The Adventurers (24 page)

The Greek smiled also. "I have the feeling that without the cards I am rather a child in your hands."

The baron laughed aloud. Christopoulos. The greatest tailleur in all the world was seldom given to flattery. "I shall be at the casino tonight to give you a chance to recover your confidence."

"A bent!." Christopoulos shook hands with the baron and left.

The door closed behind him and the baron looked over at

his son. Robert got to his feet. "Do you really think there will be a war?"

The baron's face tightened imperceptibly. "I'm afraid so, though not right away. Five or six years, perhaps. But it must come. Germany is burning for revenge, and Hitler can only survive if he offers it to them."

"But surely it can be stopped. If you see it this far in advance—"

The baron interrupted. · "Not everyone agrees with me." He looked at his son. "Why do you think you've been enrolled at Harvard, and your sister at Vassar?"

Robert did not answer.

"How is your polo-playing friend?"

"Dax?"

The baron nodded. "According to the papers his playing has swept the Continent this year."

"Dax is fine." Robert looked at his father. "Did you know he had been invited to play for France in the international matches?"

"Yes, but only as an alternate. He still is rather young, you know."

"He's seventeen. They're just using his age as an excuse. They're afraid of him."

"Perhaps," his father admitted. "They haven't nicknamed him 'Le Sauvage' without reason. Costa is still in the hospital since your friend deliberately drove his horse into his to prevent his scoring."

"Dax plays to win. He says there is no other reason for the game," Robert said defensively.

"There is such a thing as gentlemanly sport."

"Not for Dax. The polo field for him is like the jungles of his homeland. He says to lose there is to die. Did you know his father is the consul from Corteguay?"

"I had heard it. What is he like?"

"Very different from Dax, gentle and much darker. He has only one arm. Dax says the other was blown off by a bomb during an attempt on their president's life."

"Someday we'll have to invite them both down," the baron said casually. "I'd like to learn more about their country."

Madame Blanchette herself opened the door. "Monsieur Christopoulos is expecting you."

Marcel nodded. This merely confirmed what he had already guessed, that the syndicate was mixed up in more than gambling houses in France. He followed her through the small foyer into a small salon. The slim dark tailleur rose to his feet, "Monsieur Campion, thank you for coming. Please, sit down."

He did not offer to shake hands, nor did Marcel press it. Marcel knew his place. He slipped into an easy chair, curious why the gambler had summoned him. He did not have long to wait.

"We understand that gambling in Florida is about to be abolished. We also have interests in Cuba and Panama but we were thinking, perhaps, of going into Corteguay. Under the right conditions, of course."

Marcel nodded. He didn't speak. On the surface it sounded legitimate but actually it didn't make much sense. Corteguay was too far from the States to attract tourists. Cuba, just ninety miles off the coast of Florida, was all they really needed. But if that was what Christopoulos wished him to believe he would go along with it.

As if sensing this weakness, the other continued. "We realize, of course, that the United States and Corteguay are not on the best of relationships. But we are thinking of the future. Time has a way of altering circumstances. Ten years from now it could be another story."

"True," Marcel admitted.

"We have to take a long-term view in our business. Do you think that perhaps the Corteguayan government might be receptive?"

Marcel hesitated. "It is difficult to say."

"The country is poor. Surely they would welcome the opportunity of sharing in the benefits we could provide?"

Marcel allowed himself a slight smile. "That is the crux of the matter. Corteguay needs assistance now, not promises in the future."

"Perhaps certain officials could be influential," the gambler suggested. "I remember once having a discussion with the former consul, Ramirez. He seemed most interested."

Marcel knew very well that Ramirez had accepted a hundred thousand francs from the syndicate on just such an assumption. Now he was convinced that this was all Christopoulos was interested in. There was no other reason for this meeting.

"Monsieur Xenos is not at all like the former consul."

"Surely he would appreciate financial assistance. I understand he is still paying off certain large debts."

Again Marcel nodded. "True. But Monsieur Xenos is that rarest of beings, an honest man, an idealist. The very thought of self-gain from representing his country would be repugnant to him." He was silent for a moment. "Besides, he would be against any project which siphoned off even a fraction of the income of his impoverished countrymen."

"We might forbid .his countrymen entry as we do in some areas."

"Then the benefits from your project would seem extremely dubious," Marcel replied. "The consul would be well aware that there is no other possible source of return for your tables."

The tailleur fell silent. After a moment he asked, "What sort of proposition do you think might interest the consul?"

The answers came readily. "Industry. Trade. Investment. Anything that would help Corteguay export its crops. Their economy is geared to their agriculture."

"Might a shipping line prove of interest to them?"

Marcel nodded. "Very much so. Low-rate transportation for their exports would have great appeal."

"I have a nephew in Macao," the gambler continued. "He operates the casinos there. However, he also owns a shipping line, four freighters of Japanese origin. They are too often idle to suit him, and he has been looking for new markets. Perhaps I could interest him in the idea."

"That might prove to be a solution. It would most certainly get your foot in the door. The consul should seriously consider your other proposition once that had been accomplished."

The gambler looked at him. "You realize, of course, that should anything develop from this conversation you would be provided for?"

"Thank you. That is most generous of you."

"You say that Christopoulos is willing to put in a shipping line in exchange for gambling privileges?" the baron asked later in his office.

Marcel nodded.

"Have you mentioned the idea to the consul yet?"

Marcel shook his head. "No, your excellency. I thought first I should talk with you."

"Bien. You did exactly right. I think perhaps it is time I met the consul."

"Oui, monsieur. Shall I speak to him about an appointment?"

"No, he already has an appointment with one of my branch banks. I think it best that our meeting come about under such circumstances."

"As you wish, your excellency."

CHAPTER 8

"Caroline is a bitch!" Sylvie rolled out of the bed, her slim boyish figure taut with anger. She pulled a cigarette from the package on the dresser and lit it.

Lazily Dax propped the pillow under his head. "You sound jealous."

"I'm not jealous!" Sylvie shouted. "I don't like the bitch, that's all."

"Why not?"

Sylvie dragged savagely on the cigarette. "She thinks her father's money can buy anything she wants. I saw the way she looked at you after the game last week. Like a cat over a bowl of cream."

"You are jealous," Dax said. "Why? I'm not jealous of Henri."

"He isn't home enough for you to be jealous of him!"

"But when he is. Remember I was in the next room. I heard everything that went on, yet I wasn't jealous."

"No, damn you!" She remembered the night. Deliberately she had made as much noise as she dared without waking the entire house. And Dax had not given her a sign that it had mattered one way or the other. "You don't care about me at all. I might as well be a stone wall for all I matter to you. And now you're going to spend a week's holiday at their villa in Cannes. I know what will happen."

"You do?" He smiled. "Tell me. I'd like to know."

"She'll drive you out of your mind. I know the type, all promises."

"Don't I have anything to say about that? After all, I don't have to respond."

Sylvie looked at him. "You can't help yourself. Even now. Look at yourself. Just talking about it has got you a hard on. You're an animal."

Dax grinned. "It isn't that. What do you expect when you're standing around naked and smelling like cunt?"

She stared at him for a moment, then squashed her cigarette in a plate and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Tenderly she touched his tumescence. "Quelle armure mag-nifique," she whispered. "So quick, so strong. Already he is too large for both my hands to hold."

She buried her face against him. He felt the warmth of the tiny edges of her tongue tingling his flesh. He crushed her head against him.

Dax felt the throbbing stab of pain race through his groin. Angrily he turned over on his stomach so that his anguish would not be visible to them all. Sylvie was right. The bitch! The cock-teasing little cunt!

He preferred English for cursing. There was something harshly forthright about Anglo-Saxon obscenities. They expressed exactly what you meant. French was too evasive. Spanish was too long-winded; you found yourself short of breath before you had said what you intended. English was a most economical language. It said so many things with so few words.

The sound of Caroline's laughter turned him around again on the chaise. She was standing at the edge of the pool talking to Sergei and her brother Robert. The damp silk of her brief one-piece suit clung to petite breasts and small rounded belly with a kind of insouciance. She laughed again and he caught her glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

He turned his back again angrily. Damn her! She knew exactly what she was doing to him. He looked out over the rolling green lawn to where his father, the baron and his English cousin were seated in the shade of the large wisteria.

Strange how different the baron and his English cousin were. It was hard to believe they shared the same ancestor, the frightened little Polish merchant who had fled from the pogroms of the Warsaw ghetto. He had traveled by night across snow-covered Europe afoot, with a fortune in diamonds sewn into his clothing. And the foresight of the man was equally amazing. More than a hundred years ago he had sent his eldest son across the channel to England, while he and his youngest remained in France where they had set themselves up as moneylenders and pawnbrokers. Quietly they had gone about their business despite the wars that rolled over Europe, and they had prospered until the De Coyne banks in France, and Coyne's Bank Ltd. in London, were among the most powerful in Europe, rivaling even Rothschild's.

Both branches of the family had been accorded honors in their adopted countries. The baron's grandfather had been awarded his baronage by Napoleon, and Sir Robert Coyne, after whom Dax's friend had been named, had been knighted by the King of England for his services during the World War.

The baron had finished speaking, and now Sir Robert was answering. He was tall and blond and his blue eyes were cool as he spoke slowly to his short, dark, brown-eyed cousin. Only his father seemed reflective and thoughtful. Dax wondered how it was going.

Everything seemed to have been marking time until this meeting. The urgent pressures from home were nearly at their peak. Unless new financing could be obtained quickly it appeared extremely doubtful whether el Presidente could maintain his control over the country in the face of the rising hungers of the populace.

A splash of cold water hit Dax like an icy shock. He sat up abruptly. Caroline stood laughing down at him. He grabbed for her and she ran, diving into the pool. Forgetting that the water was too cold for his liking, he plunged in after her.

She shrieked in mock terror as she pulled away from him with quick even strokes. She was out of the pool on the far side before he could catch her. He had known he would never be able to catch her. She was a much more polished swimmer. He held onto the side of the pool, glaring up at her.

She stayed just out of reach.

"Coward!" he whispered fiercely. "You're afraid to let me catch you. You know what would happen if I did."

"What would happen?" she whispered back challengingly.

"You know." He could not take his eyes off her breasts, where they pushed up against the tight bathing suit.

She smiled, sure of herself. "Nothing would happen."

"No? You're that sure?"

She nodded.

"You wouldn't like to meet me in the poolhouse after everyone has gone to sleep tonight and find out, would you?"

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Tonight. In the poolhouse."

Abruptly she walked away. He was still treading water watching her when Sergei swam up alongside him. "You're next, friend."

Dax turned. "What do you mean?"

Sergei laughed. "You'll wind up with your prick in your hand like all the rest of us."

Dax didn't answer. His eyes were still following her as she disappeared into the poolhouse.

They both heard the sound at the same time later that night. Footsteps on the concrete walk around the pool. Caroline's voice sounded loud in the darkness of the little pool-house. "Who could it—"

His hand clapped quickly over her mouth. "Be quiet!"

The footsteps came nearer, hesitated. The two of them held their breaths, then the steps turned away and faded into the night. "That was close," he sighed, then almost yelled out loud as her teeth sank into his hand. "What did you do that for?"

"You were hurting me. I decided to hurt you back."

"You little bitch," Dax said, and reached for her.

But she was already on her feet. In the faint light from the window he could see her straightening her dress. "We'd better go back."

"One little noise and you're scared," he taunted.