Anything Considered (11 page)

Bennett smiled, and shrugged. “Well, don’t let it get you down. We can all make mistakes.”

“And they all have to be paid for. Which brings me back to you.” Poe held his empty glass toward Bennett. “Another drink?”

There was silence while Bennett refilled the glasses and settled back in his chair. Poe examined the ceiling thoughtfully. When he resumed speaking, it was no longer the professor imparting knowledge: it was the general briefing his troops.

“We know who has the case. A man called Enzo Tuzzi. Not one of nature’s gentlemen, but effective enough in his own crude fashion. He and I have had one or two disagreements in the past, which have ended badly for him, and possession of the case—
my
case—will give him great satisfaction. He has this juvenile urge for revenge.”

“You’re a businessman. Isn’t there any way of—well, I don’t know—coming to some kind of arrangement?”

“An
arrangement
?” Poe looked as though someone had spat in his whisky. His mouth set, and Bennett could see the twitch of muscles in his jaw. “My property has been stolen, my investment is at risk, and you talk to me about an
arrangement
? With that organ-grinder’s monkey?”

“Sorry,” said Bennett. “Just a thought. Trying to be helpful.”

Poe took a deep breath, and his composure returned. “And you
will
be helpful, Mr. Bennett, believe
me. Now, one of Tuzzi’s many failings is that he can never resist quick money. It is my belief that he will want to sell the formula, and he’ll probably try to get the other groups to bid against each other. Whatever he decides to do, he will have to put the word out, and one of my people will hear about it. I expect to know within the next few days. He’s not a patient man. He won’t want to wait.”

Bennett jumped as he heard the scratch of a striking match behind him. He’d forgotten Shimo was sitting in the shadows, watching. Creepy bastard.

“What will happen is this.” Poe stood up, the glow of the reading lamp from below giving his face the appearance of a grim, shadow-etched mask. “Once I find out where and when the sale is to take place, I shall send my representative to the bidding …”

“Damn good idea,” said Bennett. “Except that if he knows you’re bidding …”

“He won’t. He’s never met you. His people never saw you.”

“
Me?
You want
me
to bid?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Bennett, no. I’ve already paid quite enough for the formula. I have no intention of paying again. I want you to find the case, and bring it back to me.”

“Steal it?”

“Recover it. You won’t find me ungenerous. There will be a bonus, which is rather more than you deserve under the circumstances. And then you can go back to Monaco and play with your little girls.”

Bennett felt his stomach fighting a losing battle with the whisky and forced himself to swallow. “But I couldn’t do that. These people are crooks—they’re dangerous, you said so yourself. I’m not James bloody Bond.” He shook his head decisively. “No. I’m sorry, but no. I couldn’t do it.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

“Supposing I refuse?”

“That would be most unwise.” Poe looked at his watch. “Sleep on it, Mr. Bennett, and think about possible alternatives. They aren’t attractive. Shimo will show you to your room.”

Bennett followed the Japanese to the end of a long corridor and into a large, comfortably furnished bedroom. The bedcover had been turned down, the curtains drawn. Fresh flowers, mineral water, and a selection of biographies and best-sellers, in English and French, was on the bedside tables. Through an open door, Bennett could see the marble floor of a bathroom. He felt trapped and angry and suddenly tired, and craved a hot bath. He remembered Susie, covered in foam in Monaco. He turned to Shimo. “I’d like to make a call. To my friend.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Bennett shook his head wearily. “Do the regulations say I can have a bath?”

Shimo looked at him as though he hadn’t heard. “Don’t attempt to get out through the window. The alarm will go off, and it would upset Mr. Poe’s Dobermans.”

Bennett nodded. Meeting an upset Doberman in the dark: the end of a perfect day.

Shimo closed the door behind him, and Bennett heard the key turn in the lock. He started to undress. What a cock-up. What an almighty, god-awful, frightful cock-up.

BENNETT settled uneasily into his confinement. Meals were brought to him in his room. He was forbidden to leave the house, except for a brief stroll each night after dark, in the company of the dog handler and the Dobermans. They slithered soundlessly through the trees, a shoal of four-legged sharks, their eyes blood red in the beam of the flashlight. Only once did Bennett attempt to pat one of them; he had the sense to stop halfway when he saw the lips curl back and the ears go flat. The handler watched with amusement and seemed disappointed when Bennett withdrew his hand.

The helicopter was flying in and out three or four times a day, the edge of the landing pad just visible from Bennett’s bedroom. One of the early-morning departures was Chou-Chou, escorted by Poe and two men carrying large quantities of Vuitton luggage. There was a fond leave-taking, Poe waiting and waving until the helicopter had lifted off. Bennett wondered where he was sending her, and why. To stock up on this year’s jewelry in Paris? Or to keep out of harm’s way in case of trouble on the
property? The population of men in black suits had increased. Unless he was locked in his room, Bennett was constantly under someone’s eye. There was tension in the air, and the Domaine des Rochers was beginning to feel like a fortress.

A beautiful fortress, Bennett had to admit, made even lovelier by the weather, which he had plenty of time to appreciate from his bedroom. Summer had come early, but the sun hadn’t yet baked the countryside brown. The forested patches on the hills looked as though they had been freshly painted a vivid, shining green, and the clarity of light added a sharp edge of focus to the contours of the land. It was heaven on earth, Bennett thought, which made his situation even more depressing.

He had called Monaco several times, under Shimo’s cold, attentive stare, to speak to Susie. All he heard was his own voice on the answering machine, promising to call back. He told himself she had got tired of waiting and returned to London, probably incandescent with fury. So much for a romantic week in the sun. So much for his new, improved life.

——

The maid knocked on his door, delivering his only set of clothes, laundered and pressed daily, one of the small comforts of being held prisoner by a fastidious millionaire. He took off his bathrobe and dressed, preparing himself for another restless day of trying to read, watching the
weather go by, and fretting about the future. He picked up Robb’s biography of Balzac and hoped that he could escape for the day to the nineteenth century.

Barely a page had gone by when Bennett heard the key turn in the lock. He looked up to see one of the black suits standing in the doorway. A jerk of the head.
“Venez.”

Bennett followed him along the corridor, through the kitchen, and down a flight of worn stone steps that led to the cellar, which ran the length of the house. Bennett stopped on the last step, taking in a sight that would have given a teetotaler nightmares. Floor-to-ceiling brick compartments had been built along each wall, and each whitewashed compartment bristled with bottles. The various wines had been organized by origin and identified by varnished wooden signs, the black, hand-painted letters on white backgrounds looking formal and Dickensian. Meursault, Krug, Romanée-Conti, Petrus, Figeac, Lafite-Rothschild, Yquem—the great names were well represented, and, Bennett had no doubt, the great years as well.

“A comforting sight, Mr. Bennett, don’t you think? One of the best private cellars in France, so they tell me.” Poe was sitting at a small table, his leatherbound cellar book open in front of him, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He took them off and stood up. “But I didn’t drag you down here to look at bottles. Come with me. I’d like you to see something equally impressive, in its own way.” He was relaxed and affable; suspiciously affable. Bennett had the feeling he was about to have an unpleasant experience.

Poe opened a door at the far end of the cellar. As they went through, Bennett had to narrow his eyes against the glare of hard light that bounced off the walls of an austere white space.

“This is Shimo’s pride and joy,” said Poe. “His personal dojo. He spends hours in here. I’ve asked him to give us a short demonstration, something to divert you from the tedium of captivity. I thought you’d find it fascinating to see what the human body can do.”

The room was a rectangle, perhaps forty feet by twenty, with mirrored walls and a floor of polished pine. Apart from a narrow slatted bench beside the door, the only fixture was what looked like a diving board standing on its end, its base embedded in the floor, the top twelve inches of its surface covered with a binding of straw.

“That’s a striking post,” Poe said. “The Japanese name escapes me for the moment, but Shimo says there’s nothing like it for conditioning the knuckles. There are days when he gets quite carried away. I’ve known him to hit it a thousand times without stopping. Ah, here’s the man himself.”

Shimo came through from the cellar without acknowledging them. He was barefoot, dressed in a white canvas training suit, a black belt tied around his waist. He was carrying a short bamboo pole, two inches thick, which he placed by the bench before going to the center of the room.

Poe’s voice, still genial, was little more than a whisper.

“Take a look at the belt. See where it’s worn through to the
white threads? That’s from years of use. He’s been a black belt since he was a young man. Now he’s sixth dan. Quite exceptionally gifted, so my Japanese friends tell me.”

Bennett whispered back. “What’s the bamboo for?”

“One of Shimo’s party tricks. You’ll see.”

Shimo began warming up, his feet spread to shoulder width, his movements continuous and fluid, arms crossing and recrossing his body, his face blank with concentration. He could have been a dancer, Bennett thought, graceful and poised.

And then the tempo changed. Smooth, peaceful movements gave way to blurs of controlled violence as Shimo moved into a pattern of punching, kicking, and blocking, his body staying perfectly balanced, the destructive force behind his feet and fists apparent even from a distance. Bennett changed his mind. That was no dancer. That was a weapon on legs.

Shimo continued the sequence of disciplined mayhem, moving gradually toward the bench where the two spectators were sitting. A final spin and a head-high kick placed him, crouched and still, in front of Bennett. He looked into Bennett’s eyes, a deep, guttural roar came from his throat, and his arm shot out like a piston.

It was the sudden blast of noise, as much as anything, that made Bennett’s head jerk backward. When he looked down, he saw that Shimo’s fist had stopped with the swollen, calcified knuckles touching his shirtfront a fraction of an inch from his heart.

“Lucky he’s such a good judge of distance,” said Poe,
as Shimo straightened and moved back. “Another few inches, and that would have killed you. The sound effects are interesting, too, don’t you think? It’s what they call the spirit shout. The idea is to unify the mind and body and shock the enemy while the blow is being delivered.” Poe smiled at Bennett. “Makes boxing under Queensberry rules look rather tame, doesn’t it?”

Bennett let out his breath and swallowed. “Does he ever do this seriously—I mean, fighting someone?”

“There aren’t too many men in the world at his level. Most of them are in Tokyo, which is a long way to go for a scrap.” Poe nodded toward the center of the room. “Watch this.”

Shimo had taken up his position in front of the striking post, staring at it as though he intended to turn it into firewood. He started to punch, straight-armed blows coming from the shoulder, vicious and precise. The post bent under each impact, sprang back, bent again.

“That’s called a focused punch,” Poe said. “One shudders to think what it might do to the human head.”

A hundred, two hundred punches, with no apparent signs of diminished power—and then the final punch, delivered with another explosive roar, half grunt, half shout. The striking post quivered. Shimo stepped back, turned, and came over to the bench. His eyes never left Bennett as he picked up the bamboo pole and held it at arm’s length, in front of Bennett’s face. His body tensed. Hypnotized, Bennett watched the hand holding the bamboo, saw the tremor of concentrated effort as the fingers tightened, saw
the bulge of muscle by the base of the thumb, saw, with disbelief, the thumb split and penetrate the wood.

Shimo’s arm dropped to his side. He handed the bamboo to Bennett, inclined his head to Poe, and left the dojo.

Poe took the bamboo and ran his fingers over the split made by Shimo’s thumb. “Don’t know how he does it. Of course, this is merely a strengthening exercise. In a combat situation, the thumb would be used to rupture the windpipe, or take out an eye. Not a man to trifle with, our Shimo.” He passed the bamboo back, and smiled. “You might like to keep this as a souvenir.”

Back in his room, Bennett stared out at the landscape and tried to forget what he’d just seen. It had been the “alternative” that Poe had mentioned, a brutal and graphic reminder of what he could expect if he was foolish enough not to volunteer his services. Bennett fingered his throat and thought of Shimo’s steel thumb. How much longer before he could get out of here?

——

Shimo came for him late the following afternoon. Bennett had mixed feelings as he followed the Japanese, welcoming the prospect of activity but apprehensive about what it might be. They climbed broad stone steps to a part of the building Bennett had seen only from outside, the tower that grew out of one corner of the house. Shimo knocked, then opened a heavy steel door, and they entered an office from the twenty-first century.

Poe was sitting behind his desk, a thick oblong of polished teak supported by a single chromed-steel column. The wall facing him was entirely covered by the flickering, silent images appearing on a dozen screens. Behind him, a line of smaller screens, for the moment blank, and a matching pair of fax machines. The gray mass of a computer occupied the whole of an alcove to one side. There was a level, barely audible hum coming from the assembled equipment, the sound of electronic breathing. It was a cold, efficient room. No books, no pictures, no softness anywhere.