Foreign Exchange (The Tony Cassella Mysteries)
Page 26
“So I figure that what you need,” I said, “is proof that the U.S.A. needs a CIA.”
“You’re a very cynical man,” Lime said. “That’s good. Go get ’em.”
“I’m out of my depth here,” I said.
“See? He’s out of his depth here,” Chip said, ready to volunteer himself.
“Not as much as you would be,” Lime said to him. “I don’t want another big mistake.” Chip blushed. “You’ll be just fine,” Lime said to me. “Just remember, this is a guy in more trouble than you are. He has a long, long way to fall. This guy, this Vlad Kapek—he’s invested his whole life in making it in a particular system. He’s climbed damn near the top and he’s got everything he wants. Everything anybody wants. Material things. You’ve been in his house in Prague. That’s not socialist worker housing. He’s got a better sound system than you or me, video and TV and original art and whatever else he wants to buy. Plus the women. If you’ve got money and power and you’re ruthless about using it, you have, maybe not every broad you want, but close enough for government work. He has power. More power in an absolute sense than anyone in a comparable position in the West. He has respect. People say, ‘Yes, sir!’ to him. His opinion is valued. His participation requested. All the things that make a man feel good and important, he has achieved.
“Except they just changed the system. He’s a man with a Rolls-Royce in a world that just ran out of gas. He’s scared. He’s looking for someone selling solar power, something, anything that’ll keep him rolling.”
All of which was the right thing to say. Maybe Lime was not such a bad agent handler after all. I swallowed some aspirin. I was down to two every three hours.
“Do you want something stronger?” Lime asked.
“What I want from you is if I don’t come out, I want to know you’ll come in and get me.”
“Of course we will,” he said.
“Sure you will,” I said. I didn’t ask him how. If I had we would have both had to face the fact that he was lying.
I drove up to the front entrance. Sensors on the road told the guards I was coming. One of them was waiting for me outside the gate, machine pistol hanging loose in his hand. The dogs were inside, eyes glittering, saliva drooling from their fangs. If Vlad was slated to be deposed or defrocked or even defenestrated and stripped of his power and privileges, they certainly hadn’t got around to it yet. The gate and the wall were a bright mustard yellow. It was a prewar estate. There was a light breeze and a bright yellow sun. The guard gestured for me to go away.
I leaned out the window. I said, “Tell Vlad Kapek that I am a friend of Hiroshi Tanaka.” I spoke in German.
The single eye of a CCTV stared at me from above the guard’s head. The guard took a walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it.
A second guard arrived and gathered the canines—two Dobies, two shepherds. Then the gate was opened and I was waved in. The drive was a curving quarter mile and lined with trees on either side. Come spring the buds would open and create a shady canopy. The house was stucco over brick, that same shade of yellow as the wall, wooden shutters and wooden door. It was moderately large and sprawling, as well as relaxed and country-looking. An orchard stood beside it. I wondered what bourgeois enemy of the people it had been confiscated from.
If Czechoslovakia produces anything in surplus, it’s old women who look like grandmothers are supposed to look. One such, cheeks fat and sweet as a baby’s, a babushka on her head and an apron around her waist, opened the door and showed me in. She led me through the living room to an at-home office.
Vlad was no more frightening than the Wizard of Oz. Nor, if I wanted to be technical about it, did he have just one arm. He had two. A good one—the right—and one that had been chopped off halfway between the elbow and the wrist. He was slender and intelligent-looking. If he had been a professor of computer science or musicology I would not have been surprised. He sat at a desk with all the paraphernalia that modern man needs, an Apple with a Sony screen and a modem, a multiline phone, a dictaphone, and a fax machine. Dave Brubeck played “Blue Rondo à la Turk” on an Aiwa CD with an automatic changer.
He spoke in Czech.
“German, please,” I said. “Or English.”
“Oh, you’re American,” he said in better-than-fair English.
That was going to make it easier. It’s hard to hustle in a foreign tongue. Easy to love and lust, but hard to shuck and jive.
“Once,” I said. “No more.”
“Why is that?” he said.
“I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world,” I said.
“What happened to your arm?”
“It will get better,” I said. “A dislocation.”
“To lose the use of your arm, even temporarily, is very distressful,” he said. “As you can see, I have reason to know that.”
“Yes. But in spite of it you’re a man of great achievement.”
“It is a matter of the will,” he said. “Nothing is as great or powerful as the human will. It rises over any handicap. It transforms the world. I am a great believer in the will.”
“So was my friend Hiroshi Tanaka,” I said, taking a guess—it sounded like a Japanese thing to believe in.
“Not so much as I,” Vlad said.
“Oh, really,” I said.
“Really,” he said, as serious about it as if that were the real subject of our meeting.
“He’s dead. Tanaka,” I said.
“I know.”
“It’s put a hitch in a lot of plans,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “it has.”
“I had an arrangement with Tanaka,” I said. “In fact, we were in the middle of what I would call a partnership arrangement with him.”
“I never heard about that,” he said.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” I said. “Until it was finalized. Maybe not even then. You were his ace in the hole.”
“I beg your pardon? His what?”
“A gambling term. From stud poker. One card is … ”
“Yes. Of course. I know poker.”
“Yes, you would. Of course,” I said. Brubeck went on to “Take Five.” “I like the tunes.” I said. “You like Brubeck?”
“Do you think I would play music I didn’t like? I control my environment. It does not control me.” He gestured with his stump. It was unfortunately phallic.
“Anyway, he died, along with Wendy. Do you remember Wendy?”
“Yes. My Nadia liked her very much. I enjoyed her too. So … American. Only Americans can be naive and decadent at the same time. Why do you think that is?”
“It’s because we have California, where the sun always shines.”
“Mr. Tanaka will be missed,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “He was gonna do a lot of business. It would be a terrible shame if that business did not get done.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Now, the reason I’m here.” I saw that I had his interest, that Lime was right, that Kapek needed Tanaka to keep up the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to. To keep Nadia in the lifestyle she’d become accustomed to. “The reason I’m here is to pick up where Tanaka left off.”
“Who did you say you were?”
“My passport says I’m Andy Applebaum. I’m not. I have another passport in the name of Richard Cochrane, Irish passport. Not me either. My real name is Cassella. I come from Brooklyn, New York. I have certain connections. In America and in Italy. I originally connected with Mr. Tanaka because I had obtained certain technical data from an Air Force base in Naples. This data was to pay a debt that could not otherwise be paid by someone with some unfortunate habits. I am in a position to find people with unfortunate habits. Sometimes they are people who appear to have nothing of value. Then it is discovered that they have information or knowledge that, if properly directed and marketed, has a great deal of value. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” he said. And smiled. I was on a roll.
“Move the stuff?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll spell it out. I am in contact with Musashi Company. They want to continue to get the product that Tanaka was supplying. They are willing to deal with me, even if I am gaijin. There are representatives of my … ‘group’ in California who have had dealings with certain Japanese groups—Yakuza, they call themselves …” I watched my performance in Vlad’s face. He was eating it up. Most people love gangsters and think they must be great to deal with. Particularly colorful cinematic ones like the American Mafia and Japanese Yakuza. “… who deal with Musashi in Japan. They were able to vouch for me.”
“It is all very interesting,” he said.
“Now it’s my understanding,” I said, “that you were to give Hiroshi Tanaka a certain disc. Musashi would like to have this disc …”
It was in his face. I’d blown it. I’d had him right up to that point. He picked up a little handbell on his desk. With all that electronic junk, he still summoned his Bulgarian goons with the little handbell.
“Wait a minute,” I said, trying to think of something to salvage the situation. “I know he was supposed to have had it. He was supposed to have delivered it to Musashi, right? See, but he died first. Now no one can find it. So I thought maybe it hadn’t come in time and you still had it.” It was like talking to an obsidian mask. He was done with me. The Bulgarians came in. They recognized me.
“I wasn’t gonna touch your girl,” I said. “I’m a happily married man. I have a three-month-old daughter. I was looking for you. See, I knew that that was your house and I was hoping to find you.” The older, meaner-looking Bulgarian slammed his paw down on my left shoulder. It stayed in, but I moaned. In so far as I could think through the pain, I kept remembering Lime saying, You don’t want to be one of those guys goes to parties and pops his arm out of his shoulder to amuse the kids.
ULTRALIGHT
WHEN THEY TOOK ME away, I did not resist.
I don’t know if it was the injury to my shoulder or being a father or being a captive in a strange land, but I felt older and frailer than I ever had in my life.
They took me downstairs to the dungeons.
Actually to a basement. It was used primarily for basement things—coal bin, boiler and heating system, cold storage, and wine cellar. But apparently Kapek felt that there would be times when he would need to incarcerate, to interrogate, and to torture without departing from his bucolic retreat. There was an interrogation room and a cell. The cell was small. It had a floor, four walls, a door, a small window—high up—and a bucket.
I hurt.
They didn’t beat me. Or use cattle prods or electric jolts to my testicles. They just shoved me along, hitting my shoulder, down the hall, down the stairs, into the cell, and up against the wall. They closed the door and locked it. I was inside. My beloved aspirin was somewhere outside.
Nobody came and nothing happened.
I went around the room. I tested the door. I checked the walls. I stood on the bucket and tried to lift myself to the window with one arm. It was barred. The bars were thick and strong. The lifting was very painful. I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, trying to sit as straight and relaxed as I could. I tried to figure out what story I should tell and what good it would do me. I tried to think of a way out. I couldn’t. I tried to believe that Lime and Chip “Peaches” Sheen and the limping Bohemian HU-ASS lawyer would come for me. I believed that as much as I believe in the efficacy of prayer.
I considered myself very stupid for being there. I flagellated myself with self-criticism to get my blood circulating, then cloaked myself in self-pity to stay warm. When I’d been there for several hours, toward sunset, I heard music. Percy Sledge singing “When a Man Loves a Woman.” The sound came from outside. I pulled myself up to the window. I couldn’t actually hold myself up—I could only get up, fall back, and then sort out what little I’d seen by reviewing the image retained on my retina. Nadia danced alone.
A battery-operated radio hung from the branch of an apple tree. It had rained and the tree bark was particularly black. I knew the trees were budding, but I did not know what I had seen that made me think so. One tree had already blossomed. There was a blur of pink, like a single brushstroke amid the barrenness. The radio shut off abruptly. Shortly thereafter, it grew dark.
I knew what the bucket was for.
I used it and placed it as far away from me as I could. There was no place so far away that I couldn’t smell my own waste. It began to get chill. Anna Geneviève and Marie Laure were in St. Anton and this sort of business was for stupid single men who cared for no one and liked to brag about their scars. If I ever get out of this, I said, bargaining with a God that I didn’t believe in, there are several things I’ll never do again. I’m not sure what they are at the moment, but drop off a list at your convenience. Plus I’ll marry Marie Laure and backdate the receipt for the sake of the baby and I’ll let both mothers-in-law live with me as long as they like, and I will let poor people wash their clothes at my Laundromat for free.
I thought as much as I could to distract myself from thinking.
I did not want to think about dying, pain, or being crippled. I did not want to think about not seeing my daughter grow up. She’d been born with hair—spiky funny-looking stuff She didn’t go through a bald stage. The new hair grew right through it and replaced it. Now her hair smelled like a puppy’s. A very clean, freshly washed puppy, of course. I did not want to think about Marie Laure finding a new daddy for my daughter. I did not want to think about never standing in the mountains, looking at the sky, wondering what the weather would bring and hoping for fresh snow. Or that I might never again get the chance to turn down an opportunity to be unfaithful.
So I thought about the game we were all playing. Who was telling the truth—Lime or Hayakawa or no one? Was the disc really a source code for an F-16? What had Hiroshi Tanaka really been about? Would Hayakawa come up with a million D marks. Would Lime come through with my pardon? Were Hiroshi Tanaka and Wendy Tavetian murdered?
If the answer was yes, the next question was how? I thought the avalanche had been set. Perhaps with a radio-detonated charge. Perhaps with something exotic—a projectile weapon, a laser, a sound generator. Hans Lantz had been part of the murder. He’d led Tanaka and Tavetian to the spot and then bet on his own abilities to outski the avalanche. I had to respect his—something. Not his intelligence. Not even courage or balls or testosterone. His craziness. The question was why? Why kill Tanaka? I thought Hans Lantz had been murdered. A torn page from Heinrich Heine was hardly proof of suicide. Even in Austria, which is nearly perfect and has the lowest homicide rate in the Western world.
Why was Hans Lantz murdered? That was the single question with a clear answer. He’d been a loose cannon, too ready to brag, to spend, and to kill again. Therefore, likely to lead the police back to whoever had employed him.
That brought me back to question number one—Why kill Hiroshi Tanaka?
It was not a spur-of-the-moment murder. Not a fit of anger. Not a moment of passion. Not a quarrel out of control. To stop him? Who wanted to stop him? Lime? Lime wanted to catch Tanaka, and Hayakawa, dirty. Two Japanese trading U.S. military secrets would be even better than one. Hayakawa? He wanted Tanaka’s product. Chip Sheen? Possibly. I could visualize that, at least. A little too eager, too trigger-happy, he takes Tanaka out too soon. Maybe that was “the mistake” that Lime had referred to, that had made Sheen blush.
Where was the product? Vlad Kapek, the source of the source code, was certain that Tanaka had taken delivery. Where was the disc?
Somewhere between midnight and dawn of my first night the Bulgarians came in and got me. They sat me on a stool in the interrogation ro
om. They took away my sling and my jacket. It was cold. And shone a light in my face. Vlad was a voice and a shadow.
“Where is the disc?” Vlad asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“What are the other names?”
“What other names?” I said.
“Who are you?” Vlad asked me.
I told him the truth. Some more and some less. I left the CIA out of my story. That would only irritate him. I portrayed myself as a sleaze who wanted to scam my way into being an additional middleman. It sounded very plausible to me. I was sure it would to him. We went over it ten or twenty times. I asked for aspirin, food, water. Vlad asked me about Nadia. I said I only approached Nadia because I was looking for him. I even told him my pet theories about infidelity and fidelity and how I thought it might be time for the double standard to make a comeback in America. I told him about the photos and how I’d followed them. The older Bulgarian came around and poked his finger into my shoulder. I fell to my knees and whined and groveled. Then they asked me all the same questions all over again.
When they took me back to my cell the shutters over my little window had been closed. I didn’t know if it was still dark or dawn. Without any flow of air the bucket became a doubly dominant force in the room.
They questioned me again, later. I was very much losing track of time. Pain and lack of sleep and lack of food and lack of drink were making things somewhat hallucinogenic. Cravings are funny things. I really wanted a shower, above all. That’s what kept filling my mind. A shower. A hot one. With a lot of water. A big shower head, way up high, in a marble stall, like the showers at the New York Athletic Club, a wasteful waterfall pounding down on my shoulder, my back, my neck. I mentioned it during interrogation. One of the Bulgarians hurt me.
They put me back in the cell.
Sometime later they brought me food. A glass of water. A roll. Apparently under communism there is only one type of bread per country. In Czechoslovakia it’s a white bread. The roll they have been assigned looks like what a croissant would look like if it appeared in a Polish joke. And an onion, which I ate just like an apple.