11 Harrowhouse (30 page)

Fortunately, Chesser didn't call Watts: he thought better of it. Fortunately, because Coglin had already placed a twenty-four-hour monitor on Watts's home line, along with a special set-up to make voice prints. For the past five years Coglin had been making voice prints of everyone who came in verbal contact with The System. It would have been relatively easy for him to identify Chesser.

Chesser was also tempted to call Massey. His ego wanted him to tell Massey the good news, and there was the matter of fifteen million dollars he had coming, but he remembered Massey's explicit instructions about not calling.

They went to bed early. Chesser couldn't sleep.

He tried to tell himself he ought to be finally content, satisfied. He virtually had fifteen million dollars, didn't he? His reply to that was, no. More accurately, he had twelve billion. He wanted to awaken Maren and talk it out with her, but she was deeply asleep and he needed more than a few sleepy mumbles. So he lay there and tried to work it out alone, jumping back and forth from millions to billions. He was extremely tired, his body demanding sleep, but his mind expanded, hyperaware of those opposing figures, bringing him to a nearly psychedelic state where fantasies became indistinguishable from realities. Until, eventually, there were only realities, and shortly after three
A.M.
his mind and body joined and allowed him the relief of unconsciousness.

He slept through the morning and missed Maren's departure by a half hour. Siv served him warm buttered scones and Irish bacon, and relayed Maren's message: she had gone to Mildred's for lunch. Chesser imagined all the
Blatella germanica
also lunching.

Weaver came down the stairs. He was packed to leave, again dressed as the Reverend Pouteau although he hadn't yet put on the benevolent expression that went with the costume.

“Want some coffee?” invited Chesser.

Weaver declined but helped himself to half a scone and two strips of bacon from Chesser's plate. Some excess flour from the scone fell onto Weaver's black clerical vest.

“What time's your plane?” asked Chesser.

“Three fifteen.”

“I'll drive you out.”

“No, man, don't bother. It'll be a drag.”

“I was going out that way.”

“Okay.”

Chesser wondered about Weaver's million. He didn't want Weaver to have done all he had for nothing. He asked about it.

“No hassle,” replied Weaver. “I got verification this morning.” That meant Weaver had his money safely deposited in his bank in Africa.

“How's it feel to be a millionaire?”

Instead of answering, Weaver asked: “What are you going to do with yours?”

“I haven't decided,” lied Chesser. Almost incongruously, he suddenly remembered that he hadn't sent ex-wife Sylvia her payment that month. Chesser could pay her a lump sum now and sever that final, oppressive tie. Sylvia would hate that. He couldn't remember himself with Sylvia. She had ordered pencils with their name on them and sent Christmas cards bearing a snapshot of them. The only reason Chesser could remember for marrying her was that she felt good at the time. It had been more than that, of course, but now that was the best, acceptable excuse.

“We better split,” said Weaver, taking the last slice of bacon from Chesser's plate. Weaver, Chesser thought, owed a good-bye to Siv and Britta, but Weaver didn't go find them to say it. Just picked up his luggage and went out to the car.

On the way to Heathrow Weaver was in an up mood. He talked and laughed a lot and recalled old times. Chesser believed the change from the Weaver who'd come and the Weaver now leaving was the million. Whether Weaver wanted to admit that or not.

Going through the underpass, approaching Heathrow, Weaver told him, “Don't take me all the way in.”

Chesser turned off onto a lane which served a public parking area. Remote enough, no traffic that day, no people that far away from the terminal. Weayer got out with his luggage. Chesser wondered if he'd just walk away. Weaver dropped his luggage on the pavement and leaned back into the car, offering his hand and a grin.

Chesser matched him as well as he could, hand and grin.

“Thanks.”

“Ever get to Africa?” asked Weaver.

“Could. Used to.”

“Say good-bye to Maren for me. I didn't get a chance.”

Chesser nodded. “Good luck, Reverend.”

“Keep the faith.”

Weaver slammed the car door shut, picked up his luggage, and started walking toward the terminal. Chesser watched him going. He'd be home by dark. But not home, really. Chesser also thought of himself as an exile.

He swung the car around and accelerated away from the airport. He headed south in the direction of Massey's. He got off the A-2 and drove into the town of Hindhead, where he found the bright red booth of a public telephone. He called Massey station to station.

A servant answered and said Massey wasn't there.

Chesser identified himself.

Massey came on.

Chesser pictured him.

“I hope you've good reason for calling,” said Massey.

“I'm in a pay booth,” assured Chesser. “No way of tracing this call.”

“Well?”

Moment of truth. Chesser told him, “It didn't work.”

Massey didn't say anything. Chesser anticipated an angry or disappointed reaction, but he couldn't even hear Massey breathing. “No go,” said Chesser, “but we came close.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“Yes.”

“You must tell me what happened.”

Chesser had the story ready, actually what had occurred, except for a false twist at the end. He was about to start on it when Massey said, “You and your Maren should come spend next weekend here.”

Chesser read suspicion behind Massey's words. One thing for certain, he didn't want to face Massey now. He said the first excuse that came to him. “We're going to Scotland.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Ten days, maybe longer.”

“Then perhaps when you return.”

Chesser tried to appraise Massey's tone and decided it was too normal considering the circumstances. He told Massey, “You'll be glad to hear no one was caught.”

“Then why not give it another try?”

That suggestion encouraged Chesser to believe Massey was accepting his story. “Can't. Not now.” said Chesser, intentionally sounding apprehensive.

“We never have much luck doing business together, do we, Mr. Chesser?”

“Not so far.”

“You seem to specialize in failures.”

Chesser managed a resigned sigh. “I guess nobody beats The System.”

Massey clicked off.

Chesser said good-bye anyway.

He tried to convince himself that Massey had bought the lie. But he wasn't sure. It had cost Massey a good two and a half million dollars.

Chesser placed the phone back on its hook and argued against his conscience with the likely possibility that Massey had made that much during the time it had taken to lose that much. Also, there was Massey's true reason for wanting to steal The System's inventory. Chesser had felt from the beginning that Massey's motive was more than revenge against The System for the Shorewater Project. Massey himself had implied as much. At first Chesser had suspected that Massey was out to get financial control of The System, planning to use the diamonds as leverage to gain that advantage. But when he thought more about it Chesser decided that wasn't it. Twenty, perhaps even ten years ago it might have been, but not now. With his seventy-odd years and billions, Massey wasn't about to involve himself with a new operational problem that huge and complex. Why then was Massey so eager to get his hands on those twenty million carats?

A memorial to his power. A more durable monument than anything his money could build of stone or steel, more indelible than any altruistic gesture he might grandly bestow upon mankind. History, Massey knew, was redundant with the forgotten altruistic gestures of men desiring permanent memorability. At best, only a few ever attained even the trivial, often temporary distinction of having a street, a square, a structure named after them. It seemed the world was more lastingly impressed with tyranny.

The diamonds, Massey realized, were an opportunity for a final, sweeping, backhand display of despotic but unforgettable power. He intended, systematically, to flood the market with those twenty million carats. The annual world market demand was about three million carats. At that rate, scarcity was maintained. Thus, twenty million sudden carats would devaluate diamonds sharply, pull them down to the semiprecious category. A unique and mighty show. Huge fortunes would be wiped out in an instant. Everyone who owned even one of those hard little valuable stones would feel the impact. Massey would strip the petty romantic values off all the fingers in the world. Massey apparently reasoned it was better to be remembered as the man who ruined diamonds than be another Ozymandias fading into obscurity.

Knowing these were Massey's intentions helped Chesser to justify his own behavior. He told his conscience that double-crossing Massey was actually doing the world a good turn.

His conscience cooperated.

Chesser left the phone booth and walked up the street of Hind-head. He went into the local version of a Woolworth store and purchased the first thing he saw that would suit his purpose. A cheap plastic satchel with a zipper opening. He also bought a half pound of chewy butterscotch that tasted as though it contained disinfectant. If only half the things in the world were even half as good as they appeared, wished Chesser, and discarded the bag of candy out the car window on his way out of town.

He stopped at the entrance of the small road leading to the sand and gravel pit. After a car passed and the way was clear, he drove in. When he reached the pit he saw the sun reflecting off the huge pile of gems. He had to do something about that.

But first he filled the satchel, scooping up double handfuls of diamonds. About ten pounds of them. Then he went to the metal shack, where he found a rusted shovel which he used to distribute a layer of sand over the diamonds, dulling their effect.

On the drive back to London he thought about how he might communicate with Meecham without giving himself away. He considered and dismissed numerous complicated notions before settling on what seemed a good simple plan. He stopped at a Regent Street corner and bought two copies of every London newspaper.

Maren was home. Chesser found her in her bathroom seated before an ultraviolet lamp. She had her hair piled untidily atop her head and a pink clay beauty mask on her face. It exaggerated her eyes, nostrils, and mouth. He knew she was depressed; she inflicted such elaborate rituals on herself only when she felt down. Usually her depression was concurrent with boredom. He wondered if now was the time to tell her his change of plans. He sat on the edge of the bidet and remained silent, just observing her, for a long while. She was nude.

He told her. Everything. Including, word for word, his telephone conversation with Massey.

While he was speaking she kept her mouth and eyes set, so as not to spoil her mask. But finally she couldn't contain herself. Her lips opened and the clay cracked. She smiled and exclaimed, “Darling, that's fabulous!” She forgot entirely that her face was caked and rushed to demonstrate her approval with a kiss that made Chesser lose his balance and fall back against one of the bidet's control knobs. Water swirled into the basin, soaking the seat of Chesser's trousers.

Maren laughed and peeled off the mask. Chesser removed his trousers. She helped dry him and got him a robe.

The prospect of renewed excitement brought Maren immediately out of her doldrums. They went over the details of his entire plan. She especially appreciated the way Chesser had chosen to communicate with Meecham. “Clever,” she complimented, and Chesser agreed immodestly. In practically the same breath, she disapproved of the demands Chesser intended to make on The System in exchange for returning the inventory.

“You really want those things?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What the hell for?”

“For a change,” he said with some annoyance.

“I think you should think more about it.

“I have.”

“You're letting spite get in the way.”

“I don't think so. It's what I've always wanted, something substantial under me.”

“I'm substantial.”

“I've never had a definite direction.”

“But, darling, you do. You have marvelous direction.”

“Hell I do. Half the time I don't know where I'm headed.”

“So? We're going together, aren't we?”

Chesser nodded, not ungratefully.

“Obviously you haven't really thought it out.”

“I've given it plenty of thought.”

“Then why, when you have them at such a disadvantage do you want to end up owing them?”

“Owing them what?”

“Valuable things. I mean truly valuable things, like attention, worries, time. You'll have to be here, you'll have to be there. You won't be able to be just anywhere you might happen to want to be. How restricting and horribly dull.”

With her usual directness Maren had hit on Chesser's central quandary. What she said seemed logical to the part of him that especially valued the benefits of personal freedom, the good irresponsible life. Conversely, another part of him was hungry for proof in the form of fulfilled ambition. That part suspected her argument was biased by her own unique motives.

“Call it a matter of self-respect,” he said.

Her eyes went up.

“I can't just play around all my life.”

“Why not?”

“A man should work, have a goal of some sort.” The cliche made him wince.

“You've got us.”

“That's something else.”

“It's not. It's something to work on. And it's a full-time job too. At least it ought to be. The trouble is you're going by rules that don't apply any more. At least not to us.”