Jigsaw Page 21

  Pagan looked a moment at the answering-machine. He slipped the cassette out of the machine and put it in his pocket.

  Traffic in Mayfair was congested. Buses slugged through heavy rain, taxis idled in eclipses of their own pollution. Foxie travelled side streets, but even these were clogged with delivery vans and cars. He managed to find a parking space a block from Brown’s. Al Quarterman was already waiting for them in the lobby.

  ‘I suggest the bar,’ Pagan said. He introduced Foxie, who shook Quarterman’s rather clammy hand with his usual good-natured vigour.

  The bar was empty. Quarterman sniffed the air of the hotel, as if he thought old English authenticity might have a scent all its own. Pagan had found that most Americans were afflicted by an exaggerated affection for anything that suggested antiquity. They were like rather amiable vultures feasting with great fascination on old bones. He found this trait touching at times.

  Pagan ordered three lagers, which the waiter brought to a corner table. Quarterman sipped his, then smacked his thin lips. His jaundiced complexion seemed even more pronounced than it had before.

  ‘So, Frank. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Bryce Harcourt.’

  Quarterman looked into his lager. ‘Poor Bryce. What a way to die.’

  ‘I need some information. Such as – what did he actually do at the Embassy?’

  ‘I thought I’d covered that ground before.’

  ‘Look. I don’t want to trespass on anything remotely sensitive—’

  ‘Sensitive?’

  ‘But Harcourt was in some kind of trouble, and I want to know if it was connected with anything he might have done at the Embassy. If it’s within your authority to tell me—’

  ‘He was a researcher. That’s it. I’m not sure what direction you’re taking, Frank. I don’t know anything about deep trouble. He seemed OK to me. If he had problems, I would have known about them. Here’s a guy I knew socially, a guy I saw every working day of my life.’

  ‘Does the name Jake Streik mean anything to you?’

  ‘You come out of left field, don’t you?’ Quarterman looked thoughtful.

  ‘Streik left a bizarre message on Harcourt’s answering-machine. A warning.’

  ‘Why this flurry of interest in Harcourt anyhow? Where did all this suddenly come from? What led you to Harcourt’s apartment? The guy died in the goddam explosion, Frank. He was the unfortunate victim of some kind of terrorist attack. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why are you probing into his life?’

  ‘Because it’s my job.’

  Quarterman smiled his sombre smile, and set down his lager. ‘You’re not saying, right?’

  ‘Let’s get back to Streik. Does it ring any bells?’

  ‘I can’t say it does, Frank. Sorry.’

  Pagan sat back. ‘Streik mentioned something about undertakers, which was presumably a reference Harcourt would have understood. What does that mean to you?’

  ‘Undertakers,’ Quarterman said. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing.’ He reached for his glass. As he did so, an expression of pained surprise crossed his face. His features contorted, his mouth dropped open, and he slumped back in his chair, his arms dangling at his sides. For a second Pagan thought the man had suffered a sudden heart attack but then he saw blood flow from Quarterman’s chest and he got up, kicking aside his chair and turning to the door in time to see a man in a dark-green overcoat hurry toward the street exit.

  Pagan dashed across the bar, reached the lobby, saw the man rush into the street. He charged after him, mindless of pedestrians in his way, scattering aside two fur-coated old women who swore viciously at him from under their shared umbrella. The man was swift, swifter than Pagan, younger, fitter, but Pagan kept going anyway, pushing hard as he could even as he realized that the man who’d shot Quarterman was drawing away from him. Breathing heavily, lungs aching, he sprinted up the street, thinking of his own gun stuck uselessly in his office desk.

  The gunman had already turned a corner and was probably more than a hundred yards away by this time. But Pagan kept at it, blood thundering in his head. He saw the gunman turn another corner and still he chased. The man was pulling further away with every step: he gave the impression of a dark-green blur. His long sandy hair bounced against his collar as he fled. Puffing, Pagan forced himself through space, conscious of his blurred reflection in the windows of shops. He looked crazed, coat flying, face flushed, a halfwit in the rain.

  The gunman turned yet another corner.

  Why doesn’t somebody stop him, whatever happened to citizen’s arrests, doesn’t anybody have a conscience these days?

  Pagan reached the corner – but there was no sight of the man, who might have gone in one of several directions or even into one of the buildings. How could you tell? He collapsed against a wall: a monstrous pressure rose in his throat. Fireflies buzzed in his eyes. This isn’t good enough, Frank. This is ignominious. It will say on your epitaph: Ran Himself Into The Ground. He was sweating heavily.

  He remained motionless for a long time and when he’d recovered his strength he walked slowly back to the hotel. Inside the bar Foxworth was standing over Quarterman. He’d unbuttoned the American’s shirt. He raised his face, looked at Pagan, shook his head.

  An assortment of hotel staff was fussing around, clucking. ‘Clear the room,’ Pagan said. ‘Everybody out. Now!’

  ‘I don’t think he knew what hit him,’ Foxworth said when the room was empty.

  Pagan looked down at the dead man. Then he sagged into a chair and shook his head. He drew a hand wearily across his damp face.

  ‘What are we not supposed to find out about Bryce Harcourt and Jake Streik?’ Foxie asked. A muscle in his neck strained. ‘What is so bloody important that a gunman takes the risk of shooting a man in the middle of Mayfair in broad bloody daylight, for God’s sake?’

  Pagan licked his dry lips.

  He had a sensation of being lost in the Underground tunnel, that he’d taken a wrong turning somewhere and wandered into abandoned passageways where trains no longer ran and rails had rusted long ago, secret shafts where the air was unbreathable and no light ever fell and everything was shrouded by the dank bloom of mystery.

  NINETEEN

  VENICE

  TOBIAS BARRON HAD SCHEDULED A BRIEF MEETING BEFORE HIS EVENING meal. His visitor was an Afrikaner named Rolfe Van den Kamp, a leather-faced man with hard blue eyes who looked uncomfortable in the wintry climate of Venice. Barron offered sherry; the Afrikaner said he’d prefer something with a kick, and accepted a Wild Turkey straight. The two men sat facing each other in the drawing-room and Van den Kamp threw the drink back in one swallow. He emitted an air of quiet nervousness. ‘I’m glad you could see me at such short notice,’ he said.

  Barron shrugged. ‘I’m just sorry we didn’t have more time together in South Africa.’ He’d met Van den Kamp briefly at a cocktail reception held in a Durban hotel, one of those affairs that by their very nature limit conversation to the most superficial level. They had briefly discussed the political situation in South Africa, which Van den Kamp of course thought calamitous. Though he hadn’t said so, Barron was of the opinion that the final ascendancy of the blacks was a matter of historical inevitability, and people such as Van den Kamp were struggling to hold back an impossible tide. You could build dykes, stash sandbags against the swell, but in the end Rolfe and those like him were going to be swept away like so many twigs.

  Barron said, ‘You know how those receptions are, Rolfe. In and out. Sign a couple of documents, talk to bankers, see a few government officials, make a speech, fly out.’

  Rolfe Van den Kamp looked sympathetic. ‘Course, course. I know how busy it gets. I’ll help myself to another drink, you don’t mind?’ He filled his glass to the brim with Wild Turkey. ‘You’re not the only one spreading a little light on the Dark Continent, Tobias. Christ, we do it all the time. Been doing it for years. Some of our blacks have gone on to vocational schools. Colleges. Course,
we footed the bills when necessary.’

  Some of our blacks, Barron thought. Van den Kamp couldn’t help the proprietorial note in his voice. His was a world of ownership and patronage; the lords of creation. It was easy to imagine him, a descendant of the Dutch who’d made the Great Trek, standing feet apart and hands on hips and surveying a vast expanse of veld his family owned and that was now menaced by black nationalism. He was a relic of another age, an endangered species.

  ‘When you’re in a position to help those less fortunate …’ Barron remarked, and airily waved a hand. ‘I’m interested in a number of charitable causes, not just in South Africa, of course.’

  Van den Kamp turned his acid-blue eyes on Barron. You could read in those eyes a number of things – fear, anxiety, the need for self-preservation. The Afrikaner smiled, a frugal little movement of lips. ‘You occupy an unusual position. You come and go as you please in the townships because you’re the white man who brings good cheer. You don’t have a political axe to grind. You can go places in South Africa where any other white would be shot on sight.’ Van den Kamp turned his glass round in his big hands. ‘I sometimes wonder … if you ever hear anything.’

  ‘Hear anything?’ Barron asked. ‘Such as?’

  ‘This, that. Titbits. Information that might be useful to my people.’

  Barron smiled. ‘What are you fishing for, Rolfe? Perhaps if you came to the point …’ He leaned forward in his chair.

  Van den Kamp gazed into his drink in a brooding manner. When he spoke next he talked of the need to protect his family. Barron understood that he was referring to something more extensive than his immediate blood relations: he was talking about a way of life, about survival and supremacy. The process of democracy was a mockery as far as he was concerned. Ballot-boxes meant nothing. He had a private war to fight.

  The Afrikaner sipped his Wild Turkey. ‘The militants have AK–47s. They have Uzis. We don’t know where they’re coming from, but they’re getting them somewhere. We’d like to know their source.’

  ‘And you think I might have access to that kind of knowledge?’

  ‘I think you might.’

  Barron said, ‘The world is filled with arms merchants, Rolfe. We both know that. In any event, do you imagine the militants take me into their confidence? All I ever meet are mayors and tribal chiefs and pols. I don’t think I’d recognize a militant if I saw one.’ He permitted himself a small laugh, as if the very idea that he might be associated with radicals were ridiculous.

  Van den Kamp rose from his chair. He was a massive, well-muscled man. ‘Scratch a black and you find a terrorist, Tobias.’

  Barron shrugged. Van den Kamp, wandering the room, dwarfing the furniture, picked out the first few bars of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ on the spinet in a cack-handed way. When he stepped back from the keyboard he said, ‘We need to balance the situation in our favour.’

  ‘What have you got in mind?’ Barron asked. He wondered about the Afrikaner’s logic: how could a situation be balanced in somebody’s favour? It was a perverse use of language. Van den Kamp’s perception of balance meant that he wanted the scales tipped decisively to his benefit.

  ‘My people have certain urgent requirements.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Van den Kamp didn’t answer the question directly. ‘I got the impression in Durban you might be of assistance. Correct me if I’m wrong.’

  ‘I’m not sure what impression I gave you, Rolfe.’

  ‘You seemed to have, ah, a wide range of connections.’

  ‘I know a great many people, if that’s what you mean. I have associates in a number of fields. Medicine. Agriculture. Education. All kinds of useful friends and allies. I have projects of different kinds all over the place. Crop rotation in Cuba. Medical aid in Ethiopia. Irrigation schemes in Angola. It’s a long list.’

  Van den Kamp shook his head. ‘I think you know I’m driving at something else, Tobias.’

  Barron said nothing. He had a sense of the delicacy of the situation. He might have helped Van den Kamp along, might have urged him to speak his mind, but he enjoyed the waiting game. He walked to the mantelpiece, where the photographs of his famous friends provided a striking backdrop. It was, he knew, a piece of theatre intended to impress upon the Afrikaner that he was fortunate to have been granted an audience.

  ‘I’ll put it another way,’ Van den Kamp said. ‘I had the feeling in Durban that you were sympathetic to our plight in the present climate of violence.’

  ‘Did I give that impression?’

  ‘Course, I may have misunderstood you …’

  ‘I try to stay detached, Rolfe. If I said anything to mislead you, I’m sorry.’

  Van den Kamp looked down at the keyboard of the spinet. His expression was one of disappointment. ‘I hope I haven’t come all this way for nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps if you said what’s on your mind,’ Barron suggested.

  Van den Kamp, who was not by nature a circumspect man, enjoyed frank exchanges. In his world men spoke brute facts over ice-cold lagers. ‘OK. In Durban I got the feeling that among your associates there were those who might be in a position to help us.’

  Barron stared at the Afrikaner. ‘It depends on the kind of help you’re looking for, Rolfe. Clearly, you’re not talking about irrigation technicians or AIDS experts, are you?’

  ‘I think you know what I’m talking about. Do I need to spell it out for you?’

  ‘I don’t like fumbling in the dark any more than you do,’ Barron said.

  ‘OK. For purely defensive purposes, we’re in the market for armoured Range Rovers. Kevlar body armour. Stun grenades. We’re under threat, Tobias. And it’s no way to live. Believe me.’

  Barron listened. He knew Van den Kamp was the kind of man who would first of all mention his defensive needs. He didn’t want to be perceived as the aggressor. That role could be attributed to the blacks.

  ‘To defend yourself,’ Barron said, ‘you also need to be able to attack.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re looking for Webley gas-grenade launchers. HK93s. MP5Ks. Remington 870s 12 bore. Glock 9mm automatics. Tejas .50 calibre rifles. All the necessary ammo. It’s a long list.’

  Barron pressed his fingertips to his lips, remembering Nofometo coming to his hotel in Durban. Van den Kamp and Nofometo, a study in contrasts, in attitudes; and yet when you reached the bottom line, both men had similar desires – the right of possession, a stake in the future, the leadership of a country.

  ‘I can always pass along a message, Rolfe. But the final decision, you must understand, would have absolutely nothing to do with me.’ Barron experienced a feeling of distance from the conversation. It was a way of protecting himself, a shell of sorts. ‘Assuming I happen to know some people who might be helpful – and I’m not saying I do – you’re talking about a considerable amount of money, Rolfe.’

  ‘Money’s the least of our problems.’

  Barron studied the Afrikaner, on whom he’d compiled a dossier. Rolfe Van den Kamp, whose personal fortune was estimated to be in the region of five million pounds sterling, was the leader of a right-wing movement already involved in military conflict with the blacks. It had been small-time activity up to now, a few killings here, a few there, a matter of flying the flag of white supremacy. But this was changing; Van den Kamp and his people were becoming more ambitious, needed more strike power, greater displays of force.

  Barron said, ‘Let’s get one thing straight from the beginning. I’m not in a position to promise you anything. All I can do is put certain people in touch with you. And if they want to do business, that’s their affair. It’s nothing to do with me. Frankly, I shouldn’t even be listening to any of this.’

  ‘I understand.’ Van den Kamp finished his drink, put the empty glass down on the polished wood of the spinet.

  Barron picked up the glass before it could leave a ring in the wood. ‘I find the whole subject of guns
distasteful.’

  ‘But you’ll see the message gets to its destination?’

  Barron nodded. He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Are you doing a little sightseeing while you’re in Venice?’

  ‘I don’t have the time.’

  ‘A pity. The city in winter has certain charms.’ Barron looked at his watch. ‘You must excuse me. I’m expecting company.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He walked Rolfe Van den Kamp to the door and shook his hand briefly. When the Afrikaner had gone, Schialli entered the drawing-room to announce that the dinner guests had arrived.

  ‘All,’ Schialli added, ‘save the old one.’

  Barron twisted a length of fettuccine around his fork and raised it to his mouth. It tasted of anchovy and parmesan. He picked up his wineglass and sipped the Sardinian Vermentino, then held the glass up to the light as if seeking impurities in the liquid. Satisfied, he set the wine down and looked across the table at his companions, his eye passing over the place set for the missing guest.

  On his right sat Henry Saxon in his hideously thick spectacles; despite what manners he might have learned in prep schools and at Harvard, Henry was never entirely at ease at dinner tables, as if he were constantly afraid of a faux pas in the area of etiquette. Henry tended to sweat; the palms of his hands were moist.

  Next to Henry was Leo Kinsella, dressed in an expensive three-piece charcoal-grey suit. He wore decorative leather boots made to his own specifications by a craftsman in Taos, New Mexico. His expression was flinty, austere. He spoke in an accent designed to remind others of his impoverished childhood in the dirt-hills of Oklahoma. Leo was proud of his origins and how he’d transcended them: the embodiment, Barron supposed, of the American Dream, every immigrant’s fantasy – streets of gold, arid deserts out of which oil gushed.

  Beside Leo was Montgomery Rhodes, a taciturn figure in dark shades. Rhodes was dressed in the kind of sharp black suit that suggested the garb of an upscale funeral-parlour director. He’d once been attached to a clandestine branch of the Defense Intelligence Agency, and so far as Barron knew might still be employed by that nebulous outfit. There was a quality of brutality about Monty Rhodes, a manic intensity in his silences and the way he scribbled in his little notebook. Barron wasn’t fond of Rhodes because the man suggested a human black hole. He drained light out of any room in which he sat. He dragged menace around with him like a dead animal.