The Adventurers (92 page)

Gone. Everything was gone. All the work, all the hopes, for nothing. I leaned forward on the desk, resting my aching temples in my hands, trying to think despite the terrible pain. Think. I had to think.

Somehow Prieto had managed to find out where Guayanos was. And the only way he could have done so was through me. I didn't see how but I had no doubt of his ability to do so without being detected. I remembered what he and Hoyos had done to me in Florida. I should have realized that he would find a way and sent him back before he could create such havoc.

But no. I was the clever one. I was so sure that everything would go exactly the way I wanted it. Prieto wouldn't dare go against me. Well, I wasn't smart. I was stupid. El Presidente was the one. He had sent Prieto to do what he knew I would not.

I felt a sudden nausea and just made it to the bathroom. I stood there retching until there was nothing left in my guts. Then I rinsed my face and came back to my desk. I sank into my chair and took a deep breath.

In my plethora of self-castigation and pity I had almost forgotten that the most important thing still remained undone.

The guns had to be stopped.

CHAPTER
19

"The senator is steaming." Jeremy's voice crackled over the telephone. "He feels you used him and made a fool of him. He doesn't like it."

I listened wearily. By now I was tired of explanations. No one listened to them anyway. Or if they did, they didn't believe me. All judgments were preconceived. For a moment I wished there was no such thing as diplomatic immunity. Then they would have openly to prove what they thought.

But this way there was really nothing they could do to me. I didn't ever have to answer questions if I chose not to. So they were free to think as they liked and the shield of diplomatic immunity was as easy an out for them as for me.

"You told him what I told you yesterday?"

"Yes."

That was it. The same as the others.

"Perhaps if you hadn't been in the senator's house when it happened it might not have been so bad," Jeremy continued. "But since you were he feels you used him to establish an alibi."

I didn't answer. There was no point to it.

"You realize there's no chance for the loan now," Jeremy continued.

"I know."

My secretary came in and placed my attach^ case on the desk. "The car is waiting outside to take you to the airport," she whispered.

"What are your plans now?" Jeremy asked.

Suddenly I was tired of confiding in other people. None of my plans seemed to materialize anyway, and in a way I couldn't blame people if they thought me a liar. "Right now I'm catching a plane for Paris."

"Paris?" Jeremy asked in surprise. "Have you gone out of your mind? You know what everyone will think."

"I don't give a damn what anyone thinks."

"You're acting like a fool. You sound as if you didn't even care any more."

"I don't," I replied bluntly.

Jeremy was silent for a moment. "I can't believe that, I know you. Why are you going to Paris?"

"To get laid!" I said savagely. "What in hell other reasons are there for going to Paris?"

I slammed down the receiver angrily. But in a moment I was sorry. I had no right to blow up at Jeremy like that. He was on my side. At least he still spoke to me.

I thought about picking up the phone and calling him back to apologize, but just then my secretary stuck her head in the door. "The driver says you'll just have time to make your plane if you hurry."

I picked up the attache case and started out the door. There'd be time enough to call Jeremy when I got back.

It seemed strange to see Robert in his father's office, sitting behind that ornate desk in the baron's chair. But after a moment it did not seem strange at all; it was as if he had always sat there. He was after all born to it.

"You know the law," he said, "and the Swiss government is very strict. We could lose our license if we give you such information."

"I know the law," I said, staring at him, "that's why I came to you."

Robert was silent, a troubled look on his face. I didn't push it. He knew how close we had been to each other.

"How are Denisonde and the children?"

Robert flashed a smile. "Don't get me started. I'm a typical father."

I returned his smile. "I take it, then, they are well?"

He nodded. "You'll never know what it's all about until you have children of your own."

First Sergei, now Robert. There was something about them, a sense of belonging, of roots and of growth. That's what it was. I was like a tree whose top had been cut off, stunting its growth. "I envy you," I said sincerely.

Robert gave me a startled look. "That sounds odd coming from you."

"I know, I lead such a gay life. The playboy of the jet set."

"I didn't mean to offend you, Dax."

"I know," I said. "It's my fault, I'm edgy." I reached for a cigarette. "It seems everywhere I turn I run into a dead end."

Robert watched as I lit up. "What do you think will happen now?"

"I don't know. But if the guns are not stopped a lot of innocents are going to die."

Robert looked down at his desk. "You understand that I'm not trying to protect any interest of ours?"

I nodded. He didn't have to tell me that. I was there when he had unloaded his investments in Corteguay on his British cousins.

"It's just that I have a responsibility now," he went on. "There are many people depending on me."

I got to my feet. "I understand. I feel the same way, but in my case it's their lives, not their livelihood."

He didn't answer.

"Thanks anyway," I said. "I won't take up more of your time."

"What are you going to do?"

This time I was not being flippant when I answered, "I've got nothing better to do so I guess I'll look up a girl."

Marlene Von Kuppen. Just the other day I had read in Irma Andersen's column—or I had heard someone mention —that she was living in Paris. It was a long shot but it was better than nothing. It was just possible that she still was friendly enough with the people who could get me the information I wanted from East Germany. After all, she had been a Von Kuppen.

A friend of mine on one of the newspapers gave me her telephone number. I called almost all afternoon without getting any answer, but finally at five I got her. Her voice was husky, as if she had just awakened. "Hello."

"Marlene?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Diogenes Xenos."

"Who?"

"Dax."

"Dax," she repeated, and a faintly sarcastic note came into her voice. "Not the Dax?"

"Yes."

"To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

"I heard you were in Paris," I said. "I thought I'd find out if you were free this evening for dinner."

"I have a date." Then she became curious. "Isn't it rather late for you to call?"

It was now my turn to play it cute. "I've been ringing you all afternoon. When there was no answer I figured you were out."

"You've known me for a long time," she said. "Why now, all of a sudden?"

Ask an honest question, get a dishonest answer. "You were going around with a friend of mine."

"From what I heard, that never stopped you before."

"Jeremy happens to be a very close friend. But from the very first time I saw you that night at the beach house on Saint Tropez I said to myself—someday."

I heard a pleased note come into Marlene's voice, and I knew I had her. "As I said, I do have an engagement tonight. How about tomorrow?"

"Someday is today and I've waited long enough," I said. "Why not break your date? I don't know where I'll be tomorrow."

Marlene hesitated a moment. "I don't know . . ." Then her voice was suddenly meek and compliant. "All right."

I put down the telephone and leaned back in my chair.

CHAPTER
20

It was after three in the morning when the taxi stopped in front of her apartment on the Avenue Kleber. We sat there for a moment, then she flashed a curious look at me. "Would you like to come up?"

"Yes, thank you," I said, almost formally. "I would."

I paid the driver and we got out. Silently we crossed the tree-lined promenade over the small side roadway jammed with cars parked for the night. The streets were darkly wet and shining from the late-January rain that had stopped only a short while before, and the first of the falling autumn leaves felt soggy under our feet.

We stopped in front of her door, and she fished in her small purse for the key. Silently she handed it to me. I opened the door and we went in. The elevator took us to the third floor and with the same key I opened the door into her apartment.

As we walked into the living room she turned to me. "Would you like a drink?"

I nodded, and she indicated a small portable bar. "You'll find everything there. I'll be back in a moment."

She went into another room, and I poured myself a brandy. I took a sip and sat down on the couch. Something had gone wrong. I had blown it. Almost angrily I wondered what the hell was the matter with me.

Marlene came back into the room. She had changed from her evening gown into black velvet hostess pajamas with a short bolero jacket that almost met the top of the flowing harem trousers. When she moved there was just the slightest hint of the fair soft flesh beneath. The black looked very well with her blond hair and blue Nordic eyes.

"Tres jolie."

Marlene didn't answer. Instead she turned and poured a brandy for herself and sat down opposite me. She held up her glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers." We both sipped at our brandy. Marlene lowered her glass, and her eyes met mine steadily. "I'm not angry," she said quietly, "but why did you call me?"

I looked at her without answering. I was beginning to wonder about that myself. It had been nothing but a stupid idea from the very beginning.

"It wasn't what you said over the phone," she said. "I'm not a child. I know when a man is interested."

That was it. I don't know what I expected. Perhaps in some naive way I thought I would find the same frightened girl who had come to my house at Saint Tropez seven years ago. But this was not the same girl. She was a woman now, grown up, self-possessed, in many ways a completely different person than I had expected. She knew at least as much if not more than I did.

"I'm sorry," I said lamely. "I've got problems and I guess I haven't been able to get them out of my mind."

"I know," Marlene replied, "I read the papers." She sipped again at her brandy. "But it wasn't only that, was it? You've got all the symptoms of a man, as the Americans would put it, carrying a torch."

"That too."

"I thought so. I know the signs, I've walked that street myself. And you thought the best cure was another woman and since you happened to be in Paris you thought of me." There was a strange sympathy in her eyes. "But it doesn't work that way, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

"I know. I felt like that after Jeremy left. I didn't know what to do with myself. I really was in love with him, you know. I should have realized it was impossible from the beginning. First it was his politics, then his family. But all the time it was really me. I'm German, and for some people the war will never be over."

She continued to speak in the same half-introspective way. "I was a child, not even eighteen when I married. Fritz, to me, was the hero I had always dreamed of—tall and handsome and rich. But I didn't realize what he was really like. I didn't know about his 'boys,' and the sickness in him that demanded he inflict pain before he could achieve even the mildest orgasm. So when Jeremy came along it was no wonder that I fell in love with him. To me Jeremy was simple, direct, and uncomplicated. There was only one thing on his mind. I became aware for the first time of my power as a woman and also of my own needs."

Marlene looked at me. "Does that sound strange? Truly I didn't know until then. I had always blamed myself for my failure with Fritz. It had to be my fault, I thought; he told me so often enough."

A kind of stillness settled down upon us and in the silence Marlene got up and refilled our brandy glasses. Outside I heard the faint sound of the traffic on the circle around the nearby Arc de Triomphe.

"Was it like that with you too?"

"No," I replied, "only the end result was the same."

Marlene's eyes were searching. "Does she love you?"

"I think so."

"Then she's a fool!" Marlene said vehemently. "What reason on earth could she have for not coming to you?"

"You read the papers." I said. "Her father's name is Guayanos."

"Oh, so that's it."

"Yes, and in a way that's why I called you. The guns that are being smuggled into my country are coming from the former Von Kuppen factories in East Germany. If this influx is not stopped there will be a war and many innocent people will die. I'm trying to find a way to put an end to it. But I can't until I learn who is paying for the guns. If I discover that, perhaps I can stop it. I was hoping you might know someone who could furnish me with that information."

"I don't know." Marlene hesitated. "It has been a long time."

"I'd be grateful for any bit of information you could give me," I said. "I've seen enough of war for my lifetime."

"So have I," she answered in a low voice. "I was a little girl in Berlin when the bombers came."

I didn't speak.

Marelene's eyes grew somber and thoughtful. "There was a man, a Swiss named Braunschweiger. He lived in Zurich, and I remember meeting him several times with Fritz. Officially we had nothing to do with the factories in East Germany, of course. But he knew what was going on there and furnished Fritz with regular reports."

An edge of excitement began to form inside me. "Do you think he might talk to me?"

"I don't know," she said. "I don't even know that he's still alive."

"It's worth trying. What's his address?"

"I don't remember, Dax. It was all very hush-hush. I'm sure his name is not even listed in any of the city directories. But I do remember the house. It had odd-shaped gables over the windows. I think I might be able to find it."