The Adventurers

by Robbins, Harold

In silence the two of us watched the baron thread his way through the tables to the door, then we looked at one another.

  "Since his retirement my father has grown soft and sentimental," Robert said with a forced laugh. "It's an occupational disease of the aged."

  Suddenly I was angry, and what Robert said about his father triggered it. How could a man know so much and yet have learned so little? "You're going to age a little in the next few minutes," I said grimly.

  "Come off it, Dax!" He laughed. "You may fool my father with that act, but not me. I know better."

  "You do?" I asked savagely. "Do you also know everything about a company called De Coyne Freight Forwarding?"

  "Of course; it was formed for the purpose of expediting shipments to Corteguay. It was part of our original investment agreement, but you know that as well as I. Your own father signed the papers on behalf of Corteguay."

  "The bank still owns the company?""No."

  "Who does?"

  A tight smile came back to Robert's lips. "I can't tell you that. When we had no further use for the company, after it had been inactive for a number of years, we sold it, agreeing to act as nominees and trustees of record for the new owners. It is perfectly legal under Swiss law, and is done all the time."

  "Then so far as the public is concerned you're still the owners, responsible for the company's activities?"

  "Yes." But a worried crease had appeared in Robert's face. "That's standard practice too; everyone knows it's just a subterfuge."

  I looked at Robert, and let the worry deepen. After a few moments I said, "I assume you also know the present nature of the company's activities?"

  "I have some idea," Robert answered warily.

  I took the papers that Braunschweiger had furnished me and dropped them onto the table between us. I was about as subtle as a kick in the balls. "Then I take it the De Coyne Bank has no objections to acting as shipping agent for arms and weapons manufactured by the former Von Kuppen Fabrik in East Germany?"

  The color abruptly drained out of Robert's face. "What— what do you mean?"

  "Read the papers."

  Robert picked up the summary of the contract between the East German government and the De Coyne Freight Forwarding Company, a Swiss corporation. When he looked up beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead. His mouth was slightly open, and he looked positively sick.

  I didn't feel in the least sorry for him. Robert deserved this one, if only for his stupidity. The baron had been right, it would have been better if we had been able to achieve this as friends. Such a revelation could break the De Coyne Bank where nothing else had been able to. We were both aware that no one would believe the bank's protestations of innocence.

  "You weren't as smart as you thought, Robert," I said quietly, "you've been had."

  By that evening the records had been flown down from Switzerland, and Robert and I spent half the night in his office going over them. When I finally left, my attache case stuffed with papers, I had the whole rotten story, and it wasn't pretty. For Marcel lay at the center of it like an octopus, his obscene tentacles reaching out in every direction.

  In the morning I called Marlene to say good-bye.

  "You're leaving?"

  "I'm at the airport now."

  "I'm sorry about the newspaper stories, Dax. I hope she doesn't believe them."

  "It doesn't matter," I said, and I meant it. Too much had already gone wrong between Beatriz and me. "Anyway, it wasn't your fault, Marlene."

  "Dax, it was good, wasn't it?" she asked hesitantly. "Between us, I mean." "Yes, Marlene."

  She was silent for a moment and when she spoke again her voice was so low I could scarcely hear. "Auf wiedersehen, Dax. Take care of yourself." "Good-bye, Marlene."

  CHAPTER 23

  As I walked through the outer office of the consulate I came upon Lieutenant Giraldo. I stopped, and he jumped to his feet, standing at attention. "Your excellency!"

  "Lieutenant Giraldo." I held out my hand. "It is a surprise to see you in New York."

  He took my hand and shook it formally. "To me too," he said. "During the Korean War I was given pilot training by the American Air Force. Now suddenly I find myself sent here for a refresher course."

  "Refresher course?" I smiled. "But we have no airplanes."

  "I know," Giraldo replied. "That's why they sent me back here."

  "Come into my office." Giraldo followed me in, and I closed the door. "So you're a pilot."

  "Yes, but only on single-engine prop aircraft. I am here to receive jet training."

  "Jets?" El Presidente had great expectations. How he was going to fulfill them I didn't know. I sat down behind my desk. "How are things at home?"

  "The same." Giraldo looked at me hesitantly. "Not good; the bandoleros grow bolder. There have been several more villages attacked, though this has not been reported in the newspapers. I think that is why I have been sent here. There is talk that we are somehow to get jets to use against them."

  "And the guns?"

  "I don't know. Hoyos is in charge of the port, so we hear nothing. There has been no further report of shipments being intercepted."

  I was silent. If my hunch was correct the guns were still coming in, and it would take more than a Hoyos to stop them.

  "Curatu has become like an armed camp," Giraldo added. "There are soldiers everywhere. The populace is silent and tense, as if they are waiting for something to happen. After eight each night no one appears on the streets. It is like a city of ghosts."

  "Perhaps soon things will improve," I said.

  "I hope so," Giraldo replied earnestly, "it is terrible to exist like that. We are beginning to feel as if we are living in one tremendous prison."

  Sergei's face was flushed and angry. "I'll kill the son of a bitch!"

  I looked out the windows of his office. The late-afternoon sun was dazzling against the white towering buildings. My eyes smarted and felt heavy. The need for sleep was catching up with me. Somehow you never really rested on those long night flights.

  "I should have known better!" Sergei was still reproaching himself. "Any time that bastard offers you something for nothing, watch out. I should have realized there'd be a catch in it."

  I turned back to the room wearily. "You were greedy, Sergei. He had you before he even approached you."

  "What's so wrong about trying to make a few dollars you can keep?" Sergei asked defensively. "The taxes here eat you alive. So you divert a little to Switzerland; everybody does it."

  I let my eyes wander around his opulent office. I thought about his duplex apartment on Fifth Avenue and his magnificent home in Connecticut. I remembered the black and gold Rolls-Royce with his crest on the door. "When you had nothing you had no taxes to pay."

  Sergei must have realized what I was thinking, for his eyes narrowed.

  "You're a fool," I added. "To risk so much for so little, to put yourself in the hands of a thief for a few lousy dollars."

  I was not telling Sergei anything he did not already know, but he was still defensive. "At least I wasn't the only one."

  If Sergei wanted to console himself with that it was his privilege. Unfortunately he was right. Robert's greed had led him into the same trap, and only God and Marcel knew how many others.

  After a few moments Sergei asked, "What do I do now?"

  "You do nothing. I do it."

  Sergei was only too glad to cooperate.

  I went over the whole thing again in my mind. Marcel bought the company from Robert in Sergei's name, explaining that it was to be used for the shipment of Sergei's products from France to the United States. And Robert, knowing of Sergei's success and envisioning the tremendous volume of material to be moved, went for the deal without hesitation.

  Then Marcel turned around and told Sergei that there was a small piece of the De Coyne Freight Forwarding Company available, and sold him five percent for practically nothing. The name De Coyne was synonymous with security in Sergei's mind
, and when Marcel told him that he had spoken to Robert, who agreed that Sergei should become president, he was flattered. Nothing could have kept him out. The dividends that Sergei received and the commissions that the De Coyne Bank earned kept both satisfied and restrained their curiosity.

  Actually, I blamed only myself for not discovering sooner what was going on. A suspicion had been lurking in the back of my mind ever since I first heard about the guns. Perhaps subconsciously I remembered the stories I had heard about Marcel buying his first few ships by selling arms in the Orient. He would not be unfamiliar with the inordinately high profits involved in gun-running. But in my own way I had been as stupid as the others.

  I looked across the desk at Sergei. "As president of the company you signed papers?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you have them?"

  Sergei shook his head. "No, Marcel kept all the records. He claimed it would be safer."

  "What do you have then?"

  "Only my stock certificates."

  "Get them."

  Sergei picked up the telephone on his desk. "Would you bring in the small red folder in my personal file, please?"

  A moment later his secretary came in. "Is this what you wanted, your highness?"

  I glanced up to see if she was serious. She was.

  "Yes, thank you."

  She turned and left the office. I couldn't help smiling. "Oh, brother," I said. "You finally made it, your royal-assed highness."

  Sergei had the decency to blush. "It's been good business." He found the certificates and pushed them toward me. "Here."

  I studied them carefully. They were the usual printed forms, green with golden-orange curlicues. The name of the company was printed at the top, and the number of shares each certificate represented was typed in. Down on the bottom, one in each corner, were the two authorized signatures. One, of course, was Sergei's, as president of the company. I looked at the other, expecting to find Marcel's, but I should have known better. With his instinct for self-preservation he wouldn't put his name to anything.

  But the name I did find was even more illuminating, for it tied the guns, the bandoleros, and Dr. Guayanos' group into one neat little package. The other signature was that of Alberto Mendoza, as secretary of the company.

  The ringing of the telephone seemed to come from a long way off. Sluggishly I fought my way out of sleep and picked up the phone. "Yes?"

  It was one of the clerks in the consulate downstairs. "I have the information your excellency requested."

  I sat on the edge of the bed in a fog, trying to remember what I had asked for. The clerk must have sensed the way I felt for in a moment he added, "About Alberto Mendoza, your excellency."

  "Oh, yes," I said, awake now. "Would you bring it up to my apartment, please?"

  I put down the telephone and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. I remembered coming back to the consulate after I had left Sergei and asking the clerk to get me a file on Mendoza. Then I had gone upstairs to take a shower.

  But I had decided to stretch out on the bed for a few minutes first. And that was all I remembered until the telephone had rung.

  My mouth felt as if it were stuffed with straw; my clothing was rumpled and stuck to me. I got up and stretched. When a soft knock came at the door I walked toward it, unbuttoning my shirt on the way.

  Fat Cat's voice came through the closed door. "Senor Perez is here."

  "Send him in."

  The door opened and a little gray-haired clerk entered timidly. "Come in, Perez," I said. "It was very good of you to give up your evening."

  "It was a pleasure, your excellency." The clerk handed me a typewritten sheet of paper. "Here is the information, sir."

  "Thank you, Perez."

  "Will there be anything else, your excellency?"

  "No, thank you. You have done more than enough. Good night."

  "Good night, your excellency."

  I put the sheet of paper on my dresser and read it as I undressed.

  Alberto Mendoza: age 34, born 28 July, 1921, Curatu.

  Parents: Pedro Mendoza, merchant; Dolores, nee Garcia.

  Education: Jesuit School, Curatu. Grad. Honors 1939, University of Mexico. Majored Economics and Political Science; Honors, 1943, Colombia University, Bogota. Master in Political Science, 1944.

  Career: Appointed lieutenant to army, 1944, in July.

  Courtmartial 10 Nov., 1945; charge: distributing Communist literature and attempting to organize Communist cadres among the troops. Verdict: guilty. Sentenced to ten years' hard labor; pardoned in general political amnesty, 1950.

  Other: Left Corteguay for Europe, 1950. Actions and movements unaccounted for until September, 1954, when became associated with Guayanos. Of his personal life nothing is known.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and took off my shoes. That seemed to clinch it. El Presidente had been right. He had said all along that Guayanos was Communist-sponsored. I thought of Beatriz, and I felt sick. With so much against us we had never had a chance. No wonder she had thought I had something to do with the death of her father.

  I cursed aloud and suddenly I was wide awake. I couldn't go back to sleep now. I glanced at the clock again. Marcel would still be awake; he never went to bed before three in the morning. It still wasn't too late to do what I had to do.

  CHAPTER 24

  Marcel was already half drunk when he opened the door. He stood in the foyer of his apartment, weaving slightly and smiling. He half fell against me, his hands clutching at my lapels. "Dax, you dog. I've been reading about you in the newspapers."

  I gripped his elbow to keep him from falling. "I've been doing some reading, too."

  The sarcasm was lost on Marcel. "You know," he said, peering into my face owlishly, "for a while I'd about given you up. I thought you'd turned square. Now I know better."

  "Sure," I said soothingly.

  "You came just in time. I was having a little party but it was getting dull. Come."

  Grabbing me by the arm, he half pulled me into the living room. The room was in semidarkness. The overhead lights were off, and only the side lamps glowed dimly in the corners. Two women were seated on the couch, their faces half hidden in the shadows.

  There was a curiously vicious edge to Marcel's voice as he said, "I think you know the girls. Beth, say hello to Dax."

  The nearest girl looked up. "Hello."

  I recognized the big-breasted blond. I had met her there before. "Hello, Beth."

  "Don't just sit there like a stupid idiot," Marcel said sharply, "fix Dax a drink."

  Silently Beth got up and walked over to the bar. The other girl sat without moving, her face partly averted.

  "You know Dax," Marcel said to her sarcastically. "Is that the kind of greeting you usually give an old friend?"

  The woman looked up at me, her long dark hair falling away from her face.

  "Dania!"

  "Yes, Dania," Marcel mimicked nastily. "You never expected to find her here, did you?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Not Dania Farkas," Marcel continued, slurring his words slightly, "she's too independent and important."

  I still remained silent.

  "Bullshit!" Marcel suddenly exploded. "She's as big a cunt as the others!"

  Beth came back from the bar with a drink in each hand. Marcel took one and handed me the other. Beth went back to the bar and returned with drinks for Dania and herself. "Come on, Marcel," she said, "the party's getting to be a drag. Put on some music. Let's ball a little."

  "No, I don't feel like it!" Marcel swallowed half his drink and sprawled onto the couch beside Dania. "Don't be so formal," he said, "you're among friends." He fumbled at the top of her dress and silently she pushed his hand away.

  Beth hit the button on the record player and music swelled through the room. She leaned over Marcel, her breasts half pushing their way out of her dress. "Come on, let's ball."

  Even I could see that she felt sorry for Dania.
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br />   Viciously Marcel knocked the drink from her hand. It flew across the room, shattering against the wall. "Turn off that goddam machine," he shouted. "I told you I didn't feel like it!"

  For a moment hatred flashed from Beth's eyes. She would have killed him if she'd dared. But a moment later the music stopped.

  "You're not on a stage in front of an audience now," Marcel said in a cold voice, turning back to Dania. "You don't have to playact. Not for me, or for Dax either. We both know what you're like, we've both slept with you. You didn't think I knew?" He began to laugh. "I know everything. That night at El Morocco when he took you home. He didn't leave your apartment until five in the morning."

  Without speaking Dania got to her feet. "Dax, would you please take me home?"

  "Dax, would you please take me home?" Marcel mimicked.

  "Do that!" he suddenly shouted. "They say you've got a great cock. Maybe she wants you to fuck her again. But it's a waste of time, Dax, you might as well be sticking your prick into a marble statue. She does nothing but lie there!"

  Marcel looked at her, then at me. "She's a whore just like the others. You know why she came up here?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Because she still thinks she can get me to marry her. She's getting old and her voice is going and she's afraid she'll have nothing once that's gone!"

  Marcel began to laugh, turning back to her, his voice sly and baiting. "But I'm not that much of a fool, am I? Why should I, when I've got my pick of all the cunt in the world? Dania will always be around as long as I have any money."

  Dania's face was pale. "Dax, please—"

  I'd had enough myself. "Come on, Dania."

  "Go ahead," Marcel shouted. "Do you think I don't know what you were doing in Switzerland? A big man with the ladies, the world's number-one lover! Bah!" He spit on the floor at my feet. "The only brains you ever had were in your prick!"

  My temper burst. I grabbed Marcel by the armpits and hauled him up from the couch. "You slimy little bastard, I ought to kill you!"

  Marcel stared into my eyes balefully. "You haven't got the guts!"

  I began to shake him as I would an animal, then I felt Dania's hand on my arm. "Dax! Dax! Please, stop!"