He had opened his eyes and stared at her. "What do you think?"
"I don't know, I never wore green."
The dress had been everything that the designer had hoped it would be, though the final touch had come from Robert: the world-famous De Coyne emerald, a fifty-five-carat stone cut into a brilliantly faceted heart set in a framework of tiny baguetted diamonds, and suspended from a simple thin platinum chain. The emerald glowed now against the golden tones of her skin in the exact center of the decolletage between her breasts. Even her tawny eyes seemed to reflect its rich green.
Suddenly Denisonde was nervous. She turned from the mirror and glanced at her sister-in-law, seated on the small love seat behind her. The sounds from the party already in progress downstairs came faintly to her ears. "I don't know what's the matter with me. Suddenly I'm afraid to go down."
Caroline smiled. "You don't have to be afraid. They won't devour you."
Denisonde met Caroline's eyes evenly. "You don't understand. Some of those men have had me. What do I say when I meet them now? Or their wives?"
"To hell with them!" Caroline said. "I could tell you things that would make you seem like an innocent."
"Perhaps, but they did not do them for money."
Caroline came toward her. "Look in the mirror. Do you know what that emerald means?"
Silently Denisonde shook her head.
"My mother wore that emerald," Caroline said, "and my grandmother and her mother before her. No one ever wore it unless she was or was about to become the Baroness de Coyne. When my father gave it to Robert to give to you, that was the end of your past so far as we were concerned. And there is no one down there who doesn't know it."
Denisonde felt the tears behind her eyes. "Robert never told me that."
"Robert wouldn't. He would just take it for granted, and so will everyone else. You'll see."
"I'm going to cry."
"Don't." Caroline smiled and reached for her sister-in-law's hand. "Come downstairs before you do—you'd ruin your makeup."
The baron made his way through the guests toward Denisonde. "May I have this dance, ma fille?"
Denisonde nodded and made her excuses. He took her hand and led her to the edge of the small dance floor. The orchestra broke into a slow waltz as they moved out on the floor.
The baron smiled as she came into his arms. "You see? I have them well trained. They show respect for my age."
She laughed. "In that case they should play the American lindy hop."
"No, not any more." He looked into her eyes. "Are you enjoying the party?"
"Very much, it's like a dream. I never knew the world could be like this." She kissed his cheek. "Thank you, mon pere."
"Don't thank me, it was you who made it possible. You returned my son to me." He hesitated. "Is Robert all right?"
She met his eyes. "You mean the drugs?"
He nodded.
"Yes," she said, "it is over. It was not easy for Robert. He was very sick for a long time but now it is over."
"I am glad. That is yet another thing I have you to thank for."
"Not me, the Israelis. They are very strict about such things. They made him get well."
They were near the entrance to the library, and the baron led her from the floor. "Come in, I have something to give you."
Curiously Denisonde followed him through the door. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. He opened a drawer in the desk and took out some papers and handed them to her. "These are yours."
Denisonde looked down. They were all there—the police cards, the medical certificates, the record of her arrests. She looked up, bewildered. "How did you get these?"
"I bought them," he said. "Now, so far as the records are concerned, your name has never appeared anywhere."
"But why?" she asked. "They must have been very expensive."
Without answering he took the papers from her hand and walked over to the fireplace. He dropped them into the flames, and they began to burn brightly.
"I wanted you to see that," he said, turning to her. "That Denisonde is gone forever."
She looked into the fireplace, then back at him. "Is she?" she asked. "Then who is left? Who am I?"
"My daughter-in-law," he answered quietly. "Robert's wife, of whom I am very proud."
Robert came down the corridor and walked into his father's office. "It's not worth it."
His father looked up. "What makes you say that?"
"I was there," Robert replied heatedly. "Have you forgotten I lived in that country? As important as the project is, Israel will never be able to pay for an irrigation pipeline across the desert. Not in a hundred years. We'll never see our money out of it."
A strange expression crossed his father's face. "But you do agree that such a project is possible?" "Oui." "And necessary?"
"Of course, I do not dispute that. What I am questioning is the economics."
"Sometimes it is good banking to invest in things that do not show an immediate profit," the baron said. "That is one of the responsibilities of wealth. To make certain that some benefits for all result from it."
Robert stared at his father curiously. "Doesn't that reflect a rather broad change in your attitude?"
His father smiled. "As much probably as your objections reflect one in yours."
"But this responsibility you have to the rest of the family," Robert persisted. "Was that not the reason you gave for saving the Von Kuppen works?"
The baron got to his feet. "It is part of the same thing. If we had not done what we did someone else would have reaped the benefit. It is the money we made from saving Von Kuppen that makes this possible."
Robert was silent for a moment. "Does it mean then that you are not interested in making money on this project?"
"I didn't say that," his father answered quickly. "As a banker I must always be interested in profit. But profit alone is not the major motive here."
"But you would accept a profit if I could show you how one could be realized?"
"Of course." The baron sat down again. "Exactly what do you have in mind?"
"The Campion-Israeli Steamship Company. We are about to turn down their request for underwriting because Marcel is greedy and wants to keep all the profits."
"That's right," the baron said. "Our good friend Marcel wants to gobble up everything in sight. In a little more than a year he has got his hands on almost as many ships as his father-in-law owns, more certainly than any of the Greek interests. But his ships are so heavily cross-collateralized that I am afraid any new acquisition might be the one to bring the lot tumbling down."
"But if the profits from the Israeli line were not funneled back into his other companies, might not that be enough to carry the operating deficit on the pipeline?"
His father looked thoughtful. "It might, though the margin would be a very narrow one."
"If we tied the two projects into one and loaned Israel the money at, say, one-half of one percent, instead of the usual five, six or even seven, would that carry them both?"
"That would do it."
Robert smiled.
His father looked up at him. "But what if Marcel won't go for it? Chances are there wouldn't be any profit if he were forced to carry more than his share."
"We can ask him," Robert said. "If he wants the ships as badly as you think he does, he'll go for it. Will anyone else be more eager to underwrite him than we are?"
The baron looked at his son with a new respect. It was basically a sound idea, and if it worked there would be much benefit in it for Israel. "Marcel is in New York," he said, "perhaps you could go there and talk with him."
"Good. I think Denisonde would like that. She's never been there."
The baron watched the door close behind his son. Idly he picked up a sheet of paper and studied it, but his mind refused to concentrate. He was getting old. When he was younger, even a matter of a few years ago, he would never have overlooked such a possibility. Perhaps it was time for
him to think about retirement.
It wasn't so much that he was tired. It was just that he had carried the burden long enough. Or possibly it was just that he hadn't been ready to step aside until he was certain someone was capable of carrying on for him. As he had for his father.
CHAPTER 19
The crowd began to cheer almost before the long black limousine rolled to a stop beside the flag-draped platform. Quickly a man in uniform, a captain, leaped forward to open the door. There was a glimpse of a silk-clad knee, then the sun glinted brilliantly in the soft gold of her hair as Amparo got out.
The crowd went wild. "La princesa! La princesa!"
Amparo stood there for a moment, almost shyly, then smiled at them. A little girl ran up to her and thrust a bouquet into her hand. Quickly she bent and kissed the child, her lips barely moving in a whispered "Mil gracias." Then she was surrounded by officials and escorted up to the platform, where she took up her position in front of the battery of microphones. She waited patiently until the photographers had stopped taking pictures and the shouts from the crowd began to die down. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and soft and warm, so that it seemed as if she whispered to each of them alone.
"My children. Campesinos."
Again they began to scream with delight. For was she not one of them? Had not her father come down from the hills to assume his exalted position? And did she not concern herself continually with the peasants and workers, the ordinary people? It was she who saw to it that there were schools for their children, hospitals for their sick, food for those no longer able to work, and care and respect for the aged.
Even now she stood in front of the magnificent building, white and gleaming, which had given so many of them employment during its construction and would provide a means of livelihood for many more during its operation. But even more, the land on which this magnificent new hotel stood, which belonged to her and for which she could collect rent for a thousand years, she had also given to them. It was little enough honor for the one who had done all this, who had given them so much, to have the new hotel named after her. La Princesa.
Amparo held up her hand, and the cheering died away again. She looked down at them, her eyes not even blinking in the harsh hot sunlight. The microphone amplified her low husky voice into a roaring intimate whisper.
"This is a day of which all of us can be proud. A day of which all Corteguay can be proud. It is a day that marks a new beginning of prosperity for our beloved land."
They began to cheer again but her hand stopped them.
"I am here before you only as a symbol. A symbol of the true humility and great modesty of my beloved father, whose work and concern for his people does not permit him to leave his labors for their behalf."
This time she let them roar.
"El Presidente! El Presidente! El Presidente!"
When the sound had faded she began again.
"Tomorrow this hotel will be open. Tomorrow three great airplanes from the United States will land at our airport, and a great ship will drop its anchor in our harbor. Each will be filled with visitors from the countries to the north. They are coming to enjoy the wonders and beauties of our country. It is for us to say to them, 'Bienvenido,' welcome.
"It is these same turistas who have brought wealth to our neighbors, Cuba and Panama. Now they are bringing their wealth to us, so we must share our wealth with them. The happiness of each is a sacred duty. We want them to carry home the message of the beauty and kindness of our beloved land and its peoples.
"We must demonstrate that our beloved country, Corteguay, is a glorious land. A country ready to take its membership in the community of the world."
The crowd began to cheer again. Its roar of approval reached up to her. She smiled again and held up her hand. "That is tomorrow—tomorrow it will be open to them. But today it is for us. Today all of us, all of you, can enter and see the marvels you have made possible because of the faith and trust my father has in his people."
Her voice faded and she turned to the bright sparkling ribbon across the entrance behind her. Someone handed her a scissors. It shone briefly in the sunlight as she held it aloft. Then suddenly she lowered it and the ribbon fell fluttering to the ground. With a roar the crowd surged forward through the entrance of the hotel. It jammed up the opening until the two lines of soldiers pushed it into an orderly procession.
Dax stood on the platform watching until the dignitaries and officials had made their polite thanks, then he went over to Amparo. She was alone, except for the soldiers, her bodyguards, who were always nearby. She looked thoughtfully down into the pushing crowd.
"You were very good," he said quietly at her elbow. "Very good."
A quick polite smile came to her lips as she turned, then she recognized him and the smile changed. It became warm and personal. "Dax! I didn't know you were here."
He bowed over her hand, kissing it. "I got in last night." He straightened up. "You were very good."
"I should be, I've had enough practice."
He glanced toward the hotel. "Are you going inside?"
"With that mob?" she asked. "I'm not that crazy. I can't stand them. It's a good thing we have soldiers stationed there or they would tear the place apart. They have no appreciation for anything."
"You haven't changed," he said, looking at her. "At least you're honest."
"Why should I change? Do you change?"
"I like to think so. I grow older. Wiser."
"No one ever changes," she said positively, "they only think they do. We're still the same people we were when we scratched our way down from the hills."
"You sound bitter."
"I'm not bitter, I'm just realistic. Women are more hard-headed than men. New airports, new roads, and new buildings don't impress us."
"What does impress you?"
"You."
"Me?" His surprise was reflected in his voice.
"Yes. You escaped. You got out. To you the whole world is not just Corteguay." She frowned suddenly. "I need a drink. I have a headache from squinting into that damned sun."
"The bar is open inside the hotel."
"No, come back to the palace with me. It will be more comfortable there." She hesitated. "Unless you have something better to do."
"No, Princesa." He smiled. "I have nothing better to do."
It was hot in the car, and he leaned forward to roll down the window. Her hand stopped him. "No, not until we're out of the crowds. There are still wolves around us."
Dax leaned back thoughtfully. Perhaps she was right. People did not change.
The face of the slim young man leaning against the speakers' platform offered no clue to his thoughts as he watched the big black limousine turn and make its way slowly through the crowds.
I could have killed them, he was thinking, just now as they walked in front of me and the soldiers were looking the other way. I could have killed them the way they killed my father. Without mercy. From ambush.
He straightened up and put his hand inside his jacket, and feeling the gun in his belt gave him comfort. Quickly he took his hand away and put it in his pocket lest it betray him. Still lost in his thoughts, he joined the crowds pushing their way into the hotel.
But what good would killing them have done me? None at all, he thought. The soldiers would have killed me, and all I came back to do would remain undone. El Presidente would go on forever. It was not for this I went away to school across the sea.
He paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at the hills. Tomorrow I will begin my journey home. To the land of my father, to my father's people. They will listen to my message. They will discover that they are not alone, that we are not alone, and they will believe. When the guns come will be time enough for the murderers of my father to die. And they will know it is the son of el Condor who is their executioner.
He was too busy with his own thoughts to notice the two men fall into step behind him. When he did notice, it was alr
eady too late. They had him.
"The comunistas!" El Presidente spat on the marble floor. "It is they who are behind this new trouble in the hills. They are sending in guns, money, and guerrilleros. There is not a night that passes that another of them does not slip across our borders."
"If we had solved the problems of the bandoleros earlier we would not have had to worry now."
"Dax, you are being stupid! Do you think that alone is the answer? I wish it were. But not any more; the disease has spread throughout the world. It is not our country alone. It is Brazil, Argentina, Cuba. In Asia it is Vietnam, Korea—"
"A truce has been in effect in Korea for almost a year now," Dax said. "Both the United States and Russia have withdrawn their troops."
"I have not the advantage of your worldwide knowledge," el Presidente answered sarcastically. "But I know enough about the uses of power to understand that the Korean truce will not survive the summer. How long do you think the North Koreans will continue to sit and allow their southern brothers to grow rich and fat in the valleys below the thirty-eighth parallel while they starve in the mountains?"
Dax did not answer.
"Just this afternoon my police picked up a young man who has returned to this country after attending a school in Russia. He was less than three feet away from Amparo while she was making her speech. They found a gun in his belt. He had been sent there to assassinate her."
"Yet he did not fire," Dax replied. "Why?"
"Who knows? Perhaps he got buck fever, possibly he was afraid he would be killed first. There could be a thousand reasons."
"What will happen to the young man?"
"He will be tried," el Presidente said. "If he cooperates and gives us information he will live. If not..."
He turned and went back to his desk. "In three weeks our application for membership in the United Nations comes up again. This time it will be approved. The Western powers can no longer hold it against us that we remained neutral throughout the war. All of us now face a common enemy."
The Adventurers Page 49
