The Second Saladin

51

Ulu Beg sat by the pond watching the swans. They were curious creatures, elegant, savage, evidently brainless. He watched the necks, so sleek and graceful, and the quick thrust of the head, a snapping, biting strike, when a bigger one would drive a smaller one squawking from his mate.

There was an old Kurdish proverb: The male is born for slaughter. Its grimness seemed confirmed in the ugly drama on the placid pool.

He lay back, depressed. Beyond the marsh he could see a boat on the bay; behind him was the great house. And he knew that nearby, like discreet shadows, the two security men sat. Their patience, their willingness to endure excessive idleness, seemed to him a particularly Russian trait. Russians could watch ice melt, flowers grow, clouds pass.

But he did not really care about Russians. Dreamless days evolved into dreamless nights to become dreamless days again. The weather held fair; the bay, the blue of the sky, the dun of the marsh, the birds — these were the constants of his life now. He had not thought of Chardy, of any of it, for a week now, ten days. A gull fluted in the air, spiraling down, then lunging up. The sky against which it performed had epic space to it, vast and oceanic, with a few clouds near the horizon to give it scale. He would sleep, he thought. He had not prayed in days. There seemed no point. He thought of Leah occasionally.

Yet at that lazy, drifting moment a man approached from the trees. He looked beyond Ulu Beg, up the lawn, and the Kurd turned to follow his gaze. He could see the figure — white, he wore some kind of white suit — of Speshnev coming down the lawn from the house, leading a retinue of aides.

“How are you?” asked the Russian.

“I am fine.”

“All rested now? They tell me you pass peaceful days, nurturing your strength.”

“Yes. I feel good.”

“Strong? Strong as a horse?”

“Yes, strong.”

“You were watching the swans?”

“It’s a pleasant spot.”

“Well, I’ve got news. Excellent news. Come on, let’s walk.”

They walked along the edge of the pond.

“First. From Mexico. I’m anticipating certain developments. A troublesome loose end has finally been dealt with. Your old friend, the fat Mexican. Remember him?”

“Yes.”

“They have him cornered on the mountain. He cannot hurt us. When he dies, all record of your connection to us dies.”

“Good.”

“Necessary. Awkward and risky, but necessary. But there’s more.”

“Yes.”

“Real news. We’ve been at rest for so long because our quarry was at rest. The man Danzig, under great strain in Boston, had retired to his house. He was beyond our — your — reach.”

“And this has changed?”

“Yes. Information has reached us that he’s left his house. Not officially either. He’s escaped his own bodyguards, fearing them because of his mental imbalance. He’s out in the world, on his own.”

“And Chardy?”

“Chardy’s in the hospital. Badly beaten during a child’s game. An excessively violent man, Chardy. Always in some kind of trouble or other. His own people distrust and detest him.”

“But what good can this do us? The Americans can organize a huge hunt for this man Danzig as soon as they see he’s gone. They’ll catch him soon: a fat old man, trying to evade his own police. He’s no trained man. We cannot hope to rival them in this search.”

“Ulu Beg,” said Colonel Speshnev, “we have an extreme advantage over the Americans in this matter. We know where Danzig is going. We sent him his instructions.”