The guests, representing the best elements of liberal Brazilian society, were standing in the hallway, pecking dutifully at the cheek of their hostess. Strauss and his companion moved slowly toward the door, still talking; the coffee broker bowed politely to Madame Richereau. Strauss suddenly muttered something unintelligible, smiled self-consciously, and moved down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. The hall door closed on the last of the guests, and Strauss stepped quickly to a closed door around a bend in the hallway, and tapped upon it in a particular way.
The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Von Roesler, after once again closing it, returned and seated himself imperiously behind a desk. These rare cocktail parties, from which M. Jules Richereau unfortunately always seemed to be called away by the sudden pressure of business, were the only means by which he and Strauss could manage to meet without exciting notice. This, at least, was von Roesler’s idea; in the past months he had developed a mania for secrecy that had, Strauss felt, complicated their work unnecessarily.
There was another special knock on the door and Strauss opened it to admit Monica. She slipped in and locked the door behind her. She seated herself unobtrusively as Strauss returned to his corner chair and lit a huge cigar.
“Well?” von Roesler said impatiently.
“I don’t think it went badly,” Strauss said, eying his cigar with the appreciation of a connoisseur. “He has the money, which is the important thing. And he intends it for our program. It is only...”
“Only what?”
Strauss studied his cigar carefully, choosing his words. “Well, it is only that he. what shall I say? He is very cautious.”
“Cautious? In what way?”
The Deputado laid down his cigar and told them of his meeting with Ari. “But there is really no problem,” he finished. “If you meet with him, there is no doubt but that he will provide the money for us.”
“Meet with him? You must be crazy! No!”
Strauss looked at von Roesler in amazement, then transferred his gaze to Monica with a question in his eyes; she turned her head, staring at the floor.
“No?” Strauss asked in disbelief.
“No! I meet with no one!”
“But—”
Von Roesler slammed the desk with his open hand. “It is final. I meet with no one!”
“But, Colonel—” Once, in a fit of comradeship engendered by a particularly friendly meeting, plus the effects of several shared cocktails, Strauss had made the mistake of calling von Roesler “Erick.” He would not quickly forget the tirade that followed.
Von Roesler looked at him coldly. “We will not discuss it further. If he has money and we need it, arrange that we get it. That is all.”
“But how, Colonel?”
The mad eyes stared at him with no expression. “That is your problem.”
Strauss shook his head as if to clear it. The meeting was certainly not going as he had imagined it would go. “Does the Colonel at least have some suggestion...?”
“Take it from him. If he will not give it, take it!”
“Take it from him? Pardon me, Colonel, but you do not understand. He is a friend. He is one of us.”
“He is not one of us. We have no friends. This Busch, what did he do during the war?” The holocaust of Hamburg spread before his inner eye. They are all enemies, all betrayers. Only I, only I...
Strauss looked at Monica helplessly; she kept her eyes averted. “I have no idea, but... Take it from him? How?”
The eyes facing him lost their madness momentarily, but not their hardness. The voice almost sneered. “It is a shame you spent the war years in Brazil. If you had been in the Fatherland, you would not have to ask. You would know!”
“I wasn’t in the Fatherland; I was here. Following your orders.” The resentment in his voice was apparent. He looked at von Roesler blankly. “I still don’t know what you want. I know him, and he knows me. How do you suggest we get the money away from him? Kidnap him?”
The tinge of sarcasm was lost on von Roesler; the madness was back. “I do not care how. Kidnap him if you wish. Hold him for ransom.” He paused, thinking, then nodded. “It is really an excellent suggestion. It is precisely what you shall do. Kidnap him. Hold him for ransom.”
Strauss almost threw his hands up in hopelessness. “I was only—”
“An excellent suggestion.” The eyes studied him dispassionately. “You can arrange the necessary people? They must not be anyone connected with our movement.”
Strauss sat up straight. “I was not speaking seriously.”
There was a sudden vicious gleam of humor in the eyes of the other. “But I am. It was your idea, and I am agreeing with it. You will kidnap him and hold him for ransom. For two million dollars.”
“But—”
“It is an order. You can arrange necessary people?”
Strauss sighed. “I can arrange thugs,” he said with distaste, “but this is not the way to handle this. If you would only consent to meet with this Herr Busch...”
“No!” The slam of the heavy hand on the desk was absolutely final. “I have told you before: I meet with nobody!” He stood up abruptly, indicating that the meeting was over. Strauss also stood up, staring at his cigar hopelessly. With a brief nod he opened the door and walked out; Monica followed, leading him toward the front door of the apartment.
“He is mad!” Strauss muttered. He turned to Monica in appeal. “Busch is our friend. He has done more in the last few years than any of us, than all of us together. Is this how we should treat him?” He shook his head in bewilderment.
“He is mad!”
“He is frightened,” Monica said sadly. “Ever since Eichmann was picked up, he sits there, refusing to leave the house, refusing to meet anyone.”
“This is a mistake,” Strauss said with sudden conviction. “I feel it; I know it. This is a very bad mistake!”
“But he is our leader,” Monica said simply.
“But really!” Strauss almost cried aloud in his disappointment. “Kidnap him! It’s ridiculous! How? Not only why do we do this silly thing, but how? In a crowded city, how?” He almost struck his head in frustration. “If only he would see him, only for a minute...”
Monica hesitated, then drew him into the living room, still disheveled from the recent party. She pulled him down onto a couch, holding his arm possessively, speaking with conviction. “He will not see anyone,” she said. “It is useless to think along those lines. But as far as kidnapping is concerned, I think I know how.” She spoke breathlessly, not releasing his arm, pulling it firmly against the warm curve of her full breast. He leaned back passively; she began to explain her idea rapidly.
Chapter 4
Carnival was here; it was only the first afternoon of the insane, gay festival, but already all formality had gone by the board; a wild madness invaded the heavy air, a sense of complete relaxation and to-hell-with-it-allness. Ari sat wedged at a small table in the noisy hotel bar, enjoying an aperitif, completely at ease, smiling broadly at nothing at all, feeling himself to be a part of the swirling mob that engulfed him. Girls in little abbreviated skirts blew confetti in his face; young men with grotesquely painted mustaches and all manner of comic costumes sprayed ether from small pressurized bottles in all directions; from the street outside the open window came the sound of rhythmic syncopated bands, and the shuffling of people dancing, the cry of people singing. Ari sat there in pure enjoyment; what a wonderful people, what a wonderfully mad holiday!