The Spoilers / Juggernaut

by Desmond Bagley

  Tozier smiled. ‘Your flaw, Johnny?’

  ‘Not mine,’ said Follet promptly. ‘He’s a sucker gambler. Now, that doesn’t mean he’s a fool. He’s learned to play poker—the guys working on the gas line taught him—and he’s a good player. I know because he’s gotten some of my dough right now, and I didn’t have to let him win it, either—he gouged it out of me like a pro. But it means he can be got at—he can be had; and once he’s been got at then we squeeze him goddam hard.’

  Warren wrinkled his nose distastefully. ‘I wish there were some other way of doing this.’

  ‘Never give a sucker an even break,’ said Follet, and turned to Tozier. ‘The whole scheme hinges on that videotape gadget. How well does it work?’

  ‘I have it set up in my room; it works very well.’

  ‘That I have to see for myself,’ said Follet. ‘Let’s all go up there.’

  They all went up to Tozier’s room and Tozier switched on the TV and pointed to the videotape machine. ‘There it is. It’s already connected to the TV set.’

  The machine looked very much like an ordinary tape recorder, although bulkier than most. The tape, however, was an inch wide and the reels were oversized. Follet bent down and examined it interestedly. ‘I’d like to get this just right; this gadget will take in everything—sight and sound both?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Tozier.

  ‘How’s the quality?’

  ‘If you use the video-camera there’s a bit of blurring, particularly on movement, but if you take a taping of a TV programme then the reproduction is indistinguishable from the original.’ He looked at the TV screen. ‘I’ll show you now.’

  A man was speaking and his voice was heard as Tozier turned up the volume. Warren did not know the language but it seemed to be a news broadcast because the man disappeared and a street scene replaced him, although his voice continued. Tozier bent down and flicked a switch and the reels began to turn, much faster than a normal recording machine. ‘We’re recording now.’

  ‘That tape’s fairly whipping through,’ commented Follet. ‘How long can you record?’

  ‘An hour.’

  ‘Hell, that’s plenty.’ He regarded the television screen for a while, then said, ‘Okay, let’s have a repeat.’

  Tozier ran the tape back and switched the television set to a previously selected unused channel. He stopped the recorder and set it to playback, then snapped the starting switch. On the television screen appeared the street scene they had just witnessed, together with the voice of the announcer.

  Follet bent forward with a critical eye on the screen. ‘Hey, this quality’s fine. It’s just about as good as the original, like you said. This is going to work.’

  He straightened. ‘Now, look, the action starts on Saturday and you’ve got to get it right. Not only have you got to get every word right, but the way you say the word. No false notes.’ He looked at them appraisingly. ‘You’re amateurs at this game, so we’ll have some rehearsals. Imagine we’re putting on a play and I’m the producer. You only have to play to an audience of one.’

  ‘I can’t act,’ said Bryan. ‘I never could.’

  ‘That’s okay—you can work this television gadget. As for the rest of us—I’ll play the easy guy, Andy does the hardnosed stuff, and Warren can be the boss.’ Follet grinned as he saw the expression on Warren’s face. ‘You don’t say much and you say it quietly. The way I figure it the less acting you do the better. An ordinary conversational tone can sound real menacing in some situations.’

  He looked about the room. ‘Now, where do we put Ben and the videotape?’

  Tozier went to the window, opened it and looked out. ‘I think I can run a line into your room, Johnny. We can settle Ben in there.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Follet. He slapped his hands together, ‘Okay, first rehearsal—beginners, please.’

  III

  At twelve-thirty on Saturday they waited in a lounge just off the foyer of the hotel, not exactly in hiding but certainly concealed from casual inspection. Follet nudged Warren. ‘There he is—I told him to wait for me in the bar. You go in first; Andy will give you time to settle, and I’ll be in right after. Get going.’

  As Warren left, he said a little worriedly to Tozier, ‘I hope Ben doesn’t ball up his bit with the television.’

  Warren crossed the foyer and entered the bar where he ordered a drink. Javid Raqi was seated at a table and appeared to be somewhat nervous, although probably not as nervous as Warren as he steeled himself to play his part in the charade. Raqi was a young man of about twenty-five, smartly dressed in European fashion from top to toe. He was darkly handsome if you like Valentino looks, and probably had a great future. Warren felt sorry for him.

  Tozier appeared at the door, his jacket draped carelessly over his arm. He walked forward, past Raqi, and something apparently dropped from a pocket to plop right at Raqi’s feet. It was a fat wallet of brown leather. Raqi looked down and stooped, then straightened with the wallet in his hand. He looked towards Tozier who had walked on without missing a pace, then followed him to the bar.

  Warren heard the murmur of voices and then the louder tones of Tozier. ‘Well, thank you. That was very careless of me. Allow me to buy you a drink.’

  Johnny Follet was now in the room, on Raqi’s heels. ‘Hi, Javid; I didn’t know you two knew each other.’ There was surprise in his voice.

  ‘We don’t, Mr Follet,’ said Raqi.

  ‘Oh!’ said Tozier. ‘So this is who you were talking about, Johnny. Mr Raqi—that’s the name, isn’t it?—just rescued my wallet.’ He opened it to display a thick wad of notes. ‘He could have taken the lot without winning it.’

  Follet chuckled. ‘He’ll probably take it anyway. He’s a right sharp poker-player.’ He looked around. ‘There’s Nick. It’ll be a foursome, Javid; does that suit you?’

  Raqi said a little shyly, ‘That’s all right, Mr Follet.’

  ‘The hell with Mr Follet. We’re all friends here. I’m Johnny and this is Andy Tozier—and coming over is Nick Warren. Gentlemen, Javid Raqi, the best poker-player I’ve come across in Tehran—and I’m not kidding.’

  Warren smiled stiffly at Raqi and murmured something conventional. Follet said, ‘Don’t buy a drink, Andy; let’s go where the action is. I have everything laid on—booze and food both.’

  They all went up to Tozier’s room, where the television set had been moved over to the window. Follet had laid on quite a spread; there was cold chicken, sausages of various sorts and salads, together with some unopened bottles of whisky. Everything was set for a long session. Unobtrusively, Warren looked at his watch—it read just after twelve—exactly half an hour slow. He wondered how Follet would doctor the expensive-looking watch he saw on Raqi’s slim brown wrist without Raqi knowing it had been done.

  Follet opened a drawer and tossed a sealed pack of cards on to the table. ‘There you are, Javid; you have first deal. Stranger’s privilege—but you won’t be a stranger long. Go easy on the water in mine, Nick.’

  Warren poured four drinks and brought them to the table. Raqi was shuffling the cards. He seemed to do it expertly enough, although Warren was no judge of that. He was not as good as Follet, of that he was sure.

  Follet looked about the table. ‘We’ll be confining ourselves to draw poker, gentlemen—there’ll be none of your fancy wild hands here; this is a serious game for serious gamblers. Let’s play poker.’

  Raqi dealt the cards, five to each, and said in a quiet voice, ‘Jacks or better open.’

  Warren looked at his cards. He was not a good pokerplayer, although he knew the rules. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Follet had said. ‘You don’t want to win, anyway.’ But he had schooled Warren in a couple of intensive lessons all the same.

  At the end of the first hour he was losing—about four thousand rials to the bad—say twenty-two pounds. Tozier had lost a little, too, but not nearly as much. Follet had won a little and Raqi was on top, winning about five th
ousand rials.

  Follet riffled the cards. ‘What did I tell you? This boy can play poker,’ he said jovially. ‘Say, that’s a nice watch you have there, Javid. Mind if I have a look at it?’

  Raqi was flushed with success and was not nearly as shy and nervous as he had been at first. ‘Of course,’ he said easily, and slipped it from his wrist.

  As Follet took it, Warren said, ‘You speak very good English, Javid. Where did you learn it?’

  ‘I studied at school, Nick; then I went to night classes.’ He smiled. ‘This is where I practise it—at the poker table.’

  ‘You’re doing very well.’

  Tozier counted his money. ‘Play poker,’ he said. ‘I’m losing.’

  Follet grinned. ‘I warned you Javid would take your wad.’ He held out the watch on his forefinger, but somehow it seemed to slip and it dropped to the floor. Follet pushed back his chair and there was a crunch. ‘Oh, hell!’ he exclaimed in disgust, and picked up the watch. ‘I’ve bust the dial.’ He held it to his ear. ‘It’s still going, though.’

  Raqi held out his hand, ‘It does not matter, Johnny.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ said Follet. ‘I’ll have it fixed for you.’ He dropped it into his shirt pocket. ‘No, I insist,’ he said over Raqi’s expostulations. ‘I did the damage—I’ll pay for the fixing. Whose deal is it?’ Raqi subsided.

  They continued to play and Raqi continued to win. As far as Warren could judge he was a good natural poker-player and he did not think Follet was discreetly assisting him, although he did not have the special knowledge to know if this was correct. He did know that he himself was losing steadily, although he played as best he could. Tozier recouped his earlier losses and stood about even, but Follet was on the losing side.

  The haze of cigarette smoke in the room grew thicker and Warren began to get a slight headache. This was not his idea of a pleasant Saturday afternoon’s entertainment. He glanced at his watch and saw that it read half-past-two. Ben Bryan, in the next room, ought to be busy taping the television programme.

  At quarter to three Tozier threw in his hand with an expression of disgust. ‘Hey !’ he said in alarm. ‘You’d better make that call.’

  Follet looked at his watch. ‘Christ, I nearly forgot. It’s quarter to three already.’ He stood up and walked over to the telephone.

  ‘I thought it would be later than that,’ said Raqi in mild surprise.

  Warren uncovered his watch with the dial turned towards Raqi. ‘No—that’s all it is. It might be a bit late for us, though.’

  Follet had his hand on the telephone when Tozier said curtly, ‘Not that one, Johnny. Make the call from the lobby.’ He jerked his head at Raqi meaningly.

  ‘Javid’s all right,’ said Follet easily.

  ‘I said make it from the lobby.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard-nosed, Andy. Here you have a guy who was honest enough to give you back your wallet when he didn’t know who the hell you were. Why cut him out?’

  Warren said quietly, ‘You always were a hard case, Andy.’

  Raqi was looking from face to face, not understanding what was going on. Tozier shrugged with ill-grace. ‘No skin off my nose—but I thought you wanted to keep it quiet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Warren indifferently. ‘Javid’s all right—we know that. Make the call, Johnny; it’s getting late. If we argue over it any more we’ll miss post time.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Follet and began to dial. His body screened the telephone from view. There was a pause. ‘Is that you, Jamshid?…Yeah, I know; things are bad all round…this time I’m going to win, I promise you…I’m still in time for the three o’clock race—make it twenty thousand rials on Al Fahkri.’ He turned and grinned at Raqi. ‘Yeah, on the nose…and, say, put on another two thousand for a friend of mine.’

  He put down the telephone. ‘The bet’s on, boys; the odds are eight to one. And there’s two thousand on for you, Javid.’

  ‘But, Johnny, I don’t bet the horses,’ protested Raqi. ‘Two thousand rials is a lot of money.’

  ‘Have it on the house,’ said Follet generously. ‘Andy’s putting up the stake as a penance. Aren’t you, Andy?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ said Tozier morosely.

  ‘Quit worrying, Javid,’ said Follet. ‘I’ll stake you.’ He turned to Warren. ‘The kid can stay and watch. None of us can speak the lingo, so he can tell us which horse wins—as if we didn’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t you keep your big mouth shut?’ said Tozier in exasperation.

  ‘It’s all right, Andy,’ said Warren. ‘Johnny’s right; you’re a mean, ungrateful bastard. How much did you have in your wallet when you dropped it?’

  ‘About a hundred thousand rials,’ said Tozier reluctantly.

  Follet was outraged. ‘And you’re being hard-nosed about giving the kid a reward,’ he cried. ‘Hell, you don’t even have to pay it yourself. Jamshid will do the paying.’ He turned to Raqi. ‘You know Jamshid, kid?’

  Raqi gave a small smile. He was embarrassed because he was unaccountably the centre of an argument. ‘Who doesn’t in Tehran? Anyone who bets the horses goes to Jamshid.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s got quite a reputation,’ agreed Follet. ‘He pays out fast when you win, but God help you if you don’t pay him equally fast when you lose. A real tough baby.’

  ‘What about watching us win our money?’ suggested Warren. He nodded towards the television set. ‘The race should be corning on soon.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Follet and stepped over to the set. Warren crossed his fingers, hoping that Ben had done his job. He had already got the name of the winner of the three o’clock race and transmitted it to Follet during the fake telephone call to Jamshid, but if he had fumbled the recording then the whole scheme was a dead loss.

  A voice swelled in volume, speaking Persian, and then the screen filled with a view of a racecourse crowd. Follet looked at the screen appraisingly, and said, ‘About five minutes to go.’ Warren let out his pent-up breath silently.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ asked Tozier.

  ‘Just talking about the horses,’ said Raqi. He listened for a while. ‘That’s Al Fahkri—your horse—number five.’

  ‘Our horse, Javid,’ said Follet jovially. ‘You’re in on this.’ He got up and went to the impromptu bar at the sideboard. ‘I’ll pour the drinks for the celebration now. This race will be fast.’

  ‘You seem certain you’ll win,’ said Raqi.

  Follet turned and winked largely. ‘Certain isn’t the word for it. This one’s blue chip—a gilt-edged security.’ He took his time pouring the drinks.

  Tozier said, ‘They’re coming up to the post, Johnny.’

  ‘Okay, okay; it doesn’t really matter, does it?’

  The commentator’s voice rose as the race started, and Warren thought that it did not matter whether you understood the language or not, you could never mistake a horse race for anything else. Raqi was tense as Al Fahkri forged ahead of the pack on the heels of the leading horse. ‘He stands a chance.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Follet unemotionally. ‘He’s going to win.’

  Al Fahkri swept ahead to win by two lengths.

  Warren got up and switched off the set. ‘That’s it,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Here, kid; have a drink on Jamshid,’ said Follet, thrusting a glass into Raqi’s hand. ‘The honest bookie who never welshes. You’re a bit richer than you were this morning.’

  Raqi looked at the three of them in turn. Warren had produced a notebook and was methodically jotting down figures; Tozier was gathering up the cards scattered on the table; Follet was beaming in high good humour. He said, hesitantly. ‘The race was…arranged?’

  ‘Fixed is the word, kid. We’ve bought a couple of good jockeys. I told you it was a gilt-edged investment.’

  Guilt-edged would be more like it, thought Warren.

  Follet took a wallet from his jacket which was draped over the back of a chair and counted out notes. ‘You do
n’t have to wait to collect from Jamshid,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that when I collect ours.’ He tossed a roll of currency on the table before Raqi. ‘It was eight to one—there’s your sixteen thousand.’ He grinned. ‘You don’t get your stake back because it wasn’t yours. Okay, kid?’

  Raqi took the money in his hands and gazed at it in wonder. ‘Go ahead,’ said Follet. ‘Take it—it’s yours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Raqi, and put the money away quickly.

  Tozier said briefly, ‘Let’s play poker.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Follet. ‘Maybe we can win that sixteen thousand from Javid.’ He sat down as Warren put away the notebook. ‘What’s the score so far, Nick?’

  ‘Just under two million,’ said Warren. ‘I think we ought to give it a rest for a while.’

  ‘When we’re hitting the big time? You must be crazy.’

  ‘Jamshid will be getting worried,’ said Warren. ‘I know we’ve played it clever—he doesn’t know the three of us are a syndicate—but he’ll tumble to it if we don’t watch it. Knowing Jamshid, I wouldn’t like that to happen. I’d like to stay in one piece for a while longer.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Follet resignedly. ‘Next Saturday is the last—for a while. But why not make it a really big hit this time.’

  ‘No!’ said Tozier abruptly.

  ‘Why not? Supposing we put on a hundred thousand at ten to one. That’s another quick million.’ Follet spread his hands. ‘Makes the arithmetic easier, too—a million each.’

  ‘It’s too risky,’ Warren insisted.

  ‘Say, I have an idea,’ said Follet excitedly. ‘Jamshid doesn’t know Javid here. Why can’t Javid lay the bet for us? It’s good for us and it’s good for him. He can add his own dough and make a killing for himself. How about that, Javid?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Raqi uncertainly.

  Tozier looked interested. ‘It could work,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘You could be a rich man, Javid,’ said Follet. ‘You take that sixteen thousand you just won and you could turn it into a hundred and sixty thousand—that’s as much as the three of us made today. And you can’t miss—that’s the beauty of it.’