“I’m not.”
“You never are. And that’s not normal.”
“Normal what?”
“Behavior. Even animals avoid danger when they can.”
“Not all animals.”
“Name one that doesn’t.”
She tried to think of one but couldn’t. After a moment of silence she asked, “Have you ever thought of leaving me?”
“No,” he answered too quickly.
A disbelieving side glance from her. “I’ve never thought of leaving you either.”
He was pleased to hear that, but doubted it.
She leaned forward over the steering wheel and stretched her shoulders. “Why didn’t you?” she asked.
“Just never have, that’s all,” he lied.
“No, I mean, when you thought about it, why didn’t you leave?”
He said what he thought was an absolute truth. “I’ve never stopped loving you.”
“Sure you have.”
“Never.”
“Love is full of stops and starts.”
“Not mine.”
“Yours is so exceptional?”
“Definitely.”
“What’s so exceptional about it?”
“You.”
That succeeded, got a soft, pleased laugh from her.
He asked, “When did you last think of leaving me?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Why? Just because I wouldn’t let you have your way?”
“Of course.”
“Do you stop loving me often? Actually stop loving me?” He wanted her to deny it.
“For maybe a second or two. Never longer.”
A second or two, he thought, might begin a chain reaction into forever.
“It’s good,” she contended, “because when I start loving you again it makes me realize how very much.”
“One thing for sure. We ought to stop lying to one another.”
“We might some day,” she said thoughtfully, “but I hope not.”
“You hope not?”
She nodded. “I can’t imagine not caring enough to not want to lie at least a little. Can you?”
“No,” he said because it sounded good, even if it was an excuse. He looked down at his hands and thought how fortunate they had been for having ever touched her. He looked up to appreciate her profile. She knew that was what he was doing, so she relaxed her mouth open to make it appear even more sensual.
“Do you lie to me often?” he wanted to know.
“Can’t you tell?”
“Not always.”
“I can with you. Always. I have my own natural lie detector.”
“Your ears ring, I suppose.”
She laughed. “No. My love lights up.”
“Do you know when other people are lying?”
“Only you,” she said meaningfully.
“I love you to hell and gone,” he declared, shaking his head, helpless.
“To hell and gone,” she echoed, and her foot made the speedometer climb another ten mph’s, to a perilous ninety on that narrow black ribbon of road.
They vroomed through Hindhead as though it were on the Grand Prix circuit, and arrived a few minutes later at the turn-off to the gravel pit. Going in, the makeshift road was still a mucky slime from the recent rains, obscuring some tire tracks, which neither of them noticed.
She didn’t stop until she’d wheeled a fast, full-about turn, and, at first, Chesser thought that swift, blurring change of direction had disoriented him. He got out, carrying the empty satchel. He saw piles of crushed rock and piles of sand.
But no pile of diamonds.
There, right there, was where they had been, where he now stood, struck speechless. He could barely manage a gesture to Maren, wanting her to get out and verify what he didn’t want to believe. She remained in the car.
Chesser examined the ground. There were some broad, smooth impressions obviously made by a mechanical shovel. Someone had come in and just scooped them up, he thought, every goddamn carat. Except a few that were partially imbedded in the damp soil.
He squatted and dug them out, not knowing really why he bothered. No more than a dozen. He looked around, went over to the equipment shack. Everything was the same. Only the diamonds were gone. Where? It was too incredible to accept. He had to look again at where they’d been, a long look, before he finally got back into the car. “They’re gone,” he said, empty.
“So I see,” said Maren.
“But who? Who could have taken them?”
She shrugged. “Maybe somewhere England now has the world’s most valuable strip of road.”
“You mean, someone mistook them for ordinary gravel?”
“I said maybe.”
It was a tormenting, ironic idea, and not very plausible, really. This was an unused, out-of-the-way pit. That’s why he’d chosen it. He shook his head sharply.
“Got a better explanation?” she asked.
“No.”
“Actually, it’s really quite funny when you think of it—”
His hard look stopped her. He opened his hand and looked at the few diamonds he’d picked up. “I don’t give a shit.”
She agreed and suggested, “Let’s just forget about it and remember us.” She leaned to deliver a soft, pacifying cheek kiss.
That helped some. He told her, “I think we better start running.”
“From everyone,” she said, her enthusiasm renewed.
He put the diamonds in his shirt pocket, thinking he would keep them as mementos. But, feeling bitter on the way to Biggin Hill Airport, every few miles he flipped one out the window.
Until he had none.
CHAPTER 22
THE YELLOW and silver Fokker-28 came in perfectly on runway one. Nearly everyone there at Nice’s Areoport du Plage took notice, for such an expensive private plane would surely be carrying someone worth seeing.
Maren and Chesser disembarked, and, as they hurried through the terminal to a waiting dark blue Mercedes limousine, many inquired who they were. Some knew.
The limousine took them to Cannes and Maren’s yacht, which was moored at the new marina. Of all the boats there, hers was the most noted. It was longer at a hundred ninety feet, more imposing in design, impeccably black, and fitted with polished chrome rather than the usual brass. Displayed on its stern was its name, as designated by Maren. Après Vie. And properly below that was Panama, where, for tax advantages, the vessel had been legally registered at the advice of Jean Marc’s lawyers. The Après Vie had a cruising speed of fifteen knots, an eight-thousand-mile range, slept twelve luxuriously, and was served by a permanent crew of twenty-two. Its captain was a rust-bearded Englishman, who contended that a ship of such quality was better maintained through use, a theory that justified long cruises to various warm and pleasant places, whether the owner was aboard or not—not being usually the case. Thus captain and crew enjoyed a life style above their means, one they were anxious to perpetuate.
Going aboard, Maren atracted the attention of everyone within seeing distance. She made sure she exposed an ample length of her fine legs when she made her exit from the limousine and she walked up the gangway with an air of exaggerated haute. At once, she demanded a half-hour private conference with the captain. To discuss sailing plans. Then she and Chesser dressed for an evening ashore.
First they had drinks on the terrace of the Carlton at the most advantageous table, not to be missed by numerous acquaintances who stopped by to give and get meaningless cheek kisses and doses of flattery. Maren was extremely animated, exchanging comments freely, gayly. To all appearances neither she nor Chesser had a worry between them. They were just ideal lovers loving every minute of the ideal life. Of course, they were asked where they’d been, where they were staying, and, most important, where they were going.
From the Carlton they went to the Voile du Vent for an excellent dinner. There they met others who knew them. Always the same questions.
But not always the same answers.
After dinner they strolled the Croisette, leisurely, with arms around, intent on one another. As they passed the outside cafes, they were recognized by many from past seasons and other desirable places.
When they’d walked all the more active section of that boulevard, they signaled to their trailing limousine and were taken to dance at Whiskey A-Go-Go. This time there Maren displayed extraordinary abandon. Her mouth was almost constantly open, as if she were screaming. Her long Viking hair swished wild and whipped in the musically pressured atmosphere. She pranced savagely. Her body sporadically tightened and released, caught and delivered. While Chesser, just a reach away, did correct, restrained moves, Maren competed with all the lovely, libidinal extroverts, made extreme physical promises, performed a vertical mime of limitless passion punctuated with slinging pelvic thrusts that hit upon the thick beats as though they were invisible phallic targets.
The Whiskey was tight with people. Maren’s beauty, however, cut an exhibitionistic swath through the crowd, demanding maximum regard, deserving it.
All things considered, their behavior that evening was strange for two people on the run. Circumstances called for obscurity. Instead, they flagrantly intruded on the Cannes scene and established their presence. They seemed to be deliberately declaring to anyone seeking them: Here we are.
They did it with purpose. They hoped their pursuers would come, make inquiries, and be told by reliable sources that the man known as Chesser with the wealthy, beautiful woman Maren had just departed for Tangiers, the Greek Islands, Portugal, Capri, Majorca, Venice, and elsewhere. False destinations that Maren and Chesser had distributed generously into many ears throughout that evening.
According to plan, at ten next morning the Après Vie pulled out of the marina and headed seaward, cutting diagonally across Cannes harbor. On its way it passed close by the United States aircraft carrier Shangri-La, which, along with several escort units of the Sixth Fleet, had anchored in port at dawn. Perhaps merely for the sake of reconfirming that wealth could still equal might, the yacht’s captain ordered a visual salute, thereby demanding the same be returned by the huge warship. And, yes, from the Shangri-La’s gigantic superstructure came the signal of recognition.
Good morning war.
Good morning money.
The yacht proceeded at half-speed out and around the Ile St. Honorat, then altered its course and headed due east. Almost immediately from leeward came a Riva speedboat, which ran alongside for a ways, gradually reducing the width of water between it and the yacht. The speedboat came closer in, dangerously close. And finally tangent, to receive Maren and Chesser, who had to jump for it.
As soon as the transfer was made, the yacht increased its power to full and swung out in the direction of the open Mediterranean. The Riva continued straight on, then made a wide, hull-slapping turn back toward the bay of Cannes. Within ten minutes it deposited its two special passengers on the Ile Ste. Marguerite.
That island is shaped like a severed foot with its sole parallel to the Cannes coastline a mere three miles away. On its heel is a four-hundred-year-old fortress-prison that once held in one of its cells the celebrated man in the iron mask, whose facial covering, truthfully, had been a more comfortable velvet. On the island’s opposite end, the toe, are deserted Nazi fortifications, and on its arch, facing inland, is a cluster of modest homes, several temporary stands selling ice cream for double price, a repair yard for small boats, and a hotel by the most likely name, Masque du Fer. There are no roads, and therefore no vehicles, which tempts one to consider the island unspoiled. But partially spoiled and not developed is a more accurate description. From the fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries, the town of Cannes rented the island from certain monks, who were paid six silver coins and two chickens annually. Perhaps handicapped by this precedent, the place has never been valued enough to inspire investment, despite its proximity to the flourishing mainland.
At irregular intervals each day the island is served by public ferryboats to and from the port of Cannes. They are wide-beamed, awkward vessels that arrive, especially on holidays, loaded to the gunwales with bourgeois families in desperate retreat from extravagance, having been literally driven out to sea by the high cost of everything on the Cote d’Azur. One can read the money panic on their tight faces. However, on Ste. Marguerite they find nothing to suit them, no plastic bistros, no pinball machines, no garish shrines or old churches offering free absolution or holy water. There is nothing to ride or to sit at, not even any free sand to lie upon, for the island is entirely fringed with small, pain-inflicting pebbles. So, after a swift, apathetic glance into the historic cell of the fortress, most visitors wander back to the public wharf and wait impatiently for the next return boat. On days when the mistral causes the bay of Cannes to become even slightly ruffled, the ferry crews are quick to discontinue service, thereby placing anyone wanting to reach Ste. Marguerite at the mercy of speedboat owners, who dubiously appraise the sea and confidently quote fees of a hundred francs or more, depending upon how the wind blows.
Maren and Chesser were met on the landing. By a beautiful teen-aged gypsy boy named Petro, who was barefoot and topless, wearing a pair of cheap woolen trousers that hung with insolent precariousness from the studs of his hipbones. While Petro tossed their baggage onto a wheelbarrow, he looked steadily at Maren’s body. Chesser caught him at it and looked at him with annoyance. Petro immediately presented his appeal to Maren, wordlessly requesting her preference. She expressed forgiveness but withheld permission. Petro shrugged, as though it was her loss. He lifted and pushed ahead of them to the Hotel Masque du Fer.
It was a two-story structure of creamy, weathered stucco. The entire first floor was a dining room and bar, with many windows, many tables covered with oil cloth, and folding metal chairs. No customers.
The guest rooms were above. Six in all—five regular and one special. Only one of the regulars was occupied, so Maren and Chesser got the special. They found the only reason it was special was that it had the hotel’s only bath. That is, it had a sink, a bidet, and a tub. The other necessary fixture was down the hall for everyone.
“It’s clean,” said Maren optimistically.
A weak smile from Chesser. “It’s safe,” was the best he could say for the place. He was positive no one would ever believe they were there. As yet, he didn’t.
Maren kicked off her shoes. The floor was linoleum painted over with a dozen or more coats of high-gloss enamel. A dark, reddish-brown. The last coat was recently applied and still a bit tacky. Maren disliked the squeaky, sticking sensation of it under her bare feet, but she didn’t complain. She pulled aside two straight panels of printed cotton that served inadequately as drapes over a pair of windowed doors. “We’ve got a private balcony,” she said, but then she opened the doors, looked out, and saw the balcony was really just a rooftop with a railing around it, and it was shared with two other rooms.
Chesser was testing the bed. He found it was two pushed together and covered by a faded brown chenille spread. The sheets were very white but overstarched and felt as though all the detergent hadn’t been rinsed from them. Beneath lumpy mattresses were raw springs, which the damp sea air had corroded so that they practically squealed when Chesser bounced. A measure of that revealing noise was caused by even the slightest movement. “Have to do something about that,” said Chesser.
“What for instance?”
“Oil or abstinence.”
“I’m for oil,” declared Maren.
“That’s what’s good about us,” said Chesser. “Our matching preferences.”
He got up and placed their bags on the bed. He zipped them open and, there, right on top, were the pistols, the Mausers, his and hers. He hadn’t packed them. Maren must have. He hadn’t even known she’d brought them along. He saw they already had their silencers attached and clips in and he assumed they were loaded. The sight of them stopped him for a moment, and he knew she’d noticed,
so he picked them both up, pretending he enjoyed the feel of them. All the while, his mind was turning over the reason for bringing them, the possibility of having to use them to prevent death by causing it.
“They need cleaning,” said Maren. “I was going to do it but I didn’t have the chance.”
He tossed the Mausers carelessly onto the bed.
It was like her to do whatever had just occurred to her. She got the service kit from the bag and sat on the floor with the pistols, her splendid fingers preoccupied with caring for them.
Chesser observed her for a long moment—his love, sitting there in a yellowish slash of late afternoon sun, playing with deadly things. He cut the thought and went into the bathroom. He suppressed the urge to urinate into the bidet, had to go out and down the hall to the common toilet. In there, he kicked the cover and seat up and saw the commode was like a gaping mouth with a throat hole that went at least two stories down.
Their idea was to spend two or three days on Ste. Marguerite. At least time enough for all their adversaries, whoever they were, to overrun them by chasing after the yacht. But Chesser, gazing down at the wall dispenser which doled out individual slips of cruel, slick, French toilet paper, doubted that Maren could take it that long.
That night, when they went down to dinner, there were three burly islanders at the bar, drinking vin ordinaire. The son of the fat woman who owned and ran the hotel was serving whatever his mother had cooked to a young woman seated at a corner table, her back to the room. Evidently she was the other guest.
Maren and Chesser took a table near the window. The islanders at the bar made some off-color remarks about Maren in such rapid jargon only they understood. The flavor of their laughter, however, told Chesser their subject. He ignored them.
The fat hotel owner rushed out of the kitchen to serve her two special guests personally. She brought a steaming platter of moules. There was no menu. One could eat what had been prepared or not at all.
Chesser didn’t care for mussels, though he’d often heard they had supercharging aphrodisiac benefits. Maren loved them, started right in on them, and ate more than her share. She insisted they were delicious and forced Chesser to swallow three and take a big taste of the broth, which, she claimed, contained concentrated goodness. The fat owner grinned insinuatingly, as she came to remove the platter and leave two fluffy omelettes and some sliced fresh tomatoes in vinaigrette.
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