It was a surreal experience to share a Sikorsky with three beautiful women. There was a moment of social awkwardness when we foregathered outside the medical unit at Devonport Naval Base. I emerged with Nikki and with Saskia – her usual moody self – just as MacKenzie turned up by taxi. She got out and gave me a warm embrace. Nikki looked daggers at me. I effected the introductions. ‘Nikki, this is my sister MacKenzie.’ Nikki blushed, bit her lip, and gave a giggle. ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Pleased to meet you!’
We blasted off. Give me fixed-wing any time. If my engine fails, I want options. But this machine was so powerful that we were in the air for barely fifteen minutes. I closed my mind to my misgivings and enjoyed the sun-kissed view over Rangitoto, Rakino, and The Noises. Abeam Cape Colville at the north end of the Coromandel Peninsula I turned my attention to the dragon-like mountainous contour of Great Barrier Island. We headed for the northern tip.
There it was. Xanadu. I had a brief glimpse of a huge pile, some sort of ramparted baronial folly stuck in the middle of about a hundred hectares of parkland hastily made out of cleared bush. I didn’t care for it. It was entirely bogus. It was a rich man’s idea of an English country park, transplanted to the bottom of the world. We approached from the south. The driveway from the gate house, running across manicured lawns up towards the ramparted pile, was so long and straight that you could land an aircraft on it. I made a note of that. At its northern end we descended to hover at tree-top level in the middle of another mini-tornado. We sank down on to the helipad with a gentle forward lurch and the engine was immediately cut back to idle but not shut-down. The pilot turned in his seat and told us to exit from the left and keep our heads down.
Fox was there to meet us, casually dressed in his usual faux-masculine ranch attire of pale jeans and checked shirt. Even his hat was a Stetson. If he’d packed a six-shooter with an extra-long barrel in a low-slung holster hanging from his belt and secured to his thigh by a thong, it would not have surprised me. He even had a horse with him. He was restraining a beautifully groomed grey by the reins. An adolescent girl was mounted. This must be Tamsin, Saskia’s younger sister. She was formally dressed as if for a dressage competition, in a riding hat, smart pink tunic, with a white cravat, beige jodhpurs, and perfectly polished riding boots. As we approached I saw him hand the reins up to his daughter. ‘Don’t break your neck, darling.’ She turned the grey away from the direction of the helicopter with evident facility and trotted towards a north-east break in the perimeter wall. Fox watched her go and turned his attention to us.
I was taken aback by his civility. ‘Captain Hodgson. Ms and Dr Cameron-Strange.’ The broad smile was switched on like an electric light. Teeth, perfectly aligned like the keys of a Steinway, flashed in the afternoon sun. ‘So glad you could make it.’ It was as if our first meeting had never taken place. The proffered hand was held unnaturally high and palm downwards, the handshake of a control freak. He could assume an air of courtesy as if he were putting on a natty waistcoat. Or a ‘vest’ as they say, on his side of the Pond. He fancied my sister. So he’d better at least be on speaking terms with her twin brother. But was he really the same man as the bruiser who had harangued me at the airport? I don’t really believe in the clinical entity of ‘split personality’ but surely this was as close as it got. Which one was the real Fox?
‘Welcome to Xanadu. I’m afraid you will think me terribly rude, but …’ – he nodded towards the Sikorsky – ‘… here’s my ride. Business, I’m afraid. But I hope to join you for dinner. Meantime, Cadbury, please take our guests to the house.’
‘Sir.’
A cadaverous retainer dressed in the style of an English butler in a morning coat gave me an impersonal glance.
‘My housekeeper Miss Duckmanton will show you to your quarters. Hemi, will you carry our guests’ bags? Perhaps Abel could clear up this detritus.’ He made a vague gesture at the foliage scattered across the lawn by the chopper.
An enormous Polynesian man in a black suit stepped forward. He was six foot three and I guess weighed about three hundred pounds.
‘Doctor, you will doubtless be aware of the tradition of Polynesian peoples who give their children outlandish names. This is Hemidemisemiquaver.’
I said, ‘Te lofa.’ The big man nodded and stepped towards the chopper to retrieve our luggage. He had the broad-based lurching gait of an Emperor penguin and he made no attempt to duck under the chopper blades. I thought that if one of them struck this giant of a man it would simply disintegrate. I said to Fox, ‘Seems rather a diminutive name for one so big.’ Fox thought about this for a moment and then he grinned.
‘Ha! Droll. Now, you must really have an attempt at one of the Who Dares Wins hazards. Captain Hodgson, I believe you would enjoy our assault course. The Big Push. Fear not. We will deactivate the truly dangerous hazards for your benefit. Doctor, will you give it a try?’
‘That would be to miss the full experience. Bungee jump? Climbing wall?’
‘I’ll take pot luck.’
‘Pot luck it is! I’m sure Herr Kramer will lay something on.’ He nodded in the direction of the tall blond young man I’d seen on at least three occasions now. He was standing at ease a little apart from the group, watchful, keeping up the scan. ‘But remember, if it all gets a bit too stressful, just raise your hand and ask for the umpire. Nobody will impersonate the umpire. House rules. Well, goodbye for the moment. Klaus!’ He lurched over towards the bodyguard, right leg negotiating invisible impedimenta. Gait’s getting worse. He and the minder had a brief tête-à-tête, sotto voce, in German. Klaus Kramer. KK. I lodged the snippet of information away. Fox made his way over to the Sikorzky and seemed to give us a farewell salute in the form of a discoordinated, flailing gesture. It occurred to me that Saskia had made herself invisible and gone off in the direction of the house without greeting her father. Cadbury said stiffly, ‘Come this way.’
He led the way from the helipad towards the house along a broad gravel path between trim lawns. The mini-tornado started up again and I turned briefly to watch the Sikorsky rise fifty feet vertically, hover, and turn south-east on a sixpence. Then she stuck her nose down and clawed through the air, presumably back over to Auckland.
The entrance to the Xanadu gardens was a mock-up of Maori meeting-grounds – a marae – with fencing in dark wood and an elaborately carved gate in the Maori style. There was a small wizened man brushing leaves with what looked like a witch’s broom. He looked up and gave us a malevolent look. He reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin. As we passed he uttered a single expletive in a high-pitched yelp, and laughed inanely. Spot diagnosis? In a less politically correct age he would have been called an idiot. The driveway split into two semicircles of chunky red gravel bordering a substantial fountain. The house itself was of honey sandstone in four storeys. A broad set of stone steps led to an impressive entrance, where the housekeeper, also dressed in black, watched our approach. What had Fox called her? Duck something. She gazed at us disapprovingly.
‘This way.’ She wanted me to know that I had already taken up too much of her time. She turned and led the way with rapid bird-like steps. Her heels set off a percussive tattoo across the entrance atrium’s parquet flooring. The furnishings were tasteful and expensive but completely nondescript. I might have been in a top-class hotel anywhere in the world.
We took the lift to the top floor. We stepped out into an airy and high-ceilinged corridor. There was light pine wainscoting to waist level and then expensive-looking wallpaper in pastel lemon with a border effect created by a single thin gold filament. Symmetrically placed paintings were mostly of New Zealand pastoral scenes in oils and captured in rich greens. We passed several doors. The bedrooms were named: Lotus, Marigold, and Myrtle. MacKenzie got Marigold, Nikki got Lotus, I got Myrtle. Myrtle was the last door at the end of the hallway.
The housekeeper opened the door to Myrtle using a master key. She held it open with barely concealed impatience. ‘You will undoubtedly be comfortable here.’ Any contrary view would have been out of the question. It occurred to me that Fox had given me the best room in the house, and the help didn’t like it. I said, ‘Thank you very much.’ She gave a terse nod and closed the door as she left.
It was not a room; it was a suite. It had its own entrance foyer decorated in minimalist style, with a large bowl of fruit under the warm glow of a standard lamp. This gave way to a spacious living area bathed in the afternoon sunlight that was now pouring through the broad north-facing bay windows. Within the curve of the window area was a raised dais and, on it, a white baby grand piano bearing an extravagant bowl of red roses. Between this and the entrance way, a suite of sofa and chairs in deep floral red upholstery surrounded a low-slung coffee table. At the wall was a compact writing desk at which an Anglepoise lamp had been left on. Above it on the wall was the picture of a young ballet dancer in a tutu, stooping to adjust her pointes. It looked like a Degas and, on closer inspection, turned out to be so. It was not a print.
To the rear of the living area another corridor led to a bathroom, a spare bedroom, a kitchen, and a fully stocked bar. There was also a spiral stairway. I ascended. Here was the master bedroom, with an en suite bathroom and spa, and a dressing room. There was a king-size bed. The bathroom was tumultuously bedecked with soaps, fragrances, and the other accoutrements of male grooming. In the dressing room my black Alpine Lowe holdall had already been deposited. The key to Myrtle sat on the dresser.
I looked round at all this opulence, and felt distinctly uncomfortable. How long did I have to endure this for? Only till tomorrow morning. And besides, I was on a mission. Fact-finding. Get on with it. I went back downstairs.
In the escritoire I found a jogger’s map with suggested runs about Xanadu’s hundred hectares. I wanted to have a look round and get my bearings. I chose a 10k run, stripped off, and put on shorts, running vest, and Nikes. On the map, I’d noticed some topographical features of interest. I went to the window and gazed out across the lawns, meadows, and waterways of the magnificent park, marrying the view to the information on the map. On the north side of the house, beyond the ha-ha which terminated the formal gardens, there was a diamond-shaped copse of native New Zealand trees. It was a dark green smudge of impenetrable woodland flanked on either side by landscaped park. On its right was an area of lovely down studded with a mix of evergreen and deciduous trees. It was labelled on the map: ‘the Arboretum’. To the left lay a flatter area in the shape of a long crooked finger of lush grassland; it might have been a par five golfing fairway with a dog-leg. Its length was littered with paraphernalia. I screwed up my eyes against the sun. What was it? Had the area been given over to equestrian pursuits? Three-day eventing, or show jumping? No. It was an array of trenches and parapets, a series of hazards. It was a military assault course. On the map it had been labelled, enigmatically, ‘the Big Push’. I looked at it and pulled a face. In the brochure the layout of the Big Push was detailed. The various hazards had been given names based on the First World War. The Somme, High Wood, Verdun, Passchendaele, etc. I found it all a bit distasteful. There was a great deal of hype about danger. Apparently the course could be ‘activated’. That is, it could be turned into a minefield to make its traverse all the more hazardous. It sounded like Russian roulette. That struck me as just a bit of hysterical hype for the television networks. You sometimes heard of the military using live ammunition on training exercises to add a little extra frisson to the occasion, but surely this was going a little too far. I looked back out across the parkland. I could see that the hype in the brochure was replicated at the southern end of the Big Push. Heavy gates, padlocks, Jolly Roger flags, skull and crossbones. A large white flag predominated, fluttering in the breeze. Maybe the course was, for the moment, deactivated. I suppose some people would have found it all compulsive viewing. I decided to keep well away from it. Both the arboretum and the assault course terminated at the northern apex of the dense bush. There, a gaily decorated circular bandstand in coconut blue and pink wrought iron was clearly discernible. On the map it was labelled ‘gazebo’. I memorised the details of my 10k route.
I ignored the lift and walked down the main stairway. There was opulence on every floor. Above the ground floor there was a mezzanine with – I smiled at the inevitability of it – a ballroom, conference facilities, and, towards the rear, a gym, an indoor swimming pool, and a sauna. Not bad for a pied-à-terre in the country.
Outside in the blazing afternoon sun I turned east and headed out of the gardens into the broader reaches of the parkland. Just beyond the formal garden area Rumpelstiltskin had built a bonfire and was burning old foliage. What had Fox called him? Abel. Abel was looking into the flames with intense concentration. He ignored me completely. I climbed a stile and found myself on a broad track bordering a stream running through bush. Four-minute kilometres. No need to overdo it. I crossed the stream over a Japanese-style vaulted wooden bridge and ascended about three hundred feet. The bush thinned out and there was a glimpse of the ocean. A grassy pathway cut a swathe through meadowland and finally to the robust granite rampart bordering the property. The path allowed me to track the perimeter.
I fell to thinking about Xanadu’s gargoyles. Cadbury the anorectic retainer and general factotum. The awesome housekeeper Duck somebody. Duckmajor? Duckmanton. That was it. And then the huge Tongan with the absurd, outsized-diminutive name. And Abel, the forest gnome. The German, Kramer. From whence on earth had Fox recruited him?
And Nikki. A beauty among the beasts.
I’d tracked the periphery of the north-east segment of the property and was now heading towards its northernmost point. Here, the granite wall almost reached the cliff edge. One nautical mile out to sea I recognised the familiar and elegant pristine white lines of a cruising vessel. The Captain Cook, for whatever reason, was shadowing me. I found her presence reassuring.
Ahead of me, I could hear raised voices. Parade-ground barks. I paused at a gate leading out on to a narrow ribbon of grass. It was occupied by half a dozen individuals in dark green camouflaged army gear. They were in blazing sunshine but even so the illumination had been augmented by two giant super-trooper searchlights bouncing off a white screen. I’d stumbled on an outside broadcast on a film set. The crew were operating two cameras, focused on an apparatus at the cliff edge that looked like a cross between a well-head and a gibbet. A man with shackled ankles stood on the scaffold with his back to me, looking out over a 200-foot drop to the ocean. The man was trying to psyche himself up. His legs were shaking. To his left, just out of camera shot, stood the tall, slim, fit-looking man with the very short fair hair and the bullet-shaped head. He looked like the Kommandant of a concentration camp. He was gazing dispassionately at the back of the head of the man on the scaffold, absently tapping the ground with a walking cane. Abruptly he muttered an order under his breath to a lieutenant, who stepped forward and gave the man on the scaffold a push. He dropped over the cliff edge with a blood-curdling scream which died away in a rapid diminuendo and then came to an abrupt halt.
Bungee jump.
I turned away and headed on to another path heading south back towards the house. Here was the bandstand, the gazebo; I was approaching it from its far side. It stood at the centre of a well-cropped circular grass lawn and as I stepped on to it, the Victorian wrought iron of the stand illuminated itself in a radiant multi-coloured glow. It was a jolly scene. There was Abel, with his broom. I hailed him.
‘Afternoon, Abel.’ He looked up and gave me a toothless grin. I skirted the bandstand and found myself at the northern apex of the diamond of dense woodland. Right or left? The route to my right was closed by high fencing and a series of garish notices were not encouraging. ‘Verboten! Sens interdit! Wrong way – go back!’ I retreated in the direction of the gazebo.
The ambush came from behind and was so sudden that I barely had time to take a breath before the rough canvas bag was pushed over my head, my arms were pinned to my side, and I was frogmarched maybe 200 metres. I was in complete darkness. I felt the ground beneath change from grass to cinder, then to paving. I tripped on a kerb but my assailants held me upright. Now I could sense a threshold and we moved indoors. There was a great deal of yelling. My arms were forced behind my back and my wrists tied together by what felt like stout tape. How many people? Three, maybe four of them? I was pushed into a seated position with my back against a cold bare wall. There was nothing to sit on. It was a stress position. I tried to slide down the wall. A rough voice at my ear yelled a stream of abuse. Effing this and effing that. I retained the position.
Silence. Complete darkness. I gave it five minutes. My quads were beginning to ache. I slid down the wall and sat down.
‘Get your fuckin’ arse off the floor!’ The voice on my left side was so close it almost shattered my eardrum. I was hauled back up into the stress position.
Silence. I gave it another five minutes. The atmosphere of the room had changed. I couldn’t see a thing but I could sense I’d been left on my own. I risked taking the strain out of my thigh muscles, slid down the wall again, and manoeuvred my legs forward so that I was now seated on the floor with my back to the wall and my legs extended in front of me. Now my bound hands were crumpled into the small of my back and my shoulders began to ache.
No more shouting. Absolute quiet. What a blessed relief. Underneath my cowl I was in total darkness. Absolutely black.
I sat quite still and tried to control that little flutter of panic. Odd, how quickly the boundaries between pretence and reality become blurred. Was this Who Dares Wins? Fox had said I could take pot luck. Was it a game, or was it for real? I no longer felt sure. At any time I could signal to the umpire that I’d had enough and I’d be withdrawn from the process. Yet I was reluctant to do so. I needed to explore this world a little further, and my own reaction to it.
You would have thought, rationally, that the knowledge that this was merely role play would extend your ability to cope almost without limit. Is it not the fear of the unknown that is the worst burden? I’d often marvelled at the resilience of hostages held in bad conditions for months, for years. It wasn’t so much the squalor, the deprivation. It was the not-knowing. And even now a dark fear had taken shape at the back of my mind. What if it wasn’t a game? What if I signalled to the umpire but the umpire was not there? It became a paradoxical situation. So long as I didn’t call for the umpire, I could continue to believe in his existence.
How long did I sit there? Five minutes? An hour? With the sensory deprivation, impossible to know.
The door crashed and I was jerked to my feet by two pairs of hands and half-dragged, half-carried back out of my prison and back outside, and across what my imagination told me was a courtyard, and into another hut.
This time I was pushed into a seat. My knees were jammed up against a table in front of me. There was a pause. Then the cowl was removed.
I blinked, and let my eyes adjust to the half-light. We were in an entirely featureless log cabin with no furniture except a rough wooden table and three chairs. There were four of them. Two big men in army fatigues stood guard behind the table at each corner of the room. My two interrogators sat across the table straight ahead of me. One of them was a woman. Combat gear, indistinguishable from the men’s. Middle thirties, black hair cut short. Rather a friendly face. I’d need to be on my guard. Her weapon would not be overt torture; it would be seductive charm. The other one of course was Klaus Kramer, the Aryan youth who’d presided over the bungee, the bullet-head who kept making brief cameo appearances in my life. I began to suspect that Herr Kramer was going to turn out to be some sort of nemesis for me, a ‘Bad Thing’ that I would not be able to bypass, sidestep, or ignore. Sooner or later there would be a confrontation. Not this one. This would be a rehearsal. A dry run.
Incongruously, he was dressed – immaculately so – in the black uniform of the Schutzstaffel. There were SS runes on his lapels and his black tie bore centrally a small insignia of a skull, the totenkopf or death’s head. On his left arm was a black swastika on a red armband. The whole rig-out should have reassured me that this was a piece of role play. But it didn’t.
The woman said, ‘You okay?’
‘Never better.’
She said to the soldier behind her on her left, without looking round, ‘Corporal, untie his hands.’
It was a relief to feel the tape fall off my wrists. I brought my hands forward, flexed my fingers, and clasped them on the table.
‘Thank you.’
‘What brings you to Great Barrier?’ She sounded genuinely interested.
‘I’m very fond of the outdoors.’
‘What’s the agenda?’
‘Get a bit fitter, lose a pound or two.’
‘You’re fit.’ I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. ‘What’s the hidden agenda?’
‘Should I have one?’
‘Everyone has a hidden agenda.’
Stay silent. Just speak when asked a question.
‘Maybe it’s in the subconscious.’
Don’t tell her the expression is ‘unconscious’, not ‘subconscious’. Don’t tell her that if my hidden agenda is unconscious, then I cannot be aware of what it is. Don’t be a smartarse.
‘You’ve been sent, haven’t you?’
‘Sent?’
‘What’s the mission?’
‘Get a bit fitter, lose a pound or two.’
‘Are you acting alone? Perhaps in tandem? Or one of a wider group?’
‘Group?’
It was like the ‘yes-no interlude’ in an ancient quiz game. No affirmations, no denials, stick with bewilderment.
‘Does the name Shaun O’Driscoll mean anything to you?’
‘Should it?’
‘Thought you might have seen his name in the papers.’
Pause.
‘You are conducting an investigation. Aren’t you?’
‘Investigation?’
‘Are you just going to parrot everything I say?’
‘Parrot?’
She laughed, as if genuinely amused. ‘Brew?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Cuppa tea?’
‘Milk, no sugar.’ I gave her a smile.
‘What is “sheer plod”?’
I gazed levelly at her. I intoned:
‘Sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Gerard Manley Hopkins. “The Windhover. To Christ our Lord”.’
‘What is “sheer plod”?’
‘I should say it represents perseverance and tenacity in any task. Wouldn’t you?’
‘And Operation Sheer Plod?’
‘Must be some sort of project. Something to do with Who Dares Wins?’
‘Where does Nikki fit into the jigsaw?’
‘D’you know, I’ve never done a jigsaw in my life.’
‘Lovely girl, Ms Hodgson. Captain Hodgson. Drop-dead gorgeous. I quite fancy her myself. She’s doing very well on the Big Push. But then, training helps.’
The tea had appeared by my right elbow, in a wide, white tin mug. Stewed, with a bit too much milk, but restorative. I took a few sips and collected my thoughts.
‘Still, she’s a bit too girlie for the army, surely. Short-term commission. Now there’s a hidden agenda. Ordnance. She’s obsessed with land mines. Did she tell you that she lost her kid brother to a land mine? She was twelve years old at the time, Richard was ten. They were living in Ho Chi Minh City. Their father worked for BP. Nikki and Dickie were walking across a field one day and he stepped on something left a long time ago by the Viet Cong. That was that. Nikki didn’t have a scratch. That’s why she’s obsessed. Does it surprise you?’
‘Everyone has their aboriginal catastrophe. No wonder she’s passionate.’
‘It’s not a passion. It’s a phobia. You know what drives Captain Hodgson?’
‘I have an idea you are going to tell me.’
‘It’s the struggle with her personal demons. Nikki is terrified of being maimed.’
I took another mouthful of stewed tea.
‘What’s your private funk, doctor?’
‘Must be sitting in my subconscious with my hidden agenda. What’s yours?’
She suddenly lost her friendly look. I realised I had made a mistake. The last thing you want to do under interrogation is let your interlocutors suspect you are taking the piss. The man in the black uniform spoke for the first time.
‘If you answer another question with a question, we will have to move to a more robust form of interrogation.’ It was spoken in a quiet Teutonic whisper. He then entered a crescendo which culminated in a scream. ‘You think this is just a game. You think this is role play. But you are mistaken. This is completely real. You are here on a mission. You are a spy. One last time: for whom do you work?’
‘Weren’t all the spies made redundant when the Berlin Wall came down?’
The woman spoke again. ‘That’s it. Corporal,’ – again, she never looked round – ‘set up for the next level of interrogation. Doctor, how do you suppose you would cope with water-boarding?’
‘I don’t suppose I’d last two minutes. Enough.’ I raised my hand. She stared at me across the table, expressionless. ‘Oh, Doctor, the umpire went home hours ago.’
* * *
Back at Xanadu I slipped up to Myrtle, put on my swimming togs and a luxurious white dressing gown, and took the lift down to the mezzanine floor. But first I tapped on the door of Lotus, Nikki’s room. She’d put on a dressing gown as well. She was a bit quiet, and a bit pale. She was going to take a nap. I wondered if she’d been shaken up a bit by the Big Push, just as I had been by my mock interrogation. In retrospect I think that was the general idea. We were being given a caution. At any rate Nikki had decided to skip dinner and would I please pass on her apologies? I offered to stay with her but she shook her head and reminded me I was here on business. So I was. It occurred to me that maybe I did after all have a hidden agenda. I didn’t care for Mr Fox’s Xanadu set-up one little bit. I fancied having a go at arguing him out of his Great Barrier project. Why not? Nothing to lose.
I bypassed the conference facilities and entered the health club. It was the sort of place you would find in any smart hotel. A gym with weights, treadmills, cross-trainers and so on, and a 25-metre pool with a jacuzzi, a steam room, and a sauna.
It was a sauna like any other sauna, a box with slatted wooden seats around three sides. There was a raised tier on the back wall. Beside the heavy glass door, protected within a slatted wooden trestle, there was a stout metal heater supplied by a thick cable which disappeared into the wall behind it. Beside the heater sat a wooden bucket containing a gallon of tepid water and a spoon. On the wall above the heater was a thermometer, a hygrometer, an elongated figure-of-eight egg timer with pink sand in its lower sump, and, in red, a panic button. The thermometer read 95 degrees centigrade.
I flicked the sandglass over and lay down supine on the seat beneath it with my feet nearest the door. I fell into a reverie and reviewed the bizarre events of the last couple of hours.
They had played with me for just a little while longer, just until I began to suspect that I really was in Big Trouble. But then they let me go. Just a bit of role play. No hard feelings.
I thought of the man who had disappeared so abruptly over the edge of the cliff, at the north edge of Xanadu, with that ear-piercing scream. No role play there. I was sure that had been the scream of a man convinced he was falling to his death.
I didn’t much like the look of Fox’s entourage. Frankly, they looked like thugs. They seemed to me to be on the edge of anarchy. I wondered if Fox imagined he could control them. The trouble with employing the Mob is that the Mob take over. They don’t work for anybody. They spot an opportunity in aligning themselves with a front man who has an air of respectability. He thinks they are obeying his orders but in fact he is dancing to their tune, like a puppet on a string. By the same token, the Republican Party might select Fox to run for President, because they realise he is their best chance of capturing the vote. They think President Fox will calm down and come to heel and mellow in the White House. President Hindenburg thought much the same about Hitler. They think they will be able to control him. What they don’t realise is that Fox is already under the control of the Mob. The Mob will move into the West Wing. Nobody controls the Mob.
The door opened abruptly and Phineas Fox entered. There was a brief waft of cool air. Then the door was closed again. I made to get up.
‘Stay where you are.’
I suppose he was saying, ‘Please don’t discommode yourself on my account’, but it sounded like a directive. I stayed put. Fox wore a white towel wrapped round his waist. He looked like a Roman senator at the baths. He glanced at the thermometer.
‘What about a little extra humidity?’
‘Sure.’
Ignoring the wooden ladle he picked up the bucket of water and poured about a pint on to the cauldron. There was an angry and sustained hiss. I tensed myself for the great wall of heat that would surge round the cubicle and engulf me. I really needed to get out of this sweatbox, I’d overstayed my welcome already, but something told me to hang on for another few minutes.
Fox clambered on to the upper bench and sat down. That awkwardness of the right lower limb again. And no pocket in which to restrain his left hand. He held his left forearm across his midriff, right hand clutching his left elbow.
I was relieved to find myself in company with the Yale man, not the Midwest bruiser. He was all charm and hospitality.
‘So glad your enchanting sister could accompany you. I do hope she will play for us before dinner, if only briefly.’
I took the opportunity of forwarding in advance Nikki’s apologies for skipping dinner. He was very concerned and solicitous, even apologetic about the over-exuberance of his lieutenants. I ventured, ‘Scary chap, that fellow Klaus. Where did you find him?’
‘Herr Kramer is my PPA. He has very remarkable talents.’
There was a pause. It lasted for about five minutes, long enough, I noticed, for Fox to start pouring sweat. I am quite happy to sit in companionable silence in a hot room. But then something quite extraordinary happened. When Fox next spoke, he had changed his personality. He was back in the wild west, and I was back in the interrogation room.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what your game is, mister. You are a spy. You have been sent here. You and the girl. Captain Whoosis.’ His speech had become a little slurred. It was as if he had swallowed half a bottle of Scotch when I wasn’t looking. ‘O’Driscoll? You fire a second arrow to find where the first one landed. Be careful what you wish for.’ The left arm shot out but he barely noticed it.
Spot diagnosis?
Got it.
* * *
‘… and besides,’ said Saskia, speaking through a mouthful of asparagus, ‘I don’t think it’s fair that you use your own daughters as pawns in the furtherance of your political career.’
‘Pawns?’
‘Yes, daddy, pawns.’
MacKenzie generally avoided after-concert suppers. I was beginning to see why.
‘I mean, it’s just a stunt, isn’t it, proposing to live in the Bronx for a week, reminding the poor of how incapable they are of managing their own affairs. It’s not even as though we will be assuming that way of life. You know you won’t let me outside without a bodyguard. Honestly, down here, I’m never out of Hemi’s sight – I just about take him to bed with me.’
‘Except when you take Ravi,’ said Tamsin.
‘Shut up, Tammy. Anyway, it’s all so false. Nobody’ll be fooled. They’ll see it for what it is. Condescension from the elite. Poverty for a week. What a gas! Thank God I’m going to Oxford next term, that’s all I can say. And in April Ravi and I are going to Crete.’
‘You are doing nothing of the kind young lady.’ Fox betrayed no sense of social awkwardness; he was quite prepared to have a showdown with his elder daughter in front of twenty guests. I thought, they are so alike. Two incandescent lights. The immovable object and the unstoppable force. They’re about to have a blazing row.
‘Everybody eat! Eat!’ Elena Fox made a desperate effort to change the subject. ‘Banoffee roulade to follow.’
‘Elena. How many times have I told you, my dear,’ – Fox’s question was a sharp rebuke – ‘not to run a trailer for dessert during the entrée?’
‘I’m sorry, Phineas.’ Mrs Fox lowered her eyes penitently.
As I watched Fox glare at her, I felt a pang of pity for Elena. She was a trophy wife. She had very little to say for herself. She looked to me to be barely older than Saskia. What was in it for her? Access to unlimited wealth? But what was the deal? How did she sing for her supper? Sex, presumably.
I caught the quick flash from MacKenzie’s deep blue eyes. Caitlin said we were telepathic, brother and sister twins, and occasionally I wondered.
Saskia threw down her fork so that it rattled noisily on the plate. She rose to her feet. There were tears in her eyes. ‘When are you going to realise, daddy, that I’m eighteen years old, and not one of your employees that you can whip into line?’ Her eyes blazed briefly. Then, abruptly, she asserted sulkily: ‘I’m going out.’
‘With your dreadlocked Calcuttan musician friend I have no doubt.’
‘Ravi. R-A-V-I. Ravi. I don’t see why you have to be so rude about my boyfriend. Rude, and racist.’
‘My darling,’ said Fox blandly, ‘I’m not at all racist. I only wish he’d wash a little more frequently.’
‘That’s it. I’m going.’
The door slammed. There was an embarrassed silence.
‘Saskia’s fucking a guru,’ said Tamsin helpfully, by way of explanation.
The table gradually recovered its equanimity during dessert. I drained the last dregs of glorious Puligny-Montrachet and glanced up and down the table at the motley crew Fox had assembled for supper. On my right, Mr Ishimoto, MD of one of the big Japanese automobile companies, sat with his geisha. To my left, a member of the Vatican College of Cardinals, accompanied by a Pontifical Swiss guard, and an anonymous secretary from the Curia, sat in his voluptuous strawberry-red robes, complete with diminutive rhomboid hat. When I’d first caught sight of him, I dared not catch my sister’s eye. She would have had a fit of the giggles. Fox sat directly opposite me, at south. A concert impresario was on his right, a representative of the Bundesbank was on his left. Elena Fox occupied the easternmost flank of the table, desperately trying to jolly along a crowd of subfusc Brussels bureaucrats. The only ribaldry at the table came from MacKenzie and some musicians down at the west end. Saskia’s chair was vacant. I put my glass down. I just caught the flick of Fox’s eyebrows, subliminal as a seditious single frame on a roll of 35 mm film, yet incisive as the bark of a parade-ground command. Elena rose to her feet hurriedly. ‘Ladies, shall we withdraw?’ Her laugh may have had a hard edge. ‘Let us leave the men to their ghastly business pursuits.’
Was it possible? Was Fox affecting the mores of upper-class nineteenth-century England?
There was a swish of evening gowns. ‘What now?’ said MacKenzie in an overloud voice. Masami the geisha looked uncertainly at her master for guidance. Mr Ishimoto hissed a terse staccato soundbite. She bowed obsequiously and hastened to follow the other ladies. Mr Ishimoto watched her receding rear contemplatively. He whispered hoarsely, ‘I love Geisha; I love their … feebleness.’ I sat in bemused silence. Did people still live like this? Would the womenfolk, the ladies of tasks, dutifully repair to the drawing room and sit down to their embroidery, the fortepiano, and gossip – the civilised pursuits of cultivated femininity?
The outsize bustle of Masami’s kimono disappeared from the dining room. Fox had observed the withdrawal of the ladies, beaming benignly like a patrician philanthropist charmed by youth and beauty. As the great oak door closed, the expression seemed to freeze on his face and then slowly dissolve into … what? Cruelty? Cold calculation? Or was the face merely expressionless?
MacKenzie hadn’t moved. Fox’s eyes drifted down the table towards her. He raised an eyebrow.
She took a generous slug of Taittinger. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t bring my needlework tonight. Can I have a cheroot please?’
I groaned inwardly. My sister was going to act up. I recognised the signs and symptoms. All her life, when she was tired and bored with a company, when she had to endure people whom she did not find simpatico, she would misbehave. Fox, captivated, chortled good-naturedly.
Now the port was coming round. It was a rich black-purple Portuguese concoction out of an ancient bottle that almost seemed barnacled; it might have been inadvertently put down in a sunken galleon in the Bay of Biscay for a couple of centuries. The crusty bottle arrived from my left. I took it in my left hand, filled my glass, and handed it on to Mr Ishimoto in one smooth gesture. Ancient services tradition. Fox smiled briefly in acknowledgement. Mr Ishimoto grasped the bottle in both hands, filled his glass with some spillage, and put the bottle down on the table. Fox winked at me and raised his eyes to the ceiling. The mix of aloofness and bonhomie was disconcerting. MacKenzie picked up the port, grimaced, and stuck her tongue out as if she had just swallowed castor oil. She passed the bottle on. ‘Mr Cadbury, could I have some more Taittinger, please? Just park the bucket there, mate.’
Now Cadbury approached me stealthily from behind. His white-gloved hands carried an enormous flat case of polished rimu. As he opened it, I had a crazy notion I was about to be offered choice of pistols in a duel.
‘Cigar, doctor?’
I gazed stupidly into the humidor. Ah – the lifelong struggle against tobacco. Maybe just a few puffs.
‘The Romeo y Julietta.’
Cadbury extracted the handmade Romeo No. 1 de Luxe Cuban Churchill, deftly guillotined its end, and snapped open the jaws of a lighter.
‘The rehabilitation of the Cuban cigar,’ commented Fox. ‘Mr Obama’s sole contribution to Western civilisation.’
I got a good blaze going.
‘Dr Cameron-Strange,’ said Fox with renewed vigour. ‘I believe you have something on your mind.’
‘I do.’
‘You have the ear of the house, sir.’
I took a sip of port. It was a dark rich, viscous, bloody Machiavellian brew, full of intrigue and treachery.
‘Mr Fox, you are a wealthy, astute, and highly successful businessman. It is common knowledge that you have developed a commercial interest in Great Barrier Island. A green field site par excellence. You wish to turn GBI into a theme park. A playground for the rich. People who can afford to fly private jets may wish to drop into the Barrier, perhaps coming down from Southeast Asia for a weekend’s golf, the amenities of top-class hotels, and perhaps to sample the Kiwi passion for extreme sport.
‘My purpose is to ask you to reconsider this project; not necessarily to abandon it, but to site it elsewhere.’
‘Go on.’
The humidor had reached MacKenzie. She had chosen a long slim Sumatran Villiger and was setting it ablaze.
‘Great Barrier Island occupies a particular place in the affections of the New Zealander. More, it is a symbol or totem of part of the New Zealand psyche. The Barrier has never been developed. Next to Stewart Island, it is the closest thing to wilderness we have. People who elect to live on the Barrier elect a particular lifestyle. As you know, any electricity has to be self-generated. Many households are run on renewables. The way of life is simple. People who live here want to lead a life close to nature. People who visit come to camp and to go tramping. Even people who never visit derive a benefit from knowing that the Barrier is here. It may serve us in ways we don’t understand. The relationship of GBI and NZ is rather like the relationship of Antarctica to the whole planet.’
‘Lighten up, Al,’ said MacKenzie.
Phineas Fox stifled a yawn. ‘None of that is terribly original, although much of it, doctor, is open to question. I think you paint rather a romanticised view of life on this neglected island. About one thousand five-hundred people live here. With transients, double it in summertime. Most of them, as you say, are drop-outs. Most of them, as far as I can see, seem to be smoking something illicit. They are poor, idle, and frankly incompetent at bringing up their children. In place of all that, I can offer these people a helping hand. Actually rather more than that. I can offer them prosperity. My business plan reckons on an annual turnover of over one billion dollars.’
‘I think you might find that most of the inhabitants of the island don’t want your help.’
‘On the contrary, they, and their political representatives, will find what I have to offer very hard to refuse.’
‘Don’t you like it here?’
‘I can see I can improve on it.’
‘I beg you to reconsider.’
‘And that’s it? What’s your angle in all this?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If I were to acquiesce to your suggestion, what is your personal gain?’
I shrugged. I spread my empty hands over the table. ‘I have nothing to gain, beyond that which would remain available to any citizen in the country, namely the knowledge that the nation’s heritage has been to some extent protected.’
The humidor had reached the master of the house. Fox took some time over the palaver of getting his cigar going. ‘Dr Cameron-Strange,’ he said between puffs, ‘what is the policy of your hospital with respect to the donation of transplantable organs from so-called “altruistic” donors?’
‘I don’t follow.’
Now the cigar tip was glowing red-hot. Fox nodded briefly to Cadbury in a gesture of dismissal.
‘Kidneys, for example. A healthy adult of sound mind presents to the nephrology out-patient clinic and offers to donate one of his two kidneys. Not for gain. Not for the benefit of a relative or a loved one. Simply for the benefit of mankind.’
I replied circumspectly. ‘I’m not certain, but I believe such proposals are viewed with a degree of scepticism, and nearly always result in a polite refusal.’
‘You are precisely right. I confess I already knew that your hospital has not accepted such a donation for fifteen years. This is the sort of information that is liable to come my way. The hospital came to learn – and it was a bitter lesson – that there is no such thing as altruism. You never get something for nothing. Believe me, there is always a pay-off. All business, all trade – no, I’d even go further than that – all of human intercourse can be looked at in terms of a transaction. You see, I look at you, and all the time I think to myself, “What does he want? What does he want of me? What’s he looking for? What’s in it for him?” Are you all right, my dear? You seem to be creating a lot of pollution.’
MacKenzie was fannying around with her cheroot. ‘You know what JFK said … there’s no smoke without a smoke machine.’
Fox resumed. ‘I confess I am a little like the hospital that has been stung in the past. I feel deeply suspicious of your professed altruism. I think to myself, “This man has a hidden agenda. He may not even know what it is himself.”
‘Another thing worries me, makes me ill at ease in this transaction. I sense that you have not come to the table prepared to ask searching questions of me. This may be because you have been inadequately briefed. Or perhaps you have not done your homework. You should be asking, “What does he want? What’s in it for him?” More specifically, “What card do I hold in my hand that he might conceivably want?”
‘But I see I’m making very heavy weather of a notion that a colleague of yours has captured quite succinctly and, I must say, rather pithily.’ Without taking his eyes off me, Fox put a hand into the top pocket of his dinner jacket, extracted a business card, and tossed it disdainfully across the table, as a bored croupier might flick a playing card at a bad player of chemin de fer. I picked the card up. It read: ‘Dr Ralph Parkinson, Negotiations Pty Ltd. You don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.’
Fox laid his cigar down carefully on a heavy glass ashtray.
‘So. Doctor Cameron-Strange. How do you propose to persuade me to alter my plans? What cards do you hold? Collateral? Expertise? An inventive idea?’ The baleful eyes stared unblinking at me.
Smoking a Romeo y Julieta Churchill is a sensuous experience in three stages. There is the beginning smoke, which is cool and subtly fragrant. There is the middle smoke, mellow and mellifluous; and there is the end smoke, intense, lingering and poignant. I found myself progressing from the first through the second stage. I carefully knocked off the memory of the first stage, and its long cylinder of white ash, into the ash tray. I took a sip of the oak-aged port.
‘Mr Fox, what you have to say is intensely interesting, but I’m not convinced. I dare say altruism is not entirely devoid of self-interest. No doubt individuals may derive benefit from something which is being done for the common good. In cases of greater personal sacrifice, some may derive a sense of satisfaction from the fulfilment of a duty, others may feel that they have responded to the call of the Deity. In the course of my work, I’m convinced that I frequently see examples of selflessness. You may even have seen the same in the political life you aspire to.’
‘Whoops!’ MacKenzie was helping herself to more Taittinger. She had filled her glass too quickly and there was an eruption of bubbles over the edges of the flute.
My sister giggled. ‘Frisky!’
‘Of course, I could come to you armed with arguments, charts, and statistics. But I know you already have all the facts of the case at your fingertips. And in any case, this is not ultimately a matter that can be settled with mathematical equations. Nor is it a matter of sentimentality. Rather it is a question of sentiment. You either feel it, or you do not. There are a number of people who know, love, and inhabit this island you wish to metamorphose. I ask you to sympathise with their point of view or, if you cannot, to understand that they have a point of view, and that sometimes it is worthwhile to do something merely because you are importuned.’
MacKenzie, for reasons best known to herself, broke into a voluble Joni Mitchell impersonation. Something about a yellow cab, and asphalt. The sudden change from high soprano to low contralto dissolved into laughter. The table looked at her askance. It crossed my mind she was getting tight. She glanced round, collected herself, and put on a look of mock contrition. She intoned, ‘And there was silence in heaven, for the space of half an hour … Whoa!’ She clutched the table edge. The champagne and cheroots were finally catching up with her. ‘Balance issues.’
‘And is that all?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, that’s very disappointing. If you don’t mind my saying so, doctor, that is a very loquacious way of saying you have come to the table empty-handed. You ask me to make sacrifices, but I have no sense that you are prepared to embrace risk yourself. You are going to have to do a lot better than that. Doubtless you will regard it as a compliment if I tell you that you exhibit candour, but no guile. But I have to tell you that I find your antiseptic views from above the battle both pitiful and contemptible. Dr Cameron-Strange, you have not chucked your hat into the ring. What is it Roosevelt said? Give me the man who dares to step into the heat and dust of the arena. But what is this you are doing? You inhabit my house, you receive my hospitality, you consume the finest dinner in Christendom tonight, you drink my best wine and smoke my finest cigars, and then you dare to advise me from your lofty position of the flaws in the modus operandi of my business practice.’
MacKenzie announced, ‘I think I’m going to chunder.’
I said cheerfully, ‘I won’t presume to advise you on anything. I was merely asking you to reconsider one specific business initiative. However …’ I laid down my glass and rose to my feet. ‘I can see I have overstayed my welcome.’ I attempted to embrace the group with a broad smile. ‘Gentlemen, and lady, it has been a pleasure. I wish you–’
‘Sit down.’
There was a pause. ‘Mr Fox, I don’t care to be browbeaten.’
‘It would be in your interest, doctor, to sit down.’
We stared across the table at one another. Maybe this conversation had not quite reached its natural conclusion. Maybe there was still a way of salvaging something. I slowly sank back into my chair.
‘Oh God.’ MacKenzie was hyperventilating.
‘But doctor, I see that I have exceeded my brief as your host. You accepted an invitation here in good faith, and I had no right to abuse that faith. I apologise.’ I acknowledged his apology with a brief nod of the head. ‘I feel I must make amends. I see that you have a talent for extracting information from people. It must serve you well in your profession. It’s curious. When I see you seated there, I have an odd compulsion to divulge something to you. Let it be my world view. I fear that in the eyes of the public, of the electorate, my world view must appear somewhat dark. Therefore I would remind you, doctor, that post-prandial table talk is essentially confidential. I have full confidence in your discretion. Then, if you will bear with me, I have a proposition for you.’
I picked the neglected Romeo y Julieta back up from its discarded position on the edge of the ashtray. For a moment I thought the cigar had gone out. I took a moment to resuscitate its glow. I was moving into the rich, dangerous, charged end-smoke. I looked up at Fox and smiled briefly. He continued.
‘As we progress through the third millennium of the Christian era’ – this in a discursive tone – ‘the problems which threaten the survival of the human race are so intractable as to appear virtually incapable of solution. Homo sapiens is essentially a guzzling, lecherous creature whose unfettered proclivities have resulted in an unparallelled population explosion, mainly in the poorer countries of the world. The seven billionth child was born, and has probably died, quite some time ago. Any effective population control is fortuitously and serendipitously provided us by the great scourges of the world – malnutrition, malaria, TB, and the human immunodeficiency virus which is currently threatening to turn the entire African continent into a charnel house. Are you all right, my dear?’
MacKenzie looked dubious. ‘Think so. Dunno.’
‘Against this background, the North-South divide has produced both an untermenschen of staggering dimensions and, if I may put it this way, a country club of ethereal exclusivity.
‘You and I, doctor, happen to belong to the Country Club, although it may be said that, while you are an ordinary member, I sit on the board. We on the board are faced with a problem. Are we to open up membership to the public at large and risk a decline in standards, dress code, access to amenities, and overall quality? Or are we to close the outer gates on our private world and ensure that that which we have built up and perfected is cherished and preserved?
‘My own view is that, in the face of this rather stark dichotomy, there is indeed, to use a quaint expression of a former prime minister of the United Kingdom, a “third way”. By all means open up the membership to all – to all, at least, who are prepared to pay for it. But at the same time, I fear we need to increase our surveillance and security systems at the entrance. No matter what measures we now enact, I fear there is going to be, in the world at large, a cataclysm so vast as to make the upheavals of the century just gone seem like little local difficulties resulting in border skirmishes. Nothing can prevent it, least of all our fragile political institutions. There are simply too many rats in the laboratory. We must protect ourselves in the face of the horrific cannibalism that we are about to witness around us.’
I shook my head. ‘What a load of baloney. You sound like one of these old Boers trying to preserve an outmoded way of life behind electrified fences in Johannesburg.’
‘Not at all. I’m not prejudiced. I don’t believe in apartheid.’
‘Yes you do. You just can’t see it. You believe in an apartheid of wealth. It is the poor that you would exclude.’
‘It’s not me that chooses to exclude the poor. That happens as a result of the forces of nature. Even Jesus – an impossibly sentimental man – recognised that “the poor ye will always have”. I must admit it makes me smile when I hear governments pledge “to reduce world poverty by 50 per cent over five years”. Poverty can be neither reduced nor eradicated because it is a spiritual state. It is ultimately a choice, a way of life which people elect for themselves, and their families. Like the people on Great Barrier Island! They, like you, refuse to face up to the hard fact of life, that it is neither justice, nor altruism, nor good, and most certainly not love, that makes the world go round.’
‘What makes the world go round, Fox?’
‘Spondulix.’
The last mouthful of smoke was acrid and bitter. I stubbed the remnant of the Cuban out on the ashtray and watched the grey smoke of its ashes curl up towards the ceiling. I’d had enough of it.
I said, ‘I think you will find that the music of the spheres is quite indifferent to the vagaries of the stock exchange.’
Fox smiled. ‘Very prettily put, if demented. I see you have resumed your position atop your lofty perch. I fear our different world views are irreconcilable. However, I confess it has been a diversion to talk with you and I will offer you this chance.’
‘Got any Rennies?’ MacKenzie belched softly. ‘Oh, excuse me.’
‘The Great Barrier Island project could be sited elsewhere. It would cause myself and my associates a degree of inconvenience – no more. It would also lose the local community one thousand five-hundred prospective jobs, a corollary to your proposal, doctor, which you would have to accept and live with. But there it is; that’s the package. I am a gambling man and I put it down on the table, as a wager, up for grabs. I understand that you have it in mind to run the forty-eight volcanoes of Auckland in twenty-four hours.’
How the hell did he know that? It occurred to me he’d been chatting to MacKenzie, my sole confidante. He had opened a dossier on me.
‘Now that is an undertaking I wish I’d thought of as part of the Who Dares Wins programme. The ultimate wide game! If you can achieve it, then I will leave the inhabitants of Great Barrier Island to their forlorn lotus-eating pursuits. There is, however, a catch. I will put up a contestant against you. In addition to fulfilling the challenge within twenty-four hours, you must outrun my champion. It’s only fair that you should have sight of the opposition.’ He raised his voice sharply. ‘Herr Kramer!’
Well, it had to be. The tall, slim young man with the fair hair cut short on the bullet-shaped head appeared from nowhere. At least he’d taken off his disgusting uniform. He was formally dressed. Black tie. He took up a position just behind Fox’s right shoulder and came to attention. It may have been my imagination, but I thought he clicked his heels. Fox addressed him briefly in fluent German. The man named Kramer nodded once and diverted the gaze of his blue eyes in my direction. Then he was dismissed.
‘So, doctor. You must outrun my lieutenant. And, if I am to place my GBI project in jeopardy, you must wager something of similar value to yourself.’
After that, Fox’s conversation became progressively less civilised. It was as if he were undergoing his Jekyll and Hyde metamorphosis before our very eyes. He became objectionable. I don’t remember much of it. Just a few soundbites.
‘New Zealand? Waste of space. Land of the long white yawn …
‘Canada? Give it to the Inuit. It’s just a deep freeze that doesn’t store anything … Scotland? Ha! Bunch of drunks with a chip on their shoulder so big it’s surprising there’s anything left over …’
I’d had enough of Phineas Fox. He drained the last of his port, took one last contemplative puff of his cigar, and stubbed it out.
‘That’s the deal, Cameron-Strange. Put up, or shut up.’
‘I wager my viola!’
‘MacKenzie!’ There was real alarm in my voice.
Fox looked impressed. ‘This is of some interest. You make a beautiful sound my dear. Is your viola of some worth? Has it … provenance?’
‘I own a Strad. One of eleven in existence.’
‘Oh, my.’
‘Bloody sight more valuable than a golf resort for a bunch of rich spoiled wankers.’
‘Mac–’
‘Take you on m’self if brother won’t.’
‘Oh, God!’
Fox gazed down the table at my sister, gave her a brief smile, and nodded. ‘I accept the wager.’
Mr Ishimoto who, since the departure of his geisha, had been wrapped in inscrutable silence, suddenly became animated and embraced me with a dazzling smile.
‘Banzai, Dokta Camellon-Stlange, banzai!’
Damn it, MacKenzie. …
I made my excuses and slipped back to the pastel tranquillity of Myrtle, shut the door behind me, leaned back against it, took a deep breath, and then let out a long sigh. It was 2.15am. Abstractedly I ran a hand through my hair. I kicked off my shoes and socks, tossed my tie, jacket, and trousers on to a sedan chair, and wandered upstairs towards the bathroom, grappling with cuff links as I went. I took a long hot shower to dispel the sweat and tension. Then I walked naked back downstairs into my private bar. I found two miniatures of the Macallan and emptied them into a chunky glass and, without adding anything, swallowed a mouthful.
I wondered about MacKenzie’s crazy wager. Of course she knew Fox would not be able to resist it. He was the archetypal conspicuous consumer. The Phoenix.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Probably MacKenzie, come to apologise, or congratulate, or exculpate or, more likely, join me in a single malt. I searched vaguely round for a towel, tied it round my waist, and opened the door.
She was very tall, waif-like, biting a fingernail.
‘Can I come in for a minute?’
Saskia stepped across the threshold. She surveyed the room in one scanning glance and, ignoring the pile of discarded clothes on the sedan, walked across to the plush four-seater sofa. There was a hint of the self-conscious model’s runway gait. She loped with the intent of a leopard. She dropped her bag on the carpet and sank backwards into the pillows of the sofa. She was positioned low so that, her chin sunk into her chest and her long legs splayed on to the floor, she was almost supine.
She sighed. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I agree with you there.’
There was a silence.
I said, ‘I’ll just put something on.’
She smiled slowly. ‘Not on my account.’
I slipped upstairs to the dressing room and found my long white dressing gown. I put it on. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and gave myself a cautionary glance. I went back downstairs.
She hadn’t moved.
The long black hair splayed crazily across the floral patterns of the couch’s upholstery. She glanced at the drink in my hand and then directly into my eyes, so that her long lashes batted, once. ‘Can I have one of these?’
‘Saskia, I don’t know …’
‘Please. This is difficult for me.’
I fixed the drink and brought it over to her. With her long limbs she could reach up and take it without adjusting her pose. I noticed she had long, slim fingers with exquisitely manicured long nails, and no varnish. She was dressed like a hotel receptionist or a secretary. She slipped her arms out of a short navy jacket. She didn’t bother to put the jacket aside and it lay behind her, negligently crushed. She wore a white blouse with sleeves rolled up to just below the elbows. There was the faintest glimpse of a brassiere, black. The skirt was navy and pleated, knee-length, and with her abandoned posture had ridden half way up her thighs. The tights – or were they stockings? – were flesh-coloured, the shoes black, square-toed, rather severe. She sipped the whisky appreciatively. She didn’t wince.
There was only the faintest trace of make-up, light blue on the upper eyelids. She wore no accessories with the exception of a very expensive-looking Cartier wristwatch. I tilted my head to read the time off it.
‘So. What can I do for you?’
She looked puzzled for a second, and then remembered she’d come for a reason.
‘I’ve got a mole.’
‘Saskia. It’s two-thirty in the morning.’
She giggled. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But I saw your light was on. You know how sometimes you get an idea into your head and you can’t sleep. I just need to know it’s not malignant. Reassure me.’
I sighed. ‘Show me.’
Without any preamble and without a trace of self-consciousness she lifted the hem of the pleated navy skirt to reveal the top of her right thigh. They were, after all, stockings, held by suspenders. She pulled the right side of the skimpy black panties up an inch to reveal the inguinal crease.
‘See it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
There was a silence.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s benign.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘It’s a birth mark.’
‘I know, but I think it has changed.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s become raised.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How can you tell without feeling it?’
I stroked the tiny café-au-lait blemish with my right middle finger.
‘Not raised.’
‘No.’
‘Here.’ She took my hand in hers and guided it back towards the birth mark.
‘There. Just stroke it gently.’
She had opened her lips. She was panting slightly. ‘A little further over to the midline … Ah – tender. Be gentle … Would you like me to show you where it is on you?’
I gave a hollow cough. ‘Saskia. I think it’s bedtime.’
She stirred and moved on to her right side. An arm snaked round my neck. ‘I think so too.’
I got up abruptly, stepped to the door, opened it, and turned to her. ‘It’s benign. Goodnight.’
She reached up a long arm languidly into mid-air and looked at me through half-closed lids.
‘I can tell just by looking at you that you’re pleased to see me.’
‘Saskia – out!’
She swooned theatrically, face forward on to the sofa, buried her face in its cushions, and gave a muffled giggle. Then she pushed herself up on to her feet and picked up her jacket. She was wide-eyed and tousled. ‘I’m dying for a pee. Can I use your facility?’
‘Saskia – your own en suite can’t be more than a minute away – even in this … this Xanadu.’
‘Sometimes I think I’m diabetic. They pee all the time, don’t they?’
She loped over to me with her jacket swung negligently behind her shoulder.
‘They say you can smell a sweetness on their breath.’ She flung an arm round my neck. ‘Is mine sweet?’ She pulled my face towards hers. I disengaged myself.
‘Goodnight, Saskia.’
She was completely unfazed by the rebuff.
‘Goodnight, handsome.’
I watched her saunter along the corridor. She turned at the stair head and gave me an imperceptible girlish wave, a brief flutter of the fingers. Then she floated out of sight. I went back into Myrtle and closed the door behind me. Her half-finished drink sat in its glass on the carpet by the sofa. I picked it up in a hand that was trembling and drank it down in one gulp. Then I went back into the bathroom and turned the shower back on.