Ian beckoned Ty to the front-row seat beside his own, gesturing that he was to assume it only temporarily, until a guest of higher rank or more immediate importance arrived. “Corrida—that’s the Spanish word for bullfighting . . .” Ian began. “You don’t speak Spanish?”
“I took it in high school,” Ty said.
“The corrida is older than you might think. It goes back to the ancient Greeks and Romans, so it’s one of the very oldest traditions in the world.”
“I read that on one of the plaques in the museum.”
“You may also have read that for a long time it was reserved for royalty and done from horseback. Sometime after the fifteenth century that changed. The sport gradually became less formal, more impromptu.”
“I see,” Ty said, sensing that Ian had been waiting for Isabella and Philip to take their places higher in the box before turning to the subject on his mind.
When they had, he said, “You’ve got yourself into a bit of a situation, haven’t you?”
“Go on,” Ty said.
“One with three corners. Those are never good.”
Ty raised his eyes, as if to look over his head and back at Isabella and Philip. “I’ve gotten myself into nothing,” he said.
“That is beside the point.”
“Your goddaughter called me.”
“After you invited her to meet the Queen. Make no mistake. I have nothing against you, Mr. Hunter. In fact, I rather like you. Had I had a talent such as yours, a face such as yours, I should think that I, too, would have rolled the dice. Alas!”
“You’ve gone rather far on your own talents.”
“Thank you. I’ve been fortunate. You must understand something about Isabella. She is beautiful. She is talented. She has a way with people, a certain style. Even when she was a young girl, her father used to say that she entered a room as though she were in a classic film. She has always been enamored of film and film stars. Need I say more?”
“I’m not trifling with her,” Ty said, squirming slightly as he smoothed the lapels of Philip’s splendid summer jacket, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in the other man’s clothes.
“No, you wouldn’t dare,” Ian said. “Don’t you understand? People such as my goddaughter, who dwell in the world of style, even when they make their names and fortunes there, are inevitably prone to place too much importance on unimportant things. It’s a habit and a vulnerability of their nature and occupation. I don’t want her hurt. If she enjoys your company, as I do, and you enjoy hers, that’s fine. But I implore you, do not lead her on! Do not break her heart!”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“In my experience, which is not so limited as you might imagine, people of the stage often turn on a dime.”
“That’s not entirely fair,” Ty protested.
“But it is my impression.”
“I beg your pardon, but Isabella seems very happy and more than satisfied with Philip. I can’t believe my appearance on the scene has affected that.”
“Philip Frost has a lot to recommend him. Still, I can’t help but wonder, is she truly in love? Or is he, for that matter? I can’t see into their hearts.”
“This is your country, your box. Last night it was your house and your party and, before that, your yacht. I would be ungracious if I didn’t ask, what exactly would you like me to do from this point on?”
Ian smiled. “Treat her as you would wish to be treated,” he said. “She is a grown woman with a great deal of experience, a kind heart and a fine mind. She no longer needs me for much, except now and then to protect her from herself. I’ll tell you what I don’t want to see. I don’t want to see—and will not abide seeing—her sweet and lovely face in tears on the cover of some glossy fan magazine or cheap, vulgar tabloid.” A vein rose in Ian’s forehead as he spoke. “I will not see her life, her name, everything she’s worked for tarnished because her heart got ahead of her brain.”
Ty waited until he was certain Ian had calmed down. “None of that will happen, I promise you.”
Ian put out his hand, and Ty shook it. “You’re a gentleman,” Ian said. “Now, how much do you know about this sport? Where should I start?”
“At the beginning—” Ty said, but Ian’s attention was immediately distracted by the arrival of a pair of Arab businessmen. Of medium height and in their mid-forties, they had caught his eye from the entrance at the top of the box and were now descending toward the first row.
“Salaam,” Ian said, offering a quarter bow, a single revolution of his hands as he made it, a gesture of respect. “Now that the Al-Dosari brothers are here, the corrida can begin. Sheik Wazir, Sheik Fateen,” he continued, urging them forward, “may I present Mr. Ty Hunter?”
Both men smiled. It was clear to Ty that Ian enjoyed having surprised them.
They possessed such an intense resemblance to each other that Ty was sure they must be twins. As a boy, in Kuwait and then Saudi, he had heard of Crusader Arabs, modern-day men and women who bore the genes, especially the brilliant blue eyes, of Northern European invaders. But he had never seen one. Now, suddenly, here were two at once, their black hair tinged with russet.
As Ty stepped back, Philip approached. “Wazir, Fateen,” he said, with an absence of reserve Ty had not previously seen him show to anyone.
“Philip,” the nearest of the Arabs replied, with suspicion in his darting gaze.
“I trust your trip was not too taxing,” Philip said.
“Not in the least,” the other brother replied.
Ty studied the men. Quite apart from their unusual eyes, there was something both disturbing and familiar about them. He had come upon their type before, first in his previous incarnation as a soldier in special ops. Like the arms runners and narcotraficantes he’d dueled with then and a few “financiers” he’d encountered on the periphery of the movie business, these two Crusader Arabs were decidedly men of the world, dapper men whose fine, exactly right clothes and studiously cultivated manners could not quite hide the menace that lurked beneath their surfaces.
Philip gestured for them to take seats in the front row next to Ian, but they remained standing, poised as if to flee, while the latter spoke. “He belongs to you now,” Ian said, lightheartedly, his eyes in motion to and from Philip.
“Ah, but we are expecting great things from him,” said Wazir.
“We shall do great things together,” clarified Fateen.
As if he had practiced the speech, Wazir said, “Surely. The de Novo Fund will bring together the capital and energy of parts of the world that have too long been at arm’s length from one another. Who better to lead it than a man of Philip’s education and experience and high purpose?”
So, Ty thought, the Arab twins were here because they were Philip’s new employer, another twist of fate no doubt managed by Ian. That left Sir Timothy and Lady Foo. Where did they fit in? Ty wondered as Isabella approached to fetch him.
She was wearing a beige linen suit, the jacket of which came down over her slender hips. Her hat, a shade lighter, featured a wide brim. “Do sit with us,” she beckoned. “You’ll have more fun.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ty replied. “I meant to tell you earlier: Your suit is beautiful.”
“Thank you. I found it in a consignment shop in Paris. It was designed by Gustave Tassell. Real fifties movie star kit, don’t you think?”
“I do, just like my house.”
“Very Audrey Hepburn, that’s the effect I’m going for,” she added with a wink. “Shall I tell you about the main attraction?”
“Please,” Ty said. “Your godfather was about to when—”
“Something came up. Been there, done that.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Ty said. “I gather Philip’s gone to work for the twins.”
“Indi
rectly,” Isabella said. “Philip is now chairman of de Novo, but it’s largely their money . . . well, theirs and their friends’.”
“De Novo?” Ty inquired. “That’s paradoxical, isn’t it? A Latin name for an Arab fund?”
“It’s globalization. The name comes from the Latin for ‘anew, a fresh start.’ Their idea is to use their investments to help forge a new and better relationship between our civilizations. That’s what attracted Philip. Whatever he does, even when it involves making money, has to be for a higher good or he simply is not interested.”
“That’s admirable,” Ty said.
“I think so,” Isabella told him. “Anyway, back to bullfighting. Ordinarily there are six bulls in each corrida, two for each event. You’ll see, in the ceremony that’s about to begin, the toreros will be introduced, immediately after which they’ll request the keys to each bull pen.”
Ty studied the unfolding scene. “What’s the difference between a torero and a matador?” he inquired.
Isabella laughed. “The difference between an actor who has just got his first decent part and you,” she said. “Once the bull is released—”
“The shit hits the fan,” Ty interrupted. “Sorry, couldn’t help it.”
“In a manner of speaking,” she replied. “The fight is divided into tercios. In the first tercio, the torero will employ a purple-and-yellow capote. During this part of the fight, the picadors, two men on horseback, will use a spear to weaken the bull, with the goal of forcing it to keep its head down. After that comes the second tercio, the suerte de banderillas—”
“Don’t tell me too much too soon,” Ty said. “You’ll spoil the story.”
“As you wish.”
“Isabella,” Celia Foo said then, speaking across her husband. “I wonder if there is an extra scarf anywhere about. This sun is very hot.”
“Isn’t it?” Isabella agreed as she began to search through the large pigskin tote bag she’d brought with her. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” Celia said. “I am going to wrap my face in it like a mummy.”
“Be careful,” Tim Foo said.
“It preserved them well enough, didn’t it?” Celia told him as a man whom none of them could identify made his way into their box.
“I am looking for Dr. Santal,” the man said.
The use of the honorific “Dr.” suggested to Isabella that the visitor might once have been Ian’s student. It was difficult to place the man’s age, for he appeared both young and worn. His chestnut hair was still as thick as it must have been in his university days and still unmarred by gray, but there were crow’s-feet etched beside his eyes, which looked dry and distant. “And you are . . . ?” she asked.
“Luke Claussen,” he said.
Isabella hesitated. It took a moment for his name to register.
“My father and Dr. Santal were friends.”
“Of course, I know who you are. I was very sorry to hear about your father’s—”
“Murder,” Luke said, completing her sentence.
“Exactly, his very sad death,” Isabella continued. “Ian will be so pleased to see you. Is he expecting you?”
“I’m afraid not,” Luke Claussen said.
“Never mind,” Isabella said.
Luke put his hand up. “I was going to call him later today or perhaps tomorrow, but I overheard someone in the bar say that he was here, and . . . well, I thought I might come by just to say hello.”
“You are here with friends?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Come on,” Isabella said, encouraging him down the steps, through the prestigious barreras, toward ringside. “Ian,” she said as soon as he had paused in his conversation with the Arab twins.
“Yes, my darling,” he replied, leaning back over his shoulder.
“This is Luke Claussen,” she told him. “He heard you were here tonight and stopped in to say hello.”
Ian appraised the man. “Billy’s son?” he asked.
Luke nodded.
“I loved your dad,” Ian said. “I can’t tell you how much his death distressed me.”
Luke paused. “It had that effect on a lot of people,” he said. “Thank you for your kind letter and your contribution, by the way.”
“It was the least I could do. Come sit by me.”
“I won’t stay long. I’m not here on my own.”
“Stay as long as you like,” Ian said as Philip, Wazir and Fateen abruptly shuffled chairs to make room for Luke.
“Who was that?” Ty asked when Isabella returned to her seat.
“Luke Claussen. His father was a friend of Ian’s, an American tycoon who met a very bad end. You may have read about it.”
Ty shrugged, suggesting that he hadn’t.
Isabella looked at him curiously. “It was in all the papers,” she said, “even over here. It was a gruesome murder. Not only was his father killed, but his sister and her young son and daughter, who were staying with Mr. Claussen for Christmas.”
“Now that you mention it, I think I do remember hearing about that. It was really awful,” Ty said.
“The son’s better known than he thinks he is,” Isabella said.
“Is he?”
“He’s sort of a player, or was—big talker, big boozer, big loser at the tables.”
“Or that’s the word.”
“From many sources, but you’re right, I’ve no firsthand experience. So I shouldn’t judge.”
Ty wanted desperately to include himself in the conversation then taking place, in full view in front of him, between Ian and Luke Claussen but realized that it was not feasible for him to do so without arousing suspicion. He wished his telephone had been equipped with some sort of surveillance capability, though in such a crowd any device would be almost impossible to aim unobtrusively. So he sat back and watched as the initial tercio began.
Between it and the second, the suerte de banderillas, in which three of the toreros would attempt to implant two flags each into a charging bull, Ty noticed Luke stand up and make his way toward the exit. When he reached the row in which Isabella and Ty were seated, he slowed to a stop, then leaned in to thank her. Offering only a perfunctory smile to the Foos, who were seated between the aisle and Isabella, he did a double take when he saw Ty.
“You had a moment of doubt,” Ty said.
“I thought that was you. Then I said no, couldn’t be. Luke Claussen,” he said, extending his hand.
“Ty Hunter.”
“I know. Everyone knows you. I’m sure you’re used to that by now. Anyhow, it’s nice of you to pretend you aren’t.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You gave me your name. You didn’t assume I knew it.”
“My parents brought me up right.”
“Listen, I know you’re busy here, but after the first corrida would you come over and meet my friends? They’d get a real blast out of it if you did. We’re just two entries down.”
“Sure,” Ty said before Isabella had a chance to give a different answer.
“I’d love to, but—” Isabella explained, remaining still, letting only her eyes wander toward the Foos and Ian’s other guests.
“I understand,” Luke said.
“But there’s no reason Ty can’t join you.”
Luke hesitated. “You’re not together. I’m sorry, I misunderstood.”
Isabella blushed.
Ty said, “We’re together, but we’re not together, if you get my meaning.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Luke said. “Shall we say before the suerte suprema?”
“You bet,” Ty said. “That’s my favorite time to do just about anything.”
Luke shook Ty’s hand a second time, nodded to Isab
ella and the Foos, then departed quickly through the shunt that led back to the main concourse of the plaza de toros.
“What the hell is the suerte suprema?” Ty asked Isabella after Luke was out of sight.
“The third tercio, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed,” she said. There was disbelief, if not outright irritation in her voice.
Ty ignored it. “Which, I’m assuming, is when the torero faces down the bull and flashes his famous red cape—”
“It’s called a muleta.”
“I’m glad to know that. And that’s also when he kills the bull with his sword?”
“Yes,” Isabella said, “as it charges him, and the quicker the kill, the better. That’s what it means to be a matador. The crowd can offer the praise of the multitudes, or it can be very unforgiving.”
“Tell me about it,” Ty said.
Isabella smiled faintly. “Why do you say that? You’ve never faced an unforgiving crowd, have you?”
“Not since I got lucky.”
“It was nice of you to say you’d join them for a few minutes. It surprised me, though. Why did you?”
“You told me the man’s father and sister and his niece and nephew were murdered very recently. How could I say no?”
“Luke Claussen didn’t seem to be in mourning.”
“People deal with grief in different ways. You don’t mind, do you? I don’t have to go.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Isabella said. “In fact, I think it’s noble of you.”
“It’s not,” Ty said.
“It is, even if he turns out to be just another obsessive fan, because you don’t know that yet, do you?”
“I know only what you told me.”
“I didn’t tell you that Luke Claussen is one of the richest men in the world.”
“No, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if you had. Money can’t buy you back your father, as we both know.”
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