The Kaisho (3 page)

“You said something about an offer.”

Do Duc nodded, noting the choice of her response as well as the coolness of her voice. “That’s right. We both have something the other wants.” He allowed a smile to spread over his face. “For instance, I want to know where Dominic Goldoni is.”

A look of relief came over Margarite, and she laughed. “Then you’ve come to the wrong person. Ask the feds. I have no idea where my brother is.” Then she snorted derisively. “Now get the hell out of here, you cheap hustler.”

Do Duc ignored her. He said, “Don’t you want to know what I have that you want?”

She smiled sweetly. “What could you possibly—?”

Do Duc had already stepped into the tub, the water slopping noisily over the side. He put one hand over her face, the other on her chest, and pressed her violently down until her head disappeared beneath the hot water.

He sidestepped her thrashing legs and dug his fingers into her thick hair, pulling her sputtering and coughing from the water. Her eyes were tearing, her heavy breasts heaving. He saw that, at last, he had gotten her attention.

“Now,” he said, “can we agree that we have something to talk about?”

“Bastard,” she moaned. “Bastard to do this to me.”

You haven’t seen anything yet,
Do Duc thought with a measure of satisfaction.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Margarite pulled her hair off her face. She sat on the edge of the tub, seemingly oblivious now to her nudity. “My own life means nothing to me. I’d never betray my brother, even if I knew where they’ve put him.”

Do Duc drew an oversize bath towel from a rack above his head, threw it at her. “Dry yourself off,” he said, stepping out of the tub. “I’ve got something to show you.”

He herded Margarite out of the bathroom. She had wrapped the towel around her so that it covered her from just above her breasts to just above her knees.

“How stupid are you? Don’t you understand it doesn’t matter what you do to me? I don’t know anything. The feds made sure of that.”

He took her through the vast master bedroom with its canopied, four-poster bed and sunken sitting area, complete with curved velvet love seat and ornate marble fireplace, its mantel held aloft by carved cherubim. A hideous ormolu clock ticked sonorously in the center of the mantel.

Halfway down the hall, Margarite felt her throat catch. She knew where they were headed. “No,” she said in a very small voice. “Oh, please, God, no!”

He allowed her to break away from him, and she ran the rest of the way through a half-open door into another bedroom suite. Do Duc followed after her, stopped at the threshold, stooping to retrieve the bath towel that had come undone. He put it over his left arm as he entered a room painted pale pink. Ruffled curtains covered the windows, and a number of large stuffed animals sat or stood on the bed.

“Francie!”

Do Duc watched the scene: the naked mother, distraught, teary, hands clasped to her face, staring in horror at her fifteen-year-old daughter strung up by her ankles to the central light fixture.

“Oh, my God, Francie!”

The teenager’s oval face, flushed with blood, was wholly inexpressive. Her eyes were closed, her lips half-open.

“She isn’t dead,” Do Duc said. “But she will be if you don’t do as I say.”

Margarite whirled. “Yes, yes. Anything. But take her down!”

“When you’ve done as I ask.” Do Duc’s voice was gentle. “I’ve no wish to hurt her, you see. But know that her life is in your hands.” He came across the room, handed Margarite the towel. “Do we understand one another now?”

Margarite again gave him that look he had seen so often in canny gamblers, and he knew that she was thinking of slipping a letter opener between his ribs. He wondered whether she had it in her to actually commit such an act of finality, to be party to an act that would forever alter the core of her. Contemplating her, this was the question that intrigued him the most because, now that he had come in contact with her, he recognized something in her and was drawn to it.

“What is it you want from me?” she asked.

Downstairs in the library, he poured them both brandies. He had allowed her to dress, but only while he watched. She had put on a short black pleated skirt, a cream-colored blouse, and suede slipper-shoes worked with gold thread. He was impressed that she dressed with an economy of movement and a dignity to try to protect herself from his presence.

At first, she refused his offer.

“Drink,” he insisted. “The brandy will calm your nerves.” He eyed her. “It will be to your benefit.”

She accepted the glass balloon from him, sipped slowly, evenly.

Do Duc took his drink, sat down on the plush sofa beside her. “All right,” he said. “This is what I require. When your brother calls you, you will contrive a way to get him to tell you where he is.”

Margarite put her balloon onto the glass-and-brass coffee table. “You’re crazy. It’ll never happen. For one thing, calling me—or anyone else in his family for that matter—is strictly against the rules.”

“Nevertheless,” Do Duc said, “he’ll call.”

Margarite studied him for a moment, before leaning forward to extract a cigarette from a silver filigreed box. As she did so, her breasts strained against the blouse. It was the first provocative gesture she had made, and Do Duc knew she had begun to think the situation through. That was good for both of them. Better the demon you knew...

“You stupid beast. My brother, Dominic, was put into the Federal Witness Security Program almost a year ago. He was allowed to take his wife and children with him. Since then, I have not heard from him. Neither has his mother. He was told in no uncertain terms what the rules were—no contact with family or friends, otherwise the feds could no longer guarantee his safety.”

She watched him as he picked up the tooled silver lighter, lit the flame for her. She hesitated only fractionally before leaning forward to light the end of her cigarette. She inhaled deeply, blew out a stream of smoke in such a way that he could mark her agitation.

“Are you aware that in the entire history of WITSEC not one inductee who has stuck to the rules has been gotten to?” She continued to watch him as she smoked. “The WITSEC deputy marshal at the Office of Enforcement Operations told us that, and after what Dominic had done, I know he took it to heart. He’s got no death wish, just the opposite. He’s got everything to live for.”

Suddenly she stopped speaking, and Do Duc knew that she desperately wanted a response from him. This had been her first shot at trying to gain the upper hand, and for this he awarded her more points. He said nothing.

Margarite continued to smoke until the cigarette was finished. Then she stubbed it out in a Steuben ashtray. Do Duc expected her to reach for another, but again, she surprised him with her willpower. She sat with her hands in her lap.

“Let my daughter go,” she said softly.

“We were speaking about your brother, Dominic.” Do Duc watched with interest the single line of perspiration make its way from her hairline down her temple onto her cheek. He was aware of the tension in the same way he often saw the auras around people. There was a tangible humming in the air.

He could see the tiny tremble of her lips before she put her head down. “Okay, say Dominic
does
call,” she said in capitulation. “Then what?”

“Set up an immediate meeting—without his WITSEC handler.”

“He won’t do that.”

He took another cigarette out of the silver box, lit it, and handed it to her. “But he will, Margarite. I know that he’s phoned you several times before. The last time, let’s see, wasn’t it because he found out what Tony D. does to you behind closed doors?”

Margarite gave a tiny cry. She drew her knees up as if his words had assaulted her physically. Her face was white and she was breathing hard through her half-open mouth.

“This time, information will come to Dominic that your husband has beaten Francie.” He seemed as calm as if he were reading a number from the phone book, and this matter-of-fact delivery was the most horrifying element. “He’ll call you, Margarite, won’t he? And when he does, you’re going to act the part. You’ll be properly hysterical, and if Dominic doesn’t suggest it, you’ll insist on a meeting.”

“Ah, you bastard.” She closed her eyes.
He’s ruined everything,
she thought.

She felt her control slip away, salty tears sliding down her cheeks, panic turning her mind to jelly. She fought to put one coherent thought in front of another. “You know what you’re asking me to do,” she whispered.

Do Duc abruptly slammed his hands together. Her brandy balloon was between them, and it shattered with a loud crackle, making Margarite jump. He liked what that did to her eyes, and he was poignantly reminded of the Sargent painting of Madame X.

He said, “I have killed your bodyguard, your rottweiler, and your maid. Don’t think for a moment that I will hesitate to take your daughter’s life.” His glittery eyes would not let hers go. “As I have pointed out, Francine’s life is quite literally in your hands.”

Margarite stubbed out her cigarette. “Christ, how do you manage to sleep at night?”

Do Duc stood up. “An interesting question coming from Dominic Goldoni’s sister. Don’t you use your maiden name—his name—in your own business? Of course you do.” Giving her a small, convincing smile, he said, “I wonder how Tony D. feels about you being known as Margarite Goldoni. Is that part of the rage he feels for you?”

She watched him with a kind of fascinated awe that walked the razor’s edge of revulsion. He went around behind the sofa, stood looking at a large painting by Henri Martin of a wheat field fecund with color and texture.

“Margarite, you’re intelligent enough to know we all have our ways of rationalizing what we do; that’s hardly the sole province of the fanatical and the righteous.”

He waited, losing part of himself in the Provençal landscape Martin had conjured with the arcane power of a sorcerer. Do Duc thought that he would gladly give up everything, even the constant proximity to death that kept him focused and stable, to be able to paint just one canvas like this one. He had no children—at least none that he knew of—but this masterpiece was better than a child because it sprang godlike from your head and stayed exactly as you had envisioned it. He could imagine no greater reward in life.

“How interesting, a beast who appreciates fine art,” Margarite said at his elbow.

He had heard her coming or—more precisely—had felt it, and he recalled his question of whether she would have the guts to wield the letter opener. He did not turn his head away from the Martin, but said, “Dominic will call within the next two hours. Are you ready to keep your side of the bargain?”

“Give me a moment,” she said. “I’ve never made a deal with the devil before.”

“Perhaps not,” he said as he swung toward her, “but I’ll bet your brother has—more times than he can count.”

You know nothing about my brother,
she wanted to shout at him, but she was terribly afraid that he would prove to her in quite precise terms just how wrong she was.

Their eyes locked, and Do Duc recognized the ambivalence lurking behind the overt animosity she projected. He doubted whether she was yet aware of how attracted she was to him. He was certain that she had no knowledge of his use of the classic interrogator’s tactic of personalizing, then making intimate what was in all respects a cut-and-dried relationship. But she could recognize the other side of what he was doing. It was not so much that women wanted to be dominated, he had concluded some years ago, but that they appreciated more than men what such domination could produce in others.

Margarite’s tongue came out, moistening her lips. “Do you have a name?”

“A few. You can call me Robert.”

“Robert.” She took a step toward him so that she was very close. She studied his face. “Curious. That’s not an oriental name, and you’re so obviously oriental.” She cocked her head at an angle. “Or are you? What other race… Let me see… Polynesian?” She smiled. “I’m Venetian, myself, so I know what it’s like.”

“What what’s like?”

“To be an outsider.” Margarite walked away from him, back to the sofa. “I live among Sicilians. No one trusts you, not really.” She sat down, crossed her legs. “You’re always being put in the position of having to prove your loyalty, even to Family.”

Do Duc smiled to himself. He liked this part of her, the schemer. He stared at the long expanse of her legs with desire—which was hardly difficult—in order to encourage her. Just because his desire was deliberate didn’t mean she had to know that. He wanted—no, to be truthful, he
needed
—
to
know how far she would go, what she might be capable of under the most extreme conditions. Now he knew one thing: she was going to allow him to find out.

“Do you have family?”

The question knifed through him, so he smiled at her, charming her with one of his many masks. “That was a long time ago.” But his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears, and Margarite was clever enough to pick up on this.

“Were you an orphan?”

“The seeds of my destruction were sown when I was very young.”

Margarite held his gaze. “What an extraordinary thing to say. Is it true? You have no family?”

It was, so he shrugged in order that she should discount it. He was appalled at what had come out of his mouth. Was he mad?

He broke the connection with her that was beginning to disturb him as profoundly as it did her.

“What do you want with Dominic?” Margarite asked.

“Information—that only he can provide.”

“That simplifies things. I can get it for you when he calls.”

Do Duc smiled coldly so that she knew in her heart he was nothing more than a weapon. “Margarite, I will tell you now that if you deviate at all from our prepared scenario, Francine will die and you will witness it.”

“All right!” She shuddered and put her face in her hands. “Just—don’t say it again. I don’t want you even thinking it.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face through her tears. “You know, despite what Dominic did, he’s still got a number of friends he saved from the feds, and they’re very powerful.”