Lovers and Liars Trilogy (116 page)

He glanced toward her as he said this, perhaps to see if she had picked up that last reference. Then, frowning, looking out across the fields and in profile to her, he continued.

His manner of speaking, succinct and dry, interested her; once or twice she would have said that he experienced stronger emotions than he betrayed, and she thought she could sense a buried anger, which he kept under tight control.

“The outfit in Amsterdam,” he continued, “was the brainchild of two young men. One was an American who’d operated for years on the fringes of the narcotics-smuggling world, a supplier and a user as well. The other, his partner, was a gifted young Dutch chemist. Both men had had some success manufacturing and selling MDMA, otherwise known as Ecstasy, and variations upon it. By last year, however, they had sensed that the market for Ecstasy had peaked—the teenagers in the clubs who were their prime market were getting leery. There had been Ecstasy deaths, there was a growing realization that the drug wasn’t the sexual panacea it had seemed, and the market was being flooded with impure imitations, some of which were little more than aspirin, or chalk, and some of which were lethal. Fashion plays a large part in the youth drug market. Teenagers who won’t go near a syringe, who wouldn’t risk mainlining, are perfectly willing to take pills or capsules—but they’re always on the lookout for something new, something that gives a better turn-on, a bigger thrill.

“The Dutch chemist wanted a new product.” Rowland glanced toward her. “Commercially, the man is sharp. So he knew precisely what he was looking for. Something that was, if possible, more addictive than Ecstasy, something that gave a rush, and then immense energy, like speed, and above all a product that provided an even stronger sexual thrill than Ecstasy had produced—and without its sexual downside.”

“It had a sexual downside?”

“Of course. In some instances, it aroused but it made erection difficult for the male. All hard drugs have an adverse effect sexually, either short- or long-term—and needless to say, the Dutch chemist was well aware of that. He was also aware that if he could formulate a product that boosted sexual performance, it was likely to make him a rich man. A very rich man.”

“And he succeeded?” Gini asked.

“Yes. He succeeded—or so he claims. He was helped by the fact that he found an investor, someone prepared to back his experiments. Considering the size of the Dutch operation, that investor was generous. He provided two hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs of funding, straight out of a numbered account in Zurich. It was handed over to the American partner in the Amsterdam Hilton, in April last year. Six months later, the Dutch chemist had perfected his product, and he was ready to start marketing it. I think you must know what he called it.”

“White Dove?”

“White Dove. Indeed.”

There was a brief silence. Gini looked at Rowland curiously. “You’re very well informed,” she began. “Who’s been feeding you this information?”

“I have a contact in the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. The Dutch chemist and his American partner have been under surveillance for almost a year. Amsterdam is a major conduit in the trafficking routes for heroin and cocaine. It’s not unusual for the DEA to have operatives in place there.”

“No.” Gini looked at him uncertainly, noting his sudden reserve. “But it might be a little unusual for them to feed so much information to a British journalist.”

“I told you—I worked in Washington for several years.” He was now curt. “I have contacts there that go back a long way.” He paused. “I’ll come back to the question of the funding, and the identity of the investor, in a moment, if I may. Meanwhile, here’s what happened last autumn. The chemist had his new product—for which his hopes were high. The next move was to start feeding it out to clients—and that was the American’s task. He began in the usual way: friends in the rock music business were supplied. He passed some out to contacts in gay clubs. He gave some to photographers and models he knew. Word spread fast. Musicians discovered they could record all day, all night, and all the next day as well. Models discovered it killed their appetites stone dead. The word was, with White Doves you felt confident, happy, and inspired. You didn’t require sleep. Or food. The appetite for sex, needless to say, was not impaired.”

“It delivered?”

“So it was claimed. According to the American, it induced a craving, and when that craving was indulged—well, the earth moved. Six, seven, eight times a night—according to him. He’s prone to exaggeration, of course. On the other hand, they tripled their prices in two months, and the clients still kept beating a path to their door. So I imagine there was some truth in his claims.”

Rowland, whose tone had been dry, gave a shrug. Gini sighed.

“That’s predictable. A drug that makes people thin, happy, and sexually successful? That just about covers every twentieth-century need.”

“We live in a secular world.” Rowland, who had never felt greatly in tune with that world, and who sensed from her tone that she was not either, turned back to look at her.

“You understand, don’t you, the kind of money that can be involved? Eventually, of course, White Doves will be copied. Other manufacturing outfits will obtain the drug, break it down, replicate it. But that takes time. What the Dutchman and the American want to do now is step up production—fast. They intend—again according to the American—to make their killing inside two years. He’s estimating they’ll clear a cool eight to ten million, at which point he’s planning to retire. He may do just that. Or the DEA, or the Dutch police, or his own heroin habit may slow him down. Meantime—if White Doves actually cause killings of a rather different kind, neither he nor his Dutch partner will lose too much sleep. As far as they’re concerned, an element of risk can enhance their product. They’re not worried about the Cassandra Morleys of this world.”

There was a silence. As he had spoken, Gini had watched his anger grow, although it was perceptible only in his eyes.

“We can’t know what caused Cassandra’s death until they complete those toxicology reports,” she said quietly. “All right, she was seen with Star last night, and he was in possession of White Doves. That may be suggestive, but it’s not proof. It’s circumstantial at best. Meantime, Mitchell definitely
did
take one. And he lived to tell the tale.”

“I agree. And Mitchell is—what? Five feet ten? And heavily built. I’d say he weighed at least fifteen stone, two hundred pounds. Whereas Cassandra Morley was slender, less than half his size. It could simply be a question of body size and dosage. There could be other factors—food, water intake, alcohol intake.” He paused. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions either. But I think you can see why this story interests me—why I wanted to pursue it before any of this weekend’s events happened.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Gini—” He turned to look at her. “The right journalism can help to change things. Maybe it’s only a small alteration—to prevent one more teenager like Cassandra from dying, to close down one outlet for drugs while millions of others survive, to prevent a man like Star from peddling his products, even if it’s only for a while. But it is still change, and change for the better. Whatever you felt in Bosnia, however much your faith in your work was impaired—you must see that, surely?”

Had she not done so, Gini thought, she would have been swayed by him now. For the first time, he allowed his feelings to manifest themselves. Just for an instant, a certain impetuosity and an idealism in his manner reminded her of Pascal.

“I do see that,” she replied quietly.

“In that case—” He paused, as if coming to some sudden decision. “In that case, work with me on it, as I wanted you to do.”

His directness surprised her, as did the swiftness with which the decision was made.

“You’re sure?” She looked at him closely. “Last night, this morning—would you have offered me this story then?”

“No.”

“But you do now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I accept. I want to work on this. I want to work on it now.”

Her reply pleased him, she thought. He made no comment, however, but turned away from her and restarted the car.

“In that case,” he said, “there’s some other things you should know.”

“Such as who provided that funding? Who came up with a quarter of a million Swiss francs from a numbered Zurich account?”

“Sure.” He smiled and pulled out onto the road.

“Who was it? Someone with known drug connections?”

“No. The reverse. But it is someone you’ll have heard of. Someone whose involvement puzzles me a good deal.”

“Who was it?”

“A Frenchman.” Rowland steered them fast around a sharp bend. “A very rich, and a very influential Frenchman. His name’s Jean Lazare.”

He gave her the rest of the information as they drove back, speaking as succinctly as he had done before. Gini, listening with close attention, admired his ability to impart all the necessary facts, in the correct order, and his scrupulous avoidance of bias. He spoke what he incontrovertibly knew, and nothing more. Used to working in a milieu in which her first task was almost always to try to sift fact from the accretions of supposition and surmise, quarrying for some truth that was often deeply buried beneath layers of misquotations, unsubstantiated allegations, and willful misrepresentation, she was grateful for this. McGuire was unexpectedly punctilious, and punctiliousness was not a quality she despised.

He finished giving her the requisite information as they reached Max’s drive. He steered the Land Rover around to the back and pulled into the stable yard.

“Before we go in”—Gini turned to him—“I want to be sure I have this correct. It was Lazare’s chief aide who delivered that money?”

“Yes. His name is Christian Bertrand. Sorbonne. Harvard Business School. A high-flyer. He’s worked for Cazarès and Lazare for several years.”

“And he returned to Amsterdam this week to collect a supply of White Doves? Six White Doves? Why so few?”

“I don’t know,” Rowland said. “Of course, as Lindsay never ceases to remind me, it’s the Paris collections next week. The Cazarès show is on Wednesday. Perhaps those White Doves were what Lazare needed to get himself through the collection and its aftermath. That’s certainly what the American is claiming… On the other hand, it seems out of character. Lazare isn’t a weak man. He’s supposed to have this iron will, this iron control.”

“You mean you thought the drugs might be destined for someone else?”

“That crossed my mind. Maria Cazarès seems the likelier candidate. There are rumors about her volatility, her health. She’s the linchpin of a billion-franc industry, of a company that Lazare was said to be trying to sell off last year. If he were still interested in selling, Cazarès herself has to function, and has to be seen to function. It’s of key importance that she actually appears, in apparent health, at the end of her show. If she didn’t do so, if the current rumors about her health, her design capabilities, proliferated, what would that do to the price of that company? It would fall. Now, if a small supply of White Doves not only ensured that she appeared, but ensured that she did so radiant with confidence—you do see?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Anyway…” Rowland reached for the handle of his door. “That’s all speculation at this stage. We should concentrate first on this lead. Locate Mina. Locate Star. Talk to Mina and Cassandra’s friends. Talk to that Dutch girl Anneke’s family—”

“And talk to your DEA contact,” Gini said quickly. “If I’m to go to Amsterdam, I should certainly talk to him.”

She broke off, sensing Rowland’s sudden unease. He left his door unopened; there was a brief silence; wind buffeted the car.

“No,” he said eventually. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. That’s—out of bounds.”

Gini stared at him in astonishment. “Out of bounds? Why? Rowland, all the information you’ve been getting has come from that one source. I
have
to talk to him. There have been developments—he might know something about Star.”

“I’m sorry. No. Any contact made with the DEA is made through me. Those are their terms, not mine, and I have to accept that. I’m a passenger here. They have my assurance, my word, that my investigations will do nothing to prejudice theirs.”

“But I
wouldn’t
prejudice them. I’ve been in this kind of situation before. I understand the drill, Rowland—”

“No.”

“That’s it? Just no? I have to accept that?”

“If you want to work with me—yes, you do.”

His tone was courteous and unyielding. Gini, who had been about to argue further, decided to wait; she would return to the attack at a more propitious time. She glanced once more at Rowland; his green and steady gaze was disconcerting, she found. She looked away, across the cobbled yard. From one of the barn roofs an owl took flight. She watched the white beat of its wings, then climbed down from the car.

Without speaking, Rowland led the way across the yard and through the gardens. When they came to a flight of steps, he politely held out his hand and guided her up them. Although it was so cold, his hand felt warm to the touch. Gini glanced at him fleetingly, wondering if his silence indicated some displeasure, but his face gave no indication of any emotion at all.

“Watch your step, it’s icy here,” he said as she stumbled at the top of the stairs.

There was ice on the flagstones of the terrace also. Gini made her way across them carefully, then paused for a moment, looking up at the night sky, bright with stars.

“You never see stars in London anymore,” she said. “The lights of the city block them out. Aren’t they magnificent? I used to be able to recognize some of the constellations, but now I’ve forgotten them. Orion…”

“Those stars there.”

“And the Pole Star? The Plow?” She tilted her head backward.

Rowland, who had not been looking at the sky, now glanced upward again.

He pointed out each sequence of patterns in turn. There was the Plow, there the Great and Little Bear, there Cassiopeia, and there the Pole Star, so useful in navigation. Looking up at this last star, Gini shivered, and Rowland, with an air of courteous concern, took her arm and guided her across the slippery flagstones, to the door.