by Emma Lathen
Belatedly the assembly remembered that, in one way or another, they all represented the Diplomatic Corps, and the policeman represented the Host Country. With one accord they produced a shower of emendations that might have gone on forever if Hugo Cramer had not emerged from the guest room. Leaning his bulky shoulders against the closed door, he announced his decision.
“I’m taking Dave home with me—right away.” This simple statement evoked a chorus of protests. Cramer reserved his fire.
“All right,” he said with deceptive mildness, “what do you suggest?”
There was no lack of advice. “Mr. Wylie needs the reassurance of a familiar, affectionate figure. That is why I strongly urge the presence of his wife. Then—” “The last time Dave saw his wife she told him she was junking him in favor of a newer model.” Cramer’s irony had the subtlety of a kicking mule.
Without a blink the doctor shifted gears. “Then perhaps we should forget about Mrs. Wylie. But he still needs complete rest and quiet in safe surroundings. Some blood tests wouldn’t be a bad idea, either. He himself has no idea how systematically he was drugged. And, above all, no excitement, no pressure, none of these business problems.”
Cramer deliberately misunderstood. “I wasn’t planning to have him punch into the office tomorrow morning. No, he’s going to my place on the Gulf of Mexico. He can lie in the sun, snooze in a hammock, do a little fishing when he feels up to it. We can probably even manage to scare up a blood test back in the States. So my program really boils down to the same thing as yours.” He had reckoned without the psychologist. “As far as it goes, your regimen is admirable.” A persuasive smile appeared as an automatic prelude to the next sentence. “But we can’t deny that Mr. Wylie is hardly in a normal state of mind, can we? It’s at moments like this that a supervised environment is so important.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Cramer said ominously before turning to the Turkish police captain. “I think I heard you making objections, too.”
“Assuredly you did. It is unthinkable that Mr. Wylie should leave Turkey when he is needed as a witness.”
Cramer’s jaw shot forward. “A witness to what? The poor guy was blindfolded most of the time. All he ever saw was some ski masks.”
“Nonetheless, Mr. Wylie might still prove invaluable. Kidnap victims in the past have often provided assistance to the police.”
“Such as?”
“They have been able to identify a voice or recognize a room.”
Cramer was openly challenging. “Have you got a voice for Dave to listen to?”
“At the moment, no.”
“Or a room for him to look at?”
Under this catechism Captain Harbak reddened, but he held his ground stubbornly. “Not yet.”
“That’s what I thought.” Abruptly Cramer dismissed the policeman to broaden his attack. “What gives with you people, anyway? Here’s a poor guy who hasn’t known for weeks whether he’s going to end up dead or alive. Sure, he’s jittery. I’ll give you that. But your idea of the way to calm him down is to treat him as if he’s crazy. Let me tell you, he’d be a whole lot crazier if he’d come out of this icy calm.”
Dr. Wennergren was still trying. “Good God, you’ve misunderstood me. It’s Mr. Wylie’s physical well-being that concerns me. Of course that is partly dependent on his emotional—”
Paying no heed, Cramer continued his torpedoes. “And just because the police in this town haven’t come up with a single lead in over three weeks, they can’t think of anything better to do than pass the buck. Suddenly it’s all Dave’s fault. What in Lord’s name is this crap about his not cooperating? Answer me that.”
Like many speakers carried away by the sound of their own voices, Cramer had paused only to provide dramatic emphasis for his next sentence. His adversary, however, seized the opportunity.
“Mr. Wylie became completely unreasonable when I asked who had foreknowledge of his movements on the day of the kidnapping,” Harbak explained severely.
“Don’t tell me you’re on this crazy kick, too . . .” Cramer began, before the implications of the captain’s statement sank in. He was almost strangling with fury when he continued. “Dear God, now you’re accusing Paul Volpe.”
“I am not accusing. I am merely—”
“Then I’m not accusing either. I’m just saying that, even if Black Tuesday kidnapped Dave, somebody else is sure trying to make capital out of it. And he seems to have found himself a willing helper.”
By now both men were glaring at each other with such patent hostility that alarm bells sounded for the embassy personnel. They hurled themselves into the fray.
“Captain, I assure you Mr. Cramer is not suggesting any lack of propriety by the Turkish police.”
“Mr. Cramer, you must recognize the captain’s duty to consider all possibilities.”
Left to his own devices, the captain might have backed down, but he was never given the chance.
“I can recognize a setup when I see one,” Cramer said flatly. “And that settles it. Dave’s leaving right away. If anybody’s got questions for him, or for Paul Volpe, they can ask them at Macklin headquarters. As soon as Dave’s on his feet, he’ll tell his story, but not to some kangaroo court!”
It came to pass in Houston several weeks later.
“As a matter of fact, this will be the first time I’ve heard Wylie’s story,” Arthur Shute was explaining to the delegation from the Sloan. “He’s been recuperating down at Hugo’s place on the Gulf.”
Courteously John Thatcher hoped that Wylie was now fully recovered from his dreadful experience. “And I trust he’s not coming back to the office simply to work out the revolving loan on the Noss Head contract. Trinkam and Cramer can handle it quite well.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Hugo Cramer reassured him. “Dave’s raring to get back into the saddle. I had a hard time getting him to sit still this past week.”
Arthur Shute nodded approvingly. “I’m glad to hear that. I won’t say it’s a pleasure to be held up for a million plus dollars, but we’re coming out of this better than I expected. Dave Wylie is uninjured and we’ve won Noss Head. Even our ambassador in Turkey has calmed down. For a couple of days there he wanted Hugo’s head on a platter.”
Charlie Trinkam was interested. “What have you been up to, Hugo? Misbehaving in Istanbul?”
“I never got the chance.” Cramer grinned. “Let’s say I had a difference of opinion with the embassy doctors about diagnosis.”
“According to the ambassador,” said Shute, “you got Wylie out of Ankara as if you were on a commando raid.”
Cramer shrugged impenitently. “They were driving Dave up a wall. And when it comes to a choice between one of my boys and a bunch of bureaucrats, it’s no contest as far as I’m concerned.”
“I’ve been a bureaucrat myself,” Shute reminded him good-naturedly. “They were probably just being over-cautious about Dave’s health.”
“Well you can see for yourself how my treatment worked,” said Cramer as Shute’s secretary opened the door to usher in the last conference member. “Hi, Dave, you look great.”
He was not exaggerating, Privately John Thatcher thought that Wylie was a splendid testimonial to Cramer’s methods. Macklin’s European manager was not only tanned and vigorous, he was clear-eyed and alert. After acknowledging introductions, he got down to business immediately.
“I know you want my report on what happened in Istanbul, Arthur. Then I’d like to catch up on Noss Head as soon as possible.”
“If you don’t want to talk about the kidnapping, Dave, I don’t want to press you,” Shute began.
Wylie waved away his qualms. “It doesn’t bother me, but I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. The first thing they did in the car was blindfold me. Then they must have given me a shot of some sort. When I woke up, I had no idea where I was or how long it took to get there.”
“Were you still blindfolded?”
; “I was blindfolded all the time I was in the first room.”
This was news to Shute. “You were moved?”
“It’s hard to be certain. But I’d almost swear to it.” Wylie searched his memory. “After a couple of days, I blacked out again. When I came to that time, they’d taken away the blindfold and put me into different clothes. And the bed sure felt different.”
His audience exchanged glances. As usual, Charlie Trinkam was the one ready to risk speculation. “That could have been about the time you were supposed to be released—after Black Tuesday got its ransom. Did you hear anything about that?”
“You don’t understand,” Wylie explained. “Most of the time I was alone. Every now and then two of them would show up in ski masks. One of them would hold a gun on me, and the other one would put down some food or take me to the bathroom. They never told me anything.”
“And his clothes weren’t any help,” Shute murmured. “The Turkish police kept the clothes Dave turned up in. But they were some cheap Italian jeans and a shirt that students around the Mediterranean buy by the ton.”
Wylie elaborated. “They were wearing jeans, too, if that means anything. I really don’t know what else to tell you. Every day was the same until I lost all track of time. It was a shock when I got out to learn it was just three weeks. It felt like months.”
“But they didn’t mistreat you?”
“No, what got me down was the strain of not knowing what was going on.”
For the first time there was a tremor of emotion in Davidson Wylie’s voice. “You knew about Black Tuesday and the ransom notes. I didn’t. To me, it was just a bunch of invisible guys holding guns on me. Anything could have been happening. A revolution in Turkey, the beginning of World War III, or a case of mistaken identity.”
John Thatcher was thoughtful. “So we still don’t understand why they didn’t let you go on schedule. Particularly when they went ahead and released you later.”
“It’s a mystery to me,” Wylie confessed. “All I can tell you is what I overheard the last night. They blindfolded me again, bundled me into a car, and we drove for what seemed like hours. One of them kept saying we’d gone far enough and the other one insisted we go farther. Finally he snapped something about this being the price for changing the game plan.”
Cramer snorted. “Ten to one, somebody had the bright idea of hanging on to you for a second round of ransom. Then the big boys caught up with him and squashed the scheme.”
“If so, I’m grateful to them. All I know is that they pushed me out of the car in the middle of nowhere. It took me hours to get to a small town and I just had one idea. I marched into the police station and demanded to be taken to the American embassy. It didn’t seem safe anyplace else.”
“And a fat lot of good the embassy was,” Cramer growled unforgivingly.
Wylie was more detached. “You know, Hugo, I’m grateful as hell to you for coming to get me, but you handled them all wrong.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“In Europe, people are very status-conscious,” Wylie informed him. “When an outsider shows up giving orders, it blows their chain of command. What you should have done is gotten hold of the Turkish minister of development and the ambassador. Then they could have given the orders.”
As the afternoon wore on it became clear that this was merely the first emergence of a persistent leitmotif. When Arthur Shute explained how the PR staff in Houston planned to exploit this return from the dead, Wylie smiled gently.
“That may be all right with CBS or People. The American media are interested in personalities. The European press is more serious-minded. I’ve already called my assistant in London and dictated a short statement about the economic and political implications of my kidnapping. That’s what they’ll be concerned about on the Continent.”
Charlie Trinkam stirred restively. “Is that so?” he muttered, remembering Paris Soir’s helicopter above the Bahnhofstrasse and the endless columns in Stern.
When it came to Turkish feelers about Paul Volpe, Wylie was more charitable than Hugo Cramer. “Of course that’s absurd. They know the terrorists simply trailed us to that restaurant. But the Turkish police are in an impossible situation, and they’re trying to save face.”
John Thatcher made a small bet with himself about the next sentence and, sure enough, it came right on schedule.
“Prestige is much more important over there than it is here. But it’s unrealistic to expect the police to handle this on a national level. It’s not like guerrillas in Argentina or Venezuela, who are basically local groups. These terrorists encompass the entire Mideast.”
But even Arthur Shute was annoyed when Wylie zeroed in on the Noss Head award for a display of superiority.
“It was a miracle that Hugo pulled that one out of the fire,” said Shute with asperity. “And I, for one, am very grateful to him.”
Now it was Cramer acting the role of peacemaker. “Look, we all know it was Dave’s work that set the whole thing up for the final push.”
“I’m not denying that Hugo did an outstanding job,” Wylie said earnestly. “And I know that getting the contract was the primary goal, but was it necessary to ruffle quite so many feathers?” He tried to soften the charge by producing a rueful smile. “Your telephone bill at the beach may be quite a shock when it comes, Hugo. I decided it was politic to make a number of personal calls to Livermore and Carmichael in London. Oh, yes, and I finally tracked down Klaus Engelhart in Oslo.”
“For Lord’s sake, why do we have to soft-soap him?”
“Because I want his outfit to bid on some of the secondary work,” Wylie retorted. “And remember, Hugo, you can stay in Houston from now on, but I expect to be working with these people for years. And, in Europe, this kind of relationship has to be handled ...”
Back at the motel, Charlie Trinkam summed up his impressions of Davidson Wylie:
“Why did they blindfold him? It would have made more sense if they’d gagged him. Given half a chance, he would have lectured them on how we experts do things in Palestine.”
But Thatcher, who had made an interesting discovery when he stopped at the desk for mail, was only half-listening.
“Well, Macklin pays him to tell them how to do business in Europe. They have to get their money’s worth.”
“Fine!” said Charlie, rooting vigorously in a drawer. “But as soon as we start working on the fine print, I’m going to let him know who’s the expert on how American bankers do business in Houston.”
“I’m sure you will.” Thatcher was amused. “And by that time I’m equally sure that you’ll have some reliable insights into what makes Davidson Wylie tick.”
Charlie emerged from the bureau with a shirt in his hand and deep suspicion on his face.
“What are you talking about, John?”
“We have a new guest in this motel. Mrs. Francesca Wylie just signed in.”
Chapter 8
Known Reserves
Oil and natural gas are scarce resources, hence valuable. Contrary to the opinion prevalent in Houston, there are others. Coffee beans and blue chip stocks are in short supply. So are dollars, pounds, drachmas, and yen. Big banks deal impartially with all these items. This imposed an outer limit on the amount of attention John Thatcher could spare Macklin and North Sea oil, important as they were. Sooner than he expected, he was obliged to leave them in Charlie Trinkam’s capable hands. A call from Everett Gabler about a faltering department store chain in Florida summoned him back to the Sloan.
At the Sloan travel department Mr. Elliman could not believe his ears.
“Now, let me see if I understand this. Mr. Trinkam will be staying on in Houston? And Mr. Thatcher wants to fly back to New York this evening?” he asked in long-suffering tones.
“Yes,” said Miss Corsa.
The London detour had been bad enough. Houston, Texas, acted on Mr. Elliman like the dark side of the moon.
“Well, I’ll have the limousine there to m
eet the six o’clock flight,” he said gamely. “I presume Mr. Thatcher will be going home.”
Miss Corsa presumed so, too, which was a mistake since Elliman thought he detected fellow feeling.
“Unless he wants to take off for Quito next!”
Miss Corsa was not letting this pass. “Mr. Thatcher will let you know if he has immediate travel plans,” she said, ignoring Ecuador.
But Elliman revealed a madcap side. “Oh Miss Corsa,” he cried manically, “how can you!”
Miss Corsa was not kittenish. “So, if the limousine meets the six o’clock—”
“Don’t worry!” Elliman said. “I’ll be sure to pick up your wandering boy.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Corsa, swallowing hard.
Elliman was convinced they were comrades. “I suppose it’s miserable for you upstairs,” he said compassionately, “having Mr. Trinkam out of town for such long periods.”
On the sixth floor, more correct views about the chain of command prevailed.
“If John doesn’t run an eye over these new budget proposals soon, they’ll be out of date. You’ve got to move fast to keep up with Washington, these days,” said Walter Bowman, emerging from the catacombs of the research department with a sheaf of papers. A large, exuberant man, he was an optimist by nature, a. cynic by necessity.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” said Miss Corsa, generously.
“And high time,” said Bowman, returning to his lair.
Everett Gabler, too, was happy to hear that Thatcher would be back in short order. Not only were six Bligh stores trembling on the brink, clouds were gathering over a commodity option broker in Chicago.
“John will want to keep on top of the situation,” he said with somber relish.
Thus Thatcher’s departure from the Tidewater Motel was of interest to several people.
But Francesca Wylie’s arrival was a real blockbuster.
News that she, her husband, and Klaus Engelhart were all staying at the Tidewater roared through the ladies’ rooms of the Macklin Company like a forest fire. For years Dave Wylie had been a remote employee about whom the office staff knew little and cared less. Suddenly kidnapping transformed him into an instant celebrity. Overnight everyone had become familiar with his handsome blond features. Within 48 hours it was household knowledge that he was 42, a graduate of Stanford Business School, and a married man with an Italian wife and no children.
