‘Good doesn’t matter if you’re dead.’
‘I told you, you can’t scare me.’
‘I’m not trying to scare you, I’m trying to convince you this is an assassin’s game.’
‘And it takes one to know one, right?’
‘I’m not an assassin, never was. But I know the people. I know the mentality. I can cope.’
‘I’ve been coping ever since I was thirteen years old.’
‘With them! I can cope with them.”
‘I found you in Japan and I found you here. Let’s not just pass that to the end of the table.’
A pause. O’Hara tried again. ‘Let’s try it from another angle. If there is a story and if I decide to pursue it and if we can get enough leads to even give it a shot, if all these ifs work out, it’s still going to be a very ... hairy game.’
She smiled at him. ‘You can’t lose me, O’Hara.’ Her brown eyes flashed with anticipation. ‘I know it’s got to be really big. I mean, Mr Howe didn’t send me hiking all over the world looking for you for nothing. And you’re not down here bopping around in Howe’s Lear jet for laughs. C’mon, O’Hara, I can help. Just try me.’
‘Wake me again at ten,’ he said. ‘I’ll sleep on it.’
She sighed and put the coffee cup on the dresser and left. As soon as she was out of the room, O’Hara got up wearily. After he shaved and showered he stood for nearly an hour in a corner of the room, slowly performing a series of body movements known as the Butterfly, ridding his body of aches and stiffness. Then he sat quietly and meditated for twenty minutes.
When he had finished his morning ritual, he felt alive again and ready for the day.
Five minutes later she was back, this time with the Magician and Joli.
‘What a remarkable recovery,’ she said. ‘An hour ago you acted like you were dying.’
‘An hour ago I was. Okay, let’s see what we’ve got, and then I’ll fill you in on what’s happening.’
‘First of all,’ said the Magician, ‘I didn’t turn up anything on this Hinge character.’
‘Military intelligence?’
‘Blank. So far he seems to have kept himself off all the books.’
‘Okay. Next?’
‘Falmouth. Here’s a print-out on everything I turned up. I cross-checked CIA with M16. Very interesting.’
To O’Hara, however, there was very little information that was new. A few details he did not know, but mainly it confirmed that Falmouth bad retired. There was nothing beyond that. Both the CIA and M16 seemed to close the book on their ex-agents when they retired.
The Danilov dossier, however, turned up several items: that Danilov was suspected of not six or seven but twelve assassinations, including two in the United States; that he had developed the riticin pellet and the weapon with which he injected it into his victims; that he had worked on several occasions for the KGB, no big surprise there. The big surprise was that for two years and until eighteen months ago, Danilov had been operating in the Caribbean area, developing Russian contacts in Haiti, where he was well known. He had retired a year and a half ago and had been seen on two or three occasions by other agents in both Port-au-Prince and Cap-Haitien.
Had he been working in Haiti for Master? If so, doing what? Joli could help there. He still knew every acre of the country and kept up with its political and social gossip.
The report on Avery Lavander was more complete than he had expected. The Magician had culled it from several sources, among them three different wire services, two American magazine chains, several newspapers, Pads-Match, the International Herald Tribune, and even an obscure British news magazine that had published the only profile ever written on the man. It was largely made up of innuendo and gossip culled from interviews with other people, among them his former wife, Margaret, who had endured twelve childless, sexless years with him before running off with a trombonist in the London Symphony and who had got even with Lavander by telling everything she knew about him. As usual, Lavander had refused to talk to the man who had written it.
O’Hara put together a mental picture of Lavander, a true eccentric who operated in his own private world, refusing to see reporters and avoiding photographers; who demanded, and got, astronomical consultation fees, which were deposited, in gold, in banks of his designation, all over the world; who kept a small book listing, in code, all his deposits, where and when they were made and who paid him, apparently the only record he did keep. Such was his reputation that before Lavander would grant an interview to a potential client, he required a deposit of ten thousand dollars in Krugerrands, yet he was pitifully frugal, preferring to stay in dismal hotels and taking his meals in the most mundane restaurants.
Despite his weird appearance, bizarre behaviour and maddeningly irascible nature, most of the major oil companies, at one time or another, seemed to have availed themselves of Lavander’s services, for he appeared to be a man devoted to a single purpose, and that purpose was oil. The various reports confirmed that he had little interest in food, women, books, music. In fact, he had little interest in anything but oil.
Oil was his life, every form of it: oil in the ground, oil in Wells, oil in pipelines, oil in the stock market, oil in tankers, refineries, trucks, pumps, cars, cosmetics, pharmaceuticals. Oil in big business. Oil in every conceivable form. He was, in fact, the world’s most knowledgeable human being on the subject. And because he was apolitical, an industrial mercenary who served no flag or master but himself, working only as a contract consultant, he moved comfortably within the international oil community, with contacts in OPEC, in Latin America, Canada, Southeast Asia and among the African oil producers. He knew how much oil was being shipped, who was getting it, what it cost and how much remained in reserve. He could predict shortages and price changes, and he knew how to find it and where to find it and the best way to get it to market.
Falmouth was right. Lavander could be a considerable security risk to a lot of companies. The question was, Which one had put out a contract on him and why?
So far, the Magician had turned up nothing on Chameleon. O’Hara digested the information, memorizing all the details he felt worthwhile. Then he put the reports aside and said, ‘Nice going, Mag.’
