Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (25 page)

“Glamorous, but so far only social, no substance, no idea who anyone is,”
he typed,
after which he listed the names of those on board.

“If anyone is up to anything, no one talks about, or even around, it. After dinner, men retreated to owner's quarters. I was barred.”

It was not long before the flashing red light on his BlackBerry alerted him to an incoming from Oliver.

“Use your high-tech charm,”
it read.
“It's all we've got.”

Lunch was the centerpiece of the next day. Held on the “beach club,” a square of teak, chrome and fiberglass that unfolded from
Surpass
's aft
starboard
hull to float as a pontoon, it featured a Romanian dancer-turned-businessman by the name of Aurelien Strigoi; a Pakistani mathematician, Rahim Kakar; a septuagenarian Indian industrialist, Ajay Prajapti, and his handsome, suspiciously diligent son Akshar; and Ch'ing Shih, a Chinese property developer who had recently been on the cover of the Asian edition of
Fortune
.

When Philip arrived without Isabella, who was busy working on designs for Sheik al-Awad, Rahim Kakar said, “Well, I suppose this gives new meaning to the term ‘business lunch.'”

“It's nothing of the sort,” Ian said. “It's a gathering of old friends.”

“Upon which I fear I'm intruding,” Ty said.

“Quite the contrary,” Ian said. “We all need someone to hear our stories for the first time.”

“He's not kidding either,” Ajay Prajapti said.

“Take Ian at his word,” Aurelien Strigoi said. “One ordinarily doesn't wear a swimsuit to a business lunch, after all.”

Ty laughed. “That's a very good point.”

“The truth is that we are not conducting the least bit of business,” said Ajay. “We have in the past and doubtless will in the future, but today we are here simply to enjoy Ian's incomparable hospitality. Actually, we're—”

“More like cardinals paying our respects to the Pope,” Aurelien suggested. “Sorry, Ajay, I didn't mean to cut you off.”

“One has to pay respect to a man with such a yacht,” Ch'ing Shih said.

“What Aurelien says is true,” the elder Prajapti told Ty. “Our respect for and devotion to Ian are the ties that bind us. Even I've learned from him, and I am old enough to be his father.”

“Hardly,” Ian said, then, turning to Ty, added, “They flatter me. Aurelien was my student, you see, a very long time ago. Brilliant, he was; left with a Double First. So brilliant, in fact, that from day one he never bought any of that nonsense about flattery getting you nowhere. That's true, is it not, Aurelien?”

The Romanian nodded reluctantly.

“Ajay was a client, and Rahim and Ch'ing were my partners when I still had my firm in London. They've both gone on to bigger things.”

“Suddenly it's dawned on me,” Ch'ing said.

“What has?” inquired Aurelien.

“Why Mr. Hunter is here with us, of course. You're going to play Ian in a film, aren't you? Ian in his salad days—now, that would be some film!”

“I'm sure it would. I'd love to see the script,” Ty said.

“Problem is, only one man could write it,” Rahim said, “and he won't. For the life of me, I don't know why. I've been trying for donkey's years to get him to write a memoir.”

“Too many tales to tell,” Ian said dismissively.

“Nonsense,” Rahim said. “You are a subset of one. Very few great businessmen are also thinkers. Just go back to the articles you published when you were at Cambridge or to those quarterly reports and bulletins your old firm used to issue. They were masterpieces, chock-full of your theories. Even in the prefaces to the catalogues raisonnés
of your various collections, you usually found a way to expound one thesis or another. So why not put your memories down on paper, too, preserve them for posterity?”

“They're too personal,” Ian said. “I have always enjoyed writing about big subjects, not myself. And I haven't done that in quite a while. The last such piece I published was one the
Economist
invited me to write in their little book that previews the year ahead.”

“I remember it caused quite a stir,” Aurelien said.

“The truth, any challenge to orthodoxy, often does,” Philip said.

“I admit I enjoy cutting against the grain from time to time and turning conventional wisdom on its head, not so much now as when I was younger.”

“What was the subject of your piece?” Ty asked benignly.

“Weapons of mass destruction,” Ian replied. “All sane people seem to agree that the fewer there are, preferably in the fewest possible hands, the safer the world is.”

“And you disagree?”

“Not entirely. I simply chose to argue the contrary point. Given that inequities among people and nations and groups are inevitable, might not the best way to stop bullies be to empower their potential victims with the tools necessary to protect themselves?”

“At first you read me the riot act, didn't you, Philip? But eventually you came round.”

“I came to appreciate the argument,” Philip explained, “as an exercise in logic, not
necessarily as a prescription for the world's troubles.”

“The problem, obviously, is that to prove any such thing would require that an experiment be conducted in the real world, something that's most unlikely to happen.”

“Mercifully,” Philip told him.

Later that evening, after Ian had retreated to his private quarters, he received a call from Aurelien Strigoi.

“Do you have a moment, Ian?”

“Haven't I always for you?”

“You have. I'd prefer to speak in person, if you don't mind.”

“Come up to my deck in five minutes. I'll tell Jean-François to expect you.”

“I don't want to disturb you if you were doing something important,” Aurelien protested.

“Reading Thucydides
is i
mportant, but, like almost all the most important things in life, it can be postponed.”

“Thank you.”

Once inside, having accepted both an Armagnac and a small cigar, Aurelien Strigoi said, “Something's been bothering me. I'm sure it's nothing, but I wanted your assurance that that's the case.”

“Go on, please.”

“The other day I was in Vienna. I have interests in several businesses there, as you know. It was toward the end of the day. I was in the Kärntner Ring. I was getting into my car when I saw, or thought I saw, Philip Frost preparing to enter the building next door to the one I had just come out of.”

“What sort of building?”

“An office block,” Aurelian replied, “mostly financial offices. It's that sort of area. I'd just been to see my bankers, in fact.”

“You didn't speak to him then?”

“No. Well, yes and no. I mean, I called out to him, but he didn't reply. He did turn when I said ‘Philip,' the way one does when one hears one's own name, but then his face went absolutely blank. I don't know how to say this, and thus I will do so gingerly. He had the look of a man who has been caught by a close friend prowling a red-light district.”

“Could be you were mistaken.”

“Possibly, or, more plausibly, he truly didn't see me. I made a joke of it on the way up from lunch.”

Ian took a sip of his Armagnac. “What was his reaction?”

“It was the first time I'd seen his composure crumble. He did his best to hide it, naturally. The man has commendable deportment. But a shock of such magnitude cannot be entirely internalized. I'll tell you what I said. I told him the damnedest thing happened to me in Vienna. I'd seen his twin brother. Did he have a twin? I asked him. He smiled, shook his head. He stalled while he calculated. I let the matter go. I had no business questioning his movements and wouldn't have thought twice about it if he'd admitted he'd been there but had not seen me when he'd spun around as he did. Even so, I was nearly certain he was lying. Then it caught me, the detail that made me positive he was: his signet ring. He has it on today. When he'd turned around and looked about in Vienna, he'd shaded his eyes with his left hand. That ring on his pinky caught the sun and reflected a bright beam.”

“You were that close?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you bringing this to my attention?”

“Because many people who engage in financial shenanigans these days find themselves some sort of base in Vienna from which to do so. A man I heard of not long ago employed a secret Viennese account, a secret intermediary in Singapore, and an equally secret trust in Vanuatu. The whole thing came to a bad end for those credulous souls who couldn't resist involving themselves.”

“How regrettable,” Ian observed.

“My point is,” Aurelien continued, “I don't invest with you because of whatever your next project consists of or doesn't. I do so because it's you. You know that, surely. My trust is in you, not the details, beyond the fact that they are backed by your integrity. What are we up to together at the moment? ‘Beats me,' as the Americans say.”

Ian smiled naughtily. “Really,” he said, “I hope not.”

“What I do know is that you and Philip have had a business as well as a social relationship, that the young man's an acolyte of yours and now working for your friends Wazir and Fateen Al-Dosari.”

“All true,” Ian said.

“I rest my case.”

“Signet rings are not at all uncommon. As for any other elements of confusion, it's frequently hard to tell purebred dogs apart.”

Aurelien hesitated before saying, “I thought you should know.”

“And now I do. Thank you, my friend.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Shaded by an awning
of wisteria and palm fronds, Luke Claussen sat on the terrace of the Rock Hotel in Gibraltar, sipping his glass of manzanilla and wondering why Admiral Cotton had booked lunch for three rather than two. The old art deco hotel, which dominated a panoramic view of the Bay of Gibraltar, the Spanish mainland and the Rif Mountains of Morocco in the distance, had a distinctly colonial air. Its white wrought-iron furniture, starched pink tablecloths and tended gardens reminded Luke of Kansas City, especially Mission Hills, where he had grown up.

“Sorry to keep you,” Giles Cotton said upon arrival.

Luke stood, and they shook hands quickly. “Such a delightful place to wait,” Luke replied.

Cotton ordered a manzanilla for himself. It was not his habit to drink during the day, but he was determined to keep his guest company. Luke Claussen was just the sort of man in whose corporation a retired naval officer with a distinguished record might find a suitably rewarding position. “That stuff is hard to resist,” he said, glancing at Luke's pale sherry. “Something about its salty side, I suppose. Thank you for coming to see me, especially on such short notice.”

“I was honored when you called. In fact, I've been hoping for the chance to talk to you, or at least to someone who might be able to give me an idea of what the hell's been going on.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“I've had reports that the authorities are scrutinizing our ships as though they suspect something foul,” Luke said. “If there is a problem, I'd like to know about it more than they would.”

“Which authorities?”

“The Italians, for a start, but ever since my father got us involved with a project in Russia—something he immediately regretted, by the way, and withdrew from as soon as he was able to—there seems to have been a change in how we at Claussen are perceived. I can't say by which department or service or even country. It's more of a general thing, but I've had many reports that my people feel there are eyes on them that there didn't used to be.”

“Is that what's brought you to this part of the world?”

“I'm embarrassed to say that it isn't. A leopard can't change his spots overnight. I came for the fun of it.”

“Please forgive me for asking, but as no one around here was quite sure, is your connection to Claussen Inc. a formal one?”

Luke laughed. “An interesting choice of words,” he said. “I'm not our company's CEO or even chairman of its board, although I suppose if I suddenly went mad, I could be. It's still a private company, as perhaps you know.”

Giles Cotton nodded.

“Very few in the world are as large. When it came to business, my father was an absolute genius. As the bearer of his genes if not abilities, I now find myself the company's principal shareholder. Because of that, people tell me things.” As Luke finished, he was aware that something over his shoulder had caught the admiral's attention. Then he sensed the approach of another person, a shadow at first, then the sound of footsteps.

“Afternoon,” Oliver Molyneux said breezily, withdrawing the chair at the place setting beside Luke.

“Afternoon,” Giles Cotton said, without standing. “Luke Claussen, Oliver Molyneux. Oliver Molyneux, Luke Claussen.”

The two men regarded each other and shook hands, whereupon Oliver sat.

Admiral Cotton tapped the face of his watch.

“Sorry,” Oliver said. “Couldn't be helped, I'm afraid. There was a delay at the frontier. I see you've already got a head start on me.”

“Order whatever you like,” Giles Cotton said. “I must say you look very refreshed for a man who's been stuck in traffic.”

“I was up in Valderrama playing golf,” Oliver explained matter-of-factly.

“Really,” Luke said. “I was there yesterday.”

Oliver smiled. “Actually, I was just having the admiral on. I wasn't really in Valderrama, much as I would like to have been. I settled for a run through lovely La Línea instead.”

“Anything to get the old heart rate up,” Luke mused. “Are you a golfer?”

“Guilty,” Oliver replied.

“I am, too. I don't know why. I'll never be any better than average.”

“One plays against oneself,” Admiral Cotton said, “or one is doomed to disappointment.”

“My grandfather disapproved of the game entirely,” Oliver said. “He felt that it was for people whose estates weren't large enough to walk around.”

Luke laughed. “But you disagreed?”

“Yes, perhaps because the estate went to my father's elder brother.”

“What line of work are you in, Mr. Molyneux?” Luke asked.

“I'm a civil servant,” Oliver said.

“Here or in Britain?”

“Wherever.”

“And what brings you to Gibraltar, if I may ask?”

Admiral Cotton studied both men and kept his silence.

“Actually,” Oliver said, “I am here, amongst other reasons, because I rather desperately need your help.”

Luke looked perplexed. After a moment he said, “And how can I be helpful?”

“First by allowing me to ruin your holiday,” Oliver told him. “Then by making a damned unpleasant spectacle of yourself.”

“Why would I do either?”

“It's a long story.”

“It's a long afternoon.”

“Not only is the story long, it's complicated and incomplete. And I'm not even at liberty to tell you everything I know.”

“I only met you a moment ago. Why should I believe a word of what you're telling me?”

Oliver glanced in the direction of Admiral Cotton.

“Well, I grant you that you come with good references,” Luke said. “Do I have a choice in this matter?”

“Of course you do,” Admiral Cotton said.

“Up to a point,” Oliver added.

“One question before you tell me anything else,” Luke demanded. “Is whatever it is you're doing being done in the interest of America or just Britain? I am an American, after all.”

“Both,” Oliver replied. “We're very much a joint task force.”

Luke hesitated, trying to take the measure of both men. “This is crazy,” he said. “I'm the last man you should want on your side. Ask anyone. They'll tell you. I haven't amounted to much. I'm a wastrel, a playboy, the latest incarnation of the prodigal son. All I can say is that my father cast a long shadow and there were times I had to run pretty far to escape it. I've spent quite a lot of my life searching for adventure. That part's true. Yet the only kind of adventure I ever seem to find is the artificial stuff, which never does the trick. So here I am up to my ass in the usual nonsense, with a little work thrown in, and adventure with a capital
A
finds me. Some joke, wouldn't you say?”