Big fish, p.11
Big Fish, page 11
Altmeyer shook his head. "We don't need him. About half a mile from here is Berlaymont, which is the headquarters of the European Economic Community. Brussels is full of diplomats and trade delegations and foreign businessmen. It shouldn't be too hard to find somebody who can read five or six lines of Japanese."
"Okay," said Rachel. "I'm finished." She pushed the paper and the card across the table to him.
Altmeyer compared the paper and the card. "Good. We've got less than two hours to take care of this. Give me any leftover Japanese yen you have."
Altmeyer walked into the Banque Commercial Shikoku and scanned the faces of the employees in the tellers' windows. They were all Belgians. He moved across the polished marble floor toward the cubicles where the managers and accountants worked, and noticed a few Japanese faces. He stopped at a counter bristling with pens on gold chains, and counted his stack of Japanese bills. Finally one of the Japanese faces appeared at a teller's window. It was a young man with the look of a trainee. He was dressed a little better than the older men, with a crisp white collar and a dark blue suit that looked as though he'd had it tailored in a shop he couldn't afford.
Altmeyer stepped quickly to the window and said, ''Je voudrais echanger ces yen Japonnais, s'il vous plait."
"Certainement," said the young man. As he consulted a computer terminal for the exchange rate, Altmeyer congratulated himself. The man's accent was so thick that it was possible he would mistake Altmeyer for a Belgian.
The young man counted the bills, then counted out a pile of Belgian francs beside it, smiled, and gave a perfunctory nod to indicate that the transaction was completed.
Altmeyer picked up the Belgian money and began to put it into his wallet, leaning away as though to start toward the door, but then looked back. ''Monsieur," he said. ''Ily a une autre chose. Peut-etre, parceque vous etes un Japonnais — " He knitted his brows apologetically.
The young man leaned forward, eager to help. "Oui?"
"Si vous pouvez a lire ce papier pour moi —" He pulled out the sheet that Rachel had copied at the cafe, and studied the young man as he scrutinized it.
The young man's smile seemed to grow. "Ce n'est qu'un fournisseur d'equipement electronique."
"Et le nomme?"
"Cest 'Ashita.' C'est a dire 'demain.' "
"Merci," said Altmeyer, and moved from the window to make way for a lady who had been waiting. As he left the bank, he wondered. The young man had said, fournisseur, or dealer, not manufacturer. Did the distinction matter to him, or was it only lost in the confusion of languages?
Altmeyer glanced at his watch. It had taken only five minutes. As he walked on, he saw Bucky and Rachel coming down the street toward him. They were easy to pick out at a distance. Bucky's chubby body moved from side to side as the thick, short legs pumped along with the feet pointed outward a little. Rachel, an inch or two taller, seemed to stride along without effort, her head up and her steps steady and even. It was as though they were moving at different speeds. Altmeyer held up his hand, and they stopped to wait for him.
"Did you get us the American money for Mazarin?" asked Altmeyer.
"Of course," Rachel said. "They don't call him Buck-meister Carmichael in these parts for nothing. How did you do?"
Altmeyer started to walk. "We're ahead of schedule. We can see the inside of the church if we get there soon enough."
Bucky asked Rachel, "Is he being mysterious, or is it bad news?"
Altmeyer answered, "I don't know much, but what I know
sounds terrible. The deadbeats worked for a Japanese electronics company called 'Ashita.' At least they were carrying paper that said they did."
They were all silent for a dozen paces. When they came around the corner Bucky said quietly, "It fits, doesn't it? What government in the world is least likely to want an atomic bomb? Japan. So that leaves the field completely open for private enterprise, with no unfair competition. The technology is about forty years old. I suppose a company that makes electronic stuff now must be up to that. I just wonder what they plan to do with it."
Altmeyer shrugged. "What does anybody else do with them? Scare the shit out of people."
"Altmeyer," said Rachel. 'T think it's time for you to formulate a plan."
"A plan? A plan for what?"
Bucky answered. "We're wasting our time screwing around here in this outdoor museum. We have to assume that a big electronics company is capable of making a bomb. We can't let them do that, so we'll need a plan."
Altmeyer snorted. "What the hell are you talking about? Bucky, this isn't your field."
"No, but it's your field, and I'll do what I have to, if you'll figure out what that is. Suppose we did something to the head man—Mr. Ashita himself?"
"Ashita isn't somebody's name. It means 'tomorrow' in Japanese."
They walked on, Altmeyer a half pace ahead, weaving at times to make way for other people approaching on the old, narrow sidewalk. Then Altmeyer stepped off the curb and waved his hand at a gray stone structure before them. "There it is, Notre Dame du Sablon. At least take a look at it while you're here." He threaded his way through a straggling queue of old men and women moving across the front of the church and speaking to one another in German, then sat down on the church steps.
Rachel followed and stood two steps below him, while Bucky stepped back and stared up at the facade.
"Have a seat," said Altmeyer.
Rachel shook her head. "We did a terrible thing, Altmeyer."
"It's by no means the first." He looked past her at the last of the German tourists, a plump lady wearing sandals that flapped against her heels when she lifted her feet.
"But this time—" she began, leaning toward him a little. Suddenly she was aware of someone standing beside her. She turned, and there was a tall, thin man with a bald head and a moustache. He nodded at her, a gesture that he carried out with a punctilious politeness, as though he were tipping his hat.
"On time," said Altmeyer. "Rachel, this is the gentleman I mentioned before, Paul Mazarin."
Mazarin turned to Rachel again and repeated his nod without changing the expression on his face. Then he said, "We can go through the church. The car is one street over."
Altmeyer stood up and beckoned to Bucky, who began to walk toward them. Mazarin studied Bucky for a moment, and said, "You're right. He is the Manneken-Pis."
They entered the dark, cool enclosure inside the door of the old church, and Rachel thought of the time her sixth-grade teacher had taken the class into the basement of the school to see the boiler room. They passed into the sanctuary, and her impression changed to space and light and impossibly high vaulted ceilings. Then they were in an alcove, and she passed rows of stone plaques she had no time to decipher, and in a few steps they were out in the sunshine again.
A brown Peugeot was just pulling up at the curb when they reached the sidewalk. The meeting was so smoothly executed that it looked to Rachel like a coincidence. The man at the wheel didn't appear to have looked in their direction, but then Paul Mazarin was opening the door for her, and immediately the car was moving again.
Mazarin leaned his shoulder against the seat to look at
them as he spoke. 'I've decided not to take you to my flat in the city. It's too small for all of us, and a day or two in the country might be pleasant. I'm sorry Van Leuven, here, speaks only Flemish, but he'll take care of you."
Altmeyer said nothing.
Mazarin went on. "That is, if there's nothing about this Japanese business that you want to take care of while you're here."
"What gave you that idea?" said Rachel.
"The tags on your luggage," said Mazarin. "How unlike you not to think of that when you were checking your bags, Altmeyer. I took them off for you." He turned again to look out the windshield.
Rachel whispered in Altmeyer's ear. "There weren't any airport names on the tags, just numbers."
Altmeyer whispered, still lower. "They found something in the bags."
"They searched our things? Why?"
"It's business. He knows I'd have done the same."
They drove into the Brabant countryside, at first across green farmland, then almost immediately into a deep forest with tall, ancient trees. In the forest they passed several small inns, then a building that looked like a French chateau. Mazarin turned again and addressed Rachel. "This is the Bois de la Cambre."
"It's beautiful," she said. "Is this where we'll stay?"
Mazarin laughed. "It's not a good idea. Some of the best restaurants in the country are on this road, and the finest hotels. It's just the sort of place to look for Altmeyer."
Rachel smiled, but the muscles of her face felt stiff and tight.
It was night when Van Leuven turned off the highway and made his way up a rutted dirt road to an old fieldstone farmhouse. In the beam of the headlights Rachel could see that the
last vehicle to come up the muddy road must have been a heavy truck with four wheels on its rear axle.
"Is this it?" asked Altmeyer.
Mazarin stretched his arms and yawned as the car stopped. "This is it. I'll help you get settled before I start back to the city."
They climbed out of the car and Van Leuven left the headlights on to light their way up the cobbled path to the stone slab steps of the farmhouse. When Rachel turned to watch him coming up the walk carrying two of the suitcases, he was caught for a moment in the glare of the light, and she could see the shape of a pistol under the fabric of his jacket.
The floors of the farmhouse were gleaming unfinished wood that someone must have scrubbed on her hands and knees with a brush every day for a lifetime. No, she thought, several generations of women must have done it in succession. Rachel tried to sense something about the women who had lived there, but nothing came. The place was male and empty now, like a barracks. Footsteps echoed from the plaster and whitewash and seemed to form little bubbles of sound in the corners of the rooms.
Van Leuven carried the suitcases through a large common room with a fireplace and a ten-foot-long rough wooden trestle table, and into one of four Uttle bedrooms. When Rachel saw the bedroom, she felt better. There was a wooden bed with a high headboard and slats along the sides that made it look like a cradle. The bed was covered with a thick down quilt with an embroidered rose in the center.
Rachel followed him out to the large room again, and saw Altmeyer and Mazarin sitting at the long table. "Very cozy," she said. "I'd like to clean up and go to bed, so please tell me there's plumbing."
"There are two bathrooms," said Mazarin. "That one is the better of the two, because I had it installed myself." He pointed to a door next to the bedroom. Rachel smiled politely and disappeared.
Altmeyer reached into his coat and took out a sheaf of money, and tossed it onto the table between him and Mazarin.
The long, thin hand slowly moved to scoop it up, then gave it a single shake as though Mazarin were judging its weight. Then he slipped it into his pocket. "Have you decided to tell me what you want?"
"No more than I told you," said Altmeyer. He stopped to light a cigarette, then looked back at Mazarin. "I want to be invisible for a few days. This place will do."
"You hardly need me for that. You've done it without help before. What does your Japanese business have to do with me?"
Altmeyer blew a puff of smoke into the air and watched it float toward the fireplace. "Fm not sure how serious these people are about finding me. They have the resources, and they might think it's worth the trouble."
"I haven't seen you in years."
Altmeyer studied him. "I've lost touch with the market in this part of the world, let a lot of my contacts slip."
Mazarin's head turned slightly to the side, as though he were having difficulty hearing. "You want to do business."
Altmeyer shook his head. "You work Africa and the Middle East. You might have heard something, that's all. I came to you for gossip."
"About you? Nothing yet."
Altmeyer said, "That's good. Keep listening. But I wondered about the market. Fd be especially interested in somebody new, probably dealing in premium handguns, things like Browning nine-millimeter automatics. And maybe promising bigger stuff."
"There are always new people. You know that. They make two shipments and maybe they lose their nerve, maybe they die. Maybe," he added with a trace of a smile, "they sell something to the wrong person and have to drop out of sight. There's always a brisk trade in name-brand small arms, but
there are still only a few people who can deal in volume. You know who they are as well as I do. Nothing changes."
Altmeyer sighed. "Nothing changes. You haven't heard of anybody with anything exotic to offer?"
"Now and then things become available. A year ago there was an Algerian in Paris who had nerve gas—I don't know how much. This year it's land mines and rocket launchers, all Russian, but nobody knows where they came from. If I were to guess, I'd say they crossed the Adriatic from Yugoslavia to Italy. Other people say they came out of Lebanon."
Altmeyer laughed. "No American tanks this year? No nuclear weapons?"
Mazarin gave him a sly glance. "For a modest commission I can get you a German Leopard tank." Then he added, "But you'd have to transport it yourself. No nuclear weapons. If you should ever get one, of course, I can find you a buyer. The Libyans were making incredible offers for months, and then gave up. There simply aren't any, and probably never will be. A group of very wealthy South Africans have been making discreet inquiries for five years. There are lots of buyers, but they might as well ask for pieces of the moon."
"I don't suppose any of these people stopped asking because they found what they wanted?"
Mazarin chuckled. "I haven't heard an explosion, have you?"
"Not yet," said Altmeyer. "Some day the price will be high enough. That much doesn't change."
Mazarin glanced at his watch and frowned. "I'm sorry, Altmeyer, but it's time for me to return to the city. I'll be back in two days to take you to Rotterdam. In the meantime, rest and enjoy yourself. Go out in the pasture tomorrow and watch Van Leuven talk to the cows."
"By the way," said Altmeyer, "this afternoon you offered to sell me some guns. Did you bring them?"
Mazarin was already moving toward the door. "Oh, we don't need guns here." He stopped and looked down at Alt-
meyer, his face contorted with suppressed amusement. "Always so careful, Altmeyer. You'll evade your enemies so long you'll get bored one day and shoot yourself."
Rachel awoke to the roar of an airplane passing over. She waited for the sound to move off, and when it did she could hear the distant sound of the cows lowing. She sat up in the deep, soft bed, and carefully arranged the covers around Altmeyer before she stepped to the floor and went to pull a comer of the curtain aside to peer out at the pasture.
She pushed the curtain aside a few inches, but behind it was only the plain whitewashed wall. She lifted the curtain and saw that the window was only a single pane of glass a foot above her head. A cow gave another moo, and Rachel began to dress. She quickly pulled on a blue Dodgers sweat shirt and a pair of blue jeans, then slipped out into the large central room, carrying her comfortable shoes. As she pushed the door closed, she heard Bucky say, "Good morning."
"Hi there. Farmer Bucky," she said. He was sitting alone at the big table with a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. She moved to the table and pulled out a chair. "You're up pretty early for a tycoon."
"I prefer to think of myself as a macherT he said. "A catalyst and deal-maker, not merely a crass acquirer, and that means getting up earlier than the competition."
"You mean you couldn't sleep."
"First it was birds. That was before sunup. Later it was cows. I've got a window in my room you couldn't throw a football through, and it must be seven feet up. I couldn't see, but I'm sure every cow in Europe must have passed by under that window."
Rachel looked around her. "There's no telling how old this building is, and when they built it they probably didn't want to lose a lot of heat. I heard cows, too, and tried to look outside." She looked at Bucky's plate. "Did Van Leuven make you breakfast?"
"Not exactly. He's a pointer. When I got up, he pointed at the eggs and pointed at the skillet. I'll share these with you and we can make some more when Altmeyer gets up."
"It's a deal," said Rachel, scraping some of Bucky's scrambled eggs onto an empty plate. "Where is he now?"
"Out with the cows." Bucky glanced at his watch. "He's been out there in the pasture milking for about four hours."
"Can't be," said Rachel, and started to eat.
"What do you mean? The guy is a master of pantomime. If there were a market in Hollywood for milking invisible cows, I could make him a rich man."
Rachel grinned. "Obviously none of your clients are cows. You don't milk them in the pasture. If he herded them past your window he was finished milking. That you do in the barn. He was trying to tell you where he'd been, not where he was going."
"What do you do in the barn?" Altmeyer was standing at the bedroom door, already dressed.
"Milk cows," said Rachel. "I wanted to know where Van Leuven was."
"Oh. Any more eggs?"
Bucky stood up and moved toward the kitchen. "More eggs are on the way. It's okay. I'm used to doing all the work and getting ten percent of the proceeds."
A few minutes later Bucky returned, carrying two more plates. Rachel kept her eyes on Altmeyer, her chin resting on her hands.
Altmeyer stared at his plate as though he weren't aware that the others were both watching him now. Then he said abruptly, "Don't start up. I still don't know what we can do except stay invisible until they lose interest."
Rachel stood up. "I'm going out to walk around a httle. I feel as though I've never lived anywhere but hotels, and this place is built like a prison."
"Mind if I join you?" asked Bucky.
"Come on, old Buckaroo. I'll tell you about cows."
They all walked through the kitchen, stopping to leave
