Backup Men (23 page)

“I had nothing to do with it,” the king said. “Nothing.”

“Not much,” Padillo said. “How large a slice of the five million did they offer you, twenty percent?”

“Ten,” Kragstein said.

“That’s because they didn’t need us anymore. But even if they didn’t need us, there was still the chance that you’d kill them. So they decided to buy you off. It could have worked if the king weren’t such a rotten actor. Why do you think they really hired you, Kragstein?”

“I still don’t know that they did.”

“Ask Scales. Ask him hard.”

There was another thud that was followed by a moan. This time it must have been Scales who got kicked. I was growing tired of leaning spreadeagled against the wall so I started to shift my hands. Something dug into my kidney hard enough to hurt and Gitner said, “Don’t.”

“Why did you hire us through an intermediary, Scales?” Kragstein said.

The pain was evident in his voice, but nevertheless Scales tried to lie. He wasn’t good at it and he seemed to know that he wasn’t, but he tried anyway. “It was a mistake. I didn’t—”

Kragstein didn’t want to hear about any mistakes. “You tell it, Padillo. Your version.”

“Fine,” Padillo said. “Suppose you were visiting royalty who wanted to travel across the country incognito. First, you’d have to get the State Department off your back. Then you’d have to avoid representatives of your own country. So you hire yourself an assassin, an international hit man. Better yet, you hire yourself a pair of them through an intermediary. That gives you the reason for traveling incognito. But because you don’t want to die, you also hire yourself a couple of topflight bodyguards and just to make sure that nothing’s really going to happen to you, you make them hire a backup man—me. If Washington offers you official protection, you turn it down with the claim that you’re convinced that it’s either incompetent or because it can be corrupted—and you cite the deaths of the Kennedys and King to prove your point. How does it sound so far, Kragstein?”

“I’m still listening.”

“It’s a gamble, of course. You have to make the threat real. So you actually bet your life that the crowd you hired to protect you is better than the bunch that you hired to kill you: If you win, you win five million dollars.”

There was a silence. Finally, Kragstein said, “When did you find out, Padillo?”

“It didn’t come to me in a dream. The king kept making mistakes. Little ones. They began to add up.”

There was another silence. I wanted to say something, to venture an incisive comment perhaps, but nobody asked what I thought. They probably didn’t care.

The silence kept on growing until Kragstein said, “Who else knows?”

“Only one other person.”

“Knows what, for Christ’s sake?” Gitner said.

“Padillo’s right, Gitner,” Kragstein said. “You are dumb.”

“Small words,” Gitner said. “Use small words and maybe I’ll understand. Only one other person knows what?”

I could hear Kragstein sigh. “That the king’s not really a king. He’s a ringer.”

“Ah, shit,” Gitner said.

“You said somebody else knows, Padillo. Who?”

“You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s dead. Because the king killed him.”

I caught her move. It was a bare, peripheral glance, but one moment Wanda Gothar was leaning against the wall next to me and a moment later she was gone and then there was a high-pitched scream. I could sense that Gitner had moved away so I turned around. She was trying to kill the king and she knew how to do it. Her right arm was around his neck and she had his head bent back at an almost impossible angle. The king flopped about on the floor, his hands clawing at Wanda’s right arm.

I glanced at Padillo. He wasn’t watching the battle. He was watching Gitner who wasn’t watching the battle either. He had moved to the door and stood there in a slightly crouched stance, his revolver aimed at Padillo’s stomach.

Kragstein moved in and aimed a hard, chopping blow at Wanda’s neck. She rolled away from it and it probably saved the king’s life because she loosened her hold and then lost it completely when Kragstein hit her again, aiming once more for her neck but catching the back of her ducked head.

She was up then and if her timing had been a little better, Kragstein would have been dead. Her left arm shot out, her knuckles clenched and extended. Kragstein ducked his chin, protecting his throat, and her blow smashed into his nose. The blood spurted once and then flowed down around Kragstein’s mouth and into his beard.

She was good, very good, and I understood why she was in the business she was in. She could have escorted me to the bank anytime. But she weighed only 120 pounds to Kragstein’s 180 or so and in fifty years he had learned a few nasty tricks which nobody had yet got around to teaching her.

He used one of them when he feinted a left at her head. It wasn’t much of a feint and she caught his fist with both of her hands and her fingers dug for the nerve between his thumb and forefinger. But instead of pulling back, Kragstein went with the blow and I saw his right hand move. It moved only six inches or so, but he got his shoulder into it. She saw it coming and tried to turn her left hip to it while digging even harder at the nerve in his left hand. Kragstein yelled but managed not to pull his right and it smashed into her low and knocked her back against the wall where she bent over and gasping, sank to her knees, her hands pressed to her lower abdomen.

Kragstein glanced quickly at the king and Scales and then turned toward Padillo and me. He now had his revolver out again.

“She almost had you,” Padillo said and smiled cheerfully.

“Almost,” Kragstein said, mopping at his bloody beard with a handkerchief. “You knew she’d try it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But Gitner wasn’t as dumb as you thought.”

Padillo shrugged. “Being careful doesn’t make him smart.”

“Being smart is my department, isn’t it?” He turned toward the king and Scales. The king was huddled up next to the wall, his hands clasped around the back of his neck. Scales was still seated, leaning against the wall, staring at nothing.

“Who is he?” Kragstein said to Scales.

Scales didn’t look at the king. He still stared blankly at nothing. Or he could have been watching his dreams disintegrate. “An actor,” he said. “An unemployed actor.”

“He’s from Llaquah?”

“Yes. I knew him there. Then he came to London. He wanted to be an actor. A second Omar Sharif. But he was not nearly good enough.”

“What happened to the real king?”

“He sent for me you know. He really did. When he came out of the monastery, he sent for me. He said he needed me. I came over from London. We were going out to dinner the third night I was there and he was taking a shower in the flat that he had borrowed. He slipped and broke his neck. It was an accident. A foolish accident.”

“What happened then?” Kragstein said.

“I buried him that night.”

“Where?”

“In the Bois de Boulogne. The plan just came to me.” He glanced at the king. I still thought of him as the king. I suppose I always will. “I remembered that there was a strong resemblance. And no one had seen the king during the five years that he was in the monastery. A man can change between sixteen and twenty-one. I had all the credentials. It seemed worth the chance.”

“It still is,” Kragstein said.

Scales looked up at him. Some life came back into his eyes. He didn’t speak, but the question was on his face.

Kragstein nodded. “No one at the oil companies ever saw the real king?”

“As a child perhaps, but not as an adult.”

“And you’re sure nobody else knows?”

“No one,” Scales said. “No one possibly could. Gothar was beginning to suspect. We made a slight slip. So we sent him a telegram, urging him to be at McCorkle’s apartment. We signed Padillo’s name to it.” He began to talk faster, as if he found release in the confession. “When we arrived there, we told him that we’d also received a telegram. I handed it to him—we’d sent it to ourselves—and he—” Scales paused to look thoughtfully at the huddled figure of the king. “He went behind Gothar and used the garrote. I thought of the garrote. I thought that it might confuse things.”

“Not bad,” Kragstein said. “Not bad at all. Now then. What are the arrangements concerning the money?”

Scales shrugged. “The king’s dead brother arranged it all. As soon as the papers are signed, the oil company deposits five million dollars to the king’s account in Switzerland.”

“Numbered?”

“Of course.”

“That would give us about two days,” Kragstein said.

Scales looked up at him again. “To do what?”

“To withdraw the money.”

“You’re going through with it, aren’t you?” Padillo said.

Kragstein gave him a brief glance. “Of course. There’s going to be a slight change, however.”

“What change?” Scales asked.

“Your share will now be one million instead of four and a half million. Agreed?”

Scales hesitated only for a moment. “Agreed,” he said.

“How about your buddy over there?” Gitner said.

“Ask him,” Scales said.

“How about you, king?” Gitner said.

The king raised his head and looked at Gitner. “I no longer care,” he said. “I should never have listened to him. Never.”

“You should have also researched your role a little better,” Padillo said.

“What did he do wrong?” Kragstein asked. He sounded quite interested.

“Prayers and fish,” Padillo said. “He was supposed to be a devout Catholic. Anyone who’d spend five years in a monastery would be. I saw him pray once. He didn’t cross himself. I don’t think he knows how. In New York we had veal on Friday. He ate it. I don’t care what the Vatican says, a really hard-nosed Catholic wouldn’t and that’s what he was supposed to be.”

“That’s thin, Padillo,” Kragstein said.

“That just started me wondering,” Padillo said. “When they ran out on us I became sure. If he’d been for real, he would have run to the police regardless of what he thought of them. When he didn’t, he had to have something to hide. I was fairly sure I knew what it was.”

“It sounds good now anyway,” Gitner said.

“I don’t think it matters a damn how it sounds,” Padillo said. “What matters now is what happens next.”

“To you,” Kragstein said.

“That’s right. To me.”

“We’ll have to think of something, won’t we?”

24

THEY MADE the king and Scales help Wanda walk down eight flights of stairs to the basement of the building. She threw up twice on the way. We stopped before a small room in the basement, not much more than eight by ten, that contained a desk and three chairs which looked as if they’d been salvaged from one of the abandoned offices upstairs.

The door to the room was made of steel and it had a metal bar with a hole in its end that could be swung down and padlocked into place so that nobody could get in. If somebody was inside and the bar was down, it wouldn’t matter about the padlock. They couldn’t get out.

The king and Scales helped Wanda into the room. They turned her around, pushed her into one of the chairs, and then backed off quickly, as if glad to be done with a distasteful chore. She was bent over from the waist, her hands clasped hard against her middle, her head almost touching her knees. She made no sound.

The room was lit with a weak bulb in a ceiling fixture. The king and Scales came out of the room and stood near Gitner. They looked uneasy, frightened, and—I thought—a little embarrassed. Kragstein moved into the room and over to Wanda. He shifted his revolver to his left hand and with his right grasped her pale blond hair and jerked her head up. She still made no sound. She simply stared at him with those cold blue eyes. If there were no tears in them, I thought I could see plenty of hate.

“What arrangements have you made?” Kragstein said.

She ran her tongue over her lips. “It’s a full-dress affair. The boards of directors, their chairmen, the presidents of the companies. There’ll also be assorted guests. Wives, I think. Other company officials.”

“Reporters? TV?”

“No. But they’ll have sound cameras. They’re going to make a film on what the transaction will mean to Llaquah. The signing of the agreement will be part of it. I specified no press, but they may send out film clips later.”

“When will they sign?”

“At ten tomorrow morning. Or this morning. On the twenty-ninth floor of the headquarters on Bush Street. They’re to be there by nine thirty.”

“Whom should they ask for?”

“Arnold Briggs. He’s head of public relations.”

“What security arrangements did you request?”

“I told them to make it tight. They’ll probably use private detectives from one of the larger firms.”

“That means Gitner and I can’t get in.”

“Scales could get you in.”

Kragstein abruptly let go of her head and she dropped it back down near her knees and started to make small retching sounds.

Kragstein turned toward the door and motioned with his revolver. “Bring them in,” he said to Gitner.

I moved before Gitner could prod me with his revolver again. Padillo followed and when we were in the room he looked around and selected a worn swivel chair to sit in. I took what was left—a golden oak thing that had one of its arms missing. Padillo tilted back in his chair and looked first at Gitner, then at Kragstein.