Diamond Are for Dying Page 8

  "But my family in Amsterdam. You promised…"

  "You will see them in due course. And you will be well paid. But obviously you cannot be permitted to leave as yet."

  "But Herr Heidrig…"

  "I believe I have made myself sufficiently clear. Now, van Voort, if you will accompany me outside, Horst has arranged a little demonstration which I am anxious for you to see."

  He nodded in Horst's direction, and the pale young man got lazily out of his swivel chair, slapping the leather holster of his Luger. He started for the door without looking backward. The computer technicians in their white coats and the optical experts followed. Van Voort began to feel apprehensive. Something was going on — something that all the Germans knew about. Nobody had told him anything.

  Heidrig prodded him in the ribs. "Go on, van Voort. What are you waiting for?"

  Van Voort's interest perked up when he saw that they were going outside the walls of the estate. In the year and a half that he'd been here, he'd never been permitted outside. "Too dangerous, my dear fellow," Heidrig had told him the first day. "It's reverted to jungle out there. This hadn't been a working fazenda for fifty years — till I bought it twenty years ago." He'd slapped van Voort on the back. "Can't have anything happening to you."

  It was sunny and pleasant outside — not too hot for February: midsummer below the equator. The mosquitoes weren't as bad as usual, thanks to a fresh breeze that blew them away, and the oppressive humidity seemed to have lessened for today. Van Voort breathed in the aroma of the jungle vegetation, listened to the peaceful chirpings of the birds. He stopped for a moment to brush an ant from his trouser leg, and Heidrig pushed him on.

  There were about a hundred people already inside the wire enclosure when they arrived, standing in small hushed groups around the edge of the artificial lagoon. Most of them were members of the German staff, van Voort noted, or wearing the green uniforms and leather-visored caps of Heidrig's guard force. The older guards — men mostly in their sixties — stood apart in a little exclusive knot, joking and talking in low tones. When they looked up and saw Horst and Heidrig, the talking stopped and they fell to attention.

  Van Voort wondered, for the thousandth time, about the strangely deferential attitude that the Germans — particularly the older Germans — showed toward Horst. The boy was still in his twenties, ostensibly no different from the other youths Heidrig had been recruiting from among the more fanatical German families in Rio and Sao Paulo and Brasilia. If anything, he was softer, less impressive. His rank in Heidrig's private militia was only Oberleutnant, but even the men who wore Oberführer insignia — Heidrig preferred the SS designation to the German Army rank — seemed to blend awe and a strangely fatherly protectiveness in their attitude toward the pale blond boy.

  More people from the sprawling fazenda were drifting in — cooks, houseboys, maids. Last to arrive were a troop of young men still in field uniform, led by a grizzled Unterscharführer who evidently had been drilling them on the big parade ground on the other side of the fazenda. A guard with a submachine gun slung over his shoulder swung the mesh gate shut. Its latch made a hollow metallic clink in the heavy jungle air.

  Horst made his way toward the end of the lagoon. Van Voort noticed, for the first time, that there was a framelike construction knocked together out of rough timbers there. He might have called it a gallows, except that it was hinged, with a twelve-inch bolt at the base, to swing out over the water.

  "Let us join Horst," Heidrig said, taking van Voort by the arm. Two guards fell in behind them as they walked.

  Van Voort began to feel a strange premonitory quiver. "Herr Heidrig…" he faltered.

  "Did you know, my dear van Voort, that I am an amateur ichthyologist?" Heidrig began in dry, lecturer's tones. "Everyone should have a hobby, don't you agree? I began as a boy, with goldfish. My ichthyological studies have given me many moments of peace in this hectic world we live in. When I came to Brazil in 1945, I found that it was an ichthyologist's paradise here. Did you know that the Amazon River and its tributaries contain more varieties of fish than the Atlantic Ocean? More than two thousand separate species have been collected here — some of them quite bizarre. For example, there is a giant catfish called the piraiba which catches monkeys. It will even leap over the side of a canoe and attack men. And then there is the candiru — nasty creature. It is a thin fish, only an inch or two in length, and covered with swept back quills, like a porcupine. If a man bathes in water containing a candiru, it will enter a bodily orifice, most usually the penis. It can be removed only by means of an excruciating operation. This is why some of the Indians around here wear bark shields over their genitals."

  They were almost at the scaffold. Horst waited for them with a small, secret smile on his lips.

  Heidrig went on talking. "But by far the most interesting fish, in my opinion, is the piranha. Have you ever seen one?"

  Van Voort shook his head.

  "Allow me." Heidrig picked up a length of two-by-four lying at the foot of the scaffold and thrust its end into the water. There was an instant flurry of motion. Heidrig withdrew the two-by-four and a small fish leaped straight into the air after it. Van Voort had an impression of a stubby, silver-scaled body dappled with scarlet, all mouth at one end. There was a loud click as its teeth snapped at empty air, just short of the two-by-four's end, and the fish fell back into the water.

  "The teeth are rather remarkable," Heidrig lectured. "Triangular, razor sharp. If you were to put a hand in that water, just for an instant, you'd lose your fingers." He beamed, like a man describing some favorite pet.

  Van Voort shivered. Instinctively he took a step backward from the edge of the pool, and bumped into a guard.

  "Herr Heidrig," van Voort said, confused. "What has this to do with me?"

  Heidrig ignored the question. "Ah, but I ramble on. An old man's enthusiasm! Horst is getting impatient." He looked affectionately at the blond youth. "Begin, Oberleutnant," he said.

  Horst nodded. There were the sounds of a struggle from behind the scaffolding. Two sweating men in green uniforms dragged a wildly flailing man forward. Van Voort recognized him. He was a houseboy named Humberto.

  "Humberto here was a friend of a dining hall waiter named Carlos. Perhaps you remember Carlos? He served you breakfast many times. Carlos was a thief. He stole one of your diamonds — do you remember the big uncut Top Cape that disappeared after you marked it up? That makes Humberto a thief's accomplice.

  "Mother of God!" Humberto cried. He had stopped struggling; the guards were holding him upright. "I swear…"

  "You can swear nothing except that you helped Carlos get into the living quarters and steal a diamond," Heidrig said pleasantly.

  Horst slipped a hemp noose over Humberto's head and fastened it under his armpits. The guards tied the houseboy's hands together behind his back.

  "I am writing a monograph on the piranha," Heidrig said detachedly to van Voort. "That is why I had a channel dug here from the Rio das Mortes. But a man should not be selfish with his pets, eh? I allow Horst to play with them, too."

  Horst took a small pocket knife out of his uniform. He grasped the houseboy's trouser leg and made a slash from knee to ankle. On the man's exposed leg, he made a small nick that began to ooze blood, a drop or two at a time.

  The cut in his leg seemed to galvanize Humberto into action. He began sobbing and struggling. At a signal from Horst, two guards hauled at the other end of the rope. Humberto was lifted off the ground, his legs kicking.

  "Socorro, socorro!" he screamed. "Espere!"

  As the assembled crowd watched, the arm of the gallows swiveled on its pin and the struggling figure was swung out over the water. The guards eased the rope and lowered him, waist deep.

  Humberto found his feet immediately. He took two, three desperate steps toward dry ground.

  Then a look of intense amazement came over his face. He squawked horribly for a moment, then his body, top heavy, did a flip-flop. V
an Voort couldn't believe what he saw. Sticking into the air were a skeleton's legs. The vicious little fish had stripped away every scrap of flesh from waist to toes. Now they were working on Humberto's submerged torso. The water was filled with thrashing movement. Red stains spread, became pink and diluted.

  Van Voort became aware of a sound near him. It was Horst, watching the water and giggling.

  Chapter 8

  It was Marie Antoinette framed there in the mirror — a naked Marie Antoinette whose long ivory body was an erotic contrast to the towering white wig and the ribbon at the throat and the beauty patch high on one cheek.

  Penelope struck a provocative pose, pushing up her breasts the way the eighteenth century costume would push them up. They stood out in front of her like the two halves of a football, their exaggerated thrust capped in pink. Satisfied with the effect, she let them drop. Superbly taut and resiliant, they resumed their normal shape with barely a quiver.

  "Those babies oughta get a rise outa Mister Heidrig," Yvette said admiringly.

  "Let's try the dress," Penelope said.

  Yvette held out the stiff eighteenth-century gown and Penelope climbed into it. There was a springy cage around the hips, and yards of elaborate silk brocade. But the neckline was practically nonexistent. Penelope's magnificent breasts, cradled by the skimpiest half-bra she owned, bulged in creamy profusion over the top.

  "Let's hitch them up just a tiny bit more," Penelope said.

  "You gonna get arrested," Yvette grumbled, but she tightened the hoist. When she finished, the pink blush of the areolas was clearly visible at either breast, miniature erotic sunrises.

  "Now that just contradicts the law of gravity," Yvette said. "Ole Mister Heidrig ain't gonna believe that."

  Penelope put on the little sequined half-mask and spread the silk fan that completed the costume. The effect, in the full-length mirror, was stunning.

  The choice of costume was the result of Dan Wharton's careful research. He had not only discovered that the theme of Heidrig's gala ball was the French royal court of Louis XVI, but had managed to find out from a cutter in a custom tailor shop that Heidrig would be costumed as the king himself.

  Dressing as the king's bedmate was one way to attract his attention.

  The buzzer to the suite sounded.

  "That'll be Silvio now," Penelope said. "I'm afraid I'm going to make him a very unhappy man before the evening's over."

  A half-hour later, she was standing in a huge glittering hall, all marble and mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Around her milled hundreds of expensive people in expensive costumes: bewigged nobles and their ladies, a sultan in a jeweled turban, slave girls in gold bracelets and veils, a fairy tale princess escorted by a large green frog. There was a couple dressed only in floppy felt fig leaves, arm in arm with a person in a serpent's costume.

  "Adam and Eve," Silvio said. "Original Sin."

  "It must be original if it takes three of them to do it," Penelope said dryly.

  Silvio squeezed her arm and smiled at her. His costume this evening was George Washington — in honor, he said, of Penelope's native land.

  "Speaking of serpents, here comes our host now."

  Louis XVI was coming across the ballroom toward her, a tall erect figure in a powdered wig, wearing a white and gold brocade coat and silk hose, lace showing at throat and cuffs. His mask was white satin, glittering with little stones.

  Behind the mask, the eyes were fixed on the incredible shelf of Penelope's bosom. She threw her chest out a little more to encourage him. He quickened his step. A moment later he was in front of her, waiting expectantly.

  Penelope extended her hand. Louis XVI took it and bowed stiffly. The heels, in their buckled slippers, clicked together. "Charmed," he said.

  "Penelope," Silvio said, showing her off proudly, "this is our host, Herr Wilhelm Heidrig. Wilhelm, old chap, this is the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini."

  "Ah, Baroness, delighted," Heidrig said. Behind the satin mask, his ice-blue eyes sparkled. He turned to Silvio. "And Silvio, how is your father doing?"

  "Very well, sir. Thank you."

  "Fine gentleman," Heidrig said to Penelope. "Very Old School."

  "Herr Heidrig has many interests," Silvio said. "Mining, chemicals, imports, optical and precision instruments. He also has a plantation in Goiás, near the Rio das Mortes, I believe."

  "A nonworking plantation, I'm afraid," Heidrig said. "I'm able to visit it all too seldom, but it does make a quiet retreat. Nothing very much around it but jungle for hundreds of miles."

  The orchestra, twenty musicians in powdered wigs and French court costumes, struck up a Strauss waltz. At the sound of the violins, which had been largely silent during the preceding samba, Heidrig jerked to attention. "Baroness," he said, "will you do me the honor?"

  Silvio looked unhappy as Heidrig took Penelope in his arms and whirled her onto the dance floor. His body, holding hers, felt strong and hard.

  "Ah, so, Baroness," he said. "But you are an American?"

  "Yes. My husband was the Baron Reynaldo St. John-Orsini."

  "Italian?"

  "With connections with the British peerage."

  "Ah, English, too. A fine race, though sometimes misguided. But Baroness, you said 'was.' "

  "Yes. He died. Three years ago."

  "Ah, how tragic." He drew his arm more tightly around her and waltzed her around the edge of the dance floor.

  His hand, on the small of her back, began to slip downward as if by accident. Penelope continued to waltz, smiling blindingly up into his face. You must be getting a dandy feel of that stiff crinoline, Herr Heidrig, she thought.

  The orchestra modulated smoothly into Franz Lehar: The Gold and Silver Waltzes. Some of the younger dancers began to drift off the floor. A youth dressed as Harlequin, striving unsuccessfully to do the samba to the three-quarter rhythm, jostled Heidrig's elbow. Heidrig shot him a poisonous glance from behind the mask. They continued their whirling progress around the dance floor, rounding a corner and passing the buffet. Penelope thought, a man with his hand on my ass can't be very subtle, and decided to push matters.

  "You are very brave to come as Louis XVI," she said. "Wasn't he the king who lost his head?"

  The mouth under the white mask smiled. "Ah yes, but Marie Antoinette also lost her head. Over Louis."

  She giggled as if he had said something indescribably clever. Heidrig beamed.

  "Call me Wilhelm, Baroness," he said.

  "And you must call me Penelope."

  "Penelope, ah yes. She had many suitors."

  "But none of them could pull Ulysses' bow." God, she thought, I'm glad no one can hear this conversation.

  The waltz slowed and died on a final tonic chord, and the musicians picked up a popular samba tune. The depopulated dance floor began to fill with people again. Heidrig, his hand on Penelope's arm, said, "A glass of champagne?"

  George Washington was pushing his way through the dancers, heading toward them. It was Silvio, looking angry.

  "Come, Penelope," he said harshly. "We're missing half the dance."

  "The Baroness was about to have a glass of champagne with me," Heidrig informed him coldly.

  For answer, Silvio grabbed Penelope's arm roughly and pulled her after him toward the dance floor. She shrugged and aimed a helpless look at Heidrig over her shoulder.

  Silvio frowned at her. "Penelope," he complained, "you danced two waltzes with that old man. You're with me tonight."

  "Oh, but I couldn't refuse our host. Besides, it was just one waltz."

  As the evening progressed, she could see Silvio growing more and more angry. Heidrig had spoken to the musicians, and it seemed that every third or fourth dance was a Viennese waltz. He managed to dance most of these with her, holding her tightly and carrying on a stiff conversation about what he imagined to be fascinating topics. By the fourth or fifth waltz, the conversation had taken a romantic turn; he quoted a peom by Schiller at length. The guests
were puzzled and disappointed. The dance floor was half empty during the waltzes, and Penelope overheard a buxom madchen in a bulging alpine blouse complain: "What's wrong with Herr Heidrig's party tonight? It's so dull. Usually they're so gay!"

  Thank goodness they taught me to waltz at Miss Frothingham's School, Penelope thought. While they danced, or stood talking on the sidelines, she used every woman's trick she knew on Heidrig, including the ones they taught women agents at CIA Special Forces School. Always she drew back from the edge of being explicit. Heidrig thought he was pursuing her, and she was being aloof.

  Silvio had grown livid and dangerous looking. He had stopped asking her to dance, and was spending most of his time at the bar with cronies from the Jockey Club.

  It came to a head just before midnight. The orchestra was playing a bossa nova with the new, acid beat, when the music unexpectedly straggled to a stop. The dancers stood around bewildered, a few of them trying gamely to continue in the silence, then giving it up. The orchestra swung into the Brazilian national anthem. At the sound of the martial strains, some of the older men began to stand to attention. Heads began to turn toward the entrance. An excited buzz ran through the audience.

  Heidrig's hand gripped Penelope's elbow. She followed the direction everybody was looking in and saw an ordinary-looking man in a military dress uniform, a row of ribbons across his chest, advancing into the ballroom. He nodded pleasantly to the guests as he came. A handful of men in army uniform flanked him, their caps held under their arms.

  "General Emilio Garrastagu Medici, President of the Republic of Brazil," Heidrig's voice said in her ear. "The man just behind him is the Vice-President, Admiral Augusto Radamaker Grunewald."

  Heidrig at once started forward to greet the President, his hand still on Penelope's elbow. Surprised, she let herself be led along.

  "So good of you to come, my dear General Medici," Heidrig said. The President nodded affably at him. "And you, too, my dear Augusto," Heidrig said to Admiral Grunewald. Penelope had bare seconds to think about the Vice-president's German surname and the first-name clout Heidrig seemed to have with the Brazilian government, and then she was being introduced.