“Conduct Section will know exactly,” the General said.
Argenti speared up some of the tiny fish with his fork. Watching Argenti chew, Wiley thought about what the man was eating. Fish eyes, brains, guts and shit, along with the rest. Without a qualm simply because the fish were tiny. What difference, really, did that make?
Argenti asked the General, “Where do they have Ramsey now?”
“New York. He cannot be brought here for at least a week.”
“Oh?”
“He suffered a fall. A peculiar accident. It was as though someone had struck him across both knees with a steel pipe.”
Argenti ate more fish.
“There is doubt that Ramsey will ever walk again,” the General added.
“Whether he does or not,” Argenti told him, “see that he gets to Barbosa.”
The General nodded while rinsing wine around the inside of his mouth.
Wiley thought Barbosa was probably either a convalescent home or a hospital. From the mention of such things as carats, mines and side-deals he was beginning to get a different picture of Argenti. Lillian had said vaguely that the man was in finance. It was at Las Hadas, which Argenti owned, that Wiley had had the near-fatal emerald escapade. Wiley went on putting that and this together. What the hell was Conduct Section?
“Have you given any further thought to my proposition, Mr. Wiley?”
“Not really.” Argenti got his name right that time, probably could have before.
“Perhaps you did not believe I was serious. As a recall, I was rather offhand.”
“That was it,” Wiley said.
“Nevertheless, serious.”
Wiley had no trouble remembering the offer. Four hundred thousand a year counting bonuses and rip-off allowance. For being a sort of courier, was the way Argenti had put it.
“Anyway, the spot is still open,” Argenti said.
No doubt he meant Ramsey’s spot.
“Some people prefer bad times,” Argenti commented. “An excuse for dependency.”
Wiley didn’t let the needle get to him. He couldn’t imagine working for Argenti under any circumstances. The only reason for the ridiculously generous offer was to enable Argenti to manipulate him, clear the way to Lillian. As though he, Wiley, was actually that much of an obstacle.
“Who would I be working for, I mean what company?” Wiley asked.
General Botero answered, “La Concesión de Gemas.”
It was said in such rapid run-together Spanish Wiley didn’t get it. He told himself, no matter, he wasn’t interested, and that four cups of coffee was the reason he was nervous, clenching his teeth, jiggling his right leg. He looked past Argenti, then aside. Luis Hurtado hadn’t moved more than a foot. Wiley studied the huge man, thought of him as a weapon.
Argenti was saying, “If not for the canopy, birds would be shitting all over the table.” And then, with hardly a pause, he said, “Tell you what, Mr. Wiley. I am so impressed with you I will better my offer. No salary. Straight commission. Two percent on as much as you handle. And expenses, of course.”
“Handle what?”
They were amused that he didn’t know.
Wiley was sure he did. He just wanted to hear it.
Argenti told him.
Wiley nodded.
Argenti asked if that was his decision.
Wiley was mentally rerunning a fragment of that emerald escapade on the beach in Las Hadas, the part when bullets had come within inches of his life. He realized now it must have been Argenti Lillian had overheard. Overheard without Argenti knowing it. Argenti who had ordered him killed on that beach called Solitude. However, Wiley had asked for it, played the impostor, meddled. As much as any man could excuse another for his own attempted murder, he had to pardon Argenti. But what about now? Didn’t Argenti still want him dead? Evidently not at the moment.
Argenti was offering him that high-paying job.
Wiley shook his head.
He was saved from more on the subject by Argenti’s niece, who came to the table with her two school friends. They were breathless from running, groaned melodiously as they collapsed into chairs. The niece’s name was Clementina and she was called Clem. No resemblance at all to Argenti. Her very fair hair was irregularly sun-bleached, streaked flaxen in places. Long and straight, it tangled and untangled itself as she moved. She was exceptionally pretty, and although she didn’t appear more than sixteen, there wasn’t an ounce of adolescent excess on her. Slenderness made her seem sophisticated. She emphasized that. Displayed such confident grace that frequently she appeared to be posing, mimicking a fashion model. Was she really so precocious? Both believing and doubting that of her was a great part of her charm. Often she resorted to uncontrollable gangliness … but not for long.
Clem’s friends were Astrid and Maret. From Denmark. They were between fourteen and fifteen. Slightly younger versions of Clem, just as pretty. Apparently she had considerable influence over them, and her approval was important.
All three girls were similarly dressed, in sleeveless camisoles and shin-length petticoat skirts of cotton. That was all. Old clothes, actually. Victorian. As though they had raided grandmother’s trunk. How easily they belied the intended modesty of those underthings. Camisoles were left with ribbons loosely laced in front to reveal tummy skin and navels, and unlaced entirely from the top to halfway down. Arm holes, much too large, gaping, allowed glimpses and not-so-brief views of breasts. In that regard, Maret, the younger, was slightly more developed, Wiley noticed. The petticoats were sewn with patterns of tiny eyelets for the outlook of their hipskin and thighskin and intersections.
Now, chairs pushed away from the table, they thought nothing, for instance, of raising a leg to place a chin upon a knee, or using the arm of another chair for a high footrest. Were they oblivious to their exposure? Granted innocence by their age?
What they wanted was brought. Fresh red raspberry juice in frosted glasses. It must have required five hundred raspberries to make a single glass. Astrid complained hers contained no vodka. No one laughed and she pouted believably.
“Where do you go to school?” Wiley asked.
“Switzerland,” Clem blurted, as though vying to be first with the answer.
“Free for the holidays?”
She disregarded that, told Argenti, “They want to go swimming.” Meaning Astrid and Maret.
“So?”
“The pool heater is broken again. The man who came last month didn’t really fix it.”
“The water is freezing,” Astrid said.
Made Wiley recall sharing that inconvenience, among other things, with Lillian. Only three days ago?
Argenti motioned Clem to him, took her onto his lap. She settled, curved up, fit herself there as though it were a familiar place. Her head against his shoulder, his arm around her, holding her, his hand resting heavily on the back of her thigh, close up to her bottom. Argenti cooed to her.
It seemed to Wiley that Clem was too grown up and contemporary for such babying. Especially in front of her friends.
“You can come with me to the club today,” Argenti said to the girls, “have a swim there, a nice lunch, and watch us practice. How about that?”
Astrid didn’t even consider it. “I’d like to go shopping.”
“Again?”
“Me too,” Maret said.
“Whatever you want,” Argenti said crisply.
The girls brightened. Berry juice stains exaggerated their mouths.
Wiley got up, excused himself in a tone that implied he would soon return. Circumventing Luis Hurtado as much as possible, he went inside. He wandered from room to room, as though he had no destination, taking notice of valuable objects and several familiar paintings. In the main salon he came upon a Modigliani that made him wonder again what it was about women that had motivated the artist to portray them with features so out of alignment—squinty, slanted eyes, tight, tiny mouths, lopsided, elongated heads stuck on impossible necks
. Maybe Modigliani couldn’t do any better, or maybe what he saw most in women was something psychologically askew, deviation, deceit.
Going up the wide marble stairway, Wiley met a housemaid. He asked if she knew whether or not Lillian was awake yet.
“Sí, the señorita went out.”
“Went where out?”
“Visiting. The señorita only said to say she had gone visiting.”
“Did she mention when she’d return?”
“No, but not today.”
Which was the señorita’s room?
The maid led him to it, showed him in and left him there.
Now he regretted not having found her room last night. The desire to had certainly pulled at him. But his anger and confusion over the twelve-thousand-dollar lie she’d told had come between them. He hadn’t wanted it to bother him that much. Now, there he was, and she was gone. Gone visiting someone without even letting him know. What the hell was he supposed to do meanwhile, play with Argenti?
On her bedside table were two books. A New Model of the Universe by P. D. Ouspensky and Lawrence Durrell’s Nunquam. According to folded corners, Lillian had read to page 70 on the first and page 82 of the other. It had also been a long night for her.
Gone visiting?
Wiley went into the bathroom. Noticed her makeup on the counter below the mirror. Scattered over the surface. Lipstick left uncapped, mascara wand out of its holder, a fluffy brush dropped in the sink bowl. Evidence of her hurry from him.
The least she could have done was leave him a more specific message. Perhaps she had. He returned to the bedroom to have a look around, but not really for a note. He opened the top left dresser drawer. Lingerie and stockings. And there, right on top, in heavy contrast to those soft lovely things lay the blue-back steel of two automatic pistols, like the Colt forty-fives Wiley had fired at Lillian’s but considerably smaller. Etched on the barrel of each was: Gabilondo y Cid—Elgoibar, Espana—Cal. 9 m/m (380) Llama. There was also a pair of silencers and a box of extra ammunition.
His and hers?
Why had she brought those along? Was she planning on having a little wagering Shootout with Argenti? That was probably it. Wiley didn’t touch them.
The top right dresser drawer contained scarves and gloves.
Wiley finally found what he was looking for in the bottom drawer, inserted between the folds of a sweater. Not even in an envelope. Nine thousand dollars in brand-new hundreds. His nine thousand, according to the serial numbers.
He riffled through them to make sure, slipped them into his pocket and closed the drawer.
He went to his room.
Sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, thinking. For three cigarettes.
He got up to pull aside the heavy brocade drapes, as far as they would go. Through the high double windows the sun struck a large rectangle upon the marble floor.
He took off his clothes.
Chose the appropriate position near the window and began throwing punches and doing footwork. His shadow on the floor shot out from his feet. A dark, lengthened opponent, inescapable, matching him blow for blow.
Jab, hook, cross.
A final flurry of all sorts of lefts and rights won him the decision.
He showered and dressed and returned to Lillian’s room.
Exactly as he’d found it, he put back the nine thousand.
15
Air France flight 206 had made its scheduled stop in Caracas and climbed again to thirty-four thousand feet.
Next stop was Lisbon. Then on to Paris.
Wiley was in First Class. No qualms about it this time. Argenti, that is, The Concession, had prepaid $1,893 for the round-trip First-Class fare. Wiley had also drawn an advance of $2,000 against expenses. An excessive amount. He intended to be extravagant but account for every penny.
He had spent most of the afternoon at Número 1 on Calle 1. Argenti had foregone polo practice in order to personally show Wiley around The Concession, see that he was properly indoctrinated. More of an inside look than usual. Probably not what Argenti had in mind at the outset, but he got caught up in the opportunity to nourish his ego off Wiley’s plate. He was delighted when Wiley was overwhelmed.
The first twenty floors of Número 1 were the offices of various commercial companies, both local and foreign.
The next seven floors of Argenti’s building were leased by the Colombian government—for fifty years at fifty thousand per floor. The federal appropriation for the lease had ridden through on an unrelated bill as though it were written in invisible ink. The bureaus of Transportation and Communication put a few unimportant files and people on floors twenty-two and twenty-three. They rattled around up there.
Twenty-eight was occupied. By Rufino Vega, Minister of Defense. There, at his office away from his official office, Vega often conducted business of one sort or another, usually another … redhead.
Senator Robayo enjoyed a spacious place of his own for whatever reason on twenty-nine.
Thirty was the domain of General Botero, luxurious, complete with an electronically equipped fencing room.
Minister of Mines Javier Arias preserved his reputable and pious image by never going near the place. Unlike the others, he did not believe that being there or anything else for that matter could protect his interests.
From the thirty-first floor on up was The Concession.
Its reception area created the impression of a thriving, active major company. However, beyond the island of green-tinted glass that was the reception desk, beyond the expansive backdrop of paneled walnut, were only a dozen clerks and secretaries, and even fewer administrative employees. They didn’t have much to do—nothing to do directly with the operation. They were there for appearance more than anything else, although they didn’t know that.
Directly above, on thirty-two, was where The Concession’s essential business began. The grading department. Emeralds were sorted and evaluated there. In cubicles all along the north side were benches at which sorters sat with ten-power magnifying viewers. Rough stones, one at a time, were held up to special electric-light fixtures that provided a standard brilliant but colorless glow. In that manner the sorters looked past the skin, the natural dull exterior of each stone, to appraise and classify it according to its size, clarity and color.
Color was of first importance. The finest emeralds had what those in the trade called “kelly”: the richest, brightest sort of green.
Twice-weekly shipments of rough stones arrived from Muzo, Chivor, Peñas Blancas and the other mines. They came by armored truck with an escort of federal troops.
Thus the sorters were kept busy.
On the average sixty percent of all stones were classified as commercial goods, ordinary quality.
Thirty percent were graded fine.
Ten percent were graded very fine.
At the close of each day the sorted stones and those yet to be sorted were taken upstairs. Only the most trusted supervisors had ever been up there.
The floor above, thirty-three, was home base for Conduct Section. Presented as a hyperefficient personnel department for The Concession, Conduct Section actually saw to it that whoever got in line stayed in line and whoever got in the way was eliminated. Through its network of informants its computers kept a current dossier on everyone who had anything to do with emeralds. Much of the effectiveness of Conduct Section was a result of the fear it generated merely by existing. Who could know how much it knew? How could anyone be sure who was Section and who wasn’t? Only the most desperate or foolhardy man would risk going against The Concession, considering the penalties and those who imposed them. Conduct Section recruited its men from high and low. Many were outcasts from various dark corners of the international intelligence community. Nearly as many were runaways from organized crime, specialists in violence.
The head of Conduct Section was Joachim Kellerman, a tall, middle-aged East German, gaunt as death, with sunken eyes and cheeks and a bony, upturned nose. A t
ouch of jaundice in his normally gray complexion gave him a greenish cast. He never smiled, not even when he was laughing.
Kellerman got his start in the 1950s as a young man in East Berlin. His game was convincing refugees that he could get them over the wall. For a price. He also got a price from the East German police for telling where and when the attempts would be made. He persuaded the police it would be to their benefit if they built his reputation—exaggerated the success of his crossovers and put him at the top of their capture-or-kill list. For a long while he did excellent business there.
Kellerman was a strategist up from the streets. Intuition had always been his best weapon, and his ability to think abstractly kept him a move ahead. However, what made Kellerman most suitable for his job as head of Conduct Section was something he did not have. Not a trace of it, ever. Compassion.
When interviewing a prospect for the Section, right off and right out Kellerman would ask the man if he had ever killed anyone—not had he been indirectly responsible or taken part but had he himself done it, one-on-one or more. The way the man replied was an important factor in Kellerman’s eyes. A yes was not a prerequisite, not if a no had enough regret in it.
Kellerman reported only to Argenti. Whose combination town apartment and office was on the next floor above.
It was in his office that afternoon that Argenti repeated his offer and told Wiley he would stand by it, although it was too good an offer and he had been impetuous in making it.
“I know zilch about emeralds,” Wiley had said.
“No matter.”
“You’re really paying for the risk?”
“There is little of that.”
“Then what?”
Argenti spoke of the unorthodox way The Concession did business. Clients never came to Bogotá because it was inconvenient, an out-of-the-way place, and dreary, he said. Also, petty annoyances were avoided, such as the red tape of Colombian customs.
“Such as duty charges,” Wiley put in with a knowing edge.
Green Ice Page 16
