“It is a democratic age.”
“It is an age of losers, yes.” Schneider looked both ways, as if trying to find something in the vast room. He touched a button and the chair turned right around so that he could look at the painting that had been behind him. The chair hummed and he faced Tarp again. “You disappoint me, Monsieur Selous. The question is naive.”
“I am sorry.”
“So am I. You know why I granted this interview? Because in one of your articles, you wrote, ‘It is the irony of sport that it is fascistic and has its greatest success in democratic nations.’ I liked that. Yes, sport is fascistic, and life is fascistic! And you ask me about the poor, about democracy. You bore me. It is often boring, being Juaquin Schneider — surrounded by flunkies, feared by everybody. I thought you might be different. But no, you are not very intelligent and you are not bold. I can tell, you are not an achiever. You asked, What is the role of the poor in a democratic age? but you should have asked, What is the role of government in a democratic age?”
Tarp waited. “Am I to ask the question now?”
Schneider sneered. “I believe the moment has passed.”
“Then let me ask another question. What is the role of the death squad?”
Schneider stiffened. “I take back part of what I said: you are not intelligent, but you are bold.”
“What is the role of the death squad?”
Schneider stared at him. Their eyes met like hands meeting to lock fingers and explore each other’s strength. “Or is the death squad the purpose of wealth?”
Schneider broke contact. He joined his thin hands in his lap. “Your time is almost up,” he said, although he had not looked at a clock.
“For that matter,” Tarp said, “what is the role of government in the atomic age? What is the role of the wealthy man in the atomic age? Is plutonium the purpose of wealth?” Nothing happened in Schneider’s face or his hands, and Tarp said again, “What is the purpose of government? Is it the same purpose as organized sport, I wonder — and of the Church? To entertain the mass of people, while a few men of achievement run things?” Schneider’s huge eyes came up. They were implacable. The effeminate face was set. The right hand rose slowly and the index finger pointed at Tarp.
“You could die in Argentina, Monsieur Selous.”
“Is the death squad the purpose of wealth?”
The finger closed back into the hand; the hand went to the arm of the shining chair, which hummed and made a sixty-degree turn. “I was mistaken about you on both counts,” Schneider said. “You have boldness, and you have some intelligence. You have annoyed me, and that is very intelligent of you, because it has caused me to reveal myself.” He nodded, as if he were agreeing with words spoken by somebody else. “I am giving a party tonight in my apartment. I want you to come.” He looked around. “You can watch me on my playing field.”
“I thought this was your playing field.”
“This? This?” He spun the chair in a full circle. “This is not the arena, Monsieur Selous … this is the — the —” He laughed. “The locker room, maybe. The training field.” He laughed again, apparently genuinely amused. “Will you come to my party? I want some people to look at you.”
“Am I a specimen?”
“You are a possibility. Will you come?”
“I saw you in Havana.”
“Did you. Did you! Yes, that stupid spectacle of mass sentimentality. Yet one sometimes makes a point by joining with such idiots. It is very important that we keep nuclear weapons out of countries like Cuba, don’t you think? But that is another matter. Will you come to my party?”
“Thank you, of course.”
“You must dress. Black tie. We are rather out-of-date. Do you like women? There will be some very decorative women. Are decorative women the purpose of wealth?” He laughed. “Hardly! Come, I will show you my factory.”
“My time is up.”
“I told you, I want to look you over. Your time will be up when I tell you. My clock keeps the time here.”
“Why am I being looked over?”
“Maybe it amuses me. Maybe I think you would make a good playmate for my cat. Maybe I want to employ you. Who knows?”
They spent two hours going from building to building, and Tarp felt that there was little of the complex that he did not see. The wheelchair moved fast; between buildings they moved much faster in electric wagons that were always waiting for them. Schneider was careful always to tell him exactly where they were, as if he wanted to make sure that Tarp understood everything, in two buildings they had to wear protective clothing and masks. They passed through greenhouses where the smell of humus was almost threatening, like a cemetery in the rain. They went through a computerized warehouse worked by robot machines on monorails. Under a watery sun they drove along the edge of test fields where green shoots were poking through chemically treated soil far out of place in their seasonal cycle.
“The goal is to grow foods in less space, at lower cost, than ever before.” Schneider seemed rather bored. They had already visited a laboratory where figures in space suits worked with electron microscopes. Through genetic engineering, Schneider said, they hoped to produce disease-free crops with greater climatic tolerance.
“A great boon to the world’s poor,” Tarp said.
“Yes, I have thought of that. I suppose I should be developing something to kill them at the same time, so we won’t be overrun.” He grinned at Tarp. “Come, monsieur, you don’t find that humorous? You are less intelligent than I thought, then.”
“I was thinking that what you said is at odds with the Celebration of Nuclear-Free Peace.”
“Not entirely. What I said was, you will remember, I want to keep nuclear weapons out of countries like Cuba.”
They had lunch in a small dining room near the windowed office. There were four other men there; Tarp could not escape the sense that he was being watched and the conversation, which was all about politics and American failures and hemispheric power struggles, was staged for him. Yet something seemed wrong to him, and what seemed wrong was his own belief that Schneider was connected directly with Maxudov. If they know who I am, why the examination? he wondered as he ate a clear soup. Or are these five the patrons of a death squad, looking over a victim? But they seemed very leisurely about it. It was very easy to believe that Schneider and his companions could be willing to buy plutonium for the greater glory of Argentina and fascism, but their behavior was utterly at odds with any idea of conspiracy. Unless, of course, they liked elaborate jokes.
He sought out Grice at the Press Club bar late that afternoon after spending several hours with two other journalists who were supposed to know what really went on in Argentina. Grice was impressed that he had been shown the Schneider complex and had actually been asked for lunch.
“What’d he serve you, carrot juice and a slice of beetroot? He’s a lunatic about food, they say.”
“It was very good. Yes, lots of vegetables. Fruit.”
“The man’s demented about his health, of course. But I am impressed, Selous — lunch in the great man’s private room! That’s light-years farther than the rest of us have ever got. Whatever did you talk about?”
Tarp was thinking that Grice had not survived the Malvinas war in Buenos Aires by being an entirely loyal British subject. He must have had some way of paying off Argentine authority — like reporting to somebody about what people like Tarp said. “Oh — achievement,” Tarp said vaguely. “Things like that.”
“Achievement!” Grice guffawed. “What the hell does that mean to a man like Schneider?”
“He wants to develop disease-free vegetables.”
“Oh, Christ, that’s all his wife’s work, not his! She was the scientific brains. Always. He’s a money man, a businessman. Is that what he calls achievement? Turning her scientific genius into cash?” Grice laughed too loudly. He seemed angry. “Christ! The cheek of these bloody millionaires. Well, there’s a story in it, anyhow
. Right? Eh? We are going to get our story, aren’t we?”
“I’m going to a party at his place tonight.”
Grice stared at him. “At his home?”
“Yes.”
“What — the apartment?”
“Yes. Is that so unusual?”
Grice put down his empty beer glass. “That’s too much. That’s just too much. God, I can’t take that on beer.” He rose halfway from his stool. “Here, bartender! A double whiskey here — pronto!”
Chapter 13
Schneider’s apartment took up an entire floor of a new building near the Congressional Palace. A uniformed doorman saluted and showed his teeth and fiercely directed two boys who parked cars with what seemed to be enormous glee. The elevators were open glass boxes that seemed to rise quickly into the night itself, to glide smoothly to a perch at Schneider’s door.
A butler took his coat. The man pretended not to notice the gun, which was heavy in one pocket; perhaps he had been handling gun-heavy coats all night. Tarp had considered leaving the weapon behind, but he was very uneasy. However, there was no way he could carry the gun in the tight-fitting dinner jacket he had picked for himself that afternoon. He might as well have carried it in his hand.
There was another butler at an inner door. He pointed, said something about drinks, and looked away. He had a hard, dark face, and Tarp wondered if he was Indian. In the large room beyond the doorway, there were two more such men, as if, having seen a film that had an English butler in it, Schneider had decided to have a corps of them. These men looked to Tarp like bodyguards, however, and he supposed they were doing double duty. He took a glass of champagne and wondered if they were Schneider’s death squad. It would be handy for a millionaire, probably, to have one always on call.
He moved slowly around the room. He acknowledged Schneider’s nod from the center of a cluster of pink-faced men, where a beautiful female back seemed to share attention with the industrialist himself. Schneider had said there would be women; as Tarp looked around he had to admit that Schneider had been right. Many of the women were stunning, and most of them were years younger than the men they were with.
“Rather handsome lot, ain’t they?” a voice said next to him. It was a pleasant, rather hearty voice, with a British gusto that sounded somehow out-of-date. “Lot of raving damned beauties, in fact!”
“Monsieur?” Tarp said. The man was several inches shorter than he, ruddy-faced and white-haired, almost Dickensian in the good cheer of his smile and his eyes, which were looking at him from a network of wrinkles and folds created by a lifetime — or so it seemed — of laughter. Tarp’s one word of French had thrown him into confusion, however, for he looked bereft and began to stammer in an atrocious French accent, “Oh, uh, ah — hmm … Oh, j’ai dit — oh, damn — monsieur … j’ai dit que … les femmes — files … Oh, dammit, this is no good. Um, beauté … beauté? Isn’t that a word, beauté?”
“Would you prefer that we speak English, monsieur?”
The old man’s smile returned instantly. “Jolly good!” He chuckled. “Ain’t I a dreadful linguist, though. Ah? Ain’t I?” He chuckled. He crowed with delight at his own shortcomings. “What a horror! Yes, yes.” He shifted his champagne glass from his right hand to his left and held the right one out. “Pope-Ginna.”
“Jean-Louis Selous.” Tarp was thinking that he had seen the old man before. There was nothing much to the memory, something fleeting and inconsequential. He gave it up and squeezed the hand, thinking, What a lucky accident to meet such a pleasant man. Except that there are no accidents.
“You’re the journalist,” the old man said. “Ha-ha! See? I don’t miss much. How old d’you think I am? Never mind; you’d be off by years, everybody always is. What I say is, don’t guess, because if you’re wrong you’ll be embarrassed, and if you’re right, I’ll be humiliated. Ha-ha! I’m seventy-nine.”
“That is amazing, monsieur.”
“Well, it’s gratifying, anyway. Still able to guzzle the bubbly and cast a weary eye over the young ones. Eh? Eh? Ha-ha!” He patted Tarp’s arm. “Jock said he was going to have a journalist here. Didn’t say you’d be French, though. Damned unusual. Not being French, I mean — him having a journalist. Normally, for Jock, that isn’t on. I mean, it just isn’t on.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Between you and me and the gatepost, m’syer, he ought to do it more often. Open himself up to the world. Eh? Eh? Of course he should.” He leaned away and looked over toward Schneider. “A raving, absolute beauté!” He was looking at a woman with Schneider. “What sort of journalist are you?”
“Of sport and entertainment.”
“Hmm.” The old man looked him up and down uneasily.
“I mean, I do not engage in personalities, monsieur.”
“Ah, aha. Hmm. Good thing, too. Lot of nasty stuff about these days, what? Frightful stuff gets published — prowler in the queen’s bedroom, all that. Some things better kept under one’s hat, eh?”
“Or under the Crown.”
“What? Oh, I see. Yes. Under the Crown — ha-ha, damned good.”
The old Englishman began to point out a few people in the room, describing them and their importance. He seemed very impressed by wealth and seemed able to give the size of other men’s wealth in dollar amounts. He lingered by Tarp; it might have been politeness, but Tarp felt it was something more. He introduced him to three men, waving them over in order to do so. It was as if he had been put there as an official greeter. Tarp glanced at Schneider to see if there was any coaching coming from that direction, but Schneider seemed busy with one of his “butlers.”
“Millions in this room,” Pope-Ginna was saying. “Millions. Interesting, when you think about it. Do you ever write about money, m’syer?”
“Only insofar as people who take part in sport have money.”
“Mmm. Never found sport very interesting, myself.” Pope-Ginna was sipping another champagne and seemed even more red-faced than before. He was watching Schneider now.
“You are close to Monsieur Schneider?” Tarp said carefully.
Pope-Ginna guiltily looked away. “Close? No, not as you’d say close. Know him to talk to. Share a bit of business wisdom with him now and again. We sit on a board or two together.”
Tarp looked at Schneider. Two of the “butlers” were standing near him at that moment, and perhaps it was that juxtaposition that caused him to remember where he had seen Pope-Ginna. He had had medals on his chest, and he had been with Schneider in Havana. He looked at Pope-Ginna again. “You are English, monsieur?” he said.
“’Course I am, and damned proud of it. Now you’re going to ask me about the Malvinas thing, I suppose, but please don’t.” The old eyes, their look of jealousy gone now, darted toward him, then almost disappeared into their frame of laugh lines. “I’ve dealt with journalists before, you see, ha-ha, ha-ha.”
“But you are an Argentine resident.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“There are many English residents in Argentina?”
“A colony of us, yes, a colony of us. It’s such a lovely country. The best country in South America!”
“So everyone says.”
“It has its faults, but what country hasn’t? I mean, a man can’t live in England anymore. What? I mean, the taxes!”
“Are there many Russians here, monsieur?”
“What? Russians? Certainly not.”
“I thought that certain overtures were made during the Malvinas war …”
“We have some trade connections, naturally. Argentina is more or less a nonaligned country. Yes, we have some connections. Trade connections.”
“One hears rumors of Russian weapons here since the Malvinas war. Would they be credible, do you believe, monsieur? Even atomic weapons, it is said — from Russia …”
“Poppycock!” Pope-Ginna was very red in the face. “You said you aren’t that kind of journalist, there you are spouting rubbish. Pardon me, m’syer, but I hav
e to say it. It’s rubbish.”
“Argentina has no interest in atomic weapons?”
Pope-Ginna’s eyes seemed to swell, as if they were going to burst. “Jock’s absolutely right not to invite journalists to this place. Especially when they spout damned rubbish!” And he spun around and toddled off, moving a little from side to side like a penguin.
Well! tit for tat, Tarp thought. He believed that Pope-Ginna had sought him out, perhaps knowing who he really was. Or perhaps he was one of those people who, Schneider had said, would be “looking him over.” At any rate, if Tarp had wanted to get a response from him, he had certainly succeeded.
Tarp talked with other people. A number of sober, rather dour men introduced themselves, each saying he was “a business associate of Señor Schneider’s,” as if it were a formula that had been taught to them. Tarp felt now that he very certainly was being looked over, as if he were a prospective groom meeting the bride’s family for the first time. The dour men introduced him to young women whose names they pronounced with great precision, as if to make it clear that Señorita So-and-so was not married. Tarp danced with them and quickly concluded that they were there as part of the entertainment.
At eleven, Schneider came to his side.
“People tell me you are a very serious man, monsieur,” he said.
“I thought I had been quite congenial.”
“You have been described to me as a man who lets other people put their feet in their mouths.”
“Did Señor Pope-Ginna say that?”
“Señor …? Ah, Admiral Pope-Ginna.”
“Admiral! Yes, I thought I saw him with military decorations. In Havana.”
He thought that Schneider’s forehead wrinkled just a little at that, but at that moment one of the “butlers” came near and bent to offer Schneider a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Some look passed between the two men, and Schneider’s mood seemed to change. Tarp glanced at the servant, who looked to him like a probable veteran of at least one African war. A merc, I swear he’s a merc. Nice people Schneider hires.
When the servant was gone, Schneider said softly, “Would you be interested in undertaking a task for me?”
Under the Freeze Page 13