by Morris West
‘Would it not have been more proper to let Mr Basil Yanko do that himself – or even to have requested us to do it?’
‘We have reservations about the business ethics of Basil Yanko.’
‘Would you care to specify them?’
‘At this time, no.’
‘The second question then, Mr Desmond. Why not to us?’
‘I am a visitor in your country, Mr Frohm. I would rather not embarrass you.’
‘You cannot, Mr Desmond. Please be as frank as you wish.’
‘To put it, then, as politely as I can: you are a domestic American agency, concerned with many issues, political and criminal. We are a European organisation, whose interests might at certain points conflict with yours. Rather than invoke your aid, we thought it better to stand on our legal right of free communication. That is the view of my principal. It is also mine.’
‘In other words, you don’t trust us, Mr Desmond.’
‘On the evidence adduced in your own Committees and Courts, Mr Frohm, you don’t trust one another.’
To my surprise, he smiled and nodded a reluctant approval. ‘I asked for that, didn’t I? You’re a good witness, Mr Desmond.’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice. The Kempetai worked me over for a month in Singapore.’
‘I hope you find us more civilised than they were.’
‘I do.’
‘Thank you. Now, let’s look at another gap in the record: you were assaulted outside your apartment. You told the police that you could not identify the assailants. Is that true?’
‘It was true at the time. I have since been informed that they were hired by a man called Bernie Koonig, who, in turn, was hired by one Frank Lemnitz.’
‘Who informed you, Mr Desmond?’
‘Our investigators. I presume you have already discussed this matter with Mr Saul Wells.’
‘We have, yes.’
‘Then you know as much as I do – possibly more.’
‘What do you know, Mr Desmond?’
‘By hearsay only, that Frank Lemnitz, who is chauffeur to Mr Yanko, hired Bernie Koonig to keep me under surveillance; that our investigators remonstrated with Koonig – and that Koonig, in revenge, had me beaten up.’
‘Did you mention this to Mr Yanko?’
‘It was raised at our conference with him at the Salvador.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he was sorry I had been hurt and that he had nothing to do with the beating.’
‘But he did admit to having you watched?’
‘Let’s say he side-stepped the question.’
‘Why didn’t you press it?’
‘I didn’t need to. He was informed that I reserved my right to file a complaint against the persons involved.’
‘But you haven’t done that, why?’
‘I prefer to reserve my reasons also.’
‘Mr Desmond, why did Basil Yanko have you watched?’
‘I don’t know. In retrospect it would seem that he suspected a possible association with Valerie Hallstrom.’
‘And why would he suspect that?’
‘Mr Lyndon gave me the idea. He admitted that Valerie Hallstrom might have been peddling material from the data bank. That’s true, is it not, Mr Lyndon?’
Mr Lyndon was embarrassed, but he faced up like a good cadet. ‘You could have interpreted my remark in that sense.’
Mr Frohm smiled faintly, then turned to me. ‘So, by extension, Basil Yanko thought you were a possible buyer.’
‘He might have.’
‘But you weren’t?’
‘I’m on record, Mr Frohm. No offer was made; none was invited.’
‘Which brings us to the big hole in the wall, Mr Desmond. Who sent you the notebook and why? Now, you’re on record about that, too. But try this for size. Valerie Hallstrom tells you she’s scared of Basil Yanko. She acts as if she knows there’s someone waiting for her at her apartment. She gives you the notebook for safe-keeping. You know it’s hot property. You stage the little comedy of sending it to yourself, so that you can use the information quite legally… Well, Mr Desmond?’
‘Only one answer, Mr Frohm. Nonsense! And talking of holes in the wall, you’ve missed the biggest one. Who killed Valerie Hallstrom and why?’
‘We’re working on that. The hole is narrowing. We know that two men entered her apartment on that night. One obviously was the killer. The other was the man who telephoned the police. Perhaps it was he who sent you the notebook… If you get any ideas, please let us know.’
‘I’ll do that, Mr Frohm. Another tomato juice?’
‘No, thank you. We must go. You’ve been very helpful, Mr Desmond… By the way, those are beautiful flowers. Where did you get them?’
‘That, Mr Frohm, is something even you shouldn’t ask.’
‘Like that, eh! Usually it’s the man who has to buy ’em. Perhaps women’s lib means something after all. Come on, young Lyndon, we’re off-duty now. I’ll buy you a drink and a hamburger.’
If that was a hint, I didn’t take it. I closed them out and stood backed against the door jamb, sweating from every pore. Milo Frohm was no novice; he was an old hand at inquisitions, foxy and bright and never out of countenance. I needed no crystal ball to tell me I would be hearing from him again. I wasn’t too worried about that. I found him an attractive character. We used the same dictionary and the same textbook of elementary logic. The problem was that the logic didn’t work any more. I couldn’t say how or why; but I felt in my marrow that our major premise was full of holes and our minor one sunk without trace. Which, of course, was not logic at all but sheer brute instinct.
Harlequin was late for lunch. At twelve forty-five I bought the girls a drink and hunted them off to the grill-room. At one-fifteen, Harlequin rang and commanded me to take a taxi and meet him at a trattoria in Foggy Bottom. When I asked him why, he told me he had a yearning for spaghetti alla carbonara and cervelli al burro – which led me to believe that his own brains must be buttered. At one-forty by the clock, we sat down in a corner nook, in what must have been the dimmest and the least popular bistro in the District of Columbia. The spaghetti was overcooked, the wine was pure vinegar: but it didn’t matter. From the moment Harlequin began to talk, all I could taste was dust and ashes.
‘… Before we left New York, I called Herbert Bachmann and asked him to advise me what would happen if we started dumping our stock in Creative Systems. He called me at seven this morning. Every broker in town has a list of buying orders as long as your arm – big orders, Paul – better than ten million on Herbert’s count.’
I couldn’t resist it. I told him, bluntly, what I thought about stock-dumping and about him for even considering it. He heard me out in silence, then went on, unruffled:
‘…That back-log of orders is significant. I’ll show you why in a moment. This morning I spent three hours at the Embassy. Erich Reiman is an old friend of mine. He was sympathetic, but, at first, not very helpful. It was only when I showed him the photostats of the notebook that his attitude changed – completely, Paul, volte-face! He wanted to know everything…’
‘I hope to God you didn’t tell him!’
‘Not quite everything; but more than you’d approve.’
‘Oh, Christ!’
‘I traded with him, Paul – I had to – point for point.’
‘You were trading with my life, George.’
‘I knew it. Now Erich knows it.’
‘And like a good diplomat, he’ll forget it the moment it suits his purpose. I’m not even a Swiss. I’m an expendable nobody from down-under… Now, tell me about the thirty pieces of silver.’
That thrust, at least, went home. The stem of the wine-glass snapped in his fingers and the liquor spilled like blood on the white napery. An instant later, he was hammering me with hard and stringent words:
‘…You will hear me first, Paul, and judge me afterwards I Then, if you want to go, you go. What I heard this morning makes
nonsense of all our reasoning. We are pawns in a global game that I, for one, had not begun to understand. It was explained to me this morning by a friend – not as close as you, but still, a friend – and I believe him; because he is paid to know and he sits here, where, of all places in the world, the knowing is possible… Waiter!’ He snapped his fingers, imperiously, and the waiter came running. ‘Please clean up this mess and bring me another glass.’
I expected the waiter to spit in his eye, and I might have been glad to see it. Instead, he went running for fresh napkins and laid them, one on the other, until the stain was hidden. He brought a new glass and a fresh carafe of wine and poured it more reverently than it deserved. He must have been fresh from the old country, because he bowed and apologised before he withdrew. Harlequin drank the wine at a gulp and dabbed the lees from his lips. He was calmer now; but no less urgent:
‘This year we have seen – and most of us do not believe it – the end of a millennium. It ended where it began, in the Mediterranean basin… Oh, no! This isn’t a political lecture. This is hard fact. The desert princes found that they could stop the world by turning off the oil-taps. The outcasts from the Fertile Crescent found that they could terrorise the world with hand guns, and grenades, and plastic explosive. It’s true! You know it! Every airport in the world is an armed camp. You need a body search before you can visit your dying mother!… The other thing – this fabulous beast they call “the energy crisis”. What does it mean? It means that if British miners stop working, the nation freezes to death. It means that unless Japan bows in vassalage to the sheikdoms, her industry stops dead and there is horror in the streets of a hundred cities. In Africa and the South Americas, progress, slow and painful as it has been, ceases for a decade or more. Then what? Those who have learned the lessons of terror are ready to spread panic and confusion. Those who have power, will try to put the whirlwind back in the bottle – and that will be another kind of terror. The private armies of security men will become the block-führers and the forces de frappe of tomorrow… You know what they have named next year in the intelligence calendar? The year of the assassins! So now, Paul, my friend, where do we stand – you and I and Harlequin et Cie, Merchant Bankers?’
I didn’t know: so I couldn’t tell him. His eloquence had silenced my vulgar tongue. He had stormed down my defences by sheer passion and conviction. I could do nothing but shrug and say:
‘Tell me. I’m listening.’
‘The price of oil has doubled and tripled. What happens to the money? The desert princes are not fools. They have seen that money is a madman’s dream – a nightmare of paper. What will they want when their armouries are filled and their military highways built and their airfields stacked with fighters? Industry of their own? Technology of their own? Some, yes. But industry breeds a proletariat and spawns a force of migrant workers, who will quickly learn the techniques of terror. So the princes want insurance – a stake in Europe, a stake in America. Not just stocks and bonds – more paper! – but control! Evidence? The Saudis cut off oil from the Dutch. Now they are negotiating to build a Saudi refinery on Dutch soil. What is being discussed in secret has even wider meanings. The Italians are offering a quarter share of their national oil company in return for guaranteed supplies of crude. You can make all the laws you like to exclude foreign control of domestic enterprise, but laws are paper dragons danced through the streets by venal and invisible men. Which brings us at one stride to Basil Yanko… He knows, Paul! He sees! He has the world locked up in his data banks. He will buy me at a premium and sell me for double to the Arabs, using their money. He will sell part of himself, too. Herbert Bachmann identified some of those buying orders. They come by winding roads from the Middle East. Yanko goes farther. He can balance himself between the assassins and the princes, because there are bids from Libya, too, in every market… My friend, Erich, showed me the pattern; the details write themselves. Karl Kruger, for instance. How is he so intimate with the Israelis? Banking is not the half of it; sentiment is a tiny part. Hamburg lives on ships. Ships live on cargo. A depressed Europe means a dying Hamburg. The Israelis are the last outpost of Europe in the Levant. They make no secret of their intent to meet terror with terror. Why was Aaron Bogdanovich so ready to help us? For friendship? No! Our money funds him. He claims to work for us; but we also are working for him.’ A ghost of a smile twitched at the comers of his mouth. ‘It’s a sordid world, Paul; the only stable currency is the politic lie. If that makes you feel foolish, remember you’re not the only one. I felt a fool, too, because the FBI had been in touch with Erich Reiman, long before I got to him. They wondered how much I knew. He convinced them it was very little; but even he was shocked at how little. Do you know what he said to me? “George, you’re in the wrong theatre. This isn’t Commedia dell’ Arte. It’s high drama. You haven’t much time to learn the script.”’
‘Why go on reading other people’s lines? Let’s get a new book for ourselves.’
‘And how do you suggest we do that, Paul?’
‘Let the Press write it for us.’
It took half an hour of argument to convince him; but in the end he consented. We might be digging our own graves; but, at least, we’d have a very gaudy funeral.
Back at the hotel, I had my first meeting with Arnold, the deputy bell-captain. He was tall, melancholy and horse-faced, like a dead-pan comic from the silent movies. He had two messages for me. The first was an invitation to cocktails at seven at an address in Arlington. The signature was L. Klein. I didn’t know any Klein; Arnold didn’t either, but the invitation had been passed through Bernard’s Blooms, so it seemed wise to accept it. The second message was a tear-sheet from a telex machine. It was date-lined U.P.I. London, Thursday. The text was brief, but informative:
An American tourist, identified as Frank Lemnitz of New York City, was found this morning shot dead in his suite at a fashionable West End hotel. London police are seeking to interview a young woman who accompanied Lemnitz to two well-known gambling clubs and who probably returned with him to the hotel. More follows…
This time, at least, Aaron Bogdanovich had told the truth. I tore the message into shreds and flushed it down the toilet. I felt like a solitary school-boy making up spy-games in the infirmary. Then, Juliette came in. Harlequin was dictating correspondence; she needed company. Why not? I needed it myself. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on the settee. I turned the radio to a programme of golden oldies and settled myself in an arm-chair, feet up and ready to relax. The music was easy: no tears, no passion, no profundities: a walk down memory lane, with only an occasional tug at the heart strings. Juliette looked better today, a hint more placid and less perplexed. I felt older and I must have looked it, because at one moment she frowned and said:
‘You’re looking tired, Paul. Is anything wrong?’
No, nothing was wrong. My ribs hurt sometimes. I still couldn’t chew beef-steak; but sure an’ all, as my grandfather used to say, I was fit enough to marry the Widow McGonigle. I thought George was looking well, too. It was hard to believe that, only a couple of weeks ago…
‘Paul!’
‘What, lover-girl?’
‘I think I should go home soon.’
‘What does George think?’
‘He left it to me. I wish he hadn’t.’
‘Advice from Uncle Paul. Stay around for a while.’
‘Special reasons?’
‘Some. Today’s forecast is for very dirty weather.’
‘I didn’t know. As soon as George came in, he called Suzanne and started dictating letters. When I asked what had happened at the Embassy, he said he’d explain later. I was hurt; but I didn’t want to show it. That’s why I came down here.’
‘You’re learning, aren’t you, sweetheart?’
‘Don’t hedge, Paul, please.’
‘I’m not, I promise. George will tell you the news; but it’s a long story and it takes time.’
‘But he told you.’
‘Yes… And I told him he’d sold me out for Judas-money.’
‘Oh, Paul, no!’
‘It was wrong; but I said it. So don’t blame him if he’s out of humour – and don’t hurry home.’
‘Paul, there’s the baby to think of and.’
‘The baby’s got a lot of living to do yet and a much-travelled godfather to help him do it. Listen, lover! If you’re out in the rain and there’s no one else to take you home, I’ll be there. But if Columbine loves Harlequin, she’d better be dressed and made-up for curtain-time. If she’s not.’
‘The understudy takes over, is that it?’
‘That’s it, Julie; and there are lots of lovely girls just dying for a chance in show-business. Now, why don’t you go upstairs and order coffee for two and tell George I want to borrow Suzanne for half an hour? He shouldn’t monopolise the help; even if he is the President.’
She didn’t go immediately. She came to me and sat on the arm of my chair and took my face in her hands and kissed me on the forehead; and told me how sweet I was and gentle and kind and the best of all possible friends. Three words more and we would have been playing Tumble-me-Tina on the carpet. I’m no saint – God help me! But that – no thank you, sweetheart! Not unless it were caps over the moon and never come back. I was grateful for the kiss; I thanked her for the compliment; I walked her sedately to the door and sent her upstairs. I tried to feel virtuous; but I couldn’t. I felt like a Judas-priest, prowling and mumbling round the convent gate at midnight.
It must have been written on my face, because when Suzanne came down, she stood, hands on hips, surveying me as if I were some very rare, and very low, form of life. Then she gave me that soft, slow, knowing smile of hers and said sweetly:
‘It’s hard, isn’t it, chéri?’
‘If you know, don’t ask.’
‘I know, darling. I know. The sooner we all go home, the better.’
‘It could be all of sixty days.’
‘Can you last that long?’
‘I doubt it. Can you?’
‘No… Say something sweet to me, Paul.’
‘Suzy, darling, why don’t we fall in love?’
