Harlequin

by Morris West

  Before I had time to say a word, Milo Frohm was on the line. ‘Mr Desmond… listen very carefully. Do exactly as I say. The news isn’t out yet. We don’t know what it means, though we can guess. We’re waiting to hear what demands will be made. Go back to your apartment. Call our New York bureau and ask for Philip Lyndon. He’ll instruct you. When we know more, we’ll call you at home. Now, will you please hang up? We need to keep the line open!

  We did exactly as we were told. An hour later, we were sitting in my apartment with Mr Philip Lyndon transcribing on tape an account of Karl Kruger’s intervention and my dinner conversation with Basil Yanko.

  Lyndon’s own account of the kidnapping was brief, because there was little to tell. At three in the afternoon, the nurse had taken the child for a walk by the lakeside park in Geneva. As usual a detective accompanied them. During the walk, two women and a man had accosted them, disarmed the detective and forced the nurse and the child at gunpoint into a waiting car. At midnight, a caller in London had informed Harlequin that the child and the nurse were in the hands of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. He should wait in London for further messages. Police intervention would be useless and dangerous to the child and the woman. It was simple, formal and menacing as a naked blade.

  What could we do? Nothing, said Mr Lyndon, firmly; nothing except wait and be silent and do as we were told. I thought I should call Yanko and tell him the news. Mr Lyndon debated that for a while and then suggested I leave the call until seven, by which time he would have a technician set up a unit to record the conversation. At four in the morning, he offered to drive Karl Kruger back to his hotel and Suzanne and I were left alone to watch the dawn of a hopeless day. At six, Mr Philip Lyndon returned with his technician. At seven, I was on the line to Basil Yanko.

  He was surprised to hear from me so early. ‘You’re very prompt, Mr Desmond. Have you spoken to Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he react to my suggestions?’

  ‘I couldn’t convey them.’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Harlequin’s child and his nurse were kidnapped last evening in Geneva.’

  The gasp was genuine. No actor in the world could have faked the shock or the fervour of the obscenity. ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘The kidnappers identify themselves as P.F.L.P. Harlequin is ordered to stay in London for further contact. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Please pass my sympathy to Mr Harlequin and add that I stand ready to help in any way I can. You know where to find me…’

  ‘In view of our talk last night, I thought…’

  ‘As I remember it, Mr Desmond, we discussed business, not the politics of terror.’

  ‘…I thought that with your knowledge of the Arab world, you might suggest an approach to this tragic problem.’

  ‘I shall certainly give it urgent consideration. However, I must point out that I do business only with lawfully constituted governments and companies. I shall willingly seek counsel from my friends.’

  ‘That’s what I hoped, Mr Yanko.’

  ‘Thank you for calling. I’ll be in touch later.’

  Mr Philip Lyndon gave a sour grin of admiration. ‘Not a mark on him! He’s like stainless steel.’

  ‘Do you think he organised it?’

  ‘No. I think he set up a situation for future use and the P.F.L.P. pre-empted it. Now it’s out of Yanko’s control. He’ll help if it suits him. If not, he’ll sit back and do nothing.’

  ‘What about my testimony and Karl Kruger’s?’

  ‘Karl Kruger talked only business compromise. You corroborate that. The stuff about murder and terror rests on your word only.’

  ‘Same old story!’

  ‘You should do my job for a while, Mr Desmond. If there’s no God and no last judgment, I’m going to be a very disappointed man. If you hear anything from London, call me. I’ll reciprocate… Leave the recorder connected to the phone. I’ll put in a new tape now… Why don’t you two get some rest?’

  There was one more thing I had to do before I could rest. I went out to a pay-phone, called Aaron Bogdanovich and told him the whole story.

  He was mildly surprised and quite unmoved. ‘London and Geneva. Interesting.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘For the moment, yes. If you need more, try Dial-a-Prayer. Some people find it helpful.’

  ‘That’s not amusing.’

  ‘Then try this. Old Chinese proverb: When expecting a visit from the imperial executioner, it is advisable to drink large quantities of rice wine… Relax, Mr Desmond, this kind of thing always takes time.’

  We waited all day, drowsing sometimes, watching television, waiting for the telephone to ring. Nothing. We called Philip Lyndon half a dozen times. Still nothing; and he begged us not to tie up his line. At six, Karl Kruger came round for a drink and stayed for Takeshi’s dinner, elaborate as a funeral feast. At ten – news of the hour on the hour! – we saw it on television: a fifth floor apartment near Geneva airport, with the nurse holding baby Paul at the window, and, beside her, a young Arab with a machine-gun. The commentary was a recitative, in the thrusting, emphatic style of American newscasters:

  ‘In Geneva today, three-year-old Paul Harlequin and his nurse, thirty-year-old Helene Huguet, are being held hostage by two men of the People’s Front for the Liberation of Palestine and a Japanese couple, members of Rengo Sekigun, a Japanese terrorist organisation. The terrorists are demanding the release of two Arab prisoners, one in England, the other in Italy, convicted recently on charges of hijacking, illegal possession of arms and other offences. The terrorists’ demands were spelt out this afternoon: a plane to fly them to a friendly Arab state, a sum of two million dollars, and immunity from attack or arrest. They have set a deadline of forty-eight hours. If the demands are not met, they will first kill the nurse and, twenty-four hours later, the child. Paul Harlequin is the infant son of banker, George Harlequin, who has figured recently in…’

  Karl Kruger reached out and switched off the set. ‘So! Now we know. The money is easy. Governments are not so easy. The English are stiff-necked. The Italians have to drive five hundred miles to find a man to sign a piece of paper. Loving God! What a world!’ Suzanne was weeping quietly. He folded her in a great bear-hug and scolded her. ‘Liebchen, liebchen! They will not kill a child! They are too clever for that! They need sympathy, too. The baby is the joker in the pack. If they harm him, the crowd will tear them to pieces.’

  He was still crooning over her when the telephone rang. I switched on the recorder and answered it. Basil Yanko was on the line. ‘Mr Desmond. I have got my bankers out of bed. I have called U.P.I., who will relay the news. There will be two million dollars at disposal in the Union Bank, Geneva, tomorrow morning. A gift – a free gift. I am using all efforts in diplomatic quarters to avert this tragedy…’

  While I was still trying to decide whether to damn him or thank him, he hung up.

  Karl Kruger flung his great bulk about the room and raged, ‘The son of a whore! He fixed it! He unfixes it! He makes himself a hero!’

  Suzanne cried out against him. ‘I don’t care! It doesn’t matter! At least he’s doing something. We’re just sitting here…’

  Again the telephone rang and Milo Frohm was talking from London. He was dog-weary, but urbane as ever. ‘Sorry, I haven’t been in touch. We’ve been busy, as you may imagine. It’s three in the morning here. Harlequin’s in Geneva. His London manager and I have been negotiating all day with the Home Secretary. We think he’ll bend; but, Jesus, it’s rough going. The Italians will play – we hope.’

  I told him about Yanko’s offer. His laughter sounded like a death-rattle. ‘…Holy Moses! What an artist! I can’t wait to pin a medal on him. One piece of good news. Alex Duggan’s friend is beginning to crack. His wife’s pregnant. She’s afraid for Harlequin’s child. Keep praying and keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘Mr Frohm, you’ve had the report on my dinn
er party?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had it.’

  ‘What’s the word?’

  ‘Keep the deal open – and try to keep Mr Kruger in New York.’

  ‘How’s George?’

  ‘Not bad. All things considered.’

  ‘Would you like me to come, or send Suzanne?’

  ‘Hell, no! Stay where you are, both of you. The rougher it is, the longer Harlequin will last. I just hope I can. Do you know what happened tonight? The Under-Secretary asked me to have dinner at his club – best saddle of lamb in London. Jesus Christ! Saddle of lamb! Well, as the Bible says, we’re labouring in the vineyard. Goodnight or good morning as the case may be!’

  At least he could laugh, and I tried to translate his humour to Suzanne and Karl. It wasn’t a good translation, but at least it raised a ghostly smile from Suzanne and a grumble from Karl.

  ‘Saddle of lamb! And our best club claret, sir! How I remember. Why does he want me to stay in New York?’

  ‘He didn’t say, Karl. It’s up to you.’

  ‘I’ll have to get Hilde over. Two nights alone in bed and I get nightmares. I’ll phone Munich now.’

  ‘Karl! In Munich it’s four in the morning.’

  ‘What matter? If she’s alone, she’ll be glad to hear from me. If she’s not, she doesn’t deserve to sleep. Here, give me the phone!’

  Suzanne burst into helpless laughter. ‘You can’t, Karl! It’s all being recorded!’

  ‘In German, it will sound beautiful… That’s an idea! Why don’t you talk to her first? Tell her you are in bed with me and…’

  It was a silly game; but we played it with hysterical fervour and when it was over, we replayed it over supper, until the last taste was out of it, and Karl collapsed on the bed in the guest-room, and Suzy and I folded ourselves together in a merciful forgetting.

  The kidnap drama has become a stock-piece of political theatre. You can, if you are a cynic, dictate the sequence in an hour. What you cannot know – unless you are personally involved – is the intolerable anguish of the victim and the relatives, and the heart-stopping tensions of both the kidnappers and the negotiators.

  The kidnappers are the commandos of a political group, totally committed, carefully briefed, fully aware of the personal risks. If they fail, they can expect no mercy. They will be torn to pieces by a mob, gunned down by police, or imprisoned for a lifetime. The sanction under which they live, like the threat they impose, is absolute. If their demands are refused, they will kill, because the killing is then inconsequent to them, but enormously consequent to the movement which they represent. The problem is that the act of execution must always be performed in cold blood; and the tension which precedes it may become unbearable… Which is why the presence of Japanese assassins is a sinister phenomenon. They have a tangled philosophy of life, but a very clear, traditional philosophy of death.

  The negotiators are always at a disadvantage since they are not, and cannot be, either single-minded or wholly resolute. All are agreed that the victim or victims must be saved. Money is a minor consideration. But the dilemmas involved are legion: a government must not bow to political gangsters; it dare not risk the slaughter of the innocent. If the guilty are escorted out of the country like diplomats, the law is an object of derision; and more invasions will be made. If you tie the hands of the police, you destroy their loyalty and in the end, corrupt them. If you make martyrs, you sow dragon’s teeth. If you defend the rights of oppressed minorities, you cannot appear to stifle by brute force, the expression of their grievances.

  For the victims themselves, there is no recourse. Their captors may be courteous. They are also implacable. Their rescuers seem impotent. Their salvation rests upon a decency which they have seen to be abdicated. Aaron Bogdanovich was not joking when he said you could either dial-a-prayer or get drunk. He was being merciful when he ignored the last choice: sit quiet and hope that the executioner has a steady hand.

  We were four thousand miles removed from it, but Suzanne and I lived every line of the drama. The television was switched on all day and half the night. We bought all the papers and read every line in German, French, English and Italian. One of us was always in the fiat. When Suzanne went out, Takeshi went with her. Philip Lyndon called four times a day with a summary of his telex reports. Karl Kruger came and went at will. Hilde would arrive within a few days. Milo Frohm was busy and out of contact. All we heard from George Harlequin were the words he spoke to television interviewers and newsmen. He looked like a walking ghost, but he carried himself with dignity and spoke always with moderation and restraint. He offered himself as a hostage in return for the child and the nurse. The offer was refused.

  As the hour of the first deadline approached, the waiting became an agony. New figures appeared on the screen, delegates from Arab embassies, Japanese diplomats, emissaries from England and Italy. They pleaded for time. They displayed the ransom money and sent it to the apartment by a man stripped down to swimming trunks, so that he could be seen to be unarmed. While he was on his way up, the Japanese hung the child from the window by his hands, threatening to drop him at the first sign of trickery.

  At the last moment, the deadline was extended for another twenty-four hours. Fresh milk was delivered for the child. A Swiss air-crew volunteered to fly the kidnappers to safety. The Italians brought their prisoner across the border and displayed him, smiling and triumphant, to the kidnappers. The English delayed, and the Home Secretary refused to comment. George Harlequin and his Swiss manager again offered themselves as hostages. This time, the offer was accepted. They disappeared into the building. There were hysterical scenes, when, long minutes later, the nurse and the child came out and were hurried into a police car and driven away.

  Then, at long last, the ordeal was over. The kidnappers, with their hostages at gunpoint, emerged from the building and were driven to the airport. They entered the plane together. The detainees were brought to the foot of the steps. They laughed and waved and made signs of victory. Then the aircraft took off. The hostages would be returned on the homeward flight.

  Suzanne broke down and wept uncontrollably for more than an hour. I called the doctor to sedate her. While she was sleeping, I went out and sat for an hour in the last pew in Saint Patrick’s. I didn’t pray. There seemed no point in saying I was sorry or grateful. It was just a clean place to be, in a very dirty world.

  9

  Ten days later, George Harlequin returned to New York. He came with an entourage: Julie’s parents, a new nurse, baby Paul and three young men, all Swiss, very quiet, very watchful and quite uncommunicative. The apartment at the Salvador could not accommodate them all, so we rented the adjoining suites and had Saul Wells recruit another security team to guard the approaches and check all visitors and staff. Suzanne moved out of my apartment and installed herself next to the family. Harlequin wanted me to move, too. I told him there was no need; and, in any case, I was wedded to my independence. He asked me to report on what had happened in his absence. He listened attentively, took notes, commended me and closed the subject. It was no time to press him for decisions. When he was ready, I was at his service.

  He was profoundly changed. He was greying now at the temples. The skin of his face was drawn tightly over the bones. His eyes had a monkish, contemplative look. He spoke little, and then quietly and with deliberation, like someone who had been isolated a long time from his fellows. His movements were different, too: not springy and eager, as in the old days, but calculated, purposeful, almost stealthy.

  He refused all social intercourse. In the daytime he worked at the Salvador, requesting that people came to him; which, of course, they did, out of respect for his recent griefs. In the evening, he dined with Julie’s parents and played with baby Paul. That was the only time I ever saw him smile, and the smile was tender but terribly sad, as if he were ashamed to have brought the child into so brutal a world. The only times I ever saw him angry were when he found some breach in the intricate security ar
rangements. Then he castigated the offender with cold, cutting words. With Suzanne, he was considerate but formal. With me, he could not be formal; but it was clear that he wanted to be separate. Three days passed before he telephoned and asked me to meet him for a talk on what he called ‘personal matters’. When I arrived, he begged me to hear, without comment, what he had to say:

  ‘…Paul, you have done enough for me – more than any man should ask of another. I know you loved Julie and that you supported her at times when she lacked support from me. I’m not jealous of that. I’m grateful for it. I’m glad my boy has his Uncle Paul. I’m glad I have you, too, as the friend of my heart… I want to hold our friendship. As things are now, I fear I may lose it. So I should like you to resign as director of Harlequin et Cie.’

  ‘Anytime, George. Today, if you like.’

  ‘Today, then. I’ll have Suzanne type the letter. You can sign it before you leave. I’ll also withdraw your power of attorney and give you full indemnity for the period of its exercise. You and Karl Kruger covered me for fifteen million. I’ve relieved you of that cover, and credited you with interest for the period.’

  ‘In my case, that wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘It was proper, Paul. You’re also credited with market losses on your stock in Creative Systems.’

  ‘For God’s sake, George!’

  ‘Please, Paul! You promised to hear me. I’ve prepared a press statement on your resignation. I’d like you to read it, make any changes you like and I’ll issue it today. As soon as we’re finished in New York, I’m retiring Suzanne, with what I hope is a generous endowment. She needs to be free, I think. She has decisions of her own to make…’

  ‘And where does all this leave you, George?’

  ‘Where I am – with a child to care for and a business to rebuild.’

  ‘May I ask how you propose to do that?’

  ‘Of course. I’m going to settle with Basil Yanko.’

  ‘You mean, sell to him?’