The Adventurers

by Robbins, Harold

  But two days later Dax was back with a cablegram from el Presidente. White-faced and silent, he handed it to the aide.

  PLEASE INFORM COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF MY DEEP REGRETS.

  DUE TO EXPIRATION OF ENLISTMENTS LESS THAN FIFTY OFFICERS AND MEN NOW TRAINED IN USE OF NEW STANDARDIZED WEAPONS. IMMEDIATE STEPS BEING TAKEN TO TRAIN NEW ENLISTERS. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED WHEN QUOTA IS FILLED.

  EL PRESIDENTE

  The aide looked at Dax. "It looks like someone's been playing politics with you, Colonel."

  Dax did not answer.

  "Do I have your permission to show this to the Commander-in-Chief?"

  "Yes, sir. And may I request a favor of the Commander-in-Chief, sir?"

  "What is it?"

  "I feel my usefulness here is at an end," Dax said through tight lips. "I request permission to be relieved of my duties."

  The old aide stared at him for a moment. "I suppose that would be best," he said thoughtfully. "You'll have your permission in the morning." He held out his hand. "I'm sorry, Colonel."

  Dax took his hand. "I am too, sir."

  It was a war without secrets, and the news was all over Seoul in a matter of hours. Even the North Korean radio announced that the Corteguayan president had refused to send troops to fight in an imperialistic war of aggression.

  Dax sat at a table in the officers' club alone with a half-empty drink. He lit another cigarette and stared moodily down at the table. Occasionally a friend would come over with a word of sympathy, but since they didn't know what to say, mostly they left him alone.

  Then an American Marine major came in. He was only back a few hours from the battle line. His clothes were still dirty with the mud of the field as he walked up to the bar and ordered a drink in a voice still used to making itself heard over the rumble of war. The other soldiers gravitated around him, eager to hear the latest.

  "Man, it was a bitch!" He drank his drink hurriedly and ordered another. "I lost almost half the men in my command. Those damn slant-eyes just kept on comin' an' comin'. I never saw so many of the yallow gook bastards in my life."

  The major turned, his elbows on the bar, and looked around. Then he noticed Dax. He stared at him for a moment and, without lowering his voice, asked of no one in particular, "Is that the colonel who comes from a whole country of chickens?"

  A silence suddenly fell over the room. Dax looked up and met the Marine's eyes steadily. He had been around long enough to understand the play on words. Slowly he got to his feet. He counted out the money for his drink and placed it carefully on the table, then walked up to the major at the bar.

  "I envy you the battle from which you come. Perhaps it gives you the right to say such things, Major," he said quietly, "but I don't envy you the ignorance out of which you speak."

  After a moment the major's eyes lowered, and Dax turned and walked out of the club. The next day he was in Tokyo.

  Less than a month later he was on his way back to New York. It was almost two years from the day that el Presidente had sent him out as head of an army that never existed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sergei sat behind his desk, his eyes thoughtful, his hand toying with the gold letter opener. He looked at Irma Andersen, then at the man sitting in the chair beside her. "I don't know," he said after a moment's silence, "we're doing well enough here. I wouldn't like to upset the apple cart, as you Americans say."

  Irma snorted derisively. She spoke rapidly in French, too rapidly for the American sitting next to her to follow. "You're an idiot, Sergei! You gross two hundred thousand a year, maybe net seventeen thousand for yourself. You call that enough? Lakow is offering you millions!"

  "But here we know what we can do," Sergei replied. "America, that's another story. It's a different kind of business entirely. Wiser and smarter men than I have lost their shirts in the mass market. Besides, how do I know what it might do to our business here? We could lose it all if our customers decided we had become too common, too ordinary."

  "But copies of your dresses are sold all over America now, and it hasn't made the slightest difference."

  "Copies, that's something else. Our prices are maintained. Not everyone can afford an original, and the royalties are not bad. But we would surely lose all that if we went into a straight twenty-to-fifty-dollar line."

  "It's not just the dresses," Harvey Lakow said, "it's everything. A complete new way of life for the American woman. The Prince Nikovitch name will be on everything. A complete line of cosmetics and perfumes. Lingerie. Sport wear, from bikinis to ski clothes. Even husbands won't be forgotten. We'll have men's toiletries as well as ties and sport shirts. I don't think you quite realize what this could mean. We'll have an investment of over five million before we see a single sale."

  Sergei still hesitated. "If the idea is so good, why haven't any of the other houses gone for it?"

  Harvey Lakow smiled. "Because we haven't asked them. We asked you."

  There was no doubt in Sergei's mind that Lakow was telling the truth. Amalgamated-Federal was the largest association of department stores and women's-wear .shops in the world. There were over a thousand outlets in the United States alone, ranging from the largest of department stores in the big cities down to medium-size quality shops in a variety of smaller towns.

  "If you could have anyone you wanted, why me?"

  "If I may speak bluntly?"

  "Go ahead," Irma said, "the truth won't kill him."

  Lakow turned back to Sergei. "Once we had decided on what we are temporarily calling 'Paris in Your Home,' we began to look around for the one house we thought would best suit our needs. The older, better-established houses were immediately rejected because we were convinced they were too set in their ways. Then we considered for a while taking one of their designers and building him up. But that seemed hardly practical. It was Dior's name that was known, not the designer's. We were looking for a name that any American woman would immediately associate with Parisian couture. That's why we decided on you. Oddly enough, it was my wife who brought up your name. I've learned to trust her judgment, she has very good instincts. She pointed out that although you were a comparatively new house you had survived for over five years, and thanks to Miss Andersen's column and others, you are in some ways more widely known than most of the older houses. Besides, my wife said she met you once and that you seemed a bright, capable young man."

  "Your wife?" Sergei's brow wrinkled.

  Harvey Lakow smiled. "She said you probably wouldn't remember her. It was before the war, when she came to Paris on a holiday. She was alone; I couldn't get away because of business problems. You were a student then and very helpful to her. You acted as her part-time guide."

  "I'm sorry," Sergei said, "I don't seem to remember her."

  "It's not really important. The important thing is that you have a good house, and a moderately successful one. But in Paris you will never really achieve the status of a top house. Yet to American women the others are just names, while you are a personality, a man whose pictures they have seen in newspapers and magazines. They know of you through your marriage to Sue Ann Daley, and through the extensive reportage of Miss Andersen. You represent to them glamour, excitement, the high life. There is no doubt in our minds that if you come in with us and go to America we could practically dominate the fashion world there in a very short time."

  Harvey Lakow got to his feet. "Look, I know this is all very sudden. I imagine you want time to think about it. I'm going to Rome tomorrow but I'll be back on Saturday. Could you call me at my hotel then and give me your answer?"

  There was a silence after Lakow had left the room. "What do you think?" Sergei finally asked Irma.

  "He's right," she said, quietly for once, "you will never make it here as a top house. You know that because you wanted to hire other top designers and they wouldn't come."

  Sergei nodded. He had long felt the need of another designer; his own little fairy was beginning to lose his sparkle. "It's still dangerous.
I could lose everything."

  "All you need is a few good years, and then it wouldn't matter. The fifteen percent they are offering you is worth twenty times what this place is. And they are quite willing for you to keep this for yourself alone."

  Sergei stared at her. "America, I've heard so much about it. I've always wanted to go there. And yet . . . I'm afraid."

  Irma smiled. "You have nothing to worry about. American women are no different from any other kind. You should know that by now. They are all in love with what a man has in his britches."

  Sergei reached for a cigarette. "I can always rely on your honesty to make me face myself for what I really am, Irma."

  "That's why your name is better known than that fairy designer you've got downstairs. Don't knock it, boy."

  Sergei put the cigarette in the holder and lit it.

  "Tell me something," Irma said suddenly.

  "Yes?"

  "Was it true that you really didn't remember Lakow's wife?"

  "No." Sergei looked across the desk at her, his eyes gentle and in a way sad. "I remembered her very well."

  "I thought so," Irma said with satisfaction. "I didn't think you were the kind of man who ever forgot any woman."

  "I should be excited about it," Sergei said after the waiter had filled their demitasse cups and gone away, "but I'm not."

  Giselle said nothing, just sat there looking at Sergei with her huge blue eyes.

  "I'm thirty-five, and for the first time in my life I've found a place for myself. I don't want to chance losing it. I guess it's because I find it too comfortable. Or am I getting old?"

  Giselle smiled. "You're still a young man."

  Sergei looked at her somberly. "I feel old. Sometimes when I think of my daughter—she's almost thirteen now— I'm reminded of how much time has gone by."

  "How is Anastasia? Is she doing well?"

  "As well as can be expected. That's another thing; I'd hate to leave her and yet I'm afraid to take her to a strange new place. Things are difficult enough for her as it is. New faces, a new language—it would be too much."

  "There are better schools for her in America than there are here."

  He sipped his coffee. "You sound as if you think I should go. I thought you didn't like America."

  "Professionally America was no good for me. But for you it could be a whole new world."

  "You say that, but would you go back?"

  "As an artiste, no. But if I were you, still young and in search of a world to conquer, I would not hesitate."

  Sergei thought for a moment. "No, it's impossible. I cannot leave Anastasia alone."

  "Go," Giselle urged, "try it for a year. If you do not like it you can return. I will look after your daughter while you're away."

  The telephone began to ring while they were having breakfast in front of the bay window of the suite overlooking the Champs Elysee. Harvey Lakow got up and crossed the room. "Hello."

  "Mr. Lakow? This is Prince Nikovitch."

  "Yes?"

  "I have thought about your kind offer, and I have decided to accept."

  Lakow's voice filled with satisfaction. "Good, I'm very pleased. You won't regret it."

  "I feel that way, too."

  "If you are free Monday morning I'd like to come by your office. Perhaps we can begin to set the wheels in motion."

  "I am at your complete disposal."

  Lakow put down the telephone and walked back to the table. "Well," he said in a pleased voice, "he's coming in."

  "I'm glad," his wife said, looking up at him with a smile.

  "Wait until the Allied Stores hear about this," Harvey said triumphantly. "It will knock them for a loop."

  "I'm sure it will, Harvey."

  "It was a lucky thing that you thought about Nikovitch. All the others just looked down at us when we talked to them. As if our money wasn't good enough for them."

  "Don't you worry, Harvey. They'll regret it."

  "You're damn right they will! Especially when they see what we plan for Nikovitch." He sat down and sipped his coffee again, then made a face and put it back on the table. "You'd think the French would learn to make a decent cup of coffee!"

  She laughed.

  "Strange, you remembered him but he didn't remember you. I wonder why?"

  "It's not strange at all, Harvey," she said gently, her eyes going past him to the window. "I was probably just one of the many Americans for whom he acted as guide. And he was such a young boy at the time, and frightened too."

  "If it were me, I'd never forget you."

  Her eyes came back to him and for a moment there was all the beauty of her life in them. She bent across the table and pressed her lips to his cheek. "That's because you're you," she whispered, "and because I love you."

  CHAPTER 6

  The heavy roar of the engines forward in the nose of the chartered DC-7 muted suddenly as they reached cruising altitude and the pilot modified the propeller pitch. Wearily Sergei loosened the catch and his seat belt fell to one side. He pressed a button and adjusted the back of the seat, then lit a cigarette and glanced out the window. Below the lights of New Orleans flickered and then fell away behind them as they circled out over the Gulf of Mexico toward the Florida peninsula.

  "Mr. Nikovitch?" Norman Berry, the thin, white-faced PR man slid into the seat beside him, the usual sheaf of papers in his hand and the same worried expression on his face. "I thought we might take a moment to go over the plans for tomorrow."

  "Later, Norman. I want to see if I can catch a little rest." Sergei saw the expression on Berry's face worsen. "Leave the papers. I'll look them over and call you when I'm ready."

  "Yes, sir." Berry got up and, leaving the papers on the seat, walked out of the forward cabin. The voices of the models chattering excitedly came through the door as it opened and closed behind him.

  Idly Sergei glanced down. The blue and red print of the multigraph was headed: "prince nikovitch promotion. September 19th, 1951, Miami, Fla., Airport Reception, 9 a.m., Airport Reception Committee: The Mayor; Members of City Council; Greater Miami Chamber of Commerce; Bartlett's (A-F Miami) Dept. Store; Reporters; Photographers; News-reel and TV Personnel."

  Everything was there, logged and detailed, minute by minute like a train schedule. Nothing was forgotten. And so on through the entire day right up to midnight, when the plane would take off again on its final flight back to New York. Sergei turned the sheet of paper over and glanced across the aisle.

  Irma Andersen was already asleep, her mouth slightly open. Sergei shook his head in mild wonder. He was younger than she, much younger, and yet he was exhausted. Where did she find the drive and energy for each day? There had been ten days of this, starting in New York. Then San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, New Orleans. Flying by night. A different major city every day.

  And it wasn't only this trip. The whole of the past year had been hectic. Now, only now, was he beginning to understand the power and drive of business in the States. No wonder American businessmen conquered the world, then died young. They never stopped. Not for a moment, not for anything.

  It had all begun less than two months after he met Lakow in Paris. It started innocently enough, like a pebble dropped into the water, its ripples reaching out wider and wider. Only a line of black type. But suddenly it appeared in thousands and thousands of advertisements, placed by the various A-F stores all over the country.

  Dress—or hat, or shoes, or whatever—from the Prince Nikovitch Collection.

  Makeup by Prince Nikovitch, the Royal Look of Beauty.

  And most of it long before a single item had been put into actual production. So that it always seemed to Sergei like a deadly race against time. Everything was happening at the same time in the penthouse offices on the seventieth floor of the A-F building in New York. There was a continuous pandemonium that made the most hectic day he had ever known in Paris seem like a vacation.

  There were three conference rooms adjoining his of
fice, and there were times when even three were not enough. He would race from one to the other. Everything was departmentalized and specialized and yet, somehow, coordinated in a way that only Americans seemed able to accomplish. And between all the office meetings was the press, the publicity which never let up.

  He was the symbol, the name, the entire campaign. His pictures were taken at every important Broadway opening, at the opera, at every charity ball, at each important social event. Irma Andersen saw to that, just as she arranged for his name to appear in all the important columns at least twice a week. Not a day passed but somewhere in the United States at least one interview appeared. Not a week passed when his voice was not heard on radio or he was not seen on television in one of the many programs with a special appeal for women.

  A few months ago Norman Berry had come into his office excitedly waving a copy of Advertising Age. "We made it! We made it!"

  Sergei had looked up from the drawings on his desk. "Made what?"

  "Advertising Age says that you're now the best-known male in American advertising. Better known even than Commander what's-his-name!"

  "Commander what's-his-name?" Sergei asked, puzzled.

  "You know," Norman said, "Commander Whitehead. The 'Schweppervescence' man."

  "Oh, him." Sergei's eyebrows lifted ironically. He looked at Berry quizzically. "Do you think we've been missing a bet? Perhaps we should add a vodka to our line. Prince Nikovitch Vodka."

  "That's a hell of an idea! A natural!" Norman seemed enthusiastic, then he stopped suddenly and stared at Sergei. "You're kidding!"

  Sergei allowed himself a smile.

  "I'm all wound up, nothing like this ever happened to me before."

  "Nor to me," Sergei answered quietly.

  The target date was September 10 in New York. The collection would be presented exactly as it had been in Paris. Even the models would be flown over by Air France for the showing. Then the entire cast would board a chartered plane and fly to another major city to present the collection again. Ten cities. Ten days.