Harlequin

by Morris West

  ‘What a pity George isn’t here. He would have enjoyed it so much.’

  ‘He is here,’ said Mendoza gravely. ‘He is in your hearts and in mine now. What we are doing is an act of love. Nobody is shut out from it. Before you go from here, Suzanne, I shall give you a wine that I prize very much. There are only six bottles of it left. You shall have one; but you will not drink it until the three of you are together to share it. Paul has promised me he will stay with Harlequin. I think you should stay, too. And when this plague has passed, I think you and Paul should marry.’

  ‘I know you care,’ said Suzanne gently. ‘But why so much for strangers like me, like George?’

  ‘I will tell you,’ said Francis Xavier Mendoza. ‘I am the most fortunate of men. God made the vine. I make the wine. You drink it and it is changed into you. It’s a beautiful truth. When I contemplate it in all its meaning I am so happy I could weep… This is the communion that keeps us sane and human. Reject it and we are solitary and beset. Spill the wine of life and we are forever accursed like Cain in the wilderness… I am becoming talkative. Enough! Sleep well, my friends. I should not approve, but I do. I hope you will love happily under my roof…’

  The next day we were in another world. At San Francisco airport there was a bomb-scare and all flights were delayed an hour. We were searched and penned and required to identify our luggage before it was stacked in the hold. There was an air of tension and hostility; voices were raised as harried officials tried to cope with passengers whose nerves were stretched to breaking point.

  When, finally, we were airborne, Suzanne buried herself in a fashion magazine while I tried to catch up with the news. None of it was good: crisis in England, with a coal strike and a General Election; the Japanese trading terrorists for the lives of their embassy staff in Kuwait; the Italians with tanks around the Quirinal and the Vietnamese trying to claim an oil barony on the Paracel Islands, which nobody had ever heard of until the Chinese blew a gun-boat out of the water. The President was five steps closer to impeachment. The stock-market was down. Creative Systems was thirty per cent below peak. There was no mention at all of our affairs. The threat of a massive libel suit had made the editors cautious. Besides, with such a glut of disasters, the public was jaded and needed new stimulus every day. Now there was a new game in San Francisco. You said good morning to a stranger, shot him through the heart, and walked away, whistling.

  I was leafing through the financial pages to see how much poorer I was when I caught sight of a paragraph. Mr Karl Kruger of Kruger and Co. AG was in New York staying at the Regency. I showed the paragraph to Suzanne, who agreed we should invite him to dinner. She was fond of the old bear, and she could tolerate Hilde, too – unless, of course, Karl had decided to sample the talent in New York. I hoped he wouldn’t go roistering down Broadway and get into the same trouble as his celebrated compatriot.

  Takeshi was home and in good humour, though faintly cast down by the fact that he had talked too much in San Francisco. However, once assured that his face and my legal status were undamaged, he became almost animated and hovered over our supper like a guardian spirit.

  Suzanne stretched herself, luxuriously, on the divan, gave me that soft, slow smile and said, ‘You couldn’t really give it up, could you?’

  ‘Give what up?’

  ‘All this and freedom, too!’

  ‘Is that a proposal?’

  ‘No, chéri, it’s an academic question!

  ‘Do you want to debate it?’

  ‘Not tonight. I’m too comfortable.’

  ‘Would you answer one for me?’

  ‘If it’s not too hard.’

  ‘Will you marry me, Suzy?’

  The smile vanished. She lay very still looking far beyond me into the shadows. Then she said, ‘There’s never been a price, Paul!

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ever since I was a girl, I’ve been in love with George Harlequin.’

  ‘I know that, too.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t get a very good bargain.’

  ‘Did I ask for one?’

  ‘No… But, why, Paul? Why me? Why now? I’m here. I’m glad to be here. You don’t have any rivals – though I wish you had… No, please, stay where you are! I’ll melt in your arms and say “yes” and be sorry in the morning… Tell me why, Paul?’

  ‘Twenty reasons, Suzy. Only one good one: there’s nothing and no one in the world I love as much as you… It may not be enough. How can I tell? I’ve lived too long and learnt too little. Anyway, as they say in the market, it’s a firm offer.’

  ‘And don’t they usually add: take it or leave it?’

  ‘They do; I don’t. When this is over, Suzy love, I’m out of the market with the back of my hand and a sailor’s farewell. There’s no hurry. Think about it.’

  ‘I have thought about it, Paul. I’ve thought about it alone and lying in your arms and happy to be there. I know only one thing: I’m too fond of you to offer you a divided heart. I want to wait until this is over – not to win George, because I never will, but to be sure I’m cured of him, cured of my girl-dreams and ready to be a whole woman to a whole man… You’re a bigger man than you know, Paul. I’d like you to be very proud of the woman you marry. Please, leave it a little longer.’ She smiled, a little too brightly, and held out her arms. ‘Who knows, you may be tired of me long before.’

  Well, it wasn’t the moon, but at least I had the sixpence in my pocket. I was learning to be grateful for small mercies – and, perhaps, I was as relieved as she to defer the last commitment. This way there were no ghosts to contend with, only a man driven by a dark demon, cold, loveless and implacable.

  In the morning, we went shopping for flowers on Third Avenue. This time we were not unwelcome, and we bought fresh blooms, and a garden in a bowl to be delivered at the apartment. We did not see Aaron Bogdanovich. He had taken the morning off. Sometimes – the madam smiled over her gold spectacles – sometimes he liked to sit in the garden at the Museum of Modem Art and admire the sculpture and, you know, just think. If we didn’t find him there, she’d give him the message anyway.

  He wasn’t there, so we wandered through the galleries and then crossed Fifth Avenue to Buccellati’s, where, for my taste, you can still buy the best goldsmith’s work in the world – loving handcraft like the old masters used to make on the Ponte Vecchio and in their Aladdin caves on the Lung’ Arno. An hour later, I bowed to Suzanne’s protests and left empty-handed; but with a ring and a pendant and bracelet held safely to my order in the vault.

  As we walked out the door, Aaron Bogdanovich fell into step beside us and said, ‘Suite 67 at the St Regis. You’re expected for lunch. Your host is Mrs Larkin. Telephone from the lobby.’

  A moment later, he had faded into the crowd. We walked past the entrance, down as far as Madison, and then turned back and walked into the St Regis. When I called number 67, a woman’s voice answered:

  ‘Mrs Larkin’s suite.’

  ‘Mr Weizman and friend. We’re invited to lunch.’

  ‘Please, come on up.’

  We were met at the door by a grey-haired matron, who ushered us into a drawing-room, where Aaron Bogdanovich sat, alert and unsmiling, in an armchair. As I introduced Suzanne, he cut me off:

  ‘I know who she is. Mrs Larkin will take her to lunch in the restaurant.’ He gave her a ghost of a grin. ‘Don’t be offended, Mademoiselle. It’s necessary. Besides, this lunch is on me. Enjoy it. Mr Desmond will meet you downstairs when we have finished.’

  Our own lunch was coffee and sandwiches and the talk was strictly business.

  ‘Question, Mr Desmond. How much did you tell Milo Frohm about me?’

  ‘Nothing. He told me.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘I bought flowers on Third Avenue.’

  ‘How did he know that?’

  ‘He sent a man to San Francisco to talk to Takeshi.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That we – Harlequin and I –
had allied ourselves with an Israeli agent and with Leah Klein. That he knew Valerie Hallstrom was an Israeli agent. That Harlequin and I were terrorist targets.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Neither yea nor nay. Nothing.’

  ‘And he accepted that?’

  ‘It was the deal. His agency wants to bring down Yanko. If we would pass our facts to him, he wouldn’t ask how or where we got them. He’s on his way to London now with George Harlequin. The FBI have picked up Alex Duggan in San Diego.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You knew the rest of it, too.’

  ‘I wanted to hear it from you. With luck, you’ll nail Basil Yanko for conspiracy.’

  ‘To defraud, not to murder.’

  ‘Don’t be greedy, Mr Desmond.’

  ‘I’m not greedy. George Harlequin wants to kill him.’

  ‘For that he needs to stay alive himself. You are both marked. We don’t know which one they’ll hit first.’

  ‘Who is “they”?’

  ‘A formidable combination, Mr Desmond: the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and the Red Army of Japan. The first one you know. The second may not be quite so familiar. It is called Rengo Sekigun. They killed twenty-seven people at Lod Airport, if you remember. They hijacked an airliner from Tokyo to North Korea. They tortured and killed twelve of their own dissidents in Japan. They are totally dedicated to nihilism and violence… You have a Japanese servant, Mr Desmond…’

  ‘Takeshi? Now, please…!’

  ‘I told you we would check him out. We did. So did the FBI, who were not really interested where you bought flowers. Takeshi has a nephew, who has recently returned from Japan, where he had contacts with known members of the Rengo Sekigun… Does that suggest anything to you, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘Run for the trees?’

  ‘You now have a woman living with you. Someone quite close to you and George Harlequin.’

  ‘Hell! Wait a moment! Give me the logic.’

  ‘Very well. Yanko is in relations with the oil sheiks and with Libya. Libya finances terror. You attack Yanko. You are within an ace of bringing him down. You suddenly show up on a target list for terrorist attack. The logic holds, Mr Desmond – believe me.’

  ‘So what do we do about it?’

  ‘Pour yourself some more coffee. This may take a little time… Terror is a form of social surgery in which a variety of techniques are used. In this case, there are two to be considered: you will be murdered to create fear and panic or you will be held to ransom. Now, I don’t think you will be murdered outright. You are not Jews and therefore not very useful for propaganda. You are, however, rich and prominent – very suitable subjects for a ransom attempt: your lives against a lot of money and the release of political detainees, in this or other countries. If the ransom is not paid, naturally you get killed.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Now… What do we do about it? Let me be clear. I’m in the game and I’m good at it – very good. There is no system in the world that cannot be beaten by a group of determined men and women, who don’t care whether they live or die. I can give you shadows round the clock. You have them now. I can lock you in isolation. I can give you a pistol and a pocket-pen full of lethal gas. I can train you in judo and karate. It helps; but I still wouldn’t write an insurance policy on your life. I am a better risk than you are because I have no codes to bind me. I am trained to kill and survive. My reactions are totally different. Even so, I am never safe. Your best protection is to recognise the risk, accept it calmly and take certain simple precautions… If you are kidnapped, don’t resist, stay calm, and wait for the negotiations to work themselves out. Don’t try to escape. That’s suicide… I have no doubt Milo Frohm has given much the same instruction to George Harlequin.’

  ‘What about Suzanne?’

  ‘One question only, Mr Desmond. If she were a kidnap victim, would you or Mr Harlequin pay ransom for her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s your answer. She runs the same risks as you. Explain them. Let her make her own choice. She may feel more comfortable in Geneva or in Elba, for that matter. She won’t be any safer.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Takeshi.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about. He’s a good servant. Live with him. It’s the nephew who bothers us. We’re still watching that situation.’ He gave me that frigid, humourless grin. ‘We have another quarter of a million on call from you. We’re doing our best to earn it… By the way, have you thought what Yanko will do while you’re setting him up for indictment with Alex Duggan and his London accomplice?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it. Hard to see what he can do except dispose of the witnesses; which leaves a lot more bodies lying around – and we’ll still have the documents.’

  ‘What would you do in his shoes?’

  ‘Well, let me think. First, I’d liquidate as many assets as I could in the shortest possible time. I’d plant them safely in a Swiss bank. Then I’d find myself a nice, off-shore haven with no extradition treaty, invest some cash with local authorities and thumb my nose at Uncle Sam… We’ve had some very well-known names work the same racket in the last few years.’

  ‘Not bad. But somehow I can’t see Basil Yanko as a border-hopping fugitive. It’s not his style. Besides, the law’s a chancy animal and he knows better than most how to ride it. My guess is he’ll try to buy himself out of trouble.’

  ‘Whom can he buy?’

  ‘If George Harlequin dropped charges, the Administration and the market would be happy to bury the whole affair. Yanko knows too many secrets.’

  ‘Christ! He must know Harlequin wants him dead – whatever the consequences to himself.’

  ‘He must think he can deal. He knows Harlequin’s extended to the limit. He also knows you’ve got dangerous documents. That’s why he’s asked Karl Kruger to come to New York. To mediate a settlement.’

  ‘He’s nuts!’

  ‘No! He’s computed the odds and found them in his favour. If anything happens to you, or to Harlequin, or to that nice woman of yours, the bargaining gets better still… In that sense, Harlequin’s right. If you don’t want to deal, the only alternative is to kill Basil Yanko. Think about it, Mr Desmond. Talk to Karl Kruger. Talk to Harlequin, too, if he gets back safely…’

  Karl Kruger was giving a party. It was a large party, an important party. It would begin at seven and go on until ten or eleven. After we had drunk the company under the table, we could talk in his room. Yes, of course, I should bring Suzanne. What kind of a party did I think it was? No, Hilde wouldn’t be there: she wasn’t built for this kind of thing. He had someone new for us to meet – English this time, very chic, just divorced from a noble lord who was very rich, but couldn’t pay his marital debts. He went on, boom-boom-boom, for five minutes until he he had battered me into submission. Then, he growled, in his bearish fashion:

  ‘It is not enough to be right, Paul. In the market, you have to be popular – which Harlequin et Cie is not at this moment. So put on your best party clothes and smile, eh!… Oh, and if Basil Yanko is there, don’t spit in his eye. For my sake, please! And don’t close your mind to anything until we’ve talked…’

  It sounded ominous; but, as my old grandfather advised me: if you have to eat crow, make sure it’s cooked in a good wine sauce. So I phoned Buccellati to deliver the jewellery, ordered Suzanne under pain of banishment to buy herself the best dress she could find to match it, and took myself off to the barber. The treatment cost me twenty dollars and was guaranteed, they told me, to make me look ten years younger. They were lying – which was no surprise; but they did make me feel more fit for the company of my peers, and a little less like a third-rate conspirator, with the axe poised above his neck. I ordered a Colby limousine to pick us up at seven and then called George Harlequin in London. It was midnight and he was just getting ready for bed. I gave him a cautious resumé of my talk with Bogdanovich and told him about Karl Kruger’s party.


  To my surprise, he said, ‘Keep all the options open, Paul. We may need them.’

  ‘Trouble, George?’

  ‘Yes. Our boy is a very clever customer. We’ve confronted him with the documents; but he’s got good counsel and he won’t admit anything. We’ve got nothing to tie him to the frauds in London – except his wife, who is covered by a forged memorandum. Alex Duggan’s statement connects him only with a conspiracy in California to commit a fraud in Mexico – and there is, of course, no complaint from the Mexican police. The London police are co-operative and they’re examining the situation with Milo Frohm. Our lawyers in London advise that we may have a long job getting an extradition order… The FBI have arrested Alex Duggan and he’s being held in custody at his own request. He may find even that is a dubious protection. It’s all very awkward. We’ve got so much and yet the technicalities may beat us, so far as Yanko is concerned. I’m conferring again tomorrow with Frohm, the lawyers and the police; the day after, I’m flying to Geneva to see the baby and meet the police and the banking commissioners. I’ll call you from there. Love to Suzanne. Au revoir!’

  It was discouraging news – another illustration of the fragility of law and the power of those who had money enough and knowledge enough to manipulate it to their own ends. Five people were dead. There were documents that tied Basil Yanko to every death, but they fell short of legal proof. So Yanko would go to the party at the Regency and men would shake his hand, and women would fawn on him and he would walk away, despising them all.

  On the other hand, there was a grain of comfort. If George Harlequin would settle and abdicate his threat, we could all go back to peaceful living again… perhaps. There were other threats now, and, as we walked into the street and stepped into the limousine, I found myself pointing and sniffing like a fox sensing danger, searching for it on the wind.

  When we arrived, the party was in full swing and Karl Kruger dominated it like an ancient chieftain. His welcome was warm and vociferous. He took one look at Suzanne, then let out a roar of approval and swept her round the company like a new battle-prize. I found myself a drink and began a slow, cautious circuit of the assembly. I found Herbert Bachmann first and he gave me a warm handshake and a word of honest sympathy.