Bolt

ELEVEN

Litsi rose immediately to his feet, came over to me and made gestures for me to give him the phone.
‘It isn’t Nanterre,’ he said.
He took the receiver, disengaged the conference button and spoke privately in French. ‘Oui… non … certainement … ce soir … oui… merci.’
He put down the receiver and almost immediately the bell rang again. Litsi picked up the receiver again, briefly listened, grimaced, pressed the record and conference buttons again, and passed the buck to me.
‘It’s him,’ he said succinctly, and indeed everyone could hear the familiar domineering voice saying words that meant nothing to me at all.
‘Speak English, please,’ I said.
‘I said,’ Nanterre said in English, ‘I wish to speak to Prince Litsi and he is to be brought to the telephone immediately.’
‘He isn’t available,’ I said. ‘I can give him a message.’
‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘I know who you are. You are the jockey.’
‘Yes.’
‘I left instructions for you to leave the house.’
‘I don’t obey your instructions.’
‘You’ll regret it.’
‘In what way?’ I asked, but he wouldn’t be drawn into a specific threat; quite likely, I supposed, because he hadn’t yet thought up a particular mayhem.
‘My notary will arrive at the house tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘He will be shown to the library, as before. He will wait there. Roland de Brescou and Princess Casilia will go down there when he arrives. Also Prince Litsi and Danielle de Brescou will go down. All will sign the form which is in the notary’s briefcase. The notary will witness each signature, and carry the document away in his briefcase. Is this understood?’
‘It is understood,’ I said calmly, ‘but it’s not going to happen.’
‘It must happen.’
‘There’s no document in the briefcase.’
It stopped him barely a second. ‘My notary will bring a paper bearing the same form of words. Everyone will sign the notary’s document.’
‘No, they aren’t ready to,’ I said.
‘I have warned what will happen if the document is not signed.’
‘What will happen?’ I asked. ‘You can’t make people behave against their consciences.’
‘Every conscience has its price,’ he said furiously, and instantly disconnected. The telephone clicked a few times and came forth with the dialling tone, and I put the receiver back in its cradle to shut it off.
Litsi shook his head regretfully. ‘He’s being cautious. Nothing he said can be presented to the police as a threat requiring action on their part.’
‘You should all sign his document,’ Beatrice said aggrievedly, ‘and be done with all this obstruction to expanding his business.’
No one bothered to argue with her: the ground had already been covered too often. Litsi then asked the princess if she would mind if he and I went out for a little while. Sammy was still in the house to look after things until John Grundy came, and I would be back in good time to fetch Danielle.
The princess acquiesced with this arrangement while looking anything but ecstatic over further time alone with Beatrice, and it was with twinges of guilt that I happily followed Litsi out of the room.
‘We’ll go in a taxi,’ he said, ‘to the Marylebone Plaza hotel.’
‘That’s not your sort of place,’ I observed mildly.
‘We’re going to meet someone. It’s his sort of place.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone to tell you about the arms trade.’
‘Really?’ I said, interested. ‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t precisely know. We are to go to room eleven twelve and talk to a Mr Mohammed. That isn’t his real name, which he would prefer we didn’t know. He will be helpful, I’m told.’
‘How did you find him?’ I asked.
Litsi smiled. ‘I didn’t exactly. But I asked someone in France who would know … who could tell me what’s going on in the handguns world. Mr Mohammed is the result. Be satisfied with that.’
‘OK.’
‘Your name is Mr Smith,’ he said. ‘Mine is Mr Jones.’
‘Such stunning originality.’
The Marylebone Plaza hotel was about three miles distant from Eaton Square geographically and in a different world economically. The Marylebone Plaza was frankly a barebones overnight stopping place for impecunious travellers, huge, impersonal, a shelter for the anonymous. I’d passed it fairly often but never been through its doors before, and nor, it was clear, had Litsi. We made our way however across an expanse of hard grey mottled flooring, and took a lift to the eleventh floor.
Upstairs the passages were narrow, though carpeted; the lighting economical. We peered at door numbers, found eleven twelve, and knocked.
The door was opened to us by a swarthy-skinned man in a good suit with a white shirt, gold cufflinks, and an impassive expression.
‘Mr Jones and Mr Smith,’ Litsi said.
The man opened the door further and gestured to us to go in, and inside we found another man similarly dressed, except that he wore also a heavy gold ring inset with four diamonds arranged in a square.
‘Mohammed,’ he said, extending the hand with the ring to be shaken. He nodded over our shoulders to his friend, who silently went out of the door, closing it behind him.
Mohammed, somewhere between Litsi’s age and mine, I judged, had dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin and a heavy dark moustache. The opulence of the ring was echoed in the leather suitcase lying on the bed and in his wristwatch, which looked like gold nuggets strung together round his wrist.
He was in good humour, and apologised for meeting us ‘where no one would know any of us’.
‘I am legitimately in the arms trade,’ he assured us. ‘I will tell you anything you want to know, as long as you do not say who told you.’
He apologised again for the fact that the room was furnished with a single chair, and offered it to Litsi. I perched against a table, Mohammed sat on the bed. There were reddish curtains across the window, a brown patterned carpet on the floor, a striped cotton bedspread; all clean looking and in good repair.
‘I will leave in an hour,’ Mohammed said, consulting the nuggets. ‘You wish to ask about plastic guns. Please go ahead.’
‘Er …’ Litsi said.
‘Who makes them?’ I asked.
Mohammed switched his dark gaze my way. ‘The bestknown,’ he said straightforwardly, ‘are made by Glock of Austria. The Glock 17.’ He reached unhurriedly towards the suitcase and unclipped the locks, ‘I brought one to show you.’
Beneath his educated English there was an accent I couldn’t place. Arab, in some way, I thought. Definitely Mediterranean, not Italian, perhaps French.
‘The Glock 17,’ he was saying, ‘is mostly plastic but has metal parts. Future guns of this sort can be made entirely from plastic. It’s a matter of a suitable formula for the material.’
From the suitcase he produced a neat square black box.
‘This handgun is legitimately in my possession,’ he said. ‘Despite the manner of our meeting, I am a reputable dealer.’
We assured him that we hadn’t thought otherwise.
He nodded in satisfaction and took the lid off the box. Inside, packed in a moulded tray, like a toy, lay a black pistol, an ammunition clip, and eighteen golden bullets, flat caps uppermost, points invisible, arranged neatly in three horizontal rows of six.
Mohammed lifted the weapon out of the box.
‘This pistol,’ he said, ‘has many advantages. It is light, it is cheaper and easier to make than all-metal guns, and also it is more accurate.’
He let the information sink into our brains in true salesman fashion.
‘It pulls apart.’ He showed us, snapping off the entire top of the pistol, revealing a metal rod lying within. ‘This is the metal barrel.’ He picked it out, ‘There is also a metal spring. The bullets also are metal. The butt and the ammunition clip are plastic. The pieces pop back together again very easily.’ He reassembled the pistol fast, closing its top into place with a snap. ‘Extremely easy, as you see. The clip holds nine bullets at a time. People who use this weapon, including some police forces, consider it a great advance, the forerunner of a whole new concept of handguns.’
‘Aren’t they trying to ban it in America?’ Litsi said.
‘Yes.’ Mohammed shrugged. ‘Amendment 4194 to Title 18, forbidding the import, manufacture and sales of any such gun made after January 1, 1986. It is because the plastic is undetectable by X-ray scanners. They fear the guns will be carried through airports and into government buildings by terrorists.’
‘And won’t they?’ I said.
‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘Approximately two million private citizens in America own handguns,’ he said. ‘They believe in the right to carry arms. This Glock pistol is the beginning of the future. It may result in the widespread development of plastic-detectors … and perhaps in the banning of all handluggage on aeroplanes except ladies’ handbags and flat briefcases that can be searched by hand.’ He looked from me to Litsi. ‘Is terrorism your concern?’
‘No,’ Litsi said. ‘Not directly.’
Mohammed seemed relieved. ‘This gun wasn’t invented as a terrorist weapon,’ he said. ‘It is seriously a good pistol, better all round.’
‘We understand that,’ I said. ‘How profitable is it?’
‘To whom?’
‘To the manufacturer.’
‘Ah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It depends.’ He considered. ‘It costs less to make and is consequently cheaper in price than metal guns. The profit margin may not be so very different overall, but the gross profit of course depends on the number of items sold.’ He smiled cheerfully. ‘It’s calculated that most of the two million people already owning guns in America, for instance, will want to up-grade to the new product. The new is better and more prestigious, and so on. Also their police forces would like to have them. Apart from there, the world is thirsty for guns for use – private Americans, you understand, own them mostly for historical reasons, for sport, for fantasy, for the feeling of personal power, not because they intend to kill people – but in many many places, killing is the purpose. Killing, security and defence. The market is wide open for really cheap good reliable new pistols. For a while at least, until the demand is filled, manufacturers could make big honest money fast.’
Litsi and I listened to him with respect.
‘What about dishonest money?’ I asked.
He paused only momentarily. ‘It depends who we’re talking about.’
‘We’re still talking about the manufacturer,’ I said.
‘Ah. A corporation?’
‘A private company with one man in charge.’
He produced a smile packed with worldly disillusion.
‘Such a man can print his own millions.’
‘How, exactly?’ I asked.
‘The easiest way,’ he said, ‘is to ship the product in two parts.’ He pulled the plastic gun again into components. ‘Say you packed all the pieces into a box, like this, omitting only the barrel. A barrel, say, made of special plastic that won’t melt or buckle from the heat caused by the friction of the bullet passing through.’
He looked at us to see if we appreciated such simple matters, and seemingly reassured, went on. ‘The manufacturer exports the barrels separately. This, he says, ensures that if either shipment is diverted – which is a euphemism for stolen – in passage, the goods will be useless. Only when both shipments have reached their destination safely can the pistols be assembled. Right?’
‘Right,’ we both said.
‘The manufacturer does all the correct paperwork. Each shipment is exported accompanied by customs dockets, each shipment is what it purports to be, everything is legal. The next step depends on how badly the customer wants the guns.’
‘How do you mean?’ Litsi said.
‘Suppose,’ Mohammed answered, enjoying himself, ‘the customer’s need is great and pressing. The manufacturer sends the guns without the barrels. The customer pays. The manufacturer sends the barrels. Good?’
We nodded.
‘The manufacturer tells the customer he must pay the price on the invoices to the manufacturing company, but he must also pay a sum into a different bank account – number and country supplied – and when that payment is safely in the manufacturer’s secret possession, then he will despatch the barrels.’
‘Simple,’ I said.
‘Of course. A widespread practice. The sort of thing which goes on the whole world over. Money up front, above board settlement, offshore funds sub rosa.’
‘Kick backs,’ I said.
‘Of course. In many countries, it is the accepted system. Trade cannot continue without it. A little commission, here and there …’ He shrugged. ‘Your manufacturer with an all-plastic reliable cheaply made handgun could pass an adequate profit through his company’s books and pocket a fortune for himself out of sight.’
He reassembled the gun dexterously and held it out to me.
‘Feel it,’ he said. ‘An all-plastic gun would be much lighter even than this.’
I took the gun, looking at its matt black surface of purposeful shape, the metal rim of the barrel showing at the business end. It certainly was remarkably light to handle, even with metal parts. All-plastic, it could be a plaything for babies.
With an inward shiver I gave it to Litsi. It was the second time in four days I’d been instructed in the use of handguns, and although I’d handled one before, I wasn’t a good shot, nor ever likely to practise. Litsi weighed the gun thoughtfully in his palm and returned it to its owner.
‘Are we talking of any manufacturer in particular?’ Mohammed asked.
‘About one who wants to be granted a licence to manufacture and export plastic guns,’ I said, ‘but who hasn’t been in the arms business before.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘In France?’
‘Yes,’ Litsi said without surprise, and I realised that Mohammed must have known the enquiry had come to him through French channels, even if it hadn’t been he who’d spoken to Litsi on the telephone.
Mohammed pursed his lips under the big moustache. ‘To get a licence, your manufacturer would have to be a person of particularly good standing. These licences, you understand, are never thrown about like confetti. He must certainly have the capability, the factory, that is to say, also the prototype, also probably definite orders, but above all he must have the good name.’
‘You’ve been extremely helpful,’ Litsi said.
Mohammed radiated bonhomie.
‘How would the manufacturer set about selling his guns? Would he advertise?’ I said.
‘Certainly. In firearms’ and trade magazines the world over. He might also engage an agent, such as myself.’ He smiled. ‘I work on commission. I am well known. People who want guns come to me and say, “What will suit us best? How much is it? How soon can you get it?”’ He spread his palms. ‘I’m a middleman. We are indispensable.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anything else?’
I said on impulse, ‘If someone wanted a humane killer, could you supply it? A captive bolt?’
‘Obsolete,’ he said promptly. ‘In England, made by Accles and Shelvoke in Birmingham. Do you mean those? Point 405 calibre, perhaps? One point two-five grain caps?’
‘I dare say,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t deal in humane killers. They’re too specialised. It wouldn’t be worth your while to pay me to find you one. There are many around, all out of date. I would ask older veterinarians, they might be pleased to sell. You’d need a licence to own one, of course.’ He paused. ‘To be frank, gentlemen, I find it most profitable to deal with customers to whom personal licences are irrelevant.’
‘Is there anyone,’ I asked, ‘and please don’t take this as an insult, because it’s not meant that way, but is there anyone to whom you would refuse to sell guns?’
He took no offence. He said, ‘Only if I thought they couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. On moral grounds, no. I don’t ask what they want them for. If I cared, I’d be in the wrong trade. I sell the hardware, I don’t agonise over its use.’
Both Litsi and I seemed to have run out of questions. Mohammed put the pistol back into its box, where it sat neatly above its prim little rows of bullets. He replaced the lid on the box and returned the whole to the suitcase.
‘Never forget,’ he said, still smiling, ‘that attack and defence are as old as the human race. Once upon a time, I would have been selling nicely sharpened spearhead flints.’
‘Mr Mohammed,’ I said, ‘thank you very much.’
He nodded affably. Litsi stood up and shook hands again with the diamond ring, as did I, and Mohammed said if we saw his friend loitering in the passage not to worry and not to speak to him, he would return to the room when we had gone.
We paid no attention to the friend waiting by the lifts and rode down without incident to the ground floor. It wasn’t until we were in a taxi on the way back to Eaton Square that either of us spoke.
‘He was justifying himself,’ Litsi said.
‘Everyone does. It’s healthy.’
He turned his head. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The alternative is guilty despair. Self-justification may be an illusion, but it keeps you from suicide.’
‘You could self-justify suicide.’
I smiled at him sideways. ‘So you could.’
‘Nanterre,’ he said, ‘has a powerful urge to sharpen flints.’
‘Mm. Lighter, cheaper, razor-like flints.’
‘Bearing the de Brescou cachet.’
‘I had a powerful vision,’ I said, ‘of Roland shaking hands on a deal with Mohammed.’
Litsi laughed. ‘We must save him from the justification.’
‘How did you get hold of Mohammed?’ I asked.
‘One of the useful things about being a prince,’ Litsi said, ‘is that if one seriously asks, one is seldom refused. Another is that one knows and has met a great many people in useful positions. I simply set a few wheels in motion, much as you did yesterday, incidentally, with Lord Vaughnley.’ He paused. Why is a man you defeated so anxious to please you?’
‘Well … in defeating him I also saved him. Maynard Allardeck was out to take over his newspaper by fair means and definitely foul, and I gave him the means of stopping him permanently, which was a copy of that film.’
‘I do see,’ Litsi said ironically, ‘that he owes you a favour or two.’
‘Also,’ I said, ‘the boy who gambled half his inheritance away under Maynard’s influence was Hugh Vaughnley, Lord Vaughnley’s son. By threatening to publish the film, Lord Vaughnley made Maynard give the inheritance back. The inheritance, actually, was shares in the Towncrier newspaper.’
‘A spot of poetic blackmail. Your idea?’
‘Well … sort of.’
He chuckled, ‘I suppose I should disapprove. It was surely against the law.’
‘The law doesn’t always deliver justice. The victim mostly loses. Too often the law can only punish, it can’t put things right.’
‘And you think righting the victims’ wrongs is more important than anything else?’
‘Where it’s possible, the highest priority.’
‘And you’d break the law to do it?’
‘It’s too late at night for being tied into knots,’ I said, ‘and we’re back at Eaton Square.’
We went upstairs to the sitting room and, the princess and Beatrice having gone to bed, drank a brandy nightcap in relaxation. I liked Litsi more and more as a person, and wished him permanently on the other side of the globe; and looking at him looking at me, I wondered if he were possibly thinking the same thing.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he said.
‘Racing at Bradbury.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Half way to Devon.’
‘I don’t know where you get the energy.’ He yawned. ‘I spent a gentle afternoon walking round Ascot racecourse, and I’m whacked.’
Large and polished, he drank his brandy, and in time we unplugged the recording telephone, carried it down to the basement, and replugged it in the hallway there. Then we went up to the ground floor and paused for a moment outside Litsi’s door.
‘Goodnight,’ I said.
‘Goodnight.’ He hesitated, and then held out his hand. I shook it. ‘Such a silly habit,’ he said with irony, ‘but what else can one do?’ He gave me a sketchy wave and went into his room, and I continued on up to see if I were still to sleep among the bamboo shoots, which it seemed I was.
I dozed on top of the bedclothes for an hour or so and then went down, out, and round the back to get the car to fetch Danielle.
I thought, as I walked quietly into the dark, deserted alley, that it really was a perfect place for an ambush.