The Night Manager (23 page)

To Burr's surprise, a glow of unlikely warmth lit Apostoll's scrawny features. His voice acquired a lyrical tremor.

"Doctor, your countryman Mr. Roper is no ordinary salesman. He is an enchanter, sir. A man of vision and daring, a piper of people. Mr. Roper is beautiful because he is beyond the norm."

Strelski muttered an obscenity under his breath, but there was no stopping Apostoll's flow.

"To pass time with Mr. Onslow Roper is a privilege, sir, a carnival. Many men, coming to my clients, despise them. They fawn, they bring gifts, they flatter, but they are not sincere. They are carpetbaggers looking for a quick buck. Mr. Roper addressed my clients as equals. He is a gentleman, but he is not a snob. Mr. Roper congratulated them on their wealth. On exploiting the asset that nature had given them. On their skill, their courage. The world is a jungle, he said. Not all creatures can survive. It is right that the weak should go to the wall. The only question is, who are the strong? Then he treated them to a film show. A very professional, very competently assembled film show. Not too long. Not too technical. Just right."

And you stayed in the room, Burr thought, watching Apostoll inflate with his story. On somebody's ranch or in somebody's apartment, surrounded by the hookers and the peasant boys with jeans and Uzis, lounging among the leopard-skin sofas and the mega-sized television sets and the solid-gold cocktail shakers.

With your clients. Captivated by the aristocratic English charmer with his film show.

"He showed us the British special soldiers storming the Iranian Embassy in London. He showed us American special forces on jungle training, the American Delta Force, and promotion film of some of the world's newest and smartest weaponry. Then he asked us again who the strong were, and what would happen if the Americans ever got tired of spraying herbicide on Bolivian crops and seizing fifty kilos in Detroit, and decided instead to come and drag my clients from their beds and fly them to Miami in chains and subject them to the humiliation of a public trial under United States law in the manner of General Noriega. He asked whether it was right or natural that men of such wealth should be unprotected. 'You do not drive old cars. You do not wear old clothes. You do not make love with old women. Then why do you deny yourselves the protection of the newest weapons? You have brave boys here, fine men, loyal; I see it in their faces. But I wouldn't think there's five in a hundred of them would qualify for the fighting unit I'm proposing to put together for you.' After that, Mr. Roper described his fine corporation to them, Ironbrand. He pointed to its respectability and diversity, its tanker fleet and transportation facilities, its noted trading record in minerals, timber and agricultural machinery. Its experience in informal transportation of certain materials. Its relations with compliant officials in the major ports of the world. Its familiarity with the creative use of offshore companies. Such a man could cause Mary's message to shine in the darkest pit."

Apostoll paused, but only to sip some water from the glass that Father Lucan had poured him from a plastic bottle.

"Gone were the days of suitcases packed with hundred-dollar bills, he went on. Of swallowers with olive-oiled condoms in their bellies being hauled off to the X-ray room. Of small planes running the interdiction gauntlet across the Gulf of Mexico. What Mr. Roper and his colleagues were offering them was trouble-free, door-to-door shipment of their product to the emerging markets of Central and Eastern Europe."

"Dope," Strelski exploded, unable to endure any more of Apostoll's circumlocutions. "Your clients' product is dope. Michael Roper is trading guns for refined, processed, nine-nine-nine fucking cocaine, calculated at airstrip fucking prices! Mountains of the shit! He's going to ship it to Europe and dump it there and poison kids and ruin lives and make megamillions! Right?"

Apostoll remained aloof from this outburst. "Mr. Roper wished for no cash advances from my clients, Doctor. He would finance all of his side of the bargain out of his own resources. He did not hold out his hand. The trust he bestowed on them transcended the normal trust of man. If they cheated on the deal, he assured them, they could ruin his good name, bankrupt his corporation and turn away his investors forever. Yet he had confidence in my clients. He knew them as good men. The greatest blessing, he said--the greatest guarantee of security from interference--was to finance the entire enterprise a priori out of his own pocket until the day of reckoning. That was what he proposed to do. He placed his faith in their hands. Mr. Roper went further. He emphasised that he had no intention of competing with my clients' customary European correspondents. He would enter and leave the chain entirely in accordance with my clients' wishes. Once he had delivered the merchandise to whomever my clients chose to nominate as the recipient, he would regard his task as done. If my clients were reluctant to name such persons, Mr. Roper would be happy to arrange a blind hand-over."

Pulling a large silk handkerchief from his pocket, Apostoll wiped away the sweat that had formed below his toupee.

Now, thought Burr in the hiatus. Go.

"And was Major Corkoran present on this occasion, Michael?" Burr asked innocently.

Immediately, a scowl of disapproval settled over Apostoll's darting features. His voice became snappish and accusing.

"Major Corkoran, like Lord Langbourne, was very much in evidence. Major Corkoran was a valued guest. He operated the projector and performed the social honours, he spoke correctly to the ladies, fixed drinks and made himself agreeable. When my clients half-humorously proposed that Major Corkoran remain behind as a hostage until the deal was completed, the idea was warmly received by the ladies. When general heads of agreement were drawn up by myself and Lord Langbourne, Major Corkoran made a droll speech and signed with much flourish on Mr. Roper's behalf. My clients relish a little foolery to lighten the daily burden." He took an indignant breath, and his little fist opened to reveal a rosary. "Unfortunately, Doctor, on the insistence of Patrick and his rough-tongued friend here, I have been compelled to denigrate Major Corkoran in the eyes of my clients to the point where their enthusiasm for him has waned. This is un-Christian behaviour, sir. It is bearing false witness, and I deplore it. So does Father Lucan."

"It's just so shitty," Lucan complained. "I don't think it's even ethical. Is it?"

"Would you mind telling me, please, Michael, exactly what your clients have so far been told to the detriment of Major Corkoran?"

Apostoll's head was stuck out like an indignant chicken's. The strings in his neck were taut.

"Sir, I am not responsible for what my clients may have heard from other sources. As to what I have told them myself, I have told them precisely what my--" He seemed suddenly to have no word for his handlers. "I have advised my clients in my capacity as their lawyer of certain alleged facts in Major Corkoran's past, which, if true, invalidate his suitability as a nominee in the longer term."

"Such as?"

"I have been obliged to advise them that he has an irregular life-style and uses alcohol and drugs to excess. To my shame, I also told them he was indiscreet, which does not in the least accord with my experience of the Major. Even in his cups, he is the very soul of discretion." He tipped his head indignantly at Flynn. "I was given to understand that the purpose of this distasteful manoeuvre was to clear away the surrogate figure of Major Corkoran, thereby moving Mr. Roper personally into the firing line. I am obliged to tell you that I do not share the optimism of these gentlemen in that regard, and even if I did share it, I would not consider these actions to be consistent with the ideals of a true legionary. If Major Corkoran is found unacceptable, Mr. Roper will merely procure for himself another signer."

"Is Mr. Roper, so far as you know, aware of your clients' reservations about Major Corkoran?" asked Burr.

"Sir, I am neither Mr. Roper's keeper nor the keeper of my clients. They do not inform me of their inner deliberations. I respect that."

Burr put his hand into the recesses of his sweat-soaked jacket and dragged out a limp envelope, which he tore open while Flynn, in his broadest Irish, explained its contents: "Michael, what the Doctor has brought with him here is an exhaustive list of Major Corkoran's misdemeanours before his employment by Mr. Roper. Most of the incidents relate to acts of venery. But we also have a couple of cases of riotous behaviour in public places, drunk driving, drug abuse and going walkabout for days at a time, plus peculation of army funds. As the guardian of your clients' interest, you are so worried by the rumours you've been hearing about the poor soul that you have taken it upon yourself to cause discreet enquiries to be made over in England, and this is what you've come up with."

Apostoll was already protesting. "Sir, I am a member in good standing of the Florida and Louisiana bars, and a former president of the Dade County Bar Association. Major Corkoran is not duplicitous. I will not be used to frame an innocent man."

"Sit the fuck down," Strelski told him. "And that's bullshit about the bar association."

"He just makes things up," Lucan told Burr in despair.

"He's incredible. Every time he says something, he indicates its opposite. Like, if he's giving an example of the truth, it turns out to be a lie. I don't know how to get him out of it."

Burr put in a quiet plea: "If we could just discuss the question of timing, Patrick," he suggested.

They walked back to the Cessna. Flynn led again, his gun across his arms.

"You think it worked?" Burr asked. "You really don't think he guessed?"

"We're too stupid," said Strelski. "Just dumb cops."

"We're assholes," Flynn agreed serenely.

ELEVEN

The first blow seemed to hit Jonathan in his sleep. He heard the crunch of his jawbone and saw the black lights of a knockout, followed by a long flash of sheet lightning. He saw Latulipe's contorted face glaring at him, and Latulipe's right arm drawn back to hit him a second time. This seemed a silly thing for anyone to be doing: to use the right fist as if it were a hammer working at a nail and leave oneself wide open to retaliation.

He heard Latulipe's question and realised he was hearing it for the second time.

"Salaud! Who are you?"

Then he saw the crates of empties he had helped the Ukrainians stack in the yard that afternoon, and heard the striptease music playing through the disco fire exit. He saw a crescent moon hanging above Latulipe's head like a crooked halo. He remembered that Latulipe had asked him to come outside a moment. And he supposed he should hit Latulipe back or at least block the second blow, but indifference or some sense of chivalry stayed his hand, so that the second blow hit him pretty much where the first had, and he had a brief memory of being back at the orphanage and running into a fire hydrant in the dark. But either his head was numb by then or it wasn't a real fire hydrant, because it didn't have half the effect of the first blow, except to open a cut at the corner of his mouth and send a flood of warm blood tracking down his chin.

"Where's your Swiss passport? Are you a Swiss or not?

Talk to me! What are you? You fuck up my daughter's life, you lie to me, you drive my wife crazy, you eat at my table, who are you? Why do you lie?"

And this time, as Latulipe pulled back his fist, Jonathan kicked his feet out from under him and laid him on his back, careful at the same time to ease his fall because there was no nice tuft of windblown grass from the Lanyon to cushion him: the yard was paved with good Canadian asphalt. But Latulipe was undeterred and, scrambling gamely to his feet, seized Jonathan's arm and frog-marched him into the dingy alley that ran along the back of the hotel, for years an informal urinal for the male population of the town. Latulipe's Jeep Cherokee was parked at the far end. Jonathan could hear its engine running as they shuffled toward it.

"Get in!" Latulipe ordered. Pulling open the passenger door, he made to force Jonathan into the seat but lacked the skill. So Jonathan climbed in anyway, knowing that at any point in his ascent he could have felled Latulipe with his foot; could probably have killed him, in fact, with a kick to the head, for Latulipe's wide Slav brow was at just the height for Jonathan to smash the temples. By the interior light of the Jeep he saw his Third World air bag lying on the back seat.

"Put on your belt. Now!" Latulipe shouted, as if a fastened seat belt would ensure his prisoner's obedience.

But Jonathan obeyed anyway. Latulipe started the engine; the last lights of Esperance disappeared behind them. They entered the blackness of the Canadian night and drove for twenty minutes before Latulipe pulled out a packet of cigarettes and shoved it in Jonathan's direction. Jonathan took one and lit it from the dashboard lighter. Then he lit Latulipe's. The night sky, through the windscreen, was an immensity of rocking stars.

"So?" said Latulipe, trying to maintain his aggression.

"I'm English," Jonathan said. "I quarrelled with a man. He robbed me. I had to get out. I came here. It could have been anywhere."

A car overtook them, but it wasn't a baby-blue Pontiac.

"Did you kill him?"

"So they say."

"How?"

Shot him in the face, he thought. With a pump-action shotgun, he thought. Betrayed him. Slit his dog from head to tail.

"Where is she?"

Latulipe seemed to know no answer except a fierce gulp.

They were heading north. Now and then Jonathan caught sight of a pair of headlights in the rear-view mirror. They were chase-car lights, the same each time he looked.

"Her mother went to the police," said Latulipe.

"When?" Jonathan asked. He supposed it should have been Why? The chase car was closing on them. Stay back, he thought.

"She checked you out with the Swiss Embassy. They never heard of you. Would you do it again?"

"Do what?"

"This man who robbed you. Break his neck."

"He came at me with a knife."

"They sent for me," Latulipe said, as if that were another insult. "The police. Wanted to know what kind of guy you are. Do you push drugs, make a lot of phone calls out of town, who do you know? They think you're Al Capone. They don't get a lot of action up here. They've got a photo from Ottawa, looks a bit like you. I told them, wait till morning, when the guests are sleeping."