O’Hara was thinking about the Magician as the plane was taxiing on the runway. What was it Howe had asked — did he know the Magician?
O’Hara smiled to himself. Oh yes, he knew the Magician alright, the one the French called le Sorcier. And oh, what a yarn he could write about him. But the Magician’s unique success lay in the fact that nobody ever talked or wrote about him.
Nobody.
The has-been spy community protected his integrity because they needed him. The Magician was their encyclopaedia, a listening post for au.
Fate had chosen to throw the Magician, the Game and the Caribbean into the same pot, and in so doing, had created a marvellously catastrophic brew; a concoction of sheer madness. The Magician’s macabre sense of humour manifested that madness, while the Caribbean became a bizarre capsule of the insanity of the entire intelligence community. The Magician, a man with no training, no background in the Game, and no particular interest in it, was to become the master Monopolist of Caribbean intelligence; the owner of Boardwalk and Park Place with hotels; King Shit of the territory.
What were his objectives?
None. He had achieved this unique position for the sheer hell of it. It was his hobby. Michael Rothschild, alias Six Fingers, alias the Magician, alias le Sorcier, was wonderfully eccentric.
The Magician had been delighted to hear from O’Hara, delighted his old pal was still alive.
‘Sailor! So you fucked the goddamn Winter Man, after all,’ the Magician had cried out when O’Hara finally reached him via one of the most archaic and unreliable telephone systems in the world. As they spoke, static crackled along the line, like popcorn popping.
‘Poor help,’ O’Hara said.
‘Come on down!’ the Magician cried enthusiastically.
‘I’m looking for Falmouth.’
‘I got all the details.’
‘I’m running out of time.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s cool. I’ll put you with Tony.’
‘Can’t we talk on the phone?’
‘Yeah. But you’re gonna end up here, anyway. So . . . come on down. It’s right on the way.’
‘Okay, pal, warm up the ice cubes.
Howe had supplied the Lear. And tow, as it taxied toward the shack they called a depot, O’ Hara’s adrenaline was pumping furiously. Falmouth was somewhere nearby, and for the first time since he had accepted the assignment, he was eager to find out what was up his sleeve.
II
The man was absolutely unmemorable. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, handsome nor ugly. He had no scars or noticeable defects. His accent was basically bland, he could have been from Portland, Oregon, or Dallas, Texas, there was no way of telling. He wore gray: a gray suit, a gray-and-wine tie, a gray-striped shirt. In short, there was nothing in his carriage, demeanour or dress that would either attract attention or make an impression on anyone.
The office was on the twenty-second floor of a sterile glass-and-chromium New Orleans skyscraper that had all the warmth and pizzazz of a fly swatter. He checked his watch as he got off the elevator.
Two minutes early. Perfect.
He entered the office of Sunset Oil International.
‘My name is Duffield,’ he told the secretary. He did not offer a card.
‘Oh yes, Mr Duffield, you’re to go right in,’ she said. ‘Mr Ollinger is expecting you. Do you care for coffee or something cool to drink’?’
‘No, thank you.’
She ushered him into the office. Ollinger was a man in his early forties, with the baby-skin face arid soft hands of the easy life. His soft brown eyes stared bleakly from behind lightly tinted, gold-rimmed spectacles. He was tall and erect and in good physical shape, clean-shaven with short-cropped blond hair, and he was in his shirt sleeves. The city stretched out behind him, a panorama framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. His walnut desk was a study in Spartan organization: ‘in’ boxes and ‘out’ boxes and not a sheet of paper out of place. On the credenza behind him was a single photograph of a woman and two children, and beside it a small brass plaque with ‘Thank you for not smoking’ printed on it. There was not one other personal effect in the room. It was as if Ollinger had just moved in and had not unpacked yet. His manner was cordial but distant. Some might have thought him intimidating, but to Duffield, he was just another executive with a problem.
‘Thanks for getting up here so fast’ Ollinger said after the introductions.
‘You indicated there is some urgency to the matter.’
‘You might say that,’ Ollinger replied with a touch of sarcasm. He sighed, and straightening his arms, placed both hands on his desk, palms down. ‘Before we start,’ he said, ‘I would like it understood that this conversation never happened.’
Duffield smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said. Ollinger was new at this, and uncomfortable in a situation that was totally out of his control.
