Lace II (38 page)

Later, she had sobbed with gratitude as Spyros held her to his hairy damp chest.

Slowly, La Divina’s confidence, career, and greedy appetite for life had revived and now, six years later, she knew the responses of Spyros Stiarkoz’s body better than the power of her capricious voice.

Yes, I have forgotten nothing, La Divina thought, as she lay against the body of Spyros Stiarkoz. She would always remember what he had done for her. Why, when she had telephoned two days ago from Buenos Aires, after cancelling her tour, he had comforted her and told her to fly straight back to Athens.

She had only arrived this morning but his helicopter had been waiting to carry her to the Persephone, which was anchored off Aegina.

That afternoon, they had made love for over an hour, until both were exhausted and sweating, but Spyros had been unable to have an erection. Afterward, La Divina had, silently, considered all the possible reasons. Of course, Spyros would never see sixty again. Perhaps he had a health problem; ten different sorts of tablets and capsules stood on the tray beside the gold dolphin faucets in his bathroom.

This evening La Divina was determined to arouse him. Now, as her throat accepted the flesh she loved so much, she ran her fingers lightly up his thighs, softly raked his buttocks with her fuchsia nails, then plunged her fingers into his dense pubic hair. But, as she massaged the sensitive area behind the base of his testicles, she felt his balls begin to slacken away from his body and realized that she was not getting the usual response.

La Divina hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder. But it was no good. Spyros’s erection had faded.

Finally she pulled away, and looked at him, her eyes filling with anxious tears. Spyros seemed completely unconcerned as he said, “It will be fine later, darling, I promise you.”

“No, no!” She broke into noisy sobs. “It’s different, isn’t it? What have you done with that creature, that now you can’t make love to
me?”

Spyros did not reply, because there was no point in saying anything to her when she was determined to make a scene. And, in fact, he was extremely worried about his lack of response. Nothing like this had happened since he had started taking the serum.

“It’s not enough for you to have Zeus Air! It’s not enough for you to have more tankers and bigger tankers than Jo had in his fleet!”

La Divina started hitting the cream linen sheets with her clenched fists, and crying louder. “It’s not enough that the Persephone is ten meters longer than Jo’s yacht! It’s not enough that you have
me!”

Spyros sighed. The first tantrum after twenty-four hours of peace. Ashtrays would be flying within five minutes.

“It’s not enough that I love you, Spyros, more than I ever loved your brother! Don’t you realize that
nothing
will ever be enough to make you feel you’ve beaten Jo?” La Divina started to hit his hard, gray-haired chest with her clenched
fists. “But now I know what you want. I didn’t think it was true, but it is.
You want Lili as well
. Don’t try to deny it. I saw that photograph of you two in the
New York Post
, last November, at the opera.
Dozens
of kind friends sent me the clipping. You remember, I was singing in Sydney. The press was on my neck the next day. Had I any comment, they wanted to know? I had to smile pleasantly, say no, no comment,
and then step out on that stage!”

So she
had
known about Lili. And for ten months she had not mentioned it. Such emotional self-control was rare in La Divina.

“I promise you, darling, I haven’t spoken to Lili for months.” No, Spyros thought, but Lili had been on his mind every day since he had touched her. La Divina’s instinct was uncanny.

Spyros had wanted Lili’s succulent body for added reasons that he did not care to acknowledge. Certainly, Lili had rejected him, but Spyros never gave up. When anyone opposed him in business, Spyros single-mindedly concentrated on destroying that person. When Spyros wanted something for his collection of Greek antiquities, he was prepared to wait for it—sometimes for years—and he was prepared to pay far, far above the market value for something he really desired. He was very rich, and because he was growing old, there was very little in life that he wanted.

But he wanted Lili.

Now, he briefly kissed the hand of La Divina and returned to his cabin, pausing to admire the purple silhouette of Aegina against the darkening Greek sky.

Back in his own suite, Spyros telephoned for the ship’s doctor and then showered. Afterward, one milliliter of serum was injected into his muscular left buttock, which was then respectfully swabbed. The serum was provided by the Swiss clinic that Spyros attended every winter for a week. The precious drug was cultured from the gonadal tissue of embryo pigs; within an hour it would make the sixty-eight-year-old as virile as a fifteen-year-old, Spyros hoped as he dressed. By midnight, La Divina would have dried her tears; she would be exhausted and contented and, he hoped, as his valet fastened his platinum cufflinks, she would also be quiet. Thank God
she didn’t know about the telegram, which had arrived that morning.

There was a knock at the door and a white uniformed aide entered, holding a paper. “Just came over the radio, sir. They’ve located Judy Jordan’s hotel in Istanbul. Mr. Menecik at the Turkish Foreign Ministry has radioed back to you, offering his services and Mr. Vlassos of Interpol will be available in twenty minutes.”

September 3, 1979

*   *   *

Across the road from the Sydonite Embassy, the ducks sailed serenely on the pond in St. James’s Park. Abdullah stared at them, then looked up in surprise as Pagan, wearing a blue Japanese kimono and no makeup, burst into his library, brandishing the
Daily Mail
.

“Abdi, this is terrible!”

Abdullah, who had already signed a thick folder of decrees and state instruments, used the peaceful morning hours to read his most important reports. Now, he put down the précis of his Intelligence Department’s Washington report.

“Look what it says in the
Daily Mail!”
Pagan read aloud, “‘Angelface Harris and Lili, Kidnap drama.’” She looked up at Abdullah. “Lili’s been snatched in Istanbul! Judy’s still there. I must telephone her straightaway.”

Abdullah waved his bodyguard out of the room. “Does anyone know the identity of the kidnappers or what they want?”

“No idea who they are, but it says here that they’ve demanded ten million dollars from Angelface Harris. Judy will be frantic!” Pagan loped around the large library, her untidy hair unbrushed, her kimono flying out behind her. As she passed Abdullah’s desk, she caught her kimono sleeve on a silver tray and impatiently tugged at it. The filing tray fell to the floor, scattering a pile of papers and a telegram. Adbullah jumped up, picked up the telegram and stuffed it in his pocket, then started to shove the papers back onto the silver tray. Pagan was so distraught that she did not notice this strange action. Normally, Abdullah would have pressed a button on the floor beneath his desk, whereupon a blackrobed
secretary would have entered and picked up the papers.

“I’ll get home and pack my bags straightaway, Abdi. I’ll have to go to Istanbul as soon as I can get on a plane. Judy will need friends around her at a time like this.” She flung a Burberry raincoat over her kimono, as Abdi rang for the car.

An hour later, Abdullah appeared at Pagan’s front door. She had just hurled open a newly packed suitcase, hunting for her passport.

“I don’t like the idea of your going to Istanbul alone,” Abdullah said. “I think I’d better go with you. My people have never trusted the Turks so we have a good intelligence system there. So we might be able to help in some way. We have a very pleasant little palace in the diplomatic quarter. My dispatch boxes can be sent there. Suliman has arranged everything, our plane will leave in two hours.”

Pagan jumped up and kissed him. “Darling Abdi, you
are
so kind!” It did not occur to Pagan to wonder why Abdullah should be so willing to make this uncharacteristic gesture of support. “Now, where the hell is my passport?”

Patiently, Abdullah said, “Your passport is of no consequence when you are traveling with me. I suggest, however, that you ask your maid to find you something more suitable to wear.” Pagan looked down and realized that she had been about to depart in her blue kimono.

*   *   *

“Miss Jordan is expecting me,” Pagan explained to the desk clerk for the fourth time, demonstrating the universal habit of raising the voice to uncomprehending foreigners. The next moment, she was almost knocked off her feet, as the plump and sweaty manager of the Haroun al-Rashid bustled forward with two assistants and bowed to the thin man in uniform, who was standing behind Pagan.

The marble lobby of the hotel was alive with journalists of every nationality. Television cables crisscrossed the rich rugs on the floor, tripping the flustered bellhops as they carried messages. The telephone switchboard was lit up like Las Vegas, and one of the operators was quietly weeping. Everyone was sweating, shouting to make themselves heard, and confused by the hysterical rumors which swept through the
press corps every half hour or so. Photographers jockeyed for position at the entrance on the side street; one intrepid lensman had climbed onto the roof of the hotel annex and was hopefully fitting telephoto lenses to his cameras in order to pry inside Judy’s suite.

Finally, Pagan threw up her arms in despair and, having been told that Judy was on the first floor, she bolted up the staircase to the first floor, shouting, “Judy, it’s Pagan, tell them to let me through!”

Judy heard her, flung open the heavy cedar doors of her suite, and Pagan tumbled into the room, and the two friends hugged each other.

“It’s like World War Three out there,” Pagan gasped when she got her breath.

“We’re waiting for the police chief,” Judy explained. “I hope he’s got some news.” There was a knock at the door and she whirled toward it. “That’ll be him now!” But, Gregg Eagleton, looking pale and crumpled, stood in the doorway. “I couldn’t get an earlier flight, Judy. What the hell is happening?”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, the hotel manager escorted into the room a small group of Turkish policemen, headed by the tall thin man who Pagan had seen in the lobby.

Colonel Aziz had round, heavy-lidded eyes and a melancholy expression. He wore the beige uniform of the Turkish police but spoke perfect English, with a slight American accent, having done his basic training in Miami. He reassured Judy that everything possible was being done to find her daughter. “We have involved Interpol, the Sûreté in Paris, and the FBI; we have never had a case such as this. You, Miss Jordan, have informed the police of three ransom demands that sound like jokes, all beginning “Dear Daddy,” sent to a Greek shipping magnate, an American banker, and a pop singer. But I understand from Miss Jordan,” he inclined his head to Judy, “that Mademoiselle Lili’s father died before she was born.” He spread his long, narrow hands in a gesture of surprise.

He thinks this is a publicity stunt, Judy realized, as she handed over the telegram that Curtis had given her that morning, before disappearing to sleep off his journey. The
British police had already sent out Angelface’s telegram. And Stiarkoz, when he spoke to Judy via the ship’s radio, had promised to deliver his cablegram when the Persephone docked in Istanbul.

Colonel Aziz examined the three pieces of paper. “There is little we can discover from these, other than that the messages are identical. We found no sign of force or struggle in Mademoiselle Lili’s suite, and our informants in the Grand Bazaar report no unusual disturbance yesterday.”

What would he describe as an unusual disturbance, Judy wondered, gazing up at the dusty chandelier, as she remembered the noisy, sweaty crowds that jostled in the smelly booths of the Bazaar: you could have garroted twenty people in that chaotic place and nobody would have noticed.

“So we are left with the possibility that whoever has abducted Mademoiselle Lili may be someone whom she knew, someone whom she would trust not to harm her.” The Colonel sat back in his green velvet armchair and looked from one strained face to another in turn. Gently he asked, “Who does Mademoiselle Lili know in Istanbul?”

“No one, as far as we know. She’s never been here before.” Judy took off her tortoise-shell glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. “Miss Bayriver, the Beauty Queen winner, and I are the only people that Lili knows in Turkey, apart from the hotel staff, our driver, and the guides. I can’t imagine any friend of Lili’s being capable of this.”

Gregg was slouched in a corner of the sofa, one ankle resting casually on the other knee. “Surely this is either a straightforward criminal case or a terrorist kidnapping?” Gregg had only ever before felt this anxiety fill his chest when his father was racing. He wished to God he hadn’t treated Lili as an ordinary woman: that was what she wanted, so he had tried to hide his bedazzlement behind a façade of unconcern. But she couldn’t be treated as an ordinary woman, because she wasn’t one. If only he’d looked after her more carefully. He wanted to accompany her on this trip, but Lili had insisted that she wanted to travel in the smallest possible group in order to get to know her mother. Gregg couldn’t stop accusing himself of neglecting Lili. If only, if only, if only, he thought.

“I’m inclined to rule out terrorism,” said Colonel Aziz.
“Certainly, in Turkey, we have our fair share of these groups—AMLA, the PLO, some Kurdish separatists. What modern capital city is free of these parasites?” Colonel Aziz shrugged. “But when terrorists kidnap a person, they have two aims. They want a substantial sum of money to buy arms to use against people such as myself,” Colonel Aziz gave a tight smile, “and they want the maximum publicity for their cause.” He coughed. “Kidnapping an international celebrity is a highly effective way of insuring worldwide maximum press coverage, but it’s unusual for the terrorist group not to make themselves known immediately. Anonymous kidnapping is not terrorist style.”