Mambo (36 page)

“Rosabal rented a farmhouse in England. Did you know that?”

Caporelli shook his head. “I do not monitor his life.”

“He never mentioned this farm?”

“Never.”

A quick beat. “The house was occupied by Gunther Ruhr.”

“Ruhr? The terrorist? Are you sure of that?”

“I'm sure,” Pagan said.
The terrorist
, as if there were other Ruhrs who might come to Caporelli's mind. “Can you see a connection between Ruhr and your friend Rafael?”

Caporelli moved his face out from the reach of the lamplight. Shadows settled around him. Only his white hair was visible. “I can imagine no relationship, Mr Pagan. None at all. Your information surprises me. In fact, it astonishes me.”

But Caporelli's face and voice didn't altogether suggest astonishment; Pagan had the feeling he was telling Enrico things he already knew.

“Why would the Cuban Minister of Finance rent a farmhouse and allow a group of terrorists to inhabit the place, Signor Caporelli?”

Caporelli folded his fine little hands on the desk and regarded them as if they were precious. He shook his head from side to side. “It defies reason, Mr Pagan. I have no ready explanation.”

Pagan was silent now. Quietness gathered in the black hollows of this spacious unlit room. A clock chimed half past the hour with the subdued sound of an expensive mechanism.

“Stranger still is the fact that Rosabal rented the farm in another man's name,” Pagan said.

“Really?”

“He called himself Jean-Paul Chapotin.”

It was obvious at once that Caporelli hadn't known this before. He bit on his lower lip, then backed himself further out of the range of the lamp, and his face became invisible to Pagan. There, concealed, he recovered his composure with a swiftness that was admirable.

He said, “The name – you did say Chapotin? – means nothing to me. And as for Rafael's private affairs, well, I'm ignorant of them. I am sure this business is all very interesting for you, but I don't share your fascination.”

Pagan had a well-honed instinct, activated whenever he was presented with a lie. Sometimes, like a pulse, it beat strongly, sometimes hardly at all, but he'd heard so many lies in his lifetime – some told to him by experts – that an encounter with yet another fiction was like greeting an old, if unreliable, acquaintance. Caporelli's lie, that he didn't know Jean-Paul Chapotin, wasn't the best Pagan had ever heard, but it was executed with theatrical skill and assurance. The little man popped a tissue from a fancy designer box with a conjurer's flourish, as if it were the climax to his brief performance, and pressed it to his lips.

“You must excuse me now, Mr Pagan. I don't think I have anything more to tell you. Not that I've been of very great help, I'm sure.”

Pagan wasn't quite ready to be dismissed. “Are you aware that Chapotin was murdered in London, Signor Caporelli?”

“How could I be? As I already said, Mr Pagan, I am not familiar with the man. I'm sorry if he was killed, of course. But what can I say? You really must excuse me. I have business to conduct.”

Pagan rose from his chair. “Like you, Chapotin had Cuba in his background,” he said. “It's one of those bloody terrible coincidences that keeps bothering me. You and Jean-Paul and Rosabal. And the common factor is Cuba. I can't get it out of my mind.”

Enrico Caporelli held a hand in the air, palm turned outward to Pagan. His voice was firm. “You should know when to stop asking questions. You should know when enough is enough.”

“I never do. It's one of my worst traits.”

Caporelli reached for the gold-plated telephone on his desk.

Pagan stretched a hand out over the receiver, preventing the man from picking it up. “Why are you in such a hurry to boot me out of here, Signor Caporelli? I want to know a little more about you and Rosabal and poor old Jean-Paul. You can't really expect me to believe you didn't know Chapotin. He was in Glasgow the same day you were there. He lived in Cuba at exactly the same time as yourself. And he was obviously known to Rafael. Don't ask me to file all this under coincidence. Don't insult me.”

Caporelli gave an odd little laugh, a brittle note like a tiny hammer falling twice on a recalcitrant nail. He got up from the desk and wandered among the shadowy furniture. “You have a fine imagination, Pagan. For your own sake, let it rest. Let it lie quietly. Forget it. A little amnesia is often a healthy thing.”

Ah, Pagan thought. Was that a veiled threat, a fist in a soft kid glove? He liked the idea of being gently menaced by Caporelli; it stirred his blood, his combative instincts. He got up from his chair and grinned at the little man, knowing how utterly infuriating this look could be at times.

“Something's going on, Enrico – if you don't mind – and I want to know what. You and Rosabal, for starters. He travels thousands of miles just so you can hear glad tidings from Cuba? Give me a bloody break, Enrico. I didn't get up with this morning's dew.”

Caporelli was about to object, but Pagan went on regardless. “Let's think about Gunther next. He lives in a house rented by
your
friend Rafael. What does this begin to smell like, Enrico? The whiff of conspiracy?”

“I tell you again. Too much imagination. Empty your mind. Sleeping dogs must lie.”

“I kick sleeping dogs, Enrico. I like the way they howl.” Pagan heard a dryness in his voice. He didn't have the spit for this pursuit, the wind. His lungs seemed shallow to him, his intake of oxygen poor. He caught his breath. “Now why does Gunther steal a missile? Not because he wants one for his collection, I'm sure. He's the hired hand. But who's the boss, Enrico? Rafael? He's a good choice. After all, he was Ruhr's landlord. But is Rafael carrying out an order on behalf of some other party?”

Caporelli had crossed the floor while Pagan was speaking. Now he was pressing a wall-button mounted close to the fireplace. Bringing in reinforcements, muscle to kick Pagan out of here.

“Was it you, Enrico? Was Rafael working for you? Did he hire Ruhr on your behalf? Was that what the meeting in Glasgow was about?” Pagan strode across the room, closer to the little man. All this was wild, like shooting from a dislocated hip. But he had a scent in his nostrils still, and it grew more and more exciting. There was joy in mad surmise, in the crazed inspiration that forced you down unusual pathways. Allegations, red herrings, hares, accusations – sometimes, Pagan thought, work could be fun.

Clearly irritated, Caporelli once again pressed the bell on the wall. Pagan reached out, removed the man's hand from the button, gave the bundle of small bones a swift squeeze. “Let me finish, Enrico.”

“You have finished,” Caporelli said and pulled away his pained hand.

“Not yet. Here's a fresh tack. I asked myself who else could possibly make use of a missile. Could it be Fidel himself? After all, he had a taste of missiles a few years ago, maybe he liked having them. But let's say nobody in the world wants to sell him one. Then let's imagine he decides to steal one and assigns this chore to Rosabal. Rosabal comes to you for help – old pal, old family friend you say you are – and you put him in touch with Ruhr.”

Caporelli's face was expressionless. Aside from the open eyes, hooded under the white eyebrows, it might have been the face of a sleeper.

Pagan went on, “But we both know why that script's wrong, don't we, Enrico? You wouldn't lift your little finger to give Castro water on his deathbed, would you? You loathe him because he ripped you off for everything you owned in Cuba. The only interest you could possibly have in Castro is to see him either dead or tossed out of office. Therefore, if
you're
involved, the missile wasn't stolen for Fidel's sake. There's some other reason.”

“You amuse me, but my patience isn't unlimited. I must ask you to leave. Now, please.”

Caporelli walked towards the door. Pagan followed, thinking how pointless it was to hope Caporelli would break down and tell all. The Italian was hard as flint. And crafty. He had trained his face to reveal very little. So far the only real surprise that had registered was when Pagan had mentioned Rafael's use of the name Chapotin. Why had that startled Caporelli? Why had that so clearly bothered him?
Because something was going on he didn't know about
, Pagan thought.
Something that really worried him
.

“I honestly don't give a damn what you're up to, Enrico. I don't care about Cuba, and I don't care about Fidel Castro. Politics leave me cold. I'm interested in them only in as much as they involve an escaped prisoner who happens to have both a stolen missile and a hostage with him. I want the people
and
the missile back where they belong. And I think you can help me. I think you know where they might be found.”

Caporelli acted as if he were no longer listening. He opened the door, looked into the hallway, called out, “André. Max. Come here, please. Escort Mr Pagan out.”

There was no reply from André and Max. Caporelli made a small hissing sound of irritation,
tssss
, and moved down the hall. Pagan followed. They passed the open doorway of a bedroom, furnished in black lacquer pieces, like something from the pages of a chic design magazine. Next was the kitchen, the largest Pagan had ever seen, vast and tiled, crowded with appliances, slatted red blinds at the long windows, copper-bottomed pans and skillets suspended from the high ceiling, strings of garlic bulbs, a hanging congregation of red peppers.

“André! Max!” Caporelli, as if he were calling to two miscreant dogs, clapped his hands briskly. Still no response.

Pagan tried to get the little man's attention, but Caporelli shrugged him off as he stalked the kitchen on his quest for the bodyguards.

“If you'll listen to me, Caporelli –”

“I have listened too long already, Pagan.”

“Tell me what you know about Ruhr, that's all I ask.”

Caporelli smacked the palm of his hand against the centre of his forehead. “How many times do you need to hear it? I know nothing. Absolutely nothing!
Prego
. Do me a favour. Go away.”

Pagan stopped moving after the Italian. He leaned against the tiled wall and considered the pointlessness of further pursuit. Enrico was too good, an old fox, cunning. He was giving nothing away. Pagan stepped back into a space that was probably called the breakfast nook, a cranny containing a table strewn with rose petals, and four chairs. He needed to sit down, think over his options.

He moved towards a chair. Then stopped. The cranny contained more than flowers and furniture.

André and Max had been shot at very close range and propped against the wall in the shadowy cavity. One of the men had his big blank face turned toward Pagan, dead blue eyes open, cheek blown away, the abstract expression of sudden death. Pagan, who could still be shocked by murder, looked across the room at Caporelli and was about to tell him that his bodyguards were no longer guarding bodies – but before he had the chance to speak the kitchen door was opened.

“Ah,” Caporelli said. He was waiting for his soldiers. He thought they were coming through the door, belatedly answering his call. He thought they would have the Englishman ejected in a matter of seconds. Pagan shouted at the little man, something like
Get down
! although he couldn't remember later exactly what he'd said. In the doorway stood a man with a silenced pistol; having disposed of André and Max, he'd presumably been roaming this enormous apartment in search of Caporelli.

And now he'd found his quarry.

Pagan had barely time to record a swift impression, and it was neither interesting nor useful – medium height, medium weight, medium everything, dark hair, dark overcoat, dear Christ description failed him in the intensity of the moment, language melted away. He was, after all, cornered in a breakfast nook, and it seemed completely absurd to be shot to death there: a nook had no inherent dignity. Objective observation of the gunman was the last thing on his mind.

“
In the name of God,
” Caporelli said.

The gunman fired once. The sound was reminiscent of pressurised air fleeing a punctured pipe. The gunman was clearly an expert shot. Caporelli was spun round by the impact of the bullet, which had struck him directly in the heart. He clattered to the tiled floor, an unsmoked cigar in its cellophane wrapper rolling out of the pocket of his robe.

Pagan had time to see the gunman turn his face towards the breakfast area; the pistol came up once again in the man's hand. Aware of the glass door behind him, conscious too of how he was almost trapped, Pagan turned so quickly that he felt the stitches in his chest stretch. Glass would yield if he forced it, if he threw himself at it: one small corner of his panicked brain still recognised this fact. He launched himself hurriedly and without undue fear of falling from a high place because he'd seen, through the slats of the blind, a balcony, a handrail, flower pots, even an empty bird-cage.

The blind buckled and fell to pieces when he charged it, slats bending under his weight, small plastic screws popping. The door itself shattered easily, scattering angular fragments of glass across the balcony. Pagan landed on hands and knees, but he hadn't been caught by glass and he wasn't bleeding. He rose to an ungainly crouching position and surveyed the balcony quickly. Six feet by twelve, it adjoined the balcony of the neighbouring apartment, separated only by an ornate wrought-iron rail, about seven feet high. Pagan rushed toward it and clambered up. Halfway, he realised he had a terrific view of the Bois de Boulogne. With this appreciation came a certain dizziness. He swayed, moaned, heard air buzzing in his ears, kept climbing. There was neither elegance nor equilibrium in the way he ascended.

He clutched the top of the rail, hauled himself up through strata of pain that were numbed for the moment by the adrenalin of fear. He glanced back once across Caporelli's balcony, seeing how the fractured blind – slats bent at all kinds of angles – hung out through the broken glass like some spindly creature that has been crushed. There was no sign of the killer; but that meant nothing. He could be striding toward the glass door even now. He could appear on the balcony at any second. He could still shoot Pagan.