Scimitar

5

It was still only a little past one on Friday afternoon, but Santorini felt like he’d been sitting here in front of the computer for a month and a half. The computer was called Fat Nellie, for the letters FATN stamped into a metal plate screwed onto its back. Santorini didn’t know what the letters actually stood for, and he didn’t give a damn. He had trouble enough working the damn thing, without having to concern himself with technicalities.

The fucking computer was driving him crazy.

First of all, because he wasn’t sure how you spelled scimitar.

It took him close to half an hour to realize that just possibly the word was spelled with an s-c like in scissors instead of just a plain s like in simple, or a p-s like in psycho, this was some fuckin’ language, English.

What he was trying to do was come up with a scimitar tattoo, preferably, if there was any such thing in the files. But in addition to scimitar tattoos, he asked the computer to locate any sword-shaped tattoo because he was willing to settle for anything that even looked like a scimitar. And then, for good measure, he threw in sword-shaped scars or birthmarks as well, which he hoped might possibly give him something that related to the two dead broads with scimitar tattoos on their tits, stranger things had happened.

He had started his search by limiting it to New York City and by further restricting it to felony arrests over the past five years. Those arrests would of course include murders, since homicide was a felony as every schoolboy and schoolgirl in this city knew from watching television and movies and — in some instances — from having committed one or two themselves, murders. The same way that every kid in this city, from the third grade on up, knew that a kilo was the equivalent of two point two pounds. Never mind any other mathematical formulas; they could be failing algebra and geometry or even elementary-school arithmetic, but they all knew for sure that a kilo of cocaine or heroin was two point two pounds of the shit.

Which is why Santorini suspected he should try spelling scimitar with an s-c, stranger things were possible.

Bingo! Right off the bat, he came up with more scimitars than he could shake a sword at.

There were two street gangs in Brooklyn named Scimitar. One of them was the Scimitar S.A.C., which letters stood for Social and Athletic Club, like fun. The other was just plain Scimitar, but the computer indicated the gang was now defunct; Santorini wondered if the Scimitar S.A.C. had taken over the name of the gang that had preceded it in time and exceeded it in reputation. Both gangs, past and present, tattooed these funny little swords on their right hands, on the ball of flesh where thumb joined index finger.

There was also a street gang in the Bronx that called itself Scimitar Psychos, but they preferred tattooing the Persian sword on the forearm — except for the gang’s female members. The debs called themselves Scimitar Psycho Bytches, and they preferred to tattoo the little curved sword — well, well, well — on the upper slope of the breast, where the tattoo would be visible in a bikini, a halter top, or even a low-cut blouse. But the computer indicated that the oldest of the Bytches was only nineteen, scratch Gillian Holmes and Angela Cartwright, or whatever their square handles were.

Santorini kept scrolling.

A guy named Curtis Langdon had slain three nurses in the Bedford-Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn four years ago and had carved onto their cheeks a mark that faintly resembled a curved sword. The newspaper had taken to calling him the Scimitar Killer. According to the computer, though, Langdon was languishing upstate at Attica, where he was doing life plus ninety-nine.

A woman named Alice Hermann had drowned her six-day-old infant in the bathtub of her apartment in a Queens housing project a year and a half ago. Among the physical characteristics identifying her was a tattoo on her left arm showing a heart pierced by a curving sword. Well, who the hell knew? Except that she, too, was doing time in the Women’s Division of the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.

There were several other men and women with similar sword-in-heart tattoos... that was the trouble with such a wide search... and a man with a scar that resembled a curved sword or scimitar... and a remarkable number of men and women alike who had birthmarks shaped like curved swords or scimitars... and...

Santorini leaned closer to the screen.

In Manhattan, three years ago, a terrorist group named Simsir had claimed credit for planting an explosive device that detonated in the Iraqi airlines terminal at John F. Kennedy airport. One of the group had eventually been arrested, convicted of arson and reckless endangerment, and sentenced to twenty years in prison. He had escaped last fall and had not surfaced again. His name was Mustapha Hayiz and he was listed as an Iranian national.

In Persian, the word simsir meant scimitar.

Sonny walked past Bergdorf Goodman on the corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue and paused to look in the corner window, where a plastic blond mannequin, dressed in crisp white and black, looked coolly indifferent to the sweltering heat beyond the plate glass. He himself was wearing a tan tropical suit, matching shirt and tie, and brown loafers. Under his arm, he carried a brown leather Mark Cross portfolio with a gold-plated clasp. He looked at his watch: 1:23. He had made his appointment for 1:30.

He turned the corner onto Fifty-eighth, walked partway up the street, almost to the Fine Arts theater, and then crossed Fifty-eighth and walked past the fountain and small park outside the Plaza. Huge flags, only one of them American, hung limply over the entrance doors to the hotel. A dozen or more limousines were parked outside, their windows down, their chauffeurs looking pained by the heat. A doorman, uniformed in white trimmed with gold braid, hailed a taxi for a woman who waited at the top of the steps under the merciful shade of the hotel marquee.

Sonny glanced at her as he walked by and pushed his way through the revolving doors. Following the directions he’d received on the telephone, he walked past the Palm Court and to the left, and then went straight ahead and up a flight of carpeted steps to the mezzanine level, following the signs to the Terrace Room. His appointment was with a woman named Karin Lubenthal in the Catering Department. He had told her on the phone that he wished to make reception and banquet arrangements for his sister’s wedding next June.

The wooden sign was painted white, edged with gold, trimmed with a double scallop at all four corners, and fastened to the wall with a pair of brass fleurettes. It read:

The receptionist just beyond the door was a woman in her late twenties, wearing a wispy red summer dress, her dark hair cut in bangs on her forehead. A laminated identification tag was clipped prominently to the sash of the dress.

“I’m Mr. Morris,” he said. “I have a one-thirty appointment with Miss Lubenthal.”

“Yes, sir, please have a seat,” the woman said. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

He sat in an upholstered straight-backed chair on the wall perpendicular to the desk. There were several brochures on the table beside the chair. One of them was titled Wedding, Plaza Style. It showed on its all-pink cover a bride all in white. The other was larger — some six by twelve inches, he reckoned — and was simply titled The Plaza, in elegant gold script lettering against a background that looked like marble. He was opening the first brochure when the receptionist said, “She’ll be with you in a moment, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then, conversationally, “Do you all wear those tags?”

“Pardon?” she said.

“The ID tag. It is an ID tag, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Yes, sir. All hotel employees are required to wear them.”

“Why’s that?” he said, studying the tag more closely now.

“Well, for security,” she said. “We don’t want unauthorized people wandering around the halls.”

“I would guess not.”

“For security, that’s all,” she said, and shrugged.

A redheaded woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties came down the corridor, stopped several feet from where Sonny was sitting, smiled, and said, “Mr. Morris?”

He stood up at once and extended his hand.

“Yes,” he said. “How do you do?”

“Karin Lubenthal,” she said, and took his hand.

“Where’s your tag?” he asked.

“What?” she said, puzzled.

“Your ID tag.”

“Oh. In my desk drawer,” she said, still puzzled.

“Only checking,” he said, and smiled.

“I just finished telling him we all have to wear them,” the receptionist said.

“Well, don’t report me,” Karin said, and winked at her. “Won’t you come with me?” she asked Sonny, and then led him down a carpeted corridor to the office’s inner recesses. She was wearing a pleated white skirt and a navy blue blazer. She looked altogether nautical, and quite patriotic if you counted her red hair.

“So your sister’s getting married,” she said.

“Yes. You may think it unusual...”

“Not at all.”

“... for me to be handling the arrangements...”

“No, we get different members of the family all the time.”

“Both my parents are dead, you see.”

“I’m so sorry.”

They were passing conference spaces, or consultation spaces, he didn’t know quite what to call them, they certainly weren’t offices per se. Merely spaces partitioned one from the other...

“They died a long time ago,” he said. “I virtually raised my sister, which is why I’m here today.”

“Not at all unusual, won’t you come in, please?” she said, and smiled, and indicated one of the partitioned spaces, in which there was a desk and several chairs. She sat in the chair behind the desk. He took one of the chairs in front of it.

“First,” she said, “let me give you my card. People sometimes have trouble spelling the last name.”

“Thank you,” he said, and accepted the card, and glanced at it. Looking up again, he said, “Just the way it sounds,” and then took out his wallet and tucked the card into it.

She waited till he’d put the wallet back in his pocket, and then she asked, “Has your sister chosen an exact date yet?”

“No. It’ll be next June sometime, but... oh my,” he said. “Are we already too late?”

“No, no,” she said. “We sometimes get people who book two years in advance, but there’s still time, please don’t worry.”

“Phew,” he said, and smiled.

“How large a party will this be?” she asked.

“The exact figure isn’t set yet,” he said. “I expect somewhere between a hundred and a hundred fifty people.”

“I see you have both our brochures,” she said.

“Yes, but I haven’t had a chance to...”

“If you’ll open the back cover of the larger one... yes... and just flip back the flap there... that’s it... you’ll see a page with some floor plans on it...”

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

“... and below them, a chart.”

“Yes.”

“If you’ll look at the floor plan...”

Sonny looked at it.

“... in the upper right-hand corner there,” Karin said, “just above the Grand Ballroom — I don’t think you’d want the Grand Ballroom, would you? It’s much too large for something like this.”

“I quite agree.”

“But the Baroque Room is very popular for wedding receptions. Do you see it on the plan there?”

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“I’ll show you the room itself later on, of course,” she said. “That, and also the Terrace Room. You passed through the Terrace Foyer on the way in...”

“Yes...”

“... which is right here on the mezzanine floor, and also very popular for wedding receptions. Do you see the floor plan there? Just under the plans for all the other rooms? It’s separated from the others because they’re all on the first floor.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“Now if you take a look at the chart...”

“Yes.”

“Right there below the floor plans...”

“Yes,” Sonny said, and looked at the chart.

“You’ll see that the Baroque Room is almost twice the size of the Terrace Room — a bit more than forty-four hundred square feet as opposed to twenty-four hundred.”

“Yes. Sixty-three by seventy...”

“As opposed to sixty by forty.”

“Yes.”

“I personally find the Terrace Room more intimate...”

“It looks small.”

“No, the floor plan is deceptive.”

“I think my sister might prefer the larger room.”

“The Baroque, yes, a lovely room. I’ll show you both, of course, and I’m sure she’ll want to look at them personally before she makes a final decision. Where will the wedding take place?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet.”

“Because we do weddings here, too, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, we do. In which case, should you decide to have the wedding here, we would set up the room itself — whether it’s the Terrace or the Baroque...”

“I think the Baroque might please her more.”

“Let’s say the Baroque then... we’d set that up for the wedding, and then retire to the foyer for the before-dinner cocktail reception, while the main room is being set up for dinner. The before-dinner reception...”

And now, as Karin told him all about the open bar and the deluxe brands, and the medium-priced French wine...

“... although we’ve recently begun serving a very good American wine as well...”

... and the passed hors d’oeuvres, and the buffet with four or five hot selections...

... Sonny listened for opportunities to ask the questions that had brought him here in the first place.

She was talking now about the dinner itself, explaining that the menu consisted of an appetizer, a salad, an entrée with vegetables and potatoes, medium-priced red and white wines, a champagne toast, and dessert, which included a wedding cake.

“All of this is open to change or addition, of course. For example...”

... if the bride wanted them to serve a whole smoked salmon during the before-dinner cocktail reception, it would cost an additional eight dollars per person. Or if she requested a more expensive champagne for the toast...

“We normally use a Louis Roederer, which is very good,” Karin said.

“Yes, very,” Sonny agreed.

... but if she wanted a more expensive champagne, the basic price would be adjusted accordingly.

“We’re very flexible,” Karin said.

“What is the basic price?” Sonny asked.

“Two hundred dollars per person, whichever room you choose. Plus a gratuity of nineteen percent for the waiters, the two captains, and the maître d’.”

“Where do you get your waiters?” he asked.

“How do you mean?” she said, puzzled.

“Well... do you hire waiters especially for the occasion, or are they...?”

“No, they’re all Plaza Hotel waiters. We have our own staff.”

“Do they wear little ID tags like the one in your desk drawer?” he asked, smiling, making a little joke.

“Well, they wear name tags, actually,” she said, and returned his smile.

“How many will there be?” he asked. “Waiters.”

“One for every ten persons. And the same waiter will handle the same table all night long. That’s important.”

“Do they all know each other?”

“What a strange question,” she said.

Careful, he thought.

“What I mean is, have they worked together before? Do they work well as a team? I wouldn’t want...”

“Oh, I see. Yes, they’re all familiar with each other.”

“What sort of uniforms would they wear?”

“For a summer wedding, black trousers and white jackets. Black bow ties, of course.”

“What if one of them gets sick?”

“Sick?” she said.

“Yes. Or three of them. Or five? Would this cause utter confusion? Or would...?”

“Oh, I see. No, there wouldn’t be a problem. These are all union waiters who work on a rotation basis. We have fifty or so on order, and if one gets sick, we fill in with another one. Don’t worry, you’ll have a full complement, one for every ten people, no matter what happens.”

“Who’ll be in charge?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t...”

“Well, for example, if a waiter should get sick, who’d be the one to call in a substitute wait...?”

“Oh, I see. Our Banquet Executive Director. He’d be there on the night of the reception, making certain everything went smoothly.”

“I’m sorry I’m asking so many questions.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t mean to be so picky.”

“I’m happy to help you.”

“I just want to make sure everything is perfect for her.”

“Naturally.”

“What does the two hundred dollars include?”

“Well, let me tell you what it doesn’t include.”

“Please,” he said.

He would get back to his questions later. He had almost come too close there a minute ago, and he didn’t want to raise her suspicions. For now, he listened to all the bullshit. Flowers were not included in the basic price, but the hotel recommended a florist named Ernest, with whom they’d had excellent results. Music was also not included, but she could highly recommend the Jerry Carlyle Orchestra — “No relation to the competitive hotel,” she said, and smiled. And the photographer they recommended was a man named Allan Curtis, who...

“I think my sister has her own photographer in mind,” Sonny said. “But can you tell me a little about security? I know she’ll be concerned about crashers...”

“We provide a Plaza security guard.”

“Uniformed?”

“No, wearing a plain dark suit.”

“No ID tag?” he said, and again smiled.

“Yes, an ID tag,” she said, and returned the smile. “And a little name plate. White lettering on black plastic, totally discreet.”

“And just that one guard is enough?”

“We usually find one sufficient. He’s equipped with a radio, of course, and is in constant touch with our security office. He’ll make certain no uninvited guests, or curiosity seekers...”

“How do you mean?”

“Well... people who hear music, and become curious, and try to poke their heads in, see what’s going on... he’ll make sure nothing like that happens.”

“And just the one guard can take care of that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Because... well... I didn’t want to disclose this... but...” He lowered his voice. “My sister is marrying a rather well-known performer...”

“Oh, I see.”

“And I wouldn’t want any uninvited photographers or...”

“I quite understand. We can provide beefed-up security, if you like... or, you know, you can hire your own security people, if that’s what you’d prefer. We’re flexible, either way.”

“I’m not comparing this to any sort of political function, mind you,” Sonny said, “he’s not that important. But what sort of security would you provide for a...?” He searched for an example, and then rolled his eyes and said, “A Democratic fund-raiser, say, where there’d be senators and governors... maybe a movie star or two... something like that.”

“We can supply whatever kind of security you’d like,” she said.

“But for something like that...”

“We handle all sorts of events,” she said. “You have no idea how many heads of state stay here at the hotel in total anonymity. When you feel free to let me know who the groom is, we can recommend the proper precautions, and see to it that your sister’s every wish is fulfilled.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he said.

“Would you like to take a look at the rooms now?”

“Just the Baroque, I think,” he said.

At twenty minutes past two that Friday afternoon, Geoffrey Turner was talking to the American girl when Lucy Phipps, the secretary shared by him and two other vice consuls, buzzed him from outside. He glanced up at the clock, an annoyed little frown furrowing his brow.

“Yes?” he said into the microphone on the phone console. He hadn’t yet quite caught the hang of the newly installed “communications system,” so he said the word again, not certain she’d heard him the first time. “Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman from Her Majesty’s Government here to see you,” Lucy said.

“Which branch?” he asked.

“Customs and Excise,” Lucy said. She always sounded as if she were shrieking. Her shrill irritating voice sounded like a cross between an air raid siren and a banshee. Come to think of it, she sounded a great deal like Peggy Armstrong, one of his co-vice-consuls. Two singularly unattractive women. Here in Passports and Visas, Geoffrey was sure there was a conspiracy afoot to surround him with the plainest women in all the whole crumbling empire.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “he’ll just have to wait. I’ve someone with me at the moment.”

“I know,” Lucy said, “but he said it was urgent.”

“Just ask him to wait, won’t you?” Geoffrey said as pleasantly as he could manage, and smiled forbearingly at the girl sitting on the other side of his desk. “I shan’t be much longer.”

“He looks terribly impatient,” Lucy whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said, and clicked her off. “Now then,” he said, “as I understand this, Miss Randolph...”

“Randall. Elita Randall.”

“Sorry, I thought I’d...” He glanced at his note pad. “Randall it is, terribly sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Elita said.

“As I understand it,” Geoffrey said, and was momentarily distracted by her legs. Frightfully good-looking woman, this one. Girl, he supposed. Couldn’t be a day over seventeen, could she? “This... ah... friend of yours,” he said.

“Acquaintance, actually,” Elita said, aware of his wandering eyes, lifting herself slightly off the seat of the chair, and tugging at her mini. “I met him on a train, actually.”

“Ah, yes,” Geoffrey said, aware that he’d made her uncomfortable, cursing himself for it, and looking away in contrition, busying himself with the pad on his desk and the pencil in his hand. “And you say he’s British?”

“Well, his mother is.”

“Would you know her name?”

“I’m sorry.”

“How about his father? Is he British as well?”

“He’s Indian.”

“And his name?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“I see. Well, what’s this fellow’s name? The one you met on the train.”

“Krishnan Hemkar,” she said.

“Ah, Indian indeed,” he said. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“May I ask your age, Miss Randall?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Well, I don’t, actually. I was merely curious.”

“I’ll be twenty in February,” she said, somewhat defiantly.

Which meant she was scarcely four months past her nineteenth birthday. But whereas seventeen would have put her completely out of range, nineteen wasn’t totally unacceptable. On the other hand, he had dated nineteen-year-old American girls who wanted to discuss nothing but movie stars.

“Krishnan Hemkar,” he said, looking at the name he’d written on his pad. “And, of course, you don’t have his address or his tele...”

“No, I don’t.”

“Of course not, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” he said, and smiled.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”

“Would you know what sort of passport he might be holding?”

“Well, I know he was born in India... someplace near the Pakistan border. He told me the name of the town, but I can’t remember it.”

“Mmm,” Geoffrey said. “Would you know if he’s a British subject?”

“Well, he said his mother’s Brit...”

“Yes, I know, but...”

“And he told me he was raised in England. He came here when he was eighteen.”

“Would you know if he’s now an American citizen?”

“No, I’m sorry. He’s a doctor.”

“I see.”

He looked across the desk at her. Wide blue eyes beseechingly returning his gaze. Please help me find my lost Indian friend. But how?

“You see,” he said, “without knowing...”

“I just... it’s important that I locate him.”

“I’m sure, or you wouldn’t be going through all this trouble, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said.

“Well,” he said, “let me run his name through the computer...”

“Oh, thank...”

“... when I get a free moment.”

Her face fell.

“If you’ll let me have a number where I can reach you...”

“When can you do that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Run his name through the computer.”

“Well, I have someone waiting just now...”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I heard.”

“But my diary looks relatively clear afterwards, perhaps I can get to it sometime later this afternoon.”

“That would be very nice of you,” she said.

“Could I have the telephone number, please?” he said.

She gave him her mother’s number, watching as he wrote it onto his pad, making dead cert he was writing it down correctly, this Indian chap was obviously of some importance to her. She thanked him again, rose, smoothed the short wrinkled skirt over her thighs and her behind, told him she’d be home all afternoon if he found the information she needed, and he promised again to try to get to it this afternoon. He offered his hand in farewell. They shook hands briefly and she went out, the door whispering shut behind her. His heart was pounding. He went to the intercom on his desk, buzzed Lucy Phipps, and said, “What’s the gentleman’s name?”

“Sir?” Lucy said, sounding like a startled siren.

“The gentleman from H.M. Customs.”

“Joseph Worthy, sir.”

“Show the worthy gentleman in,” Geoffrey said, rather pleased with his own little joke, which of course Lucy Strident did not catch at all.