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Raven's plane, lazily circled
Lisbon airport, like a bird of prey searching for an
opening. He was the only passenger on Anglo-Iranian's
Corporation's Constellation. He looked at his watch.
3 PM. It was nearly half-hour since the pilot had announced,
in his emotionless drawl that there was a "bit of a
fog problem." Why did the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company
need pilots who sounded like a Texan cowhands, Raven
wondered. He observed at the ghostly line of moth- balled
tankers that stretched to the horizon. He knew that
every day that the Iranian crisis continued, there would
be more empty oil tankers. But that was not the reason
he had come to Portugal.
He pressed the intercom, "Scott, how much longer?
I have an urgent appointment in less than an hour in
downtown Lisbon."
"They are a little slow in this part of the world. It
shouldn't be long now, Sir. Just a few more minutes,"
Scott, the pilot, chatted back, effectively telling his
sole passenger to hold his horses.
Raven clicked off the intercom. The cabin was fully insulated,
with carpeting, soundproof wall panels, and suede furniture.
He opened up the thin briefcase that he had carried with
him from Washington. Inside it, were the draft of the
incorporation paper for the Luxembourg corporation he
was setting up and the surreptitiously-taken photographs
that Tracy had given him. The photographs were for a very
specific mission: making sure that Christina Winchester
kept her mouth shut about Ajax. "Foxx told that girl too
much. You'd better use your charms on her," Tracy had
instructed him. What Tracy had not known was that Raven
had entertained his own fantasy about her. These pictures
added incendiary fuel to the fire in him. He saw her naked,
offering her body, for a spoonful of caviar or, in another
photo, a spoonful of creme brulee. He saw her begging
Foxx, like a puppy, on her hand and his knees, to feed
her. With each picture he dwelt on, he grew more envious
of Foxx, and more desirous of Christina.
The lewd photographs were not the only gift he had
gotten from the CIA. There was also the pink "Yes Buttons."
Back in November, the overly-ambitious head of the CIA's
Technical Services Division had provided the resourceful
British Secret Service's liaison in Washington with
a small sample of this research. The experimental product,
a mixture of Seconal, Dexedrine and marijuana extract
had been developed in the CIA's super-secret Artichoke
project a search for the holy grail of espionage, mind
control. When ingested, these pills were supposed to
make a person yield to suggestions that he (or she)
would normally resist. Since the pills were tasteless
when dissolved in champagne, the CIA had carried out
some experiment on unwitting subjects. Some had yielded
to blatantly immoral requests. Hence, the nickname "Yes
Buttons." The CIA man had wanted the British Secret
Service to discretely test these "Yes buttons" in their
"darker regions, as he put it. The British liaison,
Harold Philby, did not deliver all the Yes Buttons to
his superiors in London. He had also a moon-lighting
arrangement with the oil cartel, as had his father in
Arabia. Philby, in this latter capacity, handed over
six of the 24 pills to Raven. Raven understood from
his wartime experience with the double-cross system
that a Yes Button, if it worked, would be of great value
to an espionage service. Espionage service were essentially
in the business of converting people entrusted with
secrets of the state into traitors of the state. A candidate
for conversion had to be maneuvered across the thin
ethical line, separating right from wrong, onto the
slippery slope of conspiracy. The Yes Button, if it
worked, could greatly facilitate this process. The art
of compromise had always interested him. He decided
to conduct his own test.
"What is so urgent," Christina thought, sitting in a the
tea room of the Avenida Palace and looking out its glass
doors into the fog-shrouded courtyard. She realized, as
the zither player plucking out the chords of the Third
Man theme, she was the only audience. She looked at her
watch with some impatience. She had been waiting nearly
twenty minutes for Raven.
Raven had told her from some unidentified locale that
an "urgent matter" had arisen and commanded as much
as asked that she be at the Ritz precisely at 4 PM."
She had great trepidations about meeting Raven again.
Their last accidental meeting on the dance floor in
Georgetown was uneasy. Their previous encounter in London
was unsettling. She had woken up naked in his bed, a
memory that pained, confused and haunted her. She could
hear Raven's footfalls in the courtyard before she could
see him emerge from the fog. She noted the creases in
his white suit, which, she supposed, measured the duration
of his mystery flight. He carried with him a thin briefcase.
"How is our rising star of the art world," he asked,
not explaining why he was late. Explanations to him
were admissions of weakness. "Art world," she repeated,
"the Gulbenkian collection is the most exquisite galaxy
in it. It exceeds my expectations." She strongly suspected,
though was not certain, that Raven was behind the sudden
offer she got from Nubar Gulbenkian. She knew that the
bond between these two men was crude oil.
"I assume art has its rewards?" He said, smiling ambiguously.
He knew that she was receiving ten times as much as at
Christie's. He had wanted her so conspicuously over-paid.
that, at some level, it would raise a nagging concern
that the generous compensation might for something other
than her art expertise.
"Rewarding? Absolutely," she agreed,
deftly evading his baited hook. "I can't imagine anything
more fulfilling than bringing the paintings of Degas,
Cezanne and Renoir to Monte Carlo. Aristotle Onassis
is going to himself open the show. He owns the casino
there."
He also charters the world's largest fleet of oil tankers,
Raven thought, as he listened to her prattle on about
the formidable array of paintings that would be shown
at the Monte Carlo Casino in August. Two waiters pushed
over a silver chariot filled with pastries. "A sweet?,"
he suggested.
She chose a Napoleon. After crushing the creamy contents
out, turning it inside out, she rapaciously consumed all
the cream, except the specks that formed a moustache above
her lips. "Truly Delicious, she said, "I hope this was
the urgent matter it was worth waiting a half- hour for."
"The urgent
matter is Professor Foxx," Raven said, smiling at her
tacit reprimand of his being late. "He is involved with
some very dangerous people..." "You mean his tutees
at Harvard. My sister can be annoyingly edacious..."
"I mean the CIA. Foxx works for the CIA" "On that coup
d'etat game. Zemblia. It sounds absurd but hardly dangerous."
"Take it from me, his CIA friends play much more dangerous
games than board games. They are involved in mind control,
blackmail, kidnaping and murder. We can only protect
you, up to a point." She wondered whom "We" referred
to. Was it the grouse-shooters at Loch Eddy? She temporized,
"I have no idea what games Jake is playing these days.
I haven't been in touch with him since January." That
was true. For a month now, she had been mentally drafting
a letter to Jake, but whatever words she choose seemed
wrong. They either furthered or rejected a future relation.
She wanted to do neither. The present tense was tense
enough for her without making future commitments. "
Foxx has told the CIA everything about you. Everything
you did in Washington." "Everything? I doubt that."
Raven smiled. He called the waiter over and ordered
Beluga caviar and toast. When it arrived, he spread
a spoonful on toast and offered it to her. "You like
Caviar, Chris? "I love caviar." "This Beluga is the
best in the world. Grey orbs of excitement. What would
you do for it?" "Do for it?" She looked at him confused.
She did not understand what he was driving at. "Would
you beg for it on your hands and knees? Would you offer
your body for it? Your clothes?"
"None of the above," she answered slightly shaken. His
three questions, taken together, reawakened in her mind
an image of the night in the hotel with Jake. She had
been trying to excite him. As part of her play acting,
she had begged for caviar with her hands, her clothes
and her body. But Raven could not know about that private
performance except Jake. So his caviar offer had to be
an odd coincidence. "Sorry, I wouldn't even want an egg
of caviar after eating that delicious Napoleon." she laughed,
"You'll have to find something more exciting for me."
He put
the caviar back on the plate, without tasting it, then
signed the check. "Right," he said, getting up "Lets
find something more exciting." Raven's chauffeur-driven
Mercedes was waiting just outside the courtyard. He
told the driver to take them to the Corrido a Torros.
" They fight the bulls on horseback here and the bulls
live," Raven explained, as the car arrived at the arena.
The trumpets were sounding. It was the last bull of
the day. Christina was startled by the beauty of the pageant.
The matador was immaculately dressed in skin-tight white
pants, a re and gold-braided jacket and a white plumed
hat and mounted in a silver saddle on a magnificent white
stallion. The snorting giant bull, with padded horns,
charged directly at the horse, which nimbly evaded his
horns. The bull twisted, turned and lunged in his futile
pursuit, until, after he became the plaything of the horse.
The matador then reached over the bull's horns, and droves
darts with tassels into the the bull's neck, which, Raven
explained, limiting the bull's movements.
Christina could not help thinking, even in the midst
of this battle, about Raven's caviar offer. It disturbed
her that just after she had dismissed Raven's claim
that Jake had revealed everything about her to the CIA,
Raven had stopped the conversation dead in its tracks
and ordered caviar. He had not even tasted it. So his
only purpose in ordering it, she concluded, was to demonstrate
something to her. What was it? The bull had come to
a sudden halt. Eight men, "forcados" Raven called them,
marched out and formed a line directly in front of the
bull. They ten taunted the bull with their capes until
it charged. Unable to raise its head because of the
darts in his neck, and exhausted from its pursuit of
the horse, the bull moved slowly towards the lead "forcado."
With amazing agility, he grabbed both of its padded
horns, and, aided by the other forcados, wrestled the
bull to the ground. The crowd cheered the victory of
man over beast. As the lead forcado and matador embraced
triumphantly, the confused bull was led away with a
rope. As they left the arena, Christina could no longer
contain the curiosity that had engulfed her. She needed
an answer. "Tony," she asked, "Did you have some reason
for asking me those absurd questions about the caviar?"
He smiled enigmatically. "We can discuss that at dinner
perhaps after a creme brulee." She did not answer.
She remembered how she had teased Jake with the creme
brulee on her fingers. Caviar and creme brulee could
not be a coincidence. Raven knew every intimate detail
of that night. So did the CIA. Jake must have betrayed
her. She was crushed at the idea that her most personal
life was now part of a CIA dossier. "I know of a Fado
tavern in the Alfama," Raven said. The streets of the
Alfama, the oldest part of the city, were too narrow
for motor cars, so they walked. Raven guided her, holding
her lightly by her elbow, through a street of bordina
houses in the Red Light district, where she saw women
displaying themselves in the windows, to a small restaurant,
the Parreirinha. They sat at a table on the edge of
a small dance floor and Raven ordered the house speciality,
doves on a spit, for both of them. He also ordered a
bottle of champagne. Raven, through the entire bull
fight, had become more desirous of Christina. He planned
to compromise in a way that would fulfill all the fantasies
that had been exploding inside his head since he had
seen those damned CIA snapshots of her and Foxx. He
reached into his brief case out of her view and took
a pink pill from the silver box.
The singer, Amalia, in a white blouse and red bandana
was singing a sad ballad, accompanied by two men playing
different shaped guitars. The man sitting directly behind
them, who had slick black hair and a hermaphroditic face,
whispered to Christina "Fado means fate, the words mean
"I will sing to my heart aches." Christina smiled back
a thanks to him.
Christina gradually became mesmerized
by Amalia song of pain, passion and lost love. When
she finished singing, the two guitarists played a different
beat and a few couples got up to dance. "Lets toast
your new career," Raven said, offering her a glass brimming
with bubbly champagne. As she raised the glass to her
lips, the man with the slick black hair interrupted
the toast. "Permission," he said, standing over Raven
like the matador and agilely extending his hand, over
Raven's head, to Christina. "This is the Choro. A Brazilian
variation of Fado that is truly magical. Would you honor
me with one dance." Before Raven could voice his objection,
the intruder's hand raised Christina to her feet and,
as the beat picked up, they were on the dance floor.
"My name is Manuel Rivera," he said, moving her to the
music with great skill. "Excuse me for intervening in
your dinner. But I must tell you something. While you
were watching the Fado, your friend put a pink pill
in your champagne. " "You must be mistaken," she said.
Suddenly, she recalled the champagne she had in his
home in St. James. And what followed. "Trust me. Sleight
of hand is my profession." The music ended. She saw
the waiter deliver the two doves on a skewer to their
table. "My dinner is getting cold." "Allow me to switch
your glasses." He said, as he escorted her back to Raven's
table. " All I need is a very brief distraction." "That's
easy," Christina said to herself. In inspecting the
grilled doves, she bent low enough to momentarily expose
the untanned cleavage between her breasts. Raven's eyes
widened. Manuel the Magician, bowed, with a meaningful
smile, and retreated to his own table. "What a nerve
these Portugese gigolos have," Raven said as Amelia
began her second song of fate.
"Don't forget our toast, Tony," Christina said, picking
up what was now her champagne glass, and emptying it.
"To your magic." Raven, smiling ravenously, followed her
lead.
Raven began to feel
woozy by the time he had finished the dove. He felt
the room spinning. He felt himself slipping out of the
chair. Christina holding him by the shoulders, began
asking him questions he found himself automatically
answering. "Tony, did you drug me in London?"
"Yes."
"Did you get the drugs from the CIA?"
"Yes."
"Did the
CIA tell you about my cavorting over the caviar and
creme brulee?" "Yes. They took photos," he slurred.
"Let's go," she said, helping him to his wobbly feet.
He found it hard to keep his balance as they left the
restaurant. The gigolo with the face of a hermaphrodite
helped Christina get him through the door. They steadied
him on the as he reeled down the narrow, twisting street.
A fat woman in a black brassiere was in the window of
a tiny house. It had a doorway through which he did
not fit. They, the fat woman now helping, pulled him
through it on his knees. He felt a tug on his tie, and,
still on his knees, followed Christina to a garishly
painted room. He came to rest sprawled over a bed that
was only half his length.
He then felt different pairs of hands on his body, searching
his pockets. The features on the hermaphrodite's face
flickered back and forth, changing between male and female.
The fat woman was laughing while a blinding flashbulb
caused a kaleidoscope of colors to swirl in his head.
Raven awoke the next
morning naked in a child's bed in a brightly-painted
bordina house in the red-light district. He could not
immediately remember how he had got there or what had
happened to him after the Fado. He saw his clothing
strewn around the dirty room, his white suit in a crumpled
pile. On top of it, the curled wrappings of Polaroid
film.
He found his brief case on a chair, unlocked. In a panic,
he looked inside. The documents were gone. So were the
CIA photographs of Christina and Fox. The silver pill
box was open and empty. Then, looking up, he saw the mirror
over the stained sink and knew what had happened.
Scrawled on the mirror in lipstick in Christina's handwriting
was the word: RAPIST. |
