Two Jakes (27 page)

CHAPTER
32 – FIERCE LOVE

Scarne
was back at La Gorce 10 minutes later. Instead of entering the garage, he
pulled into the semicircular driveway, his mind racing.

“Do
you want me to park the car for you, sir?”

He
barely heard the valet standing next to his window.

“Sir?”

Scarne
shot onto Collins Avenue, to a cacophony of angry horns. Weaving in and out of
traffic, he roared toward the drawbridge over the Indian River. He jammed on
his brakes as the bridge road gates came down amid clanging bells. The span
began rising as a cabin cruiser idled toward it. Son of a bitch. After what
seemed an eternity, the small boat passed and the roadway came down. Traffic
began to move slowly over the bridge. He got stuck behind two cars, side by side,
driven by old men strictly observing the 25-mile-per-hour limit on the winding
road. Hitting his horn wasn’t an option. They wouldn’t hear him, even with
their hearing aids. The last time those old coots were in a hurry the Berlin
Wall hadn’t been built. The driver on the left had his right signal on and the
guy on the right had his left on. Maybe they planned to crash into each.

Disgusted,
Scarne didn’t wait to find out. He made a right and headed toward the bay.
After a few minutes of aimless wandering in poorly lit neighborhoods, he got
lucky and hit the street that paralleled the waterway. He soon spotted Alana
Loeb’s house. There were four cars in her driveway: three squad cars and a
nondescript sedan. He doused his lights, rolled to a stop behind a neighbor’s
car a few houses away and scrunched down. After an hour, only the sedan was
left. He waited. Fifteen minutes later, Curley and Paulo left in it. Finally, a
cab pulled up and he spotted Alana walking out with Garza and Keitel. He could
hear the anger in their muffled voices. She turned on her heel and they drove
off.

Scarne
strode to the front door. He rang the buzzer. Nothing. He pounded. Nothing. The
front of the house was dark. He tried the door. It was locked. He thought he
heard music. He followed the path around the side. Small creatures scuttled
away in the grass into the bushes and flower beds. A large insect brushed his
hair. When he turned the corner of the house he saw that the pool area was
unlit. He could barely make out the yellow crime scene tape. A small green
light on a pole flickered on and off, casting an intermittently eerie glow on
the dock and the shimmering water beyond. He thought of Gatsby. As he passed
the spiral staircase, he heard a rustle.

“I
knew you would come back.”

Her
voice was hoarse. He didn’t trust his own. She was standing halfway up the
staircase, leaning back against the rail, backlit by the light emanating below
her from the kitchen. She was wearing a white kimono-like translucent robe. He
could see her legs through the fabric. She was barefoot. One arm was relaxed at
her side; the other lay on the railing. The music came from her bedroom. What
the hell was he doing?

He
started up the stairs. She backed up, spiraling silently away from him. As they
pirouetted, she undid her robe and dropped it off her shoulders. Whatever
reservations he had dropped with the robe. She was naked. Her nipples were
fully erect. He had never seen anything like them. They were like pencil
erasers, he thought irrationally. The flickering lights from scented candles in
the room behind her gave it an eerie, exotic glow.

She
stopped at the top landing. He took her in his arms. He felt her hard points
dig into his chest. He reached behind her and cupped her buttocks, pulling her
tight. She put her head into his neck and then looked up at him, her head
tilted suggestively to one side. She wasn’t smiling. He felt dizzy. His throat
tightened. Her lips were moving. She was whispering.

“Some
love is fire. Some love is rust. But the finest, fiercest love is lust.”

He
kissed her violently as he swung her up into his arms. She wrapped her arms
around his neck. Her nails dug into him as her tongue snaked into his mouth. He
carried her into her room and placed her on the bed. She swung her legs to engulf
him and drew him deep inside her before he even managed to get all his clothes
off. They both climaxed almost immediately, like randy teenagers. Her orgasm
was so intense he actually felt it internally despite his own excitement. She
arched her back and emitted a protracted moan.

When,
after lessening cries, she quieted, he tried to withdraw. “No,” she said
fiercely, clenching her legs tightly around him and then raising them almost to
her shoulders so that he settled in even deeper.

She
spoke to him quietly, in several languages, and kissed him gently, clenching
her internal muscles until he was ready again and could start moving. They
lasted a very long time before completion. Only then did he stumble away from
her to finish undressing. Then they lay in each other’s arms and caught up on
the foreplay missed in their frenzy. They explored each other’s bodies, they
toyed with each other, they played, until they couldn’t stand it anymore and
joined again. She rolled on top of him. He remained passive. She was relentless
with her movements. At the end, she cried, “See what you do to me. Feel that.
Feel that!”

***

It
was almost 4 A.M. when Alana Loeb left the bed, gently covering Scarne and
pulling on a wrap. She walked down to her office, which also served as an
upstairs library. She closed and locked the sliding double doors. As she walked
to her desk she ran her fingers along a shelf that contained her most prized
books. An insatiable and eclectic reader, Alana was also collector.

She
paused in front of a first edition of
Gone with the Wind.
It had cost a
small fortune but she had loved the story since childhood. Now, suddenly weary,
she pressed her forehead against the novel, remembering the comfort it gave her
with every re-reading. Her pampered back-country Argentinean life – at least
before its brutal denouement – bore a passing resemblance to the romantic
portrait Margaret Mitchell painted of the Old South. She identified with
Scarlett O’Hara’s fall from a life of luxury and self-indulgence, and, more importantly,
with her rise from the ashes of defeat and humiliation. Her eyes fell on
another first edition, paradoxically her second-favorite:
The End of the
Affair
. If Scarlett is the woman I am, Alana bitterly reflected on
occasion, Graham Greene’s noble Sarah Miles is a woman I might have been.

Sighing,
Alana moved to her desk and turned on the large green shaded banker’s lamp that
had been her grandfather’s. Next to it was an antique gold picture frame
containing a photo of the tough old gentleman holding the reins of a spirited
black Argentine Criollo mare on which sat a ridiculously dressed but beaming
girl of nine. The background was slightly out of focus, undoubtedly the result
of the unease of the photographer – her mother – at seeing her child on such a
steed. That was the only time I wore that gaucho outfit, Alana thought, and
only because he insisted for the photo.

Smiling,
she opened the top drawer of the desk, lifting out a leather-bound Smythson of
Bond Street diary from its false bottom. She had kept diaries since childhood.
The earliest ones were filled with the innocent thoughts, little secrets and
golden hopes common to young girls the world over. Her narrative skills
improved dramatically after the kidnapping. The writing was now stronger and
more direct than it had been, and incredibly candid as it related to sexual and
business affairs. Of course she excelled, as in everything, with computers, on
which she composed reports and speeches. (Every activity of the Ballantrae
organization was also scrupulously detailed on flash drives deposited in safe
deposit boxes in the United States and abroad.) But her diaries were written in
longhand using only Tiffany fountain pens. Her penmanship was exquisite; the
good sisters had taught her well.

Anyone
reading the diaries from the beginning would assume that another woman had
picked up the tale in later years. Alana, herself, occasionally reread the
pre-teen passages, not out of mawkish sentimentality, but rather as a reminder
of what she had lost. She found it particularly useful when she and Victor took
one of their incredible risks. As she wrote now, it occurred to her that some
of those risks might be coming back to roost. She had no explanation for the
shooting at the pool, but knew that Jake was right: poor, drunk Tony Goetz was
not the target. It was either her, Garza or Keitel – or all three of them. She
might have found out had it not been for Jake’s courage.

She
paused in her writing. Garza and Keitel had reacted predictably and properly,
like the mercenaries they were, by going after the assassin. She couldn’t fault
their instincts. But Jake was quicker – and his only thought was to protect
her. She undoubtedly would have been killed had he not reached her in time. She
was, of course, grateful, and had proved it repeatedly in the bedroom. But she
felt something else. They had shared more than sex in the previous few hours.
She knew enough about that to recognize something entirely different. They had
made love. He seemed to want to devour her, but unlike her previous partners
reveled in her pleasure.

For
her part, she couldn’t do enough for him. The realization frightened her. Who
was Jake Scarne? She had just met him and told him she didn’t believe in love
and never lost control. I have got to get a grip, she thought. The shooting has
unnerved me. But why? I have been through much worse.

She
bent to her diary. Whatever happened at the pool was a new and more immediate
threat than the Shields investigation. Her thoughts went back to Scarne. She felt
safer with him around. She smiled at the absurdity of the situation. Her new
lover – and protector – was also hunting her. Her smile faded. But he was now
in as much danger as she from the unknown assassin. Perhaps more, since Victor
would also want to get rid of him. Business aside, he was undoubtedly jealous.
She would have to find a way to protect Jake.

Goddamn
him! She had tried to warn him off. But had she, really? When he came back
tonight she was thrilled. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. She wanted
him now. She couldn’t lose him.

Goddamn
him! Goddamn him! Goddamn him!

CHAPTER
33 – THE CROSS OF LORRAINE

Alana
Loeb grew up privileged, loved without reservation by her widowed mother and
paternal grandfather on a sprawling vineyard outside the city of Mendoza 600
miles west of Buenos Aires. The province, also named Mendoza, generates almost
three-quarters of Argentina’s annual wine production.

Long-limbed
and coltish, Alana was an enchanting combination of spirited country girl and,
thanks to the nuns at Saint Adair Scots School for Girls, an incipient and
beautiful lady of the manor. When not in school or charming tourists at the
winery, she could usually be found in jeans tearing around the countryside on
Mirari, her wild mare, or on skis at Las Lenas Mountain with cousins and
friends. Utterly fearless, her spectacular tumbles in both pursuits terrorized
her mother and delighted her grandfather, who saw in the not-so-fragile blonde
beauty the possible realization of the dreams he’d once held for his dead son,
his only child. (But Joseph Loeb was secretly grateful that Alana was also
showing a growing affinity for golf.)

A
German Jew who escaped the Nazis as a teen-ager in the nick of time after
Munich, Loeb knew the world was no place for cowards. His boy, Eduard, looked
his cancer straight in the eye before succumbing just short of his 36
^th
birthday and his granddaughter was made of the same stuff, unlike her mother.
Of course, as a widower himself, Josef sympathized with his daughter-in-law.
But he had opposed Eduard’s marriage to Catalin Lavalle. Her beauty was
undeniable – she had been a finalist for the title of queen of the Fiesta
Nacional de la Vendimia, the National Grape Harvest Festival – but her Basque
antecedents were murky and her family poor.

“Eva
Perón was a Basque,” Eduard, thoroughly smitten, had reminded him.

“So
was Ché Guevera,” Josef retorted.

But,
as he knew it would, love won out and Josef would not trade Alana for anything
in the world. He fought a constant battle with his daughter-in-law over the
child’s upbringing. The girl would someday inherit a small empire – the
vineyard was but one family holding – built with guile and toughness in a
region that rewarded both traits. She had to be prepared. Although still too young
to fully understand, Alana knew her grandfather was a feared and respected man
in the halls of power in Mendoza, Argentina’s fourth-largest city. She had been
bounced on many a knee of men addressed as “Senador” or “Comandante.” And there
were other men who visited the hacienda, usually at night, around whom the
servants tread carefully. In the end, all of Josef’s planning went for naught.
There was one battle that to the end of his days Josef Loeb wished his
daughter-in-law had won.

***

It
was annual tradition at Saint Adair that students who excelled were rewarded
with a trip to Santiago to visit a sister school in a poor section of town, as
well as the museums and churches of the vibrant Chilean capital. And perhaps,
the girls knew, to do a little shopping at the city’s famous malls. Most of the
students came from the upper grades but occasionally a younger student of
exceptional achievement and maturity was selected. At just 13, Alana was the
youngest ever chosen – and her mother was adamantly opposed.

“You
are too young,” Catalin said. “It is a six-hour bus ride, through the
mountains. And Santiago is no place for a child.”

“But
Mama,” Alana pleaded. “I ski in some of those mountains. And we will be staying
at the Convent of Saint James. The nuns and teachers will be with us the whole
time!”

Josef,
of course, sided with the girl.

“Catalin!
You do not give your own daughter credit for common sense. The good sisters
will watch over her like a hawk.”

Of
that he was sure. Alana’s excellent marks were probably enough to have her
selected for the trip, he knew, but his generous contributions to the school
didn’t hurt. Eventually, they both wore Alana’s mother down.

“Did
you remember to bring fresh underwear?”

Alana
cringed as she handed her suitcase to the driver the Mercedes sedan. The man
exchanged a glance with Josef Loeb and both suppressed smiles.

“Yes,
Mama.”

“Two
changes?”

“Mama!”

“Cait,”
Josef said, “let the poor child go. She will miss the bus.”

Alana
tried to get in the car, but her mother grabbed her.

“Be
careful, my baby.”

“I
will, Mama. Don't worry. All my friends will be there.”

“Don't
fret,” Josef said. “She will be all right. She is a Loeb. It will do her good
to see how other children live. And I wager she will buy you something nice in
Santiago. And maybe something for her grandpa.”

“Oh,
I will,” Alana said, kissing her mother and then Josef. She got in the car and
rolled down the window. “I love you both so much.”

***

The
bus chartered by St. Adair wound its way along a twisting, forest road. It was
a lovely day and the dozen young girls inside opened the windows to savor the
fresh air and wave happily at villagers in the small towns they passed. But as
they rose higher into the mountains, the air grew cooler and they shut them.
Alana was glad of that. There was too much dust and she was wearing her best
clothes. Besides, there was now nobody to wave to anyway. They were alone on
the road except for a small white van behind them.

“Girls!
Please keep it down!”

Sister
Rosemary and the other chaperones were having little success quieting the kids,
who were chatting, laughing and singing, all the while constantly seat-hopping.
“Remember, when we get to Santiago, act like Christian ladies. The children you
will visit do not have all that you have.”

Alana’s
best friend, Bella, whispered loudly, “Including bossy nuns.”

Alana
stifled a laugh as Sister Rosemary stared at them. The nun turned and walked up
the aisle, trying not to laugh herself. She lost her balance as the bus lurched
to a halt. Students reached out to keep her from falling.

Alana
looked out the front window. A truck was straddling the road ahead. At its rear
a canvas tarp was thrown open and men with rifles began jumping down. She heard
a screech of brakes and turned. The white van had pulled up to the bus bumper.
Four men got out. They were also carrying guns. Other armed men were coming out
of the forest and converging on the bus. One of them walked up to the door and
started pounding on it with the butt of a rifle.

“Open
up!”

The
driver hesitated and several of the gunmen began firing into the air. Girls
screamed and clutched each other as the teachers tried to calm them. Fear was
on every face. Finally, the driver opened the door. Two men reached in and
dragged out the screaming man. Then they threw him to the ground and riddled
him with bullets. His body bounced in the dust long after he was dead.

“God
help us!” It was Sister Rosemary.

A
grubby bandit wearing a cowboy hat stepped into the bus and looked down the
aisle at the terrified passengers. Smiling, he crooked a finger at them and
said, “Senoritas, por favor.”

The
men, laughing, lined up the women and girls against the bus. A few used the
barrels of their rifles to lift the skirts of the older girls. A nun who tried
to stop them was slapped to the ground. A bandit raised his rifle butt.

“Enough!
Stand back!”

The
order was barked by a man dressed in military fatigues. The other gunmen fell
sullenly silent at the approach of their leader, who stepped casually over the
corpse of the driver. He looked down the line of women and girls. A few of them
looked hopefully at him. He smiled.

“Take
the women into the woods.”

Grinning
wickedly, his men pulled the women out of line and started to drag them away.
Some girls fruitlessly clutched at their arms.

“What
about these,” one of the bandits asked, pointing to the girls. “They all have
bee bites on their chests. We’ll make women out of them.”

“All
right,” the leader said. “Take two more. But no children.”

The
other bandit moved down the line of girls. In a brutal sexual triage, he lifted
skirts and jammed his hand down their underwear. He finally reached Alana, last
in line. She stood calmly as his filthy hand felt for pubic hair.

“Ah.
Peach fuzz. A little young, maybe, but I think you will do, girlie.” His hand
lingered and his face broke into a leer. What few teeth he had were stained by
juice from cocoa leaves.

“Your
breath smells like my dog’s anus,” Alana said, and spit in his face.

The
startled bandit withdrew his hand and brought it back to strike her. His arm
was grabbed by the leader.

“Pick
two others. Go have your fun.”

The
bandit tried to protest but was pushed away roughly. Grumbling, he grabbed two
other screaming girls and dragged them away. The leader turned to look at
Alana. He lifted her face with a grimy hand.

“Such
beauty,” he said. “No tears.” He turned to another gunman. “Put the rest of
them in the truck. But not this one.” He took Alana gently by the arm and
walked her back to the white van, where a much older bandit stood.

“My
grandfather will find and kill you.”

“That
is why we do not kidnap for ransom, little one. Too dangerous. I want nothing
to do with families.” He nodded to the old bandit. “Mateo, put her in the van.
Give her something to drink. She is too valuable for the houses in Santiago.
She will fetch a fortune in Buenos Aires. I know a place that likes them young
and…unspoiled. Don’t let any of those animals near her.”

He
walked away. Alana looked back at her friends being herded to the truck.
Screams, and an occasional gunshot, echoed through the nearby trees.

“Don't
look back,” the old bandit said, not unkindly. “It won't do any good. Just
count your blessings.”

Alana
turned to him, her face impassive.

***

Vera
Pappas, the Greek-born madam of the most exclusive bordello in Buenos Aires,
languished in her spacious bed, carelessly playing with the girl’s fine blond
tresses and looking at their reflection in the ceiling mirror. The room was
adorned with surprisingly tasteful Impressionist art. The faint, but pungent,
aroma of high-grade Colombian gold wafted from a recently snuffed cigarette in
an ashtray next to the bed.

“You
are special, Alana. That is why I have not let them turn you out yet.”

“If
I’m so special, why can’t I have a joint?”

Pappas
laughed.

“You
are too young, and it is not good for you.”

“But
I’m old enough to fuck. Is that good for me?”

In
the brothel Alana had been singled out for her innocence and ethereal beauty.
Her only sexual partners were handpicked Pappas, who was also training boys. Alana
knew that while she would eventually be marketed as nubile “virgin” – her hymen
surgically repaired to facilitate the illusion – she would also be expected to
perform as a sexual athlete.

“It
doesn’t seem to have done you any harm, darling. I’ve never had a girl who
enjoyed sex as much as you do. I’m pretty sure you will never have to learn how
to fake an orgasm.” Pappas gently ran a hand over Alana’s pubic mound and
leaned over and kissed her left breast. “Am I wrong?”

Alana
laughed and brushed the hand away. Vera was right, of course. The training had
been an enjoyable experience. The boys were handsome and endowed, and tried to
outdo each other in pleasuring her. Pappas, a mature beauty in her own right,
seemed genuinely fond of all of them, and often joined their romps.

“You
are soon to be 15, and will have to earn your living,” Pappas sighed, laying
back against the pillows. “But it will not be too bad for you, my little
princess. You will entertain only the richest. Maybe a young potentate will take
a liking to you and bring you home. You will be set for life.”

“I’d
rather an old impotentate, if it’s all the same.” Alana yawned and stretched
her naked body languidly.

Pappas
laughed delightedly. “Oh, Alana. You have been paying attention.” She got up
and threw on a bright red robe. “Stay here, I have a treat for you.”

A
moment later she returned with a handsome young boy of Alana’s age.

“Carlo!”
Alana squealed with delight. “You are back.”

The
two embraced. The older woman started to leave.

“Where
are you going, Vera?” Alana asked. “Don’t you want to join us?”

“Not
tonight, dears. Enjoy yourselves. I will see you are not disturbed.”