Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  Just now he sat awkwardly in a chair much too small for him and studied his son, propped up in the bed. There was no anger in him, not even sympathy for his son, only annoyance. “You were stupid,” he said flatly. “One never fights an opponent who does not know the rules. One can get killed that way. Rules are made for your own protection as well as the enemy’s. That’s why we lost to the Bolsheviki. They didn’t know the rules either.”

  Sergei was embarrassed. That hurt even more than the pain. The ease and speed with which he had been beaten, and by a boy little more than half his size. “I didn’t know that he didn’t know the rules.”

  “All the more reason you should have explained them to him,” his father replied. “That alone would have so confused him he would have been easy for you.”

  Sergei thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think he would have ignored them.”

  A sound of voices came through the open window. The boys were coming out of the classrooms. Count Nikovitch rose from his chair and went over to look down at them.

  “I would like to see this boy,” he said curiously. “Might he be among them?”

  Sergei turned his head so that he could see through the window. “There, the dark boy walking alone.”

  The count watched Dax cross the field to the next building without even a curious glance at the other boys. When he disappeared into the building Count Nikovitch turned back to his son.

  He nodded his head. “I think you are right. That one will always make his own rules. He is not afraid to walk alone.”

  The next year Dax and Robert had moved to the main dormitory, where they would remain, moving only from the top floor down to the first, year by year, until their time at De Roqueville would be over. Now they were “older” boys, as compared with the younger boys, who lived in another building. That was how they had been joined by Sergei. The older boys were lodged three in a room.

  It was a policy of the school based on a belief that three was a more productive number than either two or four. Four in a room generally wound up two against two, and two in a room was not economical. Dax and Robert had barely begun to unpack their things when a knock had come at the door. Robert went over and opened it. Sergei stood there, his valise in hand.

  It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised. Sergei checked the room slip he still held in his free hand, then the number on the door. “This is the room, all right.”

  He put his valise down in the center of the room. They stood silently watching him. “I didn’t ask for it, you know,” he said. “My own roommate dropped out and le préfet assigned me here.”

  They still didn’t speak. Since the fight Sergei and Dax had always managed carefully to avoid one another.

  Suddenly Sergei smiled. There was warm vitality in that grin. “I’m glad we don’t have to fight for this one,” he said in mock relief. “I don’t know whether my bones could take it.”

  Robert and Dax glanced at each other; the beginnings of an answering smile came to their lips.

  “How are you in literature?” Robert asked.

  Sergei shook his head. “Not good at all.”

  “Math, physics, chemistry?”

  A woeful expression crossed Sergei’s face as he shook his head to each in turn.

  “What are you good at then?” Robert asked. “Those are the subjects we need most help in.”

  “I don’t know,” Sergei confessed. “They’re my weak ones too.”

  “History, geography, government?” Dax asked.

  “I’m not very good at those either.”

  Dax glanced at Robert, a secret smile in his eyes. “We need a roommate who can teach us something. You don’t seem to be of much use.”

  “No, I’m not,” Sergei answered sadly.

  “Isn’t there anything you can teach us?”

  Sergei thought for a moment, then his face brightened. “I know seventeen different ways to masturbate.”

  As one, the other two put their hands over their heads and salaamed to him. “Welcome to the club!”

  80

  The black Citroën limousine pulled to a stop at the edge of the polo field and Jaime Xenos got out. He looked across the field at the tangle of riders and horses and squinted his eyes. “Which one is Dax?”

  “He’s with the ones wearing the red and white caps,” Fat Cat said. “See, there he is.”

  A horse broke from the tangle and came racing down the side of the field. The slender boy swinging the mallet nursed the ball along the ground in tight careful strokes, never allowing it to escape from his control.

  An opposing rider came diagonally across the field, and Dax turned his mount swiftly and hit the ball across the field to a teammate. He in turn passed the ball far down the field, where Dax stroked the ball between the goal posts without one member of the opposing team near him. He wheeled his horse and rejoined his team in the center of the field.

  “Monsieur Xenos?”

  The consul turned. The voice belonged to a thin wizened man who smelled of horses. “Oui?”

  “I am the polo coach, Fernande Arnouil. I am honored to meet you.”

  Jaime Xenos nodded. “My pleasure.”

  “I’m glad you could come, your excellency. You have been watching your son?”

  “For just this moment. I must confess I do not know the game.”

  “It is understandable,” the coach replied apologetically. “It is unfortunate but in the past few years the game has lost in popularity.” He gestured toward the car. “And I believe the success of that little vehicle to be the major contributor to the decline.”

  Xenos nodded politely.

  “Young gentlemen no longer learn to ride. They are more interested in learning to drive. That is why when such a young gentleman as your son comes along it is important that his talent be developed.”

  “He is good then?”

  Arnouil nodded. “He is like a throwback to the old days. Your son was born to this game. It is as if he came into the world with his feet already in the stirrups.”

  “I am proud.” Dax’s father looked across the field. Another play was developing and in the forefront was Dax, guiding his horse with his knees as he fought to retain the ball.

  “He realizes he can’t keep it,” the coach explained. “Observe how he passes the ball to his teammate on the opposite side.”

  Dax swung low off the saddle and hit the ball back through the legs of his own horse. The teammate picked it up quickly and raced off the field as Dax decoyed part of the opposing team along with him.

  “Beautiful!” The coach turned back to Dax’s father. “You are wondering why I asked you to come?”

  The consul nodded.

  “Next year your son will be sixteen. He will be eligible to play in regular interschool competition.”

  “Bien.”

  “But in order to be eligible,” the coach continued, “he must have his own horses. It is a strict rule.”

  The consul nodded. “And if he does not?”

  Arnouil shrugged in a typical Gallic fashion. “He cannot play, no matter how well qualified.”

  Jaime Xenos looked across the field. “How many will he need?”

  “At least two,” the coach replied, “though three or even four are preferable. A fresh horse for each chukker.”

  The consul still did not look at the coach. “How much is such a horse?”

  “Thirty to forty thousand francs.”

  “I see,” Xenos replied thoughtfully.

  The coach squinted at him shrewdly. “If it is difficult for you to locate such horses,” he said diplomatically, “I could perhaps find a sponsor with several to spare.”

  Xenos knew what he meant. He forced a smile. “If you think it worthwhile,” he said, “my son shall have his own horses.”

  “I am pleased that you should feel so, your excellency. You will not regret it. Your son will become one of the great players of our time.”

&nbs
p; They shook hands and the consul watched as the bow-legged little man walked down the field. The consul was aware what Fat Cat was thinking. He got back into the car wearily and waited until Fat Cat slipped behind the wheel. “Well, what do you think?”

  Fat Cat shrugged his shoulders. “It is only a game.”

  Dax’s father shook his head. “It is more than that. It is a game only for those who can afford it.”

  “Then that lets us out.”

  “We cannot afford to be out.”

  “We cannot afford to be in,” Fat Cat retorted. “There are many more pressing demands.”

  “In a way Dax could become a symbol of our country. The French can help us.”

  “Then tell el Presidente to send the hundred and sixty thousand francs for the horses.”

  The consul looked at him, then smiled suddenly. “Fat Cat, you’re a genius.”

  Fat Cat didn’t know what he was talking about. He studied the consul in the rear-view mirror.

  “Not the money, horses,” Xenos said. “Those wiry pintos with feet like mountain goats ought to be perfect for this game. I’m sure el Presidente would be happy to send some.”

  The coach caught Dax as he came out of the locker room after the game. “I just spoke to your father,” he said. “He assures me you will have your own horses next year.”

  “He did?”

  The coach nodded.

  Dax’s eyes swept down the field. “Is he here?”

  “At the end, near the gate.”

  But Dax had already seen the car and was running down the field. His father got out of the car and embraced him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Dax asked.

  His father smiled. Dax was growing. He was up to his shoulder now. Another year and he would no longer be able to look down at him. “I wasn’t sure that I could.”

  “I’m glad you did.” It was the first time his father had ever come to the school.

  “Is there a place we could go for tea?”

  “There is a patisserie in the village.”

  They got into the car. “The coach told me that you said I would have my own horses next year.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are we going to get the money?” Dax asked. “We can’t afford it.”

  The consul smiled. “El Presidente will send us four mountain ponies.”

  Dax looked at him silently.

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  There was such a look of concern on his father’s face that Dax did not have the heart to tell him that good polo ponies required years of training. Instead he reached over and took his father’s hand. “That’s wonderful,” he said, squeezing it tightly.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Sergei said. “Spend the summer with us at Cannes. Robert’s father has a villa there and a boat.”

  “No. I have to work with the horses if they are going to be any good by fall.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Sergei said positively. “You’ll never make polo ponies out of those mountain goats.”

  “Coach thinks I’ve got a chance.”

  “I don’t see why your father just doesn’t buy regular ponies. Everybody knows you South Americans are lousy with money.”

  Dax smiled to himself. If Sergei only knew the truth. “It would be a good thing for my country if they turned out well. Perhaps, as my father always says, it would convince Europeans that we can do other things besides grow coffee and bananas.”

  Sergei got to his feet. “I’m going down to the village. There’s a new waitress at the patisserie. Want to come along?”

  Dax shook his head. There were other things he could do with five francs. “No, I think I’ll bone up for the exams.”

  He sat quietly at his desk after Sergei had gone. It was three years now that he had been in France. He felt a restlessness, and got up and went over to the window. He looked down at the rolling lawns and neat gardens.

  A wave of sudden homesickness swept over him. He longed for the wild untouched mountains. Everything here was too neat, too orderly. There was no excitement in discovering a new path, a new way to come down from the mountains. Here there were always set roads to follow.

  All civilization seemed to be like that. Even his father, who was prepared to observe the rules and respected them, had never thought it would prove this confining. With each new rebuff, each new disappointment he seemed to shrink more and more within himself. His betrayal by Ramirez had been only the beginning.

  There were other incidents, far more subtle and destructive. Promises made to support Corteguay in its quest for independence from British and American political and financial domination. There were lines Dax had never seen before in his father’s face. There was a hesitancy, an uncertainness in his manner that marked the beginnings of old age. These last three years of failure had taken their toll.

  Dax felt all these things, and at times he wanted to cry out to his father that this life was not for them, that they ought to return home to the fields and the mountains, to a world they understood. But the impulse remained bottled up inside him. He knew his father would not listen, could not. The determination to accomplish his mission, the hope that he might succeed still burned deep within him.

  There was a soft knock at the door behind him. He turned. “Come in.”

  The door opened and the Baron de Coyne entered. They had never met before. “I’m Robert’s father. You must be Dax.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Where is Robert?”

  “He should be back shortly, sir.”

  “May I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, the baron dropped into an easy chair. He glanced briefly around the room. “Things haven’t changed much since I was here.”

  “I suppose not.”

  The baron glanced over at him suddenly. “I suppose things rarely do change no matter how much we want them to.”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Dax wasn’t quite sure of the baron’s meaning. “I guess it depends on the thing we want changed.”

  The baron nodded. “Robert mentioned that you might be spending the summer with us.”

  “I’m afraid not sir. But I’m very grateful to have been asked.”

  “Why can’t you come?”

  Dax felt the lameness of his answer. “I’m training some Corteguayan ponies for polo.”

  The baron nodded solemnly. “Very commendable. I shall be most interested in what results you achieve. If you are at all successful it could prove of value to your country. It will show France that Corteguay can do other things besides grow coffee and bananas.”

  Dax stared at him. These were almost the exact words his father had used. He felt his spirits begin to lift. If a man like Robert’s father felt this, perhaps things were not so bad after all. Perhaps there was still hope for his father’s mission.

  81

  Sylvie began to pick up the dishes, and Dax got up from the table. A moment later he went outside. Arnouil and Fat Cat leaned back in their chairs. Fat Cat began to roll a cigarette.

  Arnouil was silent for a moment, then put the stub of a small cigar in his mouth. He didn’t speak until after Fat Cat had lighted his cigarette. “The boy is alone too much. He never smiles.”

  The smoke drifted across Fat Cat’s face. He didn’t answer.

  “He should not have stayed here and worked all summer,” the coach continued. “He should have gone with his friends.”

  Fat Cat shrugged. “Are not the ponies shaping up?”

  “More than shaping up. They were born for this game; they will revolutionize it. But surely his father must see that a boy should have fun.”

  Fat Cat took the cigarette from his lips and looked at it. It wasn’t too bad for French tobacco. A trifle sweet perhaps, but not bad. “Dax is not like other boys,” he said carefully. “Someday he will be a leader in our country. Perhaps he will even become el presidente.”

  “Even Napoleon was a boy once,” the coach replied. “I’m sure he did not allow hi
s destiny to rob him of his youth.”

  “Napoleon became a soldier by choice. He had not been a warrior since the age of six.”

  “And Dax has?”

  Fat Cat looked at the coach. He nodded silently. “When Dax was not yet seven el Presidente himself held the gun as Dax pulled the trigger that executed the murderers of his mother and sister.”

  The coach was silent for a moment. “No wonder then the boy never smiles.”

  The night was quiet and the air cool with the first breeze from the west as Dax walked down to the stable. The horses whinnied when they heard him coming, and he took the sugar he always kept in his pocket and gave them each a lump. Then he went into their stalls and stroked their necks gently. They whinnied again, a soft lonesome sound.

  “We’re all homesick,” he whispered. They didn’t like the confinement of the stable. They missed the open corral.

  “Dax?” Sylvie’s voice came from the stable door.

  “I’m in here with the horses.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked curiously, walking over to him.

  He looked out at her over the bars of the stall. “I thought I’d come down and keep them company for a while. They get lonesome so far from home.”

  She leaned against the bars. “Do you get lonesome too, Dax?”

  He stared at her. She was the first person who ever had asked that question. He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

  “Do you have a girl back home?”

  He thought for a moment of Amparo, whom he had not seen in three years. He wondered what she was like now. Then he shook his head. “No, not really. Once when I was nine a girl decided to marry me. But she outgrew it. She was only seven herself and very fickle.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” she said, “but he is in the navy. He has been away for six months, and it will be another six before he returns.”

  He looked at her. It was the first time he had thought of her as a girl. Until now she was just someone around the stables, riding the horses and fooling around like anyone else. Except for her long hair there had seemed to be nothing feminine about her, no roundness visible in the man’s shirt with the rolled-up sleeves or tight dungarees. Suddenly he noticed the female softness of her.