“They’re the Beasley twins. Donald and Dennis.”
“They’re part of the family?”
“You could say they’re adopted.”
“What exactly do they do besides lurk?”
“They do what members of a family should do. We take care of each other. We look out for our friends.”
“I bet they also take care of your enemies, correct?”
Whistler heard another grunt. His father didn’t answer.
Kate said, “Come on, Harry. Time to level with me. I promise I won’t call the cops.”
He said, “Only when there’s no other way.”
This led to a discussion of “those bozos and their bosses” and why his father had let them off the hook. She said, “It isn’t that I wanted you to stop all their clocks. It’s more that you don’t seem the kind of man who’d leave a thing like this unfinished.”
Whistler wanted to hear this himself.
His father’s answer was, basically, that they weren’t worth the trouble.
Bottom-feeders, he called them. Dime a dozen, he called them. He said that every government has them.
She said, “So you’re saying that, you, Harry Whistler, have no time for minor league villains. The woods are filled with crooks who only steal millions and who kill on a scale that falls short of genocidal. Is that about the size of it?”
“No, nothing like it.”
“Harry…then what the hell are you?”
As soon as she’d said that, Claudia coughed. His father walked over and pulled the door closed. Whistler couldn’t hear very much after that. Too bad. Kate had seemed to have his father on the ropes.
He could only imagine what she must have been thinking. She must have concluded that Harry Whistler only dealt with James Bond-ian villains. Maybe the kind who sat and stroked a white cat as they planned to unleash some doomsday device that would vaporize a dozen world capitals. It struck Whistler that his father might be letting her think so in order that, when he finally explained, his real business would sound almost boring. He won’t lie to her. He almost never lied. But he certainly would be selective.
Back at Aspen, he’d said that he counseled investors and that was essentially true. More or less. Or at least since the cold war had ended. He still did the odd job for this or that government, but mostly his clients were businessmen. These were entrepreneurs who wanted to invest in countries where shakedowns and bribes were the rule and where the law, far from offering protection, often needed protecting against. He would negotiate their agreements for them. He knew how to reach the right people to talk to. What made him special, and much in demand, was that he also had the means to enforce those agreements. “Keep your word, we stay friendly, we all make a fair profit; there will be other deals after this. Break your word, get too greedy, and you’re going to get hammered. This is all the warning you’ll get.”
That warning would apply to all the parties involved. Every deal that he brokered had to work both ways. But the need for such enforcement was actually rare. Anyone on either side who was tempted to cheat knew that his father’s response would be swift. There would either be a visit by one of the twins or by any of some fifty out-of-work former operatives of at least eight or ten different governments. They were KGB, CIA, Stasi…the works. Only a few were on his payroll full time. The rest were used on an as-needed basis according to their individual skills. That pool gave him people who not only spoke the language but who knew how things worked within any given culture. As a group, they seemed to know where all the bodies were buried and who could be bought at what price.
His father valued these ex-agents, but he felt sorry for them. All that training and experience and they’re scratching for jobs. He’d once said, “See these people? That’s you. That’s your future. You’re an Airborne Ranger, Special Ops, highly trained, but how long do you think you can do it? There are thousands of you, Adam, and that’s all you know. One day you’re going to find yourself, forty years old, selling plumbing supplies at Home Depot.”
Actually, he said things like that all the time. It was part of his ongoing
come-back-home pitch. He didn’t care much for government service. He didn’t care much for governments either. Too slow, too much meddling, too little accomplished, and most of them don’t really matter very much in the daily lives of their citizens. It’s better to make your own world.
His father was by no means alone in that view. In fact, he had competitors in the same line of work, but there didn’t seem to be much rivalry between them. As often as not, they helped each other. They all drew on the same pool of freelance ex-agents and often employed each other’s specialists. In Moscow there was an ex-KGB general who did pretty much the same thing. His name was Leo Belkin, an old friend of Whistler’s father. He’d stayed at the house next door many times.
The friendship between Leo Belkin and his father dated back way before
the cold war had ended. Belkin was still KGB at the time. One would think that they would have been enemies, but they weren’t. Not that Whistler would have given that a thought growing up. One would also think that he would have wondered, growing up, why there were always guns and bodyguards around. But he hadn’t. It must have seemed normal.
He didn’t know why Belkin had popped into his head. Except that Belkin, and Russia were perhaps the best example of why what his father did was needed. In Russia, say, you want to set up a company. You draw up a contract, you make your agreements, but say that the mafia – the Russian variety – gets wind of it and tries to muscle in.
No, wait. That’s too obvious an example.
Say instead that some supplier, some partner, some investor, decides not to hold up his end of the deal. In most of Western Europe, you’d take him to court. To the East, however, there is no civil law that protects people trying to do business. The business environment in Russia today is much as it was nineteenth century America when the robber barons were a law unto themselves and when many of them either had private armies or they’d rent one from the Pinkerton Agency. So unless you have a Belkin or a Harry Whistler, you have no real recourse; you will lose your investment. You might also end up being gunned down on the street. That happened in Moscow every night.
The other reason why Belkin popped into his head had to do with his mother’s funeral. Belkin was there and tried to say a few words. But he’d always been a little bit in love with Whistler’s mother. He choked up and someone had to finish his talk for him. Who was that? Roger Clew? No, he’d already spoken. No, the man who got up and put his arm around Belkin was another old friend named Paul Bannerman.
Bannerman, by then, was an almost mythic figure who had more or less invented this kind of consultancy. Whistler’s father had worked either with him or for him until Bannerman, still young, still in his late thirties, decided that he wanted to call it a day and try to live a normal, quiet life. He went back to the States – this was well after the funeral – and maybe a dozen of his people went with him. Whistler had met most of them over time. He liked some more than others. Some were pretty scary people. At least two had struck him as borderline psychopaths, but Bannerman seemed to have them under control.
One was a woman. He’d forgotten her name. In fact several of Bannerman’s people were women. They had chosen to follow him and were loyal to the death. It was much like the twins and Whistler’s father.
The story is they moved to some town in Connecticut. Westbury… Westport…something like that. They bought homes and businesses, settled down, some got married. Settling down, living normally, was all that they wanted. Well…normal might not be the right word for how they lived, but they did do their best to mix in. The government, however, had trouble believing that settling down was all that Bannerman had in mind. Or maybe they saw all that talent he’d brought with him and decided to try to put his people back to work. Whistler didn’t remember what the story was, exactly. But a lot of people had died who would have lived if they’d only
just let him alone.
Bannerman….Wait…The American friends.
That had to have been Bannerman who supplied the extra help within hours of Claudia being shot. Whistler didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that before. It had to have been someone well known to Roger Clew. So it must have been one of Bannerman’s women who called on Aubrey and Poole with the ledger. Molly Farrell, maybe. She was Bannerman’s right hand. Nice woman. Deadly. But still very nice. He remembered that she’d hugged him after the funeral. She handed him a small book of poems that she said his mother had given to her. She and his mother had been very close. She said, “Adam, call me if you ever need to talk. And if you ever need me, I’m there.”
He’d lost touch with Molly, but he’d bet that it was her. She would have been the one with “more restraint.” And the woman, therefore, who carved up Briggs and Aubrey was probably one of Bannerman’s scariest people and one of the two who Whistler thought to be psychos. It would have been a tiny little redheaded woman who was known for her work with a knife. Her name was Carla Benedict. There were all kinds of stories. Come to think of it, Carla had a sister of her own who was murdered years ago in California. A serial killer was blamed for the murder, but it turned out that he didn’t do it. That serial killer, more to the point, resented being accused of the murder. So he ended up allying himself with Carla and helped her track down the real killer. Whistler’s father said it’s true. It really happened that way.
Last he heard, however, she’d settled down with some Russian who had previously worked with Leo Belkin. An ex-KGB major named Podulsk. Viktor Podulsk. That was after she helped nurse him back to health, having shot him by mistake in a Moscow hotel lobby. It seems that she and Bannerman were waiting in the lobby to nail some….wait.
Wait a minute….never mind.
He could spend all day recalling Carla stories, many of which he had trouble believing. And as for the story that she’d finally settled down, maybe she liked to test her skills now and then to make sure that she hasn’t gotten rusty. Whistler would let his father know that he’d figured out who had helped him. His father might not confirm it, but he won’t deny it either. Whistler would at least like to get their addresses. Send some flowers to both of them, maybe.
Speaking of rust and the testing of skills, the sex issue finally came to a head. How it did and what happened was nobody’s business. Her mother knew. Somehow she could tell. Claudia might have given her a nod or a wink, but he didn’t think Claudia had gone into detail because he’d asked her not to and she’d promised. He certainly would not say a word to his father. If he did, he might never hear the end of it.
They had taken a train from Geneva to Cologne, a six-hour ride into Germany. At Cologne he had rented a car and he drove her down the east bank of the Rhine. It’s the best side for viewing all the castles. They drove south as far as Wiesbaden, turned the car in, and boarded another train home.
Because it was late, a long ride to Geneva, he had booked a first-class sleeping roomette so that she could catch up on her rest. They took their supper in the roomette and had ordered a bottle of a decent French wine. The wine, combined with her prescription medication, made Claudia more assertive than usual. After the steward came and cleared the supper trays, she reached to lock the door, snuggled against him, and murmured, “Are you ready to give it a shot?”
“Claudia, listen…you’re a little bit smashed.”
“No, I’m not. Well, a little. Anyway, let’s just see.”
She proceeded to unbutton his shirt and to lightly tickle his chest. She said, “This is where you put your hand on my thigh. Maybe even brush a hand across my boob.”
“Claudia…I remember. It has not been that long.”
“Then, Adam, let’s do it. No more stalling.”
This did not set the most romantic of moods, but she might have been nervous as well. He responded by starting to caress her cheek. Most of what he felt was her collar. She said, “Oh yeah, wait. Let me take this thing off,” and she reached for the Velcro that fastened it.
“No, no, leave that on.” He tried to stop her.
“Uh-uh. I like to be nuzzled.”
He didn’t know where he was expected to nuzzle. Bandages covered
her entire throat and neck. The entry wound’s padding was half an inch thick. The exit wound’s padding was twice that.
But the collar came off and so did her sweater. She turned so that he could unhook her bra. When he didn’t, she reached to undo it herself. “You can jump in whenever you’re ready.”
“Claudia…look, with the lurching of a train…”
“I can handle it, Adam. Now get with the program. Aren’t you dying to find out?”
“At least keep the collar. I’d feel better if you do.”
She reached for the light switch. “On or off?”
Looking back on that night, he could only hope that a crowd hadn’t gathered in the hallway, listening. It would have heard gasps and low, throaty moans and it would have heard shouts of “Do you see it? Do your hear it?” followed by a few primal screams.
The first “it” in question was the flashing of lights that she thought had their origin within her. She thought they erupted from deep within her being and were strobing all over their compartment. The second “it” in question was the symphony of bells that seemed to go off in her brain.
“Yes, yes, I was right. Yes, yes, it’s fantastic. Adam, can you believe this?”
That was another thing people would have heard as Claudia reached her most unearlthy height and as he tried to keep her from hurting herself. The flashing lights were real but they were coming through the window. They happened to have been passing through Stuttgart at the time and the lights were more commercial than celestial. The bells were the bells that went off at every crossing. The motion of the train must have been the biggest factor. That and three glasses of Merlot.
She’d gone limp. She melted and lay snuggled against him. “Adam?” she murmured. “What did you think?”
“It’s like…nothing I’ve ever experienced.”
“I told you. Did I tell you?”
“Yes, you did. Those heightened senses.”
“Oh, rats. Including pain. Now my neck hurts.”
“Stay still. I’ll get your collar. And I’ll fold down the beds.”
“Don’t you move. Holy smoke. You were fantastic.”
Actually, he knew, all he’d done was hold on.
She said, “There were bells. There were actually bells. I thought ringing your chimes was just an expression.”
“I know. First time for me, too.”
“You could hear them?”
“Uh-huh. I couId. But I’m not sure we’re going to hear bells every time. It’s better if it’s always…you know…different.”
She managed an “Mmm-hmm.” She fell asleep in his arms.
It turned out that Whistler needn’t have worried. They made love just about every night after that. And each time they made love was different and thrilling because Claudia had decided that it must be. Part of that, he supposed, was that she was in Europe and every locale seemed romantic. If she didn’t hear bells, she would hear other things. One time she was sure that what she was hearing was the sound of distant applause. It would rise and fall the way it does in a theater when cast members take their final bows. That embarrassed her some. It was only the rustling of the wind in the trees, but she imagined it to be some otherworldly cheering section that had dropped by to check on her progress. For some time after that, she would pull up the sheets so that spirits weren’t able to watch.
Claudia would still take some getting used to.
ELEVEN
At the end of a month they all said their goodbyes. Whistler and Claudia
packed their bags; the two parents drove them to the airport. Whistler’s father
had asked Kate Geller to stay and drive down to his lodge in Chamonix. She agreed, but only for another few days. She said
she had a business to run. She told Claudia that she might miss her a little. Not much, just a little now and then. She said she was glad to have the house to herself and had intended to kick her out anyway.
“And you call me a liar?” Whistler’s father said softly, after Claudia had moved out of earshot.
“Harry…shut up. Let’s go. Get me drunk.”
“Better not. You know me. I might take advantage.”
“No, you won’t. So I’ll have to. Let’s go.”
Whistler and Claudia flew to Puerto Rico and from there to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. That was where they took possession of the boat. He’d explained why they were doing this, and about the deal with Poole, and he’d given her every chance to protest that a year seemed a little extreme. After all, she wouldn’t see much of her mother in that time. And a boat, he pointed out, might prove too confining for an outdoorsy girl like herself. But she never hesitated. She agreed with his father. A year might be just what he needed.
During their outings on Lake Geneva, she had learned how to handle a boat fairly comfortably. Real competence would come with experience. On her own, she read books, watched instructional videos, and learned how to read charts and plot courses. He was pleased, though not surprised that she had thrown herself into it. She had never been one for half measures.
She no longer needed her cervical collar, but he asked her to bring it along just in case. They would hit rough weather sooner or later and she would be glad of the support. Her neck was largely healed and the therapy had done wonders. But the injury left her neck a bit rigid and some of her movements seemed almost robotic. What she’d lost in fluidity of movement, however, she gained in terms of a chin-held-high elegance. Whereas before, she had an outdoorsy look, she could now have been a model or a princess.
She fell in love with the Tartan on sight. She especially liked the name that he’d given it. He’d arranged to have the red scrollwork removed and the “Me & My Gal” sanded off. It was bad luck to change the name of a boat, but the old name and scrollwork made it stand out too much. The new name that he gave it was “Last Dollar.”
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