“WELL.” Trevor inhaled deeply. “Now we can talk in earnest.”
“What about him?” Felix nodded toward Rossetti.
“Have you ever asked yourself, Maldonado, who the one guilty party in all this might be?” Trevor sighed.
“Guilt seems to be the one thing in this affair that’s evenly divided,” Felix replied without humor.
“No, you don’t understand what I mean. Gather together all the guilt, yours and mine, the Director General’s and his boy Ayub’s, Bernstein’s, plus that of the lady who just left us. That adds to a lot of guilt, don’t you agree?”
Rossetti was shaking now, and starting to rise to his feet.
“No, Trevor, no…”
“The wise thing, the clean thing, would be to pile all the guilt on one head, to make one person responsible. I’m looking at that person right now. Do you see him, too?”
“It’s all the same to me,” said Felix. “But there is one thing I don’t want you to make Rossetti responsible for.”
Trevor took Rossetti gently by the shoulder and forced him back on the sofa. “Ah, yes. And what is that?”
“Angelica, Angelica,” Rossetti was mumbling grotesquely, his face hidden in his hands.
“The death of Sara Klein,” said Felix. “I’ll take care of that.”
“Agreed. Now listen to me. Look out those windows. Houston isn’t a beautiful city. It’s something better, a powerful city. See that blue glass skyscraper? It’s the headquarters of the world’s most advanced petroleum technology. It belongs to the Arabs, and it cost them five hundred million dollars. See the Gulf Bank sign? Eighty percent of their transactions consist of managing petroleum dollars for their Arab clients. Did you see the names of all the legal firms in this building? All working for Arab money. I invite you to take a stroll through any company in this building. Every one is dedicated to a single proposition, participation in the development programs of Arab countries; they’re gambling two hundred billion dollars. Stop blubbering, Rossetti. What I’m saying should be of interest to you.”
“Angelica…”
“You’ll be joining her soon. Be patient. First, you’ll have to justify my having given her the money. Half of all the commercial transactions between the American private sector and the Arab world are realized in Houston: four billion dollars annually. From here flow pipelines, liquid-gas plants, petrochemical technology, agricultural know-how, even university professors, to the Arab world. One single firm of Texas architects has signed contracts for six billion dollars of exports annually from the United States to the Arab countries.”
Trevor clasped his hands behind an impeccably tailored back and contemplated the face of Houston beneath the newly cloudy, dirty, hot sky, as if he were observing a field of cement mushrooms nurtured by black rain. “This building, right here where we are standing, is the property of the Saudis. Do I bore you with my statistics?” He turned and directed his tight smile toward Felix.
“If you’re trying to impress me with your audacity, I admit you’re succeeding,” said Felix.
“Audacity?” Trevor inquired sarcastically.
“You’re the one who said it,” Maldonado replied. “The real secrets are those that are open secrets. Houston is an ideal site for an Arab secret agent.”
Both Trevor and Rossetti laughed, and regarded Felix like a pair of wolves regarding a lamb.
“Tell him the truth, Rossetti,” ordered Trevor, more than ever the Roman senator.
“Bernstein told me to deliver the ring to Trevor,” said Rossetti, more sure of himself now. “Mann doesn’t exist. It was a code name.”
“Madame Rossetti earned her ‘bundle’ in good faith.” Trevor smiled. “The ring, therefore, is not on the way to the mythic Mr. Mann in New York.”
“The things you learn.” Felix’s voice was drowsy but his internal clock began to tick more rapidly. “I didn’t realize that Wonderland had its capital in Jerusalem.”
“I lend my professional services,” Trevor said in a velvet voice.
“To the highest bidder?”
Trevor extended his arms in an expansive gesture rare to him, as if embracing the office, the building, the entire city of Houston. “There’s no mystery. On this occasion, and in this place, I represent Arab interests.”
“But Bernstein sent you the ring.”
“Don’t recriminate against your former professor. He knows me as an Israeli agent, and made me the ring’s recipient in all good faith. He doesn’t know that I practice the virtue of simultaneity of allegiances. Can you distinguish between Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”
“I know that if you crush one, the other will fall like Humpty Dumpty.”
“Except that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men would have to put me back together again. I’m too valuable to both parties. Don’t try to crack the egg, Maldonado, or you’re the one who’ll end up as an omelette. Remember that if it were my wish you would never leave this room alive,” said Trevor, pacing like a cat on the thick office rug.
“You can’t kill me,” said Felix.
“Poppycock! Are you immortal, my dear Hare?”
“No. I’m dead and buried. Visit the Jardín Cemetery in Mexico City someday and see for yourself.”
“Do you realize that you’re proposing to me the ideal way to kill you without leaving a trace? Who’d be looking for a ‘dead’ man who’s already dead?”
“But if I die, no one will find Bernstein’s ring.”
“You think not?” said the Englishman, his face more innocent than that of a Dickens heroine. “All I have to do is retrace, link by link, the chain of events you so imprudently ruptured. The actors in the plot are perfectly interchangeable. Particularly the dead ones.”
Felix couldn’t control his pounding blood, the invisible enemy betraying the impassivity of his face. He was grateful for the scars that helped sustain the rigidity of his mask. Felix had had no physical contact with Trevor, but now the Englishman was affectionately patting his hand, and Felix flinched at the dry, sweatless touch.
“Come now, don’t be afraid. Consider the game I’m proposing. Let us call it, in honor of the Holy Patroness of your nation, Operation Guadalupe. A good Arabic name, Guadalupe. It means river of wolves.”
Even without intending it, Trevor’s features assumed a lupine expression. “But let us not dwell on philology; let us consider, instead, probable scenarios. Perhaps brutal scenarios. Combine the elements in any way you desire, my dear Maldonado. The perfectly calculated pretext of the Yom Kippur War and its equally calculated effect: the rapid acceleration of oil prices; Europe and Japan brought to their knees, once and for all stripped of any pretense of independence; Congress’s granting funds for the construction of the Alaska pipeline because of the oil panic, and the multiplication by millions of the earnings of the Five Sisters. Listen, and marveclass="underline" in 1974 alone, Exxon’s profits rose 23.6 percent, as compared to 1.76 percent in the ten previous years; those of Standard Oil rose 30.92 percent, compared to 0.55 percent during the preceding decade.”
He relinquished Felix’s hand and turned toward the window. “Look outside, and see the evidence of petrodollars. Let’s say we play Israel against the Arabs and the Arabs against Israel. Houston is the Arab capital of the United States, and New York the Jewish capital; the petrodollars flow in here and out there. Does anyone know for whom he’s working? But let’s confine ourselves to our game. All scenarios are possible. Even — or especially — one for a new war. Depending on the circumstances, we can close the New York valve and suffocate Israel, or close the Houston valve and freeze Arab funds. Follow the moves in our game, please. Imagine an isolated Israel plunged headlong into a war of desperation. Imagine the Arabs refusing to sell oil to the West. Choose your script, Maldonado; who would intervene first, the Soviets or the Americans?”