A Void (10 page)

guiba shot down in Frankfurt, ditto an African militant in Saint-

Moritz, Yazid in Louvain, Gabon's consul in Madrid! So, to

maintain in his position a cowardly tyrant, his waning authority

totally, and notoriously, in pawn to a major Parisian bank (Capi-

tal Fran^ais), Foccard had a rag-tag-and-bobtail gang of thugs,

good-for-nothings, gold, contraband and drugs Mafiosi, join up

with his battalion of bullyboys, all working hand in hand! It was

a squalid affair all right. Discussions would go on out of sight

in smoky back rooms. Though any small fry not up to scratch, any

moron placing his organisation at risk, was instandy (in gangland

lingo) "put out of harm's way", nothing and nobody could touch

its instigators, its VIPs, its "big boys" . . .

"Ho hum," murmurs Ottaviani, gulping down his Munich and

wiping its froth from his lips. 'Talk of a can of worms . . ."

5 8

It's his last word. Amaury sighs and, though Anton Vowl's

abduction has at first sight nothing at all to do with Ibn Barka's,

informs Ottaviani of visiting a zoo, running into Olga, and

Hassan Ibn Abbou, who was also trying to find his companion.

"Aha!" laughs Ottaviani. "So Vowl had a champion you didn't

know about!"

"Why . . . that's right," says Amaury, curious as to why Ottavi-

ani thought that important. Continuing, though: "Now look at

what you and I know. This morning I saw Hassan Ibn Abbou

in a zoo. But what was it that Anton Vowl said: 'A solicitor who

lights up his cigar in a zoo". So I rush off to this city's only zoo.

And what do I find? A solicitor lighting up a cigar. All right.

But what if said solicitor thought to turn up at said zoo and light

said cigar simply to conform to Anton's portrait of him, hoping

by so doing that Olga or I would contact him?"

"So," Ottaviani succincdy sums up, "it was possibly not for-

tuitous?"

"Fortuitous or calculating, who can say? But what I plan to

find out on Monday is what, if anything, was significant about

Anton's allusion to 10 tots of whisky. First, though, it's worth

studying a factor that's not as crucial but still apropos. To wit:

do you know Karamazov?"

"Dmitri of Karamazov Bros Inc. ?"

"No, his cousin Arnaud, who runs a taxi out of Clignancourt

and who would occasionally do odd jobs for Vowl. You could

find out for us if this Karamazov also knows of Anton's kid-

napping. Do that on Monday morning, will you, whilst I'm at

Longchamp."

"Just as you say, boss," grunts Ottaviani, snoozing into his

glass.

It's suffocatingly cold. So cold, in fact, no duck would think of

putting a foot outdoors, nor would a chimp (with brass balls or

not). But Ottavio Ottaviani is robustly striding along, as though

that night's thick, damp fog simply hasn't got through to him.

5 9

Arriving at Alma, Ottaviani mounts a bus that drops him at

Paris's famous Quai d'Orsay, stops an instant to catch his wind

and consult his watch. It's 11.40. Longchamp is still a long way

off.

"Off I go," says Ottaviani, mumbling inaudibly to nobody in

particular.

Not far from Orsay, only yards away from Iran's consular build-

ing, is a small snack bar with which our Corsican is familiar from

having had an occasional ham or salami sandwich in it. Ottaviani

walks in, dusty, haggard, worn out. A crowd of individuals is

propping up its bar.

"Ciao," says Ottaviani.

"Hullo, hullo," says Romuald, a barman who, though always

at work, is always smiling: "ain't a fit night out for man nor

animal."

"You can say that again," murmurs Ottaviani, vigorously blow-

ing into his hands. "Brrrr . . ."

"Only minus two, though," Romuald points out. "Not as cold

as all that."

"P'raps so, but it's blowing up a fair old storm," says Ottaviani.

"Can I bring you a sandwich? Parma ham, York ham, Italian

salami, Danish salami, bacon, black pudding, chipolata, cold

roast, tuna fish, Stilton, Cantal, Port-Salut, Gorgonzola? Or what

about a hot dog?"

"No thanks. A grog's all I want. I think I'm catching a cold."

"A grog for M. Ottaviani!" Romuald calls back to his assistant

who is busy cooking a plat du jour of osso bucco with
artichauts

au romarin.

"Coming up!"

In an instant Ottaviani's drink plops down in front of him.

"A boiling hot grog," proclaims Romuald. "No cold can with-

stand it."

Ottaviani sips his grog.

"Mmmm, yummy."

"Not too sugary?"

6 0

"No, it's just right. Fit for a king."

'That's 23 francs 20 all told."

Ottaviani throws down a handful of coins, for which Romuald

thanks him.

Noticing, half out of sight, his boss, Aloysius Swann, idly

picking at a bowl of fruit, Ottaviani, cautiously balancing his

grog in his hand, thrusts his way through a crowd of drunks and,

still panting, sits down facing him.

"Hullo, boss."

"Hullo, Ottaviani," says Swann. "You okay?"

"Just so-so. I'm coming down with a cold."

"You want a yoghurt?"

"No, I'm not at all hungry."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Amaury Conson?"

"Conson still thinks it was a kidnapping."

"Sounds as if that's what it was," murmurs Swann.

"You think so too, but why?"

Without saying a word, Swann pulls a photocopy from his bag

and hands it to his adjutant.

"Good Lord!" Ottaviani almost shouts, "this is straight from

GHQ!"

And this is what it said:

Analysis of Consul Alain Gu. rin

to Royal G - P.R.C.

(Distribution S A C L A N T - "cosmic"

N A T O - S AG - G/PRC - 3.28.23)

A month ago an analysis from Orrouy's GHQ-NATO Comman-

dant, with corroboration from HCI Andilly, which midshipman

3/6.26 of Cp. Horn's straggling group thought to pass on to us

for confirmation, told us what was about to occur to Anton

6 1

Vowl. That month's K. Count was instantly put in by Mission

"NATO-cosmic" 5/28-Z.5. Anton Vowl was not on it. In

addition, an anti-abduction plan, joindy drawn up by Mission

"off days" 8/28-Z.5, instruction L 18, and by "cosmic 1A", was

soon circulating to all GRCs, SR assistants, SM assistants, HCIs,

ONIs, CICs, "G.3"s, BNDs, SIDs and "Prima 2"s - all, that is,

saving MI5, but including stimuli to various unorthodox com-

mando units.

Without wishing to imply that this information, of an A. 3 or

B.I rating, is not crucial, it is worth noting that, 18 days ago,

our organisation got virtually nothing out of placing all its

apparatus at point "3". Why was it such a thorough fiasco? HCI

Arlington claims to know: CIA infiltrations? but also SIS in our

staffs within NATO jurisdiction. It is said, in addition, that, by

compromising a
soi-disant
Bushy Man from Ankara, an Albanian

SR assistant had sought (and not, as it turns out, in vain) to gain

total control of his group.

Thus, to sum up this difficult situation, our organisation may

opt for (a) abandoning Anton Vowl to his doom or (b) instigat-

ing a
casus
- not a
casus violationis
, at most a
casus damni
: in my opinion, only our PM could find a solution to such an unusual

affair. Which is why I submit this analysis (in flagrant violation

of SR norms), advising you against consultation but in favour

of a global opinion plus instructions.

"God, it's got so many ramifications!" says Swann. "What did

Hassan Ibn Abbou say?"

"Oh, Hassan wasn't talking, but I'm going to confront him

tonight at midnight; with a bit of luck I might just find out

what's what. As for Olga, softly, softly. That's a young lady who

knows a lot but isn't giving too much of it away."

"You think so?"

"I know so. Talking of which, I saw Karamazov."

"And?"

6 2

"Karamazov saw Vowl on 3 occasions a month ago: (1) taking

him, by night, to a vacant, run-down bungalow in Aulnay-sous-

Bois; (2) by day, to play whist at Augustin Lippmann's club

(Karamazov won about 20 points off Vowl); and (3), most sig-

nificandy, just 20 days ago, Vowl had Karamazov fit an anti-

burglary contraption to his, that's to say to Vowl's, Fiat."

"Vowl had him fit an anti-burglary contraption to his

Fiat?"

"Yup."

"You don't say! But why?"

Ottaviani has simply no notion why and is hoping that Swann,

who has, it's said, a flair for a hunch worthy of a Sioux or an

Iroquois, will furnish him with a motivation. His boss, though,

lacking that crucial spark of inspiration, is not on form today.

"Why fit an anti-burglar}' contraption to his car?" murmurs

Swann, adding grumpily, "And to think that you and I at first

thought this affair was a cinch . . ."

A mutual sigh.

"It's all a ghasdy hotchpotch, particularly as I still don't know

who is hiding Anton Vowl."

With his hand Swann signals to Romuald, who says to him:

"A mocha? A cappuccino?"

"Thanks but no thanks. Just my bill, if you wouldn't mind."

"Righty-ho, I'll tot it up for you in a jiffy."

Scribbling on his pad with a Bic, Romuald murmurs:

"Tuna, plat du jour, Stilton, fruit, drink . . . that's 18 francs,

including tip."

"18 francs!" complains Swann. "Isn't that a bit stiff for what

I had?"

Romuald puts it down to VAT, whilst, for his part, Aloysius

actually calls him a crook. It all risks coming to fisticuffs, but

Ottaviani finally calms Swann, who, furious but compliant, if still

not brought round to Romuald's way of thinking, pays up.

On his way out, though, Swann is caught in a draught, dis-

charging a sonorous "Atishoooo!"

6 3

"Don't go looking for sympathy!" laughs a now jovial Romu-

ald. "You had that coming to you. What a lark - catching your

pal's cold!"

Vigorously shaking hands with Aloysius Swann, who has to rush

off to his commissariat, Ottavio Ottaviani hails a taxi to go to

Longchamp, which today, and Paris's ominous political situation

notwithstanding, holds its annual Grand Prix du Touring-Club,

an arduous handicap that will award its victor with not just a

gold trophy but a million francs, or so it's said, a donation from

a racing-mad nabob. And, with
tout-Paris
jostiing Paris tout, all

go parading through Longchamp's lavish paddocks.

Most conspicuous by far is Italy's top film star, Amanda von

Comodoro-Rivadavia, soon to fly out to Hollywood to sign a

six-million-dollar contract with Francis Ford Coppola for a tril-

ogy of Mafia dramas with Marlon Brando and A1 Pacino. Vol-

uptuous Amanda is clad
(o sancta simplicitas
) in a pair of bouffant

pink slacks as billowy as a Turkish Ottoman's, a coral polo shirt,

a bright crimson cardigan, an ivory sash, a maroon scarf, a shock-

ing pink mink coat, ruby stockings, a damask muff and purplish

bootikins. Accompanying this lurid apparition is Urbain d'Agos-

tino (inamorato or simply sugar daddy, who knows?), sporting

a lacy jabot, an Ungaro tail coat with a Mao collar, a top hat and

an ambassadorial gold chain. And milling around, with much

aristocratic ado, is a host of Maharajahs and moguls, Kronprinz,

Paladins and Hospodars, pillars all of
Who's Who.

Grooms, spivs and turf officials stroll to and fro; at a kiosk a

young lad is shouting
"Paris-Turf.
Git your
Paris-Turf.
"; touts offload dubious dps and long columns start forming in front of

casinos and gambling halls.

Having sought him high and low among this cosmopolitan

crowd, Ottaviani at last finds Amaury Conson sitting on a stair-

way with Olga, a vision of Pariso-colonial chic in a viridian Arab

tunic.

Through a pair of binoculars, Amaury is scrutinising Long-

6 4

champ's world-famous track lap by lap, practically inch by inch:

"I think that ground is just a bit too soft."

A boorish individual standing at his right affirms (though, in

truth, nobody had sought his opinion) that Conson is a total

ignoramus on track sports. Amaury starts blushing furiously but

backs off from, so to say, standing his own ground. And, in

actual fact, Longchamp had not known a track so icy and of such

volatility: no rainfall for a month or so, no mist hanging about,

but a hard, nippy frost all around.

"Why hasn't Whisky 10 shown up?" asks Olga, squinting

through Amaury's binoculars.

"It's dropping out. It was just this instant broadcast on a

Tannoy."

"Why?"

"Nobody knows."

"So why stay on?" murmurs a thoroughly downcast Ottaviani.

"Olga wants to know how it turns out."

"You said it!" laughs Olga. "I put 25 francs on Scribouillard."

Out of 26 original nominations, only 25 now stand at Long-

champ's starting-post, Whisky 10 (No. 5) having withdrawn.

Initially, Whisky 10 was thought a cinch to win, although, sur-

prisingly, at official odds of 18 to 1. With it scratching, most

touts had a good opinion of Scribouillard III; Schola Cantorum,