by Jon Cleary
The standards he had lived by were crumbling. He was not given too frequently to imaginative metaphors, but sometimes he felt he was standing on a jetty the pilings of which were being rotted and pounded by a polluted and vicious sea. He had once tried to incorporate the image into a speech to a bankers’ conference in Chicago, but it had sounded too florid for his dry delivery and he had crossed it out from his draft. He had been shocked at what had happened to women’s thinking in the past few years; he kept silent because he loved them, but it distressed him every time his granddaughters Martha and Emma came home to Kansas City from their Women’s Lib campaigning; he was only thankful that none of his daughters had got themselves involved in such heresies. He no longer had any interest in music, mainly because there was no longer any music, not his kind; Margaret and Nina had tried to get him to symphony concerts, but such occasions were no place for a man who liked to tap his foot to the beat; as for rock or country-and-western he could only suppose that listeners to such trash had ears that should have been closed up at birth. Such caterwauling was a corruption of music: but then perhaps it was only a sound-track to the general corruption all over: morals, politics, law and order. Sometimes he was glad that Edith was no longer alive.
So many of his friends, too, were no longer alive. Their political differences buried, he had become a close friend of President Truman; he had actually wept at the President’s death, for the chirpy old man and for an era that, for all its faults, had had certain standards he had respected. He had turned his back on Richard Nixon before Watergate had monopolized the headlines; he knew nothing of the new President, Gerald Ford, and didn’t want to know. Without becoming reclusive like certain other very rich men, he had retreated to the obscurity that he had once enjoyed and now enjoyed again. When the Beaufort name, as that of an individual rather than of the corporation, got into the news it was usually that of one of his daughters. Though only Nina, strictly speaking, was still a Beaufort. She and Magnus, for reasons Lucas never dared to query, were still the best of companions but still not married.
Magnus arrived late for the lunch. He was a regular, like the sons-in-law, but his office was still on 9th Street and sometimes he was delayed in getting across to the Beaufort building. He came in now, sat down and attacked the grilled bass, catching up with the others in a few minutes.
‘Man shouldn’t rush good food like this. Well, you’re taking off tomorrow, Lucas? Wish I were coming with you. I’d like to talk to those Arabs on their home ground. I wonder if they’re as arrogant at home as they are when they come over here. They’re really screwing us and it’s going to get worse.’
‘That’s why Roger and I are going to Abu Sadar. I think we can persuade the old Sheikh to hold his prices. We’re making more money, but all this escalation of price does nothing for the oil companies’ PR image. A lot of men in the street think we’re in cahoots with the Arabs.’
‘Are we?’ said Magnus.
‘I hope you choke on a fishbone. You’re starting to sound like my granddaughters. No offence, Bruce.’
‘Meg and I have given up on them,’ said Bruce. ‘They’ll settle down when they reach thirty. Most radicals do, if someone makes them a better offer.’
‘I shan’t be here. If they don’t settle down, don’t try and get in touch with me – I wouldn’t want Heaven spoiled.’
Next morning Lucas, Roger and Prue left in the private Boeing 707 for the Middle East. It would never have occurred to Lucas himself to have bought the plane for the use of company executives; he saw nothing wrong with travel by scheduled airlines. But Bruce and Roger had persuaded him of the economy and advantages, not least the privacy, of a company aircraft; the privacy such travel provided had been enough to convince him. But he used the aircraft much less than the executives who worked for him.
‘Won’t you let me come down to Abu Sadar with you?’ Prue said.
‘No,’ said Roger. ‘The bargain was that you could come only as far as Beirut. You can enjoy yourself there, it’s an interesting town. We’ll only be down in Abu Sadar three days at the most.’
Prue smiled at him, did not press her argument. Sometimes she was surprised how content she was with him; she allowed him to run her life with much more compliance than she had expected of herself. He was not a domineering husband, but he had a gift of convincing her that whatever he suggested was best for both of them; Andover and Harvard had given him a well-rounded education but somewhere along the line he had also educated himself in the diplomacy of dealing with women. He was not strictly handsome, but he radiated a quiet sincerity that gave added value to his just-average looks. It was a further mark in his favour that he avoided the usual handicap of a trustworthy man: he was not dull. He was a lover, husband and father who kept his wife and children entertained all the time he was with them.
Prue had not brought the children with them on this trip. Melanie was now twelve and, following her mother and aunts, was at Barstow; Grace was two-and-a-half and had been taken by her nurse to spend a week with her father’s mother in Boston. Prue sometimes sensed a disappointment in Lucas that she had not given him a grandson. Michael was never mentioned in the family circle, though she had no idea what conversation went on between her father and Nina about the past.
The plane landed at New York to re-fuel, then flew on to Paris where they stayed overnight at the Crillon. Lucas, said Roger, had to be protected against jet lag, and the old man had not argued. Prue certainly hadn’t: a night in Paris, even after a long flight, was always enjoyable. They went to dinner at Roger’s choice, Lasserre’s, and even Lucas, still a Francophobe, had to agree that the food was good. Each time she landed in France Prue wondered about Guy and Stephane, but she never mentioned them to Roger. He, in turn, never spoke of his first wife. They had each discovered in the first month of their marriage that, though they claimed to be sophisticated, they were both old-fashioned enough to be jealous of previous lovers. Prue, the romantic side of her prevailing, took it as a sign that what they had between them then was true love. She could not remember ever having felt jealous before she had married Roger. She had not, as far as she could remember, been jealous of Stephane. But she did not probe her memory too deeply, not of that period of her life.
They flew on to Beirut next morning and checked into the Hotel St Georges. Prue and Roger had been in their suite only ten minutes when the phone rang.
‘Sheikh Zaid sends his compliments, Mr Devon, and asks that you and Mr Beaufort meet his son Sabah this afternoon.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Hassan Burami, Sheikh Zaid’s personal aide. We haven’t met, Mr Devon, I am new. The Sheikh sent me up here to meet you. In the meantime he would like you to have tea with his son this afternoon. The Sheikh has a house up on the Aley road, as you know.’
Roger didn’t know. He had only been to Abu Sadar once before and he had flown there via Bahrein, not Beirut. He did not want to take tea with the Sheikh’s son and he knew that Lucas would like the idea even less; but he had a strict appreciation of Arab protocol and manners and he knew that to refuse might offend the Sheikh. He was not concerned whether it would offend Sabah. The son was the sort of Arab who gave Arabs a bad name, a profligate spender who spent all his time and money on pleasure. Roger was only glad that Prue had not been included in the invitation.
‘We shall send a car for you, Mr Devon. At three-thirty, shall we say?’
Lucas was not happy at all about wasting an hour or two with a fat Arab young man whose main business was gambling and buying women. ‘Dammit, what’s the point? The Sheikh won’t trust that young slob with any business matter.’
‘The point is, Lucas, we’ve been invited. By the Sheikh himself. He must have some reason for wanting us to see the slob, as you call him.’
‘Oh, all right. But you do the talking. I’ll just sit and sip that damned awful coffee they make out here.’
The car called for them at exactly 3.30. Arabs were usually not so punc
tual, but it was just a stray thought that floated across Roger’s mind and he did not dwell on it. Prue went down in the elevator with her father and Roger and met the slim young man who introduced himself as Hassan Burami. He was dressed in a well-cut lounge suit, wore dark glasses and had a slight American accent.
‘I had three years at Caltech,’ he explained. ‘Is Mrs Devon honouring us with her presence?’
‘No,’ said Prue. ‘I’m going up to the Rue Hamra to do some shopping. We American wives are supposed to do nothing else but spend our husbands’ money when we’re abroad.’
‘Arab wives are learning to do the same. Very expensive if one has several wives. Which I don’t.’ He had a pleasant smile, youthful and sincere. ‘It is a pleasure meeting you, Mrs Devon. Shall we go, gentlemen?’
Prue touched her father’s and husband’s hands, a light farewell, and went down the steps into the street. The black Mercedes passed her as she walked along the promenade and she waved, though she could see no answering hands through the opaque windows of the car.
When she returned to the hotel an hour later the ransom note was waiting for her, given to her by the desk clerk with her key.
3
‘We’ve been in touch with Abu Sadar,’ said Bruce. ‘They’ve never heard of anyone called Hassan Burami.’
‘What about Prue?’
‘I told her not to move out of her room. I got on to the embassy in Beirut and Bredgar, the ambassador, said he and his wife personally would stay with her till you arrived. Washington has been advised.’
‘Has the money been arranged?’ Magnus asked.
‘Our associate bank in Beirut is getting it together. Five million dollars in Swiss francs – Christ Almighty, the secrets that must be buried in those Swiss banks! That’s where they’ll send it, of course, as soon as you hand it over.’
Magnus did not look at Sally, who had a secret buried in a Swiss bank, a secret that was now worth slightly more than the ransom being demanded for her father and Roger. She had not touched the deposit since he had arranged the payment to the Belgian missionary Order thirteen years ago; he guessed she never would touch it, it was something she had put out of her mind when she had married Charlie. Even Lucas seemed to have forgotten it.
All the family, plus Magnus, were collected in the drawing-room of the main house. Magnus was dressed for travelling and so was Nina. She had insisted that she should accompany him to Beirut. Bruce and Charlie, bringing up the possibility of danger, had tried to talk her out of it; but Margaret and Sally had agreed that one of them had to go to Beirut to comfort and support Prue. Both Margaret and Sally had also wanted to go at first, but in the end they had listened to reason. Melanie had been told of what had happened to her stepfather and grandfather and she, too, needed to be comforted and supported. Now they were all waiting on word that the private jet, sent from Boston by the Devon corporation, had arrived at the Kansas City airport.
Charlie said, ‘I don’t know why the bastards haven’t made a big splash in the media. Usually terrorists like them are looking for publicity as well as money.’
‘They’ll make their announcement soon enough. Maybe they just want to be sure the money arrives in Beirut first.’
The phone rang and Margaret picked it up. She felt sick and weak, had not felt like this since … She remembered the two occasions well: when she had learned that Tim had disappeared and when they had come to tell her that Frank had committed suicide. Both occasions had been tragic for her and she prayed now that this would not be another tragic event. She said a few words into the phone, then put it down.
‘The plane’s out at the airport ready to go. We shan’t come out with you – all of us out there together might cause some comment. We’ll keep it out of the newspapers here till we hear something from Beirut. We mustn’t antagonize them. Terrorists too often seem to be psychotic if someone else steals their publicity.’
‘Jesus,’ said Charlie, ‘I’m psychotic, too, just thinking about the sons-of-bitches. Every time you fly an aircraft through that part of the world you’re looking over your shoulder for some bastard to hijack you. I think I’ll come with you, Magnus,’ he said suddenly.
‘No,’ said Sally. ‘I want you here. Just in case – ’
He put his arm round her. ‘Don’t think the worst, honey. All they want is the money and maybe the publicity. They can’t have anything against your father or Roger.’
Don’t you believe it, thought Magnus. Any American capitalist imperialist would have a great deal against him in the Middle East.
But going out to the airport in Nina’s Rolls-Royce, with George Biff driving, he said, ‘Are you prepared for the worst?’
‘Yes,’ said Nina. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’
He put a comforting hand on her knee. ‘Try not to.’
Up front George Biff said, ‘I like to be going with you. Mr Lucas gonna need someone to lean on when you get him back.’
Magnus looked at Nina. Each time he looked at her he saw more of her mother in her; but he loved her now for her own sake. ‘You see? George is optimistic.’
4
Ambassador Bredgar and his wife were doing their best to comfort Prue. One or both of them had been with her ever since the news of the kidnapping had reached them, Bredgar going back to his office only when the embassy called him. Prue appreciated their efforts, but she wanted something more constructive than just comfort. She was relieved when Nina and Magnus arrived.
The sisters embraced each other, both of them holding back their tears. The Bredgars discreetly withdrew and Magnus went out into the living-room of the suite with them.
‘They’ve made their announcement, Mr McKea. An hour ago.’ Bredgar, grey-haired, raw-boned, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses as if he needed a new focus now that the kidnapping was out in the open. ‘They not only want the five million dollars. They want a guarantee that Beaufort Oil will withdraw, completely and without any compensation whatsoever, from Abu Sadar.’
Magnus blew a silent whistle. ‘That complicates things. I’m in no position to make that sort of deal. I’m sure Mr Beaufort himself would never agree to it, not even if it meant his own life.’
‘I regret to say that Washington would never agree to it, either. I’ve been in touch with the Secretary of State. He’s seeing the President now, but he’s already given me their answer. They won’t allow any American oil company to quit the Middle East under threat. That would only open the way for the same pressure to be put on all the other companies. There are a great number of Arabs, some in high places, who feel very strongly that we Americans are no longer necessary to help them produce their oil.’
‘I’ll go in with the ladies,’ said Mrs Bredgar, who knew when an ambassador’s wife should make herself scarce. ‘Miss Beaufort might like some coffee or something. She must be worn out after that long flight.’
‘You’ll find all the Beaufort women very durable ladies,’ said Magnus. ‘They inherit it from their father.’
‘Let’s hope he stays durable long enough for us to rescue him,’ said Bredgar.
When the ambassador’s wife had gone into the bedroom Magnus said, ‘Have you made any contact with the kidnappers yet? Who are they?’
‘So far they haven’t given themselves a name. There’ll be some crackpot terrorists who’ll be claiming credit in the next hour or two, it always happens. But I don’t think these guys are crackpots. Their announcement read almost like a parliamentary decree. None of the usual abuse about American imperialists, stuff like that.’
‘So how do we get in touch with them if we don’t know who they are?’
‘They are going to make another announcement tomorrow morning. I think they’re playing it canny. They know the final decision on the withdrawal from Abu Sadar will have to come from Washington, not Beaufort Oil. They know discussion on that will take a little time.’
‘In the meantime – ’
‘In the meantime my security people are
doing what they can to find out who this outfit is. I’m afraid we have to be patient, Mr McKea.’
‘I think I’d find that easier if it were my own life at stake.’
5
The two men sat in the café-bar on the corner of the Rue Hamra and Rue Jeanne d’Arc. The tables out on the sidewalk were occupied by tourists, all of them less arrogant than they had been a few years ago, all of them trying to look friendly, all of them thinking of the approaching winter and wondering if the Arab bastards would raise the price of oil again. The interior of the bar was full of locals: students, merchants, conspirators: an air of conspiracy mingled with the smell of coffee in any Arab bar these days. The two men in the corner had that air about them or anyway they talked in low voices.
Henri Raclot said, ‘You heard the news on the radio about the kidnapping of those Americans? Even the super-rich are no longer safe.’
‘Yes,’ said Tim Davoren.
‘I know the daughter of Lucas Beaufort, the old man. The wife of the younger one, whatever-his-name-is. I knew her years ago in France. A very lovely woman. Brave, too.’
‘I knew her once. She was very young then. Too young to be brave.’
Raclot sipped his arak. He had spent too long in unexpected places and situations to show surprise, even when he felt it. He had shown no surprise when, three years ago right here on the Rue Hamra, he had bumped into Nigel Burgess whom he had not seen since the Congo days. Neither had asked what the other was doing, but had just taken the pleasure of the moment for itself. One hid one’s curiosity as well as one’s surprise. Raclot knew that it did not pay to be too curious in the world in which they had both lived. And, for all he knew, Burgess might still live.