Sustenance (61 page)

“A very bad business,” Rakoczy said darkly.

“That it was.” Merryman shook his head. “And I am sorry if I am causing you distress, but the sooner we get through this inquiry, the sooner all those pesky questions can be put to rest. You know how these things go.”

“I gathered when you first came here that the reason for your visit is my cousin; shall we get on with it,” said Rakoczy with urbane ease, avoiding the implied question in Merryman’s observation. “I will tell you what I can, but I did not know him very well, as you are no doubt aware.”

“Cousin, is it?” Merryman asked.

“The one from whom I inherited the title, my cousin Ferenz, who died in Paris earlier this year, my cousin—second cousin, actually, if you want to be specific,” said Rakoczy, knowing what Merryman would find in the Rakoczy/Ragoczy family records that he and Hrogre had just revised; he gestured to the two chairs that faced his desk.

“Your great-grandparents were siblings?” Merryman asked tentatively as if he knew little about genealogy.

“That is my understanding,” Rakoczy said. “Sit, please. Would you like something to drink on this hot afternoon? We have coffee, tea, and for Europeans, brandy, gin, and ice.”

“Whatever you’re having,” said Merryman with the practiced ease of one used to diplomatic maneuvering. “I appreciate your willingness to see me, and I hope my purpose will make this worth your while.” He went to the sofa and sat down on it; he removed his hat and used it for a fan for a short time. “I am glad for this opportunity to speak to you. There are a number of questions surrounding your … second cousin, is it?”

“Second cousin,” Rakoczy confirmed again, coming to the Turkish armchair at right angles to the sofa.

“Second cousin, then; I won’t expect to hear family secrets; you rarely find them beyond the first-cousin tier.” He fiddled with his tie. “This call is pro forma—nothing too drastic, just a few loose ends,” Merryman said, and blinked to keep from staring. “I have to tell you, the resemblance between you and your late second cousin
is
astounding. I don’t mean to goggle, but it is…” He sat up a little straighter. “If you didn’t have that scar on your cheek, in this low light I would think I was speaking to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grof Szent-Germain, rather than Germyn Rakoczy, his heir. But this is often the case with these old families—in-breeding makes for these marked resemblances, don’t you think?”

Rakoczy, who had had Hrogre apply the scar on his face with theatrical collodion before he left his house this morning, as he had every morning since his arrival in Istanbul, gave Merryman a diplomatic nod. “I have heard the same things many times myself. A number of us are readily identified by our faces as relatives; I will allow that the family has a stamp set upon it long ago, luckily rather better-looking than the Hapsburg jaw.”

“Yes, Good Lord, yes, poor fellows,” said Merryman, chuckling. “They all ended up looking like old-fashioned nut-crackers, didn’t they? Lower jaw ahead of the upper one, isn’t that it?” he added, to show he got the joke, then reached for one of the pillows to put behind his shoulders. “I wish I could tell you that I knew your cousin well and could recount some personal recollections of the man, but, alas, we met only twice—once in connection with an investigation, and once at a reception he gave for his authors. He had an air of command about him, which many short men strive for, but which he achieved. A very personable fellow in a slightly stand-offish way.”

“That sounds like him.” It was also an accurate recollection; they had met on those two occasions but no others.

“I’m not only acting on instructions from the State Department, I am here to deliver a report on the progress of this investigation being conducted by the CIA, pursuant to your request for information on the inquiry into your cousin’s death. Ordinarily such access would not be granted, but under the circumstances … I hope the news I have won’t disturb you—” Merryman said, sitting up enough to rest his shoulder on the bolster of the sofa.

“What information is that?” Rakoczy prodded gently.

Merryman waved his hand. “It appears”—he put subtle emphasis on
appears
—“that the Grof was not actively the target of the explosion. This was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Do you mean the bomb was an accident?” Rakoczy asked, struggling to keep his tone even.

“I said it appears; we’re seeking confirmation on this, which means asking about your second cousin; you know, I would suppose, that he was engaged actively in anti-Nazi activities during the war?” He saw Rakoczy nod. “If I can confirm a few things with you—similar to what I just asked—I can turn my attention to more troubling developments in this investigation. I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I wouldn’t have bothered to seek you out unless the event didn’t
appear
to be associated with a rather more important investigation currently under way; your … second cousin’s activities can be set aside from the suspicions that might linger around his businesses, given the terrible business of last February.”

“If it will help end the rumors of spies and assassins, I am delighted to help.”

Merryman stretched a little trying to adjust to the depth of seat on the sofa. “I can’t promise to rid the event from spies and assassins, for they are the very ones most likely to be involved, but I can make it clear that he was an unlucky target—if that’s what he was.”

“I appreciate your service on behalf of my second cousin, whatever it is, and for telling me what your progress is.” Germyn Rakoczy nodded to Merryman with sardonic gravity. “I hope that once you have your answers, there are no more suspicions from Paris. I am hardly in a position to be much help with the French, you know. And I hope that there are no more persons who are seeking to bring about the ruin of our family, if that accounts in any part for the explosion. There’s been far too much of that already; no matter what happens in Korea, we are not presently at war.” His smile had more sadness than warmth, but Rakoczy went on. “We have been in the Carpathians for many generations, as I must suppose you are aware—you Americans seem to be relentless in your pursuit of information—that our family has long striven to maintain our autonomy among our various national leaders we have had to accommodate. You must have some sympathy for us.”

“Some—yes. But not all,” said Merryman. “Over time, I hope you and yours will establish links with me and mine, in the name of international good will, although I realize that isn’t likely to happen.”

“No,” said Rakoczy. “Probably not.”

“There are a few puzzling aspects of the … incident which I hope we can resolve so that our inquiries in your regard may be concluded, assuming you know anything useful.” He held up an admonitory finger. “But I am not here just to demand an answer, as I said, I am here to inform you as to how matters stand for you and your House in relation to the bomb in Paris.” He looked steadily at Rakoczy. “Will you let me present you with a report?”

“Of course, and welcome,” said Rakoczy; it was more than he had expected. He rose and turned on the standing electric fan in the corner. “This should make the room more comfortable; the heat has made the air stale.”

“It does have a cooling effect,” Merryman said, pushing another pillow into position behind his back, then pulling his briefcase into his lap and opening it. “Thanks for turning it on. Your second cousin was punctilious about the comforts of his guests.”

Rakoczy inclined his head. “What are your questions?” He came back to his chair and sank into it as Merryman handed him a two-inch-thick folder. “Unless you want any of the refreshments I mentioned?”

Merryman smiled. “Very generous of you, Mister Rakoczy, but for the time being, I’m not looking to have a drink, of anything, with or without alcohol. I have heard that you do not drink wine.” He made an unconcerned gesture. “Do you want to go over the file now?”

“Do you think it is necessary?” Rakoczy asked, anticipating the answer; he was not disappointed.

“I would have to return next week rather than conclude my questions now if you believe you need to know all that is contained in that file.”

Again, Rakoczy shrugged. “Then let’s get on with it.” He folded his hands and looked at Merryman, an expectant shine in his dark eyes.

“Excellent,” Merryman approved, and took a notebook and pen from his inner jacket-pocket. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Not at all,” Rakoczy said, making himself a bit more comfortable. “Ask away, Mister Merryman, and I will do all I can to answer you.”

Merryman opened his pen and tested it, making sure the nib was clean and the ink-chamber full. He cleared his throat and prepared to write. “Are you aware of a group calling itself the Ex-Pats’ Coven?”

The room was a bit cooler; the light through the slats in the shutters was becoming blue. At the docks some distance below Eclipse Shipping bright lights came on, and were greeted by the hoots of tug-boats.

“You mean the one in Paris? To a degree, yes. I have seen several copies of a publication called
The Grimoire;
Rogers, my cousin’s manservant, told me a fair amount about them.”

“Are you aware that all the group’s members were considered to be sympathetic to the Soviets and Communism?”

“I have become aware of that, yes,” Rakoczy answered. “I have encountered correspondence between him and his authors within the group.”

“Have you contacted any of those group members? The ones published by Eclipse Press?”

“No. My cousin’s attorneys have done so, in accord with his instructions. Thus far, no emendation to the contracts is required.”

“Do you know that your cousin—second cousin—and Professor Treat were having an affaire? at the time of the bomb-blast?”

“Rogers said something of the sort, in passing.” Rakoczy rubbed his chin, trying to determine what Merryman was looking for.

“No doubt you have an opinion?”

An abrupt, intense memory of his time with Charis in Orleans came back to him, vivid and evocative. “I do, but it is not a fact, and would not help your investigation in any way.” He waited for Merryman to respond.

Merryman leaned forward. “Why not?”

“All right, if you want it. My second cousin liked intelligent women. It would have been surprising if he weren’t pursuing Professor Treat.” He offered a quick half-smile. “There, you see? Nothing useful for you.”

“Um. Speaking of Rogers, can you put me in contact with him? He seems to have disappeared.”

Rakoczy knew at once that this question was crucial to Merryman. “I have surmised from the carbons of some recent letters that Rogers had been preparing to accompany my cousin in a hunt for Lord Weldon, who has been missing for more than a year. My cousin was planning to go in search of him. Rogers undertook the mission as soon as he saw my cousin to his resting place.”

“Any idea where this Rogers is?”

“There was a letter at the end of May, sent from Karaganda, saying he was pressing on to Pavlodar—they’re in the Soviet Un—”

“Union. Yes, I know. Those are pretty remote places.”

“That they are; if I understand what Rogers told me, Lord Weldon prefers remote places,” Rakoczy agreed. “I would recommend sending word to the police in Pavlodar if you feel you must reach him. They will know of any foreigners in the city; Russian police are like that. I don’t know if they will help you, but the police in Karaganda were very helpful when I wrote to them. I can show you the letter, if you’d like.”

“I doubt I’ll need it. I can have the CIA handle it.” He cleared his throat. “How long do you reckon Rogers will be gone?”

“No idea,” said Rakoczy. “We never discussed that.” He felt a poignant sadness come over him; he disliked the need to lie, even as insignificant as these lies were. But the truth would lead to more questions and revelations that he and Hrogre would not want to endure, as had almost happened in Marin County on the day the Golden Gate Bridge was opened; nor did he want to have to vanish again, not so soon, not in this world of telephones and photographs and fingerprints and medical innovations with more of the same to come, so he offered a tight smile. “Or
I
could send him a note, via the police of Pavlodar.”

“That won’t be necessary. We learned a bit from Tolliver Bethune, who was a member of the Ex-Pats’ Coven, and who was involved in several legal issues on behalf of the Coven members. He pointed out a few buildings in Paris that Weldon owns, or owned.” He gave a diplomatic cough. “Your cousin lived in one of them; a handsome apartment building, about forty years old, in excellent condition.”

“That may well be,” said Rakoczy with a hint of boredom in his manner; he realized the last had been a test of his veracity, so he said nothing more.

“Bethune doesn’t think your cousin was a target of the bomb, and neither was Missus Treat,” Merryman went on. “Bethune thinks that it had to do with the Coven, to warn them away from Eclipse and to keep you from helping them by publishing them.” His voice rose at the end of this statement as if it were a question.

“I understand that the bomb’s trigger was linked to the ignition, which suggests that my cousin was the target, wouldn’t you think? The explosion was intended to kill anyone who turned the key in the ignition, and almost all the time, it would be he who turned it.” He said it more brusquely than he had intended, but saw that this had not bothered Merryman.

“How could the bomb-maker know whose car it was?”

Nettled, Rakoczy answered unceremoniously, “My second cousin liked fine automobiles. The drop-nose black Bugatti Typo 101 in front of this building is one of several bequests from him. The car that was blown up was a Jaguar XK120. Not many of those in Paris, or anywhere else.”

“That does make it unlikely that there had been a mistake.” Merryman paused. “Would any of the Coven be able to plant such a bomb?”

“I suppose so,” said Rakoczy, remembering Steve diMaggio’s skill with electronics, and Hapgood Nugent’s reputed familiarity with ordnance. “But I can’t think why any of them would do such a thing.”

“Political reasons?” Merryman inquired.