"Not at all."
"Good. As I said from the start, lad, I trust you. But I'll admit, my curiosity is about to short-circuit. Besides, I got a bit of a surprise for you."
"What is it?"
Howe chuckled. "You'll find out soon enough."
"I don't like surprises, Mr. Howe."
"Oh, I think you'll like this one."
O'Hara dropped the subject—Howe was probably going to send a couple of live lobsters down in the plane. "I'll be back in touch in about three days," he said. "By then I'll be able to tell you whether I flushed your hundred and twenty-five."
"I'll have the Lear at Fort Lauderdale in four hours. If you need anything else, have any trouble, call me anytime. I may not be able to get war declared, but I can damn sure come close to it and will if it's necessary."
"Thanks. I'll be in touch."
Getting through to the Magician was not as simple. The lines were tied up when he first called. He made the second call from Fort Lauderdale, after Cap'n K.'s air charter dropped him off. The line exploded with static and when the connection was finally completed, the operator sounded as if she were talking from somewhere near the center of the earth.
"Le Grand Gustavsen Hôtel, s'il vous plaît," O'Hara shouted.
"Hôtel?" she said.
"Oui. Le Grand Gustavsen."
"Pardonnez-moi—did you say Heelton?"
"Gustavsen!" O'Hara yelled, wondering how she could have mistaken Grand Gustavsen for Hilton.
"Ah, oui, Goostafsen. Un moment, s'il vous plaît."
More static, more noise, before someone finally answered. It was a gruff voice; obviously a guest passing by the desk had picked up the receiver.
"Yeah?"
"Is the Magician there?" O'Hara said.
"The who?"
"The Magician. Rothschild. The man who owns the hotel."
"You mean the piano player?"
"Right."
"I don't know."
"Just give me someone connected with the hotel, please."
There was a loud clatter on the other end, as though the man who had answered had thrown the phone across the room.
A few moments later Jolicoeur answered. "Allô. Que desirez-vous? May I be of service?"
"Joli? It's O'Hara."
"Ah, François! Comment ça va?"
"I'm doing okay, Joli. Où est le Sorcier?"
"At the market."
"J'arrive ce soir. Voulez-vous me donner la pièce avec la salle de bain?"
"Volontiers! Quelle heure?"
"Don't know yet. Très tard. Vers deux heures, peut-être."
"Bon! Où êtes-vous?"
"Florida. I'm waiting for the plane now. Tell him I'll need his help."
"Excellent! We will put clean sheets on your bed."
"Damn generous there, Joli."
"Pour vous, mon ami, le mieux. We have a job, then?"
"We may. Listen, when Mike gets back, tell him I want a readout on four names. Can you hear me clearly?"
"Oui."
"Very good. You have a pen?"
"Oui. Shoot."
"Anthony Falmouth, spelling F-a-l-m-o-u-t-h. Formerly with M.I.6. Hinge. H-i-n-g-e, no first name available. A mercenary. Gregori Danilov. D-a-n-i-l-o-v. Bulgarian secret service. Avery Lavander. L-a-v-a-n-d-e-r. British subject. An oil consultant. Oh, there is one other. All I have is a cover name ... Chameleon, like the lizard. Check all sources on that one. That ought to keep you busy until I get there."
Jolicoeur repeated the names to O'Hara.
"Perfect. See you later, pal."
"À bientôt, François! We will be ready when you get here."
"Anders Travel, Carole Jackowitz speaking."
Her voice was a touch of Bronx mixed with Brooklyn, tempered by Manhattan chic.
"Hi, Ms. Jackowitz. My name's O'Hara—remember me?"
"Oh, sure. The gentleman with a one-way ticket to Walker's Cay, right? Was it a suicide trip? Nobody takes a one-way trip to Walker's Cay. It isn't much bigger than my backyard."
"I swam back."
"I see. And ... uh, where would you like to swim back from this time?"
"Honduras."
"Um hm. Anyplace in particular or do you want to trust my judgment?"
"Actually I'm interested in a cruise boat."
She laughed. "No one-ways on a cruise ship. What's its name?"
"I don't know."
There was a long pause. "You don't know the name of the ship you want to catch in Honduras?"
"Right. But I'm sure it will be leaving sometime in the next day or two."
Another pause and a chuckle. "I'm checking," she said musically. There was another pause, and then: "I'll be damned. Oh, excuse me, I didn't mean to swear, but a cruise ship did leave Port Cortez this morning. Hmm, the Gulf Star. King Line. Well, there are better lines I could recommend—"
"Where does it go first?"
"First port o' call is ... Montego Bay, Jamaica. Three days. Let's see, today's Tuesday ... it'll be in early Friday morning. Want to pick it up there?"
"I don't want to pick it up at all, I want to send twelve dozen roses to one of its passengers."
"I knew there was a catch to this. Sorry, we're not a messenger service."
"No romance in your soul, hunh?"
"Only if the roses are going to me, dahling."
"You've been a great help. Sometime when I'm in Pompano Beach I'll call. Maybe we can have lunch."
"If you're sending twelve dozen roses to anybody, we can skip the lunch thing and start right off with dinner."
"Bye, Carole."
"Bye, Mr.—uh ..."
"O'Hara."
"Gotcha."
The King Steamship Line had a special operator to take messages for its passengers. O'Hara got him and said, "This goes to Mr. J. M. Teach. He's boarding the Gulf Star in Port Cortez, Honduras."
"Go ahead."
"'J.M.... colon ... Have additional information on the Master plan. Period. Do not leave ship in Montego Bay until I contact you. Period.' Sign it ... 'Quill.' "
O'Hara half slept on the Lear as it streaked southward out over the ocean but was wide awake when they landed in St. Lucifer. He was beginning to feel a little like a yo-yo. Japan to Boston to St. Lucifer to Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas to Fort Lauderdale, all in three days, and now, at one-thirty in the morning, he was back in St. Lucy. A cab was waiting for him at the airport, which was closed for the night. Even customs was locked up. But what would anyone smuggle into St. Lucy, anyway, day or night?
He heard the Mag, playing a furious version of "C-Jam Blues" as he climbed the stairs to the main floor. The big room was almost empty. A young couple nuzzled each other at a table, and there were a few hangers-on at the bar. Jolicoeur was one of them and he excused himself as soon as he saw O'Hara. The Mag was oblivious, his six fingers rambling across the keyboard.
"Bon soir, mon ami, good to see you! We have interesting news."
When the Magician saw him, he finished the tune he was playing, closed the piano and put a stand-up sign on its top that said: "Closed. Don't mess with the piano. Violators will be shot at sunrise." He ambled across the room, a cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth. "That was quick," he said, giving the weary reporter a bear hug.
O'Hara looked at him through bleary eyes. "Lead me to my digs, I don't think I can stand up much longer."
As they walked down the hall, Rothschild told him they had run all the names through the computer and had printouts on three of them—Lavander, Falmouth and Danilov. There was nothing on Hinge so far, and checking out Chameleon had turned up dozens of references to zoological and biological booklets, articles from nature-study magazines, even several encyclopedias.
"What're you so interested in chameleons for?"
"Told Joli, it's a cover. Try the CIA, military or naval intelligence, like that. Also you might run Colin Bradley, CIA, through that infernal machine of yours. Chameleon supposedly burned Bradley last Christmas.
"
"What is going on?" the Mag asked.
"Later ..."
O'Hara entered the room, conveniently located across from the Mag's suite, dropped his suitcase and said, "Wake me around noon."
"We been getting these reports together ever since you called," the Magician said. "Aren't you even gonna read them?"
"Can't," he mumbled. "Too much jet lag. Fishing. Sun. I'm a wreck," and peeling his clothes off, he collapsed in bed.
"Call me for lunch," he said and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
The knocking on his door was insistent.
"Go away," he groaned.
The knocking continued.
"Do not disturb. Go away."
More knocking.
"À demain! À bientôt! Au revoir!" he yelled.
It did not help. The knocking became more intense.
"Shit!"
That didn't help either.
He stumbled out of bed and opened the door a crack, peering around the edge.
He stared at Lizzie Gunn for several moments, squinting his eyes. "Oh my God," he said.
She held a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. "Coffee?" she said brightly.
"I don't believe it," he said finally.
"Found you again," she said. Her smile was so bright it hurt his eyes.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Eight A.M."
"Eight A.M.!"
"Right. Eight A.M."
"Unbelievable."
"Don't you want your coffee?"
"Not unless you want to see a grown man throw up."
"May I come in?"
"Is there any way to stop you?"
"Nope."
"Let me get back in bed. I'm naked."
"I don't mind, I had three brothers."
"Well, I'm not one of them." He staggered back to bed and pulled the sheet over his head.
"Not very hospitable," she said.
"I may die of terminal jet lag. Or lack of sleep. They're both waiting for me ... in long black robes, just outside the door, there." He spoke from under the sheet.
She sat down in a chair and poised the coffee on her knee. He looked back at her from under the sheet. "You're not going to go away, are you?"
"Uh uh."
"Were you obnoxious as a child?"
She shook her head, still smiling.
"Had to wait until you grew up, hunh." He retreated back under the sheet.
"Mr. Jolicoeur said you'd be this way."
"How the hell d'you know Jolicoeur?"
"He was in the lobby, if that's what they call it, when I got in." She took a sip of the coffee. "He kissed my hand."
"He kisses everybody's hand. It's one of the things he does, he kisses hands."
"Well, nobody's ever kissed my hand before."
"Why don't you go back down to the lobby. I'm sure he'll be glad to kiss your hand all day long."
She continued to sip her coffee. He sat up suddenly. "How the hell did you find me? How the hell did you get here this fast?"
"The pilot had to file a flight plan in Boston and another one in Fort Lauderdale."
"That's all it took, hunh?"
"Well ... I used to date him too."
"The pilot?"
"Uh huh."
O'Hara shook his head. "I should of stayed in Japan," he said, half aloud. He stared at her through lumpy eyes. "Does Howe know you're down here?"
She nodded. "Yep."
"You're the surprise Howe was talking about."
"Howe told you I was coming?"
"Not in so many words. He sent you to follow me, right?"
"Well, not exactly ..."
"Well, exactly what did he do?"
"He finally agreed that a little competition never hurt anybody."
"That makes a lot of sense, Gunn, assigning one of his reporters to scoop another one."
"I thought we could work together. After all, you're print, and I'm video. There's no real competition. This way Howe gets it both ways. He really gets his money's worth."
"Always thinking, aren't you?"
"I try."
"How much do you know so far?"
"Well, he let me read that letter from—uh ..."
"Falmouth."
"Right. I might as well have been reading ancient Greek."
"See what I mean."
"I can learn."
"This is not a game for neophytes. These—"
"Neophyte, my ass! I've been a reporter—"
"I'm not talking about reporting. I'm talking about the Game, about dealing with some of the most dangerous people in the wor—"
"And I'm a woman, right?"
"Will you let me finish? It hasn't got anything to do with sex. I know these characters, know how they operate. I've worked with—or against—most of them. You don't know the territory. You make one slip, they'll drop you like they swat a fly."
"Don't worry about me, O'Hara, I've dealt with the Mafia."
"Compared with the bunch I'm talking about, kid stuff."
"Kid stuff indeed!"
"Kid stuff nevertheless. You're good, I'll give you that, but—"
"Thanks a lot."
"Stop interrupting me."
"Stop patronizing me."
"Patronizing you, my ass."
"You're patronizing me."
"I said you were good. You're very, very good, okay?"
"That's patronizing."
"Ah, shit." He buried himself under the sheets again.
"I can help, O'Hara. Trust me."
"Good doesn't matter if you're dead."
"I told you, you can't scare me."
"I'm not trying to scare you, I'm trying to convince you this is an assassin's game."
"And it takes one to know one, right?"
"I'm not an assassin, never was. But I know the people. I know the mentality. I can cope."
"I've been coping ever since I was thirteen years old."
"With them! I can cope with them!"
"I found you in Japan and I found you here. Let's not just pass that to the end of the table."
A pause. O'Hara tried again. "Let's try it from another angle. If there is a story and if I decide to pursue it and if we can get enough leads to even give it a shot, if all these ifs work out, it's still going to be a very ... hairy game."
She smiled at him. "You can't lose me, O'Hara." Her brown eyes flashed with anticipation. "I know it's got to be really big. I mean, Mr. Howe didn't send me hiking all over the world looking for you for nothing. And you're not down here bopping around in Howe's Lear jet for laughs. C'mon, O'Hara, I can help. Just try me."
"Wake me again at ten," he said. "I'll sleep on it."
She sighed and put the coffee cup on the dresser and left. As soon as she was out of the room, O'Hara got up wearily. After he shaved and showered he stood for nearly an hour in a corner of the room, slowly performing a series of body movements known as the Butterfly, ridding his body of aches and stiffness. Then he sat quietly and meditated for twenty minutes.
When he had finished his morning ritual, he felt alive again and ready for the day.
Five minutes later she was back, this time with the Magician and Joli.
"What a remarkable recovery," she said. "An hour ago you acted like you were dying."
"An hour ago I was. Okay, let's see what we've got, and then I'll fill you in on what's happening."
"First of all," said the Magician, "I didn't turn up anything on this Hinge character."
"Military intelligence?"
"Blank. So far he seems to have kept himself off all the books."
"Okay. Next?"
"Falmouth. Here's a print-out on everything I turned up. I cross-checked CIA with M.I.6. Very interesting."
To O'Hara, however, there was very little information that was new. A few details he did not know, but mainly it confirmed that Falmouth had retired. There was nothing beyond that. Both the CIA and M.I.6 seemed to close the book on their ex-age
nts when they retired.
The Danilov dossier, however, turned up several items: that Danilov was suspected of not six or seven but twelve assassinations, including two in the United States; that he had developed the riticin pellet and the weapon with which he injected it into his victims; that he had worked on several occasions for the KGB, no big surprise there. The big surprise was that for two years and until eighteen months ago, Danilov had been operating in the Caribbean area, developing Russian contacts in Haiti, where he was well known. He had retired a year and a half ago and had been seen on two or three occasions by other agents in both Port-au-Prince and Cap-Haïtien.
Had he been working in Haiti for Master? If so, doing what? Joli could help there. He still knew every acre of the country and kept up with its political and social gossip.
The report on Avery Lavander was more complete than he had expected. The Magician had culled it from several sources, among them three different wire services, two American magazine chains, several newspapers, Paris-Match, the International Herald Tribune, and even an obscure British news magazine that had published the only profile ever written on the man. It was largely made up of innuendo and gossip culled from interviews with other people, among them his former wife, Margaret, who had endured twelve childless, sexless years with him before running off with a trombonist in the London Symphony and who had got even with Lavander by telling everything she knew about him. As usual, Lavander had refused to talk to the man who had written it.
O'Hara put together a mental picture of Lavander, a true eccentric who operated in his own private world, refusing to see reporters and avoiding photographers; who demanded, and got, astronomical consultation fees, which were deposited, in gold, in banks of his designation, all over the world; who kept a small book listing, in code, all his deposits, where and when they were made and who paid him, apparently the only record he did keep. Such was his reputation that before Lavander would grant an interview to a potential client, he required a deposit of ten thousand dollars in Krugerrands, yet he was pitifully frugal, preferring to stay in dismal hotels and taking his meals in the most mundane restaurants.
Despite his weird appearance, bizarre behavior and maddeningly irascible nature, most of the major oil companies, at one time or another, seemed to have availed themselves of Lavander's services, for he appeared to be a man devoted to a single purpose, and that purpose was oil. The various reports confirmed that he had little interest in food, women, books, music. In fact, he had little interest in anything but oil.
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