Elias Khoury didn’t actually dislike Hermann Straussmann. They had done business successfully together too often for that. And Straussmann’s jovial exterior was not altogether unpleasant. But lurking below the surface was something sinister, cobralike, that aroused in Khoury a sense of extreme caution. With a cobra, the snake charmer weaves and bobs to hypnotize the snake, to lull the dangerous serpent into a mood of placid serenity. The danger is that the mood can be easily broken if the movement of the charmer is interrupted, and the snake can suddenly strike.
With Straussmann, Khoury always felt it necessary to remain fluid, to keep his back to the wall, to conduct their meetings in public places. On one level Khoury didn’t really think Straussmann would ever cross him or do him harm. It would be bad business. Yet, instinctively, he knew Straussmann would remorselessly snuff him out if there ever was any advantage in it. True, Straussmann was not as young as he once had been, but there are certain poisons that become more lethal with age.
As was customary, Khoury had written to Straussman in care of a post-office box in Zurich. Five days later the reply, stamped in Luxembourg and enclosed in an envelope with no return address, had come back advising Khoury of the meeting arrangements. By mutual consent, the meeting was always in one of the large classical European cafés such as the Kempinski in Berlin, the Sacher in Vienna, or Fouquet’s in Paris. This time the note said, “1330 Thursday. The Ritz.”
London. And by previous understanding, two days and one hour earlier than stated. Tuesday at 1230.
Khoury had not seen Straussmann’s passport, but he assumed the German never traveled under his real name. Although the statute of limitations had expired for crimes committed during World War II, a man like Straussmann undoubtedly had many enemies, people who would pay well for a tip-off to his whereabouts. Straussmann’s caution was understandable.
The Ritz was one of the few major hotels in the world that did not have a large sign outside advertising its name and being. Its imposing stone exterior gave the impression of a private club or perhaps some special unmarked government office. It was assumed that those who count knew where and what the Ritz was and to whom it catered. Over the decades its guests had included European royalty, international movie stars, American millionaires, and Arab oil sheikhs. Recent years, however, had not been kind. More modem and flashier hotels had been built. The elegant large rooms with polished brass beds and pool-size bathtubs in spacious bathrooms were no longer profitable in the modern hotel market. The imposing old building had become increasingly expensive to maintain and heat. Tastes changed and so had loyalties. Old money had been overtaken by the nouveau riche, with emphasis on the newest and most modern. Yet, like dethroned royalty, the Ritz lingered on in regal dignity, a relic of past glories.
The one link between its flourishing past and the present was its dining room. The Restaurant Louis XIV still boasted one of the city’s most qualified chefs, a Frenchman, of course. The wine list was widely regarded as one of the most sophisticated in Great Britain, with a selection ranging from Château Guraud-Larose ’62 to Richebourg ’64. The service remained definitely old-world.
It was immediately obvious to Khoury that Straussmann’s care and feeding of his stomach had not been neglected. He had not seen Straussmann in nearly twenty-eight months, but in that time the German had added ten to fifteen pounds, mostly, it seemed, around the waist.
“Elias, how are you?” boomed the big German as he strode across the once luxurious lobby. He was immaculately dressed in a heavy British pin-striped wool suit, double-breasted, and carefully tailored. Business must be good.
“Ca va, Hermann? How have you been keeping?” Khoury patted his stomach. “Not too badly, I see.”
“Ha, Elias, the food is always, how do you say, too good to refuse.” Straussmann laughed heartily. His English was basically fluent, but he had never lost the heavy accent so distinctive of many Germans.
They walked into the mirrored gold-leaf dining room, where the formally clad maître d’ smartly escorted them to a table overlooking Green Park. An attentive junior waiter immediately poured water into crystal goblets as the headwaiter handed them expensive printed menus.
Straussmann ordered for both of them. As they began working through a consommé madrilène, Straussmann dropped the small talk. “So, Elias, what shall it be this time? A few helicopters? A small howitzer or two perhaps? Or even a used U-boat?” He laughed again at his joke.
“Unfortunately, Hermann, nothing so spectacular. Just 9-mm Sterlings, L34Als. We need sixty, with fifty magazines for each weapon. We also need one hundred hand grenades. American-made, if you have them.”
“Sounds like a big hit somewhere, eh, Elias?”
Khoury did not answer. He had no intention of giving Straussmann even the slightest hint as to the weapons’ ultimate destination. It was possible Straussmann could figure out or find out for himself, but Khoury wasn’t going to help. The grilled sole arrived. Khoury lifted a bite-sized sample to his mouth. It was delicious. He could not resist a satisfied “Hmmmm.”
“You like this fish, eh, Elias? I tell you. The fish we used to catch in Yugoslavia. Wunderbar. We had no butter in those days, but fresh out of the stream, cooked in a flat pan, Elias, that was eating. How do you say in English, that was the good old days.”
Khoury, chewing on a bite, nodded. The good old days. Playing God. Slaughtering Yugoslav civilians and Jews. Must have been a thousand laughs.
“Yes, Elias, I can get your Sterlings for you. As always. The current price for reconditioned Sterlings is one hundred and twenty dollars each.
“Reconditioned” was a polite trade phrase for “used.” At least they were cheap enough.
“The magazines will be fifteen dollars each. And at a discount price for an old customer, thirty-five dollars each for the hand grenades. American-made, of course.”
“The magazine price is too high, Hermann.”
“Achh. Come on, Elias. It is only money.”
“The last time I bought, they were only ten dollars each. And we had several bad ones.”
“You never complained about that before.”
“It was too late. What were we to do? Stop the action and demand our money back?”
“Okay, for you, a special discount, fourteen dollars each for such a large order.” Straussmann’s eyes hardened. He didn’t like being bargained down, particularly on such a small deal. “Cash in advance, Elias.”
It was time for a soothing movement. “As always. Hermann. Forty-eight hours before delivery.”
“And the delivery place?”
“Antwerp. The crates should be labeled ‘machine parts.’ ”
“That vill be no problem. Delivery in ten days.”
“Agreed. Payment in the usual manner, I assume?” Deposited into a numbered Swiss bank account.
“Natürlich.”
A waiter brought them strawberry tarts and poured one of the house specialties, a Chateau Coutet ’66.
“So, Elias, I drink to your health. And your good business sense. It is always a pleasure.”
“Here’s to you, Hermann.”
Khoury sipped the light wine and glanced across the table at Straussmann, who winked cheerily at him and drank deeply. His alcoholic flush was becoming more pronounced. Damn, thought Khoury. I should have driven him down on the price of the Sterlings. At least he’s paying for lunch.
Khoury watched the German disappear in the backseat of a black Austin Taxi that wove its way steadily through the traffic down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park Corner. The deal was sewn up. He had the rest of the afternoon before catching the evening flight back to Nice. Time for perhaps a bit more business.
He strolled through Mayfair past the fashionable shops, seeking one he had previously visited some years before. It belonged to a map dealer he had hired to handle research for his cousin’s treasure dive in the Caribbean. A pleasant old man with a sharp eye for a profit. The brief note had asked Khoury to come around when convenient to discuss a potentially interesting situation. It was not the kind of note Khoury was in a position to ignore. He finally found the street and immediately recognized the distinctive Tudor-style storefront, although he had not seen it in years. It appeared to be virtually the same. The same white paint and black beams and Old English script lettering on the sign. Same old junk in the windows. Who in the world bought such stuff?
A bell jangled as he walked through the door. In the back of the shop he saw J. Alfred Thompson look up at him, peering quizzically through the wire-rim frames. Although it had been several years. Thompson recognized his visitor immediately. Khoury had come just about when he thought he would. He was a bit plumper, a double chin was spreading out under his already round face, but he had not changed that much.
“Elias, come in.”
“Hello, Alfred. You have a good memory.”
Thompson remembered Khoury well. He had paid generously for the research in Seville. That in itself was enough. But there was also something else. He had not forgotten that Khoury spoke English, French, Arabic, some obscure African dialect, and, of course, Greek. It was unusual to find someone fluent in so many languages.
“Have a cup of tea, my friend,” Thompson said. “It’s been a quiet afternoon. This isn’t the antique season. People are still licking their Christmas wounds, and the tourists aren’t here yet.”
Khoury regarded the English as almost Oriental in their affinity for tea. While not as ritualistic as the Japanese, they were nevertheless every bit as serious about a cuppa.
“Thank you, Alfred,” said Khoury, accepting a steaming cup and a biscuit.
“Elias,” said Thompson, draining his own tea, “you are probably wondering why I asked you to come by. Would you be interested in a new and potentially very profitable business venture?” He pulled out his tobacco pouch and papers and began rolling a cigarette.
Khoury hesitated. He did not wish to appear too eager. It was never wise. “I am always ready to consider a good venture, Alfred. What do you have in mind?” He spoke as if he were merely trying to be polite.
“A treasure hunt.”
“Another Caribbean dive?”‘
“Not exactly. I am talking about a hunt for buried treasure.”
“Pirate stuff?”
“More modern.”
Khoury stared at a blue-and-white Ming vase. “Why me?” he said, scratching his inky sideburns. He hoped he looked distracted.
“Several reasons.” Thompson was not fooled. He sensed he had piqued Khoury’s interest. He pulled out a small box of wooden matches and lit his newly rolled cigarette. “I should go myself. But I’m too old. My legs are ailing with arthritis, among other things. Someone’s got to go for me. I also need a bit of capital to put into the hunt. As you know, the Inland Revenue chaps take a punitive bite out of what we British earn. As a result it’s tough to keep this place open, much less accumulate any capital. There is another important reason. You speak Greek. Another cuppa tea?”
Khoury stirred in his chair and handed over the bone china for a refill. “What kind of treasure is this, Alfred?”
“Gold. Bullion and coins. From what I can tell at this point, about a million pounds’ worth. Maybe more, maybe just a fraction less. But certainly well worth going after. If you’re interested.”
“That much money is always of interest,” Khoury said, struggling to keep his voice at flat as possible. “Just where is the gold?”
“In northern Greece. Left behind by the British Army in World War II.”
“How do you know where it is and what it is?”
“I’ll explain later. But first, I need to know if you’ll accept my terms. I will need a cash investment and at least a month of your life. You will not have to go to Greece alone. An old friend of mine will be with you. He can provide the muscle. He is an American, seasoned, reliable, and nobody’s fool. The project is too complicated to be handled by one man. Getting the gold out of the ground and out of Greece will he difficult. I am thinking in terms of a three-way split.”
“How much investment?”
“I should think five thousand pounds sterling would be more than enough. That would cover basic travel costs, the purchase of tools and a vehicle, and miscellaneous expenses we can’t foresee at this point.”
It was not Elias Khoury’s kind of project. Normally, he expected others to do the heavy, dirty work for him. But this was obviously different. A million pounds cut three ways, even in these inflationary times, was still a lot of money. Khoury leaned back in his chair and looked at Thompson. He saw a much older man, probably in his middle sixties. What was left of his hair was gray, but his permanently sad eyes, framed by the wire-rim spectacles, sparkled when he was excited, as he was now. It was basically a crafty face, but also the face of a pragmatic man.
“I’m in the middle of a deal that will take ten days to two weeks to clear up,” Khoury said. “Once it is settled, I might be able to give you a month. The investment money is no problem. But there is one obvious condition. I must be convinced the deal is worth the risk, that it’s on the level, before I consider it. I don’t have time or money for a flutter.”
“That is understandable. I have no doubt you will be convinced and enthusiastic once you have been briefed.”
Thompson didn’t say so, but there was another reason for having both Ritter and Khoury on the hunt. Not only would the two men complement each other and make a good team, but it was plainly in Thompson’s interest that the two keep an eye on each other.