11 Harrowhouse (43 page)

“Let's go,” Maren suggested, tugging Chesser's arm.

“We can't. They confiscated the car. Besides,” Chesser just remembered, “we need our passports.”

Maren smiled in at the two men. “We want only our passports,” she told them in French, punctuating her attitude with a “please.” A few minutes later a second-floor window opened and the passports were tossed down.

Chesser could just imagine the invisible Jean Marc floating around and gloating.

The only public transportation from Gstaad to Geneva is bus. Not a nice, comfortable, purring bus. Rather, a roaring, fumey vehicle, sick and tired from climbing mountains.

Maren and Chesser had to take it. And for the entire seventy-mile, three-hour ride, their empty stomachs were grinding and groaning right along with their conveyance. Their only funds were the eighty-seven francs Chesser just happened to have in his trousers pocket that morning. After paying for bus tickets, they were left with the equivalent of about three dollars.

Chesser believed everything would be better as soon as they got to Geneva. At least their immediate financial plight would be alleviated by the two hundred thousand fuck-you dollars he had stashed in the Geneva bank. Half of that would go for the packet Coglin had promised on the ninth. The other half would be enough of a cushion, if he could keep Maren, and himself, from living it up.

In his mind, Chesser had already accepted Coglin's offer of reinstatement.

Maren was set against it. “I thought we'd settled that,” she said.

“Circumstances have changed,” he said.

“Not so much.”

“I have to make a living.”

“Most people spend most of their lives making a living so that some day they'll be able to really live. That's stupid. Besides, it might be dangerous. They
might
begin to suspect you, for some reason.”

“There's nothing else I can do,” contended Chesser.

“You can just be with me.”

Same old argument, thought Chesser, except now it didn't hold up.

There was no longer any bottomless Jean Marc fortune to support it. Maren was refusing to face reality, and it would doubtless take some time for her to adjust. All the more reason why he had to be practical. He had to go back with The System. Maybe he didn't want to but there was no choice.

Actually, the prospect of going back to receive the important treatment was rather appealing. The System would be different and so would he. He'd be serious about business, make every deal count, squeeze the most from every carat, prove to them that Meecham had been wrong about him. And in no time, he imagined, he'd be picking up packets as fat and perfect as Barry Whiteman's.

The most difficult thing was going to be looking them straight in the eye, taking their favors, without feeling a hypocrite. Still, there'd been the ten persecuting years he'd put in under Meecham. In a way, Chesser told himself, he and The System were restarting even. His whole life was restarting.

Not quite.

There was still Massey. He'd somehow have to square things with Massey before going back with The System. He knew it was naive to believe Massey would let them off easily. Even if they put it straight on the line with Massey, told him the whole truth and nothing but, the old son of a bitch was going to want retribution. The most they could realistically hope was that he wouldn't come down on them again before they had a chance to tell their side of it, make their appeal. No matter, decided Chesser, they were absolutely finished with the running and hiding.

When they arrived in Geneva, they went directly to Chesser's bank on Stempenparkstrasse, a wide thoroughfare bordering the lake. Maren preferred not to go in with him. “I'm hungry,” was her excuse.

“We'll have an elegant lunch after,” he promised.

“I'm hungry now,” she said, drooping forlornly so her hair fell forward, left and right, and all he could see of her face was her nose and some of her lips.

Chesser felt the pinch of his new responsibilities. He gave her all the money he had and told her, “Get a little something to hold you over.”

She straightened, brightened, and hurried off down the street. He watched until she went into a bakery they'd passed along the way. Then he entered the bank.

It was typical of those Swiss banks which specialize in international accounts. That is, it didn't look like a bank. There was no name displayed on the entrance, or anywhere. It could have been any kind of business. Its reception area was carpeted deep red and paneled in dark, waxed walnut. A matching desk was situated at an unavoidable intercepting point in front of a solid counter that ran across the width of the room. About ten feet beyond the counter more paneling nearly camouflaged a pair of doors.

Seated at the reception desk was a young man, who did not request Chesser's name, discretion and anonymity being the rule.

Chesser asked to see someone concerning his account. The receptionist used the dark-brown phone, which was the only thing on the desk. Almost immediately an older, bald man emerged from one of the doors beyond the counter and offered his assistance.

“I want to make a withdrawal,” Chesser told him.

The man placed a note pad on the counter top and accommodatingly unscrewed the top from a sterling silver pen, which he handed to Chesser.

Chesser wrote his account number on the pad, along with the amount he wished to withdraw. The fewest possible spoken words was normal procedure.

The bald man took the pad with him to the back of the bank. There he methodically checked the number against his registry of confidential accounts. He saw the name Chesser and immediately made a long distance call to Cap Ferrat, France. A few moments later he returned to Chesser and said to him, “We have no account by that number.”

Chesser checked the number he'd written and saw it was correct. He'd memorized it, knew it as well as his name. “Look again. I'm sure you'll find it.”

“Perhaps you're in the wrong bank.”

“I'm in the right bank.” Chesser was positive, although he'd only been there once before, six years ago, when he'd made his initial deposit. But nothing had changed since then. Same desk, same counter, same paneling, everything.

“There are a great number of banks on this street.”

“Maybe one of your bookkeepers or someone made a mistake,” said Chesser, and knew immediately he shouldn't have said it. There's nothing the Swiss dislike more than having their efficiency questioned. “I want to see the manager,” demanded Chesser.

“I am the manager,” was the man's curt reply. He ripped the sheet bearing Chesser's account number from the note pad, crumpled it in his fist, and dropped it with finality into a wastebasket on his way to the paneled door, which softly clicked him out of sight.

Chesser confronted the receptionist. “Tell that bastard to come back out here.”

The receptionist sat as wooden as a carved music box figure.

“This bank's got my money and I want it!” shouted Chesser.

The receptionist blinked twice.

“Please?” begged Chesser.

The receptionist remained stiff, silent.

Chesser gazed futilely at the doors beyond the counter. He had the impulse to jump over and break in and make them give him his money, the money he now so desperately needed. But something told him if he jumped he'd eventually land in a tight Swiss jail.

He went out and looked for Maren; saw her across the way seated on a bench facing the lake. He crossed over and sat beside her.

She smiled, but he couldn't. She was just finishing off a croissant. She took another from one of the two paper bags she held on her lap. She bit off both crusty tips of the pastry and offered the rest to him. She always did that to croissants. Once in Chantilly she'd bought four dozen and indulgently nibbled only the tips from them.

When Chesser didn't accept, she asked, “What's wrong?” She knew he was hungry.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. He sat tensely on the front edge of the bench, his elbows dug into his knees, his hands cupping his lowered head. He allowed a little spit to drop from his lips, making a darker wet spot on the pavement between his feet. He concentrated on that and thought what a fucked-up day it had been. Sacrificial wedding, French lawyers, bus ride, and the swindling Swiss for a topper. All on an empty stomach.

Things couldn't be worse, he thought. Now there was no way of financing that big packet on the ninth. No future, now. Not even enough money for a meal. And no place to stay. This wasn't just down. This was all the way out. How could he tell Maren they were broke? He thought maybe he could borrow some money, call someone for a loan and make up a believable enough lie to save the old pride. Who? His desperation suggested Weaver. Weaver had a million. Jesus, thought Chesser, how fast the bottom dropped out.

Maren got up and stood before him. She offered him another croissant. When he didn't take it, she kneeled down and put it to his mouth. She seemed to sense what had happened. Tenderly, she advised, “You'll feel better if you eat something.”

He opened his mouth unwillingly. Took a bite. It did taste good.

She fed it all to him.

He swallowed and saw her loving smile. He managed a weak one.

She kissed a crumb from his upper lip and, still kneeling, offered the two bags up to him. He shoved his hand into one and brought out another croissant. He let her nibble off both tips before he devoured the rest.

“Have more,” she urged, holding the two bags open.

“No.” He decided it was time she knew.

“Do, darling. You deserve more.”

He reached. Into the other bag this time.

It didn't contain croissants. Or anything similar. His fingers told him what they were feeling, but it was so incrediable he had to see to believe.

Diamonds!

A whole goddamn bagful of diamonds.

Not rough stones. Finished ones, various shapes and sizes.

Chesser was speechless.

“I went to the bank while you went to the bank,” explained Maren.

“I thought you didn't care for diamonds.”

“I don't. Anyway, not to wear. But someone told me they were a good investment.”

“I told you that.”

“If you did I didn't hear because I already knew.”

“Then who told you?”

“Jean Marc.”

She'd been buying and dispatching diamonds to Switzerland all along, accumulating them in her secret safety deposit box. Ever since she'd received her first one as a gift from Jean Marc. Hidden assets. She was certain no one knew, not even those ferreting, foxy French lawyers.

Chesser took the bag of diamonds with both hands and held it as though his hands were a scale, weighing. About five pounds, he guessed. That would be around eleven thousand carats. Worth ten to fifteen million dollars, depending on quality.

He took one out. A five-carat round cut that flared magnificently in the sunlight. He examined it, approved, returned it to the bag, and looked in for another.

That was when he saw it. Right there on top, not to be missed. It stopped him for a moment, but his fingertips brought it out. He recognized it immediately.

Oval, one hundred seven point forty carats, cut by Wildenstein, perfect.

The Massey.

Chesser couldn't look at Maren that moment.

He sighted into the stone, as though looking for answers.

He now realized Maren must have known of Massey's game all along—at least early enough to prevent most of it.

He recalled now what she'd said about hoping she always cared enough for him to want to lie at least a little. But wasn't this a big and serious lie?

No bigger nor more serious than his own one-night infidelity with Lady Bolding, Chesser told himself. He also suspected that very night must have been when the diamond changed hands. From Massey to Maren. That same night. He remembered Maren coming up the stairs in diaphanous blue, carrying an innocent glass of milk and innocent bread and butter.

But why would Massey give her the diamond? What had Maren done to receive such an expensive show of gratitude? Perhaps, thought Chesser, she'd confronted Massey, told him what she knew or suspected, and threatened him with exposure. Massey had given her the diamond in return for her allowing things to proceed according to his plan. That would explain it. It fitted right in with her desire to prolong the excitement. The beautiful irony was that she probably wouldn't have told Chesser anyway, because then he would have refused to go ahead with the theft, knowing he'd been tricked into it by Massey. But Massey couldn't be sure of that, and so she'd gotten the diamond
and
her danger.

There were other possibilities, of course, but Chesser found them too painful to consider. His imagination started presenting them but he cut them off. He brought his look from the diamond to Maren, to Maren's eyes. She was his wife, carrying their child. He loved her.

“This one's a beauty,” he said. “And so are you.”

CHAPTER 31

S
OME
2,400 miles south, the revolutionary Harridge Weaver opened his eyes on the flaking ceiling of a prison cell in the African Free State called Mombi.

He was exhausted, but he sat up alertly and saw that Brother Spencer, who had been watching over him, was squatting against the opposite wall with an automatic rifle propped between his legs. Weaver asked the time.

“I was just going to wake you up,” said Brother Spencer. “Man, you must have a clock in your head.”

Weaver nodded. He did believe he could do anything he set his mind to. Despite the fact that his mind had played a mean trick on him when he'd awakened a few moments before—had startled him with the impression that he was in a different prison and not by choice. Thus, without showing it, Weaver was relieved by orientation and seeing Brother Spencer there.

He had slept with his shoes on, merely loosened the laces, which he now tightened and tied. He could have stayed at the Presidential Mansion, but during the negotiations he believed it more prudent to be in a cell near the goods. That was what he and his brothers had chosen to call them, the goods, a neutral, nonvisual term.