Chameleon

by William Diehl

  Hinge felt comfortable moving through customs. They checked his bag with a piece of white chalk and moved him on through.

  He immediately noticed the girl sitting on a bench in the waiting room, studying an airline timetable. There was no mistaking her reaction when she saw him. Recognition? Interest? Perhaps she had mistaken him for someone else.

  Was she following him? But why? Why would a woman be waiting for him in the Montego Bay air terminal?

  He went to a phone booth and searched his pockets for a coin. She had moved to another bench closer to the door. He could see her reflected in the glass panel behind the telephone.

  He stood in front of the dial when he made the call, then casually turned sideways in the booth. She was in a phone booth on the opposite side of the terminal.

  It could be paranoia. She seemed to be laughing while she was talking. It didn't hurt to be overly cautious. He would keep an eye on her.

  He asked the restaurant operator for Mr. David Jackson. Derek Frazer answered very quickly.

  Hinge said, "Is this Mr. Jackson?"

  Frazer said, "Which Mr. Jackson do you want?"

  "Avery Jackson."

  "Is this Mr. Garrett from Texas?" Frazer asked.

  "Yes."

  "When did you move?"

  "Fourteen months ago."

  "Very good. Any problems?"

  "Smooth as velvet."

  "The car is taken care of. They're holding the keys for you at the rental counter. The package is in the trunk."

  "Thanks. It's the Nelson Pastry Shoppe on Trelawney Square. Eight o'clock, right?"

  "That's correct."

  "What time do you leave?"

  "I'll be going straight to the airport from the square."

  "I'll call the drop when I've delivered the package."

  "Thank you."

  The girl was gone when he finished. He looked around the terminal, then entered the rental office and got the keys. The car was a red two-door Datsun coupe. He opened the trunk. There was a small canvas bag in back of the spare. He closed the trunk, got in the car and drove off.

  A blue Datsun pulled out and started following him. He watched for the lights after turning on the main road to town. It was still behind him. He slowed down and the blue car drew closer. When it was less than half a block behind him, he turned off the main road, coursing around a park. The blue car stayed with him.

  It had to be the girl.

  But why?

  Hinge did not have time to get involved. He needed to do something fast. He floored the accelerator and turned into the next street on his right. The Datsun surged under him as he took the next turn, then another. Then he flicked off his lights and whipped into a palm-lined driveway.

  He killed the engine and waited for her.

  O'Hara had been looking at the Gulf Star for several minutes without speaking. It was almost seven o'clock and Lavander had yet to show his face.

  "I better check the hotel again, see if Hinge was on that last plane," the Magician said.

  O'Hara continued to stare at the ship. Finally, as the Magician stood up to go to the phone, he said, "I'm going back on board."

  "Why?"

  "Remember I told you how frantic Lavander was about his hotel room after he was released in Caracas?"

  "So?"

  "Why should he care? The company was paying his expenses. What was so important about the room?"

  "Maybe he was worried about his baggage."

  "I've seen his baggage. Believe me, it has nothing to do with his baggage. I mean, Tony said it was the first thing out of his mouth."

  "So?"

  "So I think he hid something in the room and he was worried about getting it back."

  "Money?"

  "Could be. I doubt it. He's got money stashed all over the world."

  "So what d'ya think, Sailor?"

  "According to your information on Lavander, he keeps personal records in a book. Maybe the book's too big to carry around. So, he hides it."

  "You've searched his room."

  "Maybe I missed something. I got this worm in my stomach that keeps telling me I missed something."

  "What if Hinge has shown up at the airport?"

  "I won't be gone long. You call the hotel; I'll be back in ten minutes."

  He had no problem getting aboard. The corridor was empty. Most of the passengers were still living it up in town. He popped the lock and cautiously entered the cabin again.

  The maid had cleaned the small room. O'Hara closed the porthole and pulled the curtains and turned on the lamp. He sat down on the bed and slowly looked around the room. He checked the closet again and the suitcase. He checked the lavatory again. He lifted the mattress and checked under it and then felt the mattress carefully, then replaced it.

  He sat back on the bed again.

  He stared at the dresser. He got up and took out the drawers, one at a time, starting with the top drawer. The fourth drawer down stuck as he pulled it out. He took out the fifth drawer, lay down on the floor, struck fire to his lighter and held it in under the drawer. There was a black letter-sized notebook taped to the bottom.

  O'Hara pulled it free and sat on the floor, leafing through page after page of figures and code words. Not one page in the book made any sense.

  He replaced the drawers, stuffed the book into the back of his pants, shut off the lights and left.

  The Magician was waiting in front of the bar. "He arrived on the six-ten from Miami," the musician said excitedly. "It was twenty minutes late. She called and left a message about five minutes before I called."

  "Then Lavander's still alive."

  "C'mon," the Magician said. "I've already squared the bill. Let's get back to the hotel so we can catch her next call in person."

  Eliza drove slowly through the dark. She had circled back to the little park after losing Hinge and now she was near tears. Had he seen her? Or did she just lose him? Either way, she had lost their ace in the hole.

  She kept circling, hoping to blunder upon Hinge. After ten minutes of fruitless driving she gave up. She started looking for a telephone. The dark streets led her back to the waterfront. She passed a noisy club, and a block ahead, saw a phone booth on the opposite side of the street.

  She stopped, rooted through her cluttered shoulder bag, found a dime, dropped the car keys in her bag and ran across the street to the phone booth.

  It took forever for the operator to answer.

  "Cottage Sixteen, please," she said.

  "Thank you."

  It rang several times but there was no answer. She jiggled the hook and got the operator back. "I want to leave another message, please."

  "Go ahead."

  Headlights turned into the darkened street two blocks away, but her back was turned to them.

  "For Sixteen. The message is: 'Have lost the luggage. I am coming back to the hotel.' "

  "You are having a terrible time with your baggage," the operator said. "Perhaps our manager can be of some assistance."

  The car was moving slowly down the street toward her.

  "Uh, I think the airline has taken—"

  She turned and saw the car, less than a block away. The red Datsun. Hinge's leathery face loomed behind the wheel.

  "—care of it. Thanks very much. Bye."

  She hung up but it was too late to get back across the street. He was almost there. He was so close she could see those cold reptilian eyes staring at her through the open window.

  She took off her shoes and ran. She ran faster than she had ever run in her life. She could have made the Olympics, she ran so fast. She ran away from the street, through the darkness, down a long narrow alleyway, toward the beach.

  Hinge stopped and jumped out of his car.

  Eliza ran along the beach until her breath was gone and her legs ached and finally she fell on her hands and knees in the sand. She turned quickly and looked back expecting to see Hinge. But the beach stretched behind her, gray in the moonli
ght and empty.

  She looked all around.

  Nothing.

  Overhead, ominous clouds were beginning to chase the moon and lightning glittered near the horizon.

  Great. Now it's going to start raining.

  She sat for a few moments to catch her breath, then walked up to the line of trees that ran adjacent to the water's edge, and using them for protection, started cautiously back toward her car.

  But Hinge had opted not to go after the girl. There was no time for that. He watched her run frantically into the darkness and he thought, Who is she? What in hell is her problem? Is there something about this I don't know? Or is she just some flake?

  He stopped beside her car and looked inside. In the glove compartment he found the rental agreement.

  Eliza Gunn. Staying at the Half Moon Bay Club, cottage 16.

  He put the contract back and slammed the glove compartment shut.

  Smiling, he returned to his car and drove off. He had other things to do. There would be time to handle the girl when he was finished with Lavander.

  When Eliza reached the street, it was empty. No sign of the red Datsun. She hesitated for several minutes, hiding in the darkness of the shrubs and trees near the road, building up her nerve before she ran across the street and jumped in the car.

  She felt lucky as she started the car and drove back to the hotel. She had not talked to either O'Hara or the Magician all day. Perhaps, she thought, they had intercepted Lavander and everything was all right.

  12

  IT WAS DARK when Lavander strolled into Trelawney Square but it might have been the middle of the day. The shops were all open and there was a carnival atmosphere about the place.

  He found himself opposite the pastry shop and stepped into a gift shop. Walking to the back, he picked over some things while watching the square. Then he went through the back door and walked around the block, staying in the shadows, and appraised the street.

  Derek Frazer, the man who had been described to him over the phone, was sitting near the window of the Nelson Pastry Shoppe. Lavander concentrated on him for a while. Frazer had the kind of sharp features some women consider handsome. Lavander knew the type. A typical corporate flunkie dressed by Brooks Brothers, with an innocuous title, vice president in charge of something or other, some catchall term to cover a variety of sins.

  Frazer was sipping his coffee and reading the wretched Kingston Journal.

  Well, that wouldn't take him long. Lavander chuckled to himself. He was sure nobody was following him.

  Lavander was right: Hinge did not have to follow him. All Hinge had to do was watch Frazer. It was an old but effective trick, shopping the contact instead of the mark, one that would never have occurred to an amateur like Lavander.

  Frazer had spotted the consultant the minute Lavander entered the square, watching him benignly from over the top of the newspaper as the little man played out his odd melodrama. Frazer assumed that the assassin was also watching.

  Lavander finally crossed the street and entered the pastry shop. Frazer looked up, smiled, raised a finger and his eyebrows, and stood as Lavander walked to the table, offering his hand. He almost crushed several of Lavander's fingers. He's taken the executive-handshake course, I see, Lavander said to himself.

  "Hi, I'm Derek Frazer."

  How jaunty, the little man thought. "Lavander, here."

  "Well, this is quite an honor, quite an honor indeed. It isn't every day one meets a living legend."

  His voice, cultured early in some executive-training program to be flat, authoritative and intimidating, was oddly patronizing toward Lavander. The Britisher found both Frazer's attitude and his looks manufactured and offensive.

  Lavander shrugged. "Yes, there aren't that many of us about."

  Frazer thought, An egomaniac. An absolute, flying, whacked-out egomaniac.

  "What would you like?" Frazer asked, motioning to the waitress.

  "Strong tea and something sweet. A napoleon, I think." The waitress nodded and left.

  Frazer smiled and rubbed his palms together. "Well, sir, we ... uh, first of all, we are indebted to you for taking ... time out of your vacation to talk with us."

  "You use the collective pronoun, Mr. Frazer. Is someone joining us?"

  Frazer smiled indulgently. "Of course, I'm speaking for my company. I'm sure you know us. AMRAN. Kind of the ... uh, the new kids on the block, see what I mean?"

  No doubt about it, Lavander thought, I don't like this Frazer chap at all. They've sent a shill to do a man's job, and that offends me more than anything. But business was business, so Lavander would hear what he had to say. "Yes, yes, I know all about AMRAN," he said impatiently.

  "And I assume the deposit to your bank was verified."

  "I'm here, am I not?"

  "Quite! Well, then, at least we don't need to be concerned about credentials for my company. That saves us some time, see what I mean?"

  "I have plenty of time," Lavander said nonchalantly. The waitress brought his pastry and tea. When she left, Lavander looked across the table at Frazer, his bulging eyes twinkling in anticipation of the conversation. "Now, what is it you want?" he asked.

  "We're new, as I said. We don't pretend to know all the answers, but we know you know a lot of them. We're interested in a consulting situation."

  "You have serious problems already," said Lavander, sipping his tea noisily.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Among AMRAN's less fortunate decisions was the inclusion of the Hensell Oil Company in your consortium, sir. You have acquired a bankrupt partner." He raised his eyebrows and leaned toward Frazer. "Hmmm?"

  "We ... uh, I assume this conversation is confidential."

  "Really!"

  "Sorry," Frazer said quickly. "Point is, sir, we need their outlets. They're in thirty-seven states. Twelve pumpers, see what I mean?"

  "Actually forty-two states, under three different corporate names. You could have waited another three months and had Hensell for ten cents on the dollar." Lavander waved his hand disdainfully, like a king dismissing a pauper.

  "It was cheaper than making a giant investment, particularly at a time when things are a bit—"

  "You haven't studied your figures. You have yourself a problem company as an equal partner at a time when the market is unstable."

  "We'd have lost them. Somebody else would have snapped them up."

  "Not as an equal partner. Subsidiary, perhaps."

  Frazer leaned back. "There's also the matter of oil properties, specifically Hensell's holdings."

  "What have you allocated for development?"

  Frazer hesitated. He seemed to be considering whether to answer the question or not.

  Lavander laughed. "Would you like me to tell you, hmmm?"

  "Three hundred million," Frazer said in almost a whisper.

  "Another questionable move. Over half of those holdings are in the Montana Strip. The field is erratic, sir. I know it well. Over a million acres and there are no patterns. You'll drill a dozen dry holes for every strike, and the yield is going to be low in the bargain. I would guess no more than ... twenty to twenty-two barrels a day per well." He shook his head. "You'd be better off spending the development money in Alaska or the North Sea."

  "Too crowded," Frazer said. "Our other companies have resources—"

  Lavander cut him off again. "Of course, your other four companies are healthy. American Petroleum will be showing a five hundred and fifty percent profit increase over last year. Sunset Oil will be up at least four hundred percent. Very nice. Very nice that the Americans are such sheep. They'll pay through the nose for a while. Question is, how long will they put up with it?"

  "Long enough to pay the fattest dividends in history," Frazer said.

  "And if the Middle East cuts you off?"

  "I ... uh, we don't anticipate that for some time."

  "It will happen. Suddenly and soon."

  "Well, we'll cross that bridge—"


  "Fact is, you have very safe reserves. I know it and you know it. All the oil companies do. Stored away somewhere. Let's be bloody honest, shall we? Your company is sitting on at least—what ... five billion gallons proven reserves?"

  "That's confidential information, Mr. Lavander ..."

  "It was announced by your company in an annual report not two months ago. Confidential indeed! I suggest we be honest. Actually it's closer to fifteen billion, hmm?"

  Frazer was genuinely surprised at Lavander's wealth of knowledge.

  "Look, old chap," Lavander said, "I don't care, y'know, what you tell the poor fools in Congress or the people on the streets of America. But please don't race me off, hmm? Actually you're really sitting on fifty to sixty billion gallons in undeclared reserves, right? All oil companies have far more oil in reserve than they admit. How else could you all fix prices, eh?"

  "Everyone does it," Frazer said.

  "Of course, of course, but the numbers! Dear me, the numbers! Provoking a shortage when you have a surplus. Sooner or later someone is going to blow the lid off the whole ugly business."

  "We're hardly in a position to take the lead in a general house cleaning."

  Lavander gazed at the colorful city square. "When it happens," he mused, "people will go to jail, politicians will be ruined, it could go as high as the Cabinet, y'know. It will make your Watergate and Abscam scandals seem as innocent as a day at Disneyland."

  "That won't happen."

  "The American people were humiliated by Watergate and Abscam," said Lavander. "They'll be infuriated when they find out just how badly the oil companies are exploiting them. I'm suggesting you use some common sense. There's plenty of money to be made. You don't have to break the law."

  "If that does happen," said Frazer, "the ax'll fall on all the others before it falls on us. We're new."

  "The weak ones always go first. Law of nature. You're new, you have problems. The investigators will sharpen their teeth on you new chaps. The hyenas will eat you first, then the big competitors will become very repentant, they'll say, 'Oh, excuse us, we miscalculated,' the politicians in their pocket will say, 'Naughty, naughty,' fine them a couple of hundred thousand dollars, excuse them for the good of the economy. What good will that do your AMRAN? They'll already have ruined you."