“Not by me. I only hit him a few times. Do not forget to give him my message.”
“I won’t.”
“And take him back to Avalon.”
“I will try.”
“Then good-by for now, Gerard.”
“Good-by, Corwin.”
He turned then and walked on down the road. I watched until he was out of sight before I returned to the wagon. Then I replaced his Trump in the deck and continued on my way to Antwerp.
Guns Of Avalon
Chapter 8
I stood on the hilltop and looked down at the house. There was shrubbery all about me, so I was not especially obtrusive.
I do not really know what I expected to see. A burned-out shell? A car in the driveway? A family scattered about the redwood patio furniture? Armed guards?
I saw that the roof could use some new slate, that the lawn had long ago returned to a natural condition. I was surprised that I could see only one broken window there in the rear.
So the place was supposed to look deserted. I wondered.
I spread my jacket on the ground and seated myself on it. I lit a cigarette. There were no other houses for quite a distance.
I had gotten close to seven hundred thousand dollars for the diamonds. It had taken me a week and a half to make the deal. From Antwerp we had traveled to Brussels, spending several evenings at a club on the Rue de Char et Pain before the man I wanted found me.
Arthur was quite puzzled by the arrangement. A slight, white-haired man with a neat mustache, ex-RAF officer, Oxonian, he had begun shaking his head after the first two minutes and kept interrupting me with questions about delivery. While he was no Sir Basil Zaharoff, he became genuinely concerned when a client’s ideas sounded too half-baked. It troubled him if something went sour too soon after delivery. He seemed to think it reflected back on him in some way. For this reason, he was often more helpful than the others when it came to shipment. He was concerned about my plans for transportation because I did not seem to have any.
What one generally requires in an arrangement of this sort is an end-use certificate. What it is, basically, is a document affirming that country X has ordered the weapons in question. You need the thing in order to get an export permit from the manufacturer’s country. This keeps them looking honest, even if the shipment should be reconsigned to country Y once it has crossed their border. The customary thing to do is to buy the assistance of an ambassadorial representative of country X-preferably one with relatives or friends connected with the Defense Department back home-in order to get the papers. They come high, and I believe Arthur had a list of all the going rates in his head.
“But how are you going to ship them?” he had kept asking. “How will you get them where you want them?”
“That,” I said, “will be my problem. Let me worry about it.” But he kept shaking his head.
“It is no good trying to cut corners that way, Colonel,” he said. (I had been a colonel to him since we had first met, some dozen years before. Why, I am not certain.) “No good at all. Try to save a few dollars that way and you might lose the whole shipment and wind up in real trouble. Now I can fix you up through one of these young African nations quite reasonably-“
“No. Just fix me up with the weapons.”
During our talk, Ganelon just sat there drinking beer, as red-bearded and sinister-looking as ever, and nodding to everything that I said. As he spoke no English, he had no idea as to the state of negotiations. Nor, for that matter, did he really care. He followed my instructions, though, and spoke to me periodically in Thari and we would chat briefly in that language about nothing in particular. Sheer perversity. Poor old Arthur was a good linguist and he wanted to know the destination of the pieces. I could feel him straining to identify the language each time that we spoke. Finally, he began nodding as though he had.