Davidson Wylie. By night he haunted Scotland Yard, seeking the latest information.
“On the practical level, it means we have no place to start. Black Tuesday has no known supporters or known locations. But even more important, it means we have no idea what they’re interested in. They probably don’t have members already in prison, so it would have to be a political issue.”
“Look, they’ve already gotten their money, and you don’t think it’s prisoners. What else could it be?” The detective looked grim. “I just hope we don’t have a terrorist group with its eye on North Sea oil.”
“Oh, my God!”
Klaus Engelhart, on the other hand, was growing sleeker and more content with each passing day.
“There is no doubt that Macklin’s presentation is not as strong as I expected,” he said, cradling a brandy snifter between his hands. “I am afraid that Mr. Cramer is far from being an adequate substitute for Dave.”
“Klaus, dear, is it too much to ask you to moderate your self-congratulations and remember that my husband’s life may be in danger?”
Engelhart’s eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “But liebchen, Dave has my best wishes for continued good health and spirits. I merely ask that for the next few weeks he enjoy them someplace other than London.”
The first public mention of Noss Head in connection with Davidson Wylie’s kidnapping appeared in a London daily the next morning.
“. . . still missing. Nonetheless, negotiations for the award of the contract are proceeding as planned. “It is impossible to overestimate the damage caused to Macklin by the absence of Davidson Wylie,” said one of the participants in the conference. Other firms discussing Noss Head with the Department of Energy include Norddeutsche Werke GmbH of Germany and ...”
“That goddamn bastard!” exploded Hugo Cramer, before automatically reaching toward the phone and a consultation with Houston, Texas.
It took exactly three mail deliveries for Cramer’s premonitions to be realized. The slit envelope had already been tossed into the wastebasket. The letter, its text crudely assembled from slivers of newsprint, lay on top of the welter of papers and charts overflowing Cramer’s desk.
“Don’t touch it!” he ordered.
He might just as well have told Paul Volpe not to pet a tarantula. With elaborate care Volpe leaned forward.
MACKLIN TYRANTS-MANKIND WILL BE FREED FROM ITS CHAINS OR BLOOD WILL FLOW. IF WYLIE IS OF VALUE TO YOU MAKE YOURSELVES READY FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. LIBERTY AND JUSTICE IN EXCHANGE FOR ONE MAN. OUR DEMANDS WILL COME.
BLACK TUESDAY
“You were right,” Volpe gulped. “You said something like this would happen.”
“It didn’t take a genius,” Cramer said bleakly. “Engelhart got what he wanted, all right. You saw how that story was picked up by all the other papers. He as good as told Black Tuesday that, if they hung on to Dave, they’d have Macklin over a barrel.”
“Of course they were already holding on to him,” Volpe pointed out.
Cramer dismissed the past with a brusque gesture. “Hell, I don’t know what that foul-up was. But I sure as hell know what’s going on now.”
“What do you think Black Tuesday will ask for?”
“Look at the letter. They don’t even know themselves. Black Tuesday has probably sent out for an adding machine.” Cramer’s thick fingers tightened around a pencil. “And there’s not a goddam thing we can do but sit and wait.”
Turkey was one of the few places where positive action was possible. On remote highways leading east, roadblocks were still being manned. The fishing fleet had become accustomed to rigorous searches before putting out to sea. But it was in Istanbul that the latest communication from Black Tuesday caused a storm of renewed activity. The police were combing the city, from the luxury hotels overlooking the Bosporus to the noisome stews of Haydarpasar.
Captain Harbak fastidiously remained in his car, leaving subordinates to fan through every squalid warren on Begii Street.
The report, delivered by his perspiring lieutenant, was negative.
“You do not surprise me,” said Harbak. “If Black Tuesday is hiding Wylie on Begii Street, they are even less comprehensible than they seem.”
Pezmoglu’s silence was tacit agreement. Not much could be kept secret in the teeming humanity of Begii Street. But Turkish police surveillance of secluded villas as far away as Sariyer was also proving fruitless.
Istanbul is a big city. However, it is not a city in which an American businessman can normally be kept from official attention, whether through formal or informal channels. And, contrary to what enemies of Turkey may claim, it is no simple matter to dispose of a dead body in Istanbul.
So, frustration was mounting to the boiling point.
“If we only knew something about Black Tuesday,” said Pezmoglu humbly.
“If we knew anything about Black Tuesday, we would not be crawling through every alley in Istanbul,” said Harbak.
Vast and intricate as the city is, the police know it as do few others. Black Tuesday, by contrast, was still a closed book. Bonn, San Juan, and Tel Aviv had been canvassed. National and international agencies had been alerted. But no link with Palestinian terrorists had come to light, no tie to Japanese anarchists, to Argentine urban guerrillas, or to Croatian nationalists.
There was only the language of the two ransom notes.
“Strange, as I say,” Harbak mused. “At first they demanded all possible speed. Bankers must fly here, there and everywhere to meet their deadline. TV cameras must record for the world how their orders are obeyed. Now the tempo of their movement changes. It is a question of waiting for their next communication. They do not even send their letters to a newspaper to ensure giant headlines. They are content to work behind the scenes. What can Black Tuesday want?”
Turkish police are not notoriously overpaid.
“More money,” Pezmoglu suggested.
Harbak stirred. “That is always possible,” he conceded with the ingrained respect of the Near East for wealth. “But I do not think it is that simple.”
“Nothing is ever simple,” sighed Pezmoglu, who had just sighted his squad emerging from an alley, their leader shaking his head.
As Pezmoglu organized the intricate process of moving the police cordon to the next square on the grid, Harbak had ample leisure to pursue his thoughts. He had arrived at some fundamental conclusions by the time his driver inched the car forward to its new command post in the very heart of Istanbul’s slums. When his lieutenant returned to sit out the next round of the search, Harbak was visible only as a darker shadow in the prevailing gloom, his face occasionally reddened by the glowing ember of a cigarette.
“This block will take over an hour, Captain,” Pezmoglu offered.
Harbak ignored this contribution. “Of course, we have all seen these newspaper articles claiming that Davidson Wylie is necessary to his company’s success in its current London activities. This Mr. Cramer who calls me so incessantly is convinced that the publicity has encouraged Black Tuesday to suppose it can raise its price. In fact, he goes further. He claims that one of his company’s competitors deliberately leaked the news in order to prolong Wylie’s absence.”
“But Black Tuesday had already failed to release Wylie on time.”
“Exactly! I am afraid that Mr. Cramer is blinded by the occupational bias of these businessmen. They ascribe all their misfortunes to their competitors. But you and I, Pezmoglu, we know better.”
It was a rare moment when Harbak joined himself to his subordinate in anything. Pezmoglu tried to measure up. “They forget that the arm of Allah is over all men.”
“Just so.” Harbak was kind but perfunctory. “And Mr. Cramer also forgets that Black Tuesday has had an excellent source of information from the very beginning. They could ha
ve learned about these London negotiations from Davidson Wylie, himself.”
Pezmoglu nodded dumbly.
“Myself, I have always doubted that Wylie was their intended victim. We know that they set up their Zurich account months ago. We know that they planned this operation meticulously. Is it not logical, then, to suppose that Paul Volpe was their original target? But when his superior appeared unexpectedly, Black Tuesday decided on a substitution. You will recall that the first note did not mention Wylie by name, only the second.”
As Harbak explored the possibilities of his thesis, he puffed spasmodically on his cigarette. Pezmoglu, fascinated by the pulsating red glow, began to feel he was on the receiving end of Morse code. Confused, he could only stammer, “What difference would that make?”
“Ah, you do not see the implications. Black Tuesday is a new group. Its members have not worked together, they have no tested chain of command. Then, at the outset of their first venture, they are faced with a startling development. They have much more leverage than they anticipated. Naturally they disagree as to their procedure. They have already set the wheels of the first ransom in motion. Some of them, the more unimaginative ones, I am afraid, Pezmoglu, see only the opportunity for more money. Some of them, with an eye to the future, wish to honor their commitment in order to retain credibility for their next operation. And still others wish to seize the moment and stage a spectacular coup. They go through with their original plan in Zurich. But they retain their victim while the discussion rages. That is why their pace has slowed. That is why their second note is not specific. They have still not resolved the dissension in their own ranks.”
Exhausted by this speculative effort, Harbak stubbed out his cigarette and sank back on a cloud of triumph.
Pezmoglu’s professional life was an uneasy balance between tendering uncritical admiration and asking the right question. Usually the traffic signals were clearer.
“What kind of spectacular coup?” he asked warily.
“Who knows? But I will tell you one thing,” Harbak continued. “The answer does not lie here. Why was an employee of Macklin chosen in the first place?”
Pezmoglu did not think twice. “Black Tuesday is anti-American.”
“Nonsense! All these groups are anti-American, even the American ones. No, Macklin was chosen because it is an oil company. Interpol keeps saying that there is no information about Black Tuesday. But that is not true. We know that Black Tuesday ranges widely over many borders—a kidnapping in Istanbul, a ransom in Zurich, now a letter mailed in London. But there is another element in this equation that crosses national frontiers as well. North Sea oil is of importance to. England, to Germany, to Scandinavia. Somehow the two are connected. That is why your men have heard no rumors, found no suspects. Turkey is an accidental location for this crime. Its center of gravity,” said Harbak, soaring into theatrics, “lies on a tiny spithead in northern Scotland.”
This time the green light was unmistakable.
“Extraordinary!” Pezmoglu murmured dutifully.
Chapter 5
Dry Well
In New York, two weeks later, John Thatcher’s secretary was waiting too. The Sloan travel department had promised to get back to Miss Corsa by three o’clock at the latest,
It was now three-fifteen.
Miss Corsa clucked. She had many demands upon her time. John Thatcher’s work continued to pile up even when John Thatcher was in Switzerland. And this absence was turning out worse than usual. Since her employer’s fleeting career as a TV personality, Miss Corsa had been inundated with inquiries from NBC, the Detroit Free Press, and the Harvard Alumni Bulletin.
What was Mr. Thatcher’s philosophy regarding terrorism?
Was this the first time the Sloan had participated in a ransom payment?
Did Miss Corsa personally feel that Davidson Wylie was dead or alive?
Fortunately, Miss Corsa’s order of priorities was deeply rooted. Crime and punishment were not her domain; the travel department was. When Mr. Thatcher’s office expected a message at three o’clock, the message had better arrive at three o’clock. Miss Corsa might have to tolerate infraction of this iron law by the outer world, but within the Sloan she was a holy terror.
So, instead of typing Thatcher’s latest batch of dictation tapes, she set forth for the second floor. Given a moderately just cause, as Thatcher had often remarked, Miss Corsa’s strength was the strength of ten.
Her trip through the trust department to the elevators was not uneventful.
“Ah, Miss Corsa,” said Everett Gabler, who was Thatcher’s oldest and most dedicated subordinate. “I was just coming to see if you have copies of the Albritton report.”
“I believe we do,” said Miss Corsa.
“Excellent, excellent,” said Gabler, a stickler for precision and order. “I would like to borrow one, if I may.”
With equal punctilio, Miss Corsa assured him that the Albritton report would be on his desk later in the afternoon.
Gabler was single-minded to a fault. “Do you think you might just step back—”
“I’m afraid not,” said Miss Corsa without hesitation. “I have to go down to the second floor right now.”
“Oh dear, it would be such a help,” he persevered. This got him nowhere, as Miss Corsa was continuing on her way.
“Second floor?” he said, ticking over the possibilities once he saw the game was lost. “Do you mean the travel department? John is still due back the day after tomorrow, isn’t he? I hope to goodness he isn’t going to be tied up over there.”
But Miss Corsa had passed out of earshot. If she had heard, she would not have deprecated Gabler’s sentiments, or his invidious truncation of the traveling party. Charlie Trinkam ran a poor second with her, too.
Mr. Elliman, the resident mastermind of the Sloan travel department, did not seem to understand. A tall, bright-eyed man, he lived to make business travel as enjoyably broadening as possible.
“Ah, Miss Corsa,” he sang out when she appeared. “I was just going to call.”
“I thought I’d better come down and see you myself,” she said.
This reply, which would have made the blood of any member of the trust department run cold, delighted Mr. Elliman.
“I’m so glad you did,” he twinkled. “Here, do sit down. Now, it’s about Mr. Trinkam—and Mr. Thatcher, too—isn’t it? They’re coming back Wednesday. I’ve ticketed them through our Swiss people, so there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Everything will be hunky-dory. And, if I know Mr. Trinkam, he’ll really enjoy his stopover in Paris, ha ha!”
There was much in this effusion to displease Miss Corsa. But she hewed to her line.
“Mr. Elliman, Mr. Thatcher prefers not to have any stopovers.”
“Zurich to New York? Oh, I strongly recommend Paris. I think they will both find—”
“Mr. Thatcher likes to travel nonstop,” said Miss Corsa inexorably.
Elliman pouted. “But that will mean changing everything, including the hotel reservations.”
“I’m afraid it will be necessary.”
Like so many people who make wonderful plans, Mr. Elliman did not like altering them. “Well, I’ll try,” he said discontentedly.
“Thank you very much.”
But Elliman, balked of Paris, fell prey to self-pity. “You know, it isn’t easy rearranging everything at the last minute. Especially during the tourist season. You probably don’t realize how many flights they’ve oversold.”
Elliman devoutly believed that dealing with airlines and hotels required nerves of steel, the sensitivity of an artist, and the heart of a lion. He glossed over the immense Sloan travel budget, which was, in fact, his weightiest weapon. “All I can say, Miss Corsa, is I’ll do my very best.”
Miss Corsa was not even tempted to make the obvious comment.
It was only to be expected that John Thatcher was not exhibiting comparable restraint.
For the past three weeks, h
e and Trinkam had quietly effected a massive reorganization of the Sloan’s credits in Europe, using Switzerland as clearinghouse. Methodically working their way through currencies, they had dropped banks and added banks until the monumental task was completed.
“And not a minute too soon,” he remarked, as he and Charlie Trinkam waited for their host to decide on the wine.
Herr Leopold Grimm, who was celebrating their joint achievement with the finest dinner that Zurich could provide, dismissed the sommelier and continued his review of every judgment they had made. On the whole he was pleased. Italy still bothered him, but the lira, they all agreed, was in the hands of God. Inspired by his continental survey, he ventured further afield.
“But even though your work in Europe is done, there are still problems ahead. Did I not hear that you would be financing Macklin if they obtain the Noss Head contract?” He shook his head in foreboding. “You may have more difficulty with your pound balances than you have had with everything else.”
“There’s time enough to worry about that. From what we hear, it appears very unlikely that Macklin will be successful. They are really feeling the loss of Davidson Wylie.” Only half of Thatcher’s mind was on his answer. Like a true professional, he was neatly docketing a fact. Common Market or no, Swiss bankers still thought of Europe and Great Britain as entirely distinct areas.
Herr Grimm was free of such distractions. “It cannot be easy for a last-minute replacement to join such a delicate negotiation. Quite apart from the technical details that he must master.”
“The technical details aren’t the problem.” Charlie was fast becoming a Macklin expert. “Hugo Cramer was nerved up to sub for Wylie for a couple of days. Now that it’s been two weeks, I hear tell that he’s coming apart at the seams.”
“And the person who tells you is Paul Volpe,” Thatcher commented, amused.
Charlie conceded a hit. “Oh, I admit the kid’s got an axe to grind. He thinks he should be in charge of the whole thing himself. But Cramer isn’t helping by nagging at the Turkish police. Apparently he calls them twice a day.”
