11 Harrowhouse (31 page)

Chesser wondered what his father would have said to that, and knew his father wouldn't approve no matter what he decided. Extorted success was worse than no success.

Maren went on. “You know what most people do. They don't. And when it's too late they look back and cry about it.”

“You forget, not everyone has the money to do just anything.”

“Maybe not. But even those who do usually don't,” she said. “Anyway, if that's how you want to end up, just tell me.”

That had the ring of an ultimatum, and between anything on earth and her, he'd choose her every time.

What Chesser had intended to demand from The System was irrevocable control and sole legal ownership of their newest and most productive mine in Namaqualand. Plus a percentage of shares from each of The System's major stockholders, giving him membership on the Board as a director.

“All right,” said Chesser, “what do you suggest I ask for?”

“I don't know. Ordinary ransom, I suppose.”

Chesser was glad she'd used that term. He related ransom to kidnaping and his conscience could handle that easier than extortion. Kidnaping diamonds seemed more quixotic than criminal. “How much ransom?”

“Enough to make it interesting.”

Chesser now wished he'd stuck to the original plan, turned the diamonds over to Massey for fifteen million dollars. He would have been out of it by now. Irritated with himself for having complicated the deal, he arbitrarily increased the amount and said, “Fifty million.”

That settled that.

They composed the ransom note. Carefully selected words. They searched the pages of the various newspapers Chesser had bought. They found
The Times
most accommodating. They had to rephrase their wording some, but finally that newspaper contained everything they wanted to say. Using a bright red, felt-tipped pen, they merely circled corresponding words on the printed pages of
The Times
and numbered each circle. So all one needed to do to get their message was to read the numbered words in sequence, one through sixty four.

We have your diamonds. You can have them back for fifty million dollars. Unless you agree to these terms we will destroy the market value of diamonds by creating a disastrous surplus. On July 5th you will arrange for the clock in Victoria Tower to strike thirteen times at midnight. This will signify your willingness to cooperate, and we will then issue further instructions.

To have the Tower Clock toll incorrectly was Maren's idea. She believed that less trite than a reply in the personals column of the classified section. Chesser thought it was a bit of corny dramatics, although it would create some extra scurrying for Meecham. Also, there was rebellious appeal in causing that famous old timepiece, Big Ben, to make a mistake. Considering British regard for efficiency, it had probably never occurred before and might never again.

CHAPTER 20

S
O
FAR,
Security Section had come up with nothing. Not a fingerprint, footprint, strand of hair, or whisper. Nothing.

Coglin was sure that Watts was involved. However, an extensive investigation of Watts's personal and financial affairs revealed not a single fact or rumor to contradict Watts's loyal, conservative reputation. Every report concluded that Watts, a temperate man of modest means, had never done anything questionable. Coglin personally attended Watts's funeral on the remote chance that a suspect might turn up. The funeral was small and sad, and the most suspicious-looking person was the thin-lipped Episcopalian minister, who routinely uttered insincere final tributes.

Coglin's efforts were hampered, he believed, by the need to keep the robbery confidential. That prohibited him from using the full power of his international force. Perhaps one of his sources in Beirut or Dublin or San Francisco might nose around and come up with the vital lead, but there was no way of knowing. Those few men on his immediate staff who knew about the theft were his best, but it was impossible for them to cover enough ground. As it was, they were working day and night, infiltrating the London underworld, discreetly pumping every source. Coglin was still convinced he was up against highly adept professionals.

On the fourth day following the robbery, when every effort had drawn a blank, Coglin sat alone in his office with a bottle of tenyear-old Irish whiskey, and contemplated failure. For not preventing the robbery in the first place, he was already at fault. And now, he realized, even if he succeeded in getting the diamonds back he'd still have to suffer for permitting the theft. As soon as the inventory was safely returned to the vault, Meecham would exonerate himself by presenting a detailed report to the board. Undoubtedly the report would censure Security Section, most specifically Coglin. The board would ask for Coglin's resignation. So, inventory recovered or not, Coglin would lose. That is, if he allowed the situation to run its seemingly inevitable course.

Coglin's interphone rang. The light on the instrument indicated it was Meecham's direct line. Meecham again. He'd been calling almost every hour, anxious to know of any developments. Coglin had put him off with cryptic insinuations of progress, but had actually told him nothing. Often he just hadn't bothered to answer. He decided he would this time.

“Something just arrived in the post,” Meecham said.

Coglin forced interest, asked what.

“A message of some sort. Come over.”

Coglin hadn't seen Meecham since that morning in the vault. Now he found the man had the drawn look that results from prolonged tension, his eyes pinched and darkly receded, his entire face tight and tired. Meecham eagerly showed Coglin the copy of the London
Times
he'd received. With the red-circled, numbered words.

Coglin realized at once what it was. He quickly transposed the message, writing it out on a yellow pad.

“They must be insane!” Meecham said.

“Clever, actually,” was Coglin's opinion.

“Fifty million dollars! That's ridiculous. No one in their right mind would demand such an amount.” Meecham raked the heel of his hand across the newspaper, as though that might wipe it from sight. “Do you think this is authentic?”

“They could have asked for more. After all, they do have twelve billion dollars worth.”

Meecham turned abruptly and looked out the window without seeing the view. He closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Can you arrange this Tower Clock nonsense for tonight?” he asked.

“Of course, but—”

“I'll have to ask the board,” said Meecham.

Coglin didn't want that. Not yet. “Why involve the board?”

“To raise the fifty million, of course.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“But if those people do what they threaten to do …”

“They won't,” Coglin assured him. “They want the money more than they want to ruin The System.”

“That's true, isn't it?”

“Certainly.”

“So what shall we do?”

“Nothing for the moment. We'll call their bluff and see what happens. My guess is we'll just receive another note.”

“You're onto something, aren't you?” asked Meecham hopefully.

“Yes,” lied Coglin. “We should have them and the diamonds before long now.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Can't you be more definite than that?”

“No. But we do have a schedule. For God's sake, Meecham, you've got to relax.”

As though obeying, Meecham collapsed into his plush swivel chair. “You've identified those responsible? You know where they are?”

“We know who they are,” was Coglin's empty reply.

“So what the devil are you waiting for?”

Coglin invented. “With patience we can finish off this whole thing quietly and neatly. An abrupt move now would be premature. Unless, of course, you want those twenty million carats scattered around the globe. Because that's exactly what they'll do, you know, if there's a chase, just throw the stones away and run.”

The mere idea of that made Meecham shudder. He managed a weak smile in appreciation of Coglin's expertise in such nefarious matters.

Coglin folded the newspaper and the note and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “How's Whiteman?” he inquired.

“I've been with him for the past three nights. Right now the damn fool is at the Dorchester with a pair of Welsh girls.”

“That should keep him a while.”

“Not really.”

“Then send in some fresh supplies.”

“I'm going to schedule the sights,” said Meecham. “I'll have Johannesburg send up enough from their reserve. They can fly it up and have it here by tomorrow.” It was a recourse Meecham had kept in mind since the day of the robbery, but he'd been putting it off until it was absolutely necessary. To request this large a shipment from Johannesburg, especially on such short notice, was irregular and would certainly cause speculation. However, he had no choice now. Replenishing the inventory, even partially, was the only way to remove the immediate pressure and make The System appear to be operating normally. It would also get Whiteman out of the way, and Meecham would be thankful for that.

“I'll schedule sights for next week,” he said, “beginning Monday. That will allow time to make up the packets.”

“And that should give me the time I need,” said Coglin, leaving Meecham to signal his secretary and place a call to South Africa.

Early that night it began to rain. Not a short, hard storm but a steady, persistent drizzle.

Maren and Chesser were keeping their rendezvous with Big Ben. It seems reasonable to believe the tolling of that great clock's chimes can be heard nearly anywhere in London. But the fact is one must be in its near vicinity to hear it at all. So Maren and Chesser were parked at the southwest perimeter of St. James on the wide way known as Birdcage Walk, only three blocks from Parliament, within easy hearing distance of Big Ben. Although no parking was allowed along any of the streets in the area, they had to chance it. They kept the motor running. They had nearly half an hour to wait. The rain beating on the car's top sounded like fingertips nervously tapping a drumhead. The wipers performed precise sweeps across the windshield, contrapuntal to the London Philharmonic music that came from the radio.

Maren was hunched down in the seat, her cheek pressed against the side window. She gazed at the jewel-like drops that hit on the outside of the window, noting how they lost their individuality when they became too heavy and were transformed into rivulets.

She remembered times.

Times of childhood when the weather had kept her indoors, when she'd looked out across the desolate flatland and imagined beyond. She hadn't then appreciated the smell of baking embroidered by the contentment of her mother humming. Rather she had disliked the tranquility because there was constantly only that. And even when the most pleasant sort of day opened the house and she went out along the deep blue mirrors where the sea was almost locked in and she ran beneath the glide of white birds that seemed to be scratching the perfect sky with the points of their wings, she still felt confined and promised herself that someday she would escape. The sky and the sea would open for her and she would go between.

The car's windows were steamed opaque by their breath. Chesser drew a wet, lopsided heart on the windshield. Maren acknowledged it with a very soft smile that made him want to touch her. He reached for her hand, but at that same moment, unintentionally, she reached over to the radio and dialed for some livelier music.

Someone rapped on the window on Chesser's side. Chesser pressed the button to lower the window. He didn't realize immediately that it was a policeman in a long black rubber cape, shiny wet. Chesser tried to appear at ease, managed a friendly, inquisitive look. Rain dripped from the policeman's wrist as he touched his hat in a salute and inquired, “Something wrong, sir?”

“No, everything's fine.”

“There's no stopping along here, sir.”

“We were uncertain about the way to Old Paradise Street.” That street had come to mind because he'd once stayed overnight in the bed of a young blonde actress who lived on Old Paradise. That was before he met Maren, just before.

“Old Paradise is straight ahead,” the policeman said, “across Westminster Bridge.” He took out his official street directory and flashlight. Its beam swept once across Maren, illuminating her. Chesser thought the policeman did it intentionally, to get a look at her. Why? Had The System alerted the police? Perhaps they had the entire area covered. Chesser recalled Massey's confident opinion that The System would never involve the police. It had seemed reasonable at the time, but even Massey could have been mistaken.

Chesser put the car into gear and thanked the policeman, who saluted again and stepped back. As the car pulled away from the curb, Chesser's guilt made him feel the officer's eyes reading the rear license plate.

“London has the nicest policemen,” commented Maren.

“Nosy bastard.”

“He wasn't. He was just doing his job.”

“He got a good look at you, me, the car, and everything.”

“So?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“He was wet and lonely, that's all.”

Chesser doubted that. He turned right and then right again onto Old Queen's Street. No parking along there either. Only a single vehicle was standing about half way down the block. A police car. They went by it at normal speed and Chesser took the first cross street to get out of sight. His hands were perspiring and gripping the steering wheel too tight. He glanced to the rear view mirror and saw they weren't followed. No matter, he decided to leave the vicinity, drove through a maze of narrow one-ways until he was headed toward the Thames. He committed the car to Westminster Bridge and a glance at his watch told him eleven fifty-five. He'd have to hurry not to miss the chimes. The river had never seemed so wide, but finally they reached the other side, where Chesser took the first right, which led them to St. Thomas's Hospital. He pulled into a parking area above the Albert Embankment, facing across the river.