Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (10 page)

Chapter Eight

Outside the owner's cabin
five minutes later, Philip took a seat on a curved banquette open to the sky. The human music of the party floated upward, but he did his best to put it out of his mind, to hear only the soft lap of the sea against
Surpass
's hull and stabilizers. He had always preferred to concentrate in silence or, at minimum, in the absence of others' words. He liked the Med, relished its soft, sweet, careless ways. Indeed, there had been times when he wished he had been born along its shore, heir to its beneficent maternal vision of a God who provided her children with the most temperate of climates as well as uncomplicated laughter and the ready availability of carnal love. Alas, he hadn't! The genes he'd been selected to bear were those of hunters of wild beasts in dark forests, evaders of stags and lightning. Their God had forever dwelt in the sky, beyond ever re-forming clouds, producing thunder at twilight to rouse them from any episodes of disobedience or laxity. No man, not even one possessed of Philip's fortitude, could by any act of will convert himself into the product of a separate, equally ancient history or set of expectations.

When Ian finally appeared from his cabin, he said, “I am sorry to have kept you.”

Philip stood. “Actually, it's quite the reverse.”

Ian nodded his acceptance of Philip's apology and beckoned the younger man to follow, past the mounted Venetian masks into a study lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, its walls covered with green mohair velvet and its floor by a Turkish rug. Once inside, Ian closed the door, then took a seat at his enormous Chippendale desk. “Can I tempt you?” he inquired.

Philip demurred as Ian chose a cigar, a Cohiba Robusto.

“You don't mind?” Ian asked.

“You know I don't,” Philip replied.

When the cigar had been lit, Ian said, “Our friends in Naples, how are they?”

“Much of a muchness,” Philip told him. “One can never be sure if they are genuinely curious or if they've simply come to take for granted that feigning curiosity raises their price.”

“Go on.”

“Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's a lovely port to work in, deliciously corrupt.”

“And that corruption can cost precious time,” Ian said, “which I'm sure is what delayed you.”

Philip sighed in agreement.

Ian said, “I have to admit it can be amusing. The last time I was there, an American woman, who was obviously a major heiress, was staying at the same hotel. She had her very large family with her. On their way to the airport, a scooter pulled up next to the passenger side of her limousine and its driver threw a rock through the car's window and snatched the handbag from her lap before speeding off. As it happens, she had all their passports and air tickets in that bag, which left her with no choice but to order that the car immediately turn around. By the time they'd got back to the hotel, her handbag was already in the possession of the hall porter, who discreetly asked if he might have a word with her. The money was gone, naturally, he explained, but the remaining contents, including of course those passports and tickets, could be reclaimed for a small ransom. As you say, there's something delicious about such seamless corruption.”

“One has to remain on guard, but it has its uses, certainly,” Philip assented. “Our cargo made its way there, disguised on the first leg as building supplies, then as level-three turbines bound in due course for the Southern Hemisphere, some for Africa, more for Latin America—in other words, machinery that's a bit stale for Europe, past its sell-by date, not worth paying too much attention to.”

“But you are telling me—suggesting, rather—that someone did pay attention?”

“We'll never know for sure. Whatever leaves Russia arouses interest. Not to worry. The fact that it bore the Claussen imprimatur or at least the imprimatur of the Claussen subsidiary that's partnered with the Russian outfit went a long way toward allaying suspicion. You were right about that.”

“Poor Billy,” Ian said.

“I still can't believe it,” Philip said.

“
There
was a man who appreciated life, a man who was never afraid. He would go where angels feared to tread. As long as I'd known him, that was the case. Rather a lot of people would have instantly backed off anything having to do with Russia. Not Billy. He saw the potential in developing there from the get-go. It excited him. You could see that in his eyes. I don't know who said or did what that caused him to change his mind so abruptly. I asked him, naturally, but he was vague about it. Sometimes cultural divides are too wide to be bridged, I suppose. Or perhaps that was simply the excuse he manufactured and his real reasons had more to do with the state of his own business than with us or any of our people.”

“You don't think he had become suspicious?”

“Not for a moment. If he had, he would have alerted the authorities.”

“He was playing one game. We were playing another. You don't believe that a man as clever as Billy would have figured that out?”

“Trust me, Philip. The way Billy would have seen it, this was just another in a long succession of profitable deals between us. I put him next to a juicy project, he paid me a handsome fee: business as usual. If he'd grown nervous, it was over something else.”

“I defer to you. I never met the man.”

“You would have enjoyed him. Anyway, it's a pity he couldn't have had a longer, better final act.”

“If Claussen had lived and actually had parted ways with us—” Philip ventured.

But Ian stopped him. “We would have found other cover without too much difficulty. There is, after all, an enticing profit to be made on that peninsula.”

“What other cover could have been as immaculate as Claussen's?”

Ian regarded Philip with sudden circumspection. “We might have been forced to accept a somewhat higher level of risk. So what?”

“Very bad timing for Billy, to say the least,” Philip said, “but it did play into our hands. That's all I was suggesting.”

“The world's gone mad,” Ian said. “At least too many of the people in it have.”

Philip nodded then resumed, “Of course, the fact that our cargo is bound where it is bound rather than, say, to Tunis or Algiers was also useful. And there
were
building supplies and there
were
turbines, lots of both scattered throughout, in case anyone looked, which they didn't. Why would they when it could only complicate matters and they're being paid to keep out of the picture?”

“I'm still not sure I understand the reason for the delay.”

“There were a few more—unanticipated—palms to grease, a few more minds to set at rest, that's all.”

“Where? In the Bosporus?”

“Inevitably in the Bosporus, and also at Gallipoli and Çanakkale. All very matter-of-fact.”

“Why do you imagine
they
might have been suspicious?”

“These are people who do not think conceptually. They think practically. Contraband is their stock in trade. They wouldn't understand any other kind of shipment, but there is contraband fashion, which is a specialty of the Camorra. Then, in addition to drugs, of course, there are contraband videos, software, arms, meaning guns or perhaps grenades; really, contraband everything. All appear on their schedule of tariffs. Their concern is that higher-tariff merchandise not move under the guise of anything less.”

Ian drew a long puff on his Robusto, exhaled it carefully. “Therefore you paid the going price for guns?”

“Not quite. To do so, especially too readily, might have gotten them thinking: What could be more valuable than Russian guns?”

“Very cunning.”

“One is careful, nothing more. They wouldn't have leaped to the right conclusion. It's too far above their pay grade. But any conclusion might have gotten them interested in opening a crate or two, and if they happened to open the wrong one, then I would have had to depend on their not recognizing what they saw. Not a bad bet, even then. We had layers of disguise to rely on. By the time they'd left the train, our three pieces of cargo looked, as you know, like used generators. And they were so marked. As such, they were not things anyone had any use for any longer. Not at all good enough for the new Russia. Somewhere before they entered the Bosporus, they had become, to the eye if not a more practical test, run-of-the-mill turbines in need of reconditioning.”

“How did you doctor the manifests?”

“That wasn't necessary,” Philip explained. “Secondhand engines, generators, and turbines fall into the same category. They're designated by the same code.”

“That's fortuitous.”

“Nothing's fortuitous.”

Ian laughed briefly, perched his elbow on the edge of his desk. “Do we have an estimated time of arrival?”

“Surely that's the last thing we want until our friends on the other end of this transaction are ready.”

Ian nodded. “I was simply testing you. There is no margin for error in a deal of this nature.”

“Has there ever been a deal of this nature?”

“An interesting question, to which my answer must be an emphatic no. Neither the opportunity nor the appetite to seize it and, by doing so, shoulder such astounding risk has ever previously presented itself.”

“Nor has anyone brought your imagination to bear on such a set of events,” Philip offered flatteringly. “In effect, you created your own opportunity.”

“One mostly does,” Ian reflected. “When a moment in history arrived on one's doorstep, I extrapolated well from it. That's as far as I am willing to go—and that was the easy part. The hard part will be seeing it through without drawing the attention of those who might seek to take our bounty off our hands. One false step now and we will find ourselves in the crosshairs of every security service in the world, not to mention other outfits that abide by even less forgiving rules. We are no match for any of them. So the trick must lie in remaining invisible. Even if they should draw conclusions that seem to implicate us, on inspection we will be as we always are: enjoying our good fortune and lavishing it on others in plain sight. Who but we could maintain that façade and at the same time, in an almost supernatural act of legerdemain, broker the greatest deal in history? By all means, Philip, maintain your paranoia. It's your strong suit. Just don't show it.”

“I try to think not of the ultimate reward but of the job immediately to hand,” Philip said.

“Right. This is your main chance, just as it is, if not my last hurrah, then at least my crowning achievement.”

“In the meantime we have a plan to stick to. Where are our counterparties, I wonder?”

“The last I heard, they were still in Geneva.”

“They can drink there. They enjoy that,” Philip said.

“Don't be so sarcastic,” Ian admonished him, “and don't underestimate the value of hypocrisy.”

“I was at school in Geneva. I know the lay of that land. Anyway, they'll want more than three warheads before they part with their cash.”

“They will. And they're entitled to it.”

“Did Zhugov have the codes? That seems reckless.”

“Only elements of them,” Ian said. “You are being unusually direct.”

“Until now I've had—and felt—no need to know.”

“What's changed?”

“Nothing,” Philip said, smiling. “I am simply interested in how the final pieces of the puzzle are to be fitted together. Having done my part, I think I should be allowed that much curiosity.”

“Calm down,” Ian insisted. “I was just having a bit of fun with you. You deserve to be put in the picture, and for more reasons than you think. First, as you say, you've done your part. Second, someone, other than an aging trader who's smoked and drunk too much in his time, must be trusted with the information. What's mine will be Isabella's one day, and I very much want that to be as much as possible. I've had many joys in this life, but no children. She's the closest thing I have, and she couldn't be closer if she were my own flesh and blood. Whatever happens, I'm trusting in you to look after her.”

Philip stared directly into Ian's eyes. “I hope it goes without saying.”

“I'm afraid it has to, my boy. I have no one else I can turn to.”

“May I give you some advice?” Philip asked. “Stop trying to convince yourself you're older than you are. You are neither an old man nor one on the verge of old age. You're in your prime, with decades to go. You're seasoned. You're there—”

“Wherever ‘there' is?” Ian interjected.

“Aboard
Surpass,
to start with,” Philip said. “You can have anything you want. Half the young women in the world would think they'd died and gone to heaven after one look from you.”

“That's very gracious, if not entirely true.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Only too well,” Ian told him. “Now, about the codes: The elements Zhugov lacked were, alas, to be found in Moscow, where I've also done business.”

“How long have you had them?'

“Is that any of your business?”

“No, but I'm glad to see you've taken my advice to heart. You're already beginning to think like a younger man.”

There was bliss in Ian's smile. His ego was his soft spot. He said, “In fact, they were the first part of the equation. You do play backgammon, don't you?”

“Naturally.”

“Have you had a look at the set on the gaming table?”

“I haven't,” Philip said, but did so then.

“Have you ever seen a nuclear code?”

“I've seen the discs, of course. As I understand it, the codes themselves are algorithms.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ian told him.

“Are you asking if I normally visualize shapes or velocities from mathematical symbols? The answer is sometimes, but only with effort and not day in and day out. There are people who do. There were a number with me at MIT, but I was never one of them. That's a gift you're given. You cannot learn it. It's like perfect pitch. Or any other gift that counts.”