‘And you know her well?’
‘Since school. Rio, England and Switzerland. We are both Brazilian but have a lot of things in common apart from having married foreigners.’
‘Such as?’
She watched coffee being poured. ‘We like the same sorts of men and we ride Arab stallions. Our visiting lists overlap and we both have a box at the Colon. We have allergies to Chinese gooseberries. We read the original Arthur Millers, D. H. Lawrences, Dennis Wheatleys and Alberto Moravias. We fish with a dry fly and our husbands have total personal freedom.’
‘A compliment which is returned, I hope,’ said Grant.
‘A compliment which is seldom returned. Petra and I represent the vanity of our husbands so we’re quite carefully protected.’
Grant ran over the sentence in his mind. The operative words were ‘quite’ and ‘seldom’. ‘Certain men are flattered when discriminating people show interest in their women.’
‘In Brazil,’ said the lady, ‘that can be a short cut to the mortician. I don’t advise it.’
‘Petra isn’t in Brazil,’ said Grant. ‘She’s an Argentine by marriage.’
‘Petra,’ said his partner, ‘will do what she wishes anywhere. And anyhow we were talking about husbands.’
‘Then who had you in mind?’ Voices were again buzzing loudly but Grant knew that the safest place for an exchange of intimacies was a crowded room where conversation was enough to drown anything that was said. In fact he was later to pin-point that moment as the time when the department would say that he began to earn his salary.
‘I told you that we had a lot in common. Did I mention that we both look very well in black? Petra,’ she added, dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘would make a charming widow.’
Grant lit a cigarette. The major-domo was staring towards him with an enigmatic neutrality which made him feel as though he had dropped thirty floors in an elevator and pulled up with emergency brakes at maximal retard. Mikel was trimming a cigar, and his knuckles reflected like ivory under the cool light of an Empire chandelier.
Helena Mauriac turned in the same split second. ‘I’ve been thinking. Tosca! You must go with the Brandts next week and watch how Scarpia kills my lover. Sometimes I think he’s the most sinister double-crosser in all opera. D’accord?’
Grant shook his head. ‘The really big double-crossers were women. Carmen. Even Violetta in her own sadomasochistic way. And don’t forget how Turandot collected the heads of her gullible would-be husbands. Now Petra said something about me being like a mamba. But I would like to write an opera covering Lucrezia Borgia and cast Petra in the lead.’
Mauriac shook her head. ‘Wrong, m’sieur. Lucrezia was just a political whore while Petra is a courtesan in the grand manner. And there’s a difference, because whores steal from fools but courtesans have always been the powers behind thrones.’
Grant went fishing. ‘Or Presidents.’
Helena Mauriac nodded. ‘Some Presidents! But apropos of nothing, David Grant, even mambas can die after one single blow on the right place. Now you will go to Tosca, won’t you?’ She had taken Grant’s arm and they had drifted towards a divan in a Louis Quinze reception room. ‘The world seems to be very mixed up nowadays. Though of course, there’s always a traditional remedy. War solves many problems. Wouldn’t it be funny if something happened to start a war while I was singing Tosca!’
Grant offered her a Romeo y Julieta Petit Corona, the only cigar which she would smoke. ‘Meaning?’
Mauriac became serious. ‘Next week the theatre will be packed with the Corps Diplomatique and all sorts of politicals. Now I get around a lot and hear things which sometimes seem important, and I’m a little frightened in case someone has planned a killing for gala night.’
‘Then why tell me?’ said Grant gently. ‘Why not the police?’
Mauriac smothered the air with fine violet-blue smoke. ‘You forget that opera and ballet overlap. Maya Koren has danced during evenings when I was on the same bill. She has become a friend and I know how you brought her out of Moscow. To tell you the truth we don’t have many secrets and she told me pretty well everything. In fact, Doctor, I was impressed. But really impressed. She made you sound quite a man.’
Grant almost purred with satisfaction. It had been impossible to estimate where Mauriac figured, but since she knew about Maya light began to dawn. Petra, as her most important West Atlantic sponsor, would almost certainly also have been put into the picture. Which equally explained why the President’s little wife had sometimes sounded cryptic. All three women knew enough about his background to feel that they could use him! And the story began to look like a possible conspiracy against one man. Mikel, thought Grant, might be a bad insurance risk! He pulled himself together. ‘Then you know that Maya and I don’t meet very often nowadays?’
Helena Mauriac waved her expressive hands with supreme indifference. ‘It was enough to share one another for a while. Maya’s memories are happy and now she’s got her art. But she says that you taught her how to find courage and gave her perspective.’
‘She gave me a good deal as well,’ said Grant. ‘But her Slav fits of Russian gloom got me down.’
‘That was just temperament,’ smiled Mauriac. ‘Very normal. Incidentally she went out of her way to see your friend Christine de whatever-it-is and thought she looked very well.’
Grant hesitated. Krystelle had few secrets, and he was certain that if she had met Maya he would have been told.
Mauriac shook her head. ‘They didn’t meet. But since we seem to have become friends, why didn’t you bring her over? People say you’re inseparable.’
Grant drew gently at his Hoyo de Monterey. Krystelle had become his right arm. But this time they had travelled by different routes to B.A. and she had now checked into the Plaza, which was the prestige hotel of Argentina. She was using a French passport, operating under her own name and playing the tourist stopping off on a flight via Rio, Santiago and Easter Island to the Far East, but Grant saw no reason why all the world should know and turned the question. It was useful to have a high quality reinforcement in reserve against emergencies, these imponderable quirks of bad luck which could happen to anyone. ‘One day you may allow me to introduce her. She’s an enthusiast for cool jazz but digs opera as well.’
Mauriac stood up. ‘One day! But now I must circulate.’
‘Leaving me alone?’
She stared directly into his eyes. ‘You won’t be alone for long. At least if my guess is correct, because already all the women and most of the men are waiting their chance for a chat with the one dinner guest whose presence has got them guessing. You wear an aura of violence and women love it. Adieu.’
Grant watched her join a group of five who were gossiping about Black Power and student demonstrations in Washington. Petra was with Cyp and Mikel beside the President’s wife. The North American television interrogator was lighting a cigarette and the World Bank flirting with a blonde girl from Sweden: niece, he believed, of a shipping magnate. And then the major-domo paused beside him. ‘Something to drink, señor?’
Grant measured his words. The major-domo was one more imponderable. ‘Water, I think. Something with no hang-over.’
‘On the rocks or straight?’
‘Straight,’ said Grant. ‘Rocks bother me. They can cause trouble.’
The man bowed with professional detachment. ‘True, señor. And who wants trouble? Excuse for two minutes.’
Grant watched him disappear towards the bar and wondered. The major-domo was a man who missed little: a predatory creature probably with killer instincts and a flair for being more familiar than was usual in a well-trained snob-level Argentine servant.
Petra moved directly towards him. Her back was to the room and she pitched her voice low. ‘Some people get their first million by working. So if you’re interested come to my private sitting room later on and I may be able to offer you a job.’
Grant remembered an old-fashioned r
ule. Let them come to you. ‘Sorry,’ he said briefly. ‘My remise is due at midnight and I should be back in the Lancaster by twelve-thirty. So I can either see you then or tomorrow afternoon at four.’
She stared at him with a neutrality which was utterly impersonal. ‘I want to see you tonight.’
‘Then come to the Lancaster.’
His water arrived as Petra sat down beside him. ‘Bas,’ she said, ‘cancel Dr. Grant’s car. Then telephone the Lancaster and have them send all his luggage out here at once. See that the Teak Room is organised and lay on Roca to valet.’
‘Bas.’ Grant smiled slightly but turned on his parade-ground voice. ‘I get along better without a valet. And I do my own packing. I also make my own arrangements. And my arrangements usually stick. Sorry, Petra, but tell your man to leave things as they are.’
The woman hesitated. ‘We would like you to stay here.’
‘But I want to go to my hotel.’
‘Roads can be dangerous late at night, Doctor,’ said Bas. ‘Better to stay here. The other guests haven’t so far to go.’
Grant sipped his water. ‘B.A. is a civilised city. What on earth could happen?’
‘We live beyond the city boundary and this is the province. Things can be different in the country.’ Bas was polite but his eyes were flat dead. ‘Stay here, Doctor. The Teak Room is comfortable. So why take chances? Anywhere!’
‘Why indeed?’ said Grant. ‘Why indeed? So! The Teak Room be it. But get the message across to your valet that if he shows up before I ring I’ll throw him out of the window.’
Bas smiled and turned away. ‘What was so funny?’ asked Grant.
‘You haven’t met Roca. He’s pretty big. It would take quite a man to throw Roca out of any window.’ She stood up and held out her hand to be kissed and Grant sensed her reaction as he brushed his lips against her skin. ‘First time I’ve been kissed by a mamba,’ she smiled.
He strolled from the tobacco-laden room into a long warm glass house filled with cacti and where piped music from two electrostatic speakers made the place feel like a tropical concert hall. He stretched himself on a basket-work rocking chair and waited developments. It was a toss up who would come first, but he was mildly surprised when Cyp sauntered into the conservatory, deflowered a dead bloom from a peyote cactus, and then, carrying a small whisky, angled towards him.
2
‘A very pious city’
‘Good evening, Minister.’
Laughter lines crinkled around Cyp’s eyes. ‘That must be about the least provocative thing a man could say on a night like this! You should be a diplomat instead of an author.’
‘Not so safe! Your people have a tendency to get kidnapped or shot-up. Governments ought to pay you what British trade unions call danger money.’
‘Well now.’ Cyp pierced a long Montecristo Number 1 cigar. ‘That’s a nice moral point. A good deal depends upon the ambassador, a certain amount on his country of origin, and even more on internal discipline where he is posted. But my own next job should be either Washington or London, where I will be safe as in my own home.’
‘Which is in Brazil?’
‘Near Teresopolis and about an hour or so from Rio. If ever you write a book about Rio you must allow me to show you round. Our view over the Serra dos Orgãos can be unforgettable.’
Grant felt that somewhere deep down there was an implicit invitation to go fishing. ‘If I did,’ he said slowly, ‘I would want to know the off-beat angles, the things which tourists don’t normally think about. What would be a good story?’
Cyp drew slowly on his cigar. ‘There is said to be a thing called the Death Squad. Officially it doesn’t exist, of course, but rumour has it that the police in Rio became exasperated by difficulties in getting convictions against really serious criminals and took the law into their own hands. The end appears to come either fast or slow according to police awareness of the victim’s guilt, and the Death Squad is said to argue that while an important criminal can often wriggle out of jail he can seldom wriggle away from a spray of bullets. I’m only repeating rumour, of course, though you might find it interesting to see if there’s anything behind it.’ He hesitated. ‘The idea may be unconventional, but on balance I rather approve. What do you think?’
Grant knew a good deal about the Death Squad and especially that its work was a fact of life. ‘Bodies have turned up from time to time, and they’re usually tabbed with a skull and cross-bones, so some sort of organisation is active.’
‘You have heard about it?’
‘Sure. As a writer I keep up to date about trends. Even in murder!’
‘And you feel that this organisation is doing a sort of social service under exceptional circumstances?’
It was the second time Cyp had also cast a fly and Grant felt that he, too, was fishing. ‘So far as I know the more objectionable crime rates have fallen in Rio since the Death Squad got busy, so that seems to justify whatever it’s doing.’
Cyp’s cheeks again crinkled into smiles though his eyes had become calculating. ‘Speaking unofficially I suppose the end can often justify the means. In fact even B.A. would be none the worse if one or two people disappeared. It is always the minority which forces others to live on the edge of danger.’
Grant felt that the professional diplomat was going to force an issue too soon and it had begun to look as though he had problems. ‘B.A. struck me as being a very pious sort of city. In fact I’ve heard other people use the word pious, and it once surprised me. But now I tend to agree. It’s really been very square ever since Eva Peron cleaned it up.’
‘Even although you know that crooks who matter can often be rated as above suspicion?’
‘Like ourselves!’
‘Like ourselves.’ The Minister hesitated and Grant sensed he was getting near the punch line. ‘But circumstances can alter cases where crime is concerned. For example long ago I inherited estates in Amazonia and some were extremely remote. Indeed they were started by my father during the rubber boom when rubber barons had the power of a medieval French duke. But after the first war when the slump came there were years of hunger and trouble. My father then lived chiefly in Manaos, which even today can’t be reached by road, but he still owned his estates and occasionally tried to make something out of them. Life, though, was dangerous and mischief-makers got pretty rough justice. Justice, in fact, usually meant death. And the word mischief-maker really meant any man or woman who annoyed the boss.
‘Well, imagine what life was like for a young blood of seventeen who suddenly found himself the big boss over many thousands of acres reached only by boat, or else after a dangerous air-flip to a primitive landing strip. It was another century in another world! Men and women were close to starvation. There were thieving raids from bandits who were really deserters from our own or other places. Women would give themselves for bread or a few cruzeiros. A child of thirteen or twelve could be taken for the asking from some huts because it meant one mouth less to feed. There was still a certain amount of money in Manaos, of course, and our family mansion was really a palace, but would any court now hold it against me if I was accused, thirty years later, of murder, or rape, or extermination of local Indians in the backwoods? Amazonia in these days and even right up until well after the second war was a hang-over from feudalism. Well, I’m only fifty-six. Yet I’ve seen that province, bigger than almost any country in Western Europe, develop into something approaching organised civilisation in less than forty years. So as I see it law and justice depend on circumstances.’
‘You made enemies.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re still above suspicion!’
‘Not according to one or two men with very long memories.’
‘And have they a case? Where, for example, does your sister figure?’
‘Petra,’ said Cyp quietly, ‘is not my sister. You know that my parents died in an aircrash over the jungle when I was seventeen. But you also know that I’m fif
ty-six and she’s only in the twenties so obviously she can’t be my sister.’
Grant waited developments.
‘Let me be frank, Dr. Grant. I’m familiar with your background. In fact I don’t imagine there are now many intelligence services or embassies where your name isn’t known! And your arrival here, even if both surprising and unexpected, suits me very well.’
‘So?’
‘I’m going to treat you as a professional expert employed by the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation, and therefore loyal to NATO, but who may be prepared to use discretion as to how much of what I say needs to be reported to Admiral Cooper, because I need your specialised knowledge and I don’t imagine that your own interests and my problems overlap.’
‘You’ve been doing your homework, Minister,’ said Grant. ‘But don’t count on anything. The most I can promise is that I don’t intend to get side-tracked from the book I’m writing.’
‘I’m talking to you because I need help and you at least can consider my situation from the point of view of an intelligent outsider with special qualifications. And surely I can talk to Petra’s friend with some hope that what I say will go no further unless it’s essential to whatever else you may be doing.’
‘One point, Minister,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t much like this sort of conversation unless I can be sure that we’re really private. And there are now so many ways of tapping conversation that I don’t feel safe unless I’m in the middle of a field in a nudist colony. Microphones can be hidden almost anywhere and most amateurs don’t understand that although they may carry their own personal and private bug, using it to transmit a tape maybe a couple of hundred metres away, that other people can still tune in to the same wavelength and monitor a total conversation. So tell me, are you carrying any acoustic device? It would be reasonable to feel that this chat would be better on tape in case you want to refresh your memory one day.’ He paused. ‘But if so I’d scrub the idea.’
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