The apartment was spacious and comfortable. Guido ushered Fitzduane into his study and poured them both a glass of dry white wine. "I should be hard at work, preparing the salad," he said, "but Christina knows we want to talk. I have a reprieve."
"An attractive woman," said Fitzduane. "I never thought to see you so domesticated."
"Made it by a short head," said Guido. "If I had known it was so enjoyable, I might have tried it earlier in my life."
"You did try it earlier," said Fitzduane, "or had you forgotten?"
Guido gazed at him directly and took his time before answering. "No," he said.
They were both silent for a little while; then Guido spoke. "I've been doing some work on Beat von Graffenlaub, as you asked. You have found yourself a formidable subject. Don't cross him, or you'll find yourself leaving Switzerland sooner than you might wish."
"How so?"
"Von Graffenlaub is very much an establishment figure," said Guido, "and the Swiss establishment looks after its own. You rock the boat too much, they ship you out. Very simple."
"What constitutes rocking the boat?"
"That's the random factor; you won't necessarily know," said Guido. "They make the rules. It's their country."
"Yours, too," said Fitzduane.
"So my papers say, but I don't own a big slice of it like von Graffenlaub. That makes a difference."
"To your perspective?"
"To my perspective, sure," said Guido, "but mostly I'm talking about power, real power." He smiled cheerfully. "The kind you don't want to be on the receiving end of," he added.
Fitzduane looked at him and nodded.
Guido laughed. "Don't pack yet," he said.
"I'd like to know more about the general Swiss setup," said Fitzduane, "before you go into detail on von Graffenlaub. What constitutes the establishment? How does the system work? Why has this haven of peace and prosperity got to rioting in the streets? What is an Autonomous Youth House?"
Guido lit a Brissago, a long, thin, curly cigar with a straw as a mouthpiece. It looked not unlike a piece of gnarled root. Smoke filled the air. The room was warm, and the sounds of dinner being prepared emanated from the kitchen.
"I'll start with the basics," he said. "Population, 6.3 million. Currently one of the most prosperous nations in the world. Inflation minimal, and unemployment almost nonexistent. Trains, buses, aircraft, and even joggers run on time. In many ways not a nation at all so much as a collection of diverse communities; in many cases these communities do not even like each other or, in terms of language and culture, would appear to have little in common. Yet they are linked together for mutual advantage.
"Four different languages are spoken—German, French, Italian, and Romansh—and God alone knows how many dialects. The Swiss are further divided by religion. Nearly fifty percent are Catholic, and about forty-eight percent Protestant of various shades. I'm not too sure about the balance.
"Unlike most other countries, which are strongly centralized, power in Switzerland, at least in theory and in many cases in practice, comes from the bottom up. The core unit is the Gemeinde, or community. A bunch of Gemeinden together make up a canton, and there are twenty-six cantons, or half cantons, making up what the outside world knows as Switzerland.
"Central government in Bern is kept very weak. The constitution strictly limits its powers, and the voters make sure it does not get too much of the tax revenue. Control of money is power: little money, little power."
Guido smiled cynically, yet his expression belied his tone. Guido had a certain pride in being Swiss.
"Different languages, different dialects, different religions, different geography, different neighbors, different customs," said Fitzduane. "What holds it all together?"
"Different things," said Guido, smiling. "A damn good constitution, nearly seven hundred years of precedent, a shared affluence—though not shared equally—and one very strong element in the social glue, the army."
"Tell me about the Swiss Army," said Fitzduane.
"Time to eat," said Christina, appearing in the doorway. "It's not good for Guido to eat late." She moved forward to help Guido out of his chair. The gesture was discreet, but well practiced. As he grew tired, he needed assistance but still must be seen to be in command of his faculties. It was a caring action, one of love.
Fitzduane resisted the impulse to help. He stayed back and busied himself moving the wineglasses to the dining room table and, with a little encouragement from Guido, opening another bottle of wine.
Kadar was silent, lost in his recollections. Whitney Reston's death had been blamed on Castro and his rebels. As a CIA man helping Batista's anti-Communist police, Whitney was an obvious target.
After Whitney's death Kadar had gone back to his little world of microphones and tape recorders and spy holes. He fitted time switches and experimented with voice actuation. He made his own directional mike and experimented with using the electrical circuitry as a transmission medium. He even managed to install bugs in both Ventura's and his mother's cars.
It might have been thought that all this surveillance activity was dedicated to finding out more about who had killed Whitney. Ironically, that was not the case. At the time Kadar was in shock. He had accepted Ventura's claim that the killers had been caught and executed. Even when he learned—it was from a conversation in the car—that the people who were actually executed were innocent of that specific killing, he had still accepted that the killers were rebels.
In truth he was looking for nothing in particular. The work was an end in itself. It stopped him from thinking about what he had lost. It helped prepare him for his future on his own. It helped him feel in control.
One day Ventura called Kadar. He said that somebody wanted to see him and that he wasn't to tell his mother. He told Kadar to clean himself up and put on a suit and tie, then drove him to a house on Calle Olispo in Habana Vieja. On the way Ventura told Kadar that this man had something very important to say and that if Kadar knew what was good for him, he'd pay attention, be polite, and respond favorably to anything that was suggested.
Kadar was shown into a sparsely furnished room on the second floor, then left alone. The windows were closed, and the place had an unlived-in feel to it. A few minutes later a distinguished-looking American came in. He locked the door and motioned Kadar to take a seat.
Kadar knew immediately who he was. Mother had kept a photograph of him and had talked about him many times. Of course, he was older now, and there was gray in his hair, but he had one of those spare New England faces that age well.
He took a cigarillo out of a silver cigarette case and lit it. He wore a pale gray lightweight suit, a club tie, and a shirt of blue oxford cloth with a button-down collar. His shoes were the kind that bankers wear. He couldn't have been anything but an American of a certain privileged class.
"I think you know who I am," the man said.
"My father," Kadar answered, "Henry Bridgenorth Lodge."
"Your English is good," Lodge noted. "Your mother, I guess?" Kadar nodded.
"I haven't got a lot of time," Lodge said, "so listen carefully to what I have to say. I know I haven't been any kind of father to you.
I won't try to apologize. It would be a waste of time. These things happen—especially in wartime. That's all there is to it.
"When I met your mother, I had a wife and a small son already. When I got back to America, I didn't even want to hear about Europe for a while. It was all a bad dream. I wiped out the last few years from my mind—and that included your mother and you. I never gave you a thought.
"Peace and quiet were fun for a while, but soon the juices began to flow. There's a high you get from action, and I missed the excitement. The OSS was officially disbanded at the end of the war by Truman, who hadn't much time for spooks. After a year or so of being outmaneuvered by Stalin on every front and with country after country being grabbed by the Reds, Truman did an about-face, and the CIA was born. Because of my O
SS background, I got in on the ground floor. I had field experience; I speak several languages, including Spanish. I got promoted fast.
"About seven years ago I was asked to take a look at our Cuban operations. The Company had taken over Cuba from the FBI, and there were some questions about the reliability of a number of the agents we inherited. It all got straightened out, but in the process something made me track down your mother and you.
"Now don't get me wrong. I wasn't thinking of rekindling an old passion. I was happily married. I'm one of those lucky people for whom it has worked. No, it was more like curiosity.
"I found the pair of you weren't doing too well. You were stuck in some nothing town in the toughest province in Cuba. You were barely surviving.
"I have learned to be cold-blooded over the years—this job doesn't leave you with much faith in human nature—but something pushed me into trying to help. I figured what you needed was a guardian—some kind of protector—and some money."
"Ventura," Kadar muttered.
Lodge looked at Kadar appraisingly. "Smart boy. Ventura always said you were bright. You've probably guessed the rest of it. He's been one of our people for a long time. I didn't tell him to make your mother his mistress; that was Ventura mixing business and pleasure and saving on travel time. I told him to look after the pair of you, and I paid him a retainer. It was my money—not CIA funds. He received those as well. Ventura knows how to work the angles."
"Why have you sent for me now?" Kadar said. "Do you expect thanks?"
Lodge smiled thinly. "I can see we're going to have a loving relationship. No, it's got nothing to do with my expecting gratitude, and it's not for any feeling I have for you. I don't even know whether I'm going to like you. But that's not the issue. I need you for my wife. Two years ago our son died—of meningitis, of all stupid things. She can't have any more children, and neither of us wants to adopt a complete stranger. You're a solution. She's been seriously depressed since Timmie's death. You could make all the difference."
"Does she know about me?" Kadar asked.
"Yes," Lodge said. "I told her about you a year ago. She was upset at first, but now she has come around to the idea that it would be wonderful. She's a religious lady, and she sees your filling the gap as something preordained by God. You have Bridgenorth Lodge blood of the right shade of blue flowing in your veins."
"What about my life here?" Kadar asked. "What about Mother? Does she know about this?"
"Listen kid," Lodge said, "in a few weeks' time Castro and his Commie friends are going to take over, and Cuba is going to sink even farther into the sewers. This country isn't much now. Under the Fidelistas it's going to get a whole lot worse. They talk about democracy. They mean a one-party dictatorship controlling every second of every Cuban's life. People will remember the Batista years as the good old days.
"In contrast, if you come to the States to live with my wife and me, you're going to have a chance to really make it. You'll lose that accent. You'll go to the best schools and the best universities. You'll be able to follow whatever career you want. I ask you, which is the better deal?"
"And what about Mother?" Kadar repeated. "Does she know what you're proposing?"
"Not yet," Lodge answered. "But don't pretend you care what she thinks. Don't try to bullshit me. I know about your relationship with your mother. Don't forget Ventura's my man."
"Are you rich?" Kadar said.
"You're a sentimental young fellow, aren't you? I see you've inherited some of our family traits." Lodge smiled slightly. "Comfortable."
"How comfortable?"
"I'll give you a million dollars when you are twenty-one if you agree to my proposition. Does that help?"
"Yes, Father," Kadar said.
It had become clear to him that he was going to need a great deal of money. Lodge's million would not be enough, and there were sure to be terms and conditions. Besides, he wanted money that no one would know about. Money is power, but secret money is control.
Kadar was lying on his bed that same evening, listening to Ventura and his mother through headphones, when he heard something that determined what he had to do—and then all the little pieces would fall into place.
"Well, my sweet," Ventura was saying, "you are more stupid and more dangerous than I thought."
Kadar's mother didn't say anything.
"Last night," continued Ventura, "my men picked up a certain Miguel Rovere, an enforcer for those American friends of ours who like to support our economy by financing gambling, prostitution, drugs, and similar examples of the American Dream. Apparently he was better at inflicting pain than receiving it. By morning he was screaming for mercy. He said he had some very important information fit for my ears only. It was about a Señor Reston—the late Señor Reston.
"Rovere said that he and an imported hitman from Miami had killed Whitney Reston—and that the contract had been put out by you. You know, I'm so used to hearing lies from prisoners—people say anything to stop the pain—that I find myself quite taken aback by veracity. I find the truth extraordinary in the literal sense of the word. Because it is extraordinary, it is distinctive and immediately recognizable. Rovere's smashed, bloody lips whispered the truth."
Kadar's mother started to cry. Then she shouted at Ventura that if he had been willing to do something about Whitney in the first place, none of this would have been necessary. Was she supposed to do nothing when her only son was being turned into a woman by some perverted American? And so it went on—an outpouring of hate, frustration, and pent-up rage. Much of it was garbled. But Kadar didn't think Whitney was killed simply for what he was supposed to have done to him. No, Whitney's killing had come to symbolize for her a way of getting back at all the people who had used and discarded her over the years.
"So she knew," Dr. Paul broke in. "Did she speak to you about it?"
"Not a word."
"I suppose she knew it wouldn't have done any good."
"I suppose she did," said Kadar. "When the significance of what was being said began to sink in, my reactions were disparate. Part of me was so stunned I had difficulty breathing. Another part of me went very calm. I was not altogether surprised at what I had heard. The two killers had dressed like campesinos, but their body language had been wrong. They had borne themselves like city people. I had trained myself to notice such things.
"Mother sniveled for a while and then spoke. She sounded frightened. She asked Ventura what he was going to do. He answered that for the moment he would do nothing except keep her out of circulation until he could figure out some answers. Then she asked if he was going to tell the CIA. He said he would have, but to be frank, he was afraid of being included in their tidying-up process.
"Mother had to go—I was sure of that. Soon it became equally inevitable that Ventura must be killed, too. I had nothing against him personally—indeed, I admired and had learned much from his single-minded ruthlessness—but he had something I needed, and with him dead I knew how to get it.
"For the next few days I considered a wide variety of plans and methods. I decided for security reasons not to involve anyone else—look at how Rovere had implicated Mother. Besides, I knew that I was going to have to kill again in the future if I was going to make my way as planned. I might as well make a good start. I was aware that I suffered from squeamishness—I disliked intensely the sight of blood—but I was determined to eliminate such weaknesses from my makeup.
"Don't get the idea that I was a total stranger to violence. Quite the contrary, it would be hard to be around Ventura for long without being exposed to one of the major realities of life. Nonetheless, seeing someone killed is not the same as doing it yourself. It was important to get hands-on experience.
"It began to dawn on me that I had picked a tough target to begin with, and of course, Mother shared in Ventura's protection. Ventura himself was a physically formidable man and was always armed. The house was heavily guarded at all times, and when Ventura traveled, he was
driven in a car fitted with bulletproof glass and armor plating. In addition, heavily armed security police rode in Jeeps in front of and behind him. The same level of security was maintained at BRAC headquarters. Many people wanted Ventura dead, and he knew it. He was an intelligent man. His precautions were well thought out and implemented.
"In the final analysis I abandoned all my complex plans and high tech methods and opted for a scenario that would exploit the one major security weakness, the lack of guards indoors, and at the same time would allow me to lose my virginity and exact retribution in a most direct manner. It was a simple scheme, and it depended heavily on precise timing.
"I thought of blaming the killings on either the CIA or the Fidelistas—either would have represented a certain natural balance to the affair—but in terms of access, neither was very credible without taking out some of the perimeter guards. I would have the advantage of coming from inside, something they would not be expecting, but even so, it was a tall order for a novice.
"By a process of elimination—and yes, I did think of the Mafia, which doubtless was not too pleased by Rovere's disappearance—I came up with a traditional motive, with Cuban in its fire and passion.
"Day after day I practiced Ventura's signature. I have always had considerable artistic ability, so the results were good. Meanwhile, Ventura and Mother played into my hands. They fought in front of the guards and servants. There were long periods of icy silence between them, and both drank heavily. The tension increased as it became clear that Batista was going to be overthrown. The exodus of Batista followers had started. Mother screamed publicly that Ventura was planning to leave her to be executed by the Fidelistas. This was good stuff. It provided a credible motive. Now it was down to nerve and timing.
"The house was a large three-story building. The guards protected the gate, the walls, and the various entrances to the house itself. There were five servants, but only two lived in. Their quarters were over the garage, with an access door leading directly to the first floor. That door was padded to cut down noise. It didn't seem likely that the sound of shots would penetrate, but sound carries at night, and I had to be sure.
GAMES OF THE HANGMAN Page 13
