The Raiders

by Гарольд Роббинс

  "You mean I can listen to them when —"

  "And we can tape it. Might be very useful when your lawyers sit down to discuss settlement with her."

  "Do it, Morris. Wire it so I can listen up here, and we'll tape it, too."

  When he put the phone down, Angie shook her head, smiled, and said, "You can be a real bastard, can't you?"

  "You'll enjoy it," he said.

  She grinned. "Yeah."

  6

  The voices and the other sounds came through as clearly as though the activity were taking place in the next room. Nevada went to his own suite, unsubtle in expressing his disapproval of what they were doing. Chandler remained, his cheeks drawn in between his teeth, frowning. Angie listened soberly, and so did Jonas, sipping bourbon.

  — "Careful! Careful! Like ... like that. Yeah!"

  — (Laughing.) "I thought you told me you were a virgin."

  — "What the hell would you want with a virgin?"

  — "I don't know. I never had one."

  — "Jesus Christ! Somebody's at the door!"

  — "Here. I'll wait in the bathroom."

  The buzzer on the door had sounded clearly on the speaker. It would be on the tape.

  — "Who is it?"

  — "United States marshals, Mrs. Cord."

  — "What do you want?"

  — "We're looking for Mr. Cord."

  — "He's not here."

  — "It will make everything a whole lot simpler if you'll let us in."

  — "For a minute. For just a minute."

  No sounds came through for a moment, apparently as she opened the door.

  — "You're Mrs. Jonas Cord?"

  — "Temporarily. The divorce is pending."

  — "You say Mr. Cord is not here?"

  — "No, he's not here."

  — "There is a man here. You don't deny that, do you?"

  — "I don't deny anything."

  — "Who's the man?"

  — "It's none of your business. He's not Jonas Cord."

  — "If you'll let us make sure of that, it will make everything a whole lot simpler."

  Another moment of silence. Then the man's voice:

  — "Okay, guys. I'm not Jonas Cord, okay?"

  — "Nope. You're not Jonas Cord. Can we look in the bathroom to see if anybody else is there?"

  — "Look in the closet and under the bed while you're at it, which will make everything a whole lot simpler, then get your asses out of my room."

  — "Do you know where Mr. Cord is, ma'am?"

  — "I don't know where he is. Furthermore, I don't give a damn."

  A long silence, punctuated by the slamming of a door.

  — "Shit. You've lost your erection."

  7

  In the morning, while Monica and Alex slept at last, Jonas and Angie ate breakfast, read the newspapers, and exchanged a few bland jokes about what they'd heard last night.

  When they had finished eating, Jonas called in Bill Shaw and sent him off as a courier to Los Angeles, by way of the De Havilland junket flight to Mexico City. He sent the tape with Shaw, to deliver to the lawyer who would represent him in the divorce settlement negotiations. He wrote a note and enclosed it with the tape: Use this as you see fit, not at all if you don't have to. Notice that the talk after the door buzzer eliminates all question about who we are hearing.

  8

  Ten days later Jonas called Morris Chandler to a meeting in the suite.

  Three days before, Chandler had asked Nevada how much longer he thought Jonas would want to occupy the entire fifth floor of The Seven Voyages. The money Jonas was paying in rent was very generous, Chandler said, but he'd decided he had made a bad deal. The rent he would have received from high rollers who would otherwise have occupied those suites, plus what they would have lost in the casino, substantially exceeded Jonas's generous eight thousand a month. Besides, some high rollers had complained about not getting their usual deluxe suites.

  When Chandler came into the suite, he found Nevada and Angie and Len Douglas with Jonas. The three men wore golf shirts and slacks — Nevada looking incongruous in his. Angie wore a raspberry-colored golf shirt and white slacks.

  "You know everybody, Morris," Jonas said. "Coffee?"

  "Yes, thank you," said Morris Chandler. He was not wearing one of his usual dark suits today but wore instead a cream-and-brown-checked jacket and dark-brown slacks. He was visibly nervous, as if he anticipated that the call for this meeting presaged something ominous.

  "Take a look through the telescope," said Jonas. "I checked them five minutes ago, and they were up there."

  Chandler sat down and put his coffee on the table.

  "Nevada tells me I'm costing you more than I'm paying you," said Jonas.

  Chandler nodded. "It's just a business fact, Jonas. Nothing personal. You've been fair. I'm sure you had no idea I'd come out short. I didn't."

  "We'll take care of that one way or another," said Jonas. "I want to talk to you about something else."

  "Still thinking of building a hotel of your own?" asked Chandler.

  "I've got something better in mind," said Jonas. "I'm thinking of buying this one."

  Chandler jerked up his chin and shook his head. "It's not for sale."

  "It might be," said Jonas. "The men who own the points just might be interested, if they got the right offer."

  "You don't even know who owns the points," said Chandler.

  "Most of them, I do," said Jonas.

  "How could you find out? How could you find out when the feds can't find out, when the State of Nevada can't find out?"

  Jonas glanced at Nevada. Both men had amused gleams in their eyes. "I hired a consultant," said Jonas. "He doesn't know who he's working for, but he likes his fee."

  "Who? Who would tell you?"

  Jonas grinned. "Meyer Lansky," he said.

  Morris Chandler got up and walked to the telescope. He leaned against the eyepiece and was silent for a full half minute as he seemed to be staring at the girls atop the neighboring penthouses but was actually taking the time to compose himself and think through the implications of what Jonas Cord was saying.

  "They call Meyer the Chairman of the Board," said Jonas. "But money doesn't stick to him. It seems to have a way of flying from him. In spite of all his connections and all his smarts, he's not rich. He didn't jump for my offer. He's too smart for that. But he took it."

  Chandler sat down. He glanced at his coffee cup but did not pick it up. "Do you mean to tell me you actually know — "

  "Who owns the points," Jonas interrupted. "I do. With a few exceptions. And I know who'll sell. For the right money, I can pick up seventy-two points tomorrow. My consultant will help me buy seventy-two points, you've got eighteen that you'll sell me. That leaves just ten points out, and I figure you know who has them."

  Chandler's face turned red, and his voice rose thinly. "I'll sell you mine? You think I'll sell you mine? What makes you think I'll sell you mine?"

  "There's something in it for you, Maurie," said Nevada. "I said to Jonas, 'There has to be something in it for Maurie.' You stay. You manage. You get a share. Of stock. No points. There'll be no more points."

  "I'm an easier guy to work for than the guys who have the points," said Jonas.

  Chandler calmed down a bit. "What do you figure on paying for a point?" he asked.

  "My accountant will tell me."

  "Accountant! No accountant will ever figure out how a place like this works. No accountant will ever figure out what a point is worth."

  "My accountant already knows," said Jonas. "Meyer Lansky."

  "You put a hell of a lot of confidence in Lansky," said Chandler.

  Jonas shrugged. "He's got no criminal record. He likes money. Better than just any old money is money paid by check, that he can report for taxes. Now, the way I want to do this, I'm going to buy your stock in Seven Voyages, Incorporated. You distribute the money to the points holders. You'll have a capital ga
in. I'll take care of that with a bonus I'll pay you for your services as manager of the hotel."

  "What if some guys don't want to sell their points?"

  "As soon as I take over, I'm stopping the skim," said Jonas. "Anyway, they're in no position to make noise. They're tax evaders at best. Besides, I'm going to pay a good price."

  "Some guys you can't shove around," warned Chandler.

  "Maurie, you're looking at one," said Nevada, nodding toward Jonas.

  9

  Four days later Jonas sat down on the couch, surrounded by files and papers that Angie had assembled for him, and began a long telephone conversation with Phil Wallace in Washington.

  Angie listened. She was astonished by what she heard — and very pleased that Jonas trusted her so much as to discuss his businesses in great detail within her hearing.

  The telephone was equipped with a squawk box, so she heard both halves of the conversation.

  "I'm going to move out of Las Vegas. Once it's known that we're buying a casino-hotel here — "

  "They'll be all over the place looking for you," interrupted the metallic voice of Wallace. "So, where you going? Mexico City?"

  "Acapulco. Top floor of a hotel. Shaw has worked it out."

  "Well, that brings up something. You have a friend in Mexico. In fact, you have a friend in Mexico who comes up to Las Vegas on junkets to The Seven Voyages. She's been in the hotel since you've been there."

  "Who the hell are you talking about, Phil?"

  "Sonja Batista."

  Angie saw Jonas's face whiten. "Where'd you hear that name?" he demanded of Phil Wallace.

  "It was in the files I inherited from McAllister. None of my business. Nothing to do with anything. But her name came up in a news story in The Washington Post Tuesday. The rumor from Cuba is that her uncle may take power again. Fulgencio Batista. You've heard the name?"

  "Of course I've heard the name."

  "He's connected, if you know the meaning of the word. He's got friends in the States who'd like him to take over in Havana."

  "I know why," said Jonas. "But say why."

  "He'll turn the country into a paradise for those people and their interests. Casinos. The world's greatest whorehouses. The works."

  "Sonja," Jonas mused.

  "Escalante," said Wallace. "She's married to a guy named Virgilio Diaz Escalante. He's got money from oil."

  "Sonja," Jonas murmured. "Jesus Christ! Phil. Get me her address and phone number. Discreetly. Okay?"

  10

  Angie licked the last of his fluid off Jonas's penis. She rolled over on her back.

  "You're not taking me with you, are you?" she asked. "To Mexico. You're leaving me here. What could be so important — ?"

  "There are better things for you in this world," he said.

  "Name one," she whispered, on the verge of tears.

  "We're forming a new corporation: Cord Hotels, Incorporated. Temporarily, the fifth floor of The Seven Voyages is corporate headquarters. Nevada Smith will be president of the new company. He's staying here to watch things for me. I'm making Morris Chandler a vice president. Nevada may trust Morris too much. I'm not sure, but I think he might. I want you to stay here, keep an eye on things, and report to me. I'll make arrangements for you to have a direct communications channel to me. I'd make you a vice president, too, but I can't. You know why I can't."

  She closed her eyes and nodded. "Making me an officer would risk the gaming license. I have a criminal record."

  "Right."

  "How long have you known?"

  He shrugged. "Pretty soon after you came here."

  "You could have thrown me out."

  "I don't want to throw you out. You can be valuable to me. Besides, I like you. I'll pay you twenty thousand a year."

  "Jonas!"

  "Plus bonuses. You'll earn it. Anyway, I won't be gone so long. I'll be back. The biggest thing is, I trust you. That's on instinct, mine and Nevada's. You already know more about my business than Monica ever did. I trust you, Angie. Don't let me down."

  She bent forward and kissed his penis, then sucked it in between her lips and teeth. "When you trust a woman not to bite you," she muttered, "that's trusting her more than you do when you tell her about your business." She looked up and grinned playfully. Then she was solemn again. "I want to go with you wherever you go. But — " She shrugged. "I know better. I know that can't be. So ... You can trust me, boss. If for no other reason ... because I love you."

  8

  1

  JONAS HAD SENT BILL SHAW AHEAD TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS. Colonel William Shaw had come with Cord Aircraft immediately after his discharge from the Army Air Corps in 1946. He was a useful man to have on a staff. He had proved to be a capable administrator, a man not daunted by details. Besides, he had been a test pilot and was a skillful flyer and navigator. He had picked up a Beech Baron from Intercontinental Airlines in Los Angeles and flown to Mexico. Since there was nothing unusual in a flight by Colonel Shaw from Los Angeles to Mexico City, the subpoena hounds had taken no notice.

  Not so the newspaper stories telling that a new corporation, Cord Hotels, Incorporated, had bought The Seven Voyages casino-hotel in Las Vegas. Jonas had known the marshals would arrive with their subpoenas in hand as soon as that word got out. Shaw's mission to Mexico City and Acapulco had not been to afford Jonas a pleasure jaunt but to arrange a new hiding place.

  Angie helped him to disguise himself as Al String. He left for the airport in one of the hotel's Cadillac limousines, in the company of a group of Mexican junketeers who had spent three days at The Seven Voyages and had undoubtedly dropped several fortunes. At the airport, the limousines drew up to the De Havilland. The junketeers, plus Jonas, climbed the steps into the sixteen-passenger airplane, and shortly it took off.

  2

  When the plane had reached cruising altitude and was flying smooth and level, Jonas went to the head in the rear, waited his turn, and went inside. There he killed off Al String. The wig and the wax went in the trash. He used wet paper towels to scrub the silver-gray from his eyebrows and hair. When he returned to his seat he was not the man who had boarded the plane. He was the man whose name and picture appeared on his passport.

  Returning to his seat, all but unnoticed by the Spanish-speaking junketeers, he took time to observe his fellow passengers.

  Franklin D. Roosevelt had taught norteamericanos to be embarrassed by conspicuous consumption, but it did not embarrass Mexicans. Mexican businessmen wore gaudy gold jewelry: heavy rings with star sapphires, glittering diamonds, emeralds, also gold wristwatches set with gems, even gold chains hanging just inside their open collars. Their women wore furs, necklaces, bracelets, rings, anklets. They also wore — Jonas had heard this sworn to but could not confirm it — exquisitely jeweled but wholly non-functional chastity belts.

  Their party continued on the plane. Two hostesses in short skirts served champagne and caviar to the roistering Mexicans.

  It was inconceivable to Jonas that Sonja could have become one of these shallow, talky, befurred, bejeweled women — or that she could have married one of these greasy gambling-junket men.

  He shook his head at the oner of champagne. He asked for bourbon instead, and when the young woman brought it he turned and stared out the window. They had crossed the Mexican border by now. In the distance ahead and to the right he could see the Sierra Madre.

  3

  In early afternoon the De Havilland settled onto the runway at the Tialpan Airport, a satellite airport for Mexico City. The Mexican officials at this airport recognized the De Havilland and knew who was aboard. None of them would suggest that these wealthy and influential citizens should identify themselves to immigration control or make a customs declaration. Those functions simply disappeared, and the junketeers — Jonas ignored and moving with the crowd — moved directly into the airport terminal building.

  Bill Shaw was there waiting to drive him to La Plaza Real, where he would stay for a few da
ys before he moved on to the top floor of a hotel in Acapulco.

  Jonas sat down on the couch in the living room of his suite. Though the Mexican government would pretend not to know he was in the country, the hotel knew who he was; the suite was fragrant with fresh flowers, and the bar was equipped with champagne, brandy, and with the liquor it was understood that Señor Cord liked best: Tennessee sour mash bourbon.

  "Communication is not all it might be," said Shaw. "When we get to Acapulco — "

  "I can make local calls?"

  "Oh, sure. It's the taps on the other end, in the States, that I'm worried about."

  "We have a directory?" Jonas asked.

  Shaw nodded and retrieved a telephone directory from a drawer in the Louis XV writing table where the telephone waited.

  "Well, thanks, Bill. Suppose I see you later."

  Sitting on the couch, sipping a small shot of whiskey, Jonas flipped through the fat Mexico City telephone directory, half expecting not to find the number he needed and to have to hire someone to locate —

  But there it was: Escalante, Virgilio Diaz, listed at the address Phil Wallace had wired him.

  He went to the writing table and dialed the number.

  "¿Quién habla?"

  "Do you speak English?"

  "Momenta, señor."

  The moment was more than a moment, but eventually another voice came on the line. "I speak English."

  "I am calling for Señora Sonja Escalante. I am Jonas Cord, from the States."

  "The Señora is not at home at this time. Would you like to leave your number?"

  He did. He was not willing to take the shower he wanted, for fear she would call and he would miss her. He drank some more whiskey. He walked around the room. He stared down from the windows at the bustling streets below. He wished he had asked how long she might be out, when he might expect her to call.