“Duty charges,” Argenti admitted, as though that were nothing. “Anyway, it is best for everyone that we use carriers.”
“You mean couriers,” Wiley corrected.
“No, carriers, we call them carriers.”
“When you first spoke to me about it, you used the term couriers.”
“You are mistaken,” Argenti said determinedly.
Wiley was sure he was right, disliked letting it go, felt Argenti was using it, rubbing in his earlier remark about not wanting to be anyone’s messenger boy. There was certainly a positional difference between being a courier and a carrier.
“Did you know that according to legend the emerald was a symbol of chastity which shattered the moment a woman gave in,” Argenti said. “It was also supposed to be good for hemorrhoids.”
“I told you I know nothing about emeralds.”
“That you did.”
Carrier definitely sounded more like a messenger, Wiley thought, or someone with a catchy disease.
“When the conquistadores first came to this country, the Indians told them the way to identify an emerald was to hit it with a hammer because a true emerald would not break. Think of the fortune the Spaniards must have smashed away,” Argenti said.
There was a crystal compote containing Perugina chocolates on the desk, each piece wrapped in soft silver paper. A far cry from Hershey kisses, Wiley thought as he helped himself to two. The candy taste left in his mouth made him want a cigarette. He lighted up. He recalled, almost twenty years back, saying the greatest sure thing would be to get a corner on a cycle of irresistible cravings. For instance, a cigarette, a soft drink, a candy. Smoking the smoke would make you want to drink the drink would make you want to eat the candy would make you want to smoke the smoke …
Argenti got up from his desk, went to stand at the window, his back to Wiley. His customary view was to the northeast, in the general direction of his homeland. He avoided looking directly below, at all those ugly barrio structures held together as though cringing at his feet. He would rather pretend they were not there—nor was he. Often his daydreams transported him to the Piazza San Marco in Venice or to other, more intimate favorite places in Florence and Milan.
Somewhat distantly, and with some envy, he told Wiley, “You can leave this afternoon.”
The sooner the better.
Argenti turned abruptly toward him. “Does Lillian know about your going to work?”
“No.”
After a long thought: “There is a certain type of woman who seems to enjoy a man bought and paid for, ready to serve her slightest twitch.” He smiled and then lost it quickly. “But not Lillian.”
“Not her.”
“Why do you suppose it is that Lillian and I have such an affinity?”
Wiley just smoked.
Argenti went around behind Wiley’s chair, paced back and forth. Wiley remained as he was. He could see Argenti’s reflection in the window glass, transparent.
“It is more than money,” Argenti said.
Wiley found that by exhaling smoke slowly he could make Argenti seem all the more a ghost.
“She cares for me, of course. Why else would she be so eager to be here in Bogotá? She has told you how much she cares for me?” Argenti left a space for Wiley’s answer.
Wiley left it blank.
Argenti went on: “Did you know at one time it was believed that a well-placed emerald would cause an immediate and lasting hard-on?” He paused. “Which leads one to wonder about the other claim regarding hemorrhoids.” He’d obviously said it before, expected a laugh, was irritated when he didn’t get one.
Wiley’s mind was elsewhere, brought back by Marie Antoinette.
“Marie Antoinette,” Argenti said, “made a pledge to reward her lover with an emerald each time she was worked up to an exceptional orgasm. She broke her promise in less than a month. Otherwise the better part of the French crown jewels would have belonged to the Duchesse de Polignac.”
“When do I collect my commission?” Wiley asked.
“Not until you’ve completed the carry, when you return with the receipt.”
“Suppose for some reason I don’t make delivery?”
“Don’t?”
“Can’t … for some unavoidable reason … blizzard, train wreck, whatever.”
“In that case, you get nothing.”
“Just want to get things straight.”
“What else?”
“There ought to be a minimum to how much I carry.”
“How much do you suggest?”
It had occurred to Wiley that Argenti might send him out with only a few thousand dollars’ worth just to be rid of him.
“Go ahead, set your minimum.”
“A million, never less,” Wiley said.
“Done.”
At that point they went to the floor above, via a small private elevator in which four passengers would be a squeeze. It was the only way up to thirty-five, the top floor. No other elevator, no stairs.
Up there was a large corner room, with floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was done in white, a hard shiny white, lacquered walls and ceiling, a wall-to-wall white wool rug woven so tight it was almost slick. In the exact center was a heavy glass table, waist height, rectangular, five by nine. On it was a telephone, only the instrument, without cords or any type of connection. The top surface of the table was brightly, evenly illuminated by colorless lights that seemed to be embedded in the glass.
The atmosphere made Wiley uncomfortable. It was like an incomplete surgery. And no visible reason for it. The absolute white exaggerated everything: Wiley’s usual sense of being out of place, the rapidity of his thoughts, the subtle exertion required to breathe, Argenti’s voice babbling on about emeralds again and about himself—Meno Sebastiano Argenti.
Argenti was off to the right, standing before the longest blank wall, facing it squarely as though it offered something to his eyes. He did not touch anything, had nothing in his hands. His gaze alone seemed to cause part of the wall to disappear.
Actually a section of the wall had slid aside swiftly—to reveal a vault about twelve feet square. Same stark white, lighted strongly from above. Along the walls inside the vault were cabinets, wide and white with numerous drawers, shallow drawers, no more than two inches deep.
Argenti reached randomly for a drawer, used only one finger to pull it out.
The drawer contained emeralds.
A layer of emeralds.
Their green better defined against white velour.
They were rough stones, of about five carats each.
Argenti opened another drawer. The stones in that one were slightly larger. Argenti invited Wiley to open a few drawers. He read the question Wiley had in mind. “Fifty to sixty million dollars’ worth here,” he said casually.
Wiley was so engrossed by the sight of such wealth that for a moment he didn’t realize Argenti had left the vault, just left him there with a chance to help himself to a handful. A natural reaction, to feel so tempted. Didn’t mean he was a latent thief, Wiley told himself.
Argenti was calling him.
Wiley went out to find another section of the wall was open. Another vault exposed. It appeared nearly twice as large as the first.
Inside was the same sort of cabinet arrangement with shallow drawers. More of them.
Argenti pulled out several drawers to show layer after layer of emeralds. These seemed greener, more vivid, for some reason. Argenti watched closely for Wiley’s reaction, the amazement, the anxiety and the envy. Argenti fed on it, prolonged it, allowed Wiley to examine the contents of as many drawers as he wanted, to run his hands over the precious stones.
“A hundred and fifty million here,” Argenti said.
Wiley closed the drawers, told himself, hell, they’re only stones, only better than pebbles because of scarcity. If someone ever discovered a cliff or a big boulder or even a fifty-foot outcropping that was pure emerald, these here would be worth
shit.
He focused his appreciation on the unorthodoxy of Argenti’s security system. The ingenuity of situating the vaults on the top floor rather than beneath the building. He complimented Argenti, who took full credit for the idea and therefore was inclined to explain it to some extent.
What about the roof of the building? Couldn’t someone …?
The roof was equipped with radar, a sweeping KU-band type that relayed to a monitoring room continuously manned by Conduct Section down on the thirty-third floor. Not only that, the roof had what Argenti referred to as a listening alarm. Extremely sensitive. Jet planes flying miles overhead had frequently set it off. As for a helicopter … no way for one to get anywhere close.
The floor below?
The only way up from there was that small elevator. During off hours a steel plate was extended horizontally and locked into place across the elevator shaft, closing it off.
The vaults?
Floors, ceilings, all the sides were of a special cadmium-based metal, four inches thick. A by-product of space research, that metal. No torch was hot enough to cut through it, and according to actual tests Argenti himself had witnessed, it showed hardly a dent when hit by a seventy-millimeter shell fired point-blank. The vaults were impenetrable.
Wiley remarked that he, Argenti, had proved it not so—by opening them.
Argenti raised his chin, aimed it and a smile at Wiley, challenging him to figure that out if he could.
Electronically controlled, Wiley thought. He was certainly no stranger to the workings of things electronic, but there was no way of telling how these vault doors operated. The combination that released them would have to be activated, but Argenti hadn’t done anything, hadn’t gone within six feet of them.
Wiley went to the open vault door, examined the exposed edge of it. No locking device, no visible mechanism, just flush metal. To hell with it.
Meanwhile Argenti had used the phone to summon Kellerman, who came up carrying an Air France flight bag, one of those ordinary plastic satchels with the airline’s logo imprinted on it. He and Argenti went into the first vault for several minutes. When they came out they placed the flight bag on the table.
Kellerman was somewhat upset. He’d had only time enough to run the most cursory check on Wiley, and he still had to make all the other arrangements for this unanticipated trip.
“There is your carry,” Argenti said, indicating the flight satchel.
“How much?” Wiley asked.
Argenti told him.
Kellerman said, “Take off your jacket and roll up your right sleeve.”
Wiley did as told.
Kellerman removed from his pocket a black leather kit, flat, like a set of drafting instruments. It contained several pens that were battery powered.
Wiley realized he was about to be tattooed. He refused.
“It will not show,” Argenti assured him.
Kellerman explained he was using an ink that only made itself apparent under black light, that is, ultraviolet or infrared. It was a requirement.
As Kellerman proceeded to tattoo a letter C about a quarter-inch in size on the inside of Wiley’s forearm, Wiley couldn’t help thinking it stood for Concession and that something similar had been a requirement of the Nazi SS.
Now in the better part of the belly of the 707, Wiley was cutting through the night sky over the Atlantic.
His carry was at his feet. He could feel it against the back of his lower legs. He had not, would not for even a moment, lose touch with it.
Five thousand carats of emeralds.
Classified fine quality gemstones.
Two and a quarter pounds of them.
Worth a thousand dollars a carat at the dealer level.
Five million dollars altogether.
Two percent commission would be his. One hundred thousand dollars just for taking a quick trip to Paris.
Had to be Argenti was following intuition, trusting Wiley with such a large carry first time out. Argenti was obviously the kind of man who needed to prove himself a good judge of other men. And, thereby, superior to them? That was it, the only reasonable explanation, Wiley thought.
As for Argenti’s using this carry as a means of getting Wiley out of the way, that wasn’t really a hundred-thousand-dollar motive. Argenti could hardly expect to accomplish much with Lillian in the short time Wiley would be gone. No, it wasn’t a one shot. The tattooing of the C on his arm, for example, indicated the intention of doing business long term.
A hundred thousand. Ten carries a year would make him a million. Before taxes. What the hell was he thinking about? There were no taxes there on the shady side. Even if he wanted to pay taxes, he couldn’t, and even if he could, he wouldn’t—because, for one thing, the U.S. Department of Agriculture might get a nibble of that tax bite. He’d never forgive the Department of Agriculture for fucking up his imported-dirt gimmick.
Strange, though, how crime compounded itself. At once he was also a tax evader. How he’d deal with that depended on how he got paid, by check or in cash. He should have nailed that point down with Argenti. Given a choice, he’d take it in green. A thousand hundreds.
Argenti might not really be such a bad guy, Wiley thought. He questioned his animosity toward Argenti. How much of it was because the man was so successful, powerful? Thirty percent seemed an acceptable figure.
Anyway, as Argenti had promised, he’d had no trouble at El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá. The customs official, as though he’d been on the watch for him, had passed him through without search or question. An invisible C on that custom man’s forearm?
The flight attendent came offering magazines. Wiley chose Fortune and requested another bottle of Lowenbrau. Beer was even better when you could have champagne.
First thing he’d do when he got the first hundred thousand was pay Jennifer and her lawyer off. She was probably having such a shit-fit by now she’d stay out of a sanitarium for half the price. He got a flash of her battling the rats. Why was it more difficult to forget the good things?
He paged through Fortune, to an article that featured the forty-four-year-old Chairman of the Board of a widespread fast-food corporation, who had, it said, started at the low-management level of an altogether different kind of business when he was twenty-nine. Tenacious, amiable, systematic-minded were some of the adjectives.
Wiley shoved the magazine into the pocket of the seat in front of him, where there was also a vomit bag and ditching instructions.
He got up, took his carry with him to the lavatory.
The moment he slid the door bolt into Occupé position the plane started to fight strong headwinds, buffeted sharply. The Fasten Seat Belts sign went on. All right, there was the seat, but where was the belt? The confined space exaggerated the jouncing, made it seem more dangerous. Wiley placed the satchel on the floor, had to take a wide stance. His aim was unsteady but within the stainless-steel target. How many passengers got caught midstream by turbulence and missed? he wondered.
The sink was splash-spotted, had a soapy film. Rather than clean and fill it, he contended with the cold tap. Had to hold the tap down with one hand while he washed the other. He doused his face in the same handicapped manner.
After drying, he took up the satchel, placed it on the counter. Unzipped it and removed his spare shirt, socks and toilet articles. There was the bottom that wasn’t really the bottom. It snapped out to reveal a layer of cotton wool. Wiley peeled that aside. The emeralds, 712 of them, were on another layer of cotton wool. So they wouldn’t rattle.
Wiley gazed at the five million dollars’ worth of emeralds.
They didn’t look like they were worth five million.
The lavatory light flattered complexions but apparently did nothing for precious gems.
Wiley took out one of the stones. About eight carats. He held it up to the light. When it was cut and polished, it would probably knock eyes out. He started to put it back but recalled Argenti’s saying he expected W
iley to steal some. He tucked the emerald into his vest pocket. Not to disappoint.
The flight touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 12:35 P.M., a half hour ahead of schedule.
Wiley was still flying twenty minutes later as he waited in line at customs. At least he didn’t feel as though he was on solid ground. Everything and everyone around him seemed either too fast or in slow motion.
Moment of truth that was the moment of lie.
He was next now. There were two customs officials at that pass-through. It was overly optimistic to expect cooperation from both. Perhaps he should have chosen a different line.
They were being thorough with the lady ahead, an innocent-looking middle-aged woman. They had all four pieces of her luggage open, feeling and poking around in them.
Wiley turned, smiled weakly at the older couple behind him. Out of nervousness he noticed extraneous things: the chrome railing, the wrinkles in the seat of a gray flannel skirt on a woman in the next line over, people waiting in the terminal just beyond customs, among them a fat man trying to hang on to four kids, and another man wearing a hairpiece so obvious it might as well have been cut from a black nylon bathmat.
They were done with the middle-aged woman.
It was Wiley’s turn. He placed the Air France satchel on the counter.
“C’est tout, monsieur?” the taller customs man asked.
“Huh?”
“Is that all?”
“Oui, c’est tout,” Wiley replied.
The taller customs man unzipped the satchel, held it open. The shorter one peeked into it rather conscientiously but didn’t poke.
The bag was zipped up. It received an approving scrawl with a piece of white chalk.
“Merci, monsieur.”
Wiley restrained his smile. “Merci.” He walked through and out into the terminal, relieved and buoyed to such an extent that when he passed by the man in the so obvious hairpiece he had the urge to snatch it off and buy him a real convincer.
Heading for the exit, Wiley thought how incredible the reach of The Concession was. Both those customs men were doing double duty. Either that or he’d just experienced the good fortune of French inconsistency. He believed the former.
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