the connection. Exasperated. Dog tired. “Do you want me to get you copies, Grace? Do you?”
“I would appreciate it.”
“Fine,” Jaworski said. She was listening to electric silence a split second later.
Three
Trick Or Treat
Clarion Key, a thousand miles from the nearest bit of American soil, save Puerto Rico, had been owned by the Spanish, the British, and long before that by a succession of pirate invaders who fought one another for control of the sliver of Caribbean land. Cuba had laid claim to it at one time, as had the Dominican Republic, but the truth be told it belonged to no government. Its status was unclear.
That pleased many people.
One of them stood at the end of the tiny island’s only airstrip looking west toward the lightening sky. The sun had risen behind him. It warmed his back through the thin shirt that hung upon him like a rag. His shorts were loose and long. His hair was gray. He looked the part of a wayfarer.
One would not likely guess he was worth two billion dollars, U.S.
Of course his wealth was not kept at Chase Manhattan, nor any other institution where the prying eyes of some legally entitled functionary might locate it. Survey it. Seize it. No, that which made him rich was more transitory in nature. He had access to houses, fabulous estates and villas from Rio to Monaco, flats in London and Lisbon, a cottage in the Swiss Alps and a ranch in Zimbabwe. He could pick up a phone and have a jet waiting at any airport in the world in an hour, if that were his wish. Said jet could take him to a yacht, moored in Hong Kong, if he suddenly fancied yachting from Hong Kong. None of these things were ‘his’, in the legal sense of the word, of course, but that did not matter. The truth be told, he did not need money in the traditional sense. If he required cash, for cigarettes in Paris or a bag of qat in Yemen, it would come. Money truly only ‘existed’ for him if he had a few francs in his pocket, or a lira left by accident in one of the many cars that were at his disposal. He did not need money on him, with him, attached to him in any way. He only needed it to pass through him. He only needed people to need him. And in that lay his value. Middle man. He had become filthy rich doing so.
And was about to become just that much richer, he knew, spotting the glint of light low in the west.
The glint paralleled the long north-south axis of Clarion Key for a minute, then seemed to stop moving. But it wasn’t. It was growing larger, coming at the man now. Soon he could hear the fine whine of two engines perfectly tuned.
“It’s here,” the man said over his shoulder in flawless Russian. He could have said it in French or English or three other languages. But the fat man sweating in a chair beneath the shade of three date trees would not have understood him. “Get your fat ass up and have a look. It’s a new plane.” He looked back out to sea and muttered in his native French: “The lucky bastard has more planes than me.”
The hurricane that had skirted the area only days before was long gone, spinning moisture now up the American east coast and into Canada, leaving a tufts of white cloud high in the blue, blue sky. The twin engine Beech came out of it like a seabird, graceful and quick, skimming the paved but worn runway for nearly half its length before its gear dropped and it touched down with three small puffs of smoke.
Yves Costain laughed at the display of bravado and clapped his hands mightily as the Beech taxied toward him. The fat Russian waddled up behind, a pint bottle of rum held low against his leg. It was half full, the optimistic slob knew.
“He is marvelous,” Costain said to the Russian, who nodded and took a sip of rum. “Magnificent.”
The Beech slowed pointing right at Costain and the Russian, and swung hard right just in front of them, leaving its left side to them. Costain waved to the pilot. Mills DeVane waved back through the cockpit’s side
“I would appreciate it.”
“Fine,” Jaworski said. She was listening to electric silence a split second later.
Three
Trick Or Treat
Clarion Key, a thousand miles from the nearest bit of American soil, save Puerto Rico, had been owned by the Spanish, the British, and long before that by a succession of pirate invaders who fought one another for control of the sliver of Caribbean land. Cuba had laid claim to it at one time, as had the Dominican Republic, but the truth be told it belonged to no government. Its status was unclear.
That pleased many people.
One of them stood at the end of the tiny island’s only airstrip looking west toward the lightening sky. The sun had risen behind him. It warmed his back through the thin shirt that hung upon him like a rag. His shorts were loose and long. His hair was gray. He looked the part of a wayfarer.
One would not likely guess he was worth two billion dollars, U.S.
Of course his wealth was not kept at Chase Manhattan, nor any other institution where the prying eyes of some legally entitled functionary might locate it. Survey it. Seize it. No, that which made him rich was more transitory in nature. He had access to houses, fabulous estates and villas from Rio to Monaco, flats in London and Lisbon, a cottage in the Swiss Alps and a ranch in Zimbabwe. He could pick up a phone and have a jet waiting at any airport in the world in an hour, if that were his wish. Said jet could take him to a yacht, moored in Hong Kong, if he suddenly fancied yachting from Hong Kong. None of these things were ‘his’, in the legal sense of the word, of course, but that did not matter. The truth be told, he did not need money in the traditional sense. If he required cash, for cigarettes in Paris or a bag of qat in Yemen, it would come. Money truly only ‘existed’ for him if he had a few francs in his pocket, or a lira left by accident in one of the many cars that were at his disposal. He did not need money on him, with him, attached to him in any way. He only needed it to pass through him. He only needed people to need him. And in that lay his value. Middle man. He had become filthy rich doing so.
And was about to become just that much richer, he knew, spotting the glint of light low in the west.
The glint paralleled the long north-south axis of Clarion Key for a minute, then seemed to stop moving. But it wasn’t. It was growing larger, coming at the man now. Soon he could hear the fine whine of two engines perfectly tuned.
“It’s here,” the man said over his shoulder in flawless Russian. He could have said it in French or English or three other languages. But the fat man sweating in a chair beneath the shade of three date trees would not have understood him. “Get your fat ass up and have a look. It’s a new plane.” He looked back out to sea and muttered in his native French: “The lucky bastard has more planes than me.”
The hurricane that had skirted the area only days before was long gone, spinning moisture now up the American east coast and into Canada, leaving a tufts of white cloud high in the blue, blue sky. The twin engine Beech came out of it like a seabird, graceful and quick, skimming the paved but worn runway for nearly half its length before its gear dropped and it touched down with three small puffs of smoke.
Yves Costain laughed at the display of bravado and clapped his hands mightily as the Beech taxied toward him. The fat Russian waddled up behind, a pint bottle of rum held low against his leg. It was half full, the optimistic slob knew.
“He is marvelous,” Costain said to the Russian, who nodded and took a sip of rum. “Magnificent.”
The Beech slowed pointing right at Costain and the Russian, and swung hard right just in front of them, leaving its left side to them. Costain waved to the pilot. Mills DeVane waved back through the cockpit’s side
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