Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

Inside the reception area, white-clad waiters carry trays of champagne flutes. Francis takes one glass for her and one for himself, never letting go of her arm. He looks protectively at her, and she knows that he’s gearing up for the performance that’s about to commence. He toasts her, his eyes caressing her, and then whispers in her ear, “To the evening’s success!”

  As she smiles and raises her glass, a slim, tall Sri Lankan man approaches them. “Ah! The pleasures of love! The promises of desire!” The man kisses her hand and greets Francis with a nod. She can tell from the minuscule muscle contractions in Francis that he’s alert, but to the outside, he appears as cool and relaxed as always. The stranger moves on, and Francis says softly, “De Lingua,” which she’d already guessed from the descriptions she’d heard of him earlier. They continue out through open doors to the huge terrace overlooking the sea. Leaning over the balustrade, one arm wrapped casually around her waist, Francis says, “You know what you’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Of course not.”

  People are mingling on the terrace, enjoying the warm night, the salty air, and the prospect of the quality food for which Mount Lavinia is famous. Jo looks around to see if Dhammakarati is here. He would likely have gotten an invitation, as it is still considered common courtesy and plain good luck for the rich and powerful to invite spiritual heads of the community. But she doesn’t see him until they are seated for dinner. He’s facing her, seated at a table some distance away; however, she can clearly make out his silent greeting when their eyes meet. She wonders whether Francis planned for him to be here, or whether Dhammakarati just had a premonition that his presence might be needed tonight.

  As soon as dinner is over, she makes her excuses and walks out onto the terrace. She reckons they will have ten or fifteen minutes before everybody else leaves the dining room, where people presently are circling and introducing themselves to new acquaintances, greeting old friends, and waiting for cocktails to be served on the terrace.

  She senses his presence before he says her name.

  “I am not confident with this plan of yours,” Dhammakarati says. “I am afraid you are both underestimating de Lingua. He’s ”

  Jo interrupts him. “What do you know about him?”

  “Well, he’s a cruel, heartless man.” Dhammakarati seems to debate whether to go on, the Buddhist vow of not speaking ill of anybody battling with the need for Jo to know what she is up against. After a short pause, he makes his decision. “You see, I know him well. Very well indeed, and in a way, I would rather not. I know he is responsible for a number of high-profile assassinations in southern Asia. He’s supposed to come from Moor heritage, meaning he grew up here, but unlike his family, he never quite assimilated and probably still nurtures his Islamic orientation. To me, he seems like a man who not only failed to assimilate here, but also has never adopted the planet of humanity. His family is highly esteemed by the local population and owns most of the rubber-tree plantations in the North Western Province. They were good people. De Lingua was brought up to be the consummate gentleman, to treat workers well. Whatever went wrong, we will most likely never know. He’s extensively educated, mainly in England. His mind is highly analytical and extremely tactical. I suspect he will take on any job, if only it will challenge his mind.”

  She smiles. “You don’t like him!”

  He looks at her, his face blank. “I am just wary of him; that’s all. And I am not too certain about this legend of yours.”

  Jo can’t help but wonder if Dhammakarati is always this apprehensive during a mission, or whether he truly is spooked. She tries to reassure him. “You know, the best disguise is usually the one that requires the fewest changes. And in this case, we must assume that de Lingua by now already knows of our organization from his close association with Schwartz. If we were to pretend I was somebody else, we might land ourselves in some very hot water.” She shakes her head gently. “No, Dhamma, this is the right legend. All we’re adding is a love affair between Francis and me. Otherwise, we’re just out having a bit of fun outside the narrow parameters of a European and American jet set that watches Francis’s every move.”

  She moves closer to him, willing him to look her in the eyes. But he avoids her eyes and asks instead, “How can I be of help?” His voice is distanced, calm, and professional.

  “Well, right about now, Francis should be entangled with a long-legged Scandinavian blonde. So, what you can do is to take me back into the dining room through the main entrance, making sure everybody sees me being all pious and chaste with a man of the cloth, while my fiancé acts like a charlatan. And then you need to leave the scene so that de Lingua, hopefully, can get in to save my honor and be the gentleman he was brought up to be.”

  Dhammakarati nods and walks slightly ahead of her into the dining room. So much for gentlemen of the East. She always forgets that if they’re not truly schooled in the West, their concept of gentlemanly behavior is rather different.

  Sure enough, Francis is all over a pretty blonde. And he is not being very subtle about it, either. Jo walks right up to him, grabbing a glass of wine (white; he would kill her otherwise for ruining his Tom Ford) and hurls it right at his face. “You bastard!” she says loudly enough for people to hear. “You promised it was over!” She turns around, a hand theatrically over her eyes, walking away from the lovebirds, knowing that Francis will come after her.

  But the man who reaches her first is de Lingua. Suddenly, a cool hand is grabbing her elbow, guiding her out of the room, up the wide stairs, into a suite. He indicates she should sit down in an enormous lounge chair by the French doors. He walks over to the bar and pours two drinks. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, all the while making the appropriate sighing sounds.

  He’s a striking-looking man. Dark skinned, even for a Sri Lankan, which probably means there was some illicit Tamil influence along his bloodlines. Not uncommon for the ruling classes to have a little Tamil adventure. Vast dark eyes, very full lips, wide nose in an exquisitely shaped face. Quite tall, a slim body going on skinny, with that special kind of elegance that only very tall and very slim men attain. Clothes appear grateful to grace his body.

  In the following months, she would come to recognize that his old-world charm, perfect manners, beauty, and charm were just cover for an ice-cold and calculating soul. He was tactical and absolutely unscrupulous when something mattered to him. She had plenty of time to consider what actually motivated him, what he was looking for deep down, but she never came up with a single, satisfying answer. One day she hoped to get the opportunity to ask him.

  Predictably, when Jo indicated that she was not going back with Francis, de Lingua offered Jo one of the suite’s bedrooms for the night. He even hinted that she might just punish her unfaithful fiancé a little by staying away for a time. She had tried to entice him subtly to spend the night with her, but either she failed, or he did indeed prefer young boys. He bid her good night at the door after inquiring solicitously as to her comfort, which was far more disturbing than if he had jumped into bed with her.

  A few hours later, in the middle of the night, she awakens from light slumber when a hand touches her shoulder. “Get dressed, please.” He smiles at her. The reassuring smile of a snake. In the shadows behind him, she makes out what she believes to be a couple of guards. Young men in sarongs and short-sleeved shirts.

  “Why? Are you kicking me out?” she asks.

  “Of course not. But I think we should relocate before anybody wakes up. I’ll take you to my place. You’ll be much more comfortable there and…” he hesitates “Well, you’ll be out of range of the paparazzi. I don’t want you to take the place in the morning papers that is rightly your fiancé’s.” He eyes her speculatively. “I promise you; I’ll be the perfect gentleman. Please?” He extends his hand. It is not a question. She hesitates an instant before taking it. All right, I’ll play along, she thinks. This is, after all, what I came
for. And anyway, he has at least two guards with him.

  In the basement of the hotel, he unlocks a heavy, steel-enforced teak door with two separate keys. “You may want to take off your shoes,” he says as he holds the door for her. “It might be bit slippery.” She follows his suggestion, and sure enough, the ground is slimy against her bare feet. She suppresses a wave of repulsion and starts to walk. They are in an arched tunnel built entirely of huge slabs of stone, illuminated every ten meters or so by wall torches. She wonders whether somebody had gone ahead and lit the torches, or if they burned all the time.

  De Lingua suddenly breaks the silence. “This is actually the tunnel built almost two hundred years ago by Sir Thomas Maitland, then governor of Ceylon. He fell desperately in love with a young local girl, which was obviously not something looked kindly upon, and commissioned the tunnel so he could see her without incurring the disapproval of the Crown. Quite unlike your fiancé.” Jo cannot see it in the dark, but she is certain he flashes his snaky smile. She doesn’t answer but keeps counting her steps. She pretends to have her full attention on not slipping on the slick ground. Stumbles. He reaches out. The game continues.

  After another few minutes and 378 paces, they reach an open door, next to which a serious young man in the traditional sarong is standing. He greets her politely, two hands together in front of his chest, head slightly bowed, before indicating she should follow him toward a waiting car. She’s walking between the two men when the reality of the situation suddenly becomes very clear to her: that not only has she voluntarily put her safety at this man’s whim a man whom Dhammakarati calls cruel but she’s also going into what, with luck, will be a rescue mission in heels and a dress. Not optimal, but the opportunity arose, and it was right to grab it. She hopes. Although it would have been nice to have had just a brief word with Francis before disappearing into the unknown.

  De Lingua gestures for her to get into the car first and then joins her in the back seat. One of his tight-lipped guards gets into the front, and the rest disappear into a similar car. She imagines him to have a whole army of similar-looking guards and similar-looking luxury SUVs.

  The cars take off into the night.

  It’s not long before they are out of the small town that houses the hotel, and the moonless night gets really dark. They follow the coastal road south and only when they pass through one of the many small villages along the way does she see anything outside the perimeter of the car’s front lights. De Lingua offers her fruit and a local white tea for breakfast. And for a while, they keep up a somewhat formal and polite conversation about the tea export, his recently built residence, tourism, and the tsunami. All very civilized. After a couple of hours, she excuses herself, saying she’ll close her eyes for a little while. De Lingua at once pulls out a blanket for her, fervent in his concern for her welfare. She accepts the pretense with grace. But her guard is up. She has just entered into active fieldwork.

  After about four hours, they leave the main road, and for at least half an hour, they continue on a very narrow dirt road. She wonders what the driver will do if another car comes toward them. There is not enough space for two cars to pass. But she assumes their entourage won’t be the one to back up to the highway.

  The dirt road stops abruptly in the middle of a large courtyard surrounded by high walls. A number of young men line the walls. None of them carries any visible weapons, but they might as well. Their body language screams hardcore military training. And even though they are dressed in the traditional shirts and long sarongs, she long ago learned to respect the violence of men in skirts. In her mind, Jo goes over the directions they’ve taken in order to be able to explain them to whoever is going to get her out of here. She feels a strong premonition that she won’t be able to leave this place on her own.

  Her car door is opened, and she’s escorted directly into a small buggy, although not alone. One of the young men climbs in next to her, and they take off along a narrow, winding path, followed by another buggy in which two of the young men ride. She turns around to see whether de Lingua is coming, but he has disappeared.

  Chapter 13

  An attractive but unsmiling woman in her thirties opens the door on his second ring. Francis smiles at her. Second wife, definitely, he says to himself. Aloud he says, “Mrs. Coello, I spoke to your husband on the phone. He’s expecting me.”

  “Of course. Come on in.” She opens the door wide, still without smiling. Either she’s an unhappy woman or strange men, in her experience, usually bring bad news. Perhaps he should tell her that he really is their saving grace and the least she could do is to show a bit of friendly gratitude. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Gratitude is a rare commodity in his line of work. And even if he is doing this to save the reputation of Smith, Turner, and Stevenson, Mrs. Coello should be grateful that her lifestyle is about to be saved as well.

  Ruben Coello is waiting for him in the lounge, sitting in one of two deep chairs in a bay window overlooking an incredibly well-kept garden. You can tell a lot from a couple’s garden: if it is as tidy as this one, at least one of the spouses is strong on control. And given the topic he has come to discuss today, it is most likely not the husband.

  Mr. Coello gets up to greet Francis and offer him a chair. “Would you like tea, coffee, or perhaps something stronger?” Mr. Coello asks.

  “Tea, please. You wouldn’t happen to have any Darjeeling now, would you?” Francis knew full well that not only would the Coello household stock Darjeeling, but that it likely would boast not only the first-flush variety but also the much rarer white Darjeeling. He hadn’t been able to find out whether it was husband or wife who had brought this particular interest into the marriage.

  Mr. Coello beams. “Why, Mr. Scott-Wren, you seem quite the connoisseur! As it happens, my wife and I just got back from West Bengal, where we did a little tour around some of the tea estates, and we did indeed bring back some rare white Darjeeling. I will be most pleased if you would enjoy some with me!” He leaves the room while Francis thinks, “Why don’t you stick to this very innocent hobby and to your beautiful wife and your lovely home and your meticulously kept garden, rather than laying yourselves wide open for bastards like Schwartz?”

  “The tea will be here shortly,” Mr. Coello says, sitting down opposite Francis and still wearing a beatific expression from discovering a fellow aficionado. “Now, how can I be of help to you, Mr. Scott-Wren? It wasn’t entirely apparent to me when we spoke on the phone.”

  Francis leans forward in a manner of friendly confidence. Mr. Coello eyes him expectantly. “Well, Mr. Coello or may I call you Ruben?” Mr. Coello nods enthusiastically. “Well, Ruben, let me be straight with you.” Francis pauses, eyeing his host. “You’re a gambling man?”

  Although it is phrased like a question, even Ruben cannot doubt the insight that lies behind it. His enthusiasm evaporates, the beatific expression replaced by a rather more guarded one. His voice is noticeably colder. “Please, go on, Mr. Scott-Wren. Elaborate.”

  Francis maintains his jovial tone and manner. “Ah, Ruben, I know this is a bit different from what you had in mind to discuss on a quiet evening like tonight, but believe me, it will be worth your while. Would you like me to continue?”

  Ruben gestures impatiently. He’s the host, the man who has been assaulted in his own home, the man who harvested white Darjeeling himself. “Please, do!”

  But before Francis can continue, the tea arrives. A Spanish-looking maid sets out the service and pours the tea for the two men. She offers milk and lemon, but both men decline. Francis catches Ruben’s eyes, and they sip the tea gently for a few moments, savoring its delicate aroma. Francis nods appreciatively.

  “All right, let me elaborate a bit. We do know you gamble, Ruben, so it’s a matter of indifference to me whether you choose to own up to this or not. It is not my business to interfere with your private life, and if you prefer to gamble a bit here and there, no one’s the wiser. But…” Francis holds up his fi
nger, admonishing, and suddenly his whole demeanor changes. “If you, on the other hand, through your pathetic little vice, endanger Smith, Turner, and Stevenson, well, then it is a whole different ball game.” He stares Ruben straight in the eyes. “You get my point, Ruben?”

  Ruben nods stiffly.

  “The thing is, I have a complete outline of your financial affairs for the past five years, and the situation is rather awkward, to put it mildly. You have mortgaged this house, your city flat, and your beach house up to the hilt. Your wife earns a pittance and spends a whole lot more than that. Your two children from your first marriage are due for college very soon. And there is not much to enlighten your prospects other than a continuance of your present income. You are doing very well compared to most people, but you’re at a point in your career where it is rather unlikely that you will suddenly increase your income by more than five percent to ten percent a year. And that, my friend, is not nearly enough if you continue to gamble and lose to the tune of three million a year.”

  During Francis’s exposition, Ruben has gone still paler around the mouth. Nothing is left of the indignation or the wounded generosity of the host. “How do you know?” he whispers hoarsely.

  “Oh, it’s really quite easy to find out,” Francis says lightly. “But never mind how I know. It’s not important. Suffice it to say that I know this, and a whole lot more. May I have a bit more of this delicious tea?”

  Ruben looks confused for a moment. “Sure. Allow me.” He pours them both another cup, and once again the two men meet in a mutual appreciation of one of the world’s finest teas.

  Francis continues, “So, all in all, that makes you a highly susceptible man, my friend.”

  If Ruben is piqued by Francis’s bantering tone, he doesn’t let on.

  “And because you’re presently and perhaps always will be susceptible to any offer of easy money, you are a liability to Smith, Turner, and Stevenson. And we can’t have that, can we?”