Sustenance (52 page)

“Must it be one or the other?” Bethune asked.

“Not if you would prefer both,” the waiter said.

“Both, then, if there’s no objection.” Bethune had removed his coat and set his briefcase on one of the chairs at the table. He was in a suit of English cut in Prussian blue, a white-linen shirt, and a foulard tie in a muted puce with subtle highlights in gold; his tie-clasp was also gold and had a dime-sized version of the Great Seal of the State of Virginia incised upon it. He carried his hat in his hand, as if uncertain what to do with it. “The rest should be here in a quarter of an hour, if you could make sure everything is ready by then.”

“That is my understanding,” said the waiter, and took Bethune’s coat. “It will be in the cloakroom on the landing, sir.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Bethune took another turn around the room, taking stock of it and trying to familiarize himself with the chamber. “This place is wonderfully restored, isn’t it?”

“That was Lord Weldon’s intention when he purchased the place; he selected this building among many, and gave it his full attention,” said the waiter, falling silent for a short while. “Will you require anything more of me now, Mister Bethune?”

Bethune went on as if he had not heard the waiter’s question. “I’ve seen another building Lord Weldon owns. It is as handsome as this one, and perhaps a decade younger than this is. It’s an apartment building, about fifty years old, I would guess. Rumor has it that some high-ranking Nazis put their mistresses up in those apartments during the occupation.” He was briefly silent, and when the waiter had nothing more to say, he went on, “This Lord Weldon is a curious fellow, isn’t he…?” He faltered.

“Medwyn, sir,” the waiter informed him.

“Medwyn. Sounds Welsh. Are you Welsh, Medwyn?”

The waiter responded obliquely. “I’ll get your refreshments order, Mister Bethune, and man the front door.”

Uncertain how to respond, Bethune nodded. “Thank you, Medwyn.”

“I’m pleased to be of service, Mister Bethune.”

“And one more thing? about Lord Weldon: does he rebuild anywhere else, or is all his effort in Paris?”

“I understand there are five buildings in Paris, a few in the countryside within two hours’ drive. His friend, the Grof, has a horse-farm near Orleans, so Lord Weldon isn’t the only man from outside France who is helping the recovery from the war. I’ve been told that Lord Weldon has two buildings in Denmark, and one in Antwerp that is being restored even now. Lord Weldon and Grof Szent-Germain often work together on projects: there is one in Milan and one in Lisbon that I’m aware of. There may be more.” He took a step toward the door, his demeanor unchanged by so many questions. “I don’t know where else Lord Weldon might have buildings; they could be almost anywhere, just like Lord Weldon himself.”

“Yes; I understand he travels extensively.” Bethune was prodding for answers now, determined to make the most of his opportunity.

“You could say that, Mister Bethune. Goes everywhere, Lord Weldon does. They say he’s in Tibet at present, but who knows.”

“He must fly under the radar when he travels,” said Bethune, turning the brim of his hat through his thumb and finger and, as he did, realizing he had overplayed his hand, so he was doubly surprised when Medwyn replied. “He goes places where there is no radar to … um … fly under.”

“Do you worry about him?” Bethune was careful to maintain an air of geniality, and to smile when he spoke.

“He’s told us not to, that worry doesn’t fix anything, and it makes you ill half the time.” Medwyn nodded toward the L-shaped extension of this meeting room that served as a study for the larger part of the room. “There’s a globe in there, if you want to give it a squint. Go through the study if we have a fire: the backstairs are through the ironwood door.”

“Thank you,” said Bethune, and this time he made a point of looking at his wristwatch. “The rest will be here shortly. You’d best go and see to the refreshments.”

“Of course. Do you want the coffee in the Italian, French, or English style?”

“The Italian comes in those little cups, doesn’t it? With lemon peel.” Bethune shook his head. “Better make it the English style, or the French. Use one of those glass-tube coffee-makers with the seal to press the grounds to the bottom of the tube. And both milk and cream, if you would.” He checked his wristwatch—only eleven minutes to go; he was certain that Szent-Germain would be on time.

“You’ve asked for sherry and cognac, and now coffee. Is there anything more you would like me to bring you?”

“Tea, I guess,” said Bethune, handing his hat to the waiting Medwyn.

“Black or green?” Medwyn asked, so politely that Bethune had to keep from making a sharp retort.

“Black, probably. I don’t know much about tea.” His mother had served tea often, and to Bethune it represented a time that was gone from the US.

“I’ll arrange things as you like them,” Medwyn told him with a nice mix of confidence and diffidence. “We’ll bring up the trays in twenty minutes. Would you like us to provide a few Bic pens and a few notebooks?”

“Bic? Those throw-away pens? Sure. Why not?” He made a yawn that was more of a sigh, and wondered if the room were bugged, and if so, why, and by whom?

“Very good, sir.” Medwyn nodded to Bethune, and left him alone; he had seen the way Bethune looked at the chandeliers, and the waiter laughed silently. “Wrong direction to find bugs,” he whispered as he opened the cloakroom door on the landing to hang up the coat he held; he heard the sound of the door-chimes on the floor below. He hurried down to answer it.

Philetus Rothcoe stood on the broad top step, his expression purposefully blank, his hat pulled down on his head in an unbecoming fashion, his coat-collar turned up and wet from the storm. He came into the lobby quickly, and pulled off his topcoat and handed it, with his hat, to Medwyn. “If you’ll take these? Put them where they can dry properly. It’s miserable out there.” He carried a small valise which he clasped to his chest as if Paris were the ocean and the valise a floating spar. “I’ll keep this with me.” He was afraid he was talking too fast. “I’m sorry. I should have told you that I’m here for a meeting with—”

“—Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain,” Medwyn finished for him. “There will be ten attending the meeting, with the possibility of an eleventh. Yours is the only meeting being held here today, and I am in charge of serving you. My name is Medwyn, and I have familiarized myself with your files.” He saw the shocked look in Rothcoe’s eyes. “Not political files; your alien resident’s files; the police provide them for meetings when more than half those attending are not French. We have one file for everyone who will be here today, except for Hawsmede, of course. We do the same for every group meeting here. Tomorrow there is a conference of engineers, most of them civil or electrical; they’ll take over the whole building for four days. In all, we’re expecting thirteen hundred participants for tomorrow, so this is hardly a major occasion for us. You might think of it as a warm-up exercise, one that will get us ready for tomorrow.” He pointed upward. “First floor. As you leave the elevator, turn left, and go to the end of the hall. The meeting-room door should be open on your left. One of your company is already here.” With that, he nodded and went toward the angled staircase.

Two discreet lighted signs directed Rothcoe to the elevators. He got into the nearer one, thinking he would never get used to the phone-booth-sized Continental elevators. He closed the door and pushed the button for the first floor; he was relieved when the cab moved upward at once and without protest. He held his valise more tightly, his face set in hewn lines from ill-defined dread. As he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the front door chime on the floor below, announcing the next arrival; mindful of Medwyn’s information, Rothcoe reached in and pressed the floor-button for G, the ground floor, as courtesy demanded, then hurried along to the meeting room.

“Hello, Rothcoe,” said Bethune as Rothcoe came into their meeting room. “You’re here in good time.”

“Hello, Bethune,” said Rothcoe with no attempt to match Bethune’s impeccable manners. “I wondered if you’d be here early.” Expecting no answer, he turned to the polished oval table. “That briefcase is yours?”

“Yes.” Giving Rothcoe no time to comment, he barreled on. “I think you and I should take the right side of the table—the right side from where we stand now—the other side can be reserved for Szent-Germain and his group. We can present our material more … unitedly. You and Leeland, your Embassy observer, and whomever the French are sending can take up the remaining seats. That way, Szent-Germain can have the head of the table, which is only courtesy, since he’s paying for this meeting.”

“Because he wouldn’t come to the American Embassy, and the English refused to provide space,” said Rothcoe critically as he placed his valise carefully on the chair next to the one holding Bethune’s briefcase.

“I think it was wise, his insistence that we meet on neutral ground.” Bethune took care not to sound critical; he did not want Rothcoe to get his back up any more than it already was.

“You would,” Rothcoe said mordantly.

They both looked up as Rogers, in an Oxford-gray suit, came into the room, followed closely by a lanky, sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties, dressed in superbly tailored charcoal pin-striped worsted; his tie alone, in the color of Brasenose College, was worth twenty pounds. “Gentlemen,” said Rogers. “This is Everett Hawsmede of Eisley Butterthorn & Hawsmede, with chambers in London and Greenwich, a law firm specializing in international law. He’s here to protect Grof Szent-Germain’s business interests.”

“And why is that?” Rothcoe asked. “Why should he have a business lawyer attend this meeting?”

“Is there a reason he should not?” Rogers asked the air.

“He does not know what issues are to be discussed, and he prefers to be prepared,” said Bethune, who had wondered about the Grof’s reasoning when he had been informed of Hawsmede’s inclusion.

Rothcoe nodded to Bethune. “I believe you and Mister Hawsmede might want to take a little time to agree on your points of law, Mister Bethune,” he suggested with exaggerated courtesy.

Bethune stepped forward. “Tolliver Bethune, in private practice here in Par—”

“Rogers told me about you,” said Hawsmede, taking Bethune’s proffered hand.

“Where is Szent-Germain?” Rothcoe demanded as Hawsmede moved aside to have a sotto voce conversation with Bethune.

Rogers answered before either Bethune or Hawsmede could speak.

“In traffic, no doubt,” said Rogers, and motioned to Bethune and Hawsmede to continue with their discussion.

Next to arrive was Edward Merryman, sent over from the American Embassy to observe the negotiations, an unfailingly polite man in his forties who walked with a cane and who wore a hearing aid in his left ear; he told Bethune and Hawsmede that he had entered the diplomatic corps shortly after receiving his doctoral degree from Princeton, and had been there ever since. He had spent the war advising General de Gaulle on the ways of Americans. He went about the room introducing himself as the Embassy observer, and informing the men there before him that the US Ambassador was sending a second observer to this meeting, an officer from Naval Intelligence who had information to offer that had bearings on this case. “I offered a deposition instead, but the Ambassador refused. He said he wants everyone in the same room.”

Rothcoe glowered at Merryman, but managed to keep his mouth shut. He took a warning stance behind the chair that held his valise, and watched the door, his expression daring anyone to address them.

The next arrival was Gui Saint-Michel Terrascote, the French observer, who spoke English with a Canadian accent, which he learned in Winnipeg in the eight years before he entered the university in Montreal. “I’m regarded as neutral enough for the assignment. I’m a translator: English, French, German, and Dutch.”

Rogers had just finished introducing Terrascote around when Peter Leeland came in. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What say we get this over with?”

“Not everyone is here yet,” said Rogers, earning a sharp look from Rothcoe. “We have to have everyone here in order to make our agreements official.”

“So how long do we wait?” Rothcoe demanded, as if he had no idea.

“Our instructions say we wait ninety minutes beyond the stated meeting time for everyone to gather,” said Bethune. “It’s in the memo each of you received last week.”

“Ninety minutes! Ridiculous!” Rothcoe scoffed.

“Phil,” Leeland said, making the name almost a rebuke. “We might as well wait. I don’t want to go out in this weather until I have to.”

Rogers glanced at the clock in the corridor, and noticed the elevator was moving again. He hoped it would be Szent-Germain, but saw Medwyn emerge, rolling a cart laden with trays ahead of him. He stepped back into the room and motioned to Rothcoe and Leeland to help him hang up the coats on the sideboard to make room for the coffee-urn and a dozen pastry plates. “I think this will help,” he said, wondering where his usually prompt employer was.

Rothcoe shook his head. “The butler will take care of it. He doesn’t need any help from us.” His stare at Rogers showed his contempt. “Or you may want to help out of habit.”

The doorbell chimed again; Merryman jumped a little, startled by its suddenness. The elevator descended again, and then moved up.

“Szent-Germain?” Rothcoe asked Leeland, cocking his head in the direction of the elevator.

“No,” said a voice from the study at the back of the meeting room, “I’m here.” He came out of the small chamber holding a newly revised atlas of Europe in his hands; he was dressed in his usual black three-piece suit with an ivory silk shirt, a tie that was of so dark a red that it looked almost black. As usual, he did not wear a hat. On the first finger of his right hand, he had a platinum ring set with a black sapphire and incised with raised, displayed wings: his sigil. “I came up the backstairs; I parked in the alley behind this place.” He looked around the room. “I see we’re all here, and it’s not quite half-three.”

“Two minutes of,” said Bethune, a great portion of his nervousness fading as he went to the table and the chair that had his briefcase on it.