Snatch Page 5

  He had never mentioned the incident. He had understood. Diplomats always understood.

  But the incident had happened.

  Christina was a terrific asset during business as usual, but given a crisis, she was supposed to withdraw and leave matters in the hands of the professionals. And they had been living under crisis circumstances for an inhumanly long time.

  She still loved Teddy, but flying out to California, alone, divorce had been very much on her mind. She could make a home for Toby in Flemmington, Pennsylvania, where he would be safe and would know he was loved. She could go back to being involved in the lives of the people in her town, people she knew and loved—real people.

  After her ten days of tennis and sunlight and swimming at the All Stars’ Tennis Camp, Christina felt much stronger. She had not dropped the idea of divorce or, at least, separation from Teddy. She could, though, admit she still loved him.

  For the moment she had decided to spend as much time as possible with Toby and try to discover how he felt about the school in New Hampshire, about never seeing his parents, about being yanked about by one adult after another.

  She believed her vacation with Toby was going to be the most crucial few days of her life.

  * * *

  In leaving the airport, Christina suffered an agony the likes of which she had never known nor thought possible. Her heart, her mind, her nerves could not accept the idea of Toby kidnapped.

  She drove stiffly, her legs braced with tension, fingers tight on the wheel, tears rolling down her cheeks below her sunglasses.

  Rested, relaxed, she had begun to think she could get on top of her problems.

  Someone has taken Toby!…Toby!…My God, my God….Someone has taken Toby….

  Eight

  In his apartment in Washington, Cord came out of the bathroom and answered the bedside princess phone.

  “Cord? Something’s wrong.”

  Cord’s answer was sharp, annoyed. “How could there be? The kid was snatched. I already spoke with the Ambassador. On that private number you gave me.”

  “He was snatched, but not by Dubrowski.”

  “Turnbull, what are you talking about?”

  “The chap at the airport who picked up Tobias Rinaldi was not Dubrowski. The housekeeper’s description doesn’t fit. Dubrowski’s a big, muscular, handsome guy. Mrs. Brown describes the airline representative who snatched the kid as short, heavy shouldered—”

  “Descriptions people give are never accurate.”

  “—with a glass eye. She couldn’t have been mistaken about that, Cord.”

  Cord sat on the edge of his bed. “Gus….”

  “What happened to Dubrowski, Cord?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you give him any money in advance?”

  “Yes. Some.”

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “You gave five thousand dollars to a junkie?”

  “He’s been straight, Gus. Gone into the body-beautiful bit. I used him on that thing in Rome, the bomb—”

  “Cord, right now we don’t know where the kid is or who has him. Where’s Dubrowski? Answer me that! Who is this other boyo who grabbed the kid?”

  Simon Cord studied his white feet on the aquamarine rug. “I don’t know, Gus.”

  “You bloody well better find out, Cord.”

  “I’ll go to New York—”

  “I’m on my way to the West Coast. The kid’s mother is out there, and the kid knows it. You find Dubrowski.”

  “I will, Gus. Don’t agitate your fat.”

  * * *

  Simon Cord shaved as carefully as always.

  When he had been called to the United Nations and given the assignment to kidnap the Rinaldi boy by the Nine Nation Coalition, by training he immediately had set about two tasks. The first was to get someone else to commit the actual crime, preferably a known criminal, an ex-convict, devoid of political interest, for an amount of money substantial enough so that when the time arrived to maim the boy, later to murder him, the tasks would be carried off without hesitation. Donald Dubrowski had served two sentences for robbery. Twice he had been indicted for but not convicted of murder. He had had a drug habit, but the last time he had left prison he was clean and determined to stay clean. Although a little past his prime for such a sport, he had put in between forty and fifty hours a week body-building. For ten thousand dollars, Cord had assigned him to blow up the car of an Italian banker in Rome. Dubrowski had done so, killing the banker, his driver, and a woman and child who had been waiting on the sidewalk for a bus. The assignment had not fazed him even slightly. For this Rinaldi assignment Cord had agreed to pay Dubrowski fifty thousand dollars. He had given him five thousand in advance.

  Cord’s second immediate task had been to secure someone in the Rinaldi household to cooperate with him, provide information about the family’s travel plans, security arrangements, etc. This had proved remarkably easy. A decade before, he and Augustus Turnbull had known each other in Cairo. It was simple enough, as an old friend, to call up Turnbull and invite him to lunch. The representatives of the Nine Nation Coalition had identified Augustus Turnbull as His Majesty’s chief of Secret Intelligence in the United States.

  Like any two businessmen discussing a deal of some dimensions, they enjoyed a long lunch against one wall of the Four Seasons. Cord saw to it that Turnbull had plenty of gin. Gently, he sounded Turnbull out about the Rinaldi family. Turnbull’s caginess dissipated with remarkable alacrity.

  Turnbull’s hatred for the Rinaldi family was personal, profound, obsessive, insane. Speaking of them, his face reddened, his hands shook. Cord was surprised to see Turnbull had gained so much weight in ten years. He did not seem to be in complete control of his emotions. Cord gave him a long, drinking afternoon and early evening. Turnbull fantasized they were back in Cairo and told Cord everything.

  A few days later, they met again. Turnbull did not remember having told Cord so much. Cord remembered. He assured Turnbull he would spoil Turnbull’s plans for the Rinaldi family if Turnbull did not cooperate with him. He also assured Turnbull that Turnbull’s best way of implementing his own plans for the Rinaldi family was to work with Cord. Once they had completed this assignment successfully, Turnbull could destroy the Rinaldi family, individually and as savagely as he liked. Cord would help.

  Turnbull, Turnbull, Turnbull. Cord wiped the lather off his face. He wondered if he had made two mistakes: Dubrowski and Turnbull.

  Nine

  “Have there been any calls for me?” The young woman behind the tennis camp’s reception desk radiated untroubled health and happiness. “Christina Rinaldi. Has anyone called for me?”

  “No, Mrs. Rinaldi. No calls.”

  “I mean, someone didn’t call and you said I’d checked out, or anything?”

  “No. I’ve been here at the switchboard since two o’clock.”

  Christina found herself leaning forward, ribs suddenly against the high reception desk.

  “No calls for me…?”

  Concern flickered in the young woman’s face. She thinks I’m staggering drunk, Christina realized.

  “Listen,” Christina said. “I have a problem. Something’s come up. I have to have my room back.”

  “Your room?”

  “Yes. I need to—I have to stay the night.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rinaldi.” The girl looked at her chalk board. “We’ve given your room to a Mrs. Uhlmann, from Toronto. She’s already arrived, I’m afraid.”

  “Some other room,” Christina said. “You must have some other room available. Anything.”

  “No,” the girl said. “This is our busy season. Every room is taken.” Again she looked at her chalk board. “If you’re having trouble with your travel arrangements, I could phone around and find a room for you in a motel until you get things straightened out—”

  “No!” Christina’s right hand was a tight fist on the reception desk. “I hav
e to stay here! It’s very important!” She knew she was speaking too loudly. People always speak too loudly when there are things they can’t say. “Please,” Christina said senselessly, “can’t you help me?”

  The young woman stared into Christina’s eyes.

  “Mrs. Rinaldi, are you all right?”

  “Look,” Christina said. Tell no one Toby is missing, Teddy had said. “Listen. This is the only telephone number my son has for me. If I’m not here…”

  “Your son can’t be very old,” the girl commented.

  “He isn’t. He’s just a little boy.”

  The girl looked at her chalk board again, hesitated.

  “Please,” Christina said.

  “I suppose you could take a staff bungalow. Mark, one of our tennis pros, is away, playing in the C.R.A. tournament in Santa Barbara.”

  “Oh, yes. Please. Anything.”

  The young woman looked into Christina’s eyes again, to confirm that something was seriously wrong, something she didn’t understand. “We’ve never done this before. The bungalow’s probably quite a mess. Twenty-five-year-old bachelor—God knows what you’ll find. No housekeeping.”

  “That’s marvelous,” Christina said. “I really appreciate this.”

  “Hang on,” the young woman said. “I’ll get Mark’s key. I’m sure he won’t mind. I—I think it’s upstairs in my jacket.”

  Ten

  On the flight to San Francisco, Colonel Augustus Turnbull was assigned an aisle seat in the Non-Smoking, first-class section.

  A man was sitting in the window seat.

  When Turnbull opened the overhead locker to stow his own coat, the other man’s coat and two packages fell out.

  Turnbull dumped them in his lap.

  “Why don’t you go sit somewhere else?” Turnbull asked.

  He slammed the locker hatch closed and fitted his girth to the wide seat. He then aimed a kick at the man’s attaché case, under the chair in front of them. The man’s case sprung open.

  Turnbull turned slightly toward the man, folded his hands over his stomach and stared at him.

  The man’s eyes were roaming around the first-class section.

  The stewardess leaned over them. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing I can’t solve,” the man said.

  Leaning over, he closed his attaché case and picked it up. Holding it and his coat and packages, he stood up. “I’m changing my seat, stewardess.”

  The stewardess glanced at Turnbull. “That’s fine, sir. There are other seats available.”

  Turnbull snorted.

  “Would you let the gentleman out, please, sir?”

  Sighing, as if he were doing everyone a favor, Turnbull stood up and moved into the aisle. At the man’s first step into the aisle, Turnbull pushed past him and squeezed into his own seat again.

  He listened to the stewardess settling the man into a seat two rows behind him.

  The stewardess then leaned over Turnbull again.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “Yes,” Turnbull answered. “You can turn off that scratching music.”

  “The music, sir, is for the enjoyment of the other passengers.”

  “This passenger isn’t enjoying it.”

  “Once airborne, sir, would you like me to bring you a glass of champagne?”

  “Double bourbon for me.”

  “Yes, sir. Please fasten your safety belt. I’d hate to lose you, sir.”

  Turnbull leaned out to watch the muscles in the stewardess’s calves as she walked up the aisle. He sighed. He pulled up the chair arm to his left and let himself expand wider in the seats.

  Turnbull didn’t know quite how he became so fat. One day he just noticed a pounding in his temples, a ringing in his ears, a shortness of breath and looked at himself.

  He was covered with blubber.

  His life had been active—physically very active. He had always been able to eat five square meals a day. It had always burned off in physical activity.

  Once he became His Majesty’s chief of Intelligence in the United States, his physical activity became negligible. He spent hours a day on the telephone directing his operatives, hours a day in cocktail lounges and restaurants, wining and dining government officials: members of Congress, the military, the various departments.

  Again, Turnbull snorted. That blithering idiot Rinaldi—Ambassador Teodoro Rinaldi—thinks he’s done the work on Resolution 1176R. Turnbull patted his stomach.

  Colonel Augustus Turnbull knew the truth.

  The music went off. They became airborne. The stewardess immediately brought him a plastic glass with ice cubes in it and two shot-bottles of bourbon.

  Colonel Augustus Turnbull had had great difficulty even being in a room with Teodoro Rinaldi. Looking at him. Talking to him. Listening to him. Pretending to question him. Watching the man’s servants march before him.

  Turnbull realized it was a good thing he had played out the questioning. He had expected to know the answers. Impatiently, brusquely, he had interrogated the Ambassador, savoring his own superior knowledge and role in this affair. He had Rinaldi where he wanted him.

  Mrs. Brown was speaking. Turnbull was not listening closely. What was she saying? What did the man at the airport look like? He asked for the man’s description again.

  It wasn’t Dubrowski.

  The Rinaldi child was really missing….

  Turnbull swallowed his double bourbon in one gulp. He slammed his chair back into a reclining position. He heard the woman behind him say, “Ouch! Hey….” He put his head back against the cushion.

  He’d have to be far more coy with Christina Rinaldi than he had been with the Ambassador. To find the kitten, follow the cat.

  The bourbon sloshed in his stomach.

  * * *

  The man who rode in the Jeep. The small, white man with the mustache that was too big for his face. The plantation owner. A high government official. Very close to the King.

  The boy, Augustus, knew this was only one of the rich man’s plantations. Far from the capitol.

  The owner visited the plantation only twice a year, once in the fall and once in the spring. He was driven around in his Jeep.

  When he would pass by the small, dusty frame house where Augustus lived with his mother, she would watch the Jeep, watch him. Her face would be totally expressionless.

  The rich man in the Jeep would never wave or look her way.

  When the rich man came to their house after dark, he always drove the Jeep himself. There was never anyone with him.

  There had been other children in the Turnbull family, but they were so much older Augustus had only a dim impression of them. One son went to work on a neighboring plantation and was never heard from again. Another joined His Majesty’s Army. Turnbull discovered later he had been beaten to death in a barracks fight. Still later he heard a whorehouse in Mosul, Iraq, was run by a woman named Turnbull, and Augustus wondered if she were his half sister. He never went to that whorehouse.

  The senior Turnbull had been the overseer of the rich man’s plantation.

  Augustus had heard the story of his death many times. It had happened two or three years before he was born.

  Turnbull had fallen into a threshing machine.

  The workers brought him back to the house in a wagon dragged by a mule, but by the time they got him there he had bled to death.

  His mother told him many times of her looking into the back of the wagon. Her husband’s body was so bloody and mangled she had difficulty understanding what it was.

  She always spoke of the flies. Her husband’s body was black with flies.

  Augustus and his mother lived alone in the house—except for the nights the owner was there.

  The man who rode in the Jeep. The small, white man with the mustache that was too big for his face.

  The man who rode his mother.

  Rinaldi.

  “Augustus! Come here! Come her
e this instant!!”

  He was eight years old. Just the age, now, of Teodoro Rinaldi’s son.

  “Augustus!! Here!”

  It was his mother calling.

  When the owner came to the house in the Jeep after dark, Augustus always stayed in the back of the house. Sometimes there was yelling, sometimes laughter.

  Tonight there had been yelling.

  The kerosene light in the front room was hard on his eyes.

  His mother’s nightdress had been torn. Her left breast hung out. The nipple looked red, inflamed.

  Rinaldi stood near the upright piano. There was something wrong with his eyes. They were watery, red. He was swaying.

  “Your son, Rinaldi,” his mother said.

  Rinaldi said, “So what?”

  “So don’t think I can’t get myself to the capitol.”

  Rinaldi put his hand on top of the piano, lowered his forehead onto his wrist. “You’d be shot before you were ten miles from here. Who cares anyway? Who’d believe you?”

  His mother said, “Everyone.”

  “Who cares?” Rinaldi asked again.

  “You have another son now. Your official son. Little Teodoro. Your wife.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You promised a lot, Rinaldi, Enough money to live on. Luther died working for you.”

  “He fell in the threshing machine. He was drunk.”

  “You’re sober?”

  “I’m not working a threshing machine.”

  “You said proper education for the boy—for Augustus—a proper education.”

  Rinaldi raised his head. He was sweating. It took him a moment to refocus his eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  “Money to go to England. I can’t stand this heat anymore. The food. The flies. I’m old, Rinaldi, now. I’m thirty-nine. I look like I’m in my fifties. The heat, the sun. The flies. Just money. Just to go to England. That’s all I want now.”

  “You’d never adjust.”

  “I can’t live here anymore. I can’t stand it. The isolation. I’ve given you enough. You’ve got to let me go!”

  Rinaldi focused on Augustus.

  “Yes,” she said. “School. School for the boy.”