LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  Just hang on a little while, boys, he thought, and I’ll give you a reason for your ill humor.

  Trouser legs swished by within a few feet of him as the three men, silent now, climbed the front steps and went inside. Steven surveyed the lawn and circular drive in front of the manor.

  Michelet had closed and locked the gate. There were no cops left behind, no secret service men and no drivers. Two cars were parked inside the gate, a Mercedes 600 SL and a 4-door Citroën. No trouble guessing which belonged to whom. More importantly, it told him Delors and Haussmann had driven themselves to the meeting. Getting out of here after he had dined on their conversation would be a piece of cake.

  He shut the vent and followed the footsteps. He had a map of the house layout in his mind and expected the men to head straight for the dining room. Instead, they turned in the direction of the library. He hurried to the wine cellar and quietly shut the door. They were above him now, pacing, shouting, arguing.

  Another break. They seemed to be holding their meeting before dinner. He might be home earlier than he thought!

  Careful not to make a sound, he climbed on to the stack of Château d’Yquem cases, bent back the small flap he had cut in the heating duct and put his ear to the opening.

  The voices were clear, distinct from one another, filled with purpose. He began trying to assign them each a face. He needn’t have bothered. His subjects were using names.

  Paul Delors was the steady voice of reason, the calm collected voice urging an objective assessment of a situation “that is only a problem if we – meaning you, Albert – allow it to become one.”

  Georges Michelet was the gruff, impatient voice demanding “a clear decision – will you or won’t you? – before we leave this room.”

  And Albert Haussmann, the voice of cynical outrage – the mocking, cutting, mellifluous and fiercely intelligent.

  But what in the hell were they arguing so heatedly about? Steven had missed the first few words, not to mention the things that had been said during the trek from the cars to the library.

  Now he listened intently, struggling to find his place in this cataract of words.

  Haussmann said, “I want, I demand, to know exactly how this happened. Here, look at these. They came in the mail today. Regular mail. The goddamned post! Photographs of the three of us right here in front of this very house taken by Claussen or someone who works for him. This is worse than that abominable letter.”

  Delors said coolly, “Albert, if you don’t calm down and listen to reason, you are going to jeopardize everyone’s cover, including your own. Is that what you want?”

  “Excuse me, Paul, but I was assured in unequivocal terms that this supposedly manageable ex-spy of yours would never know who we were. That, if you recall, was the condition for my involvement. Now that condition has been violated. Nevertheless, you still want me to hand the man two hundred fifty million dollars.”

  “Albert, please just – ”

  “My answer, Paul, is no. This whole thing was a bad idea. It was a bad idea because it included someone we did not know and could not trust, someone who is not French and does not share our devotion to our country. I’m not getting in any deeper. You and Georges will have to find the money elsewhere. I have committed no crime as yet. Given the circumstances, I don’t intend to.”

  “Committed no crime!” Michelet thundered. “How in hell could you say something that preposterous? Without your agreement to foot the bill, Paul and I could not have commissioned a single crash, let alone twelve. Besides, Albert, answer me this. Which of us has already profited most from Boeing’s misfortunes? Let me answer for you. I’ve seen the latest statistics at the Ministry. The industries of the Haussmann Group that supply Airbus have made a killing – or stand to make one in the near future. You were in a lot worse trouble than you let on. We’ve bailed you out and now, suddenly, you don’t think you’ll honor your part of the bargain. That’s unacceptable, Albert. Unacceptable. So I suggest you hold your tongue and listen to Paul.”

  Steven’s head was spinning. Had he heard right? Michelet saying he could not have commissioned crashes without Haussmann’s agreement to pay? Talk of a 250 million dollar bill to some ex-spy named Claussen coming due, some ex-spy who wasn’t supposed to know who these guys were but had found out? Mention of Boeing as the loser, Airbus as the winner?

  Jesus! It was clear as day. These were the pricks bringing down those U.S. airliners! He shuddered. You wouldn’t catch him again with that big American grin on his face, not Steven LeConte. The days of his blissful innocence were over. The truth would see to that, the hideous truth. Nicole’s dad was not only a murderer. He was the biggest criminal since Adolf Hitler!

  He turned on his flashlight and took his note pad from his pack. He’d write everything down, just in case. Names, dates, relationships, the whys and wheres, whens and hows, whatever he and Sophie would need to nail these bastards.

  He felt dizzy, had to remind himself to breathe. The men were still arguing, spilling more information with every word: Operation Litvyak . . . Volkov . . . an ancient East-Bloc plot to cripple American aviation in case of a land war in Europe!

  Now, in the wake of the Cold War, had come the great economic war. Steven had always thought this so-called war was between the U.S. and Japan. But according to these guys it was between the United States and Europe. And the decisive battle was being fought right now. It was the battle between Boeing and Airbus for international market share, a battle that would decide where hundreds of billions of dollars went over the next 20 years, a battle that would decide who won and who lost the war – or at very least who won the next French presidential election. It was in their view a battle so important it justified using the weapons of military conflict. So Operation Litvyak was alive and well in the New World Order. No wonder things hadn’t gotten any better since the East Bloc collapsed!

  From what Steven could tell, Airbus didn’t know where it was getting all the help. Airbus was not involved in this unspeakably dirty action. In fact no one was involved except the three men in Michelet’s library and a spy named Walter Claussen.

  And, as of now, one American whose lacking virtues had put him in the right place at the right time.

  Hold on, this was incredible. Claussen was supposed to report here night after tomorrow for his payment and further instructions. The next meeting was on Friday!

  The sons of a bitches didn’t know it now, Steven thought, but they were going to have some unexpected company.

  ***

  Shortly after eleven o’clock, Haussmann finally agreed that his reaction to their uncloaking by Claussen had been exaggerated.

  Yes, he said, he could understand how a man like that would want to establish a balance of power with his employers; yes, he could understand how Claussen would want to be protected against elimination, especially since Haussmann himself had once brought up elimination as an option; and, yes, he would pay the bill as planned, even though he still found Claussen’s fee, which the spy based on the replacement value of the Boeing aircraft he destroyed, outrageous, to say the least.

  The three conspirators made their peace, exchanged some mumbo jumbo about the glory of France and went off to dinner. Steven carefully folded the tab he had cut in the heating duct back into place, climbed limply down from the stack of wine crates and gathered up his things.

  He crouched on the worn stone steps beneath the basement exit until he was sure that everyone had moved to the other side of the house, then pushed open the metal door. The basement lights came on automatically, illuminating hedges and a crescent of lawn.

  He wasn’t frightened. He knew he wouldn’t be caught. This was his night, he could feel it the way he felt the tide of a big tennis match when it shifted irrevocably in his direction.

  Climbing out, he closed the door and locked up. He started back across the broad expanse of yard, his path lit by the harvest moon. The crows were asleep, the breeze had died, the smoke of the smo
ldering vine fires rose vertically in the pale, milky night.

  He paused at the lily pond to catch his breath, then slipped into the forest, following the path by which he had come. His bike was where he had left it, just off the tractor road hidden in the tangled undergrowth. It started on the first try. He emptied his head of thoughts and concentrated on what he was doing. He drove home more cautiously than usual. Who was he to risk a high-speed accident tonight? Fate had entrusted him with the safe delivery of a valuable package – himself – and he intended to get the job done.

  ***

  It was almost 3:00 a.m. when he buzzed at Sophie’s door. He had expected a long wait but she opened at once. She was wearing dark slacks and a flowered blouse which, if he wasn’t mistaken, was the outfit she had worn the day she proposed that he go south in search of a story. She gave him a big hug, then held him away by the shoulders and looked him over.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Did I wake you up?”

  She laughed her husky laugh. “No, darling, you kept me up. I’ve been worried sick. I want to hear everything. Come in and sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

  “Thanks, Sophie. Just water.” Steven flopped on the sofa and started digging through his pack for his notebook. “You don’t know how good it is to be here,” he murmured.

  She took a few steps toward the kitchen, then turned around and stared at him. “Steven, are you all right? You’re acting rather strange.”

  “Yes, I’m all right. Other than having been deprived of my sanity, I’m fine. Sophie – ”

  ”What is it, darling?”

  “Go on. Get me some Perrier. I’m parched and I’ll be talking for a long time. And not about what you think.”

  When he began to pore over his hastily scribbled notes, the enormity of what he had stumbled on to erased everything else from his awareness. He didn’t hear Sophie sit down across from him, didn’t hear her setting out plates and silverware, didn’t even realize she had left the kitchen until she tapped a spoon on the coffee table.

  “Sorry,” he said, jerking his head up.

  She showed him a bottle of wine. “Barolo, darling, nineteen fifty-nine. A gift from an Italian admirer. I’ve been keeping it for just the right occasion. Shall I open it?”

  “Thanks, Sophie, but not now. I’ve got some serious stuff to report, and we’ve got to make some serious decisions about what to do. We’d better stick to mineral water.”

  “Well, Steven, if it’s so important we must pass on a ’fifty-nine Barolo, I suppose you’d better tell me what’s happening.”

  “Michelet . . . Michelet is behind those Boeing crashes! I’m not kidding, Sophie. He and his buddies are paying a shitload of money for some ex-KGB spy to sabotage the planes! That guy who called you from the States was sniffing in the right direction.”

  She put the wine bottle down and stared at him. “Steven, I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but that can’t be. You’ve misunderstood something, bless your heart.”

  “It can’t be, Sophie, that’s right. I agree. I couldn’t agree more. It can’t be – but it is.”

  “I’m sorry, Steven, but you’re mistaken. I’ve spoken with people in Washington who are close to this whole mess. It’s not public knowledge yet, but there’s a growing body of evidence that Iraq is the responsible party. The evidence is so compelling the United States is gearing up for military action. That’s off the record, of course.”

  Steven opened the Perrier and poured them both a glass. “The growing evidence is bullshit. It was planted so people would come to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Steven”

  ”I don’t want to argue. Can’t you suspend your doubts for a while and just listen?”

  “I’m sorry, darling, it’s those pesky journalistic instincts of mine. I don’t mean to be a difficult audience. Go ahead.”

  “Okay. I sneaked into Michelet’s place as planned. I had a feeling I might get lucky when a bunch of cops and secret service agents showed up for a search.”

  “Steven, they could have caught you.”

  “They almost did. Michelet saved me, can you believe that? He got pissed at the dogs for taking a crap in his flower bed and ordered them off his property. The cops left a little while later but Michelet stayed.

  “So there I was, down in the wine cellar with nothing to do but wait. Around eight o’clock, your boys from Saint Claude showed up.”

  “Haussmann and Delors?”

  “That’s right, Haussmann and Delors.”

  “But you didn’t actually see them?”

  “Wrong, Sophie. I watched them arrive. There’s a little vent at the front of the basement. When I heard movement upstairs, I went for a look. Michelet met them outside and they all headed straight to the library.”

  “You’re sure it was them?”

  “Positive. They were having a crisis meeting for reasons I’ll get to. My listening post was almost directly beneath them. When I put my ear to a little hole I’d cut in the heating duct, I might as well have been in the library smoking a cigar with them. If you still think I didn’t identify them correctly, listen to this. They used names: Albert, Paul, Georges and, on occasion, last names too. It would have been impossible to misunderstand anything.”

  “Impossible? Steven, I’m sorry but I’m having a hard time with this.”

  “Look, if I was someone else, I’d be having a pretty hard time believing it, too. Christ, I had a hard time believing it while I was listening to it. But, Sophie, it’s true. I heard it all first-hand, every word of it.”

  “Then go ahead, and tell me the rest. I’ll try to do as you asked and suspend my doubts.”

  “It will get easier. Guaranteed. But there’s something else you should know before I start. Michelet might be looking for me. That photo I told you about, the one a kid shot of me and Nicole kissing in a café . . . ”

  “Was in last Friday’s Inquisitor, page eight.”

  “You knew?”

  “Monique showed me. I was hoping no one of importance would see it. I didn’t want to distract you.”

  “Well, it didn’t work out that way. Nicole’s housekeeper not only saw it but showed it to her father. Because of it, Nicole’s a prisoner with her aunt in Grenoble and Michelet knows who I am. Not just how I look but who I am. By name, Sophie.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Steven. You can stay with me. We’ll see if he comes for you, but I doubt he will – at least not right away. If what you’ve told me is true, he’ll be too involved in his own crimes to worry about the nationality of his daughter’s male friends. And as for your work, having her out of town will be a big help. She actually couldn’t have picked a better time to get herself sent away.

  “Now, darling, let’s get on with your account.”

  ***

  By the time morning rush hour came, Sophie was a believer, though not the enthusiastic believer he had expected.

  “I don’t know about you,” Steven said, “but I could use a few gallons of coffee.”

  Sophie nodded. She looked pale and shaken. He could see her 70 years, usually so well hidden by her exuberance, inscribed in the folds and creases of her face.

  “That sounds good, Steven. I’ll call the baker and have him send us up some bread and croissants.”

  She reached for the receiver. He took it from her and put it back in the cradle. “Why don’t we eat the hors d’oeuvres we didn’t touch last night. I feel like something with substance.”

  “All right, darling. I’ll put the coffee on.”

  He walked with her to the stove, his arm around her shoulders. “You’re worried about me, aren’t you?”

  She gave him a hard, no-nonsense look. “You bet.”

  “Well, I guess I’d rather have you a worried believer than a happy skeptic.”

  “Steven, I don’t know what to say. I think you’re going to have to drop this thing entirely. You’ve had a run of beginner’s luck, but the chances of it continuing are zero. This is
no game. You’re dealing with professional killers. It’s not any place for a journalist to be.”

  “No place to be, but I’m there. That’s one fact we can’t rewrite.”

  She put water in a kettle and set it on the stove, shaking her head while she worked.

  “Steven, let me put the situation in perspective for you. I would like you to imagine that you are approached by a man who is in good shape and athletically gifted but has never held a tennis racket his life. This man challenges you to a match. Do you think there’s any way he could beat you?”

  “Maybe – if he shot me.”

  “This isn’t a joking matter.”

  “I know, Sophie. But you made a lousy analogy. I’m not going to challenge these guys at their game. Being an amateur might be the winning card. I don’t know the tricks of the trade. Christ, I don’t know what I’m going to do next. How the hell could they?”