“This is no worse than a number of other smuggling jobs the Russians have pulled off,” Brewer said. “What’s all the fuss about?”
“Something’s coming down,” Sauer said. “And they don’t want those Rooskie pickpockets swiping it.”
“What’s coming down?”
“I don’t know. Something. All I have is a word I overheard.” He looked at Brewer. “‘Cassandra,’ whatever the hell that is.”
“Cassandra,” Brewer echoed.
Sauer folded his arms and sighed. “How am I ever going to live down those empty cartons?” he murmured.
“You did your job,” Brewer said.
“I was the one in charge,” Sauer replied. “It’s my ass that was on the line.” Sauer looked out at the sheets of snow that blew past the delicatessen window. “It was a goddamn disaster. Those Russian smugglers made me look like an asshole. And now you come swooping in to find him. You’ll get all the glory. And I end up the back end of a horse act.”
“Have you told me everything, Sauer?”
“Yep. Everything.”
Brewer watched Sauer reach into his pants pocket to pull out a mound of coins. With them came a small pink baby rattle with a small pink bow. Almost absentmindedly he pushed the baby rattle back into his pocket and stood up.
He hadn’t told Brewer everything. Brewer sensed it. Something had been omitted.
“Got to phone the pickle factory,” Sauer said. “Be right back. ’Kay?” He stood, then hesitated.
“What’s the matter?” Brewer asked.
“Nothing,” Sauer said. “I wish things between us were starting out different. They say you’re pretty good. They used to say that about me.”
He walked over to the phone.
Part Three
Chapter 10
As planned, the dinner was given on the night of the full moon. The occasion for the dinner, a superb Bernier oil just acquired by the host, Eric Marten, stood on an easel on the terrace under a soft studio light. It was a celebrated Bernier—a view of a full moon shining down on the snow-covered Swiss Alps—and it stood on its easel on the terrace under a real moon shining down on the real snow-covered Swiss Alps. Black clouds bringing snow squalls sped across the European sky.
In evening dress, discussing the oil painting on the easel and chatting amiably, were the guests: the editor of a major German art magazine and his wife; a book publisher from Paris and his wife; a Swiss banker and his wife; the curator of an American museum; and filling the role of hostess, a young woman wearing a gown of the thinnest silk, filmy, floating, nearly transparent, and held up by the thinnest of spaghetti straps.
Under the glass canopy that covered the ancient stone terrace, amidst the murmuring voices and tinkling glasses, waiters circulated with cocktails and canapes. The butler was supervising a young pantry boy who was placing several more logs on the fire. Outside, held at bay by the glass canopy, a wintry night wind prowled.
Gogol stepped over to the fireplace and spoke to his butler in a low voice. “I am expecting a very important telephone call from America,” he said. “No matter what I’m doing, be sure to interrupt me the moment it comes.”
“I will, Mr. Marten,” the butler replied.
Gogol now walked over to his new oil painting and stood beside it. He held up his glass. “To Didier Bernier’s moonscape,” he said.
“And to the money that bought it,” his banker said. “Here’s to many more, Eric.”
Gogol smiled. “To paraphrase an old joke, there are nine hundred Berniers, of which three thousand are in the United States.” He watched them smile.
The banker’s wife turned her husband away from the others with a hand on his elbow and walked him along the terrace. She spoke to him in a low voice, confidentially. “I thought we had been invited to a small skiing chalet,” she said. “I had no idea we were coming into the midst”—she swept her hand—“of all this.”
The banker nodded. “I thought you’d like the surprise.”
“He’s quite handsome,” she said. “How old? Thirty, thirty-five?”
Her husband shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“But who is he?” she asked. “And where did he get his money so young?”
The banker shrugged. “His credentials are real enough. In the few years I’ve known him he seems to have become richer by the hour.”
She gazed about the stone terrace they stood on, then up at the recently added glass canopy supported by gleaming copper ribbing. “A four-hundred-year-old stone monastery on top of a mountain in the Swiss Alps. He must have paid a fortune for this.”
“Fixing it up cost another fortune,” said her husband. “This glass dome alone cost a king’s ransom.”
“But where’s he from?” his wife insisted. “Is he German? Austrian? What?”
The Swiss banker shrugged. “Marten? The name could be German, Austrian, even Swiss—if that’s his real name. All I know is, his money is real enough. He keeps much of it in my bank. I know he owns several computer software firms, a computer components plant, and an interest in a shipping company. And they’re all very profitable. And he has an equally sound investment portfolio.”
She stared at Eric Marten. “I can’t believe you haven’t delved into his background. It’s not like you.”
“No one seems to know much about him,” the banker said. “They say he has a brilliant mathematical mind. Some say he was educated in German universities, some say he attended Harvard. I’ve heard it said that many influential men consult with him. Grauff says there is no doubt that Bonn confers with him on sensitive high-tech matters. Schmidt in Cologne says he is the son of a German count but conceals his background to make it on his own. Hornblower says he is an American whose mother was a German war bride.”
“But don’t they ask him?”
The banker shook his head. “The money’s real. The talent’s real. The businesses he owns are real. If you try to find out more than that, he smiles and changes the subject.”
She looked at the publisher’s wife. “Giselle says he speaks German with a faint Hungarian accent.” She turned her eyes to Marten. “He’s quite handsome. He’s one of the few men I’ve met who wears a beard well. And very pretty blue eyes.”
“They’re not so pretty when you’re across the conference table from him.”
“Imagine,” she said. “A million and a half dollars for a painting.” She looked appraisingly at Gogol then at the young woman standing next to him. “And the girl—who is she?”
“From Cologne. Her father is a university professor. Oh, he’s real enough. Professor Schmidlap is his name. She went to university. She worked on Fritz’s art magazine for a while. Now … I suppose she just lives here with Marten.”
“You know she’s stark naked inside that silk gown.”
“She’s hardly inside that silk gown,” the banker replied.
“Leah, are you serious?” the publisher asked the young woman. “Numerology?”
“Yes,” Leah said. “In Cologne. When I finished college, I took the job as a lark. Her name is Madame Strega. She does castings for many people. Famous people.”
“You can’t be serious,” the editor declared. “Are you telling us that major political figures and leading businessmen in Germany consult a—a—witch?”
“And leaders from other countries too,” Leah said.
“But that’s preposterous,” the editor protested.
“They believe her numbers,” Leah said.
The publisher stepped closer. “What are her numbers telling them?” he asked.
“War,” she said. “They predict a terrible world war within two years.”
“Now wait,” the editor said. “Are you saying that many European political leaders are expecting a nuclear war? Based on numerology?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“Dear God,” the banker’s wife sighed.
“Explain that,” the publisher demanded. “How does numerology work?”<
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Leah said, “You have to calculate all the cyphers in a given year—like 1990—with a certain formula she uses, to see if it produces a thirteen or thirty-nine. Thirteen or thirty-nine always foretells doom.”
She had their complete attention. “Go on,” the editor prompted.
“So far, the formula has predicted all the war years of this century. World War One—1914. World War Two—1939. Korea—1950. Vietnam—1961. The formula for this year shows both a thirteen and a thirty-nine, and that means a great war. Armageddon, in fact.” She looked at their solemn faces. “The other numerologists are all saying the same thing—that catastrophe is coming.”
“Preposterous,” the banker said. “I deal in numbers all day too. And my numbers point to a very strong Swiss franc with peace and prosperity.”
The others barely smiled.
“It is absolutely preposterous,” the editor said. “Predicting the future with numbers. Absurd.” His eyes looked for support from the others.
Leah said, “It isn’t just the numbers. It’s the mushrooms too. Many people are talking about the size of the wild mushroom crop in Russia this year.”
“How’s that for irrationality?” the banker asked. “Are you serious? Wild mushrooms in Russia?”
“When it comes to predicting war years,” she said, “there’s a perfect correlation between numerology and mushroom harvests.”
“Explain about the mushrooms, please,” the editor’s wife said. She stood next to her husband and took his hand. “I have children.”
Leah said, “Russian peasants believe that when the wild mushroom crop is large, war follows. They say there was a bumper crop in 1914. Another in 1939. Another in 1950. Another in 1961. And this year Russia and much of Eastern Europe had the largest mushroom harvest in history.”
The banker frowned skeptically at her. “Peasants and numerologists. Two unimpeachable sources.”
“If it isn’t convincing,” his wife protested, “it’s frightening.”
In their minds armies marched. The earth shook. War drums thundered. The splendid Bernier in moonlight was forgotten.
Gogol seemed amused by their dismay. He clapped his hands for attention. “Dinner is served,” he said. “And the numbers predict a wonderful meal. Follow me to the feast.”
With Leah, he led the way to the dining room, As they entered, the guests exclaimed with delight at the sumptuous table setting, the tableware, the silver service, the huge bowls of fruit, the banks of candles and the staff of servants that awaited them.
The wife of the editor stood beside Marten. “Don’t you believe in numerology and mushrooms?” she asked.
He made a face at her. “No scientist would touch such evidence with a stick,” he said. “Come, enjoy your meal.”
“That’s a relief,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Leah said to the table, “if I said anything to upset you.”
“In that dress,” Gogol replied, “you say anything you want.”
They all laughed.
Gogol put his arm around Leah and patted her hip. He smiled at his guests. “Can you imagine this in a convent school, being taught all about the seven deadly sins by the sisters?”
The men laughed.
“Please,” the editor’s wife said. “What exactly are the seven deadly sins?”
“The seven deadly sins,” Leah replied, holding up her hands to list them on her fingers, “are Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth. Isn’t that ironic?”
“Why ironic?”
“Well,” Leah said, “Nietzsche says when man ceases to believe in God, all things are lawful. And that’s exactly what’s happened. The seven deadly sins have become the leisure time pleasures of the twentieth century.”
“Tell me again what they are,” the banker’s wife said.
“Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth.”
“My God,” the banker’s wife said. “She’s right.”
“I’m all for that,” Gogol said. “Let’s start with some gluttony.” He looked at the butler. “Remember what I said about the telephone call from America.”
The butler nodded.
“No, no, Eric,” the Swiss banker said to Gogol across the table. “Your exquisite Bernier may turn out to be an excellent investment. But if I want to make money, I invest in high tech, particularly medical high tech. Major breakthroughs are coming in the U.S. and Japan. A new artificial heart, flushing machines for washing chemicals and cholesterol from the blood and dissolving fatty deposits in the cardiovascular system. New knees and joints. And pharmaceuticals. Lots of new pharmaceuticals. Arresting the aging process. New antibiotics—the bugs are becoming immune to the old ones. I have a simple rule of thumb. I put the most investment dollars where the most research dollars are going. And that’s medical high tech.” He looked at Gogol. “What do you invest in?” he asked.
“Oh, myself, mainly.” Gogol looked about for his butler. Where was the phone call from America?
“But that doesn’t produce a predictable income,” the banker said.
“My predictable income comes from finding a need and filling it,” Gogol said. “And I have customers with limitless needs.” He smiled. “Limitless.”
“But don’t you consider medical tech a good investment?”
Gogol looked with a sly grin at the banker. “I wouldn’t seriously consider investing in medical high tech until they perfect the brain transplant.”
“Why?”
“Because that will create a limitless need that someone will have to fill.”
“Why that kind of a transplant in particular?” the banker’s wife asked.
“Take the case of an old man,” Gogol said. “A sick old man. He lies on his death bed. His heart is hanging by a thread. His lungs are on half power, his liver is all but dead from cirrhosis. His stomach will hold only a little oatmeal. His brain is dying from lack of blood carrying dopaminergics because his rotting old body can’t supply them anymore. Up he gets and out he goes. It’s time to do a little shopping.”
“Shopping?” the banker asked with a wary grin. “What are you leading to?”
Gogol smiled back. “The old man visits a local gymnasium and gazes at all the young men with their superb physiques, lifting weights, running in treadmills, and he sees exactly the young body he wants and points his palsied finger.” Gogol pointed with a quaking hand and said with a hoarse voice, “‘That one. I’ll take that one.’”
“Dear God,” the banker’s wife said.
“So,” Gogol continued, “kidnappers seize the protesting young man and drag him to the hospital, and a doctor takes the young man’s brain out. And he replaces it with the old man’s brain. In a few days the old man’s brain is walking around in a twenty-year-old body.”
“God,” the banker’s wife said. “You can’t be serious.”
Gogol laughed at her. “If you believe in numerology, you’ll believe in anything.”
They all smiled uncertainly.
Gogol looked at the butler, who stood in the doorway then returned to the pantry. “Consider the case of the homely woman of wealth,” Gogol went on. “She can go to a nightclub and point at any one of the gorgeous girls dancing in a chorus line and say, ‘Put my brain in her body.’” He smiled at their doubtful expressions. “Do you suppose a homosexual and a lesbian could make a swap?”
After a pause, the table laughed.
“The possibilities are enormous,” Gogol said. “Imagine yourself meeting a ravishing blond girl at a cocktail party and make an overture and she says, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Frederich, I’m your mother.’”
The table laughed louder.
“And you say to her, ‘I’m not Frederich.’” The table laughed again.
Leah watched their laughing faces. “One thing we will never be able to transplant,” she said.
“What?”
“Our personalities. What you get at birth you are stuck with for life.�
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“Oh, people can develop,” the banker said. “Don’t you think so?”
Leah said, “The Greeks say character is fate. Your character determines the life you will lead. Modern psychologists mean the same thing when they say personality is destiny. That means you are what you’re born. You can’t change your personality.”
“Predestination?” the banker’s wife asked doubtfully.
“But surely,” the editor said, “environment plays a role.”
Leah shook her head. “If you are born with a conservative nature, you will be conservative for life. An introvert cannot become an extrovert. You become what you were born—a brilliant mathematician or successful banker, or even a failure. Or a suicide. And that’s your existential cage—a life sentence. You’re trapped inside the personality you’re born with. You can’t get out of it, and so it decides your life for you.”
“Predestination?” the banker asked. “Is that what you say?”
“Well.” Leah hesitated. “Determinism, anyway.”
“My little Cassandra.” Gogol toasted her with his wineglass. “She brings us such happy thoughts.” His laughter made them laugh, and they returned happily to their food.
“Oh look,” the editor’s wife said. “It’s snowing again.” They all looked at the snow whirling around the glassed-in terrace. “What happened to that beautiful full moon?”
The butler leaned over to Gogol and whispered a message in his ear.
Gogol smiled. “Please excuse me,” he said, throwing down his napkin. “I’ll be right back.” He went to his study.
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