whatever I want. I'm a presence; that's why I'm there."
"So tell us about these visitors of his," Burr suggested.
"There was this Austrian, as you call him. Three separate visits to the Tower Suite."
"Dr. Kippel, address Vienna, wore a green loden coat."
"He's not Austrian, he's not Kippel. He's a humble Pole, if a Pole's ever humble. They say he's one of the new czars of the Polish underworld."
"Why on earth should Roper be messing with the Polish underworld?"
Burr gave a regretful smile. His purpose was not to enlighten Jonathan but to tantalise him. "How about the thickset fellow with the glittery grey suit and eyebrows, then? Called himself Larsen. Swedish."
"I simply assumed he was a Swede called Larsen."
"He's Russian. Three years ago he was a big shot in the Soviet Ministry of Defence. Today he runs a flourishing employment agency, pimping East Bloc physicists and engineers. Twenty thousand dollars a month, some are pulling in. Your Mr. Larsen takes his cut both ends. As a sideline he traffics in military hardware. If you're looking to buy a couple of hundred T-72 tanks or a few Scud missiles at the Russian back door, Mr. Larsen is your man. Biological warheads come extra. What about your two military-looking Brits?"
Jonathan remembered two loose-limbed men in British blazers.
"What about them?"
"They come from London, all right, but they're not Forbes and Lubbock. Belgium is where they're based, and they're purveyors of military trainers to the leading crazies of the world."
The Brussels boys, Jonathan was thinking as he began to follow the threads that Burr was deliberately weaving before his memory's eye. Soldier Boris. Who's next?
"This one ring any bells? You didn't describe him, not in as many words, but I thought he might be one of those suited gentlemen our chum received in the ground-floor conference room."
While Burr was speaking he had drawn a small photograph from his wallet and passed it across the table for Jonathan's inspection.
It showed a tight-mouthed man in his forties with saddened shallow eyes and unnaturally waved black hair and an incongruous gold cross hanging over his Adam's apple. It had been taken in bright sunlight and, to judge by the shadows, with the sun directly overhead.
"Yes," Jonathan said.
"Yes what?"
"He was half the size of anyone else, but they deferred to him. Carried a black briefcase that was too big for him. Wore risers."
"A Swiss? A Brit? Pin him down."
"More a Latin American of some sort." He handed back the photograph. "Could be anything. Could be Arab."
"His name is Apostoll, believe it or not, Apo for short."
And Appetites for long, thought Jonathan, once again remembering Major Corkoran's asides to his chief. "Greek, first-generation American, doctor of law at Michigan, magna cum laude, crook. Offices in New Orleans, Miami and Panama City, all places of impeccable respectability, as you are no doubt aware. Remember Lord Langbourne? Sandy?"
"Of course," Jonathan replied, recalling the unnervingly beautiful man with the ponytail and the sour wife.
"He's another bloody lawyer. Dicky Roper's, actually. Apo and Sandy Langbourne do deals together. Very lucrative deals."
"No, you don't, but you're getting the idea. How's your Spanish, by the by?"
"All right."
"Should be more than all right, shouldn't it? Eighteen months at the Ritz in Madrid, with your gifts, it should be bloody perfect."
"I've let it go a bit, that's all."
An interval while Burr sat back in his chair and let the waiter clear away their plates. Jonathan was surprised to rediscover excitement: the feeling of edging toward the secret centre, the pull of action after too long away.
"You're not going to be a pudding traitor, are you?" Burr asked aggressively as the waiter handed them each a plastic-coated card.
"Good Lord, no."
They settled for a puree of chestnut with whipped cream.
"And Corky, Major Corkoran, your brother soldier, his gofer," said Burr, in the tone of one who has
"So tell us about these visitors of his," Burr suggested.
"There was this Austrian, as you call him. Three separate visits to the Tower Suite."
"Dr. Kippel, address Vienna, wore a green loden coat."
"He's not Austrian, he's not Kippel. He's a humble Pole, if a Pole's ever humble. They say he's one of the new czars of the Polish underworld."
"Why on earth should Roper be messing with the Polish underworld?"
Burr gave a regretful smile. His purpose was not to enlighten Jonathan but to tantalise him. "How about the thickset fellow with the glittery grey suit and eyebrows, then? Called himself Larsen. Swedish."
"I simply assumed he was a Swede called Larsen."
"He's Russian. Three years ago he was a big shot in the Soviet Ministry of Defence. Today he runs a flourishing employment agency, pimping East Bloc physicists and engineers. Twenty thousand dollars a month, some are pulling in. Your Mr. Larsen takes his cut both ends. As a sideline he traffics in military hardware. If you're looking to buy a couple of hundred T-72 tanks or a few Scud missiles at the Russian back door, Mr. Larsen is your man. Biological warheads come extra. What about your two military-looking Brits?"
Jonathan remembered two loose-limbed men in British blazers.
"What about them?"
"They come from London, all right, but they're not Forbes and Lubbock. Belgium is where they're based, and they're purveyors of military trainers to the leading crazies of the world."
The Brussels boys, Jonathan was thinking as he began to follow the threads that Burr was deliberately weaving before his memory's eye. Soldier Boris. Who's next?
"This one ring any bells? You didn't describe him, not in as many words, but I thought he might be one of those suited gentlemen our chum received in the ground-floor conference room."
While Burr was speaking he had drawn a small photograph from his wallet and passed it across the table for Jonathan's inspection.
It showed a tight-mouthed man in his forties with saddened shallow eyes and unnaturally waved black hair and an incongruous gold cross hanging over his Adam's apple. It had been taken in bright sunlight and, to judge by the shadows, with the sun directly overhead.
"Yes," Jonathan said.
"Yes what?"
"He was half the size of anyone else, but they deferred to him. Carried a black briefcase that was too big for him. Wore risers."
"A Swiss? A Brit? Pin him down."
"More a Latin American of some sort." He handed back the photograph. "Could be anything. Could be Arab."
"His name is Apostoll, believe it or not, Apo for short."
And Appetites for long, thought Jonathan, once again remembering Major Corkoran's asides to his chief. "Greek, first-generation American, doctor of law at Michigan, magna cum laude, crook. Offices in New Orleans, Miami and Panama City, all places of impeccable respectability, as you are no doubt aware. Remember Lord Langbourne? Sandy?"
"Of course," Jonathan replied, recalling the unnervingly beautiful man with the ponytail and the sour wife.
"He's another bloody lawyer. Dicky Roper's, actually. Apo and Sandy Langbourne do deals together. Very lucrative deals."
"No, you don't, but you're getting the idea. How's your Spanish, by the by?"
"All right."
"Should be more than all right, shouldn't it? Eighteen months at the Ritz in Madrid, with your gifts, it should be bloody perfect."
"I've let it go a bit, that's all."
An interval while Burr sat back in his chair and let the waiter clear away their plates. Jonathan was surprised to rediscover excitement: the feeling of edging toward the secret centre, the pull of action after too long away.
"You're not going to be a pudding traitor, are you?" Burr asked aggressively as the waiter handed them each a plastic-coated card.
"Good Lord, no."
They settled for a puree of chestnut with whipped cream.
"And Corky, Major Corkoran, your brother soldier, his gofer," said Burr, in the tone of one who has
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