The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  “That might prove to be a solution. It would most certainly get your foot in the door. The consul should seriously consider your other proposition once that had been accomplished.”

  The gambler looked at him. “You realize, of course, that should anything develop from this conversation you would be provided for?”

  “Thank you. That is most generous of you.”

  ***

  “You say that Christopoulos is willing to put in a shipping line in exchange for gambling privileges?” the baron asked later in his office.

  Marcel nodded.

  “Have you mentioned the idea to the consul yet?”

  Marcel shook his head. “No, your excellency. I thought first I should talk with you.”

  “Bien. You did exactly right I think perhaps it is time I met the consul.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Shall I speak to him about an appointment?”

  “No, he already has an appointment with one of my branch banks. I think it best that our meeting come about under such circumstances.”

  “As you wish, your excellency.”

  8

  “Caroline is a bitch!” Sylvie rolled out of the bed, her slim boyish figure taut with anger. She pulled a cigarette from the package on the dresser and lit it.

  Lazily Dax propped the pillow under his head. “You sound jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous!” Sylvie shouted. “I don’t like the bitch, that’s all.”

  “Why not?”

  Sylvie dragged savagely on the cigarette. “She thinks her father’s money can buy anything she wants. I saw the way she looked at you after the game last week. Like a cat over a bowl of cream.”

  “You are jealous,” Dax said. “Why? I’m not jealous of Henri.”

  “He isn’t home enough for you to be jealous of him!”

  “But when he is. Remember I was in the next room. I heard everything that went on, yet I wasn’t jealous.”

  “No, damn you!” She remembered the night. Deliberately she had made as much noise as she dared without waking the entire house. And Dax had not given her a sign that it had mattered one way or the other. “You don’t care about me at all. I might as well be a stone wall for all I matter to you. And now you’re going to spend a week’s holiday at their villa in Cannes. I know what will happen.”

  “You do?” He smiled. “Tell me. I’d like to know.”

  “She’ll drive you out of your mind. I know the type, all promises.”

  “Don’t I have anything to say about that? After all, I don’t have to respond.”

  Sylvie looked at him. “You can’t help yourself. Even now. Look at yourself. Just talking about it has got you a hard on. You’re an animal.”

  Dax grinned. “It isn’t that. What do you expect when you’re standing around naked and smelling like cunt?”

  She stared at him for a moment then squashed her cigarette in a plate and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Tenderly she touched his tumescence. “Quelle armure magnifique,” she whispered. “So quick, so strong. Already he is too large for both my hands to hold.”

  She buried her face against him. He felt the warmth of the tiny edges of her tongue tingling his flesh. He crushed her head against him.

  ***

  Dax felt the throbbing stab of pain race through his groin. Angrily he turned over on his stomach so that his anguish would not be visible to them all. Sylvie was right. The bitch! The cock-teasing little cunt!

  He preferred English for cursing. There was something harshly forthright about Anglo-Saxon obscenities. They expressed exactly what you meant. French was too evasive. Spanish was too long-winded; you found yourself short of breath before you had said what you intended. English was a most economical language. It said so many things with so few words.

  The sound of Caroline’s laughter turned him around again on the chaise. She was standing at the edge of the pool talking to Sergei and her brother Robert. The damp silk of her brief one-piece suit clung to petite breasts and small rounded belly with a kind of insouciance. She laughed again and he caught her glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

  He turned his back again angrily. Damn her! She knew exactly what she was doing to him. He looked out over the rolling green lawn to where his father, the baron and his English cousin were seated in the shade of the large wisteria.

  Strange how different the baron and his English cousin were. It was hard to believe they shared the same ancestor, the frightened little Polish merchant who had fled from the pogroms of the Warsaw ghetto. He had traveled by night across snow-covered Europe afoot, with a fortune in diamonds sewn into his clothing. And the foresight of the man was equally amazing. More than a hundred years ago he had sent his eldest son across the channel to England, while he and his youngest remained in France where they had set themselves up as moneylenders and pawnbrokers. Quietly they had gone about their business despite the wars that rolled over Europe, and they had prospered until the De Coyne banks in France, and Coyne’s Bank Ltd. in London, were among the most powerful in Europe, rivaling even Rothschild’s.

  Both branches of the family had been accorded honors in their adopted countries. The baron’s grandfather had been awarded his baronage by Napoleon, and Sir Robert Coyne, after whom Dax’s friend had been named, had been knighted by the King of England for his services during the World War.

  The baron had finished speaking, and now Sir Robert was answering. He was tall and blond and his blue eyes were cool as he spoke slowly to his short, dark, brown-eyed cousin. Only his father seemed reflective and thoughtful. Dax wondered how it was going.

  Everything seemed to have been marking time until this meeting. The urgent pressures from home were nearly at their peak. Unless new financing could be obtained quickly it appeared extremely doubtful whether el Presidente could maintain his control over the country in the face of the rising hungers of the populace.

  ***

  A splash of cold water hit Dax like an icy shock. He sat up abruptly. Caroline stood laughing down at him. He grabbed for her and she ran, diving into the pool. Forgetting that the water was too cold for his liking, he plunged in after her.

  She shrieked in mock terror as she pulled away from him with quick even strokes. She was out of the pool on the far side before he could catch her. He had known he would never be able to catch her. She was a much more polished swimmer. He held onto the side of the pool, glaring up at her.

  She stayed just out of reach.

  “Coward!” he whispered fiercely. “You’re afraid to let me catch you. You know what would happen if I did.”

  “What would happen?” she whispered back challengingly.

  “You know.” He could not take his eyes off her breasts, where they pushed up against the tight bathing suit.

  She smiled, sure of herself. “Nothing would happen.”

  “No? You’re that sure?”

  She nodded.

  “You wouldn’t like to meet me in the poolhouse after everyone has gone to sleep tonight and find out, would you?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Tonight. In the poolhouse.”

  Abruptly she walked away. He was still treading water watching her when Sergei swam up alongside him. “You’re next, friend.”

  Dax turned. “What do you mean?”

  Sergei laughed. “You’ll wind up with your prick in your hand like all the rest of us.”

  Dax didn’t answer. His eyes were still following her as she disappeared into the poolhouse.

  ***

  They both heard the sound at the same time later that night. Footsteps on the concrete walk around the pool. Caroline’s voice sounded loud in the darkness of the little pool house. “Who could it—”

  His hand clapped quickly over her mouth. “Be quiet!”

  The footsteps came nearer, hesitated. The two of them held their breaths, then the steps turned away and faded into the night. “That was close,” he sighed, then almost yelled out loud as her teeth sank i
nto his hand. “What did you do that for?”

  “You were hurting me. I decided to hurt you back.”

  “You little bitch,” Dax said, and reached for her.

  But she was already on her feet. In the faint light from the window he could see her straightening her dress. “We’d better go back.”

  “One little noise and you’re scared,” he taunted.

  “And you’re not?”

  “No. Besides, I haven’t finished yet.”

  She moved closer to him. He sensed her hand on the rough fabric of his trousers. Quickly he tore at his buttons. He felt the hot moistness of her hand. “Caroline!”

  A strange little smile came to her lips. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “What is there to be afraid of?”

  This time he screamed aloud with the pain. Her long nails tore into his flesh, then she was at the open door. “Too bad, Dax.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Again he sensed the silent sound of her secret laughter. “You didn’t think I’d be as easy as a stableman’s daughter, did you?”

  Then she was gone, and he was alone. He felt the surge of anger rising inside him as he walked over to the wash-stand and turned on the water. Sergei would collapse with laughter if he ever learned what had happened.

  Angrier now than ever, he dried himself quickly and went outside. For a moment he stood looking back at the dark villa, then turned toward the road. Cannes was only a half-mile away. There were bound to be girls there. There always were. To hell with her. Let her practice her black teasing arts on Sergei, or on her brother for that matter. They might be civilized enough to tolerate her petty amusements.

  A shadow suddenly materialized from the darkness and fell into step beside him. He did not have to look to know who it was.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Was it you outside the poolhouse?” he asked angrily. Fat Cat laughed. “You ought to know better. Do you think I would let you hear me?”

  “Who was it then?”

  “Your father.”

  “My father?” Dax’s anger evaporated. “Did he know I was inside?”

  “Sí. That is why I am here. He wishes to see you at once.” Dax turned and silently followed Fat Cat back to the house. His father looked up as he came into the room. “What were you doing with that girl in the poolhouse?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  Dax stared at his father. It was one of the few times he had ever seen him so angry. He didn’t answer.

  “Are you crazy?” His father was distraught. “Do you know what would happen if you were caught with her? Do you think the baron would be willing to make a loan to the despoiler of his daughter?”

  Dax still didn’t answer.

  His father slumped suddenly into a chair. “Everything would be lost. The whole negotiation would collapse. Everything we fought for and bled for would be gone. And all because of your stupidity.”

  Dax looked at his father and for the first time he noticed the trembling in his hand, the age lines and exhaustion in his face. He walked over to him. “I’m sorry, Papá,” he said softly, “but there is nothing to be upset about. I didn’t touch her.”

  His father’s tension eased. The one real truth of his existence was the honesty that lay between them. He knew his son would not lie to him.

  “You are right, I was stupid,” Dax said. “It will not happen again.”

  His father reached out and took his hand. “Dax, Dax. In how many worlds must you learn to live because of me?”

  Dax felt the agony and fragility of the man in his touch. Suddenly there was a sadness and an understanding in him that had not been there before. He bent down and pressed his lips to his father’s soft dark cheek. “I want to live only in your world, my father. I am your son.”

  It had been the first time that Dax realized his father was dying.

  9

  There was no pain, although Jaime Xenos knew that he was dying. He looked up into the eyes of the priest. There was so much he wanted to explain. But the words merely flitted across the screen of his mind and never found their way to his tongue.

  He was tired. He had never felt so tired. He turned his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. The drone of the priest faded. Perhaps he would find his voice again after he had rested. There was no fear. Only a heavy kind of sadness. There was so much to be done, so much he could still do. But now it was over. Time was coming to a stop.

  Dax. The word seemed to burn its way through his mind. Alone. Dax. He was so young. And so alive. There were so many things he had not yet taught him. So many things the boy would need to know. The world was not solved by the sheer physical energy of youth alone. He wanted to tell him that. And much more. But it was too late.

  Much too late. He slept.

  Dax crossed the room toward the doctor.

  “He is sleeping,” the doctor said. “It is a good sign.”

  Dax followed the doctor out of the room, leaving the priest alone with his father. Fat Cat was waiting just outside the door. “How is he?”

  “The same.” Dax shook his head. He turned to the doctor. “When…?”

  “Sometime tonight. Perhaps tomorrow morning. No one can tell.”

  “There is no chance?”

  “There is always a chance,” the doctor said, knowing as he spoke that there was none.

  Marcel came up the staircase. “A reporter from Paris Soir is on the telephone.”

  “Tell him there is no news.”

  “That is not why he called.”

  Dax looked at him. “Why, then?”

  Marcel did not look at him. “They want to know if you will continue to play polo.”

  Dax’s face clouded. Angrily he clenched his fist. “Is that all they have to think about? A great man is dying and they worry about their stupid games?”

  He remembered when the reporters had first given him the name “The Savage.” It was after the game with Italy when he had ridden two of the Italians into the dirt and one of them, seriously hurt, had been taken to the hospital.

  They had clustered around him later, asking questions:

  “How do you feel about the two men who were injured?”

  “Bad luck,” he had answered casually. “This is no game for men who can’t keep their seats.”

  “It sounds like you don’t care what happens to them.”

  Dax had looked at the reporter. “Why should I?” he asked. “The same thing could happen to me every time I go out there.”

  “But it didn’t happen to you,” another reporter said. “And it always seems to happen to someone on the other team.”

  Dax’s voice turned cold. “What do you mean?”

  “It seems strange,” the reporter had continued, “that you always become involved in an accident when the other team is about to score. And they are always the ones to be hurt, not you.”

  “Are you suggesting that I deliberately set about to injure them?”

  “No.” The reporter hesitated. “But—”

  “I play to win,” Dax interrupted, “and that means not allowing the other team to score if I can prevent it. I am not responsible for the lack of horsemanship of the other riders.”

  “There is such a thing as sportsmanship.”

  “Sportsmanship is a word for losers. I’m only interested in winning.”

  “Even if you kill someone doing it?” asked the first reporter.

  “Even if I kill myself,” Dax retorted.

  “But this is a game,” the reporter said in a horrified voice, “not a battlefield.”

  “How do you know?” Dax asked. “Have you ever been out there with a thousand pounds of horse and man charging down on you? Just try it once. You’d change your opinion.”

  He remembered that the telephone had rung that night while he was at dinner. It was one of the reporters he had spoken to that afternoon. “Did you know the Italian died in the hospital a little while ago?”

  “No.”

&
nbsp; “Is that all you have to say?” the reporter had asked. “Not even that you’re sorry?”

  Suddenly Dax had been angry. “What good would it do? Would my words bring him back to life?” He had slammed down the receiver.

  How strange that he should recall it all now that his own father was dying. Nothing could change that. Not his hurried return from London after the All-France match with England. Not even the news he brought about the shipping contract which meant more than anything else. No, it had all come too late.

  ***

  The only change that the resultant publicity had made was in the crowds. The stands were all sold out for the next game, and there was a murmur from the stands as he came riding out onto the field. He looked up in surprise, then glanced over at Sergei riding next to him.

  The Russian smiled. “You’re a star. They all came out to see you.”

  Dax stared at the crowd. They were gawking at him with a curious expectancy. He felt a cold shiver go through him. “They came to see me kill someone.”

  Sergei looked up at the crowd, then back at Dax. The Russian’s mouth settled into grim lines. “Or be killed.”

  They were almost satisfied. Toward the end of the fourth chukker there was a pileup in the center of the field, and three horses went down, with Dax in the middle. There was no sound as the other two got to their feet and started off the field. But a low soft murmur swelled up as Dax did. Startled for a moment he glanced at them, then turned quickly away to help his pony up.

  The horse stood there shaking, its sides heaving, as Dax slowly rubbed its neck. “We fooled them that time, didn’t we, boy?”

  Then Fat Cat had come onto the field with another pony. A faint smattering of applause began as he lifted himself into the saddle. Mockingly he tipped his cap, and the crowd began to roar their approval.

  Bewildered, he pulled up beside Sergei. “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t try.” Sergei laughed. “You’re a hero now.”

  Even the newspapers recognized this, and by the end of that year they were pushing him for the All-France team. He became the youngest eight-goal handicap player ever to ride onto the field. Just a month shy of his eighteenth birthday.

  But how empty it all seemed now as he waited for his father to die. Everything. All the plans that had seemed so important then. He remembered one night at school, along toward the end of the term. The three of them had been in the room together.