Terminal Compromise Part 7

His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva- cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a social presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc- curred. He craved his private time.

Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to call him at home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife was the only other person with the private phone number he changed every month to insure his solitude.

The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory.

He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls.

The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times before suspiciously picking it up. d.a.m.n it, he thought. I just got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed again.

"h.e.l.lo?" he asked suspiciously.

"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that your secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.

"Who is this? What secret?"

"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover your gambling losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a soul." The line went dead.

Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman.

Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys?

I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think you have . . ."

Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day.

Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every call was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in- structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pa.s.s on the contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question.

If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by secretaries or aides, he was only to pa.s.s on a preliminary mes- sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps with a little prod, his call was put through.

At the end of the first day of his a.s.signment, Sir George Ster- ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francis...o...b..y and reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How strange the world works, he thought. d.a.m.n lucky he became a Sir, and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.

His t.i.tle, actually purchased from The Royal t.i.tle a.s.surance Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per- mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and a.s.sume a new ident.i.ty. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.

He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth - totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.

Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move, as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.

"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.

George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no reason whatsoever to know who he was.

"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briars.h.i.+re, Ess.e.x?" The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo- politan. German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been recognized.

George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course.

Please do be seated."

The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of- fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your valuable time?" The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.

"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man nodded yes. "Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa, parakalo!" Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness, so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.

"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well, so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"

George nodded a.s.sent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I a.s.sist you?"

"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to a.s.sist you. I understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say, extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?" The Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.

George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstra.s.se. He didn't care. This stranger had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly pa.s.sed critical scrutiny.

"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or can we do for each other?"

"An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each other." Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. "Simply put Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken gentleman to represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps more if all goes well. Would that fit into your schedule?"

"I see no reason that I mightn't be able to, take a sabbatical from my sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put this . . ."

" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from your valuable projects?"

"Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you understand, it's just that . . .". Alex detected a slight stutter as Sir George spoke.

Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. "No need to continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize the exorbitant costs a.s.sociated with your studies and would not expect your efforts, on my behalf of course, to go unrewarded."

George Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met, for a task as yet unstated. The only reason he didn't feel the discom- fort that one should in such a situation is that he was in desperate need of money. And, this stranger did seem to know who he was, and did need his particular type of expertise, whatever that was.

"What exactly do you require of me, Alex. That is, what form of representation have you in mind?" He might as well find out what he was supposed to do before naming a price.

Alex laughed. "Merely to be my voice. It is so simple, really.

In exchange for that, and some travel, first cla.s.s and all ex- penses to which you are accustomed, you will be handsomely paid."

Alex looked for Sir George's reaction to the proposed fees. He was pleased with what he saw in George's face.

Crikey, this is too good to be true. What's the catch.

As George ruminated his good fortune and the Metaxa, Alex contin- ued.

"The job is quite simple, really, but requires a particular delicacy with which you are well acquainted. Each day you will receive a list of names. There will be instructions with each name. Call them at the numbers provided. Say only what is writ- ten. Keep notes of each call you make and I will provide you with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of confi- dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if you accept or do not accept my proposition. If we are able to reach mutually agreeable terms, monies will be wired to a bank account in your name." Alex opened his jacket and handed George an envelop. "This is an advance if you accept. It is $25,000 American. There is a phone number to call when you arrive in San Francisco. Follow the instructions explicitly. If you do not, there will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I will want this money back. Any questions Sir George?" Alex was smiling warmly but as serious as a heart attack.

Alex scanned the contents of the envelope. America. He had always wanted to see the States.

"Yes, Alex, I do have one question. Is this legal?" George peered at Alex for a clue.

"Do you really care?"

"No."

"Off you go then. And good luck."

Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the follow- ing evening. He flew first cla.s.s and impressed returning Ameri- can tourists with his invented pedigree and his construed impor- tance. What fun. After the virtually nonexistent customs check, he called the number inside the envelop. It rang three times before answering. d.a.m.n, it was a machine, he thought.

"Welcome to the United States, Sir George. I hope you had a good flight." The voice was American, female, and flight attendant friendly. "Please check into the San Francisco Airport Hilton.

You will receive a call at 11 AM tomorrow. Good night." A dial tone replaced the lovely voice. He dialed the number again.

A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called in no longer in service. Please check the number or call the operator for a.s.sistance. The number you have called is no longer in service..."

George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra- tion. He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for the first time in years, he felt abandoned. What kind of joke was this? Fly half way around the world and be greeted with an out of service number. But the first voice had known his name.

The Hilton. Why not?