Cassidy

by Morris West

  And that was another thing to note about Charlie Cassidy: he was committed, body, soul and breeches, to local politics, which is a game as bloody as cock-fighting. Yet, in a fashion rare among his ilk, he had managed to remain an international. He was a polyglot, too, with a passable fluency in Italian, French, Greek, German, Mandarin and Dutch. The languages were his passport into the migrant groups who now made solid voting blocs in every State of the Australian Continent. They were also the key that would open the doors to the underworld – to the Sicilian mafiosi and the Chinese triads who ran the girl traffic and the drug networks and battled for control of the gambling territories with the back-alley boys from Balmain.

  But, give the devil his due, there was a lot more to Cassidy than political calculation. Under all the fustian, there was an old-style Celtic scholar, greedy for knowledge, a Renaissance man, too, tempted always outward to the Spice Islands and far Cathay… At which point I stopped in my tracks. Why should I write a eulogy for Cassidy? He had cheated the hangman, but he had left my neck in the noose, and his daughter and his grandchildren in jeopardy.

  By the time I had finished my toilet the stewards were serving breakfast. My Lady Owl-Eyes was sitting up and taking hearty nourishment. She looked like a new woman. Her hair was brushed, there was colour in her cheeks. She smiled readily. Clearly, she was one of those precious creatures who know how to be agreeable at breakfast. We introduced ourselves formally.

  ‘Martin Gregory.’

  ‘Laura Larsen.’

  I told her I was a lawyer – which closed out further questions. The usual response is ‘How interesting’. The wittiest I’ve heard is ‘Scored any good briefs lately?’ which isn’t exactly a laugh-line.

  Laura Larsen was an easier subject. She was eager to tell me she was in the hotel business. She had worked for CIGA in Italy, for Forte in London and Paris. Now she was on her way to Sydney as sales manager for the Melmar Marquis, a new harbourside hotel in the five-star category. She presented me with a business card which carried a coronet over a double M monogram and the legend ‘Melmar Hotels, a legend in luxury’.

  Miss Larsen embellished the legend so skilfully that I thought she would have every room sold out in a week. Inside five minutes she was urging me to change my hotel and book in at the Melmar Marquis – with an introductory discount of course!

  It was a good-humoured pitch and I was happy to go along with it. At five in the morning vitality is low and self-esteem even lower. Ever since Cassidy’s death there had been a curious constraint in my relations with Pat. I began to imagine her in the role of silent accuser. I was the man who had invaded her primal family and ruptured it beyond repair. Mine was the hand that had held her back from the last journey with her father. True or false, it made a sadness between us, a small, veiled anger that neither of us dared to admit.

  So, a mile-high first-class flirtation with an attractive woman was an agreeable diversion. Besides, why not be cosseted at discount rates in a new, luxury hotel?

  I was just about to accept the offer when a warning bell sounded inside my skull. This was all too pat. I wasn’t just being picked up. I was being set up, fitted out, for an old-fashioned badger game. We hadn’t yet hit Bahrain. If we played it by the book, we’d be friends of the heart by Singapore and bedfellows the moment we unpacked in the Melmar Marquis in Sydney.

  Once again, there was Charlie Cassidy chirping at me out of the past:

  ‘…oldest trick in the book, sonny boy, and it still works. It’s the easiest way to suborn a witness, frighten a judge, buy a Cabinet vote… A man is never so vulnerable as when he’s caught bare-assed in bed by hostile witnesses – never so damn ridiculous either!…’

  I tried to tell myself that I was getting paranoid about the whole thing. The girl was just a happy extrovert peddling hotel space. I was your normal male traveller with the mid-life blues, ready to talk to anyone who would give him good morning… Like hell! I was Martin Gregory, with a briefcase full of secrets at his feet and a whole pack of powerful people itching to get their hands on it. What more natural move than to plant a minder on me – and if she could do night duty as well, so much the better.

  To my Lady Owl-Eyes I told half a lie and half a truth. I would love to lodge at her hotel, but I was on Government business and I had to defer to the arrangements of my hosts. However, I’d be delighted to visit and see the wonders she was selling. That led to some amiable talk which lasted until we slid down through the desert dawn to the flat sea and the sterile shoreline of Bahrain.

  At six in the morning the transit lounge offers no attractions and precious few amenities. The toilets are precarious and the coffee shop a silent menace. There is a motley mob of passengers: Koreans, British, Japanese, Pakistanis, Palestinians and Australians. The dusty stalls display Arab newspapers, dolls stuffed with God-knows-what, fake pottery and hideous brassware. Five minutes is more than enough to complete the circuit; then you are stuck in the place for the best part of an hour. So, the safer option is to stay on board, let the cleaners sweep under your feet, and relax until take-off.

  I was doing just that, and making desultory talk with Laura Larsen when a member of Qantas’ ground-staff hurried me into the terminal to take a telephone call from Zurich. The line was surprisingly clear. The voice of the caller was a warm, soothing baritone with only a hint of European formality in the phrases and intonations. But when he spoke it was as if a cold hand had closed around my heart.

  ‘Martin Gregory?’

  There was no honorific, no preamble. I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice.

  ‘Yes. Who is calling please?’

  ‘Marius Melville.’

  I said nothing. Cassidy’s warning had been clear. ‘Show respect…’ Besides, I needed a second or two of silence to compose myself. The voice prompted me.

  ‘I think you are familiar with the name.’

  ‘Familiar? Not at all. I have seen only a brief mention of it in the papers of a gentleman recently deceased. There may be others, but as yet I have done no more than glance at the documents.’

  ‘How long will it take you to study them?’

  ‘God knows! All I’ve read so far is the will, three trust deeds and an index. I would say it’ll be a week after the funeral before I can even make an informed guess.’

  ‘But then you will be in touch with me?’

  ‘If that is what the documents dictate, most certainly. An executor is bound…’

  ‘I know what an executor does, Mr. Gregory.’ The reproof was tempered by a compliment. ‘I admire your professional discretion. Charles Cassidy was an old and cherished friend. We had many common interests. I know you will respect his wishes in my regard.’

  ‘It is my duty to do so, Mr. Melville. Where may I reach you?’

  ‘In care of Nordfinanz Bank, Zurich. But I shall communicate with you very soon. Meantime,’ the rich voice was full of concern, ‘please be most careful. You are in great danger.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘You carry bad news, Mr. Gregory.’

  ‘I’m not yet aware of that.’

  ‘You will become so. Then beware, lest they try, as they did in the old days, to kill the bearer of ill tidings.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Cassidy’s documents will tell you… One more word, Mr. Gregory.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t worry about your wife and family. They are under my protection. No harm will come to them. As for yourself, I urge you to trust Miss Larsen. She is a clever and courageous young woman…’

  Suddenly I was boiling with anger at the cold presumption of the man. But Cassidy, dead, still counselled me: ‘He keeps iron faith with his friends…’ So, instead of shouting at him, I thanked him.

  ‘I appreciate your concern for the family of an old friend. However, I do have to say –’

  He wasn’t about to listen. He had already broken the connection. The receiver was whining in my ear.

  When I trie
d to reboard the aircraft, a surly policeman ordered me to wait and embark with the rest of the passengers. I wandered around disconsolately, staring at strands of cultured pearls, Japanese watches, worry beads and glass charms against the evil eye. Then I sat down next to a migrant worker who stank like a desert goat. I felt, as I had never felt in my life before, diminished to dwarf-size. I felt that I, too, must be stinking of fear, a cowering victim of powers too large to define or control.

  When finally I was permitted to reboard, Laura Larsen greeted me, with a smile of blandest innocence.

  ‘So, you’ve spoken to Mr. Melville.’

  ‘Yes!’ I was in no mood for small-talk.

  ‘That makes our relationship easier.’

  ‘Do we have one?’

  ‘Oh yes. I have to keep an eye on you, make sure you’re not bothered while you’re in Sydney, put you in touch with Mr. Melville when you’re ready to talk to him.’

  ‘And suppose I tell you and Mr. Melville to mind your own bloody business!’

  ‘You are our business, Mr. Gregory.’

  ‘So all this talk about your big hotel job is so much eyewash!’

  ‘On the contrary: Mr. Melville owns the whole Melmar chain – fifty hotels worldwide. That’s how it gets it name – Melville, Marius, Melmar, just like that. We offer our guests the best security service in the world: bodyguards, electronic surveillance, protection against bugging and theft of commercial secrets. That service will be at your disposal.’

  ‘But I don’t want it.’

  ‘You need it… Please don’t be angry. You’re only making things more difficult for yourself, and for me.’

  If I hadn’t laughed I might have shouted my anger around the cabin.

  ‘Miss Larsen, understand this. I don’t give a damn about you or Marius Melville. I didn’t ask for your protection. I don’t want you or your employer dabbling in my life… Let’s have that clear and we can both enjoy the rest of the trip. Well?’

  Before she had time to answer the steward was beside us, offering cool drinks. He was followed by a girl with iced towels. Then they were rehearsing us again in the exits-oxygen-life-jackets-and-rubber-boat routine, after which a disembodied voice from the flight deck recited our route to Singapore. By then Laura Larsen was a very calm, very soft spoken lady. She laid a cool palm on my wrist and told me: ‘I want you to listen carefully, Mr. Gregory. Don’t say anything until I’ve finished… I’ve worked nearly ten years for Marius Melville. He’s a very formidable man. I knew Charlie Cassidy too. I travelled with him more than once, as Mr. Melville’s representative. I liked him – most of the time. But that’s not important. The fact is that he and Mr. Melville did a lot of deals together, all over the world. You’re settling Cassidy’s estate, therefore you have to be a focus of interest for Marius Melville. You’ve got him in your life whether you want him or not. Because you’ve got him, you’ve got me – and a lot of other people you don’t know, and some you wouldn’t want to know. So why not recognise that first of all? Then we can talk openly.’

  ‘No secrets?’

  ‘Of course there are secrets. You should be damned glad there are.’

  One of the arts of the law is to drop an argument that is leading you down a blind alley. I managed to be polite about it.

  ‘You’ve made your point. Here’s mine: I’m handling the estate of a public man, who was also my father-in-law. There are legal rules about that. I can’t bend them for you, Marius Melville or the Queen of Merrie England!’

  She gave a small, rueful chuckle.

  ‘My God, you’re like Charlie Cassidy. I’ve seen him at meetings in Nassau and Hong Kong, when the air was so electric you almost expected lightning and a thunder-clap. The next instant he’d have them laughing their heads off at some silly joke – and he never surrendered a position either. Mr. Melville used to say, “Cassidy’s a genius. When he comes to a deal discussion his pockets are stuffed with give-away points. He gets people squabbling over them like monkeys over a bag of peanuts. At the end that’s all they’ve got – peanuts, while Charlie walks away with the gold, the girl and ten per cent of the futures. It’s not that he’s greedy. He knows what he’s worth and he sticks out for it.” Mr. Melville is so different, you wouldn’t think they’d get on at all. But they were close friends. Mr. Melville was very distressed by his death.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask a personal question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Are you scared of Marius Melville?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘You call Cassidy by his first name, but you always speak formally of Melville.’

  ‘He’s a formal man. He doesn’t invite intimacy.’

  ‘He sounds like a cold fish.’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s like a dormant volcano with all the fires hidden inside.’

  ‘So I repeat the question: are you scared of him?’

  ‘Not scared. Respectful.’

  ‘Obviously he respects you, too.’

  ‘I’m good at what I do.’ She said it with a shrug, then hesitated a moment before uttering an oddly plaintive afterthought. ‘Please, you’re not going to mess things up, are you? You’re not going to be tricky and devious?’

  ‘I have no reason to be. I’m a simple soul, who likes to be friendly and hates to be pushed.’

  ‘Good!’ It sounded like a long sigh of relief. ‘Now I can enjoy my lunch and the movie!’

  And there we dropped the whole discussion. Through lunch we exchanged one-line banalities. I dozed through the film. We slept in separate silences from Singapore to sunrise over the Australian desert. On the final descent, with the red-tiled rooftops of Sydney spread beneath us, we said our farewells. I was sorry to see her go – and almost fool enough to say so; but my Lady Owl-Eyes had the last word.

  ‘When we meet again I hope we can both be more relaxed. As soon as you’re ready to confer with Mr. Melville, let me know. If you’re in trouble, call and invite me to dinner at Mario’s. That’s the codeword – “dinner at Mario’s”. If we get it, we hit the red button and call out the riot squad…’

  4

  Charles Parnell Cassidy’s welcome to his homeland was brief, bleak and ironic.

  While we passengers sat in the aircraft, waiting to be sprayed with insecticide, Cassidy’s mortal relics were lifted out of the hold, shoved into a black, windowless panel-van and driven swiftly to an undertaker’s mortuary. Thence they would be delivered, early on the morning of the funeral, to St. Mary’s Cathedral. The protocol officer who met me explained the curtness of the proceedings.

  ‘It’s a business day. The police don’t want crowds at the airport and along the traffic routes to the city during the morning rush. The Premier – he was sworn in yesterday – felt we shouldn’t take the edge off the State funeral… He was sure you’d understand. He’d like you to dine with him tonight at Parliament House. Seven-thirty for eight. The Attorney-General will be there too. His name’s Loomis. A limousine will pick you up at seven-twenty at your hotel. We’ve booked you in at the Town House. I’ve checked the suite. It’s very pleasant… The funeral’s tomorrow. The ceremonies begin at ten in the morning with a Requiem Mass in the Cathedral… Here’s a schedule of the ceremonies and a list of dignitaries… If there’s anything else you need…’

  After a twenty-four-hour flight, gravel-eyed and reeking of fatigue, all I needed was a shave, a hot tub and a sleep. However, the sleep would have to be deferred. I had to rid myself as quickly as possible of Cassidy’s briefcase. So, as soon as I had bathed and changed, I took a taxi into the city and presented myself at the offices of the Banque de Paris, our principal correspondent in Australia.

  The Director, Paul Henri Langlois, was an old friend. We drank coffee and exchanged reminiscences. He provided me with a large safe-deposit box, an office, access to his microfiche scanner and the services of a multi-lingual secretary. Then, drunk with fatigue, I went back to the hotel, put a block on the telephone until five in the evening
and tumbled into bed.

  At five-thirty there was a knock on my door and a boy from the porter’s desk presented me with a sealed envelope which, he told me, had just been delivered by courier. The envelope contained a message handwritten on notepaper from the Melmar Marquis.

  Dear Martin G. – Hope you’re comfortable. You were wise to lodge your papers with a foreign bank. Enjoy your dinner tonight. Watch your step with Loomis. He’s a Cassidy man and will be very anxious to know where the bodies are buried. Mr. Melville has telexed his best wishes. Mine come with this note. Call me when you feel like it.

  Best – Laura L.

  Taken at face value, it was a very sinister missive. It told me I was under close surveillance, that my future movements were being plotted, that a senior minister – one with great legal powers – was potentially hostile. Read from the underside, it became a token of concern, an earnest of friendship. I have to be honest: that was how I wanted to understand it. Twelve thousand miles from wife and children, a stranger in my own homeland, a bearer of bad tidings to people I had never met, I wanted to be comforted and diverted, even if the diversion were a trap and the comfort a treachery.

  The need was so strong that I sat down at the desk and wrote a lighthearted note of acknowledgment to Laura Larsen. Then my lawyer’s caution prevailed. I tore the note into shreds and tossed it into the waste basket. Anger with myself made me clear-headed. I remembered the old lessons of the jungle patrol: the thickets were ambushed; there were snipers in the trees; the pistes were tiger-trapped; the clearings were mined; one incautious step and you were a dead man. Suddenly I was stifled by the onset of that most primitive terror, the panic of a lone traveller, lost in an alien landscape.

  My early service with Cassidy, my later experience in the money markets of the world, had taught me hard lessons about the root systems of power, how deep they drive into the earth, how far and how tortuously they spread across frontiers, through blood lines and caste lines, and past the most ironclad defences of treaties and ordinances. ‘A bear coughs at the North Pole –’ so ran the ancient proverb – ‘and a man dies in Peking.’ A boardroom decision in Detroit could wreck a South American economy. A rumour floated in Delhi could kill a man in Delaware. I had once known a Lebanese banker, custodian of tribal millions, sent bankrupt by an oil man in Texas to pay off a grudge over a woman.