Goodbye California

He led the way through an archway directly opposite the entrance. Beyond lay a huge hall, some sixty feet by sixty. Three open fireplaces, of stone, not granite, were let into each of three walls, each fireplace large enough for a man to stand upright: the three crackling log fires were not for decorative purposes because even in the month of June the thick granite walls effectively insulated the interior from the heat outside. There were no windows, illumination being provided by four massive chandeliers which had come all the way from Prague. The gleaming floor was of inlaid redwood. Of the floor space only half of the area was occupied, this by a row of refectory tables and benches: the other was empty except for a hand-carved oaken rostrum and, close by, a pile of undistinguished mats.

‘Von Streicher’s banqueting hall,’ Morro said. He looked at the’ battered tables and benches. ‘I doubt whether he would have approved of the change.’

Burnett said: ‘The Louis Fourteenth chairs, the Empire-period tables. All gone? They would have made excellent firewood.’

‘You must not equate non-Christian with being barbaric, Professor. The original furniture is intact. The Adlerheim has massive cellars. The castle, I’m afraid, its splendid isolation apart, is not as we would have wished for our religious purposes. The refectory half of this hall is profane. The other half – he indicated the bare expanse – ‘is consecrated. We have to make do with what we have. Some day we hope to build a mosque adjoining here: for the present this has to serve. The rostrum is for the readings of the Koran: the mats, of course, are for prayers. For calling the faithful to prayer we have again been forced to make a most reluctant compromise. For Mohammedans those onion towers, the grotesque architectural symbol of the Greek Orthodox Church, are anathema, but we have again consecrated one of them and it now serves as our minaret from which the muezzin summons the acolytes to prayer.’

Dr Schmidt, like Burnett an outstanding nuclear physicist and, like Burnett, renowned for his inability to stand fools gladly, looked at Morro from under bushy white eyebrows that splendidly complemented his impossible mane of white hair. His ruddy face held an expression of almost comical disbelief.

‘This is what you tell your Tuesday and Friday visitors?’

‘But of course.’

‘My God!’

‘Allah, if you please.’

‘And I suppose you conduct those personal tours yourself? I mean, you must derive enormous pleasure from feeding this pack of lies to my gullible fellow citizens.’

‘Allah send that you some day see the light.’ Morro was not patronizing, just kindly. ‘And this is a chore – what am I saying? – a sacred duty that is performed for me by my deputy Abraham.’

‘Abraham?’ Burnett permitted himself a professional sneer. ‘A fitting name for a follower of Allah.’

‘You have not been in Palestine lately, have you, Professor?’

‘Israel.’

‘Palestine. There are many Arabs there who profess the Jewish faith. Why take exception to a Jew practising the Muslim faith? Come. I shall introduce you to him. I dare say you will find the surroundings more congenial there.’

The very large study into which he led them was not only more congenial: it was unashamedly sybaritic. Von Streicher had left the internal design and furnishings of the Adlerheim to his architects and interior designers and, for once, they had got something right. The study was clearly modelled on an English ducal library: book-lined walls on three sides of the room, each book expensively covered in the finest leather, deep-piled russet carpet, silken damask drapes, also russet, comfortable and enveloping leather armchairs, oaken side-tables and leather-topped desk with a padded leather swivel chair behind it. A slightly incongruous note was struck by the three men already present in the room. All were dressed in Arab clothes. Two were diminutive, with unremarkable features not worth a second glance; but the third was worth all the attention that the other two were spared. He looked as if he had started out to grow into a basketball player then changed his mind to become an American football player. He was immensely tall and had shoulders like a draught horse: he could have weighed anything up to three hundred pounds.

Morro said: ‘Abraham, our guests from San Ruffino. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Abraham Dubois, my deputy.’

The giant bowed. ‘My pleasure, I assure you. Welcome to the Adlertheim. We hope your stay here will be a pleasant one.’ Both the voice and the tone of the voice came as a surprise. Like Morro, he spoke with the easy fluency of an educated man and, looking at that bleak impassive face, one would have expected any words to have either sinister or threatening overtones. But he sounded courteous and genuinely friendly. His speech did not betray his nationality but his features did. Here was no Arab, no Jew, no Levantine and, despite his surname, no Frenchman. He was unmistakably American – not your clean-cut all-American campus hero, but a native American aristocrat whose unbroken lineage was shrouded in the mists of time: Dubois was a full-blooded Red Indian.

Morro said: ‘A pleasant stay and, we hope, a short one.’ He nodded to Dubois, who in turn nodded to his two diminutive companions, who left. Morro moved behind the desk. ‘If you would be seated, please. This will not take long. Then you’ll be shown to your quarters – after I have introduced you to some other guests.’ He pulled up his swivel chair, sat, and took some papers from a desk drawer. He uncapped a pen and looked up as the two small white-robed men, each bearing a silver tray filled with glasses, entered. ‘As you see, we are civilized. Refreshments?’

Professor Burnett was the first to be offered a tray. He glowered at it, looked at Morro and made no move. Morro smiled, rose from his seat and came towards him.

‘If we had intended to dispose of you – and can you think of any earthly reason why we should? – would I have brought you all the way here to do so? Hemlock we leave to Socrates, cyanide to professional assassins. We prefer our refreshments undiluted. Which one, my dear Professor, would you care to have me select at random?’

Burnett, whose thirst was legendary, hesitated only briefly before pointing. Morro lifted the glass, lowered the amber level by almost a quarter and smiled appreciatively. ‘Glenfiddich. An excellent Scottish malt. I recommend it.’

The Professor did not hesitate. Malt was malt no matter what the moral standards of one’s host. He drank, smacked his lips and sneered ungratefully. ‘Muslims don’t drink.’

‘Breakaway Muslims do.’ Morro registered no offence. ‘We are a breakaway group. As for those who call themselves true Muslims, it’s a rule honoured in the breach. Ask the manager of any five-star hotel in London which, as the pilgrimage centre of the upper echelons of Arabian society, is now taking over from Mecca. There was a time when the oil sheikhs used to send out their servants daily to bring back large crates of suitably disguised refreshments until the management discreetly pointed out that this was wholly unnecessary and all that was required that they charge such expenses up to laundry, phones or stamps. I understand that various governments in the Gulf remained unmoved at stamp bills for a thousand pounds sterling.’

‘Breakaway Muslims,’ Burnett wasn’t through with sneering yet. ‘Why the front?’

‘Front?’ Morro smilingly refused to take umbrage. ‘This is no front, Professor. You would be surprised how many Muslims there are in your State. You’d be surprised how highly placed a large number of them are. You’d be surprised how many of them come here to worship and to meditate – Adlerheim, and not slowly, is becoming a place of pilgrimage in the West. Above all, you’d be surprised how many influential citizens, citizens who cannot afford to have their good name impugned, would vouch for our unassailable good name, dedication and honesty of purpose.’

Dr Schmidt said: ‘If they knew what your real purpose was I wouldn’t be surprised: I’d be utterly incredulous.’

Morro turned his hands palm upwards and looked at his deputy. Dubois shrugged then said: ‘We are respected, trusted and – I have to say this – even admired by the local authorities. And why not? Because Californians not only tolerate and even cherish their eccentrics, regarding them as a protected species? Certainly not. We are registered as a charitable organization and, unlike the vast majority of charities, we do not solicit money, we give it away. In the eight months we have been established we have given over two million dollars to the poor, the crippled, the retarded and to deserving pension funds, regardless of race or creed.’

‘Including police pension funds?’ Burnett wasn’t through with being nasty for the evening.

‘Including just that. There is no question of bribery or corruption.’ Dubois was so open and convincing that disbelief came hard. ‘A quid pro quo you may say for the security and protection that they offer us. Mr Curragh, county Chief of Police, a man widely respected for his integrity, has the whole-hearted support of the Governor of the State in ensuring that we can carry out our good works, peaceful projects and selfless aims without let or hindrance. We even have a permanent police guard at the entrance to our private road down in the valley to ensure that we are not molested.’ Dubois shook his massive head and his face was grave. ‘You would not believe, gentlemen, the number of evilly-intentioned people in this world who derive pleasure from harassing those who would do good.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Burnett was clearly trying to fight against speechlessness. ‘Of all the hypocrisy I’ve encountered in my life…You know, Morro, I believe you. I can quite believe that you have – not suborned, not subverted – you have conned or persuaded honest citizens, an honest Chief of Police and an honest police force into believing that you are what you claim to be. I can’t see any reason why they shouldn’t believe you – after all, they have two million good reasons, all green, to substantiate your claims. People don’t throw around a fortune like that for amusement, do they?’

Morro smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re coming round to our point of view.’

‘They don’t throw it around like that unless they are playing for extremely high stakes. Speculate to accumulate – isn’t that it, Morro?’ He shook his head in slow disbelief, remembered the glass in his hand and took further steps to fortify himself against unreality. ‘Out of context, one would be hard put not to believe you. In context, it is impossible.’

‘In context?’

‘The theft of weapons-grade materials and mass kidnapping. Rather difficult to equate that with your alleged humanitarian purposes. Although I have no doubt you can equate anything. All you need is a sick enough mind.’

Morro returned to his seat and propped his chin on his fists. For some reason he had not seen fit to remove the black leather gloves which he had worn throughout. ‘We are not sick. We are not zealots. We are not fanatics. We have but one purpose in mind – the betterment of the human lot.’

‘Which human lot? Yours?’

Morro sighed. ‘I waste my time. Perhaps you think you are here for ransom? You are not. Perhaps you think it is our purpose to compel you and Dr Schmidt to make some kind of crude atomic weapon for us? Ludicrous – no one can compel men of your stature and integrity to do what they do not wish to do. You might think – the world might think – that we might compel you to work by the threat of torturing the other hostages, particularly the ladies? Preposterous. I would remind you again that we are no barbarians. Professor Burnett, if I pointed a six-gun between your eyes and told you not to move, would you move?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Would you or wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So, you see, the gun doesn’t have to be loaded. You take my point?’

Burnett remained silent.

‘I will not give you my word that no harm will come to any of you for clearly my word will carry no weight with any of you. We shall just have to wait and see, will we not?’ He smoothed the sheet in front of him. ‘Professor Burnett and Dr Schmidt I know. Mrs Ryder I recognize.’ He looked at a bespectacled young girl with auburn hair and a rather scared expression. ‘You must, of course, be Miss Julie Johnson, stenographer.’

He looked at the three remaining men. ‘Which of you is Mr Haverford, Deputy Director?’

‘I am.’ Haverford was a portly young man with sandy hair and a choleric expression who added as an afterthought: ‘Damn your eyes.’

‘Dear me. And Mr Carlton? Security deputy?’

‘Me.’ Carlton was in his mid-thirties, with black hair, permanently compressed lips and, at that moment, a disgusted expression.

‘You mustn’t reproach yourself.’ Morro was almost kindly. ‘There never has been a security system that couldn’t be breached.’ He looked at the seventh hostage, a pallid young man with thin pale hair whose bobbing Adam’s apple and twitching left eye were competing in sending distress signals. ‘And you are Mr Rollins, from the control room?’ Rollins didn’t say whether he was or not.

Morro folded the sheet. ‘I should like to suggest that when you get to your rooms you should each write a letter. Writing materials you will find in your quarters. To your nearest and dearest, just to let them know that you are alive and well, that – apart from the temporary curtailment of your liberty – you have no complaints of ill treatment and have not been and will not be threatened in any way. You will not, of course, mention anything about Adlerheim or Muslims or anything that could give an indication as to your whereabouts. Leave your envelopes unsealed: we shall do that.’