Harlequin

by Morris West

  ‘I’ll try, if you’ll try.’

  ‘How do we start?’

  ‘You kiss me.’

  After that, the rules were flexible; and even though we were both out of practice, it was a pleasant game for a warm afternoon in Washington, D.C. If you want to smile at two people, with youth a long way behind, playing love games in Embassy Row, then enjoy the comedy by all means – and see if you can play it better when the loneliness catches up with you.

  At seven o’clock, precisely, I was ringing the doorbell of a modest but rather beautiful old house in Arlington. The door was opened by a big sallow woman, whose horn-rimmed spectacles gave her the look of a hostile owl. I told her my name and that I had an appointment with Mr Klein. She told me I had it with Mrs Leah Klein and that she was the lady in question. She led me into a small room, cluttered with books, magazines and disorderly files of clippings. In one comer was a littered desk, in another, a cocktail cabinet. There were two easy chairs, one of which was occupied by a large tortoise-shell cat. There was no broomstick; but Mrs Leah Klein was something of a witch, broad and billowing, with thick, tar-stained fingers and a deep gravelly voice. Her cocktails turned out to be half a tumbler of bourbon for me and, for herself, red-eye rum cut with Coke. After the first long swallow, she dived straight into business:

  ‘Kurt Saperstein tells me you want to plant a story. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Fact or rumour?’

  ‘Some fact, some inference. I want it, if possible, to originate from London.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Situation politics.’

  ‘Can you dictate it?’

  ‘In rough, yes.’

  ‘That’s all I need.’

  She sat herself down at the typewriter, put paper in the machine, lit a cigarette, stuck it in the comer of her mouth and said:

  ‘No commentary, just the facts. Okay?’

  ‘Okay!… U.P.I. London filed today a wire story about one Frank Lemnitz, an American tourist, found shot dead in a West End hotel. Police are looking for a girl who was seen with him in two gambling clubs. That’s the end of their story. Here’s mine. Frank Lemnitz was chauffeur to Basil Yanko, president of Creative Systems Incorporated. He is known to have underworld connections, notably with a hood called Bernie Koonig. Basil Yanko is in Frankfurt attending a conference of international bankers. Are you with me?’

  ‘I’m ahead of you. Keep talking.’

  ‘An employee of Creative Systems, Miss Valerie Hallstrom, was murdered in her apartment three days ago. That event is in the news files. The following facts are not: the FBI are investigating leakages from Creative Systems data banks. Several major U.S. companies are involved. The names of these companies are as follows…’

  ‘Spell ’em, please.’

  I spelt them out, one by one, including our own. She pounded the typewriter as if it were a mortal enemy.

  ‘.… Harlequin et Cie has been defrauded of a lot of money through misuse of its computer services, all of which are controlled by Creative Systems and its affiliates in other countries. The author of the fraud at the New York end is known. Her name is Ella Deane. She died in a hit and run accident two weeks ago. She left a large sum of money, all of it banked in the last three months of her employment. One of her boyfriends was Frank Lemnitz. Coincidentally, Basil Yanko is bidding to buy out Harlequin et Cie. The offer is public. The major shareholder refuses to sell. The minor ones are still undecided. Everything so far is a matter of record: You can check it yourself. What follows is part fact, part inference.’

  ‘So what’s fact?’

  ‘Every major broker in New York is loaded with buying orders for stock in Creative Systems. Some of the biggest orders are from Middle East clients…’

  ‘Oil money!’

  ‘Check! And some of it is Libyan.’

  ‘Now, the inference?’

  ‘The Arabs want a stake in banking and industry, in the U.S. and in Europe. That’s clear from the public record. They have money and muscle to get it. It’s our belief that Basil Yanko is helping them. The project is legal; the means dubious and, in our case, criminal. I’ve brought you a copy of a dossier we’ve got on his past. You must have him on your own files as well… End of story!

  ‘Now, tell me why you want it planted?’

  ‘We want to ease the pressure on ourselves and increase it on Yanko. We want him totally discredited!’

  ‘So do a lot of other people!’

  ‘Is this enough to do it?’

  ‘No, but it will surely stir up the ant-heap. Can you tell me anything more about Valerie Hallstrom?’

  ‘I can, but I won’t. If you want to know why, ask Kurt Saperstein.’

  She swivelled round to face me. She took a long drag on her cigarette. The ash dropped into her lap and she brushed it away, absently. She asked:

  ‘Are you Jewish?’

  ‘No. I’m a goy of the goyim!’

  ‘This, Mr Desmond, is a very hot story. It could get hotter – for you!’

  ‘I know. When will it be printed?’

  ‘Today’s Friday. With luck, I’ll have it ready for the Sundays in England. They’ll spread it. We’ll have it back on the wires in time for the Monday editions here. Same in Europe. Then the shit hits the fan. It might be wise if you went away for a long weekend.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll finish this and be on my way. Do you mind telling me something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You seem to be taking an awful lot on trust. Why?’

  She threw back her head and laughed – a great rasping man’s laugh, mocking and humourless. ‘Trust! I wouldn’t trust my own sister for the time of day… If you hadn’t been checked, you wouldn’t have got within ten blocks of this place! Before that story’s filed, it’ll be read by experts. If it doesn’t fit the facts, you’re finished. If it doesn’t fit the policy, it isn’t filed.’

  ‘Then I take it somewhere else.’

  ‘Wherever you take it, you need a good rewrite man and a sympathetic editor. In me, you’ve got both. Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘I don’t like to be pushed either.’

  ‘If you don’t like beans, don’t open the can… Lacheim!’

  There was a message in my box at the hotel: Saul Wells had just arrived on the shuttle service from New York and was entertaining himself in the bar. Perched on the high stool, hunched over his drink, he looked more than ever like a ferret, morose, restless and combative. He brightened when he saw me and we sat together in a shadowy comer, out of earshot of the late drinkers. He peeled the cellophane from a new cigar, stuck it in the comer of his mouth, lit it, and puffed out the news between the smoke-clouds.

  ‘... First reports from your branches. Same operation with local variations. Where there’s a restriction on the export of local funds, only foreign accounts have been hit. In three cases, Mexico City, for instance, your punch operators resigned at material times, but we haven’t yet been able to trace them. In two, they’re still employed; which may argue that the fraud was built into the systems. In England, we’ve been lucky. The operator there was a woman called Beverley Manners. She resigned to get married – big office party, a bonus from the manager. She’s alive and well and living on a golfing estate in Surrey. According to the report, she’s five months’ pregnant.’

  ‘Is that relevant, Saul?’

  ‘I guess so. We can’t harass a pregnant lady. What’s more relevant is that her husband works for Creative Systems, U.K. Limited.’

  ‘That’s cosy.’

  ‘It gets cosier. The lady and her husband are near neighbours and golfing friends of your London manager – and the fraudulent transactions are justified by a telex instruction from Geneva signed by George Harlequin!’

  ‘Have you checked our telex files in Geneva?’

  ‘We have. No trace. The telex was sent from another
terminal.’

  ‘Quite a conspiracy.’

  ‘If you want to crack it, you may have to call in the British police.’

  ‘Not yet. Go as far as you can without them. We can’t afford to lose more staff or create more publicity. How did you make out with the FBI?’

  ‘They gave me a rough ride. You?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Anything new?’

  I told him of my talk with Mrs Leah Klein.

  He bit hard on his cigar and stared at me in undisguised amazement. ‘Oh, brother! You’ve bought yourself a heavy-weight. Round Washington, they call her the grave-digger, because she’s buried some very big names and written some very stylish obituaries. If she’s on your side, you’re lucky. If not, it’s time to leave town.’

  ‘She wants us to leave anyway, Saul.’

  Instantly, he was alert and deadly serious. ‘If she said that, Mr Desmond, you go buy the tickets. When Leah starts firing from the hip, even White House staffers run for cover. She gives only one warning – the last.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Harlequin about it.’

  ‘Suggestion, Mr Desmond: there are good air services to Mexico City. I’ve got the file on your branch there. It’s an excuse, if you need one.’

  ‘I’ll use it if I have to. If there’s nothing else, let’s meet in my suite for breakfast. We can go over the reports together.’

  ‘Let’s meet in the breakfast room.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘The best. Your Miss Suzanne let me take a look at your rooms. They’re as hot as the inside of a reactor. Harlequin’s is clean – which is odd.’

  ‘Not so odd. It’s been occupied most of the day.’

  Saul grinned and made comic motions with his cigar. ‘If you’ve been playing games up there, they’re all on tape and the monitors have had some dandy entertainment.’

  ‘What monitors, Saul?’

  ‘Two choices, Mr Desmond – the FBI or Basil Yanko’s people.’

  ‘Pick a name, Saul.’

  ‘For my money, Yanko. Reason: the FBI knew Harlequin was seeing his Ambassador and you were supposed to see yours. So I think they’d play by the book.’

  ‘The FBI interviewed me in my room this morning.’

  ‘If they come back, as they probably will, tell them about the bugs. There’s one inside the phone. There’s another under the table beside the settee.’

  ‘Why don’t we rip the stuff out?’

  ‘It makes you look innocent, Mr Desmond… even if you aren’t. What with Aaron Bogdanovich and Leah Klein, you’re playing a high-powered game. That’s another reason why I’d like to see you take that trip to Mexico.’

  On which comforting note we parted. Saul to spend a Sabbath night with friends, I to render account of my stewardship to George Harlequin and persuade him that Mexico City had a healthier climate than Washington, D.C. It wasn’t easy. He had agreed my script; he was reluctant to have it altered by Leah Klein or anyone else. Besides, he needed to stay in touch with the market in New York. He might need more talks with Herbert Bachmann. He would hate to give Yanko the impression that we were running away. I argued that we had to visit Mexico anyway; so why not over the weekend when business was closed for two days? We were paying for expert advice: why not take it? To which Julie added a quiet suggestion that she could fly down to Acapulco and visit Lola Frank. That way, if we had to come back to New York in a hurry, we needn’t bother about her. Finally, Harlequin agreed and I went downstairs again to make the reservations with Arnold. When I made my request, a faint flush of life showed on his long, dour visage and he asked:

  ‘How did you get the word, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘What word? This is a business trip. We’ve got an office in Mexico City.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Problems, Arnold?’

  ‘No problems. Coincidence, I guess. I just heard that a friend of yours was on his way down there and wanted you to contact him. I’ve got the number here.’ He gave me the card and began leafing through the flight schedules, talking all the while in monotone. ‘…I guess you’ll want the Camino Real. Same set-up as here, right? I’ll call them as soon as I confirm the flight. Ah, here we are! Braniff leaves at fifteen-fifteen, sets down at Dallas and San Antone, gets in at twenty-one thirty. First class and a limousine at the airport? No, I guess your own people will meet you. How long will you stay? Four, five days? Let’s make it a week. You can always cancel. Mailing address? Your bank, okay? I’ll let your friend know the arrangements. Funny how it should just happen, wasn’t it?…’

  The more I thought about it, the funnier it was – a graveyard humour that set the nerve-ends tingling and the hairs prickling on the neck. We were back to what George Harlequin called ghost-games: whispers in the dark, creaks in the wainscot, a whole cabbala of signs and symbols to confuse the novice player. As I walked back to the elevator, a familiar voice summoned me. I swung round to see Mr Milo Frohm two paces behind me. He held out a hand in greeting; I shook it, absently.

  He said, ‘I was going up to see Mr Harlequin.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘I hope it’s not too late.’

  ‘It’s late enough. And we’re leaving tomorrow for Mexico City.’

  ‘That’s rather sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  The elevator came and we did a little mandarin shuffle to see who would enter first. Mr Frohm was a very courteous man; he saved the rest of his questions – for George Harlequin, who entertained him to coffee and brandy, and answered with his old, disarming frankness.

  ‘…There’s no mystery about it, Mr Frohm. Mr Wells has just delivered his report on our branch in Mexico City. We need to talk to the manager and local shareholders. While we’re working, my wife will visit friends in Acapulco. Do you have any problems for me?’

  ‘Not problems, Mr Harlequin; concern, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. After my talk with the Ambassador this morning, I felt that we were, so to speak, in enemy territory. Your State Department is not very happy about us Europeans just now… Oh, Julie! This is Mr Frohm of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mr Frohm, my wife.’

  ‘I’m happy to meet you, Madame. I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour.’

  ‘Is there anything wrong, George?’ She was wide-eyed with innocence.

  ‘Nothing at all, darling. Join us. Please continue, Mr Frohm.’

  ‘Well, Mr Harlequin, I take it your Ambassador gave you some political background?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘He referred, no doubt, to certain elements of violence in the situation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Harlequin…’ He coughed, diffidently, and made a little play of fumbling for the right phrase. ‘I… that is to say, we… have certain opinions… you might even call them positions, which I am not at liberty to divulge. However, you are not, as you put it, in enemy territory. You may feel, with some justice, that you have a personal enemy in Basil Yanko. We may feel – I cannot state that we do – that his business tactics are rough or even reprehensible; but, until they are proved to be illegal, we cannot intervene. We have two murders and a highly charged political situation at home and abroad. In our society violence is endemic and may become epidemic. You, yourself, could be threatened with it. We have to warn you that we cannot always protect you. It is well that Madame Harlequin understands this, too.’

  Harlequin sat silent for a moment, looking down at the becks of his long, delicate hands. Then, he said gravely:

  ‘Isn’t that rather general, Mr Frohm? By whom are we threatened?’

  ‘Ask yourself, Mr Harlequin, who stands to profit most from your death. Then, think of this: if you or your staff identify yourselves with a partisan group, you double your personal risk. You know that Frank Lemnitz was murdered in London?’

  ‘We heard. Who killed him?’

  ‘You did, Mr Harlequin. You killed him with an untimely word.’ He frowned and sprea
d his hands in deprecation. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re a stranger in town. You don’t understand the idiom. You’re a Swiss. You come from a small, orderly country, where you need a licence to cough-though you’re so well-mannered that you never use it… May I ask if you have provided protection for your child?’

  ‘I have requested police surveillance. I am assured it is adequate.’

  ‘I hope so. Forgive me, Mr Harlequin, but this is America on the last reel of the American Dream, which turns out to be a nightmare in Technicolor. It gives me no pleasure to sit here and apologise for my country – even for myself! – but I’m prepared to do it, to make you see the truth.’

  ‘And what is the truth, Mr Frohm?’

  ‘The laws are inadequate. The forces of law are more inadequate still. Some of them are corrupt; but not all. The corruption is spread as trust declines. I’m begging you to trust me. Mr Harlequin. You, too, Mr Desmond.’

  It was my turn now. I wouldn’t let it pass; I couldn’t.

  ‘Mr Frohm?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘I believe, because I want to believe, that you’re an honest man. Will you answer me two questions?’

  ‘If I can, yes.’

  ‘Do you have an order to tap my telephone and bug my room?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘Have you or any of your agents done so?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, no.’

  ‘Somebody did, Mr Frohm. Saul Wells checked it early this evening.’

  ‘Did he check this room, too?’

  ‘Yes. It’s clean.’

  He shook his head slowly. He looked at me, at George Harlequin, at Julie. He got up, went to the telephone and punched out a call, slowly and savagely:

  ‘Cal?… Milo Frohm. You know where I am. Get Pete over here with his box of tricks – on the double!’

  He sat down. George Harlequin poured whisky into a tumbler and handed it to him. He sipped it slowly and set down the glass with elaborate care.

  ‘You see the problem, Mr Frohm?’ said Harlequin gently. ‘You must see it now.’

  Milo Frohm nodded, up and down, up and down, like one of those old porcelain buddhas that the sailors brought home from Shanghai. ‘Yes… yes… yes. I do see it, Mr Harlequin. At this moment, I’m not sure what we do about it. One thing is certain, though: when you get to Mexico City, you must all be very, very careful.’