He saw several Congressmen, two generals in civilian clothes, Robert Quitlock, Harry Cushing and a dozen other men his photographic mind cataloged from the recent Washington scene. He made his way to the bar, obtained a tall whisky and soda — "No ice if you please" — and turned to meet the questioning glance of Akito Tsogu Nu Moto.
Chapter VI
Nick looked right through Akito and smiled and nodded at an imaginary friend beyond him and turned away. The elder Moto was expressionless as usual — you could not guess what thoughts revolved behind those placid but implacable features.
"Excuse me please," Akito's voice was at his elbow. "You and I have met I think. I find it so hard to remember Occidental features, just as you confuse we Asians I'm sure. I am Akito Moto…"
Akito chuckled politely, but when Nick looked at him again there was no trace of humor in those chiseled brown planes.
"I don't recall, old boy." Nick smiled barely and extended his hand. "Alastair Williams of Vickers."
"Vickers?" Akito seemed surprised. Nick thought rapidly, cataloging the men he had seen here. He went on, "Oil and drilling division."
"Aim! I have met some of your people in Saudi Arabia. Yes — yes — Kirk and Miglierina and Robbins, I think. You know…?"
Nick doubted that he could have made up all the names so quickly. He gambled. "Indeed? Some time ago, I suppose, before the — ah, changes?"
"Yes. Before the — changes." He sighed. "You had an excellent situation there." Akito dropped his eyes for a moment as if in homage to lost profits. Then he smiled with his lips only. "But you have recovered. It is not as bad as it might have been."
"No. Half a loaf and all that."
"I represent Confederation. Are you in a position to discuss…?"
"Not personally. Quentin Smithfield is handling all that You should see him in London. He couldn't come."
"Ah! He is — approachable?"
"Quite."
"I did not know. It is so difficult arranging — around Aramco."
"Quite." Nick took from its case one of the beautifully engraved cards of Alastair Beadle Williams of Vickers, complete with address and a London telephone number which was Vickers — but on the desk of an agent of AXE. With his pen he wrote on the back, 'Met Mr. Moto, Pa. 14 July. A. B. Williams.'
"That should help, old boy."
"Thank you." Akito handed Nick one of his own cards. "We are strongly in the market. I suppose you know? I plan to be in London next month. Ill see Mr. Smithfield."
Nick nodded and turned away. Akito watched him as he put the card carefully away. Then he made a little tent with his hands and thought hard. It was puzzling. Perhaps Ruth would remember. He went to look for his "daughter."
Nick felt a bead of perspiration on his neck and wiped it gently away with his handkerchief. Easy now — his control was better than that. His disguise was superb, but there had been suspicion in the attitude of the Japanese patriarch. Nick moved slowly, limping on his cane. They could tell more sometimes from your gait than from your looks, and he felt the bright brown eyes on his back.
He edged the dance floor — a ruddy, gray-haired British businessman admiring the girls. He saw Anne We Ling, flashing her white teeth at a young executive type. She was dazzling in a sequined split-skirt.
He recalled Ruth's remark; Daddy was supposed to be in Cairo. Ah so? He moved through the room, catching snatches of conversation. This gathering was definitely concerned with oil. Hawk had been misled slightly by what Barney and Bill had gleaned from their telephone taps. Perhaps the other side used steel as a codeword for oil. Pausing near one group he heard, "…$850,000 a year for us and about the same for the government. But on a $200,000 investment you can't complain…"
A British accent said, "…we deserve more of that, really, but…"
Nick got away from there.
He remembered Jeanyee's comment. "We'll be flying mostly or in air-conditioned meeting rooms…"
Where was she? The whole place was air-conditioned. He ambled into a buffet room, threaded through more people in a music room, glanced into a magnificent library and found the front door and went out. No sign of the other girls or Hans Geist or a battered German type who could be Baumann.
He strolled down the walk and circled toward the parking lot. A hard-looking young man posted at the corner of the house eyed him speculatively. Nick nodded. "Charming evening, isn't it, old boy?"
"Yeah."
A genuine Britisher would never use the "old boy" quite as much or to strangers, but it was wonderful for typing you quickly. Nick blew a cloud of smoke and sauntered on. He passed several pairs of men and nodded politely. In the parking lot he wandered along a line of cars, saw no one in them — and suddenly he was gone.
He followed the black-topped road in the darkness until he reached the barrier gate. It was secured by a common, good-quality padlock. In three minutes he had opened it with one of the master picks from his selection and had locked it behind him. It would take him at least one minute to do it again — he hoped he wasn't leaving in a hurry.
The road should wind gently for half a mile and end where the buildings had been shown on the old map, and where he had seen the lights from the height. He walked on, alert, stepping silently. Twice he left the road as cars came through the night, one from the main house and one returning. He rounded a turn and saw the lights of the buildings — a smaller version of the main mansion.
A dog barked and he froze. The sound was ahead of him. He selected a high point and watched until a figure passed between him and the lights, from right to left One of the guards, following the gravel path to the other side of the valley. At this distance, the bark had not been for him — might not have been the guard's dog.
He waited for a long time, until he heard the rattle and clang of a gate and was reasonably certain the guard was going away from him. He circled the larger building slowly, ignoring a ten-stall garage which was in blackness and another barn without lights.
This would not be easy. There was a man beside each of three doors; only the south side was unwatched. He crept through the lush landscaping on that side and reached the first window, a high, wide opening that certainly had been custom-built Cautiously he peeked into a lavishly furnished, empty bedroom — beautifully decorated in exotic modern. He tested the window. Double thermopane and locked. Damn air-conditioning!
He crouched and surveyed his back trail. Close against the house he had the concealment of the neat plantings, but his nearest cover away from the building was across the fifty feet of lawn over which he had approached. If they maintained a close-in dog patrol he might be in trouble, otherwise he would move cautiously, stay away from the lights of the windows as much as possible.
You never knew — his entrance into the valley and investigation of the lavish conference in the big house might all be part of a large trap. Perhaps alerted by "John Villon." He gave himself the benefit of the doubt. Illegal groups had the same personnel problems as corporations and bureaucracies. The heads — Akito, Baumann, Geist, Villon or whoever — might run a tight ship, issuing clear orders and excellent plans. But the troops always displayed the same weaknesses — laziness, carelessness and a lack of imagination for the unexpected.
"I'm the unexpected," he assured himself. He peeked into the next window. It was partially obscured by drapes, but through the centerfolds he surveyed a large room with five-seater couches arranged around a fieldstone fireplace big enough to barbecue a steer and have room left over for several spits of poultry.