Cannibals and Missionaries (38 page)

“Oh,
poor
Israel,” moaned Beryl’s “Simmie.” “Would you take away her last friend? Well, I guess I would, if it was the only way of saving our lives. And you have to admit that some of her policies are open to criticism.” “You see?” crowed Charles. He was right, one had to acknowledge: things did look different from a captive’s point of view. One’s dearest principles shrank in importance when weighed against one’s freedom, till finally one began to ask whether they
were
so important, after all. Take the example of NATO: would Harold be such a jingo about the NATO forces as the first line of defense against Communism if taking Holland out of the first line would let them all go home in peace? France, come to think of it, he might tell himself, had left NATO years ago and the world had not come to an end.

“Yes,” said Simmie. “And I’m starting to wonder about something else. Our famous free press. I know it’s good that we have it and vital to a democracy. But in connection with your pictures, I ask myself…I mean, what’s to stop reporters from interviewing all our families?” “Nothing,” said Carey. “We can be sure that it’s been done.” “Well, then, when this tapes bombshell breaks, won’t they be pounding at those same doors again?” Carey nodded. “Mmm…I take your meaning.” But the others were left in the dark. “Explain,” said Beryl. “Don’t be so damned mysterious.” “No mystery,” said Carey. “Aileen means that this time some of the families will shut the door in their faces.” “Yes. On the one hand, my Mamma will let them in and tell them that, no, she hasn’t received any tape from me. They’re bound to believe her. Mamma’s a very truthful person. Anyway, in a small town like Fayetteville, everybody would know if she had. The same with your daughter, Jim. They’d seek her out in college, and she’d talk to them, wouldn’t she, and tell them no tape? It would be like that with every one of
our
families, but with you people’s it wouldn’t. They’d refuse to see reporters for fear of saying something out of turn. So it would be easy to narrow it down and know who’d got a tape and who hadn’t. Then it wouldn’t take a genius to realize that every hostage who made a tape was an important art collector.”

“Or just rich, Aileen,” said Warren. “Well, the two go together,” she retorted and then fell silent, as if the interruption had confused her. “In any case,” said the Senator, helping her, “thanks to the press, the FBI won’t have much of a problem running down the addressees of the tapes. The reporters lying in wait outside the stately homes will function as pointer dogs. As for watching the families’ movements, noting visitors, photographing them, trailing them, the press’ll provide those services for Kelley’s cops at no extra charge.”

The collectors groaned in unison. The families had a right to their privacy in circumstances like this. Though no one, of course, wanted his works of art to be handed over to the
kapers’
accomplices, the thought that the press by its vigilance would stand in the way was very disagreeable. If one was willing to pay the ransom, that should be the end of it; press and government should stand aside till the deed was done. Granted, it was breaking the law, but there were times when the law was wrong.

It was true that great wealth, even relatively great wealth, got one in the habit of wanting one’s own way, whatever the cost. Yet it was not an altogether bad habit to have formed. They were right to feel their hackles rise at the very idea of arbitrary interference in an affair that concerned no one but themselves. The paintings were theirs, so they should be free to dispose of them according to their own lights. Obviously, owning a masterpiece was a sacred trust—they all felt that, even Eloise with her pretty-pretty Laurencins—but how that trust should be regarded in an emergency ought to lie between one and one’s own conscience. If the rich were staunch Republicans, that was not because they grudged a fair wage and decent medical care and playgrounds and the rest of it to the poor, nor even because they believed blindly in capitalism as the best system yet invented for creating wealth and spreading it to the workman and the small investor, but because they were accustomed to freedom and jealous of having it taken away from them by the government and the prying press. A poor man did not appreciate the value of freedom, never having had much; that was a sad fact and often not his fault.

Yet if one could not help waxing indignant at the prospect of reporters wantonly interfering with one’s right to pay up, in another part of one’s mind was a little prayer that some outside force—not necessarily reporters—
would
intervene to save the treasures that too weakly one had agreed to sacrifice. Nobody knew
what
he or she wanted, really. For the
kapers
to have their way or not to have it? If they had their way, that would put an end to the torment at any rate. But to see them thwarted, gnashing their teeth like the villains they were, had greater appeal to the fancy.

Rescue, realistically, was the only hope. Of their own accord, the terrorists would not “go away,” like a bad dream. A daring raid, under cover of darkness, might do it. Actually, quite a few of the party had been counting on the helicopter for deliverance: it had been tempting to picture a body of paratroopers springing from it heavily armed, overpowering the guards and calling on the leaders to come out of the house and surrender. Such had been his fond fancy, Johnnie confessed; others had imagined canisters of a paralyzing gas as well. But here again did one really desire that? The house was wired, all the way to the rafters, and these people were fanatics. At the very minimum, were a rescue force to land, there would be shooting. The hostages, one might argue, could lie on the floor, out of the line of fire. But there was that “human shield” tactic so familiar from thriller films. To think of one’s frail body serving as a buckler for Jeroen’s hefty frame made one recognize how inseparable one’s interests had become from theirs, bound up together despite the evident differences for as long as this lasted; there was a name for that in biology: symbiosis. No wonder that when the helicopter appeared, it had been a relief, on the whole, to see that it was much too small to carry an army of flying Dutchmen—only the pilot and maybe one passenger could fit into it.

“Sophie,” said Johnnie, “you’re a journalist. What bright idea do you have for calling the pack off so that our families can do the necessary, if that seems best to them, to bring us back alive?” “The press isn’t as unfeeling as you all seem to think,” she answered in a low voice, interlacing her long fingers. “On its own, it can behave responsibly when it sees that the public’s ‘right to know’ conflicts with military security or with the safety of individual lives. But it doesn’t like to be dictated to or hear from others what its bounden duty is. It might help now, I guess, if an appeal was made to the papers to leave the families alone while negotiations are going on.” “But who would make the appeal, Sophie?” asked Lily. “The Dutch, I suppose,” said Sophie. “Through the military attaché.” But she herself did not sound very convinced. “Surely it would come better from the families?” Margaret said. Probably it would, but how convey the idea to the families? They might think of it for themselves and they might not.

There was a dejected silence. “We’re so helpless, aren’t we?” sighed Eloise. “If only, over there, they could have the benefit of the thinking we’re doing here. We could give them so many pointers.” “I have an idea!” Aileen cried. “Why don’t you make the appeal to the press yourselves? You could do another tape, with all your voices on it.” They all turned to Carey. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m sure Jeroen
et al.
will be happy to air it for you.” “You’re being sarcastic,” said Lily. “Do you mean we shouldn’t?” “Suit yourselves, Lily,” he answered. “But why so eager to make sure that our hosts get their hands on your pictures? Looks like you want to do their job for them. Kind of an auxiliary fire-fighting team of volunteers standing by with hook and ladder, getting your piece of the action.” “But would an appeal
work
?” said Johnnie. Carey supposed it would, for the time being, with the big papers, till some small fry broke the embargo. Aileen burst in. “I’ve got a better idea. Sophie should do it.” “Thanks,” said Sophie dryly. “As a journalist you’ll carry
much
more conviction,” Aileen persisted. “Your colleagues will listen to you when they might not to a lot of millionaires. The voice of privilege isn’t their favorite music. But as a fellow-worker, you’ll speak directly to their professional consciences.” But Sophie refused, point blank.

“Will you do it, then, Bishop?” The old man started. He had not been paying attention. “Do what, my dear?” His ruddy face had a purplish flush. Come to think of it, he had not been looking well since lunch time. “Make an appeal to the press, honey—” “Press?” He stared around the room. “Are there reporters here?” Sweat broke out on his broad forehead. “Hold it, Aileen,” ordered the Senator, when he saw that her mouth was open, ready to speak again. He moved over to where Gus was sitting and took his pulse. Then his eyebrows went up. “Get Denise.” He was unbuttoning the old man’s shirt collar. “Is that better? Can you hear me, Gus?” The Bishop faintly nodded and tried to speak. His jaw worked. “Head.” “Your head hurts, does it?” There was a feebler motion of the head and a facial sign like a wink. One eye was wide open and staring. He was having a stroke. As he twitched and fell forward, Frank caught him. “Shall we get him onto the sofa?” “Maybe better not move him,” said Harold, joining himself to the purposeful circle around the sick old man. “Let’s just take off his shoes.” They unlaced the heavy brogues, and Frank chafed his feet in the thick socks. The right foot hung down, a dead weight.

“Stand back!” Denise was there now; she had been in the kitchen preparing supper. Having taken his pulse herself, she said it would be all right to move him, and Frank and Jim, with Harold helping, carried him to the sofa. He was breathing wheezily and seemed to be unconscious. Harold looked over the contents of Denise’s first-aid kit and made a face. They had nearly forgotten that he had started out behind the counter, as a pharmacist—he had made his first million by “cornering” some new drug. “Is this all you’ve got?” he demanded. “I fear so, sir. Would you think to try the adrenalin?” “Are you crazy, woman? The worst thing you could give him. This is a stroke, see?” “There are
médicaments
in the frigidaire, sir.” “Blood plasma, yes, plenty,” said Ahmed, who had been hovering about anxiously.
“Voulez-vous que j’en cherche?”
Harold hooted. “Counter-indicated, I should imagine, Ahmed,” put in Charles. “In my young years, I recall, blood-letting was a favored remedy for apoplectic strokes. Yes, I can still see the jar of leeches in Grandfather’s sick chamber. We were in Seville, as it happened, when he was stricken while watching a procession of flagellants.” Harold nodded. “Blood-letting would have taken the blood pressure
down,
which is what you have to do with a stroke. Adrenalin and plasma send it
up.
” “And ice-bags,” Charles continued, “were applied to the forehead. Could an icebag be improvised, I wonder?” Denise thought it could and hurried off to the kitchen.

Harold went back to studying the bottles and boxes in the first-aid kit. “Aspirin, anyway,” he said. “May help some in dilating the veins. At least it’ll relieve the headache. You heard him indicate that his head was aching? Normal in a stroke. Often the first symptom. Glucose—could there be any glucose in that frigidaire? But, hell, you’d have to administer it as an intravenous drip. No chance of that. In the old days they went in for camphor injections….”

He had not stopped talking, thinking aloud evidently, when Greet appeared. She studied the Bishop, whose breathing was still noisy, and calmly removed his false teeth. Next she took his pulse. “You should raise his head and shoulders,” she commented, letting his wrist drop. She had been an airline stewardess herself—KLM; trust Beryl to have learned that. Her eye went around the parlor with manifest dissatisfaction till it fell on the big Bible with its silver locks. “That will do,” she decided. “Place it there, under the shoulders, and you, Pastor, add your coat.” She showed Frank how to fold it. “Can he be flown out?” he asked, when his friend had been propped up in what to the layman appeared a rather uncomfortable position. But no doubt Greet knew what she was doing. One could not call her attitude kind, but it did seem very professional. KLM must give them more training than Air France did in handling emergencies. Or could she have taken a nursing course to prepare herself for enlisting in their “people’s army”?

“This man cannot be moved yet. When he recovers consciousness, we will see.” In her opinion, it was only a mild stroke. He was not in deep coma, and his pulse was better. In any case, he could not be flown out unaccompanied. They watched as her eye reviewed them. If Gus were flown out, what lucky person would be chosen to go with him? Frank was the logical selection, but, as Sophie had said yesterday—or was it only this morning?—that was not how these people’s minds worked. The one thing you could wager on was that there would be no call for volunteers.

Harold held up a little ampoule. At last he had found something that interested him in Denise’s kit. “Papaverine. Well, well.” Greet took the glass container from him and inspected it herself. “A vaso-dilator,” Harold told her. “Just what the doctor ordered. Miracle that she’s got it. And of course she has the hypodermic.” Greet dismissed his notion of a miracle. Papaverine, she said, was often found in flight emergency kits; it was to be doubted, though, that it was much more useful than aspirin for dilating the vessels. But she agreed that they should try it. “He may not be able to swallow aspirin. That girl, I think, is capable of giving an intramuscular injection.” But there was only the one ampoule, and if Denise bungled the shot, it would be a great pity. Greet watched her busy herself with the syringe and a little bottle of alcohol. “No. Go to the kitchen and boil some water. I will give the injection myself.” When the hypodermic was brought back in a pan of water, with a pair of tongs, she filled it. “Now turn him on his side and bring the trousers down.” The Bishop’s trousers were lowered, and his capacious underpants and flowing shirt-tail moved to one side, exposing his white buttock—the right one. Greet pressed his ancient flesh firmly between her thumb and forefinger and plunged the needle in. Then he was placed on his back again, with his trousers rebuttoned. Thanks to Denise’s butter-fingers, there had been no avoiding a glimpse of his private parts.