Descent from Xanadu

by Harold Robbins

  Judd looked down at the printout without comment. After a moment, he looked up to Merlin. “Perhaps we should change the name of the bank to the South and Western Laundry Company.”

  Merlin didn’t smile.

  “How much of this money is insured by the FDIC?” Judd pursued.

  “At a hundred thousand in each account at every branch, I make it one hundred fifteen million dollars.”

  “Whoever they are, they are not stupid,” Judd said.

  “I agree,” Merlin said. “We ran a check on individual deposits. Each deposit came in around nine thousand dollars or less. That means, of course, the bank didn’t have to report it to the Treasury.”

  Judd nodded. “Smart. But routine with the trade practice, right?”

  “Standard operating procedure. What do we do?” Merlin asked.

  “Report it to Treasury,” Judd said without hesitation. “They’ll take it from there.”

  “The publicity could blow the bank away,” Merlin said. “We could go down four hundred million dollars.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Judd asked with a wry smile.

  “We could quietly order the accounts closed and return the deposits to the owners.”

  “That would be compounding the felony,” Judd said. “One thing I learned from my father and also from Uncle Paul—never try to improve an unimprovable situation, because sooner or later you get buried in shit. You take the beating you have to and go on as best you can.”

  Merlin was silent.

  “Who was in charge of this situation?” Judd asked.

  “McLaren, president of Crane Financial Services.”

  “And he’s said nothing about this?”

  “Nothing that we ever heard.”

  “Nothing in the files?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Fire him,” Judd said, his eyes cobalt-blue ice. He remained silent for a long moment before he spoke again. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

  “Li Chuan,” Merlin said, and resumed at Judd’s nod. “He went into the lude business on his own and ran it through our accounts.”

  “Number two cannon fired,” Judd said emotionlessly. “Would you like to go for three?”

  Merlin seemed embarrassed. He glanced at Dr. Zabiski still seated in the chair across the room. He hesitated but finally nodded.

  The little doctor rose from her chair. “You seem to be doing all right,” she said to Judd. “I won’t be upset if you’d like me to leave now.”

  Judd shook his head. “No. You might as well go through the whole silly mess with me.”

  Merlin glanced from her to Judd. “Sofia,” he began. “She’s in Havana. So is Li Chuan. And also, Nicolai Borovnik, the number three man in the KGB. We have Security on them but we haven’t received any reports from them yet.”

  Judd looked at the doctor. “Did you know anything about this business of your assistant and the KGB man?” he asked coolly.

  The little woman met his eyes squarely. “No. This is completely new to me. But I do know that Borovnik and she have been lovers and that Borovnik at one time tried to divorce his wife to marry her. It was when the divorce was not approved that she volunteered to work for me.”

  Judd looked at her curiously. “In that case why should she go to all the trouble now to meet him in Havana?” he asked.

  “I’m guessing,” she said. “But I’d think he wanted to tell her about Brezhnev.”

  “Leonid himself? The top man of the top men?” Judd was surprised and made no attempt to hide it.

  “Yes,” she said. “He was to be the next patient assigned to her.”

  “Then she’ll not be returning?” Judd asked dryly.

  “She’ll come back,” the doctor said simply.

  “Despite the Chairman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the Politburo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the KGB?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She can pull that kind of clout?”

  “It’ll take more than clout. But she’ll manage.”

  “Why, Doctor?”

  “There is one very important test that only she can complete.”

  “Which she can’t assign to someone else?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What would that be, Doctor?”

  “An abortion,” Dr. Zabiski said quietly. And added, “Her own.”

  He stared at her. “You mean that she’s one of the—”

  “Yes, sir,” the doctor answered.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “She didn’t want to.”

  “Why would she do it?” He saw a tiny light flash in a corner of the doctor’s eye. “You know the answer to that, of course?”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me why, Doctor.”

  “I cannot, Mr. Crane.”

  “Even if I ask you nicely, Doctor?”

  “Even if you order me, sir.”

  “Doctor’s confidentiality, that it?” Judd said.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for understanding.”

  “I accept it, but don’t understand it.”

  “I can tell you this: it was at her insistence. She demanded to be one of the volunteers.”

  Judd took a very deep breath, a faint trace of a grin creasing the corners of his mouth. But, finally, all he could do was to exclaim, “Shit!”

  20

  The restaurant was in a hacienda located in an ancient residential area at the outskirts of Havana. Its cuisine was comparable to any in Paris or New York, but it was unknown, however, to 99.99 percent of the Cuban people. This was a restaurant only for the elite of Castro’s world, as well as their guests. Old-fashioned large tables, with white damask napery, gold and silver cutlery, French Baccarat glassware, English bone china edged in gold set around low flower arrangements. Each table gave a soft golden glow from its small table candles. And, perhaps even more important, each round table was set far from the others. When even more privacy was required, the alcove around the table could be wholly enclosed by dark burgundy velvet drapes.

  Sofia was the only woman at an open table of six. Nicky and Li Chuan sat on either side of her. Next to Nicky sat a heavy-set man, Karpov, one of the KGB at the Russian embassy. Across the table from her sat their host, Santos Gómez, a slim tall Cuban in his thirties, wearing the two stars of a major general on the open collar of his field uniform. Between him and Li Chuan was a small Chinese man in a gray business suit, Doy Sing, who was the unofficial representative of the People’s Republic of China, which had no official embassy in Cuba.

  Dinner had begun at midnight and it was now almost one-thirty in the morning as the waiters brought the coffee, Napoleon cognac and the ever-proffered cigars. Finally, they closed the drapes, to ensure the group’s privacy.

  Li Chuan sipped nothing but his coffee. When he rose he did not have to wait for the group’s total attention. “My words may shock you, comrades,” he began, “but we are here to talk of power, not theoretical power, but real, effective power. Let me begin by saying power today in this world of ours is not political. Neither communism nor capitalism mean anything. Power is simply money, and the greatest earner of money at this time is energy. Oil and gas. That is the source of the strength of the countries of the Middle East and the OPEC bloc. And energy represents the power of the United States because they have foreseen all this and have gained control of those energy-producing countries.

  “Now that other countries have discovered even more sources of energy, the surprise is that the power of the United States grows even more. Let me tell you why. Because one country competes with another, one source of energy pitted against another, they all end up playing against each other to control not only the source of energy but the distribution systems all over the world. Alas, in this game we are the nickel-stakes players. The Yanqui imperialists hold all the cards, they even own the game itself. However, that is only one game. There is another gam
e we can play and beat them at it, if only we have the courage to do so.”

  His look was a silent challenge to all of them around the table. No one responded to it. He continued with a faint smile that soon faded away. “I am not speaking of confrontation, or battlefields, or the alliances of Third World countries. All that is political chess and does not take into account the realities of money and the power of which I speak. What I am addressing myself to is a cancerous weakness the very riches of the Western world have brought to it. The chronic search for false contentment that narcotics and chemicals bring is what I call to your attention. It began in the sixties, first in America, and has now spread throughout the Western world—which means all of Europe and perhaps other highly productive economies on other continents. We must come face to face, like it or not, with this new fact of enormous financial potential in the world, which cannot, will not, continue to stay much longer where it was once consigned.”

  He paused for a long time.

  The others at the table, as cognizant as he of the situation that had brought them to this place, remained silent and rigidly attentive to his next words. “To put it very simply and quickly,” he resumed, after studying their faces for another moment, “once there was a narcotics world controlled by Mafia gangsters. Through intimidation, corruption and violence, a single source that led through Sicily and France found itself the target of other bold and hungry entrepreneurs from still other countries. The profits they all sought, which I shall come to in a moment, are, to say the very least, staggering. The flood of cash grew so enormous that the trade was no longer of interest only to former dealers in prostitutes and contraband and illegal gambling. Chemical manufacturers, financial market speculators, yes, even distressed political leaders looking for a way out of hopeless domestic turmoil—all kinds of greedy, capitalistic amateurs began to see possibilities in the narcotics trade that could relieve even political pain and agony.”

  He was silent again for another long moment, then looked at each face around the table before he began again. “And what, I ask you, comrades, what are we doing about it?”

  Again he looked around the table as if waiting for a response. None came. “If it’s morality, comrades, you want to bring up to me, do not bother. We are dealing with hard facts. In our struggle, there is no morality. Only results. Life and death. The strength to achieve our purpose—or a century of political serfdom, knees bent before the great industrial alliance opposed to us, a life of being client-states awaiting the master’s pleasure. We have the capability and resources to completely take over this worldwide drug business. And what better time than now have we to bore within and disintegrate the will of the Western world to resist us? What better means to achieve this? What better way for our own countries to reach for the power of which I spoke?”

  ***

  General Santos Gómez rolled up the window between the chauffeur and his assistant seated in the front seat of the car. He turned on the air conditioner to hide their conversation and looked at Nicky and Sofia beside him. “Li Chuan is a fool,” he said. “He talks too much.”

  Sofia looked at him. She didn’t speak. Nicky shook his head, a signal she understood.

  “I got him alone long enough to find out what I had to, General,” he said.

  “Do you think it is important that we acquire the access code he is offering us?” the general asked.

  “No,” Nicky said. “In all probability it would be changed the first time we found a chance to use it.”

  “I thought that also,” the general said. “The man is too concerned about long-range problems, probably because he’s greedy and also a fool.” He paused a moment. “I’m concerned about Doy Sing though. The Chinese will make a big stink out of it.”

  Nicky looked out to the night-black street. “Right now we have not many choices,” he said. “When Li Chuan’s knowledge of their access code gets back to them, it won’t take them long to figure out that we’re already working on his master plan.”

  “I’d feel better if I could let Fidel know about it,” the general said.

  “I would, too,” Nicky said. “But if we wait, we might be too late. Doy Sing will surely contact his people the moment he gets to his place. The first people in the market will wind up in a strong position. Even good friends have to consider this.”

  The general nodded. “You’re right.” He picked up the telephone next to his seat and pressed a button. An unintelligible voice crackled beside his ear. He spoke one word. “Now.”

  He put down the telephone and turned to them with a sigh and a grin. “Before the revolution, there was a show in Havana that was a favorite of rich Americans. Even Hemingway has told about it. Of course, come the revolution, it had to be closed legally. But for certain important persons, it’s always been open. Perhaps you would like to see it. It’s open all night.” He reached for a cigar from his pocket. He looked at Sofia. “Of course, it is shockingly pornographic and like nothing else in the world, but it could be very intriguing, Comrade Doctor—or perhaps you would not be interested in viewing it?”

  Sofia looked at Nicky, then at the general without answering.

  “Of course,” the general said, lighting his cigar, “we keep it going to remind ourselves and our friends of decadent capitalism at its worst.”

  Sofia turned to the general. She had the feeling that he was waiting for her to give her approval. “In that case, Comrade General,” she said, “I think it would be profitable for all of us to look at it, if only for research into the nature of bourgeois corruption.”

  “I am sure you will also find it amusing, Doctor,” the general said, a look of satisfaction unmistakable on his face.

  ***

  The club was in a nondescript building near the harbor. The car stopped in the narrow street and they stepped out to a small, unmarked, wooden door guarded by two burly men. They nodded silently to the general and opened the door for the party.

  They entered into a foyer, a small chandelier casting little light overhead. A maître d’ in a tuxedo bowed to the general and without a word led them through another door to a long corridor leading past a number of closed doors to the last of them. He stepped aside, pushing open this one for them.

  The small room was like a private box in a theater. Comfortable sofas were deployed around a low cocktail table. Beyond it, they became aware of a small stage, dim-lit in pink and pale rose lights. They provided the only light in the club. Around them they could see dark shadows in other boxes, but they could not be sure that they were occupied or simply shapes of their own imagining.

  Sofia looked down at the cocktail table. Champagne, cognac, Scotch whisky, vodka and rum. There were glasses and a pail of ice cubes. A faint smell of hashish or marijuana floated in the air around them and no one was surprised by a sterling silver cigarette box and dish sparkling with white cocaine, tiny gold spoons and straws lying next to it.

  “Champagne?” the general asked.

  “Please,” Sofia answered.

  The general nodded to the maître d’. The man stepped back and two young men and two girls entered the box. They were all naked except for a breechcloth over the genitals. Silently the young men opened the bottles of champagne and filled the glasses before them. The girls offered the silver cigarette box around and then the dish of cocaine.

  “Spoon or straw?” the general asked. “For myself, I prefer the straw.”

  “None for me,” Nicky said.

  Sofia looked at him, then at the general. “I’ll take your suggestion.”

  Silently one of the girls arranged a number of lines on a mirrorlike plate. She held the straw out to Sofia. Quickly, Sofia snorted a line into each nostril. The cocaine exploded in her brain.

  The general laughed at her surprised expression. “Pure,” he said. “You don’t get this anywhere except here.” He took two lines to each of his own nostrils. He turned to Nicky. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “It has no signi
ficance, General,” he said. “The plain fact is that I never was into it. Vodka is enough for me.”

  Santos Gómez lifted his champagne glass. “A beautiful combination. Santé.”

  “Santé,” they echoed and sipped the champagne.

  “The show will begin in a short while,” the general said. “But in the meantime, if you like, our attendants will try to amuse you.”

  “I’m comfortable,” Sofia said.

  “As you like,” the general smiled. He gestured to one of the men, who turned toward him. The general reached across and raised the man’s breechcloth. “Fantastic, no? Each of these boys must have a phallus not less than seventeen centimeters long in order to qualify for the job here. How much is that in inches?”

  Sofia felt the cocaine heating in her brain. She tried to speak expressionlessly. “I’m bad at numbers, General,” she said.

  “And you, Comrade, what do you calculate?” the general asked.

  Nicky nodded at him. “My only interest is cultural, not mathematical. Comrade General, I’m fascinated by such complete capitalistic decadence.”

  The general laughed. “But let’s not be too dogmatic. It can be amusing.” He dipped his straw into the cocaine and took more lines into his nostrils. He pointed to one of the girls. “Give that poor boy a lift so we can see his true size.”

  The girl knelt before the young man and took hold of his member in her hand, flicked her tongue quickly against the head of his penis. There was no expression on the young man’s face, but his phallus began to harden and grow. At just that moment, a soft knock came from the door.

  The maître d’ entered quickly into the stall and whispered into the ear of the general. The general nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll be just a moment,” he said. “A telephone call. Please don’t stop on my account.”