Still, this contact with the Russians proved fruitful a couple of years later, when he decided to move on, establish himself in a country more productive of opportunities for money-making than Spain, and made the mistake of first choosing the United States.
He never did find out how they’d got onto him. He had established himself in New Orleans, being part owner of various night clubs and motels, and suddenly he was in the middle of a covey of Federal agents. He ran like a hare, and if it hadn’t been for the reserve fund he had prudently salted away in a Swiss bank he would have left the United States penniless.
As it was, he was far from rich. He took immediate refuge in Cuba, the one place in the western hemisphere he was sure American policemen could not enter in search of him, and established his identity by mentioning the names of the two Russians with whom he had had dealings in Madrid a few years before. He claimed now to have contacts within the United States, and promised to create an espionage apparatus for the Russians if he was given their co-operation. No money, he assured them, not until and unless he delivered. All he asked was their nonfinancial support in his establishing himself. If thereafter he failed to produce anything worthwhile, the Russians would not have lost a thing.
They agreed, as a speculative venture. Baron had known for twenty years of the nameless nationless unwanted island off the Texas coast; there had been foolish talk at one point during the war about establishing a fuelling base for U-boats there. He arranged for Cuba to claim the island it was nearly nine hundred miles from Cuba, but the Azores were over two thousand miles from Portugal and the world is full of similar precedents, so no serious objections were raised, except in the United States House of Representatives, which fulminated about ‘takeovers’ but which couldn’t do a damn thing about it and he himself named the place Cockaigne, an ironic reference to the land of idleness and luxury in the old legends. It was easy to convince the Russian intelligence officers that a gambling island off the American coast was a good base for espionage, and if the results of that espionage were slow in coming it was still true that Baron had cost the Russians nothing but a little wasted anticipation.
Now he had the island and the casino, and life was pleasant. He had no espionage apparatus, and no intention to establish one, and because he knew how often and how rapidly the world turned over and the politicians and intelligence officers were reshuffled and redealt, he wasn’t particularly worried. He could stall the Russians until new alignments should make their current hopes for him obsolescent.
And now, as ever, the most important thing was to keep himself alive, and healthy, and financially secure, and as safe as possible from his enemies. For this he had the island and the casino and the exercises and Steuber.
Steuber had been with him since 1939, in Berlin. At that time, at the beginning, he had been Baron’s chauffeur. In the years since he had been Baron’s butler, valet, bodyguard, go-between, whipping boy, and confidant. He was Baron’s army, Baron’s family, Baron’s circle of friends. In ways that neither of them clearly understood, Steuber was Baron’s world and equally so was Baron the world for Steuber.
‘Forty,’ said Steuber now, and peered at the stopwatch. ‘Twenty-five seconds ahead.’
Baron rested a few seconds on the floor after his fortieth push-up, then hoisted himself to his feet and started running in place. Steuber counted each time Baron’s right foot touched the floor. Baron ran with fists clenched, head up, eyes staring straight ahead. Running, he looked like a fanatic.
At first neither of them heard the knocking at the door, but when Baron did notice it he turned his head and glared in that direction, because the staff knew he was not to be disturbed while exercising. But the knocking wouldn’t stop, so Baron took over the counting himself, without losing the pace of the running, and nodded to Steuber to go see to the door.
Steuber got to his feet, carefully set watch and book on the chair, and walked across the room it was part-office, part-living room, part-library to open the door. Baron reached one hundred and began at once to do sailor jumps. Steuber was talking in the doorway with one of the staff members from downstairs. Baron did ten sailor jumps and started running again, and Steuber left the room, closing the door behind him.
That was very unusual. Running, Baron frowned, trying to understand it. It must be important or Steuber would not have interrupted their routine this way. But if it were immediately dangerous Steuber would not have gone away without telling Baron about it, In any case, there was nothing to do but go on with the exercising.
It was a few minutes before Steuber came back, and when he did Baron was still running in place. Baron gasped, as he ran, ‘Almost done!’ and Steuber hurried across the room to pick up the watch.
‘One hundred!’ cried Baron, coming down hard on his right leg. He stopped.
Steuber calculated, frowning massively at the watch. The watch looked small in Steuber’s heavy grey hand. Finally, he said, ‘One minute, twelve seconds ahead.’
‘Good. What was that?’
‘Man you better see,’ Steuber said. ‘You can tell better than me if he’s telling the truth.’
Baron said, ‘Oh?’ He walked across the room, stripping off his T-shirt. ‘What does he say?’
‘Says some people are going to rob this place.’
Baron stopped in the doorway. Beyond him was the gleaming tile of a bathroom. He looked back at Steuber. ‘What do you think?’
‘I can’t tell those types. Maybe it’s the truth, maybe not.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Dining room.’
‘All right.’ Baron nodded and went into the bathroom and shut the door. He stripped off the bathing trunks, took a fast shower, and went out the other door wrapped in a white terrycloth towel. Steuber had laid fresh clothing out on the bed. Baron dressed, lit a cigarette, studied himself in the mirror. He was pleased. He went out to the other room and Steuber opened the farther door for him.
On the way down the stairs Baron said, ‘What is this man’s name?’
‘Heenan, he says.’
‘Heenan.’ Baron smiled and shook his head. ‘I dislike the Irish,’ he said. ‘A sloppy dirty people. My only prejudice.’
He pushed open the door and went into the casino. It was barely three in the afternoon, so the casino was nearly empty. The few customers looked up with surprise when Baron walked apparently out of the wall, because the door was invisible on the casino side. Steuber’s bright idea, done as a surprise for Baron, his own little addition to the plans. Baron had tried to look pleased when Steuber first showed it to him, complete and invisible, but these occasional reminders of Steuber’s thickheadedness were something of a trial. It had never occurred to him that the casino might be full of customers sometime when Baron wanted to go up or downstairs. When Baron, as gently as possible, pointed it out to him, Steuber was chagrined, going around looking hangdog till Baron told him it was all right, it was actually a good gimmick, giving the customers an extra taste of the spice and adventure they were really coming to Cockaigne in search of.
In the dining room the Irishman was tucked away in an inconspicuous corner with two stickmen from the casino flanking him at the table. At Baron’s arrival and gesture they went away. Baron sat down across from the Irishman and Steuber sat at Baron’s right.