Blind Date (3 page)

In the morning, Levanter drove to Aratus, a three-story chalet with several garages, a tennis court, and iron sculptures adorning acres of private park. The driveway appeared to have been swept and sanded recently, and everything about the chalet suggested constant care.

Levanter parked just outside the entrance to the grounds and waited. The ValPina postman pulled up to the house in his small car. He placed a stack of mail on the front doormat, rang the bell, and, without waiting for a response, drove away again. Levanter left his car and walked to the door with the confident stride of an expected visitor. At the door, he bent down as if to brush the snow off his boots and trousers, and, certain he could not be seen from any of the windows, he quickly perused the mail. He spotted a large manila envelope, looked at the return address, and deftly
tucked it under his coat. Then, in case anyone in the house had seen him approach, he stepped far enough back to be visible and slapped his forehead as if he had just discovered that he was at the wrong house. As he was about to drive away, he saw the chalet door open. A black woman in a maid's uniform picked up the mail and, without looking around, took it inside.

An hour later, Levanter telephoned Aratus. A butler answered and Levanter asked for Clarence Weston, Sr. It was a matter concerning Pacific and Central Enterprises, Inc., he said.

Weston came to the phone. Levanter introduced himself and asked for an appointment.

“What is it you want from me, Mr. Levanter?” asked Weston in the manner of a man accustomed to fending off requests.

Levanter was not deterred. “Some highly confidential information about Pacific and Central has leaked. I think you should know about it.”

“I know my company, Mr. Levanter. If something has leaked, it wasn't confidential. If that's all, then —” He was ready to hang up.

“It's about the Monaco deal,” said Levanter. “And the results of the talks Rashid, Omani, and Young held in Lake Tahoe.”

Weston was silent.

“I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Weston,” said Levanter, his tone indicating he too was now ready to end their conversation.

“Where are you calling from, Mr. Levanter?” Weston asked quickly.

Levanter gave the name of his hotel.

“My car will pick you up in twenty minutes.”

When Levanter arrived at the chalet, Weston was waiting for him in a large living room. Apparently in his sixties, he had gray hair and a ruddy complexion. As he gestured Levanter to the soft leather chair beside him, Weston's bright eyes seemed to be making a careful assessment of his visitor. The black maid whom Levanter had seen picking up the mail now brought in coffee, cognac, and a plate of biscuits.

“What do you do, Mr. Levanter?” he asked.

“I do as I please.”

Weston laughed, displaying the unnatural whiteness of denture enamel. “Many men can say that. But how do you make a living?” He leaned forward.

“I have always been an investor,” said Levanter. “A self-employed idea man. A few times a year I come across an idea and try to sell it to people who might need it.”

Weston picked up a biscuit and bit at it delicately. “How do you get these ideas?” he asked, openly ironic.

“Any investor knows that ideas are traps,” said Levanter. “But only one who knows how to set the trap will make a catch.”

“And you, Mr. Levanter, decided that you knew how to set one for me — and figured you could make a killing. Is that so?” He did not wait for an answer. “Well, not yet, my friend. The Monaco deal is someone else's trap. You couldn't have come across it all by yourself. Someone must have helped you set me up or worked for you.” He leaned closer. His expression was hard, almost hostile. “Isn't this simply blackmail, Mr. Levanter? You tell me who is selling the secrets of Pacific and Central and I pay you for the tip?” He looked into Levanter's eyes. “How much?”

Levanter got up and walked across the room, the thick, furry carpet muting the sound of his steps. He stopped and gazed out of the large window. The snow glittered in the sun, its smooth, vast surface broken here and there by fox pawprints. Below, he could see the valley of Valais.

“When are you going back to California?” he asked Weston.

Weston looked impatient. “If you don't know that, Levanter, your insiders didn't tell you much,” he said sternly. “Now, what's your answer?”

“You are still the chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the company, aren't you?” Levanter asked. “I want to be sure I'm talking to the right man.”

“That's what the corporate letterhead shows,” answered Weston. “But for some time now I have been performing my duties from here, by remote control, you might say. A self-imposed semiretirement of sorts.”

“How come?”

“Age. Some arthritis. To save remaining energy.” His smile looked forced. “It's a multibillion-dollar company, Levanter. Thousands of employees. Shareholders. As long as I'm here they can't keep track of the state of my health. No one bothers me. You're the first.” He chuckled.

Levanter pointed out the window at the extensive grounds. “And all this is yours?”

Weston nodded. “It sure is. But don't be too impressed,” he added quickly. “It's just twenty-five acres. The Arab next door owns four times as much land, and he's building eight separate villas on it — one for each of his wives.”

Levanter returned to his chair. “If I were to tell you how I obtained a detailed account of the Monaco deal and those talks in Lake Tahoe, what would you do?”

Weston became animated. “I would fire the person who allowed the information to get out. I would teach the bastard a lesson he'd never forget.”

“Why?”

“Why? This is a publicly owned corporation. A leak like this could have serious consequences.” He stopped.

Levanter spoke. “Yes, it could. It could force the resignation of your top men, a loss of confidence in Washington and on Wall Street. The company's stock would plummet, millions of shareholders would lose their savings. And all this as you sit here in the comfort of your mountain estate, enjoying the fortune that you have accumulated over the years. Meanwhile, many of the investors, contractors and subcontractors, and dozens of companies that depend on your conglomerate would go out of business.”

Weston rose from his chair, his face flushed. “Now wait a minute.” He raised his voice. “I owe nothing to anyone.”

“Now you wait,” Levanter countered. “I'm the one who discovered the man responsible for the leak.”

“How much do you want to name him?”

“I haven't said that what I know is for sale, or that I intend to reveal it to anyone else,” said Levanter. “But if another man came
to you with what I know, how much would you pay him for telling you how he got the information?”

Weston sat down. “Is this bastard at Pacific and Central the only one responsible for the leak?”

“As far as I know, he is,” said Levanter with conviction.

“And he can be stopped?”

“He can. Very easily.”

Weston picked up a pencil and wrote something on a small pad. He tore off the slip of paper and passed it to Levanter.

Levanter glanced at it. “Are you sure you're not too generous?” he asked.

“You don't have the check yet,” said Weston with a laugh.

Levanter stood up and walked out to the hall. He took the envelope from his coat and went back to the living room and handed it to Weston. “Here it is, all intact,” he said. “And the addressee is the bastard whose negligence allowed me to obtain it.”

Weston looked at the name. His face turned red as he anxiously emptied the envelope. “What do you mean ‘negligence'?” he demanded.

“I picked up the envelope outside your door this morning.”

“How did you know this would be in today's mail?” Weston asked.

“I didn't. But I'm sure you receive something like this almost every day. I assume you do only the unimportant transactions by phone since it is likely to be tapped, and certainly you don't trust messengers. Anyway, how do you know I haven't been picking up and resealing your mail for weeks?”

Weston was angry. “Stealing mail is against the law. I can have you arrested.”

“You can,” said Levanter. “But is what I've done worse than Monaco?”

Weston did not respond. He had turned his attention away from Levanter and begun to sort through the papers.

“Well, everything is in order,” Weston said as he slipped them back into the envelope. “You haven't made any copies?” he asked.

“What for? I'm a small investor,” said Levanter. “That's what I'll always be.”

Weston got up again and paced for a moment. “Wait here,” he ordered and left the room with the manila envelope. He came back a few minutes later. “This is for you,” he said, handing Levanter a check.

“You don't have to,” said Levanter.

“I know I don't,” said Weston.

Levanter looked at the check. The amount was twice the figure Weston had written on the paper. “Why?” Levanter asked.

“You could get twice as much from any of our competitors,” said Weston. “Besides, you've just given Pacific and Central an idea. These days new ideas are tough to come by.”

Levanter stood at the cable-car window, pretending to enjoy the view but in fact reveling in the admiring glances of the other skiers. Not every one of the hundred or so people in the car could have noticed his modish ski suit, American racing boots, and Japanese-made skis, but he knew he looked striking. He always selected his apparel and equipment with an eye to creating this effect, as did many of the fashionable skiers who came to ValPina. The attire was, after all, a part of the sport itself. Levanter was paying little attention to the babble of French, Italian, Swiss, English, and German until, over the cacophony, he distinctly heard the sound of Russian. He looked across the car and spotted a man and two women in city clothes who contrasted markedly with the colorful, animated skiers around them. They had the drab appearance and repressed bearing of Soviet officialdom.

Levanter inched his way across the crowded cable car and maneuvered a place in front of the trio. From their remarks, he learned that they were indeed Soviet officials on their way from Geneva to Milan, stopping for a day of sightseeing in ValPina.
Their conversation was a series of judgments on everything they saw: the skiing was imperfect, the slopes badly maintained, the view less than beautiful, and the Western ski equipment garish and extravagant. Levanter expected some comment about himself. Then, surprised that they hadn't noticed his outfit and gear, he shoved his elbow against the man, stumbling as if the sway of the cable car had upset his balance. The man tripped, then regained his balance and looked at Levanter with disdain.

One of the women glanced at Levanter's boots. “Interesting design,” she said to her companions.

The man looked down at the boots. “Cheap plastic garbage. Not an ounce of leather,” he muttered.

Levanter stared out of the window.

The other woman looked at Levanter's skis. “Ya-ma-ha,” she read aloud.

“Japanese trash,” the man said.

“Still, the parka is vivid,” the other woman said.

“Gaudy,” commented the man.

The Russian man turned to get a better look at Levanter, who continued to stare out of the window. “I know his type,” said the Russian. “Spaniard, from the looks of him. Works at a lodge in some menial capacity, no doubt. Kitchen boy. Or a porter. Or a waiter. That's it. A little Spanish waiter! The Swiss import these poor bastards and work them like dogs. Fourteen, sixteen hours a day. So when he finally gets a day off, he puts on his flashy outfit and parades around like a big shot.”

Levanter turned to face them. Assuming the manner of an authoritarian Soviet bureaucrat, he addressed the Russians in their language.

“Excuse my intervention, Comrades,” he said, pausing to gauge the effect. The Russians stared at him, stunned. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Romarkin, Soviet Armed Forces, temporarily abroad with the Soviet Ski Team in the Alpine Competition.” He paused again. Other skiers in the cable car were watching the strange scene, understanding nothing of what was happening but spellbound by the formal tones of the voices and the Russians' sudden subservient
attitudes. “I could not help overhearing your remarks about me,” Levanter continued, stressing each word. “As, let me remind you, I am here on behalf of our beloved motherland, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics —”

“But, Comrade,” the man stammered, “in no way did we mean to—”

“Do not interrupt,” Levanter commanded. “It does not matter that you don't know that my equipment is the very finest obtainable for our Soviet sportsmen to appear in at this competition. What does matter —”

“But, Comrade, in no way did we mean to undermine —”

“I haven't finished yet.” Levanter looked sternly at the man. The official, silenced, turned ashen. “What matters,” Levanter went on, “is that you, Comrade, unmasked your true feelings: to you the term ‘Spanish waiter' is derogatory. Yet such poor Spaniards desperately fought in Spain against the forces of fascism.” The official, his mouth dry, muttered something incoherent.

Levanter turned to the women. “As for you, Comrades —”

The women, visibly upset, gave him stubborn looks. “I merely commented upon your parka, Comrade,” one of them said, licking her lips as she spoke.

“And all I said was ‘Ya-ma-ha,'” pleaded the other, small droplets of perspiration rolling down her cheeks.

“‘Parka' and ‘Yamaha.' That's all you could say? Neither of you felt it necessary to object to this comrade's fascistic remarks?” Levanter enunciated every word. “Enough. We will resolve the matter in Moscow. Now, please: name, profession, and position?”