The Key to Midnight (29 page)

Through the medium of kabuki, Alex achieved two sudden insights that, in a moment, changed him forever. First, if emotions were universal, then in one sense he was not alone, never had been alone, and never could be alone. As a child cowering under the harsh hands of his drunken parents, he had existed in despair, because he’d thought of himself as isolated and lost. But every night that Alex’s father had beaten him, other children in every corner of the world had suffered with him, victims of their own sick parents or of strangers, and together they had all endured. They were a family of sorts, united by suffering. No pain or happiness was unique. All humanity drank from the same river of emotion; and by drinking, every race, religion, and nationality became one indivisible species. Therefore, no matter what protective emotional distance he tried to put between himself and his friends, between himself and his lovers, perfect isolation would forever elude him. Whether he liked it or not, life meant emotional involvement, and involvement meant taking risks.

He also realized that if emotions were universal and time- less, they represented the greatest truths known to human-kind. If billions of people in scores of cultures had arrived independently at the same concept of love, then the reality of love could not be denied.

The loud, dramatic music that had accompanied the murder now began to subside.

On the huge stage, one of the “women” stepped forward to address the audience.

The music fluttered and was extinguished by the
Oyama’s
first words.

Joanna glanced at Alex. “Like it?”

He was speechless. He merely nodded. His heart pounded, and with each hard beat, he came more awake to life.

They went to a bar where the owner greeted them in English with three words: “Japanese only, please.”

Joanna spoke rapidly in Japanese, assuring him that they were natives in mind and heart if not by birth. Won over, he smilingly admitted them.

They had sake, and Joanna said, “Don’t drink it like that, dear.”

Alex frowned. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You shouldn’t hold the cup in your right hand.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s considered to be the sign of a gross, impatient drunkard.”

“Maybe I
am
a gross, impatient drunkard.”

“Ah, but do you wish everyone to know it, Alex-san?”

“So I hold the cup in my left hand?”

“That’s right.”

“Like this?”

“That’s right.”

“I feel like I’ve been such a barbarian.”

She blew on her sake to cool it slightly. “Later, when the time is right, you can use both hands on me.”

They went to the Nichiegeki Music Hall for a one-hour show that smacked of vaudeville and burlesque. Comedians told low jokes, many of them very amusing, but Alex was cheered more by the sight of Joanna laughing than he was by anything that the funnymen had to say. Between the variety acts, gorgeous young women in revealing costumes danced rather poorly but with unfaltering enthusiasm and energy. Most of the chorines were breathtaking beauties, but in Alex’s eyes, at least, none of them was a match for Joanna.

Back in the hotel suite, Joanna called room service and ordered a bottle of champagne. She also requested appropriate pastries, treats that were not too sweet, and these were delivered in a pretty red lacquered wood box.

At her suggestion, Alex opened the drapes, and they pulled the drawing-room sofa in front of the low windows. Sitting side by side, they studied the Tokyo skyline while they drank champagne and nibbled almond crusts and walnut crescents.

Shortly after midnight, some of the neon lights in the Ginza began to wink out.

“Japanese nightlife can be frantic,” Joanna said, “but they start to roll up the sidewalks early by Western standards.”

“Shall we roll up our own sidewalks?”

“I’m not sleepy,” she said.

He wanted her but felt as awkward as an inexperienced boy. “We have to be up at six o’clock.”

“No, we don’t.”

“We do if we want to catch the plane.”

“We don’t have to get up at six if we never go to sleep in the first place,” she said. “We can sleep on the plane tomorrow.”

She slid against him and put her lips to his throat. It wasn’t exactly a kiss. She seemed to be feeling the passion in the artery that throbbed in his neck.

As he turned to her, she rose to him, and her soft mouth opened under his. She tasted like almonds and champagne.

He carried her into his room and put her on the bed. Slowly, lovingly, he undressed her.

The only light was that which came from the drawing room, through the open door. Pale as moonglow, it fell across the bed, and she lay naked in the ghostly glow, too beautiful to be real.

When he settled down beside her, the bedsprings sang in the cathedral silence, and then a prayerlike hush settled once again through the shadows.

He explored and worshiped her with kisses.

On their last night in Japan, they didn’t sleep at all. They wrapped the hours of the night around them, as though time were a brightly shining thread and they were a wildly spinning spool.

In Zurich, in the magnificent house above the lake, Ignacio Carrera was working diligently on his calves, thighs, buttocks, hips, waist, lower back, and abdominal muscles. He’d been lifting weights for two hours, with little time off to rest. After all, when he rested there was no pain, and he wanted the pain because it tested him and because it was an indication of muscle-tissue growth.

Seeking pain at the limits of his endurance, he began his last exercise of the day: one more set of Jefferson lifts. He straddled the barbell, keeping his feet twenty-four inches apart. He squatted, grasped the bar with his right hand in front of him and his left hand behind, and inhaled deeply. Exhaling, he rose to a standing position, bringing the bar up to his crotch. His calves and thighs throbbed painfully.

“One,” said Antonio Paz.

Carrera squatted, hesitated only a second, and rose with the bar again. His legs seemed to be on fire. He was gasping. His pumped-up muscles bulged like thick steel cables. While Paz counted, Carrera squatted, rose, squatted, and rose again, and the pain was at first a flame and then a roaring blaze.

Other men lifted weights to improve their health. Some did it just to have their pick of the women who pursued bodybuilders. Some did it to gain improved strength for martial arts, some merely to prove their perseverance, some as a game, some as a sport.

To Ignacio Carrera, those were all secondary reasons.

“Seven,” said Paz.

Carrera groaned, striving to ignore the pain.

“Eight,” said Paz.

Carrera endured the torture because he was obsessed with power. He enjoyed holding power of every kind over other people: financial, political, psychological, and physical power. His wealth would have meant nothing to him if he had been physically weak. He was able to break his enemies with his bare hands as well as with his money, and he enjoyed having that range of options.

“Ten,” said Paz.

Carrera put down the barbells and wiped his hands on a towel.

“Excellent,” Paz told him.

“No.”

Carrera stepped in front of a full-length mirror and posed for himself, studying every visible muscle in his body, searching for improvement.

“Superb,” Paz said.

“The older I get, the harder it becomes to build. In fact, I don’t think I’m growing at all. Only thirty-eight, yet these days it’s a battle just to stay even.”

“Nonsense,” said Paz. “You’re in wonderful shape.”

“Not good enough.”

“Getting better and better.”

“Never good enough.”

“Madame Dumont is waiting in the front room,” said Paz.

“She can continue to wait.”

Carrera left Paz and went upstairs to the master suite on the third floor.

The ceiling was high, white, richly carved, with gold-leafed moldings. The fabric wallpaper was a two-tone gold stripe, and the wainscoting had been painted with a gray wash. The Louis XVI bed had a high headboard and a high footboard, and against the wall directly opposite the bed stood a matched pair of Louis XVI mahogany cabinets with painted tole plaques on the drawers and doors. One corner was occupied by an enormous eighteenth-century harp that was intricately carved, gold-leafed, and in perfect playing condition.

Carrera sometimes joked that he was going to take harp lessons in order to be ready for Heaven when he was called, but he was aware that in his elegant bedroom he looked like an ape that had lumbered into the middle of a lady’s tea party. The contrast between himself and his refined surroundings emphasized his wild, animal power—and he liked that.

He stripped out of his sweat-damp shorts, went into the huge master bath, and spent ten minutes baking in the attached sauna. He thought about Madame Marie Dumont, who was surely tapping her foot impatiently downstairs, and he smiled. For another half an hour, he soaked in the big tub. Then he suffered through a brief icy shower to tone his skin, staying warm by picturing Marie down in the reception room.

He toweled himself vigorously, put on a robe, and walked into the bedroom just as the telephone sounded.

Paz answered it downstairs but rang through a moment later. “London calling on line one.”

“Marlowe?” Carrera asked.

“No. Peterson.”

“The fat man’s in London? Put him through. And make sure that Madame Dumont doesn’t get a chance to pick up an extension.”

“Yes, sir,” said Paz.

A scrambler was attached to the incoming line, and it could be activated from any phone. Carrera switched it on.

Peterson said, “Ignacio? Safe to talk?”

“As safe as it ever gets. What’re you doing in London?”

“Hunter and the girl will arrive here tonight.”

Carrera was surprised. “Dr. Rotenhausen swore she’d never be able to leave Japan.”

“He was wrong. Can you move fast? I want you to go to the good doctor in Saint Moritz.”

“I’ll leave this evening,” said Carrera.

“We’ll try to put Hunter on Rotenhausen’s trail, as planned.”

“Are you directing the show in London now?”

“Not all of it. Just this business with Hunter and the girl.”

“Good enough. Marlowe isn’t fit to handle that. It’s made him hypertense.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“He broke some rules. For one thing, he tried to pry her name out of me.”

“Out of me too,” Peterson said.

“He made some silly threats. I’ve recommended his removal.”

“So have I,” Peterson said.

“If approval comes through, I’ll take care of him myself.”

“Don’t worry. No one’s going to deny you your fun.”

“See you in Moritz?” Carrera asked.

“Certainly,” said the fat man. “I think I’ll take a few skiing lessons.”

Carrera laughed. “That would be an unforgettable sight.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Peterson laughed at his own expense and hung up.

The telephone doubled as an intercom, and Carrera buzzed the front room downstairs.

Paz answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Madame Dumont may come up now. And you should pack a suitcase for yourself. We’ll be going to Saint Moritz in a few hours.”

Carrera put down the receiver and went to a wall panel that concealed a fully equipped bar. It slid aside at the touch of a button, and he began to mix drinks: orange juice and a couple of raw eggs for himself, vodka and tonic for Marie Dumont.

She arrived before he finished preparing her vodka, and she slammed the bedroom door behind her. She strode directly to him, in one of her best confrontational moods.

“Hello, Marie.”

“Who the
hell
do you think you are?” she demanded.

“I think I’m Ignacio Carrera.”

“You bastard.”

“I’ve made vodka and tonic for you.”

“You can’t keep
me
waiting like that,” she said furiously.

“Oh? I thought I just did.”

“I hope you get rectal cancer and die.”

“Such a sweet-talking young lady.”

“Stuff it.”

She was uncommonly beautiful, and she knew it. She was only twenty-six, wise and sophisticated beyond her years—though not nearly as wise as she thought. Her dark eyes revealed strange hungers and an intensely burning pain deep in her soul. Her fine features and the elegant carriage that she’d learned in expensive boarding schools gave her a haughty air.

She was dressed beautifully too: Her well-tailored, two-piece suit was a five-thousand-dollar Paris original, brightened with a turquoise blouse and minimal jewelry. Her perfume was so subtle that it must have cost upward of a thousand dollars an ounce.

“I expect an apology,” she announced.

“There’s your drink on the bar.”

“You can’t treat me like this. No one treats me like this.”

She had been spoiled all her life. Her father was a wealthy Belgian merchant, and her much older husband was an even wealthier French industrialist. She had been denied noth- ing—even though her demands were never less than excessive.

“Apologize,” she insisted.

“You wouldn’t like it if I did.”

“Like it? I demand it, damn you.”

“You’re a snotty kid.”

“Apologize, damn you.”

“But a beautiful snotty kid.”

“Listen, you greasy ape, if you don’t apologize—”

He slapped her face just hard enough to sting.

“There’s your drink,” he repeated, indicating the bar.

“If you ever touch me again, I’ll have you killed,” she said.

He slapped her so hard that she staggered, almost fell, and had to grip the edge of the bar to keep her balance. Punishment was what she wanted. It was why she had come.