Cheyney Fox (15 page)

“Ah — the crunch. A little bird told me you are about to spend an evening in a house and get an eyeful of a collection that we reckon is mostly Nazi loot. The owner was a Nazi higher-up. Though he claims to be a Belgian archaeologist. He’s been shacked up in one of King Farouk’s sold-off summer palaces since 1946. Forty-five rooms, stretched out beside the
Nile and surrounded by a fourteen-thousand-acre farm. Two hours by fast car from Cairo. The place has several villages, a small town even. Plus a hush-hush army of uniformed hoods to run the estate like its own little country. It’s a really shut-off place out there in the desert. You see the Nile from in there, but you don’t see in there from the Nile.

“This guy makes his own rules. He even squeezes a bit of respect from men like Helmut Furtwangler and the prince. Mossad has always suspected he’s the Bormann they can’t find. But can they get anywhere near the place or the man to prove it? He’s just clocked up sixty years. Several of the top suspects on Israel’s secret hit lists are suddenly jetting in to Cairo for a twelve-hour stopover. I smell bandits. Something more like a class reunion along with the birthday shenanigans. And you, old buddy, are one of the guests. Specially invited, we suspect, by the birthday boy. Courtesy of the prince, who dangled Helmut Furtwangler as bait. He knows you want a TV profile of the guy.”

“Irving, come on. This is way over the top. Why would a man like that want me at his birthday party? I think your sniffer” — Grant tapped the side of his nose — “is out of order. You
are
playing I-spy.”

“I told you, Grant, that’s not my game. Albert Semanan, the name the birthday boy has tacked onto himself, wants to meet you. He wants to go over your interview with Picasso. He has it on film. He’s always playing it through. Picasso is one of his weaknesses. He has a fabulous collection of his works. You’re going to be one of his best birthday presents. Hearing firsthand all about the man behind the artist.”

“Jesus, Irving, you’ve got some intelligence service going yourself. Who needs the professionals? Suppose all this is true — and it probably is, knowing that you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t — I don’t see how I can help you. I’ll not inform for you. You should know that by now.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Well, what are you asking me, Irving? I’d like to help you find these missing works of art. I might even get a kick from putting them back where they belong. But I don’t spy on people who take me into their confidence. It’d be unethical.”

“Oh, but you can help — and without getting shit on that
shiny lens of yours. Look, I got on to you, Grant, just by coincidence. When you were in Havana grilling Castro for TV, you visited the house of a German there. In Paraguay, you stayed at the ranch of a man called Raymondo Oliveira.”

“Yeah, he’s made himself a big number among collectors of Italian Renaissance art. Big money, plus an extravagant life-style, but buried in a jungle backwater,” interrupted Madigan. The coincidences were making Grant uncomfortable.

“Exactly. You and one other man have shown up more than once at parties given by men I am interested in. A guy called Kurt Walbrook. Viennese, a collector of enormous importance. Do you remember meeting him or his mother, the Baroness Walbrook? Quite a formidable lady.”

“Can’t say I do. And I still don’t see how I can help you, Irving.”

“Grant, we go back a very long time. You know I wouldn’t approach you unless I thought you could help me. And it isn’t just me. It’s hundreds of people who have been robbed of what they busted their asses to collect and preserve. And we’re not just talking of big shots, Grant. In fact, in most cases, just small people: well-to-do Jews, Polish, and Czech aristocrats who collected these things as part of an already cultivated life.

“Walk the streets of Prague, Krakow, Budapest, and think of the empty walls once filled with Pissarros, Degas, Van Goghs, Rembrandts, Poussins, Russian icons, Greek and Roman antiquities. Do you think there were no Polish aristocrats who collected, that had a love of beautiful things? No Jewish bankers who bought Renoir, Matisse, Manet, Cézanne? And what of Paris, Bruges, Antwerp, Rotterdam — all looted for their works of art? What does the world think? They hung calendars on the wall? When the Nazis came, a Monet supplied three people with bread for a month. A Van Dyck and a Reynolds went to a French butcher for one month’s ration of meat for six. And those were the lucky ones, who dealt before their possessions were stolen. There are plenty of stories in my work for a man like you, Grant.

“But put all that aside. What I want is for you to tell me what’s going on behind the scenes. I want to be able to send you photographs of works of art known to be stolen. Then, if you should ever see them, you might just let me know where.
All I’m asking now is for you to keep your eyes open when you go to this birthday party. Just try to remember the pictures you see, the people you meet. It could one day make all the difference to us.”

The two men remained silent for some minutes before Grant rose from his chair. They shook hands and then clasped each other in one of those very nice gestures by which bonds of old friendship are called in and accepted. They walked together to the waiting car.

“When do you leave Cairo?” asked Madigan.

“Tomorrow or the day after. I have some other people I’d like to surprise.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Why? Have you got a number for me?”

“One of the best.”

“Good, tonight’s as good as any to fall in love.”

“Five, nine, eight, seven, two, six. Her name is Caro Hamadi.” The two men exchanged a knowing smile. Grant Madigan slipped into the backseat of the white Mercedes 600 and was swept away toward his rendezvous.

Chapter 15

A
h, Egypt and the Nile. The land of Cleopatra and Queen Hatshepsut, the pharaohs and the Mamelukes, Sobek, the crocodile-headed god. Cairo and the Immobilia Building, the Semiramis Roof. Falafel, kabobs, moulukhiya, the scent of garlic and jasmin. The heat and the sand, Alexandria, and the sea. The dust, the sun, and the city of the dead, the Wadi el Natrun, were never less than inspiring to Grant. Memphis,
the pyramids, and the Sphinx who endures all — heroic, mysterious no matter how many visits he made to them.

Gone was the old Egypt of kings, of pashas, the Wafd, the spoiled and decadent Farouk — and with them the final shreds of a bogus, erotic romanticism fostered by Victorian adventurers and oriental paintings and watercolors and several centuries of unspeakable maladministration of one of the most fascinating countries in the world.

Except, of course, in the imagination, and for the few Cairene aristocrats of great power and wealth who could afford to live out their fantasies in secret. In houses lost in a maze of dark and narrow streets of the old city, or in the Muski, the bazaar, or in tents deep in the desert, or behind the closed doors of beach pavilions.

The new Egypt: a hamburger at the Hilton, an officer’s cap instead of a frayed tarboosh, hard-pressed khaki drill everywhere in the streets. Reminders that the U.A.R. is not the Egypt of the Khedives or of Kitchener. Not even of England’s Eighth Army. Its modern politics and wars held no less interest for Grant Madigan. For him the old and the new Egypt were as one. What was, and what had been, constantly engrossed him. A place where invariably he found a story.

The old and the new Egypt alike reciprocated the affection he showed them, both privately and in the various media he worked with. They were not unappreciative, although sometimes erratic. He had known the country for a good many years, which therefore included both the old and the new nations. The various regimes had alternated between expelling him from the country and making him an honored guest. Egypt and Grant Madigan had an ongoing love affair — but volatile.

He was their current blue-eyed Western media man. He was, in fact, having success all over the Arab world. One result of his recent series on the oil industry and oil power of the Middle East. Another: he had been taken into the fold by Prince Ben El Saud more than a year ago. They had become good friends, which was why he was now speeding in air-conditioned luxury through the desert.

“Is it true that there are rumblings of discontent in your country, Mr. Madigan?” asked the prince, his English edged with a distinct Massachusetts accent. Harvard mingled incongruously
with his stately robes and distinctive headdress.

“I doubt if it’s anything radical. But hope and change are always on the move in my country.”

“From my country unsettling times for the United States appear to be a distinct possibility. Your civil rights alone seems to us an inflammatory issue to be watched carefully, Mr. Madigan.

“There are signals, faint now maybe, that your young people are for nonviolent power, and your New Left. I’m fascinated by the new cultural freaks following on the heels of the fifties. They have risen from nowhere.”

“Well, not exactly from nowhere,” said Grant Madigan, amused at the prince’s concern. “This generation you find unsettling is either a backlash or a progression from the beatnik years of Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso — that lot.”

“A backlash or progression? I don’t know, Grant, I would have to think more about that. Perhaps the rumblings I hear about will simply prove to be a spent flare. But, until then, I suggest to you that they bear watching, your dreamers, who are not dealing with the real world. Your emotional liberals who
think
they are political liberals.”

He began to laugh, then smiled at Grant Madigan, and continued, “Oh, I do like the States and Americans, and your fads and short-lived fixations. Forgive me, Grant, but watching the goings-on in America now is like watching rebellious children in an opulent playground. What do you think is happening over there now, Helmut?”

Grant Madigan was alert for what Helmut Furtwangler might think was happening. He had targeted this man for an in-depth TV interview. The German was sheltering behind a pharmaceutical empire. With his vast wealth he was said to be one of the most powerful men in Europe and South America. Heads of state in various countries felt obliged to acknowledge his influence.

“Is not the real foundation of all movements fear?” asked Helmut Furtwangler. “Fear of loss, of failure. Of falling from one of their numerous band-wagons Americans love so much: stardom, being famous for those few unforgettable minutes. Perhaps a higher ideal and freedom is what Americans are
anxious to wallow in. It will be interesting to watch how your government will handle these freedom dreamers. What mine, and other countries, may do about their influence. I know the states well, Mr. Madigan. I can’t help but wonder what will your average Mr. Kansas and Wyoming, or Mr. Texas, do about more freedom — and nigger power?”

The veiled fascism of these admonitions was no more than Grant Madigan had anticipated from the two men flanking him in the back of the Mercedes 600. The car was one of a convoy of stretch limousines tracing its way through the desert.

“Do I sense that you, sir, feel in some way threatened by these so-called rumblings in the States now?” asked Madigan.

“But of course he does.” That was the Saudi, Prince Ben el Saud, answering. “And well he might! They are setting up black-white polarities: America versus totalitarians, the law versus crime. Freedom against slavery, suburbia confronting the slum. Left versus right. And your young people are trying to force the world to take their side in the name of Coca Cola, and President Kennedy, a Campbell’s soup can for art, and more fun. A higher ideal, equality for all. What has happened to the gray area, that place of live and let live, Madigan?”

“You know, Mr. Madigan, the prince has a point.” Helmut Furtwangler hesitated for a moment. He lit a cigarette, and then continued. “In a democracy, where supposedly there is freedom for all, the intensity of the reaction against the students seeking change in your country tells me you’re in turmoil. Unless your president takes a very sharp turn to the political right, he may not win a second term in office.”

They remained silent for a few minutes, pondering. Not a happy thought for any of the three men. Although each of them had his criticisms and his reservations about President Kennedy, Grant Madigan knew they looked to him, as did most of the anticommunist countries, as their greatest hope. The first leader for a decade who looked as if he might bring lasting peace to the world. In spite of the Cuban fiasco at the Bay of Pigs. A kind of integrity beyond the mere glamour made him the world leader they had been waiting for. He was now keenly watched to see what he could deliver. Most of what hope there currently was for the world was vested in him. At worst, his charisma put a fresh buzz into world affairs.

“Grant, you’ve spent a great deal of time with the president preparing for that extended talk you had with him on American TV. Do you really think your President Kennedy, his clan, and
his
Camelot, are in control of the situation? They are not, maybe, too liberal? Is it not possible they are playing the game of the right-wing liberal — to keep what your papers call the New Left in check? A high-risk game. One can make powerful enemies on both the Left and the Right playing games like that.”

Before Grant Madigan could answer, the prince held up his hand to silence him, and continued:

“I am, as you know, a staunch supporter of the United States, and in particular Jack and Bobby Kennedy. I like to think they are personal friends. But I am in my country, sometimes, a voice very much alone in this. Fortunately for you and your countrymen, I have the ear of my father. Through me, he sounds out what’s happening in the States. He is keeping his options open. But, I might tell you, he doubts that all this hope and glory, this fanciful drift to the Left, will be tolerated by the right-wing factions that in the end dictate to your democracy.”

“Gentlemen, I think you have forgotten that President Kennedy is listening to the people, moving with the times, not bucking them. You surprise me. You were not far from him, Herr Furtwangler, when he said, ‘
Ich bin ein Berliner
.’ He’s more the friend of Europe than you think. Why are you so afraid of his power as a liberal president of the United States? He’s no more or less powerful than any of the presidents we’ve had in the last thirty years. He just inspires more hope for a different future than most.”

“Precisely.”

There was a sense of menace in the way Helmut Furtwangler enunciated that single word. It’s obscure insinuations stifled the conversation.

Their attention was diverted by the ball of orange-red sun sinking through a sky of bruised blue, mauve-tinged with pink, behind the sand dunes. The limousines sped over a well-maintained track.

The dunes gave way to hillocks of crumbling stone and drifts of sand. The cavalcade of cars sped through a pass and into a
canyon, out the other side to a hidden valley where the sand-swept terrain abruptly yielded to a dark earth rich in vegetation. A ribbon of green sprouting half a mile wide on one bank of the Nile, with golden desert on the other.

Between clouds of dust they could glimpse some distance ahead the palace of cream-colored marble reflecting a bright coral-pink from the setting sun. A splendid, three-story affair spread out along the river. Square towers of some elegance and grace rose from vast stone terraces and decorative marble balustrades, made more impressive by the curved staircases that swept down to the sumptuous gardens culminating on the banks of the Nile.

Still a good distance away, it appeared to sit in its exotic setting like a wedding-cake replica of the most elegant
fin de
French
palais
. A confection of utter architectural delight. On white camels colorfully draped and tassled, an escort rode out to bring the convoy of cars to the palace. World politics and America’s sociological upheavals were drowned out as the riders fired rifles above their heads to proclaim the arrival of guests.

Grant had sensed that they were stepping back in time when they passed through the Nile villages. They had been greeted with subservient bows by the fellahin, peasants, in their turbans and caftans, the women swathed in black, except for bare hands and feet. Silver jewelry, glass beads, and bangles brightened their costumes. Dark, sultry eyes were outlined heavily in kohl. Swarms of scruffy, barefoot children laughingly chased beside the cars.

They had stopped at several checkpoints since they turned off the main road. Clusters of uniformed security guards, armed with rifles and automatic weapons, scrutinized the identity of those in the cars against their guest lists. But now, as the cars pulled up to the grand staircase leading to the terrace, all that seemed primitive and superfluous, so refined, sumptuous and chillingly beautiful was the palace. Even the sounds: Wagner,
Parsifal
, Grant registered, exhaled from somewhere deep inside the palace. Wagner on the Nile. A little heavy, that, thought Grant, and then, as he mounted the stairs, Why not? It’s no more outlandish than anything else in this unlikely country.

The prince and his party were greeted on the stairs by their host. The guests were drinking champagne as they wandered between the terrace and the grand salon, through tissue-thin, white silk curtains that covered the two-story-high French windows capped with arched yellow canopies. It was a balmy Egyptian November evening. Grant felt for a moment mesmerized by the setting sun that had turned the palace bright coral and seduced by the undulating silk curtains gently rippling in the evening breeze.

The man was handsome, looking more like forty than sixty. Striking, but cold. An icy, somewhat inhuman handsome. Grant filed it as plastic-surgery handsome that had made time stand still for this face. The eyes were unimaginably cruel.

He emanated a powerful authority. Madigan’s traveling companions were at once under his spell. The almost theatrical click of heels together, the drop of a head in the old Prussian bow, the tremble of excitement in Furtwangler’s voice as he assured his host, in German, how honored he was and grateful to share this evening with his old-time friend. Grant saw tears brimming in Helmut’s eyes.

He heard the man say: “Helmut, Helmut, my oldest and closest friend, from those times when we worked together. What a life it has been — and still is. There are people here, our old colleagues, eager to see you after so many years.”

Grant recognized a Teutonic sentimentality he despised. He saw it too in other groups of men talking and laughing together on the terrace. If Irving were ever to ask how was the party, Grant would have to admit he’d been right: it was more like a class reunion. Goddamn you, Irving, and your sensitive hooter, he said to himself. Furious, because as usual his old friend had caught the whiff of something big before he had.

Albert Semanan shook Grant Madigan’s hand. Their eyes met, and Grant got the idea that he had just shaken the hand of some bad news for humanity.