Mambo (24 page)

“This is it,” said Possony. “The material is completely configured to the specifications supplied by Mr Hurt.”

“Therefore accurate?” Fuentes asked.

Levy clapped the palm of his hand across his forehead, rolled his eyes and said, “What am I hearing?”

It was clear to Fuentes that he'd somehow insulted Levy, though he wasn't sure how.

Possony, less histrionic than Levy, said, “Accurate? Laser technology, Mr Fuentes. The finest electron microscopes. We're not making imitation Swiss watches to sell on 47th Street.”

Fuentes shrugged. He glanced at Bosanquet, who was obviously amused by Fuentes' moment of discomfort. Possony took the attaché case from Bosanquet's hand and said, “Now have the merchandise removed from the plane so we can leave. Nothing personal, you understand. But obviously we're in a hurry to get the hell out of here.”

Paris

The hotel with the unlisted telephone number was small and expensive, hidden behind chestnut trees on a side street in the Latin Quarter. The private dining-room, panelled and hung with heavy curtains and eighteenth-century oils, was located on the second floor, a gloomy room, discreet in a manner peculiarly French.

Five men sat round the table, the surface of which had been carved with the initials of various luminaries who had eaten in this room. Victor Hugo had been here, and so had Emile Zola, and Albert Camus had dropped in now and again for an aperitif after a soccer game. The literary credentials didn't impress the five diners, none of whom had much of an appetite. A particularly delicious
terrine de foie de canard
had barely been touched. A good bottle of Saint Emilion had gone practically unnoticed and the consommé, decorated with a delicate lacework of leeks and – a jaunty nouvelle cuisine touch – yellow squash cut in florets, was ignored.

When the last waiter had departed, Enrico Caporelli sat very still for a while. Beyond the heavy curtains could be heard the traffic of the fifth arrondissement, but it was a world away. Caporelli tasted his wine, pushed the glass aside, sipped a little coffee, which was roasted Kenyan and excellent. Sheridan Perry lit a cigarette and Harry Hurt, a fervent anti-smoker, fanned the polluted air with his napkin. Across the table from Caporelli was Sir Freddie Kinnaird; on Kinnaird's right sat the German, Kluger, his face sombre.

“First Magiwara, then Chapotin,” Caporelli said quietly as he finished his coffee. He glanced across the room at Freddie Kinnaird, then at Kluger, then Perry. Why was he drawn back, time and again, to the face of Sheridan Perry? Did he think, at some level beyond precise language, that Perry was behind the murders? Admittedly, Sheridan lusted after the Directorship. But lust was a long bloodstained step removed from two brutal murders, or three, if you counted Chapotin's young fluffball, who, it appeared, had connections with the English aristocracy.

“Why?” Caporelli asked. “Why those two? Did they have something in common we don't know about? Were they involved in something that went very wrong for them? What made them candidates for death?”

Nobody answered. Some silences are polite, others awkward, but this particular expanse of quiet had running through it, at deep levels, many different tides and currents. Mistrust, anxiety, fear. Caporelli looked inside his coffee cup. He shivered very slightly and thought
Somebody is walking on your grave, Enrico
.

Superstitious nonsense, you peasant! Some things you just don't lose. Your background, the way you were raised in the hills with simple people who crossed themselves whenever there was an eclipse of the moon or a calf was born with three legs. All the money and the smart tailors hadn't erased the old ways. You still tossed spilled salt over your shoulder and avoided the space under ladders and you gave black cats a very wide berth.

“Has anybody noticed anything unusual?” Caporelli asked. “Any cars following them around? Strange people prowling? Perhaps phone calls with no voices at the end of the line?”

Nobody had witnessed anything out of the ordinary. No strange cars, no stalkers, no late night callers.

“How did these killers know the whereabouts of Chapotin and Magiwara? How did they know not only places but times?” Caporelli asked. “Neither victim led a public life, after all. They were not common names in the society columns. They were private people.”

Harry Hurt sipped some mineral water. “Here's one possibility. Our Society came into existence because of the Mafia. We all know this. Had our Sicilian brethren shown more restraint and less taste for lurid publicity, we'd still be their bankers. However we went separate ways. Our predecessors, men of some vision, appropriated certain funds many many years ago and followed their own star. The Mafia, which was making more money then than all the Governments of the free world combined, didn't notice that we had ‘misjudged' the stock market to the tune of some, ahem, 22.5 million dollars. To them this was mere pocket money. To the Society it was a fresh start.”

“We know the history,” Caporelli said.

Hurt raised an index finger in the air. “Let me finish, Enrico. Suppose some young mafioso, a kid, a soldier, wants to make his name. Suppose he delves. Suppose he sees in some dusty old ledgers figures that don't add up – what then? Would he want revenge? Would he want to wipe out the Society?”

Caporelli was sceptical. “First he'd want the money back. Then and only then he'd blow a few heads away. He wouldn't shoot first. He'd want to know where the cash was kept before he stuck us in front of a firing-squad.”

Hurt shrugged. “I'm only looking at possibilities, Enrico, not writing in concrete. Here's another one. Say an agent of Castro's intelligence service is behind the murders. A goon from G-2 or whatever the hell it's called. Somebody who has heard of our scheme. Perhaps somebody who has been spying on Rosabal.”

Caporelli frowned. “For argument's sake, let's say Rosabal has indeed been followed by an agent of Castro – which, I may add, I discount. The stakes are too high for him to behave like such an amateur. But so what? Where could Rosabal lead such a spy? This agent might see Rosabal and me drinking tea in Glasgow or beer in a hotel in Saint Etienne – but what good would that do for the spy? Rosabal knows only me. He has no idea of the Society's existence. How could he lead some
fidelista
directly to our membership? No, Rosabal's not the poisoned apple.”

Sheridan Perry sipped Saint Emilion with the air of a man who has been told he should appreciate fine wines but doesn't quite enjoy the taste. “We've always taken great precautions about secrecy. We've always protected our own identities. Security has been high on our agenda at all times.”

Freddie Kinnaird said, “Not high enough, it seems. For example, none of us has felt the apparent need for a bodyguard.”

“It suddenly seems like a terrific idea,” Hurt said.

Caporelli stood up. He walked to the window, parted the curtains a little way, looked out. Lamps were lit along the pavements; it was a particularly romantic scene, he thought, the pale orbs of light obscured by chestnut branches, a soft breeze shuffling leaves along the gutters. A pair of lovers walked so closely together they appeared to have shed their separate identities and fused here in the Parisian twilight.

All this talk of a mafioso, bodyguards – it left him cold. It didn't come to the point. He lowered the curtains, fastidiously made sure the two hems met and no exterior light penetrated, then turned to look at the faces around the table.

“We've been ruptured,” he said quietly. “And we must at least consider the unpleasant possibility that somebody in our own membership …” Caporelli poured himself more coffee. He couldn't finish the sentence. The faces in the dining-room were each in some way defiant or incredulous. “From within or without, the fact is, our security is broken. Somebody knows who we are, and is set on our destruction. I don't think we're going to reach a conclusion no matter how long we sit round this table tonight, my friends. We'll argue, and throw possibilities back and forth, but nothing will be accomplished in this manner.”

“So what are you saying?” Perry asked. His thick eyebrows came together to create one unbroken line of fur above his tiny eyes.

Caporelli gazed at the American for a time. Again he wondered if Sheridan were capable of making a destructive play for control of the Society; and, if so, was he doing it without the complicity of his friend Hurt? Was there a rift between the two? Had Perry's greed and ambition created an abyss across which Hurt was neither allowed nor prepared to walk?

“I am saying this, Sheridan,” Caporelli remarked. “I am saying that we attend to personal security by hiring bodyguards. I am saying we adhere to no regular schedule. I am saying that we change cars and travel plans as often as we can. Secrecy is a prerequisite of survival. In short, we take precautions, as many as we possibly can. And we are very careful of how we communicate with one another.”

This last statement fell into the room like a stone dropped from a great height. It was unpleasant. The Society had always existed on the basis of mutual trust. Now it was being undermined. Caporelli imagined he could hear old beams creak and rocks crumble in the deep shafts.

“And does all this affect our Cuban undertaking?” Perry asked. “Do we cancel that project for starters?”

Suddenly agitated, Freddie Kinnaird made a ball of his linen napkin, which he brushed against his lips. “Have you lost your mind? The cruise missile was successfully stolen this morning and is presently in transit, and since the British police are practically without clues, I don't see any reason to cancel. The investigation, headed by a policeman called Frank Pagan, falls into my domain. When Pagan knows anything, I know it too. A rather lovely arrangement altogether. If Pagan goes too far, I can find a way to tug gently on his rein. Besides, if we take the precautions Enrico has suggested, I think we will see a general improvement in our mood. Prudence, my dear fellow, wins in the end. And whoever has taken to attacking our little Society will be flushed out finally.”

Kinnaird's expression was that of a voracious estate agent who has just placed an island paradise in escrow and whose plans include casinos, resorts, colossal hotels, and as much sheer, silken sin as anybody could stand.

Kluger lit a cigar. He blew a ring of blue smoke and said, “I personally do not believe that anyone in this room is a traitor.” There was authority and finality in the German's tone, as if he had access to information denied everyone else. “I think we have been too lax, too complacent, in our security and now we are paying a price. The solution, as Enrico tells it, is very simple. We continue to go about our business – but with this difference.
Extreme precautions
, gentlemen. Sooner or later, the culprit will appear in broad daylight. Sooner or later.”

Kluger stood up. He filled a glass with brandy and extended his hand across the table. The toast was made, glasses clinked together, faces, formerly glum, forced smiles. Cuba was there for the taking. The show would go on regardless.

“To the success of friendship,” said Sir Freddie Kinnaird.

It was early evening by the time the members left the dining-room. The last wistful twilight had gone, and the cafés were bright now, the night life restless as ever, beautiful social moths flitting after this piece of gossip or fearful of missing that particular face. Nothing had been solved in the hotel, but a slightly uncertain consensus had been reached that no Society member was responsible for the killings.

Arrangements pertaining to bodyguards were discussed, recommendations made. Sir Freddie Kinnaird knew of a reliable agency in London; Harry Hurt spoke well of an outfit in Dallas. And Enrico Caporelli, who had an apartment and a great many connections here in Paris, had already made a phone call and had been promised a carload of armed protectors who would arrive outside in ten minutes or so.

The mood, if not exactly terrific, was not as sombre as it had been before, and the news of Gunther Ruhr's successful theft took the hard edge off grief. The possibility of Cuban profits had instilled a small delight that, in the hours ahead, would grow until dead members were almost forgotten.

The five men stepped out of the hotel together. They were to be met by their security people outside a well-lit café across the street. They walked very close to a couple of strolling gendarmes; an illusion of protection until the real thing arrived. Kluger was attracted by a girl at a pavement café but decided to be abstemious, despite the luscious red gloss of her parted lips.

All five men crossed the street at a traffic signal. Kluger, puffing on the remains of his cigar, lagged a few feet behind, turning now and again to observe the lovely girl. He could not have seen the truck until the last possible moment; perhaps not even then. It struck him, tossed him ten or eleven feet forward; then ensnared his limp body under the front axle and dragged it another fifty or sixty feet before final release. Kluger rolled over and over towards the gutter, his coat torn, his arms broken, his face devoid of any resemblance to its former self.

The truck driver's name was Luiz Dulzaides, a forty-nine-year-old long-distance driver from Madrid. His eight-wheel rig came to a halt inside the plate-glass window of a large pharmacy, after it ploughed through colognes and powders and perfumes and demolished a menagerie of soft-toy animals. Dulzaides, tested by the police, had drunk the equivalent of three bottles of wine that day. He'd never heard of Herr Kluger, had no recollection of seeing him at the pedestrian crossing, no memory of striking him. Dulzaides was too drunk to stand upright. He was removed in a police car. Caporelli and the two Americans answered the usual routine questions of the gendarmes while Kinnaird, the most public of the members, feared adverse publicity and slipped easily into the large crowd of spectators that had assembled at the scene.