Grave Descend

by Michael Crichton

  “And Mr. Wayne and Miss Grant have checked out of the hotel, and are unavailable for questioning.”

  “They have flown out of the country.”

  “Actually not,” Burnham said. “We have been watching the airports at Montego and Kingston quite closely. They have not left.”

  “But they checked out.”

  “Yes indeed,” Burnham said. “Leaving you with this.” He held up the piece of sculpture. “Most embarrassing.”

  “So now you are going to throw me in jail.”

  “Absolutely,” Burnham said.

  “Can I have breakfast first?”

  “Anything you wish,” Burnham said. “There’s no rush. You see, you are already in jail.”

  “I am?”

  Burnham nodded. “It will be in all the afternoon papers.”

  “When was I jailed?”

  “An hour ago. You were apprehended in Morstown.”

  “I see,” McGregor said, not seeing. “And what jail?”

  “Kingston. Maximum security, of course. You’re quite well guarded.” Burnham tapped the bit of sculpture with his finger. “I’ve done all this on my own authority,” he said. “It represents quite a considerable risk. But I am prepared to give you forty-eight hours.”

  “Sporting of you.”

  “Practical,” Burnham said. “We are understaffed, and our workload is heavy.”

  “So I have forty-eight hours to clear it all up?”

  “That is essentially correct.”

  Room service came with the food and four rum Collinses. McGregor handed one to Burnham.

  “Sit down,” he said. “And talk to me.”

  “I take it,” Burnham said, as McGregor began to eat the eggs hungrily, “that you are not a poet.”

  “Not precisely.”

  “It might have helped you, if you were. The name of the boat, for example—a bizarre name, but a clue in itself. A kind of joke, I suppose. But we must begin everything with Trevo.”

  “Trevo, Italy,” McGregor said.

  “Yes. Trevo, Italy. In June of 1944, a detachment of German soldiers with an armored truck entered the mountains of Trevo and passed twelve hours there. On their way out, they were ambushed by Sicilian partisans, and wiped out. It was not until some weeks later that the consequences of this little battle were fully understood. You know General Doermann?”

  “No.”

  “He made a name for himself in the Ethiopian campaign, and rose rapidly through the ranks as the war progressed. Spent all his time in the Mediterranean and North Africa. A little man, by all accounts, nearsighted and clumsy. But clever.”

  “Go on.” McGregor finished the eggs, and began with the toast.

  “His cleverness extended to some looting in Ethiopia. Offhand, one would not believe Ethiopia to be a good place to seek booty, but it was. Doermann amassed a considerable private fortune. When the war seemed to be turning against the Axis, he hid it.”

  “In Trevo.”

  Burnham nodded. “In Trevo. It represented one of four known Axis treasure caches hidden in Italy during the war. Another is thought to be concealed somewhere in the Dolomites; still another outside Fiesole; and a fourth is rumored to be hidden near Trieste, along the coast north of Venice. Intermittently, some enterprising Italian will go off in search of these treasures. Occasionally, there will be a rumor that one of the treasures has actually been found. Some months ago, the treasure of Trevo was reportedly discovered, in the mountains north of the town.”

  “And you’re going to tell me—”

  “That it was taken out of the country, from Naples. Yes. The treasure was especially difficult to trace, because it was so small and portable. The other treasures are gold bullion, but Doermann was too clever for that. His treasure, worth a million and a half dollars American, was compact: diamonds.”

  “Diamonds?” McGregor said, sipping the first of the rum Collinses.

  “Fine, blue Ethiopian diamonds. And a sprinkling of star sapphires, for variety. The man who found them was, of course, eliminated by the locals, which in Sicily—”

  “The Mafia.”

  “Presumably. But then there was a small defection within the ranks—a million and a half can turn one’s head—and the stones left Mafia hands. They have, of course, been anxious to recover them.”

  “Where did the stones go?”

  “Ah,” Burnham said, warming to his subject, “that is a most interesting question. It is primarily a question of distributed wealth. You see, no private individual can suddenly acquire a million and a half dollars without arousing the suspicion of his government. There is the matter of income taxes, corporate taxes—all in all, quite difficult to deal with. A man who suddenly owns a million and a half dollars of anything must be able to account for himself. He must have the proper books, ledgers, stock certificates, and they must go back a considerable period. It must all be legitimate. Otherwise the wealth is useless. Do you follow me?”

  “I follow you.”

  “Now then,” Burnham said. “There are, throughout the world, perhaps a dozen men who make it their business to arrange this sort of money matter. They are converters. They take a large lump of illegal gain, and convert it to legal assets. They are able to backdate, to provide old ledgers, to arrange past tax forms, to handle receipts and invoices. They can create a ten-year-old corporation overnight.

  “Each of these men does a huge business: several billion dollars a year. The biggest of them all is a Hindu in Bombay, who deals with the opium people. There is another in Hong Kong who does twenty-three billion dollars of business a year. As converters these people take a healthy cut. Usually it runs thirty percent of the total. A man pays a million in cash from a robbery or a drug-smuggling business, and gets back seven hundred thousand in viable assets. You follow?”

  “I follow.”

  “Of the twelve men, one is in Naples, but he is old, and firmly under the Mafia thumb. Therefore, whoever stole the diamonds would not turn to him. There is another man in Marseilles, and another in Tangier. But neither of these men was contacted. Instead, the money was shipped abroad. It was destined for Venezuela.”

  “Aboard the Grave Descend?”

  “Yes. At least, we had heard it was aboard a yacht, and headed for Venezuela. Everybody heard that. Every police agency in the world—and also, presumably, the Mafia.”

  “Delightful.”

  “So we had more than a passing interest, you see, in the Grave Descend. Particularly since it seemed to be heading for Venezuela. Venezuela is a good place to convert currency. Despite unstable politics, the finances of the country are traditionally good. Venezuelan bolivars are only one notch below Swiss francs, you know.”

  “I didn’t, but go on.”

  “Our interest became even greater when we investigated the ownership of the yacht. We ought to have known, of course. Everyone commented upon the peculiarity of the name, but no one was able to see the riddle it presented.”

  “Riddle?”

  “Of ownership. There is a Robert Wayne in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. He is sixty-five and currently resides in a nursing home after his fifth heart attack. He is quite wealthy, a former steel executive, but has never owned a yacht.”

  “And Arthur Wayne?”

  “Does not exist. Robert has no brothers. And there is no General Marine Insurance Company, either in Chicago or anywhere else. Nor has anyone in New York heard of a Monica Grant. She has never been listed in the telephone book, on the registers of the gas and electric companies, or on the employee lists of any big nightclub.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  Burnham smiled slightly. “As it turns out,” he said, “the owner of the yacht is a Jamaican resident, a former American named Robert Levett. Dr. Robert Levett. Now do you understand?”

  “No,” McGregor said.

  “Do you know Dr. Johnson?”

  “Not personally.”

  Burnham sighed. “In any event,
” he said, “Robert Levett is one of the twelve men I mentioned earlier. One of the converters. The government knows all about him, naturally.”

  “Why is he permitted to stay?”

  Burnham spread his hands and looked at his fingers. “It is a matter of some delicacy. He is permitted to stay because he tends to invest the money he converts in Jamaican development and industry.”

  “Ah. Naughty capital is better than none.”

  “Something like that.”

  “The plight of the underdeveloped nation.”

  Burnham shrugged. “It could be worse.”

  At that moment, the doctor came in and began to attend to McGregor’s leg. He poured stinging iodine over the cuts; McGregor groaned.

  Burnham got up and started for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” McGregor said. “How am I going to find this Levett person?”

  “He owns a house east of here,” Burnham said. “It’s called Silverstone.”

  13

  YEOMAN, SITTING IN THE COCKATOO, looked up as McGregor limped in.

  “Somebody try to eat you?”

  “Yeah. Nearly succeeded.”

  “You don’t look very tasty,” Yeoman said, “Where’s Sylvie?”

  “Sylvie? I don’t know.”

  “I thought she was with you.”

  “Not me. I was off in the Pit.”

  “Nice place to visit,” Yeoman said. “Who took you there?”

  “Apparently a man named Levett”

  Yeoman frowned.

  “Something wrong?”

  “He’s bad news,” Yeoman said. “That’s what they call him around here. Mr. Bad News.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a money man. Set up the money for you, switch it from black money to white money. You have a robbery, you have a burglary, and you know it’s bad news, because Mr. Bad News has your money now, and for thirty percent he’s taking care of every little thing.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “He has a woman named Maria Perez. She came in from Puerto Rico, light gal, and changed her name. She collects leopards.”

  “Ocelots,” McGregor said.

  “You met her?”

  “She was with me when I got hit over the head and shipped to the Pit.”

  “She’s a mean one,” Yeoman said.

  McGregor said, “She lives in Silverstone with Levett?”

  “Yah. In the house. You’ve seen it?”

  “I’ve seen it. Now what about Sylvie?”

  Yeoman shrugged. “Saw her last night, and again early this morning. She was looking for you, we couldn’t find you anywhere. She was supposed to meet me here at noon.”

  McGregor checked his watch. It was now twelve thirty. It was odd: Sylvie was never late. “Where was she going?”

  “Last I heard, she was going to look for you at Silverstone.”

  “Great,” McGregor said, frowning.

  They talked for a few minutes more. Yeoman told him everything he knew about the house, which was not much; just that it was large, had a fence that some said was electrified, and some said wasn’t, and that some native boys from Port Martin had tried to burgle it once. They had never been seen again.

  McGregor said, “I’m going to go there now.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not wise,” Yeoman said, and paid for his beer, and got up.

  “I think it’s better if I go alone.”

  “No, man,” Yeoman said. “It’s better if you don’t.”

  Halfway up the mountainside, in a little clearing by the side of the dirt road, they could look out over the paved coast road, two hundred feet below, and the coast, and the promontory.

  McGregor lay on the ground and peered through binoculars. Silverstone was clearly visible. It was a frame house, but built in the manner of an old plantation dwelling. It was three stories tall, white, with a plain facade and high pillars framing the door. To the left of the house was a tennis court, and to the right, a swimming pool. He was too far away to see the six people who were swimming and splashing in the pool, but one of them, off to the side, sitting in a deck chair, looked like Sylvie.

  He told Yeoman.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Nothing,” McGregor said, looking through the binoculars. “Just sitting there.”

  “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “No, but I think so.”

  “Who else?”

  “Five other people. I can’t really see.”

  McGregor turned his attention from the pool to the fence. It ran around the house protecting it from the road, sealing off the promontory. Where it stopped, the sheer face of the promontory cliffs began; the juncture was laced with coils of barbed wire.

  “It doesn’t look as if they want company.”

  “No, man.”

  The promontory extended like a finger into the ocean. Most of it was unfenced; there was no need—the cliff could not be scaled. There was, of course, the series of steps leading down to the beach, but at the top of the steps was a gate and a guard.

  McGregor put down the binoculars.

  “What you going to do, man?”

  “Get in.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll drive up to the front gate and introduce myself.”

  “That’s easy,” Yeoman said. “How will you get out?”

  “If I’m not in the Cockatoo in twelve hours,” McGregor said, “with Sylvie with me, I want you to come after me.”

  “That’s not easy,” Yeoman said.

  “Can you get a gun?”

  Yeoman smiled thinly.

  “Then get it,” McGregor said, “and use it.”

  “Tall orders from the general,” Yeoman said. “You think you command suicide troops?”

  “I think,” McGregor said, “that you’re a smart fella.”

  “Smart is one thing. Stupid is another.”

  McGregor looked at him. “Can you do it?”

  Yeoman said nothing for a long time. He took the binoculars and surveyed the house, and the promontory. After a time he said, “I could bring the police.”

  “No.”

  He continued to peer through the binoculars. “You mind a little blood?”

  “Just so it’s theirs.”

  Yeoman put down the binoculars. “Okay,” he said. “Twelve hours.”

  “I’ll try to get out myself,” McGregor said.

  “You do that. Save me trouble.”

  “I will.”

  “But in case you don’t,” Yeoman said, his face bland, “stay cool.”

  McGregor nodded.

  “And if they give you a room, you come and look out.”

  McGregor nodded. “You thinking of something?”

  “A little plan,” Yeoman said. “Look out the window for five minutes, and light a cigarette. Then get inside, and stay away from the window. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Be seeing you,” Yeoman said.

  McGregor drove his truck up to the front of the gate. A native in khakis stopped him; he was discreetly armed with a pistol in a holster.

  “You can’t come in here.”

  “Sure I can,” McGregor said.

  “You got business?”

  “Mr. Levett wants to see me.”

  “Dr. Levett don’t want to see nobody.”

  McGregor turned off the engine. “Tell him James McGregor is here.”

  The guard stared at him with open hostility, but went back behind the gate and spoke quietly on a telephone. When he returned, he was more respectful.

  “Drive up to the front, park on the left and go in the front door.”

  McGregor nodded, and drove along the gravel road until it broadened into a turnabout, in front of the pillars which flanked the front door. He parked next to a Ferrari, a Mercedes sedan, and a white Anglia.

  He got out, and knocked on the front door. A maid answered. She had a starched, formal uniform
and a taut, formal face. “Mr. McGregor?”

  “Yes.”

  “The doctor will see you in the library. This way, please.”

  She led him down a hallway to a pair of double doors; opening them, he was ushered into a formal, rather elegant library. At the far end, seated behind a polished teak desk, was an enormous man wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and bathing trunks, peering at a book through half-frame glasses.

  “Ah. Mr. McGregor.”

  He stood, raised his massive bulk, his hand extended.

  “Dr. Levett, I presume.”

  Levett chuckled, his huge body quivering beneath the gaudy shirt.

  “Nice of you to drop by, McGregor.” He waved him to a seat. “Drink?”

  “All right.”

  “I drink only vodka,” Levett said, pouring clear liquid from a crystal decanter. “And only Russian vodka. It is by far the most healthful of liquors. Colorless and pure—do you know what goes into Scotch?”

  “No,” McGregor said. He was handed a glass of vodka without ice.

  “Fusel oil, wood extracts, formalin, a little benzene. That is what gives it its color. Bourbon is worse. Rum, though colorless, is wildly impure and exerts a dreadful effect upon the nervous system. It contains para-nitrodiphenol. Quite nasty.”

  “I see.” He looked at his glass. “Might I have some ice?”

  “Ice? Ice?” He sounded genuinely horrified. “You’re joking, surely. Ice cools a beverage to approximately forty-seven degrees fahrenheit. It arrives in the poor, abused stomach at approximately fifty-two degrees—a full forty-six degrees below body temperature. It is most unkind to your stomach to drink chilled beverages.”

  “Oh.” He watched as Levett raised his glass in a toast, then dutifully swallowed with him. The liquor was smooth, sharp, and stinging.

  McGregor blinked back tears and said, “You’re a physician, are you?”

  “A physician? Heavens, no. I deplore sickness: whatever made you think it?”

  “They call you a doctor.”

  “Ah. A harmless affectation. I am a doctor of philosophy. I have a degree in English literature.” He gestured to the library. “Do you read much, Mr. McGregor?”

  “Not much.”

  McGregor set his glass down and walked around the room, looking at the titles. One whole section seemed to be about Johnson: The Short Works of Samuel Johnson; Samuel Johnson: a Biography; Johnson as a Poet; Johnson and His Contemporaries; Johnson and London.