It was a sauna like any other sauna, a box with slatted wooden seats around three sides. There was a raised tier on the back wall. Beside the heavy glass door, protected within a slatted wooden trestle, there was a stout metal heater supplied by a thick cable which disappeared into the wall behind it. Beside the heater sat a wooden bucket containing a gallon of tepid water and a spoon. On the wall above the heater was a thermometer, a hygrometer, an elongated figure-of-eight egg timer with pink sand in its lower sump, and, in red, a panic button. The thermometer read 95 degrees centigrade.
I flicked the sandglass over and lay down supine on the seat beneath it with my feet nearest the door. I fell into a reverie and reviewed the bizarre events of the last couple of hours.
They had played with me for just a little while longer, just until I began to suspect that I really was in Big Trouble. But then they let me go. Just a bit of role play. No hard feelings.
I thought of the man who had disappeared so abruptly over the edge of the cliff, at the north edge of Xanadu, with that ear-piercing scream. No role play there. I was sure that had been the scream of a man convinced he was falling to his death.
I didn’t much like the look of Fox’s entourage. Frankly, they looked like thugs. They seemed to me to be on the edge of anarchy. I wondered if Fox imagined he could control them. The trouble with employing the Mob is that the Mob take over. They don’t work for anybody. They spot an opportunity in aligning themselves with a front man who has an air of respectability. He thinks they are obeying his orders but in fact he is dancing to their tune, like a puppet on a string. By the same token, the Republican Party might select Fox to run for President, because they realise he is their best chance of capturing the vote. They think President Fox will calm down and come to heel and mellow in the White House. President Hindenburg thought much the same about Hitler. They think they will be able to control him. What they don’t realise is that Fox is already under the control of the Mob. The Mob will move into the West Wing. Nobody controls the Mob.
The door opened abruptly and Phineas Fox entered. There was a brief waft of cool air. Then the door was closed again. I made to get up.
‘Stay where you are.’
I suppose he was saying, ‘Please don’t discommode yourself on my account’, but it sounded like a directive. I stayed put. Fox wore a white towel wrapped round his waist. He looked like a Roman senator at the baths. He glanced at the thermometer.
‘What about a little extra humidity?’
‘Sure.’
Ignoring the wooden ladle he picked up the bucket of water and poured about a pint on to the cauldron. There was an angry and sustained hiss. I tensed myself for the great wall of heat that would surge round the cubicle and engulf me. I really needed to get out of this sweatbox, I’d overstayed my welcome already, but something told me to hang on for another few minutes.
Fox clambered on to the upper bench and sat down. That awkwardness of the right lower limb again. And no pocket in which to restrain his left hand. He held his left forearm across his midriff, right hand clutching his left elbow.
I was relieved to find myself in company with the Yale man, not the Midwest bruiser. He was all charm and hospitality.
‘So glad your enchanting sister could accompany you. I do hope she will play for us before dinner, if only briefly.’
I took the opportunity of forwarding in advance Nikki’s apologies for skipping dinner. He was very concerned and solicitous, even apologetic about the over-exuberance of his lieutenants. I ventured, ‘Scary chap, that fellow Klaus. Where did you find him?’
‘Herr Kramer is my PPA. He has very remarkable talents.’
There was a pause. It lasted for about five minutes, long enough, I noticed, for Fox to start pouring sweat. I am quite happy to sit in companionable silence in a hot room. But then something quite extraordinary happened. When Fox next spoke, he had changed his personality. He was back in the wild west, and I was back in the interrogation room.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what your game is, mister. You are a spy. You have been sent here. You and the girl. Captain Whoosis.’ His speech had become a little slurred. It was as if he had swallowed half a bottle of Scotch when I wasn’t looking. ‘O’Driscoll? You fire a second arrow to find where the first one landed. Be careful what you wish for.’ The left arm shot out but he barely noticed it.
Spot diagnosis?
Got it.
* * *
‘… and besides,’ said Saskia, speaking through a mouthful of asparagus, ‘I don’t think it’s fair that you use your own daughters as pawns in the furtherance of your political career.’
‘Pawns?’
‘Yes, daddy, pawns.’
MacKenzie generally avoided after-concert suppers. I was beginning to see why.
‘I mean, it’s just a stunt, isn’t it, proposing to live in the Bronx for a week, reminding the poor of how incapable they are of managing their own affairs. It’s not even as though we will be assuming that way of life. You know you won’t let me outside without a bodyguard. Honestly, down here, I’m never out of Hemi’s sight – I just about take him to bed with me.’
‘Except when you take Ravi,’ said Tamsin.
‘Shut up, Tammy. Anyway, it’s all so false. Nobody’ll be fooled. They’ll see it for what it is. Condescension from the elite. Poverty for a week. What a gas! Thank God I’m going to Oxford next term, that’s all I can say. And in April Ravi and I are going to Crete.’
‘You are doing nothing of the kind young lady.’ Fox betrayed no sense of social awkwardness; he was quite prepared to have a showdown with his elder daughter in front of twenty guests. I thought, they are so alike. Two incandescent lights. The immovable object and the unstoppable force. They’re about to have a blazing row.
‘Everybody eat! Eat!’ Elena Fox made a desperate effort to change the subject. ‘Banoffee roulade to follow.’
‘Elena. How many times have I told you, my dear,’ – Fox’s question was a sharp rebuke – ‘not to run a trailer for dessert during the entrée?’
‘I’m sorry, Phineas.’ Mrs Fox lowered her eyes penitently.
As I watched Fox glare at her, I felt a pang of pity for Elena. She was a trophy wife. She had very little to say for herself. She looked to me to be barely older than Saskia. What was in it for her? Access to unlimited wealth? But what was the deal? How did she sing for her supper? Sex, presumably.
I caught the quick flash from MacKenzie’s deep blue eyes. Caitlin said we were telepathic, brother and sister twins, and occasionally I wondered.
Saskia threw down her fork so that it rattled noisily on the plate. She rose to her feet. There were tears in her eyes. ‘When are you going to realise, daddy, that I’m eighteen years old, and not one of your employees that you can whip into line?’ Her eyes blazed briefly. Then, abruptly, she asserted sulkily: ‘I’m going out.’
‘With your dreadlocked Calcuttan musician friend I have no doubt.’
‘Ravi. R-A-V-I. Ravi. I don’t see why you have to be so rude about my boyfriend. Rude, and racist.’
‘My darling,’ said Fox blandly, ‘I’m not at all racist. I only wish he’d wash a little more frequently.’
‘That’s it. I’m going.’
The door slammed. There was an embarrassed silence.
‘Saskia’s fucking a guru,’ said Tamsin helpfully, by way of explanation.
The table gradually recovered its equanimity during dessert. I drained the last dregs of glorious Puligny-Montrachet and glanced up and down the table at the motley crew Fox had assembled for supper. On my right, Mr Ishimoto, MD of one of the big Japanese automobile companies, sat with his geisha. To my left, a member of the Vatican College of Cardinals, accompanied by a Pontifical Swiss guard, and an anonymous secretary from the Curia, sat in his voluptuous strawberry-red robes, complete with diminutive rhomboid hat. When I’d first caught sight of him, I dared not catch my sister’s eye. She would have had a fit of the giggles. Fox sat directly
opposite me, at south. A concert impresario was on his right, a representative of the Bundesbank was on his left. Elena Fox occupied the easternmost flank of the table, desperately trying to jolly along a crowd of subfusc Brussels bureaucrats. The only ribaldry at the table came from MacKenzie and some musicians down at the west end. Saskia’s chair was vacant. I put my glass down. I just caught the flick of Fox’s eyebrows, subliminal as a seditious single frame on a roll of 35 mm film, yet incisive as the bark of a parade-ground command. Elena rose to her feet hurriedly. ‘Ladies, shall we withdraw?’ Her laugh may have had a hard edge. ‘Let us leave the men to their ghastly business pursuits.’
Was it possible? Was Fox affecting the mores of upper-class nineteenth-century England?
There was a swish of evening gowns. ‘What now?’ said MacKenzie in an overloud voice. Masami the geisha looked uncertainly at her master for guidance. Mr Ishimoto hissed a terse staccato soundbite. She bowed obsequiously and hastened to follow the other ladies. Mr Ishimoto watched her receding rear contemplatively. He whispered hoarsely, ‘I love Geisha; I love their … feebleness.’ I sat in bemused silence. Did people still live like this? Would the womenfolk, the ladies of tasks, dutifully repair to the drawing room and sit down to their embroidery, the fortepiano, and gossip – the civilised pursuits of cultivated femininity?
The outsize bustle of Masami’s kimono disappeared from the dining room. Fox had observed the withdrawal of the ladies, beaming benignly like a patrician philanthropist charmed by youth and beauty. As the great oak door closed, the expression seemed to freeze on his face and then slowly dissolve into … what? Cruelty? Cold calculation? Or was the face merely expressionless?
MacKenzie hadn’t moved. Fox’s eyes drifted down the table towards her. He raised an eyebrow.
She took a generous slug of Taittinger. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t bring my needlework tonight. Can I have a cheroot please?’
I groaned inwardly. My sister was going to act up. I recognised the signs and symptoms. All her life, when she was tired and bored with a company, when she had to endure people whom she did not find simpatico, she would misbehave. Fox, captivated, chortled good-naturedly.
Now the port was coming round. It was a rich black-purple Portuguese concoction out of an ancient bottle that almost seemed barnacled; it might have been inadvertently put down in a sunken galleon in the Bay of Biscay for a couple of centuries. The crusty bottle arrived from my left. I took it in my left hand, filled my glass, and handed it on to Mr Ishimoto in one smooth gesture. Ancient services tradition. Fox smiled briefly in acknowledgement. Mr Ishimoto grasped the bottle in both hands, filled his glass with some spillage, and put the bottle down on the table. Fox winked at me and raised his eyes to the ceiling. The mix of aloofness and bonhomie was disconcerting. MacKenzie picked up the port, grimaced, and stuck her tongue out as if she had just swallowed castor oil. She passed the bottle on. ‘Mr Cadbury, could I have some more Taittinger, please? Just park the bucket there, mate.’
Now Cadbury approached me stealthily from behind. His white-gloved hands carried an enormous flat case of polished rimu. As he opened it, I had a crazy notion I was about to be offered choice of pistols in a duel.
‘Cigar, doctor?’
I gazed stupidly into the humidor. Ah – the lifelong struggle against tobacco. Maybe just a few puffs.
‘The Romeo y Julietta.’
Cadbury extracted the handmade Romeo No. 1 de Luxe Cuban Churchill, deftly guillotined its end, and snapped open the jaws of a lighter.
‘The rehabilitation of the Cuban cigar,’ commented Fox. ‘Mr Obama’s sole contribution to Western civilisation.’
I got a good blaze going.
‘Dr Cameron-Strange,’ said Fox with renewed vigour. ‘I believe you have something on your mind.’
‘I do.’
‘You have the ear of the house, sir.’
I took a sip of port. It was a dark rich, viscous, bloody Machiavellian brew, full of intrigue and treachery.
‘Mr Fox, you are a wealthy, astute, and highly successful businessman. It is common knowledge that you have developed a commercial interest in Great Barrier Island. A green field site par excellence. You wish to turn GBI into a theme park. A playground for the rich. People who can afford to fly private jets may wish to drop into the Barrier, perhaps coming down from Southeast Asia for a weekend’s golf, the amenities of top-class hotels, and perhaps to sample the Kiwi passion for extreme sport.
‘My purpose is to ask you to reconsider this project; not necessarily to abandon it, but to site it elsewhere.’
‘Go on.’
The humidor had reached MacKenzie. She had chosen a long slim Sumatran Villiger and was setting it ablaze.
‘Great Barrier Island occupies a particular place in the affections of the New Zealander. More, it is a symbol or totem of part of the New Zealand psyche. The Barrier has never been developed. Next to Stewart Island, it is the closest thing to wilderness we have. People who elect to live on the Barrier elect a particular lifestyle. As you know, any electricity has to be self-generated. Many households are run on renewables. The way of life is simple. People who live here want to lead a life close to nature. People who visit come to camp and to go tramping. Even people who never visit derive a benefit from knowing that the Barrier is here. It may serve us in ways we don’t understand. The relationship of GBI and NZ is rather like the relationship of Antarctica to the whole planet.’
‘Lighten up, Al,’ said MacKenzie.
Phineas Fox stifled a yawn. ‘None of that is terribly original, although much of it, doctor, is open to question. I think you paint rather a romanticised view of life on this neglected island. About one thousand five-hundred people live here. With transients, double it in summertime. Most of them, as you say, are drop-outs. Most of them, as far as I can see, seem to be smoking something illicit. They are poor, idle, and frankly incompetent at bringing up their children. In place of all that, I can offer these people a helping hand. Actually rather more than that. I can offer them prosperity. My business plan reckons on an annual turnover of over one billion dollars.’
‘I think you might find that most of the inhabitants of the island don’t want your help.’
‘On the contrary, they, and their political representatives, will find what I have to offer very hard to refuse.’
‘Don’t you like it here?’
‘I can see I can improve on it.’
‘I beg you to reconsider.’
‘And that’s it? What’s your angle in all this?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If I were to acquiesce to your suggestion, what is your personal gain?’
I shrugged. I spread my empty hands over the table. ‘I have nothing to gain, beyond that which would remain available to any citizen in the country, namely the knowledge that the nation’s heritage has been to some extent protected.’
The humidor had reached the master of the house. Fox took some time over the palaver of getting his cigar going. ‘Dr Cameron-Strange,’ he said between puffs, ‘what is the policy of your hospital with respect to the donation of transplantable organs from so-called “altruistic” donors?’
‘I don’t follow.’
Now the cigar tip was glowing red-hot. Fox nodded briefly to Cadbury in a gesture of dismissal.
‘Kidneys, for example. A healthy adult of sound mind presents to the nephrology out-patient clinic and offers to donate one of his two kidneys. Not for gain. Not for the benefit of a relative or a loved one. Simply for the benefit of mankind.’
I replied circumspectly. ‘I’m not certain, but I believe such proposals are viewed with a degree of scepticism, and nearly always result in a polite refusal.’
‘You are precisely right. I confess I already knew that your hospital has not accepted such a donation for fifteen years. This is the sort of information that is liable to come my way. The hospital came to learn – and it was a bitter lesson – that there is no such thing as altruism. You never get
something for nothing. Believe me, there is always a pay-off. All business, all trade – no, I’d even go further than that – all of human intercourse can be looked at in terms of a transaction. You see, I look at you, and all the time I think to myself, “What does he want? What does he want of me? What’s he looking for? What’s in it for him?” Are you all right, my dear? You seem to be creating a lot of pollution.’
MacKenzie was fannying around with her cheroot. ‘You know what JFK said … there’s no smoke without a smoke machine.’
Fox resumed. ‘I confess I am a little like the hospital that has been stung in the past. I feel deeply suspicious of your professed altruism. I think to myself, “This man has a hidden agenda. He may not even know what it is himself.”
‘Another thing worries me, makes me ill at ease in this transaction. I sense that you have not come to the table prepared to ask searching questions of me. This may be because you have been inadequately briefed. Or perhaps you have not done your homework. You should be asking, “What does he want? What’s in it for him?” More specifically, “What card do I hold in my hand that he might conceivably want?”
‘But I see I’m making very heavy weather of a notion that a colleague of yours has captured quite succinctly and, I must say, rather pithily.’ Without taking his eyes off me, Fox put a hand into the top pocket of his dinner jacket, extracted a business card, and tossed it disdainfully across the table, as a bored croupier might flick a playing card at a bad player of chemin de fer. I picked the card up. It read: ‘Dr Ralph Parkinson, Negotiations Pty Ltd. You don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.’
Fox laid his cigar down carefully on a heavy glass ashtray.
‘So. Doctor Cameron-Strange. How do you propose to persuade me to alter my plans? What cards do you hold? Collateral? Expertise? An inventive idea?’ The baleful eyes stared unblinking at me.
‘I’m listening. Negotiate.’
Smoking a Romeo y Julieta Churchill is a sensuous experience in three stages. There is the beginning smoke, which is cool and subtly fragrant. There is the middle smoke, mellow and mellifluous; and there is the end smoke, intense, lingering and poignant. I found myself progressing from the first through the second stage. I carefully knocked off the memory of the first stage, and its long cylinder of white ash, into the ash tray. I took a sip of the oak-aged port.
The Seven Trials of Cameron-Strange Page 15
