Dragons at the Party (30 page)

The question stayed with him as he climbed the narrow stairs into the attic. There he sat amidst the alluvia of other people’s lives, things washed up from the life that had gone on in the house below: toys, a baby carriage, books, heavily-framed photographs, a gramophone and a pile of 78 rpm records. He sat down in an old leather chair and tried to drain himself of the feeling that had attacked him. Yet over the next hour his life of years ago kept coming back to him, as if this attic, indeed this house, was a
museum
where memory was endemic.

It was warm here in the attic and he had taken off his jacket. Far to the west there was a red glow in the sky: he guessed the bushfires were still burning. He had no interest in such disasters: they were for people who left themselves exposed to such hazards.

He had assembled the rifle, checked the telescopic sight: it was more than adequate for the job in view. He could see down across the street and the Hickbed front gardens into the Hickbed house; the range would be less than a hundred yards. He would have to move fast once he had fired the fatal shot, but he was confident that in the initial confusion after the shot he would have plenty of time to be gone. There was no organized fireworks display tonight, but out on the harbour the occasional rocket was being let off. The sound of the shot could, for a moment or two anyway, be mistaken for a firecracker.

The Hickbed grounds were flood-lit, the flowers and shrubs somehow drained of their colours so that they looked like clumps of bone coral. All the lights in the house were on; the drapes were drawn in the ground-floor rooms but not in the rooms above. He had been sitting there two hours, beginning to grow impatient, wondering if he had chosen the wrong side of the house to watch, when he saw Abdul Timori appear in one of the upper rooms.

He steadied the rifle and took aim.

IV

Abdul Timori did not like his own company, but he had had to get used to it over the past week. He had always surrounded himself, even as a young man in Palucca and in Europe, with friends and hangers-on, he had never cared which, who would laugh at his jokes or keep him entertained. When he had married Delvina she had tried to weed out some of the hangers-on and he had let them go; he had objected when she had tried the same sorting out amongst his friends, or those he called his friends. He needed company, he had told her, and he had been adamant that he would not be deprived of it. He did not crave friendship, not after he became President: that, he realized, would be a weakness. But company, yes: he needed to be reassured, to see his position reflected in the faces of others.

He
was now also afraid: something he had never been before. The coup had startled him by its success; he had been aware that it was being plotted, but he had never dreamed that it would succeed. The friends, the company he had craved, had abruptly deserted him, leaving the sinking captain for a ship they hoped would remain afloat. He had not feared for his life then, such revenge had long since died out in Palucca; or so he had thought. Then last Friday night’s assassination attempt had brought him face to face with the ugly fact that someone actually wanted to kill him.

He had run through a gallery in his mind, at first quickly, then slowly, dropping off suspects along the way like the judge in some art competition. At least two of the generals in the junta would be capable of ordering a murder, if not of actually committing one: General Paturi, he was sure, would be one of them. There had been others in the gallery: Sun Lee, Russell Hickbed, even Philip Norval: he spared no one his suspicions. And there were, of course, the organizations that arranged termination, as he believed they called it: the CIA, the KGB, the various terrorist gangs, including those backed by the emergent fundamentalist Islamic groups that had spread from the Middle East. He was eclectic in his suspicions, the mark of a true dictator.

It was fear that had prompted him to say no when Delvina had suggested they should accompany Russell Hickbed to the Bicentennial Ball. Security there would, of necessity, be lax; he would, at some point in the evening, have to present himself as a perfect target, if the assassin should still be tracking him. And why go, anyway?

“We need to present ourselves more publicly,” said Delvina. “Show we are not the dragons the newspapers are saying we are.”

“My dear, we
are
dragons. Or were.” He was having no late pangs of conscience; he knew what they had been. But he had been amazed at the freedom of the press here in Australia; it seemed it was allowed to criticize anyone, even the country’s own leaders. Democracy could be taken to stupid lengths. “No amount of public relations is going to change their image of us. Australians are simple-minded. They tolerate their corrupt politicians because they elect them and to condemn them would be a reflection on their own judgement. But they can’t stand an honest dictator like myself. I’m not going to go to some ball
and
be jeered at.” He had had enough of that on the way to the airport in Bunda. “We are not going.”

“
I’m
going.” She had no maid, because there was no accommodation for her in the Hickbed house; she began to lay out her own things. She chose carefully because she knew this might be her farewell performance in Australia.

“Darling, you’ve been jeered at before—I’ve read some of the critics’ reviews of your dancing. You’re used to it. I’m not.”

“You don’t have to be nasty.”

She took out her jewel-box from a closet, put it on the end of the bed. It was no small box; it was almost the size of a butter-box, a jewel-case for a medieval caliph. It was made of thick teak bound with decorated iron straps; it was an effort for her to lift it on to the bed. When she opened the lid the light flashed on a king’s ransom; if anyone was buying back kings these days. She looked at it, as always, with greedy delight.

“No, I don’t have to be nasty. I’m surprised that I am. Perhaps we have been seeing too much of each other since we left the palace. There was room enough there for us to avoid each other.” He looked around their bedroom, a large room by local standards, a cupboard by his. “I don’t know why I’m not suffering from claustrophobia.”

“I’ll move out, find another bedroom.” She picked out a tiara, a necklace, a bracelet and a ring: tonight was emerald night.

“Please yourself. Perhaps Russell will share his with you. It’s bigger than this.”

She went off in a huff, her tiara and her fifteen-thousand-dollar gown, intent on public relations even if her private relations were in need of repair.

Timori had watched Hickbed go off with her, glowing as if he had just been presented with an oil lease. He had had dinner alone and then gone into Hickbed’s library and sat amidst the unread books and reviewed his life past and future. He did not consider the present, for he knew that for the moment he was helpless and at the mercy of the Australian police who were protecting him. Then he had come upstairs to the bedroom again.

He
looked at the jewel-box still standing on the end of the bed, though Delvina had closed its lid and locked it again. It was only part of their treasure, petty cash in the form of diamonds, emeralds and other precious stones. He was a rich man, one of the world’s richest, though not in the same bank as his neighbour, the Sultan of Brunei. At one time he had had ambitions for expansion; he had looked at territories that might come under his influence; he would be the Sultan of Spice, a heady title. But as soon as his ambitions became known they had been knocked on the head. Indonesian guns began to growl; the Sultan of Brunei tried to buy the entire British Army, which needed the money at the time; the Americans, worried enough by their losses in Vietnam, told him to be a good little dictator and stick to his own domain. So he had sacrificed his ambition for power and settled for plain greed, a more acceptable aim amongst the world powers.

Even if General Paturi succeeded in confiscating his Australian holdings, there were the assets in the United States, Canada, Europe and Hong Kong; there were also the cash and gold and more gems in the bank in Switzerland. He would not be penniless, no matter where he finished up; but riches would not amount to much if he had to live in Paraguay or some Central African republic. He would settle for the French Riviera, where he had mis-spent a lot of his youth; or the Bahamas or the more respectable parts of California like Santa Barbara. But above all he wanted to return to Bunda, to the power and the palace that had once been his.

He patted the jewel-box, as if it were a talisman. Delvina might think of it as hers, but he was a Muslim. He still had the power in their marriage.

He sent for Sun Lee, who came in soft-footed as usual. Even on some of the marble floors in the palace in Bunda he had moved as silently as a ghost. The effect had never worried Timori before, but now it did.

“Why do you have to be so cat-footed, Sun? Are you sneaking up on me?”

“Why should I do that, Excellency? I am just naturally quiet, I suppose. It was the best attitude for a Chinese in Palucca.”

Timori couldn’t remember his ever having referred to his race before. “You thought I
persecuted
you?”

“Not you personally, Excellency. But the police and the bureaucrats—yes. I was fortunate to have your protection because of my position.”

“I couldn’t do without you, Sun. What would you do if I were assassinated?”

“I’ve never considered the possibility.”

“Why not? That bullet on Friday night was close enough to be a probability.”

“I think you lead a charmed life.”

Timori smiled. “I think you’re a charming liar, Sun. If I divorced Madame Timori, would you stay with me or go with her?”

An eyebrow flickered; it was the only reaction. “Are you going to divorce Madame?”

Timori sighed. “Probably not. We’ve had enough publicity. I was just testing your loyalty. Tell me, Sun, about our investments.”

“Which ones, sir? Where?”

“World-wide. Don’t let us confine ourselves. Sit down and tell me everything. And remember—your head may depend upon it.”

An hour later he dismissed Sun, He sat in a chair staring at the windows. The Paluccan housemaid had forgotten to draw the drapes and Timori left them as they were. There had been countless servants to perform those sort of chores in the palace; or perhaps he thought the curtains drew themselves. In any event he had too much on his mind this evening to look at the view the windows offered. One flood-lit garden looked like another: they had always been part of the security precautions in Timoro Palace.

He went to one of his bags and took out a gun, a Colt .45 automatic. He had never fired it in anger and he wondered if he would fire it tonight. He sat down in the chair again and the gun, somehow, gave him unexpected comfort. He began to feel a little less afraid and he again ran his hand over the jewel-box, as if luck lay there amongst the gems in the treasure chest.

V

Delvina Timori had suddenly grown bored with the ball and everyone attending it, especially those here at the Prime Minister’s table. Insults are like sex: one needs exceptional stamina to keep up the standard. Anita Norval was now blatantly ignoring her. Philip Norval had suddenly developed a passionate interest in the Prime Minister of New Zealand, a lesbian lady who hoped the Australian PM, a woolly ram if ever she’d met one, didn’t think she was double-gaited. Everyone else at the table, including Russell Hickbed, looked exhausted. Delvina looked at her watch: 10.40, still a young night. But it was time to go. She was not only bored, but disturbed. What had Scobie Malone been hinting at with his warning?

She stood up, nodding to Hickbed, who was relieved to get the command. Anita Norval turned round, all at once all smiling concern. “You’re not going! I meant to tell you—I love your dress! It fits so perfectly.”
Every nook and cranny
. “What there is of it.”

“One dresses for the occasion. If there’s no one to be impressed, one doesn’t wear much. Good night. Thank you for a lovely evening. Enjoy yourselves.”

“We shall,” said Anita, voice silent under the band’s “Lay Your Love on Me,” “now you’re leaving.”

Philip Norval turned away from the New Zealand PM, much to her relief, and gave Delvina as many teeth as he could show in a good night smile. This was to have been his Big Night before the Big Day tomorrow; Delvina, the bitch, had stolen it from him. Tomorrow night he would be on to Washington, telling Fegan he would be putting the Timoris on a plane and telling the pilot to keep flying till he saw a landing field with the Stars and Stripes fluttering above it.

Delvina had made an entrance; she was not going to leave without making an exit. With her hand resting lightly on Hickbed’s arm, she made her way down the length of the hall, skirting the dance floors yet somehow managing to suggest she was in the centre of them. Some guests nodded to her, not out of friendliness but out of habit; they were the sort of spectators who always saw themselves as part of the action. On Judgement Day they would nod to God in the same familiar way.

Hans Vanderberg saw her go, but he did not rise to say good night. He just lolled in his chair
and
grinned at her and Hickbed. He had milked them of all they had to offer tonight; he could already see tomorrow’s headlines. Beside him his wife did not look in Delvina’s direction; she knew Madame Timori would not be looking at her. Nobody had ever snubbed Gertrude Vanderberg: she was always a glance or two ahead of them.

The Dutchman leaned across to John Leeds, who had just joined the Premier’s table. “I’d like to see Inspector Malone at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, John. Can you see to it?”

“It’s unusual, Hans. Why don’t you see Bill Zanuch? He’s just over there—I’ll call him, if you like.”

“I don’t want to see Zanuch—I want to see Malone.”

“May I ask why?”

“Yes.” Vanderberg grinned. “But you won’t get an answer. Not for a day or two anyway.”

“Hans, he’s one of
my
men. I could refuse to let you see him.”