by Xavier Mayne
“What do you know about the pouch?” she asked. Her demeanor had changed in an instant with the mention of the pouch. She was serious, almost businesslike, despite the quantity of gin that no doubt swirled through her every vein.
“You know they don’t tell me what’s in it,” Sandler replied, a bit defensively.
“Of course not. But you know something about it. From whom you received it, for example, or to whom you were to deliver it?”
“It was a man I’d never seen before. My instructions from the Ministry just said where to meet him and gave me a code to exchange. He gave me the right code, so I took the pouch and got on my way.”
Fabienne thought about this for a moment, frowning. “Where did this happen?”
“In a parking lot, of all places.”
“How dignified,” Fabienne sniffed. “But where, dear, was this parking lot?”
“In some little backwater I’d never been to. It was several hundred miles from Washington.”
Fabienne’s eye glinted, and she pursed her lips as if Sandler’s information were a bitter sip of tea. “This little backwater didn’t happen to be named Jefferson, I suppose?” she asked. It was clear to Donnelly she feared it was.
Sandler drew in a sharp breath. “Yes, it was.” He scanned her face desperately, as if searching for a clue as to how she could possibly have known this. “Fabienne, what does that mean to you?”
“Oh, it means nothing to me,” she said with the casual deflection of the practiced coquette. “But I would guess it means a great deal to someone on this ship. And now to you as well, it would seem.” She picked up her martini and sipped significantly. Madame Maillard communicated primarily in gestures and gin, Donnelly reflected.
Sandler leaned in close—to Madame’s evident pleasure—and in a whisper Donnelly could just make out above the noise of the pool deck asked, “Who is it?”
“How very forward, my boy. Now, please, sit back, and let me tell you a little story.” She polished off her martini and waved for another round. “Once upon a time, entire branches of the foreign service were staffed almost exclusively with men of a certain… predilection. Knowing that they would be hounded out of public life were they to serve Queen and country at home, they chose instead posting in far distant outposts of the empire, where their interests would be, if not approved, at least tolerated.”
“You mean they were gay?” Donnelly asked.
“Oh no, darling.” She looked at him for a long moment. “You are as quick as you are handsome.” She sighed distractedly, apparently unable to tear her eyes away from him.
“Madame?” Sandler prompted.
“Ah, yes. My fairy tale. Well, yes, of course they were gay. But that alone would not have meant permanent exile. After the law changed in the late sixties, they could at least have come home. They might not have been able to be open about it, but it wouldn’t have meant a prison sentence any longer. No, if they had preferred the company of men, they would have been recuperable. But these men preferred the company of boys.”
Donnelly sat back, disgusted. He felt like spitting, as he always did when such crimes were mentioned. He’d seen far too much in his career to feel anything else.
“Yes, my dear. It was horrid. And because they were abroad, in countries where such things are not viewed as criminally as they are in England, or where the pound sterling was still the coin of the realm when it comes to graft and corruption, they were able to get away with it. Recently, though, evidence of their crimes has finally started to emerge, sometimes from the diaries of those who died suddenly, before they were able to burn their personal effects. Few of their monstrous kind survive, or at least that’s the hope. My guess is that you seem to have collected a pouch of great interest to one of the last surviving members of this ring of monsters.”
“But the United States isn’t exactly an imperial backwater,” Sandler objected. “Why would one of them take refuge there?”
“Because his service had been in Bermuda, and though he needed to hightail it out of there, he feared coming home. He hoped they would simply forget about him as long as he stayed put. And it worked for a long time. I’ve heard whispers that he’s not long for the world, and he’d hoped the unfortunate fact of his advanced illness would put a damper on any investigation. Fortunately, the Foreign Office has thus far not been prone to leniency in such cases.”
“I’m a bit lost,” Donnelly said. “What do you think was in the pouch?”
“Americans,” said Fabienne with a sigh. “So direct. It is your greatest charm and your fatal weakness.” She gazed absently at Donnelly for a long moment, as if he were a painting. “Yes, the pouch. There are two possibilities. First, that the pouch contains exculpatory evidence of some kind, and the old lecher wanted to be sure it got to the right person unmolested—which is more consideration than he ever gave his victims. Second, the pouch holds damning proof of his guilt and was sent in a pouch to keep the Americans from discovering it. With no disrespect to our friend here”—she nodded to Donnelly—“your countrymen tend to lurch into action whether or not action is called for.”
Sandler, Donnelly noticed, did not rise to his defense. “So the person who stole it was either someone who didn’t want the old lecher’s name cleared, or someone who is trying to suppress evidence of his guilt.”
“Precisely. Find the person on this ship willing to risk an international incident and you’ll know which.”
Sandler reached into his pocket. “It just so happens I have a list of embassy staff on the ship,” he said, placing the list flat on the table and sliding it over to her. “Anyone seem likely?”
She gazed down her nose at it as if paperwork itself were somewhat beneath her dignity. She read down the list, then looked up at him. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, dear boy. No one on this list seems connected to the case we’ve been discussing.”
Sandler was crestfallen. “Are you certain?”
She fixed him with a wry scowl but looked at the list again. “Perhaps if you had a list that began with number one instead of number four?”
“Oh, of course.” He reached out and unfolded the paper.
Instantly, her precisely manicured fingertip stabbed at the second name on the list. “Him.”
Sandler snatched the list out from under her sharp fingernail and stared at the name. “Are you sure? I thought you said he was terminally ill.”
“Oh, it’s not the man himself. It’s his grandson, and from what I’ve heard his only living descendent. It’s been a rather tragic family story. I only know the outlines of it, as it is never openly spoken of, even among the security staff. One of my dear friends in the service spent several years investigating his case and a few others. The things she discovered….” Fabienne shivered at the memory. “She kept it to herself most of the time, but once in Johannesburg, when we were at the World Cup, she unburdened herself to me.”
“The World Cup?” Sandler asked. “I hadn’t figured you for a football fan.”
“Oh, dear no. I’ve never even seen a match all the way through. No, we went because we are fans of football fans. An entire city half-crazed with sporting hormones, nearly all of them male and youngish. Ah….” She drifted off for a moment, eyes misty with memory. Sandler gave an exasperated sigh.
“He has a family?” Donnelly prompted, never one to let a line of questioning get bogged down.
“Not in the traditional sense, no. There were rumors that at an early posting he attempted to prove his heterosexuality by sleeping with a call girl. As if being paid a pittance for having that sack of putrescence poke at her weren’t insult enough, she was saddled with his child.”
“That’s terrible,” Donnelly said.
“Oh, it worked out very well for him—the minor scandal was just the thing to throw everyone off the scent of his perversion for several decades. He packed her off to some remote village with a few coins, and thereafter made sure that at every posting the story somehow preced
ed him.”
The waiter arrived with another round of martinis. Fabienne picked hers up, but the men didn’t move. After a desultory sip, she set hers down and returned to her tale.
“So the girl had a baby daughter, who unfortunately followed in her mother’s footsteps, such as they were. She was a little better businesswoman, however, because she managed to extract a proposal from the father of her own brat. The boy was about ten when his parents decided to make the laughably stupid maneuver of blackmailing the old man. They might have been successful, were it not for the notoriously slippery winter roads in their part of Eastern Europe. On their way to present their demands, their Soviet-made car set a new speed record, straight down the side of a mountain. For once the old man seems to have been moved, because he retrieved the boy from his postcommunist backwater and installed him in a boarding school. Luckily for him, several generations of brainpower that had been lacking in his progenitors concentrated in his skull, and he graduated from university with high acclaim.”
“So it was a happy family reunion?” Sandler asked.
“Hardly. The bitter old troll refused to have anything to do with him. And for once the boy’s intellect failed him, for instead of washing his hands of the whole affair, he decided to go into the foreign service himself, as if he could redeem his legacy or some such nonsense. You know men, always tilting at windmills.”
Donnelly sat back in his chair. The wheels turning in his head were spitting out contradictory answers to overlapping questions. “So the pouch contains either damning proof or evidence that will clear his name. And if the grandson stole it, did he do so to suppress it or publicize it, to either clear his family name or destroy the man who disowned him?”
“Precisely,” Fabienne said. “Now you see why I prefer to sit by the pool with my gin and my bathing beauties. Diplomatic intrigue is a young man’s game, and I welcome you to it.”
“It’s a lot more to go on than we had before,” Sandler said. “I feel hopeful for the first time since the pouch went missing.”
“Least I could do darling,” Fabienne replied, but at that moment her eye was caught by the group of barely clad men emerging from the whirlpool, steam rising from their wet and muscled bodies.
The group toweled off quickly and then walked toward the stairs, talking and laughing. One of the young men peeled off from the group and approached the table. He leaned down and whispered something into Fabienne’s ear. Donnelly couldn’t hear what he said, but it seemed to delight Fabienne, and she laughed and said, “Oui, mon pétit, oui.” It was only when the young man stood upright, smiling sweetly, that Donnelly noticed just how tightly packed his Speedos were. Fabienne certainly knew how to pick ’em.
She watched the young man rejoin his group, his tight buttocks undulating rhythmically, then raised her glass as if toasting his dedication to gluteal workouts. She tossed back the remaining half of her martini and with a flick of her wrist ordered another round from the attentive waiter. Only then did she seem to realize that the men at her table were staring at her with rather shocked looks on their faces.
“What on earth—are you that surprised to see me the object of cabana-boy attention?”
“No, not at all… um….” Sandler stumbled.
Fabienne gave another great peal of laughter. “Of course you are, darling. But you’ve seen me order drinks—did you think ordering a rent boy would look much different?”
“He’s…?” Sandler turned to get another glimpse of the gaggle of pool boys just before they rounded the end of the deck out of sight. “But I thought they—”
“Were gay? Of course they are, Sandy. That is, when the right man opens his wallet. What you’ve been watching is their marketing campaign. They giggle like empty-headed sluts in the whirlpool to advertise their availability to every man on the ship whose wallet is the biggest bulge in his pants. It’s rather like the lobster tank at one of those horrid American ‘seafood’ restaurants. One simply chooses from what’s on offer. Frankly, I think they’re quite relieved when a woman of means invites one of them to her cabin for an evening.”
“He seemed quite full of relief,” Donnelly remarked, then took a sip of his martini.
“At least his bathing suit was,” Fabienne replied with a laugh. She’d clearly caught Donnelly’s sly insinuation. “I do like your friend, Sandy. He’s bright and handsome.”
“Fabienne, I’m falling in love with you all over again,” Sandler said with a laugh. “You’ve been a terrific help. Now, there’s a conversation we need to have.” He tipped back his cocktail glass and stood. “Thank you for the information, and for the pleasure of your company,” he said.
“Very nice to have met you,” Donnelly said, rising as well. Without being prompted, he leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks. She laughed joyously.
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” she replied. “I really must be going as well. I’ll need a nice massage if I’m going to be limber enough for another evening with Aiden, or Jayden, or whatever that lovely boy is called.”
At that moment, however, a new batch of scantily clad young men boisterously tumbled out onto the pool deck, making for the whirlpool.
“Or, perhaps another drink is in order,” she said, settling back into her chair and gesturing to the waiter. “I hope I’ll see you boys later,” she said, but her eyes were already locked on the pool, scanning for the tastiest morsel.
DONNELLY FOLLOWED Sandler back to the stairs, making some effort to walk a straight line. Either the ship was rolling a bit in the waves, or keeping up with Madame Maillard’s martini pace had taken its toll on him. “How about some lunch?” he asked, hoping that food would dilute the effect.
“Actually, that’s just what I was thinking. But I won’t be able to join you and your guest.”
Donnelly stopped in his tracks. “What?”
Sandler smiled with equal amounts of charm and desperation. “The name she pointed to is the ambassador’s cultural attaché. He knows me—I’ve carried pouches for him a number of times, as well as artwork, musical instruments, that kind of thing. If he’s the one who stole the pouch, I can’t just strike up a casual conversation with him.”
“So you want me to do that?”
Sandler fell silent, a fragile expression of hope on his face. “I know it’s a lot to ask. You’ve already done so much, and this was supposed to be a nice trip for you. Never mind—forget I asked.”
“Oh hell no,” Donnelly replied. “What you’re giving me the chance to do is either help put a child molester behind bars or ensure that an innocent man’s name is cleared. Just try to keep me away from that action.”
“Gabriel Donnelly, I swear to God,” Sandler said, clearly elated, “if you weren’t engaged to be married….” He threw his arms around Donnelly and squeezed him hard. “Thank you.” His words were a hot rush into Donnelly’s ear, sending a chill down his spine.
“We’re in this together,” Donnelly whispered back.
The men stepped back from their embrace. “Now, tell me about this person I’m going to interrogate over cucumber sandwiches,” Donnelly said.
“I don’t know a great deal about him, and I’d certainly never heard what Fabienne told us just now. All I know about him is that he’s a favorite of the ambassador and pretty well liked among the staff. On this trip, I’ve heard he meets the other senior staff every day for lunch, after which he goes to the same table in the lounge to work until it’s time for tea. Which, by the way, he takes alone.” Sandler glanced at Donnelly. “Until today.”
“You seem pretty confident that he’d be willing to share his tea table with me.”
“I think he’ll be very glad to share his table with you.”
“Why? Does he like Americans? Cops? Men who get married in kilts?”
“I think he likes all of the above. And though I lack Madame Maillard’s decades of gossip, I do happen to know that you, in particular, will be his cup of tea.”
Donnelly stop
ped again. “Let me get this straight, as it were. I’m supposed to seduce the information out of him?”
“You make it sound like I’m asking you to do something you wouldn’t accomplish just by walking into a room.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Donnelly replied, lifting a warning finger. “It will, however, get you a counterintelligence operative.”
“Good man!” Sandler cried. “Now, let’s get you the two things every agent going into the field needs: a compelling backstory and tighter pants.” He led the way back to their suite.
A half hour later, Donnelly entered the lounge where his target was rumored to spend every afternoon. Sure enough, he found him at the window, reading one of a stack of many papers, a sleek laptop on the table next to him.
“Excuse me?” Donnelly said as he approached. “Would you mind sharing your table?”
The annoyed look on the man’s face evaporated when he took in the sight of Donnelly towering over him. He smiled and gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Please,” he said in a soft but resonant voice.
There were several other tables in the room that were completely unoccupied, a fact Donnelly was delighted to see the other man ignore. He pulled out the chair and sat. “I’m Gabriel,” he said, extending his hand.
“Imre.” The diplomat reached across the table and shook Donnelly’s hand. “Would you like some tea?” He gestured to the waiter, then gathered his papers and closed his laptop.
Donnelly was pleased to see he had so completely distracted Imre from his work—it meant he might be able to get the man to open up. “That would be very nice, thank you.”
“Yes, Mr. Romanov?” the waiter asked.
“Tea, please, for my friend?”
“Yes, of course.” The waiter turned to Donnelly. “Is there a variety you prefer, Mr. Donnelly?”
Donnelly winced at the mention of his name, but their notoriety among the ship’s staff had been taken into account in their planning of this operation. It’s why they’d decided not to use a fake name. “Something green, please?” he asked. Normally, if it wasn’t coffee he wasn’t interested, but investigations sometimes required sacrifice. The waiter nodded and glided away.