‘Can’t we talk on the phone?’
‘Yeah. But you’re gonna end up here, anyway. So . . . come on down. It’s right on the way.’
‘Okay, pal, warm up the ice cubes.
Howe had supplied the Lear. And tow, as it taxied toward the shack they called a depot, O’ Hara’s adrenaline was pumping furiously. Falmouth was somewhere nearby, and for the first time since he had accepted the assignment, he was eager to find out what was up his sleeve.
II
The man was absolutely unmemorable. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, handsome nor ugly. He had no scars or noticeable defects. His accent was basically bland, he could have been from Portland, Oregon, or Dallas, Texas, there was no way of telling. He wore gray: a gray suit, a gray-and-wine tie, a gray-striped shirt. In short, there was nothing in his carriage, demeanour or dress that would either attract attention or make an impression on anyone.
The office was on the twenty-second floor of a sterile glass-and-chromium New Orleans skyscraper that had all the warmth and pizzazz of a fly swatter. He checked his watch as he got off the elevator.
Two minutes early. Perfect.
He entered the office of Sunset Oil International.
‘My name is Duffield,’ he told the secretary. He did not offer a card.
‘Oh yes, Mr Duffield, you’re to go right in,’ she said. ‘Mr Ollinger is expecting you. Do you care for coffee or something cool to drink’?’
‘No, thank you.’
She ushered him into the office. Ollinger was a man in his early forties, with the baby-skin face arid soft hands of the easy life. His soft brown eyes stared bleakly from behind lightly tinted, gold-rimmed spectacles. He was tall and erect and in good physical shape, clean-shaven with short-cropped blond hair, and he was in his shirt sleeves. The city stretched out behind him, a panorama framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. His walnut desk was a study in Spartan organization: ‘in’ boxes and ‘out’ boxes and not a sheet of paper out of place. On the credenza behind him was a single photograph of a woman and two children, and beside it a small brass plaque with ‘Thank you for not smoking’ printed on it. There was not one other personal effect in the room. It was as if Ollinger had just moved in and had not unpacked yet. His manner was cordial but distant. Some might have thought him intimidating, but to Duffield, he was just another executive with a problem.
‘Thanks for getting up here so fast’ Ollinger said after the introductions.
‘You indicated there is some urgency to the matter.’
‘You might say that,’ Ollinger replied with a touch of sarcasm. He sighed, and straightening his arms, placed both hands on his desk, palms down. ‘Before we start,’ he said, ‘I would like it understood that this conversation never happened.’
Duffield smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said. Ollinger was new at this, and uncomfortable in a situation that was totally out of his control.
‘Good,’ Ollinger said, with a sense of relief. He opened the desk drawer and took out a yellow legal pad with notes scrawled au over the top page. ‘I hope I can decipher all this,’ he said. ‘I was scribbling notes as fast as I could.’
‘Why not just tell me the basic problem,’ Duffield said.
‘The basic problem is that one of our people has been kidnapped by terrorists in Venezuela,’ Ollinger said, still studying his notes and not looking up.
‘I see.’
‘Actually, he’s a consultant attached to our office in Caracas. It was a mistake. They meant to take the manager of the plant and got the wrong man.’
‘You know that for sure?’
Ollinger nodded. ‘Our manager’s name is Domignon. He was going to take Lavander on a tour of the facilities but something came up at the last minute. He let Lavander use his car and driver and it was raining, so he loaned Lavander his slicker. They jumped the car less than a mile from the main gate.’
‘Lavander’s the one got lifted, then’?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he the oil consultant?’
Ollinger nodded. ‘Yes. You know him?’
‘Only by reputation. When did this happen?’
‘Eight-twenty this morning.’
‘Have you heard from the bastards?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Two million dollars.’
‘What’s the time frame?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How much time do you have?’
‘Forty-eight hours.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Make that forty-five.’
‘So we have until approximately eight-thirty the day after tomorrow. Are they aware of their error?’
‘They don’t care. It’s put up or shut up.’
‘How badly do you want him back?’
‘Well, I ... uh, we have to treat him as if—’
‘Mr Ollinger, is he worth two million dollars to your company?’ Ollinger seemed shocked by Duffield’s candour. ‘There’s a man’s life at stake here.’
‘Yes, yes, but that’s not What I asked you. Is the man worth two million dollars to Sunset?’
The weight of events seemed to press down on Ollinger. His shoulders sagged and he looked at his hands. ‘I don’t know anybody that is,’ he said forlornly.
‘Is this political?’
‘Political?’
‘You know, do they want anything else? Do they have prisoners they want released? Is there a union problem in the plant? Are these people revolutionary types? Do they want to nationalize your operation? Is it political?’
‘No. All... all they want’s two million dollars.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or they’ll kill him, take another hostage and raise the ante to four million.’
‘Typical. Do you know these people? Is it a group? A solo with a few hired hands? Some employee with a hard-on?’
‘They call themselves the ... uh, Raf...’ He looked at his notes.
‘Rafsaludi?’ Duffield filled in.
‘That’s it. You know them?’
‘We’ve dealt with them once or twice before. It’s a loose-knit, terror-for-profit group trained by Gaddafi’s people in Libya. They’re not politically motivated.’
‘So it has something to do with oil, then...’
‘Not necessarily. They prey on big American companies. Our last experience with them involved a soft-drink company in Argentina. The Rafsaludi is motivated by greed, not social reform. That’s a help.’
‘A help?’
‘Well, there’s an attitude of fanaticism among political revolutionaries. Tends to make them a bit unpredictable. A greedy terrorist is always easier to deal with.’
‘Oh,’ Ollinger said. It was obvious that he was uneasy dealing with the problem. ‘Can it be done without, you know, a lot of — uh, unnecessary, uh...’
‘You’re new at this,’ Duffield said. It was not a question.
‘Yes. I was in the legal department until they made me vee-pee in charge of international operations two months ago.’
‘You’d better get used to this kind of thing,’ Duffield said. ‘These are cretins. Unless the situation is dealt with harshly, it will happen again.’
Ollinger rubbed his forehead. He was growing more uncomfortable by the minute.
‘I assume you want the man back,’ Duffield said briskly, changing the subject.
Ollinger looked at him with arched eyebrows. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Mr Ollinger, let’s be candid. Of course you want this Lavander back. What I mean is, you want him back, but you don’t want to pay two million dollars for him, right?’
‘That’s why I called you. Derek Frazer recommended—’
‘Yes, yes, I talked to Derek. My point is, this man is only a consultant, he’s not a salaried executive with the company.’
‘We have to think of him as an employee,’ Ollinger said. ‘If word got out that we let terrorists kill a contract consultant...’ He let the sentence trail off,
‘Yes, it would be regarded as a moral responsibility.’
‘You don’t have to remind us...’