Chameleon

  "A dismal viewpoint, I must say."

  "Realistic. The script is already written."

  "Let's hope you're wrong this time."

  "I have a reputation, Frazer. I've never associated, in any way, with anything unsavory. I can help AMRAN, but only if you agree to listen to me and accept my advice. The price is a thousand dollars a day. Thirty days payable in advance. If we go beyond that, you pay another thirty days in advance. And I reserve the right to step out anytime I feel your decisions might place me in jeopardy. That's my standard deal, take it or leave it."

  "Well, of course I'll run this by management and—"

  "This is Friday, Frazer. I will expect your answer by Monday. Say five P.M.? You can send me a message aboard the Gulf Star."

  "That's a bit short, what with—"

  Lavander's face clouded up. He was becoming impatient. He cut Frazer off. "Right now Hensell's U.S. output is about twenty thousand barrels a day. The company's reserves are down to—I'm guessing, of course—sixty million forty-two-gallon barrels. One of the reasons Hensell was going under, they were buying sixty percent of their crude from the Middle East. At premium. Hmmm?"

  Frazer stared across the table at Lavander. His neck was turning pink under the ears.

  Lavander pressed on. "Point is, Mr. Frazer, your AMRAN was sold a bill of goods by Hensell's people. You bought a pig"—he stopped and laughed—"without looking in the poke."

  You insufferable bastard, Frazer thought. But he kept his temper. His job was to keep his temper.

  "What's going to happen, old chap, is that AMRAN is going to have to dip into its oil capital, so to speak. Tap the reserves of the other members of the consortium, to reduce Hensell's Middle East commitments. And then, sir, you are on dangerous ground, having to explain oil reserves you supposedly don't have. The Mafia has the same problem trying to wash its money. You're going to have to wash your oil." He chuckled again, then added, "Enough free advice for one day."

  Anger burned deep in Frazer's stomach, but he had to keep playing the game. "So what would you suggest?"

  "I suggest you retain me to keep you out of the soup and to clean up this mess."

  Frazer stared at him across the top of his coffee cup. "That's why we're here," he said slowly, after a several-second pause.

  Lavander raised his eyebrows. He looked down into his teacup. "I see—hmm ... I see a message and the message says, 'Frazer doesn't have the authority to make a commitment.' Am I correct?"

  "My job is simply to open up negotiations. We know by your reputation that you can help us. The question is, Can we afford you?"

  "A grain of salt in the ocean. Of course you can afford me. I can help you. The ball is in your court. Let me know." He started to get up.

  Frazer said, "Uh, perhaps we have a little something extra in the kitty."

  "Ahh?"

  Frazer took out a pint jar from his briefcase and set it on the table. It contained sand, sand as white as sugar but streaked with a black compound. Frazer picked it up and shook it, then looked at Lavander and smiled. He held the jar toward Lavander and said, "I've heard you can look at a core sample and taste it and tell within two city blocks what part of the world it came from and how rich the strike might be."

  Lavander could not conceal his curiosity. But he did not touch the jar. "When we have concluded our business, Frazer."

  He's a crazy old coot, all right, Frazer thought. Crazy-smart. He's playing games. Corporate one-upmanship.

  Frazer was more interested in results. "I am authorized to retain you for a minimum of sixty days," he said. "We will have sixty thousand, in gold, in whatever account you desire, Monday morning, when the banks open." He smiled and jiggled the jar again. "Care to see our hole card?"

  Lavander looked at the jar, his brown eyes aglitter. But he still made no move to take it. He was caught in an inner struggle between commerce and curiosity. "I'll be traveling for the next two weeks or so," he said. "Will that be a problem?"

  "Not at all, sir. We'd like you in Houston by the first of the month."

  "Then it's acceptable," he said. "Uh ... may I?"

  "Of course," Frazer said. He's taking the bait, he told himself. We will soon know.

  Lavander took the jar and held it up as if it were a rare diamond. He spread a paper napkin on the table and smoothed it out with his hands. Then he opened the jar, shook several grams of the sand onto the napkin and recorked the jar. He held up the napkin between his hands, making a trough of it, and shook the sand around, watching it carefully. He put the napkin back on the table, took out a jeweler's glass, and separating the grains with the handle of a spoon, stared intently at them through the loupe. He dipped his tongue into the sand, tasting it as a wine steward might sample a vintage bottle.

  Frazer watched him with interest. Gone for the moment were the egocentricities and the sarcasm, replaced by a pro at work. Lavander scooped up some of the sand and let it run through his fingers, back onto the napkin.

  His lips were moving like a palsied old man's: "Semitropical to tropical. Not Africa ... let's see, let's see ... the Middle East? No, wrong color. Not coarse enough ... hmm ... a little too fine for Mexico. Or California ... hmm."

  He stopped suddenly, peering up at Frazer for a fraction of a second, then, just as quickly, looking back.

  He's on to it, Frazer thought. Now let's see what he does next.

  Lavander made a funnel of the napkin, poured the sand back into the jar and handed it to Frazer. "I'd like some more tea," he said. As Frazer turned to summon the waitress, Lavander folded the napkin, with two or three grams of sand in it, and slipped it into his pocket. Frazer acted as if he hadn't noticed; instead he said, "Well, let's see how good you are!"

  Lavander seemed wary. "Central Pacific," he said, "someplace north of New Zealand. Perhaps somewhere along the Tonga Trench."

  "I've just agreed to pay you sixty thousand dollars as a retainer for two months' work, sir," said Frazer. "And the first thing you do is try to bullshit me."

  "I beg your pardon!"

  Now it was Frazer who took the offensive. "You know that core sample didn't come from anywhere near New Zealand."

  "Then why ask?"

  "It's supposed to be your forte."

  "Testing me?"

  "Why not? All I know is your reputation. And I knew that before I got here. How about the quality of that strain?"

  "You know the quality, Frazer."

  Frazer nodded very slowly.

  "I'm dealing in approximations now. Guesses," said Lavander. "To be accurate, I'd need some time in the lab."

  "We have all that," Frazer said. "I just want you to know we had good reason to make the deal with Hensell."

  "This is from the Hensell properties?" Lavander said with surprise.

  "It wasn't in the package as part of their oil property, Hensell acquired the tracts for other reasons. Our engineers more or less blundered into it, testing core samples for something else."

  "I see."

  "We feel we're on to something, see what I mean? Nobody else is even aware there could be oil in this area."

  Lavander had lost control of the meeting, temporarily. Now was the time to get the ball back. "You're wrong," he said flatly, and let the remark hang there for effect.

  "Wrong?"

  "Where is this field, roughly," Lavander said quietly, almost whispering.

  Frazer leaned over the table. "North of Micronesia, roughly."

  Lavander's ego was wavering, his need to put Frazer in his place and control the meeting becoming obsessive. "There is a strike ... uh, northwest of there. Very high quality, just like yours."

  "Impossible."

  "I'm telling you a fact," Lavander said, bristling at the thought that his word should be questioned.

  "We've had photographic aerial surveillance, very high resolution, and the entire area for three thousand miles has been scanned by satellite. Nothing between us and Japan."

  "And I'm telling you,
there's a strike ... not some core sample—a strike!"

  "Where?"

  "Between you and ... Japan. Could even be part of the same strata."

  So there it is, Frazer thought—he actually said it. His ego's bigger than his discretion, a fatal personality flaw.

  "Look," Frazer said, "you've convinced me. I'm off for Mexico tonight to meet my wife. I'll take care of your business Monday morning and see you in Houston on the first. Our offices, nine A.M.?"

  "Excellent, I like an early start," Lavander agreed, and then, "Oh! The check!"

  "On me," Frazer insisted and summoned the waitress.

  Lavander said goodbye and scurried from the shop. After Frazer had paid the check, he picked up his newspaper and walked outside, tore it in half and dropped it in a waste container.

  Hinge had had less than an hour to plan the elimination of Lavander. He had left Eliza's car and had driven his own Datsun to a dark side street just off the square, where he parked and got the small bag from the trunk. Inside were a cigar-type blowgun, a hypodermic needle, a small vial of mercury and a double-edged knife in an arm sheath. The knife blade was eight inches long and sharpened on both edges.

  Beautiful.

  Simple tools for a simple job. In all probability he would not need the dart gun.

  No guns. Carrying a gun in Jamaica could be inviting trouble. Besides, this job did not call for bullets.

  He strapped the sheathed knife to his left forearm. Then he loaded three drops of mercury in the syringe opening, inserted the needle in the cigar blowgun and put it in his shirt pocket.

  Fast and neat, he thought. Nothing complicated. Hit and run. Lavander would be an easy mark. Now to find the spot.

  His information on the mark was skimpy and of little value, but he did know that normally Lavander preferred walking to taking cabs, particularly over short distances.

  Hinge hurriedly measured the distance from the square to the pier, by walking the obvious route first and heading away from the square and down the main street four blocks and then west another two. He arrived at the pier in seven minutes. During the next forty minutes he tracked back to the square, figuring the various combinations Lavander might choose if he tried a short cut. There were few paths he could take. The toughest for Hinge would be if he stuck to the main street. It was fairly well lit and there was a lot of traffic. The others had led him down long narrow side streets through the warehouse district.

  By the time Lavander had arrived at the pastry shop, Hinge was waiting across the square. He watched the minidrama unfold in the shop. He had the advantage on Lavander. Lavander had to cross the square on the way back to the ship, and Hinge, who was between Lavander and the ship, had a good head start when Lavander left.

  Hinge first concentrated on Frazer, saw him leave the shop and tear his newspaper in half, throwing it in a litter barrel. With this simple move, Frazer had approved the death of Lavander. Now Hinge began stalking his prey.

  Lavander stopped a local and asked for directions. Hinge watched the man, first indicating a route down the main drag, arcing his hand off to the left, then pointing straight down through the warehouses.

  Lavander decided to take the short cut.

  Hinge was elated. He hurried down the main street two blocks and cut west to the end of one of the long passages. And he waited.

  Lavander was sweating by the time he reached Talisman Way, a narrow, cobblestone alley barely broad enough for two people to pass comfortably, stucco warehouse walls rising on either side, cutting off what light there was. But Lavander could see the lights from the pier at the other end. He started down. Thunder mumbled overhead and a streak of lightning lit the passage for a second.

  He was perhaps halfway down the tunnel-like walk when a man appeared at the other end and started toward him. Lavander felt momentary panic. But in the dim light at the end of the street, he saw that the man was dressed in a suit and was white, so he assumed he was a tourist. Nevertheless, he quickened his pace. The man coming toward him was whistling.

  As they drew closer together the man stopped whistling and said good-naturedly, "Hey, pal, how about a little ginja? Best in Jamaica."

  Lavander, his face burning with indignation, turned angrily, looking up at the man. "I'm not interested in your damn—"

  He never finished the sentence. As he started it he was aware of a blur of movement, a sudden burning sensation in his neck, and his voice seemed to fade and the man was smiling at him, he could see the hard edges of his face, lit from the pier lights spilling into the street, and the man was holding something in front of Lavander's eyes and Lavander seemed to have trouble focusing, then saw what it was, a stiletto, its thin blade soiled by a splash of blood, and then it was gone and he felt something tug his suit jacket and then the back pocket of his pants and the man was wiggling something else in front of his face and it was Lavander's wallet, and Lavander felt as though he were in a dream and he could not feel his feet and he was floating and then he tasted salt and the burning sensation in his throat turned to fire. He looked down, saw a bubbling, crimson stain down the front of his white suit, then saw more crimson splashing down, and he realized it was his own blood and he opened his mouth to scream but his windpipe was filled with blood and he grabbed at it and a finger slipped into the slit in his throat.

  The ground began to blur, to spin away from him.

  He could see his feet, moving one in front of the other, but there was no feeling in them.

  Something hit his knees and it was a few moments before he realized he had fallen.

  Lavander began to crawl toward the lights, trying to scream, to attract attention, but there wasn't anybody to hear him and then he felt the edge of the building and he crawled out onto the pavement and looked up and saw the face of a woman and she opened her mouth and seemed to be screaming, only he could hear nothing. He tried to speak, but his teeth started to chatter and for a moment his body was racked with spasms and then his back arched and he fell face down into King Street and died.

  At the airport Frazer checked in and confirmed his reservation. Then he walked across the terminal and stood near the public phones. He had been there ten minutes when the first phone in the line rang. He picked it up immediately.

  "This is Mr. Jackson," he said.

  "Avery Jackson?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  The cold flat voice on the other end said, "The package has been delivered."

  "Any problems?" Frazer asked.

  "Nothing I can't take care of."

  "Thanks very much."

  Frazer hung up, smiling with satisfaction as he left the booth. Ten minutes later his plane was announced. He bought a copy of Paris-Match and an Italian edition of Playboy in the newsstand and then boarded his plane.

  Hinge hung up the phone and went back to his car. A rumble of thunder rolled slowly across the sky, and dark clouds drifted past the face of a full moon. Lightning shimmered among them and he felt the first tentative drops of rain. He ignored them. He was a few hundred yards from the entrance to the Half Moon Bay Club. He drove down to the palm-lined entrance and parked the car in the shadows, and hunching his shoulders against the raindrops that began pelting him, he hurried down to the beach. He stayed well back from the ocean as he studied the layout of the sprawling beachfront hotel, actually scurrying away from one small ripple of a wave.

  The beach swung in a wide crescent from the squat two-story hotel at one end to the far side, where a stone breakwater separated its beach from that of the Holiday Inn. The registration desk was attached to the main building but was in the open, under a roof of shingles covered with palm fronds. Adjacent to it was an open-air bar and restaurant overlooking the bay. People were moving under the shingled awnings to escape the rain while a calypso band, accustomed to sudden storms, continued playing in the restaurant, its steely music echoing out across the bay.

  The cottages began just beyond the restaurant, stretching around to the breakwater. They were
built fifty or sixty feet from the water's edge, one-story stucco units, most of them dark. He counted them. Eighteen in all. Lights gleamed from the last three in the line. Despite the impending storm, the sea was placid, slapping lazily at the shore.

  It started raining harder as he followed the beach to cottage 16.

  13

  O'HARA AND THE MAGICIAN ARRIVED at Eliza's cottage two minutes after she did. She stammered as she described her encounter with Hinge, the terror still in her eyes.

  "You're lucky," O'Hara said. "He probably didn't have time to chase you." He shook his head. "We acted like a bunch of amateurs this time around."

  "I'm the amateur," Eliza said. "If—"

  "Nobody's t'blame," said the Magician.

  "Yeah," said O'Hara, "we fumbled in the clutch. Best thing we can do is move on."

  The bright spring colors of the cottage, the yellow-and-green-print slipcovers, the vase with cut flowers on the dresser and fresh fruit on the night tables did not help their mood. They sat glumly mulling over their options.

  "Maybe we should call the police, at least they could put out an APB on Lavander and Hinge," Eliza suggested.

  "This isn't the Bronx," O'Hara said. "I doubt they have ten cops on this end of the island."

  "What a mess," Eliza said, genuinely concerned over Lavander's welfare, or lack thereof.

  The Magician scratched an unshaven chin. "Well," he said, "you think this is bad, how'd you like to be caught in the middle of a fight between six truck drivers and fourteen midgets in the Soperton, Georgia, Waffle House at one o'clock in the morning?"

  "What!" Eliza said, and started to giggle.

  "This is about ten years ago. I was down on my uppers and playing calliope for a little half-assed circus, and it went broke in Texarkana and there we were, stranded in the middle of nowhere. So I got the fourteen midgets together and formed this basketball team. I thought it would be a real novelty, them riding on each other's shoulders to make baskets, running between the opponent's legs, stuff like that. Only it turned out to be a one-line joke, funny for about half the first quarter, after that the audience started throwing their popcorn boxes at us. We were stuck in Dalton-fuckin'-Georgia, with all our games canceled, so broke we were rubbing buffalo nickels together hoping they'd mate.