As they all feasted, the Baron and Staley took turns describing the people and events that had shaped their plan of grand Gypsy tricks, called bengipe. And they told how gradually it had grown into the most audacious Gypsy con game ever played on the gadje by any tribe in the long history of the Romanipe. The children especially listened with rapt attention, intelligence moving like wild animals in their black Gypsy eyes as they absorbed every detail, delighted in every triumph over the gadje.
“Why do you have need of him?” asked Dina’s little son. He had been stroking Freddie’s massive forearm and hand-feeding him bits of cornbread.
The Baron quickly spooned the last of the cornbread onto his own empty plate.
“Because Freddie is not an ordinary ape, oh no,” he said. “He is master of many tricks, he can even use a computer. The man who taught him in Hong Kong will soon join us to continue his education...”
Tucon, twelve years old, twinkling of eyes, already a trainer of racehorses at Golden Gate Field, broke in.
“And the gadje of DKA? What of them?”
“The last I saw of them — from the air, mind you — they were standing on the rooftop of the world twenty miles from the nearest town!”
Then it was achsòv devlèsa to the Baron and Freddie. The Baron embraced many of them, both he and Freddie shook hands all around, then were out the door with cries of lacshès kusmètsi ringing in their ears.
Later that same holiday morning, Victor Marr helicoptered into Xanadu with his pilot, Carmody, at the controls, and his bodyguard, Marko, carried on the books for tax purposes as his personal assistant, at his side. Marr was boiling but was so disciplined he would never show his rage to a pair of mere employees. Freddie, the totally unique possession unmatched anywhere in the world, had been his. And was now another man’s.
“There never was any Baron Knottnerus-Meyer,” he told Marko. “This morning I spoke with the head of the firm in Berlin. They never had such an employee. He is probably the agent of the man who bought the beast in the first place — sent to retrieve him. Whoever he was, he went into Xanadu, cased the place, then conned Cal-Cit Bank into hiring a gang of repomen to steal my ape!”
“So first we go after the repomen, then—”
He stilled Marko with a gesture. “Until the very last moment, they thought they were testing Xanadu’s defenses. When they realized what was going on, it was too late.”
“I’ll leave for Europe tomorrow,” said Marko. “After I kill this man and get Freddie back—”
“We... don’t know who he is.” Marr sounded uncomfortable. Money and power had always worked for him before; but now he was faced with a slyness he could not comprehend. No organization he had ever dealt with had moved so swiftly and so secretly. “There is no record of him leaving California with Freddie, no record of him arriving with him at any major airport in Europe.”
Marko audibly ground his teeth. Marr was reminded of the Dobermans at Xanadu. Marko said, “I’ll fly to Hong Kong—”
“I talked with Kahawa this morning,” said Marr. “Brantley has disappeared. Again, no record of his departure.”
“Five minutes,” said Carmody over the intercom.
Once on the ground, Marr started for the perimeter fence with R.K. at his elbow.
“A con game,” said Marr thoughtfully. It all had been a con game. Hitting Xanadu. Grabbing Freddie. Disappearing Brantley from Hong Kong. Smoke and mirrors. He had never faced anything like it before.
They stopped at the fence. “Firecrackers,” he said, shaking his head. “An old trick.”
“In the dark, we could only figure we were taking fire.”
“And they kept you occupied downstairs with a few ball bearings tossed on the floor, while the helicopter...” He got his rising voice under control. “The helicopter was landing on the roof to take away Freddie. Where was the duty officer?”
“He was, ah, locked up in the ape’s cage.”
“By the ape, no doubt,” said Marr in dry sarcasm.
“Ah — as a matter of fact, yeah.”
Marr found himself nodding approval of the mirrors affixed to the light beams on the Observation Room door frame. He stared up at the crossbow-driven arrow with the expanding head in the ceiling of the Observation Room.
“And the white powder scattered on the floor?”
“Just seems to be talcum. I can’t figure out why they—”
“To make the light beams visible,” sighed Marr.
He looked over at the glowering R.K.
“You’ve got one hour to be out of Xanadu,” he said. What else could he do? If R.K. was not an incompetent, then Victor Marr himself was at fault. Victor Marr was never at fault. “I will see you never hold any sort of security job again.”
“That isn’t fair! And the Jeep’s gone. I got no way—”
“Walk,” said Marko.
R.K. walked. Vowing, with every step of those twenty miles down off the mountain, vengeance against Dan Kearny some day.
Forty-seven
At nine on Tuesday morning, the day after Memorial Day, a grim-faced Dan Kearny stormed into Stan Groner’s office. Groner’s assistant jumped to her feet behind her desk.
“You can’t go in there, Mr. Kearny, he’s not—”
Kearny flung the private door open and started across the carpet, then slowed to a stop. Stan was not alone. Jackson B. Gideon, president of Cal-Cit Bank, was beating the desktop with a sheaf of rolled-up papers and yelling.
“The bank’s image, Groner!” Thunk, thunk, thunk. “You have compromised this bank’s image!”
Gideon, a man with a beaked fleshy nose and pig eyes under eyebrows like bleached fuzzy caterpillars, wore a dove-grey wool suit that wished it was two sizes larger. His mouth was twisted with the same rage that had turned his fleshy face red.
Stan began, “But, sir, you were the one who told me not to do anything to upset—”
“None of your whining excuses, Groner.” Catching a glimpse of Dan Kearny, he pointed a finger at him. “Kearny! DKA will rot in hell before you get any more auto contract recovery assignments out of us.” He stormed toward the door, throwing over his shoulder, “Explain it to him, Groner!” and waddled out.
“Yeah, Groner, explain it to me,” said Dan ominously.
Stan was behind his desk, head in hands. “So sue me.”
Dan sat down. The disaster was not DKA’s alone, obviously. Stan’s feet were also in the fire. It just went on and on.
“Why don’t you take it from the very top,” he said.
“The Baron is no baron. The company in Berlin never heard of him. He conned Cal-Cit corporately, and me personally. The bank — on my assurances — paid him an advance and got stuck with the cost of his hotel suite, the chopper, everything. Marr is of course refusing to honor any commitments we made.” Groner was on his feet, pacing. “And we were made to look like fools with the company in Berlin in the bargain. There never were any merger talks. That bastard Baron just made them up. I’m hanging on to my job by a whisker, Cal-Cit sure as hell isn’t going to pay DKA anything or assign you any repo work. Not now, anyway.”
“If he isn’t Knottnerus-Meyer, who is he?”
“We don’t know. Robin Brantley, the guy in Hong Kong who recommended him in the first place, has disappeared. Gideon is blaming me, but he’s the one who told me to handle the Baron with care and never checked on him with Berlin. So I take the fall.”
“So do I,” said Kearny. “So does DKA. Thanks just a hell of a lot for getting me into this, Groner.”