Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  THAT EVENING Hayek dined in solitary splendor at Norman’s, not an altogether foul restaurant in Coral Gables. But neither the meal nor the Spanish colonial surroundings held his attention. He found himself given over to another place and different meals, ones shared with his mother at Manhattan’s Russian Tea Room. It had been his mother’s favorite place, the red velvet and brass and padded linen tablecloths all vaguely reminiscent of the grandeur she had once known. One of the waiters of Pavel’s youth had been a minor Hungarian noble, someone his mother would most likely have scorned in another era. Even so, she would always sit at one of his tables. They would say little to one another, and speak only French, the social tongue of the central European aristocracy. And never, ever would they mention the lost realm. There was no need. A subtle shift of one eyebrow, a lingering sigh, a languorous glance at the restaurant’s pedestrian crowd. It was enough. The waiter always called her Principessa and referred to the young Hayek as Monsieur le Comte. In return she had always used the most powerful of his vague connections, just the one word—Romanov. Upon departure, as she offered him a gloved hand, he would give the stiff half-bow of royalty, and she would bestow upon him a second title—that of Cousin. He was long gone now, as was Hayek’s own mother. But the memories made for pleasant company. His mother would no doubt approve mightily of his present strategy.

  Afterward he proceeded to the Jackie Gleason Theater of the Performing Arts, known locally as the TOPA. Tonight the full Kirov Ballet was dancing Stravinsky, providing the only reason Hayek had agreed to this journey at all. The director’s box had cost him a twenty-thousand dollar donation. Hayek sat in solitary detachment and watched the dancers take leaps of which even Nijinsky might have approved.

  Before the intermezzo applause had died down, a dark-suited young woman appeared at his elbow. “Would you follow me, Mr. Hayek?”

  “Everything has been arranged?”

  “Just as you requested. This way, please.”

  And indeed it was, a remarkable feat in this most variable of towns. The upper floor had a small open mezzanine, guarded now by yet another official. Hayek had ignored the Brazilian banker’s insistence on meeting in their downtown offices, knowing the disadvantage would be too great. Controlling the turf was half the battle won. The young woman opened the door for him, accepted the tip with grave thanks, and shut the door firmly behind him.

  “My dear Pavel, this is marvelous. Really.” The Brazilian was portly and wore a saint’s wreath of white hair. He waved his cigar to the balcony, the spring night, the champagne in the beaded silver bucket. “How you find these islands of privacy in the midst of this glorious city is utterly beyond me.”

  “There is nothing glorious about Miami,” Hayek replied loftily. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “But it is your closest metropolis, not to mention a place of Latin flavors. Even the crime is served with salsa.” The banker beckoned at a shadow hulking by the balcony railing. Another man stepped from the night and entered the light splashing through the doors behind them. “A new associate of our group, and a new potential investor for you.”

  Hayek accepted the absence of name with a sharp nod. The man gave the same back. His face was all angles and danger, his eyes Siberian ice. Hayek shifted to Russian and said, “Will you take champagne?”

  The man showed an instant’s ire at being caught out so swiftly. The Brazilian banker poured laughter like oil over the disjointed moment. “Pavel, Pavel, you are too piercing for us. Of course, pour us some champagne, and let us speak of how you will make us all rich.”

  Hayek stripped the foil and the wire netting and popped the cork. Russian mafia money buying Brazilian banks, then aiming at an American hedge fund. A world gone truly insane, ripe for its own destruction. “You are already rich.”

  “As are you, my dear sir. As are you. But a little less rich than before your Ecuador fiasco.” The Brazilian cut him a scalpel-sharp look, there and gone so swiftly Hayek could pretend to have missed it. The banker accepted the first glass, as was his due. “But there is always more power to be gained, is there not. More power and bigger toys.” He sipped from his glass, nodded approval. “My youngest mistress does so dearly love her helicopter.”

  Hayek gave the second glass to the Russian, raised his own, and said, “If you retract your gray-suited dogs, we might just succeed. Given the present circumstances, we risk yet another disaster.”

  The dark eyes congealed. “We had nothing to do with the girl’s demise in Washington. As I have repeatedly told you.”

  “Washington is history. There have been more incidents, as you well know. Those dolts of yours create havoc wherever they go. Only one of them manages to speak anything resembling English. They endanger everything.”

  “Pavel, Pavel, I shall speak frankly. You have the habit of treating other people’s money as your own. We shall therefore have people in place to ensure you follow our agreed-upon policy.”

  Hayek bristled. “Nobody regulates me.”

  “Ah, but that is precisely what we shall do, if you want our money.” The voice turned soothing. “I have spoken personally with their chief. They shall obey you to the letter from now on.”

  Hayek pretended to accept the inevitable with bad grace, and groused, “If there is one more problem, one more failure of any kind, they’re out.”

  “Yes. Very well. To that I agree.” He moved the cigar to the hand holding his champagne so that he could pat Hayek’s shoulder. “You should be pleased with the gift, Pavel, not complaining like an old woman. These are highly trained specialists. If they have failed, it is because they are not used to, how shall I say it, handling such minor matters. Their connections cover the globe and are there for you to command.”

  Hayek hid his satisfaction with a gambler’s skill. “You just make sure they learn to follow orders.”

  “Of course, my dear Pavel. Of course.” The smile returned. “Now let us enjoy this excellent champagne while you explain to my new associate why he should help to finance your little project. What was that remarkable name you gave it?”

  Hayek took a long breath, and replied evenly, “Tsunami.”

  HAYEK’S CELLPHONE chimed just as he was ushering his guests back indoors. Burke sounded as frantic as Hayek had ever heard.

  Hayek felt a sudden rush of rage at the report, so great he could only manage, “I will call you back in two minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Two minutes.” He slapped the phone shut, wheeled about, and strode to the balcony’s railing.

  Not even the night could mask Miami’s rough edges. South of TOPA rose a ghastly high-rise parking garage, leering at him like a face with rotting teeth. Beyond that, crowds streamed along Lincoln Avenue, a pedestrian mall filled with nightclubs and shops. Hayek grimaced at the sound of Latin rap exploding from a car trolling Collins Avenue below him. Those who found Miami enticing drew their points of comparisons from more barbaric lands, of that he had no doubt. He forced himself to take a slow breath, to relax in stages, to think.

  Hayek knew what others did not. There was one path to holding dominion over might and wealth. Just one. He was not referring to what satisfied most people, what passed for achievement. No. To attain the pinnacle, the rarefied heights for which Hayek had been born, there was only one narrow trajectory. There must be a tightening down of all energy, every shred of emotion and force and desire, until all life’s impetus was aimed at the one goal. A hunger so great it redefined the very breath of his body. A motive so strong every action and personal contact must help achieve the goal or be counted as dross to be scattered and forgotten. Aspirations must be honed to such a level that they became fiercer than the sharpest blade, cutting through all of life, carving away everything but the essential kernel. Nothing counted except the goal. Nothing. All else was simply the debris others lived for, what they lied and claimed was enough.

  Then he realized that the night had already presented him with the answer. Hayek tossed a lau
gh to the garish scene and punched in Burke’s number. Hayek informed him, “Our opposition must be pounded and ground and milled to the fineness of Caribbean sand.”

  “A tough thing to do,” Burke replied, “considering who they are.”

  “Not if the work is done for us and cannot be traced back.” Hayek then outlined his plan.

  Burke’s reply was instantaneous. “They’ll fail.”

  “Then they seal their own fate.” He cut the connection but remained at the balcony’s railing until he had fully repressed the flush of triumph.

  Only then did Hayek return inside. He followed the waiting usher back to the director’s box, utterly content with how events were developing. The Brazilian’s men would botch at least one of these new jobs. Of course they would. The resulting chaos was the perfect weapon to free him from their menacing presence. Hayek was under no illusions as to why the gray-suited dolts had been sent. They were not there to guard the Brazilian’s money. They were there to remind him of what would happen were he to fail. A constant reminder, and a means by which Hayek’s mind would be kept from searching out the Brazilian’s other mole. The one who would send word back so the Brazilian could mimic Hayek’s actions, and win double.

  Hayek slid into his seat just as the curtain was rising. He tried to check his program, but the light was too dim. Then the orchestra played the first faint strains, and Hayek smiled his satisfaction. Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. His mother’s favorite piece. Even the Russians danced to his tune this night, signifying to all the world that the phoenix was about to rise.

  25

  Wednesday

  WHEN JACKIE ARRIVED downstairs the next morning, a trio of impossibly elegant women were doing coffee in the Hassler lounge. Several groups of businessmen watched her passage like lazy predators. The doorman gave her the sort of good morning that came with a five hundred dollar room, and ushered her into the sunlight. She crossed the cobblestone plaza and sought breakfast and a dose of reality in a corner café. Even if by some fluke she was ever granted the money and the ease, she would never become a Hassler type of gal. Her view of reality had come at too high a price to ever put her nose that far in the air.

  Twice during the taxi ride to Sant’Egidio she glanced behind her, but the only things tracking her progress were sunlight and pigeons. The church was empty save for an old couple polishing the pews and four women kneeling before a side altar. The air smelled of dust and cold incense. Jackie pursued the sound of quiet chatter to a hallway leading off between two chapels. At the end, four Gypsy children sat sentinel outside a closed door. As soon as they spotted her, they rose and adopted the tragic whining cadence of professional beggars. Jackie did as she had seen the locals do the previous evening, touching their heads and outstretched palms, wishing she had an accompanying blessing to offer as well.

  Her knock was answered by a musical protest in Italian. Jackie opened the door and inquired, “Was that a hello or get lost?”

  “Jackie, hello, please forgive me.” When Anna rose from the chair behind the desk, she grew shorter. “I thought it was the children. Some days . . . Come in, please. No, no, va via!” This to the children crowding in behind her. “Shut the door, quickly now. Good. Sit, sit. Will you have coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Please take something. It will delight the children no end to have me assign them something to do.”

  “All right.”

  “A spremuta, perhaps? Orange juice?”

  “Anything.”

  “Excellent.” The children greeted her reappearance by jostling for position. There was an argument over who was to go, settled only by Anna handing lire to the middle one and shutting the door once more. “Forgive them. They are starved for more than food and a bath.” She returned to her desk. “Mr. Bryant has departed safely?”

  “As far as I know.” Jackie waited until the small woman was seated to say, “We need to hire a detective.”

  Anna inspected her for a somber moment. “This request. It has to do with your visit here in Rome?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the enemy has tracked you here?”

  “Wynn thinks so.”

  Anna cocked her head to one side. “Do I wish to know more, Ms. Havilland?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Bene.” Anna rose from the chair and gave what was perhaps her first false smile. “Please wait here.”

  The children returned soon after Anna’s departure, proudly bearing a tray with a frothy glass. Jackie sipped the juice and enjoyed their company. The room suited them perfectly, unadorned save for the cross behind the desk and the furniture worn to bare bones. Once the children accepted that she neither understood them nor would give them money, they made a game of one-way conversation. Jackie responded with smiles, delighting in their dark-eyed frivolity.

  When Anna returned, she let the children remain clustered about Jackie, as though seeking a witness, however flimsy. “Sadly I cannot help.”

  The flat turndown was unexpected. “Do you have any idea where I could go?”

  “Perhaps one thought. Do you travel with a computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know our website?”

  Jackie thought of the blank screen and the unanswered message. “I’m not sure.”

  “Not the official Sant’Egidio address. I mean the other.” Anna waited, examining her closely.

  “Trastevere?”

  “Ah. Excellent.” This time the smile was very real. “That was the gift of one of our young members. An American like yourself. The work was done by a friend of hers. But that is unimportant now.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Oh yes, of course, the single word can be most confusing. The one choice, to go or not.” Anna raised Jackie with a gesture, and led her toward the door. “Make your request again there. Our friends can hear and remain hidden. Most important.”

  “Why is that?”

  The long stone hallway turned Anna’s words into a litany, the children into a cluster of filthy acolytes at her heels. “This other young woman worked in your Library of Congress. She was a dear friend. She loved life, Ms. Havilland. She loved God. And now she is gone.”

  The final word drifted up and away as they reentered the church. Jackie recalled an earlier conversation and wondered where Nabil was at that moment. “She was killed!”

  “The police claim she died by her own choice. Leaping from a building. During a protest she helped organize. Please, you will return tonight and tell me what you have discovered?”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Where are you staying, may I ask?”

  “The Hassler.”

  “A lovely hotel.” Anna offered a parting smile. “Go with God, Ms. Havilland. And take great care.”

  BY THE TIME Jackie returned to her hotel and e-mailed her request, she was ready for lunch. She returned to the tiny coffee shop crammed between the intersection of two streets, across the cobblestone piazza from the Spanish Steps. The two old gentlemen seated by the doorway greeted her with the solemn nods of men who had learned the Italian etiquette of charm early and well. She felt the eyes of the young men tending bar even before she passed through the doorway, but in this time and place she did not mind. She ordered another spremuta and looked over the sandwiches arrayed in disciplined ranks beneath the glass. The older bar owner left his place by the cash register and shooed off the young man making famished eyes at her. He scooped up a spoonful of cream cheese and fresh herbs, spoke with the fluid arrogance of the native Roman, and gestured for her to smell. She did so, inhaling all the fragrances of a fresh-cut field. He grinned at her response, and pointed her to an outside table. Again the old men nodded and welcomed her with murmured flirtations. She sat and sipped her orange juice until the café owner appeared and set down the plate with an impossible flourish. The entire café watched as she tasted. Toasted black-olive ciabatta with fresh tomatoes, cream cheese, and prosciutto. Roman
sun, a host of men watching her eat. All the world eager to see her smile. It was very hard not to be blinded by the day.

  After lunch she returned to her room to check the electronic message board. She logged onto the Trastevere site, stared at the enigmatic command, then hit the key for Go. The screen instantly revealed the query, Incoming direct coded signal. Will you accept? Go/NoGo.

  She studied the message as she would an alien life-form. There was no reference to anything she understood. But she hit the key for Go.

  The message board dissolved, then filtered back again. This time there was the query, Payment?

  She typed out, Who are you? Hit ’send’. The message slip folded itself into smoke and evanesced. The reply was swift in coming: You made a request for assistance in tracking an individual from Rome. I am a detective and a friend of a small lady known for strong prayers.

  Jackie stared at the screen long enough to realize this was all the response she would ever receive. So when the incoming slip returned with the payment query repeated, she typed in Wynn’s credit card number and a query of her own, How can I know this is confidential?

  All Trastevere messages are automatically anonymized.

  “What choice do I have,” she asked the empty room. When will you have the requested info?

  Soon.

  This is urgent. How can I contact you?

  But the screen remained blank.

  JACKIE DECIDED IT was necessary to call Esther, despite the hour in Washington. “I know it’s too early.”

  “It’s fine. Really. I was just leaving for the hospital. Graham is coming home.”

  “That’s wonderful news.”