“As we both know,” Isabella repeated softly.
It was unclear whose box Ty was entering, but it was almost exactly like Ian’s. It took him a moment to locate Luke. Once he had, the incredulous stares of those around him gave way to well-honed smiles as Luke introduced him to his coterie. Expensively dressed and apparently less than intent on the spectacle unfolding before them, most were drinking tostadas or rubias, the dark or pale lagers of a local artisanal brewery.
Ty took a tostada.
“What brings you to Spain?” Luke inquired.
“Luke doesn’t read the gossip pages,” said one of the young women, an American in her early thirties with lustrous golden-blond hair otherwise found only on small children.
“He’s a smart man,” Ty said. “The answer is, I played a hunch. They don’t always pan out.”
“No,” Luke said, “they don’t.”
Having been introduced to the movie star and in several cases squeezed into a snapshot beside him, the others gradually began to drift out of his orbit, leaving Ty alone with Luke.
“And you? Is Seville one of your stomping grounds?”
“Not really. I was passing through, mostly for the polo at Soto, and you know, friends of friends . . . That’s the way it goes, isn’t it?”
Ty shrugged. “I’ve been working too hard to remember if it is or isn’t.”
“I know you’ve had a lot of pictures out,” Luke said, “practically back-to-back, am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“I’m afraid it looks like my life is about to take an abrupt turn in that direction,” Luke declared, a newly wistful note sounding in his deep bass voice as a trace of sadness crossed his face.
Ty knew enough to be careful. “What do you mean?”
“You may have heard that my father died and that there were other deaths in my family.”
“I did,” Ty admitted quietly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say, but thank you anyway. I’m afraid the net result of it all is that—some people would say for the first time in my life—I’m going to have to take on some responsibility.”
“That may come more easily than you think,” Ty said.
Luke took a long pull of his lager. “I hope so. As the last of the Claussens, I’m suddenly the largest shareholder in a company I spent my whole fucking life running away from. I’d still be running away if there were anyone left between it and me, but there’s not. There are good executives, thank God for that. But that’s all they are: well-paid, well-meaning, capable executives, not more. My father was a motive force.”
“I get the picture,” Ty said. “He was a friend of Ian’s, wasn’t he?”
“Definitely,” Luke said. “That’s why I wanted to say hello to the old coot. I’m sure I’ve met him before, actually, but that would have been a long time ago, when I was seven or eight years old.”
“People change,” Ty said, “especially over that amount of time.”
“Damn straight,” Luke said. “Anyway, it’s like I was saying, even the finest executives are only as useful as the charge you give them, right? You have to know what’s going on. If you don’t, they’ll know you don’t. I guess what I mean is that maybe business is my thing and maybe it isn’t, but I damn sure don’t want to be fooled out of a fortune. So I’m doing the rounds, learning what’s in the pipeline and where, who I can trust and work with and who I can’t. That’s what I’ve been doing in Europe—mixed in with a little pleasure, of course.”
Ty nodded.
“How well do you know Ian?” Luke asked.
“Not well. In fact, this is only the second time I’ve met him. The first time was just last month.”
“That girl Isabella’s something, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Ty agreed, “really something.”
“Who’s she seeing? She must be seeing someone.”
“You met him, I think. Philip Frost.”
Luke started.
“Do you know him?”
“No one does. He was a year ahead of me at Rosey, but light-years ahead in other ways. We weren’t really friends, nor were we enemies. Philip was far more serious about everything than I was, even if at the same time he could be reckless. We climbed the Giferhorn together once, I remember, if only because that mountain was the most dangerous around and absolutely off-limits. We were crazed. We did it at night. You may never have known exactly where you stood with Philip, but you could trust him with anything, which may sound paradoxical, but it was true.”
“Maybe that’s what Isabella sees in him.”
“You should make your move,” Luke suggested. “She’d go for you. Trust me. I have almost perfect instincts about these things.”
Ty laughed. “You’re not interested?”
“I wouldn’t get anywhere.”
“Why sell yourself short?”
“Listen, I’m nothing if not brutally honest with myself. That young woman is a perfectionist, and I am rather blatantly imperfect.”
“Opposites attract,” Ty told him.
“Seldom the case in my experience,” Luke replied. “Anyway, back to Ian. He’s a piece of work. My father was fascinated by him. Guys like them, they’re genuinely intrigued by each other.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Ty said.
“Aren’t you fascinated by other movie stars?”
“I wouldn’t use that word exactly.”
“But come on, you keep your eye on them. ‘A man should both appreciate and fear his rivals.’ That’s what my father always told me. My point is Dad and Ian Santal dwelled in the same neighborhood on Olympus, if you catch my drift. Oh, they were probably very different in many ways and very much the same in others, but there’s no mistaking it, they were—are—a species apart, more like gods than men. So I was glad to reconnect with the old guy, because I have a lot to talk to him about.”
Ty let silence fill the pause, then, as if spontaneously, asked, “Did they do a lot of business together?”
“Once upon a time,” Luke said, “not so much lately. At least I don’t think so. Truth is, that was one of the things I was glad to have a chance to talk to Ian about. Somehow or other he’d gotten my father involved in the redevelopment of a Russian resort.”
“Forgive me, but that sounds like an oxymoron,” Ty said.
“Nope,” Luke said. “I’ve seen the pictures. The place is as beautiful as anything you could possibly imagine. It’s up at the top of the Black Sea, on the Strait of Kerch.”
“Never heard of it,” Ty said.
“By the Sea of Azov,” Luke continued, “the shallowest sea in the world. You have to love those names, don’t you? I mean, some of them sound like they come straight out of Grimms’ fairy tales. They can scare the shit out of you.”
“Now that you mention it.”
Luke regarded Ty thoughtfully. “Well, maybe not you,” he volunteered, “but my father must have felt that way, because he eventually pulled out of the deal. That’s another thing I wanted to talk to Ian about, but he couldn’t give me a reason for my father’s pulling out. When I asked him whether it was really true that my father had decided to bail on the project, all he said was, ‘To my astonishment, yes.’ What does that mean?”
“Impossible to say,” Ty concurred.
“Of course, he said that Dad must have had ‘other priorities,’ but as to what those were or might have been, he either didn’t know or wouldn’t say. So I asked him another question, to which I got a more satisfactory answer, although not an entirely satisfactory one. If Dad and the company did pull out, I asked, why hadn’t every last bit of Claussen Inc.’s involvement ceased by this time? All he said in response was that the company had been engaged to clear the site, that there were the
se stages in the contract and they couldn’t leave until they’d completed their obligations through this stage or that. ‘One doesn’t just turn off a switch,’ he said. ‘These things have to be wound down. There is a process.’ Those were his exact words. It was more than a bit patronizing, but probably true.”
“I’m sure,” Ty said, doing his best to display enough interest to keep Luke talking, but no more.
“‘Are you still invested in that deal?’ I came right out and asked him,” Luke said. “‘No,’ he told me, ‘that’s not my modus operandi. I put together deals. I take a piece. As soon as the time is right, I sell that piece and move on to take another piece of something else. I do not operate businesses.’ Well, fair enough. Good luck to him!”
“Absolutely,” Ty said.
By the time they left the plaza de toros, the long, sweet light around the summer solstice had faded, and they drove back in convoy, buzzed by alcohol and the adrenaline that had flowed since the last wounded bull had suddenly charged, then come within inches of killing the torero who faced him. An air of letdown lingered as they drove through the winding, narrow, steeply graded roads of Andalusia and moved steadily away from the evening’s primordial excitement toward a calmer, more normal world. Ty was with Isabella and Philip in the second Mercedes, Tim and Celia Foo in the forward sedan with Ian, Fateen and Wazir having left them to head elsewhere. Halfway to Pond House, the telephone in the car carrying Ty beeped twice.
Isabella answered it. “Oh, hello, missing us already, are you?”
“Always, when you’re not here,” Ian said. “I’ve just had a word with the captain. Day after tomorrow, just after breakfast, does that still suit?”
“It suits me to a tee,” Isabella replied. “Let me just check with Philip. . . . Day after tomorrow to sail, early start? That’s still on with you, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It’s in my diary in big red letters.”
“How can you be sure without looking?”
“I know because you wrote it in,” Philip said.
“Ty,” Isabella said. “You’re footloose and fancy-free at the moment. Would you like to join us?”
“On Surpass?”
“You won’t believe it. It’s so cool it will take your breath away.”
“I’ve been aboard, remember?”
“For a party,” Isabella said, “which is an entirely different thing from a cruise.”
Ty studied Philip, who was doing his best to mask his disgust at Isabella’s impulsive invitation. “I don’t want to be in the way,” Ty said.
“There will be people coming and going—not just businesspeople, glamorous people, too, and some not so glamorous whom Ian finds interesting. The last thing you’ll be is ‘in the way.’”
“That’s true,” Philip said. “It’s not hard to get lost in the crowd if one finds oneself bored to tears.”
“Then I’d love to come,” Ty said, “but please run it by your godfather before I accept.”
“I’ll do that right now,” Isabella said, picking up the phone. “Ian, you’re big on having movie stars aboard—”
“I’ve never seen myself in quite those terms,” Ian interrupted, “but yes, by all means, Ty would be most welcome if he can spare the time.”
Isabella nodded.
“How long a cruise?” Ty whispered.
“A week, plus or minus,” Philip whispered back.
Isabella covered the mouthpiece momentarily with her palm. “You can go ashore at almost any time, anywhere.”
Ty raised his thumb and forefinger in a circular shape.
“I have a feeling he can spare the week,” Isabella told Ian.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Oliver stood in the windowless reception room of NATO HQ in Gibraltar. Recessed in the gunmetal wall behind protective glass were dioramas portraying important moments in the history of British Gibraltar. Each featured elaborate ships’ models and multitudes of miniature sailors and soldiers. Oliver was studying one entitled The Relief of Gibraltar by Admiral Lord Howe, 11th–18th October 1782 when the receptionist, a sturdy female lieutenant in dress uniform, said, “Commander Molyneux.”
“Yes.”
The receptionist looked toward a door on her left, one that would have appeared more at home in a Georgian house than an aboveground seaside cave.
Seconds later the door opened outward and laughter could be heard as Admiral Giles Cotton escorted his guest, an adviser to the island’s chief minister, to the exit. “Tell me that one again,” the Gibraltarian said. “I want to be sure I’ve got it right. ‘What’s the difference between a vitamin and a hormone?’ That’s it, isn’t it?”
Giles Cotton nodded. “You can’t hear a vitamin,” he whispered, making a display of his discretion in front of the receptionist.
No sooner had the visitor withdrawn than the receptionist, interrupting her commanding officer’s stride, said, “Admiral, Commander Molyneux is here to see you.”
“Oh, yes indeed. I nearly forgot,” replied Giles Cotton, who approached Oliver, offered his hand, and said, “Come this way, won’t you, Commander?”
Oliver followed him as the heavy paneled door closed with quiet precision.
“It’s counterbalanced,” Admiral Cotton explained, having noted Oliver’s reaction. “It has to be, since beneath the shiny veneer it’s armor plate.”
The left wall of the corridor was transparent yet soundproof, affording a comprehensive view of a high-tech office wherein dark composite desks and state-of-the-art terminals arranged in pods stretched as far as Oliver could see. The absence of the normal hum of a work environment made the large room seem farther away than it was and eerie, as though it were being spied upon, its occupants’ privacy violated. The wall on their right was cave rock, formed of long, uneven ledges in which openings that had once been gun emplacements were now sealed with thick glass. Pausing before one of these, Oliver took in a sweeping panorama of the straits, with Arabia in the distance, then noticed that in a few of the lower emplacements video cameras had been set up, pointed at the sea.
On a wall of Admiral Cotton’s office the input from these and other cameras was displayed in a chessboard of monitors. Opposite, behind his desk, hung an enormous oil painting in an elaborate gilt frame. Oliver recognized it as The Defeat of the Floating Batteries at Gibraltar, 1782 by John Copley. “That can’t be the original,” he said, “can it?”
“I fear not, but it’s a very fine copy,” Admiral Cotton replied. “The original hangs in the Guildhall in London. Have a seat, Commander.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve come all this way from Legoland,” Admiral Cotton said, referring to the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service, on the Albert Embankment of the Thames. “I am sure there must be a good reason.”
“Unfortunately, there is,” Oliver responded.
“I am more familiar with your organization than you may suppose,” Admiral Cotton said. “The grandfather of a great school friend of mine helped to found it.”
“Who was that?”
“As he never himself acknowledged his role, I shouldn’t say. Like much of the modern world, it sprang to life in embryonic form after the Second World War when the Soviet Union and a newly communist China had suddenly become our enemies. In those days it was called Office for the Exacerbation of Sino-Soviet Relations! How’s that for dry British humor?”
“Classic,” Oliver said, and laughed. “I hadn’t heard that before. I wonder what the service would be called if it were being named today. Who would our masters designate as our primary enemies? Our world’s too complicated to say with any certainty, isn’t it?”
“It’s very complicated.”
“Let me be direct,” Oliver said. “An extremely dangerous cargo may soon pass through or by Gibral
tar. Or it may not.”
“If it did, where would it be bound?”
“That’s impossible to say, but Gibraltar, because of its geography, could be the gateway to many destinations.”
“Do you suspect a direct connection to anyone here?”
“No,” Oliver dissembled, “unless you can give me a reason to think otherwise?”
“Who am I to think anything of the sort?” Giles Cotton said. “My job is to run a naval station and protect an important British and NATO asset. To that end I’ve worked very hard to maintain cordial relationships with prominent members of the small community here. As you might imagine, everyone knows everyone.”
“In its way it’s also a rogues’ gallery, isn’t it?”
“You wouldn’t be the first to draw that conclusion,” Giles Cotton replied, stroking his formidable chin. “Of course, there are many sun-seeking retirees with nothing more on their minds than today’s golf game and tomorrow night’s dinner, and many locals who, like people everywhere, simply do the best they can within the confines of their own world. But I take your point. We also have perhaps more than our share of shifty ones.”
“There are a lot of Russians about these days, aren’t there?” Oliver inquired, wishing to sidestep the name of Ian Santal.
“Not so much on Gib as along the coast, and fewer than there were before a number of the more visible and overleveraged ones went bust. Among those who remain, of course, are the leggy, beautiful creatures who work in restaurants and bars and hotels.”
“Of course.” Oliver smiled.
“They are the most numerous by far, but I doubt they are trafficking in anything more dangerous than love and whatever baubles they wangle from their lovers. Some may use drugs. The other group is one I call the mini-oligarchs. They’re not the ones whose names keep turning up in newspapers and magazines, but they made their way out of Russia with a certain amount of loot, and they’ve found their way here to enjoy it.”
“It’s one flight pattern,” Oliver continued. “At this point it’s not a person or any group of people we are looking for, but a cargo.”
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