Read Online Mambo by Campbell Armstrong - Free Book Online Page B

benefits. One hundred and twenty acres of thick green countryside, spot of nice fishing, no inquisitive neighbours, which makes security inexpensive. I picked the whole thing up for a song a few years ago. Upkeep’s high, but it makes a splendid change from the hurly-burly of dear old London.”
    Caporelli took one of the glasses and clinked it lightly against Kinnaird’s. There was the standard Society toast, the simple To the success of friendship . No matter the language – English, Italian, German or, more recently, Japanese – the form never varied. Freddie Kinnaird tossed a log on the fire and it blazed at once, sending sparks up into the chimney.
    â€œThe others are upstairs.” Kinnaird raised his face and looked up at the mahogany gallery. Constructed halfway between floor and ceiling, it ran the length of the wall. “The Americans arrived half an hour ago.”
    â€œGood,” Caporelli said.
    â€œWhat did Rosabal say?” Kinnaird set down his empty glass.
    â€œHe gave me assurances. I accepted. I like this Rosabal. He’s so desperate to deliver I can smell it on him. There’s no scent so strong as the musk of sheer goddam ambition. And I trust him. After all, he provided us with the locations of Cuban military defence units and their strength and only an ambitious man, a man who knows what he wants, would go to that kind of trouble. For him it’s a simple equation. If he keeps Ruhr under control, he stands a chance of getting his hands on the political machinery of Cuba and all the benefits and patronage that go with the job. President Rosabal. He’s in love with the sound of that title. As for us, if the first act doesn’t play, we withdraw. We take our losses, check out alternatives.”
    â€œNot a notion I relish. The mere idea of starting all over again overwhelms me.”
    The Italian smiled. “I don’t think we’ll have to.”
    Kinnaird picked up his empty glass and studied it, looking like a professor of archaeology surprised by some odd find. “Before we go up, Enrico, you should be prepared for some opposition to Ruhr.”
    Caporelli dismissed the threat. “Tssss. I think I can convince them to wait and see. Where do you stand, Freddie?”
    â€œWith you,” Kinnaird said. “But the holocaust in Shepherd’s Bush has left me with a very bad taste in my mouth. Nobody expected that, least of all me.”
    â€œYou can do one of two things with a bad taste,” Caporelli said. “Swallow it. Or spit it out. What you can’t do is gargle it, Freddie.”
    â€œWhat have you done with yours?” Kinnaird asked.
    â€œI swallowed the sonofabitch.”
    They climbed upstairs to the gallery and moved through a warren of rooms, most of them unfurnished and only half-decorated. Ladders and rolls of wallpaper and paint cans were scattered everywhere. Plaster had been stripped, revealing lathe underneath. Kinnaird made excuses for the state of things. Local workmen were slow, and supplies sometimes had to be ordered from Glasgow or London. There was more than a touch of mañana in this part of the world. Caporelli followed his host, noticing how the high ceilings were lost in shadow. Long windows were rattled by rain squalls. Outside, trees shuddered in the black wet wind.
    Finally Kinnaird led the way inside a room that resembled a corporate boardroom. Men sat at a large oval table and the air, thick with tobacco smoke, hung over their heads like ectoplasm. Velvet curtains had been drawn across the windows and little fringed lamps were lit, imparting an atmosphere of genteel clubiness. A liquor cabinet provided a variety of expensive Scotches and vintage brandy. What made this gathering different from any board-meeting was the fact that the table was bare. No papers, no notepads, no folders, no pens. The men here didn’t take notes. They were forbidden by their own statutes to create reminders