Midnight in Europe (25 page)

At three-thirty in the morning, two light raps on the door. De Lyon was relieved, he’d begun to think that Vadik wouldn’t show up and, at that time of night, the belly dancer was looking better and better. She woke from a doze and opened the door to reveal two individuals; one thin and dark with watchful eyes who remained in the hall, a guard; the other, entering the room, was a broad-chested man in the shapeless suit favored by Soviet apparatchiks. His gray hair was cut short, he had a bullet head, high, Slavic cheekbones, and the stocky, round-shouldered build found in exceptionally strong men. He was in fact handsome, with a face made to smile.

“You are de Lyon?” he said.

“Yes, and you must be Vadik.”

“None other. Let’s send the girl away.”

Vadik said a few words in Turkish and, as the girl left the room, bottom wobbling as she walked, he gave her some Turkish lira as a going-away present.

Both men watched her leave and, when he’d closed the door, Vadik said, “Not so bad.”

De Lyon agreed.

“You speak good Russian,” Vadik said.

“I was born there and left as a kid, but it stays with me.” He reached into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket and handed Vadik a thick envelope holding five thousand dollars in roubles. Vadik put the envelope in his pocket; he didn’t open it, didn’t count it, anyone who did business with Vadik knew better than to steal from him.

Vadik sat on the rumpled bed and leaned against the headboard, de Lyon remained in his chair. Vadik said, “Care for a cigarette? I could offer you the Russian kind, makhorka, black tobacco. I carry it with me, just in case, but I expect you’d prefer one of these.” He offered de Lyon a pack of Chesterfields, de Lyon lit one with his steel lighter. Vadik said, “All right, Max, you paid to talk, so let’s talk.”

“I’m working for the Spanish Republic, and we’re looking for Soviet anti-aircraft ammunition. Some of these guns are mounted on ships, so, we thought, Odessa …”

“The naval base?”

“There must be an armoury at the base where the ammunition is stored.”

From Vadik, a single bark of a laugh. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

“I am.”

Vadik looked dubious. “I don’t know … damn … what haven’t I stolen; furs, jewels, trucks, horses, caviar, machinery, money
 … eggs
, when I was a kid robber, but never anything like that.”

“Always something new,” de Lyon said.

Vadik thought for a time, then scratched his head. “And how do you come to have this job?”

“I worked for an arms merchant, when I was in my twenties, then I ran the business for a time. I never liked it—selling to both sides, making money from slaughter—but when Franco started his war I volunteered to help the Republic.”

“For money?”

“No, they pay me a little, but no. I’d seen the fascists at work, it did something to me.”

“You want to be a hero? Heroes die, Max.”

De Lyon shrugged. “Everybody dies, eventually.” He paused, then said, “What’s your feeling about this job? Do you think you might take it on?”

“I don’t know … yes, no, maybe. I have about forty men, most of them are brave and determined, and skilled at what they do. Still … this is no bank robbery, walk in, shoot your way out, you can’t do that on a naval base.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Tell me about the money.”

“On the munitions market, seventy-six-millimeter shells cost about nine dollars and forty-seven cents apiece. We need fifty thousand, which is four hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars, so let’s call it five hundred thousand.”

“Let’s call it six hundred thousand, Max.”

“Agreed. Half to start with, the rest when we receive the ammunition.”

“Fair enough. If all goes well, you’ll receive it in Odessa. After that, it’s up to you.”

“How do you want to be paid?”

From Vadik, a faint scowl. “Now that is forever the fucking problem—even if you could buy all those roubles, the NKVD would hear about it.”

“Do you have a bank account? A foreign bank account?”

Vadik laughed. “I don’t make deposits in banks, only withdrawals. And, as for a
foreign
bank account, I can’t do anything like that.”

“We can. A bank account in Switzerland, anonymous, just a number.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Vadik said. He stifled a yawn and looked at his watch—a cheap watch made of steel, likely USSR manufactured. “It’s four-thirty, can we get some air?”

“There’s a kind of porch on this floor, down the hall.”

Vadik nodded and rose from the bed. Outside the door, the guard was leaning against the wall, and de Lyon saw that he held a sawed-off shotgun beneath his jacket. Vadik spoke with him for a moment, in a language de Lyon didn’t recognize. “That was Armenian, in case you wondered. Joe is Armenian.”

“Joe? An Armenian name?”

“He got it from the cowboy movies.”

Heading for the porch they heard, as they passed one of the rooms, the rhythmic creak of bedsprings and, from the floor below them, somebody said good night in German. “It’s quiet for a brothel,” de Lyon said.

“This place is for foreigners—a real Turkish whorehouse is a lot noisier.”

Down the hall, an open door led to a narrow porch with an intricate wooden balustrade. From here, they could see a docked freighter with hamals—Turkish stevedores—bent under the weight of huge, burlap-covered bales as they climbed a gangplank. A few trucks, headed to the open markets, rattled along the rough road past the dock. Vadik gave de Lyon another Chesterfield and, as de Lyon lit it, said, “I’ve never seen a lighter like that.”

De Lyon snapped it shut, said, “It works in the wind,” and handed it to Vadik. “This is for you, Vadik, a gift.”

Vadik said thank you and put the lighter in his pocket. De Lyon said, “When will you know whether or not you can do this?”

“I’ll have to figure out the details, which means watching the armoury, talking to the sailors who work there, then I can tell you yes or no. It won’t be right away, maybe two weeks, maybe more.”

“Once you’re back in Russia, is there some way we can communicate?”

“I have a contact in Paris, a confidential agent called Morand—he used to have a Russian name but he changed it. He’s dependable, a tough guy, though he doesn’t look it—he looks like Hardy, in the Laurel and Hardy movies. Also, he’s clever, he found a safe way to
get messages in and out of the USSR. So, when you return to Paris, look him up.”

“I found you through a man who owns a garage north of the city.”

“No, no, he just contacts Morand. A big talker, better you don’t see him again, he can’t be trusted.”

“Is a telephone call possible?”

“Yes, but we’ll have to use fake names, you know? Say things like ‘the machinery’ and ‘the delivery.’ And if we take the job we’ll have one more meeting here.”

They leaned on the balustrade and watched the lights on ships making way through the Bosphorus channel. “I’m getting hungry,” Vadik said. “There’s an all-night kebab place near the dock, you can get a plate of soup, good soup.”

They left the brothel, the Armenian guard a few paces behind them. On the way to the dock they passed a parked Opel, and the young woman behind the wheel exchanged glances with Vadik.

When Ferrar returned to Paris from New York, he found that Count Polanyi had telephoned him and was expecting to be called back as soon as possible. Perhaps the love letter had done its job, Ferrar hoped it had, because he wasn’t really sure what to do if it hadn’t. Reached at the Hungarian embassy, Polanyi asked if they could speak in person. “Of course,” Ferrar said.

“Tomorrow is Saturday, do you go into the office on Saturdays?”

“From time to time, when it’s necessary. Usually I go riding on Saturday morning, I could stop by the embassy on my way there.”

“Riding? In the Bois, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind company?”

“Not at all. We can rent you a horse at the stable by the Long-champ racetrack. Do you ride often?”

“Not now, I’m too old and fat for it, but I did my military service as a cavalry officer, so I think I can manage a bridle path.”

It rained at dawn on Saturday, then cleared to a sunny, windy May morning. Ferrar wore a sport coat with scarf and gloves, jodhpurs, and boots. Polanyi’s outfit was tight on him but he rode easily and, since both men were mounted on the Selle Français, the muscular and responsive breed preferred by almost all French riders, they moved along at a slow trot and, side by side, were able to talk. The Bois de Boulogne forest was at its spring best; birdsong everywhere, the chestnut and oak trees in new leaf, light green, that danced prettily in the breeze.

“Lovely day,” Polanyi said. “I wish I had good news to go with it.”

“Well, we tried,” Ferrar said. “What happened?”

“Nephew Belesz telephoned from Budapest, he wanted to laugh at me in person—which is typical nephew.”

“He actually laughed?”

“A sort of theatrical snarl, not a real laugh. ‘Ha-ha, Uncle’ was the way he put it.”

“Oh.”

“Then he said, ‘What do you take me for? A fool?’ Which I was tempted to answer but didn’t. He went on and on, he did. It seems the lovely Celestine could never write such a letter, or
any
letter, but he had a pretty good idea who
had
written it.”

“And you said?”

“Naturally I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Did somebody write you a letter?’ I was terribly confused, and that made him mad, and he actually
sputtered
.” Polanyi was amused at the recollection. “Then he raved for a while, at one point he used the word ‘chicanery,’ and slammed the telephone down.”

“Time for a new approach,” Ferrar said. For a few minutes they rode in silence, the horses’ hooves clopping softly on the packed dirt. Ferrar was thinking hard, he had to come up with something.

Finally, Polanyi said, “The letter was a fiasco, no doubt about
it, but I think I learned something we might use. Yes, he was angry, but there was more to it than anger, and after he’d hung up I found myself thinking,
He’s scared
. That I had tried to attack him and would again. It was somewhere in his voice, you know how some people are? They get frightened and they cover fear with bluster.”

“And so?”

“We find a way to threaten him.”

“Physically?”

From Polanyi, a brief but informative silence.

“I would hate to have a client drawn into an act that would compromise him, legally. It’s my job to protect you, from yourself if necessary, Count Polanyi.”

“You’re right, Ferrar, I won’t
do
anything. Still, a properly conceived threat will prey on the mind. This isn’t theory—at the darker end of the diplomacy business it’s done all the time.”

“Let’s not do that yet, Count …”

They were riding along a lane bordered by Lombardy poplars, which opened to admit an intersecting path and there a woman had dismounted and held her horse by the reins. What had stopped Ferrar in mid-sentence was the woman’s golden hair and, as Ferrar stared, he realized who he was looking at. “Maria Cristina?” he said, bringing his horse to a halt.

“Cristián!” she said. “I thought, what a beautiful day, I shall go to the Bois, and here you are!” Her riding habit was fancy and new, the look on her face anxious.

Ferrar said, “Marquesa Maria Cristina, may I present the Count Janos Polanyi.” Maria Cristina acknowledged the introduction with a gracious nod.

“Enchanté,”
Polanyi said, bowing in the saddle.

Ferrar turned to Maria Cristina and said, “Would you care to ride along with us?”

“Oh I wish I could,” she said. “But I am expected for luncheon.” She raised a foot, slipped it into the stirrup and, as Ferrar held his breath, successfully mounted her horse.
“A bientôt,”
she called out. “I hope to see you soon, Cristián,” and rode off with a flip of the
reins. Which the horse understood to mean
speed up
. Maria Cristina jerked backward, then got her horse under control, turned halfway around and saluted them with her riding crop.

When she was out of sight, Ferrar and Polanyi went trotting off down the bridle path. Polanyi said, “A friend of yours? A … good friend?”

“Yes, she is.”

“And she is a marquesa? A Spanish marquesa?”

“She was married to a Spanish marques, she is of French and Italian descent.”

“For a Spanish marquesa, Ferrar, she doesn’t ride very well. Was she waiting for you?”

“I believe she meant it to seem a coincidence.”

“Did she. Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, she is in serious pursuit of you, my friend. I hope you will invite me to the wedding.”

“Early for that, Count.”

Polanyi cleared his throat, a version of the comic-book
harumpf
, and said, “Forgive me, Ferrar, if I say
damned strange
.”

“I don’t mind, you aren’t wrong. I suspect that my being with a friend surprised her.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to disrupt a seduction, but I suppose love will find a way.” After a moment, he said, “Ever done it on a horse?”

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“A bad idea. The horse bolted and I wound up on the ground with my pants down and damn near broke my pelvis. Of course, Hungarians believe they can do
anything
on a horse.”

“What happened to the woman?”

“She hung on, went galloping away over the fields, bare bum bouncing in the moonlight.”

The best part of the incident in the Bois de Boulogne was that Polanyi forgot his nephew and went on to tell Ferrar saucy stories about his youth. Thus, reprieve. For the time being, anyhow. But
Ferrar was now troubled, what the hell was Maria Cristina doing? She had been so stately, so poised, until the night at the Windsor. And how had she known where,
precisely
where and when he would be on that Saturday morning?
What do I really know about her?
he asked himself. He still wanted her, very much wanted her, the evening at the hotel might have been a failure but it had whetted his appetite; he could still see her, almost undressed, and remembered every detail. And he intended to try at least once more. So went the weekend, and Ferrar was glad to return to work on Monday.