“You know what I mean.” Michel paused a moment and then continued, his tone less official now, friendlier. “Kek, I know all about you. I suppose every police officer on the continent does. You’ve done pretty well. I don’t pretend to know all the details of how you’ve done it, but you have. And you’ve come out of it with just about everything you want — certainly everything you need. So why jeopardize it all for the momentary, childish satisfaction of trying to get even? Especially about something that happened so long ago?”
Huuygens smiled at the telephone gently. “What makes you think I intend to jeopardize anything?”
“Because I know you. Because—”
“Then, if you know me so well, why do you try to talk me out of something you’re sure my mind is made up about? By your own theory, you wouldn’t succeed.”
“Kek, Kek! Don’t be a fool!” Michel sounded impatient. “To begin with, do you honestly imagine the man is just sitting there with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears? Or that you’re the only enemy he’s ever made? The only one in fifteen years who has wanted him dead? But he’s alive, I tell you! And not by accident!” Michel took a deep breath. “Secondly, I should hate to be on the other side from any of our old group. But I take my job seriously, Kek. I’d be lying to you if I allowed you to get any other idea. And third...”
“Yes? What else?”
Michel’s voice dropped in pitch, becoming somber. “Third, my friend, remember this: revenge is an empty thing. Here in Portugal we say: ‘Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate...’”
Huuygens frowned at the telephone. “That’s a rather strange proverb, coming from you.”
“There’s nothing strange about it,” Morell said quietly. “It couldn’t come from a more authentic source. Take my friendliest advice, Kek, forget the entire matter.”
Huuygens’s voice was equally quiet, and equally firm. “I can’t.”
There was a brief pause; when Morell spoke again he sounded genuinely sad. “If you can’t, you can’t. But I’m very sorry to hear it. I think you’re making a mistake.”
“It won’t be my first.”
“But possibly your last. Well, I’ve warned you. Now — what did you want to talk to me about?”
Despite himself, Kek grinned. “I don’t believe it matters much, now. I was going to ask a favor of you.”
“In connection with this affair? I’m sorry. Ask me a favor that will keep you out of Portugal, and I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. But...”
There was the sound of a muffled explosion of a deep voice in the background, and a moment later André was on the line.
“Kek? This is André.” The giant made no attempt to hide either his impatience or his disgust. “I heard enough of that idiotic conversation to get a fair idea of what you were discussing. And the direction it was taking. As I understand it, you plan on a visit to our fair country, and Michel does not approve. Is that it?”
Huuygens smiled ruefully. “That’s putting it mildly, but accurately.”
“And I also gather that you wanted some favor of Michel. What is it?”
“Why?” Huuygens shrugged. His mind was already discarding his initial plan, searching out alternate routes to his goal. “Michel refuses to have anything to do with it. Or with me. And I can’t exactly force him.”
“Chansons! What stupidity! On both your parts!” The big man snorted. “He’ll do it for you, or he’ll do it for me. Either way, it’ll be done. Just tell me what you want.”
Kek grinned at the other’s tone of derring-do; it brought to mind the many times that same attitude had saved them in the grim days of the Resistance. His grin slowly faded as he stared into the vague darkness beyond the perimeter of light cast by the lamp. Possibly Michel was right in warning him off; certainly he had done it in all sincerity. But that discussion was pointless; Step One was finished — done. The decision had been made. The question now was whether it was smart to involve Michel at all, especially with his attitude. Still, there was no doubt that Morell was the man to handle it, and if André said it would be done, it doubtless would be done. An interesting decision...
“Kek?”
“I’m still here. I’m thinking.”
“There’s a time for thinking, and a time for talking. Just tell me what you wanted.”
For several additional seconds Huuygens stared at the receiver, weighing, considering. At last he sighed, conceding. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what I had in mind. Then you can tell me if it’s possible, knowing Michel.”
He closed his eyes, better to review the various steps of the scheme, and then began speaking, slowly, evenly, his mind ticking off each detail one by one as he voiced them, like an auditor going down an inventory, checking off items. At the other end of the line André listened carefully, marking each word. When Huuygens finally finished speaking, the big man chuckled softly in appreciation.
“I begin to see why I’m still in the lower brackets of this racket. It’s a lovely scheme. There’s no absolute guarantee, of course, but if it’s handled right, it should work. And Michel — he’s sitting here making faces at me, but don’t worry — he’s the one who can handle it right. He’s got just the right degree of honesty and larceny nicely mixed to do it. It’s the basis of police work, I suppose.” There was a brief pause. “What paper did you say had the article?”
“France-Soir,” Huuygens said, and opened his eyes, suddenly realizing that André was quite serious, that Michel would cooperate. “It was in last Friday’s edition. I’d mail you a copy, but you should be able to pick one up there. It would be much better. The less correspondence between us, the better.”
“France-Soir? There’s no need. Michel gets it in the mail. It doesn’t always get here regularly, but if he doesn’t have last Friday’s copy yet, it ought to be arriving soon. Or we can even get one at the library. All right, then; I’ve got the picture.” The chuckle was suddenly repeated. “Wonderful! You’ll be hearing from us soon. Or, anyway, from me.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear from anyone,” Huuygens said quietly. “And say goodby to Michel for me.”
“I’ll do it. Take care.”
There was a soft click as the telephone was disconnected. Huuygens placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back, tenting his fingers, pressing them together. André seemed sure that Michel would cooperate, and maybe he would. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. He shrugged. The worst that could happen was that he would receive another telephone call, and would have to make a change in plans. It wouldn’t be the first time, but still, time would be wasted, which would be a pity.
He closed his eyes again, reviewing his long conversation with Lisbon, word for word. What had Michel said, early in their talk? Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate...
He grinned sardonically and opened his eyes, staring across the silent room with an almost savage glint in his gray eyes. Maybe we can warm it up a bit, he thought. Maybe we can add a little salt and pepper to make it more palatable. Because, warm or cold, we’re going to sit down to that meal...
Book Two
5
At one of the spindly wire-legged tables that effectively blocked pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk before Celotto’s café in the Rua da Prata, in Lisbon, Michel Morell reviewed his latest copy of France-Soir while he idly stirred his thick coffee and awaited the arrival of his superior, Orlando Braz Camargo. Their offices were in one of the ancient stone buildings that lined the Praça do Comércio, part way between Celotto’s and the docks of the Rio Tejo, and the usual fine autumn weather of the Portuguese capital made having breakfast in the open air an enjoyable and customary way to start the day, just as the leisurely stroll to work following their café de manhã paved the way to a more pleasant approach to police tasks that, at best, were seldom pleasant.