Full Circle (28 page)

“Do I understand,” Blair said, “that you’re in more or less constant contact with John Graham?”

“When we finish talking,” Bernhardt answered, “I’m going to call him at his hotel.”

“Will you please describe John Graham for me?”

“He’s about forty-five, about a hundred seventy-five pounds. Light brown hair. Stylish dresser, but not flashy. He talks like an Ivy Leaguer, and acts like one, too. Divorced. Says he’s screwing his secretary, whose name is Helen Grant. A good-looking, quick-thinking man, obviously intelligent. He wears designer glasses, gold-framed, aviator style.”

“Yes, that’s John. You’re very good at descriptions, Mr. Bernhardt.”

“Thank you,” he answered dryly.

“I would like you to give me the name of his hotel.”

Bernhardt sighed, glanced at his watch. For more than a half hour, on his calling card, they’d been fencing, probing, maneuvering for advantage. Fruitlessly.

“Do I understand,” Bernhardt said, “that you haven’t been in contact with Graham for about two weeks?”

“That’s true.”

“But that’s not unusual, for him to drop out of sight. He could, in fact, be working on something big. Correct?”

“Yes …” It was a reluctant admission.

“Could it be,” Bernhardt said, “that, in fact, Graham could have gotten ten or twenty million dollars together and had it wired to him in Los Angeles without your knowledge?”

“That,” Blair said stiffly, “would be very unlikely.”

“But it could happen. It’s possible,” he pressed.

“Yes,” Blair admitted reluctantly. “It could happen.”

“You’re—what—a vice president?”

“I fail to see what—”

“Answer the question, Mr. Blair. I’ve been very forthcoming. Now it’s your turn. What’s your position with Consolidated?”

“Assistant vice president,” Blair admitted.

“And how many vice presidents are there?”

“Four.”

Bernhardt let a long moment pass before he said, “I’ve got to hang up now, and try to contact Graham.”

“If you won’t give me Graham’s hotel, won’t you at least tell me how to contact you?” With the question, Blair’s manner had turned discreetly plaintive.

“I’m sorry. I’ve rented a house. And there’s no phone. I’m calling from a pay phone.”

“A pay phone? Really?”

“Really.”

T
HE EFFICACY OF CLICHéS
had always intrigued him. Birds of a feather
did
flock together. The early bird
did
get the worm.

And then there was
From the first moment I saw her.

She’d stood in the open doorway of his office, one hand on the knob. She’d been wearing basic black: a sheath dress with a small white collar, white buttons down the front, a single strand of pearls, black pumps. Her smile had been just right: cordial but not flirtatious. Her dark, glossy hair fell to her shoulders. Her quick brown eyes had been wonderfully alive, even then sensitive to his every nuance. She’d been the third applicant Personnel had sent in less than a week.

Helen Grant…

She was twenty-three when she came to work. Her twenty-three to his forty-three—for them the numbers had been a perfect fit. He’d just been divorced, and was trying to fit the fragments of his life back together. She’d been looking for excitement, the kind of excitement money could buy. She’d never denied it, never equivocated. She wanted clothes and jewels and cars. But, most of all, Helen wanted excitement. She’d just broken off her first serious, live-in relationship, a passionate affair with an abstract expressionist painter who worked on “the high steel.”

The high steel…

The phrase had become a constant goad. Women, he knew, were often jealous of past lovers. But he’d never thought it could happen to him. Not until he fell in love with Helen.

Three weeks after she’d begun working for him, they made love. It had been meticulously scripted, perfectly executed. He’d explained that his most sensitive work was, in fact, conducted outside the office. Bars, hotel rooms, street corners, the rear seats of limos, the cabins of Lear jets, these were his venue. “The glitzy surface of the dark underside,” he’d said, watching her eyes come alive. Then, reeling in the line, he’d apologized for being unable to say more—not until he knew he could trust her completely.

And so, that Tuesday night, she’d come to his apartment. She was there, he’d said, to witness a conversation that could involve a fortune in stolen art. At midnight, after sharing a bottle of chardonnay, pretending frustration, he’d announced that something had gone wrong. He was sorry, but that was the game he played—the high-stakes game with no rules, no limits. Remembering that night, critiquing his own performance, he’d realized that, yes, everything he’d said had been perfectly calculated to turn Helen on.

At the door of his apartment, he’d helped her with her coat—and then he’d kissed her. Minutes later they were in bed, making wild, wonderful love.

Wonderful until, in the afterglow, she’d told him about William, whose outsize paintings, she’d said, were primitive but powerful. And his body, she said, had been incredibly muscular.
My high-steel man
, she’d said. And then she’d begun to sob. William had been so exciting, she’d burbled, so wonderfully impetuous, so unpredictable. Graham held her naked body close, comforting her. And then they’d made love again. Afterwards, he’d whispered that, if she wanted excitement, then she was in bed with the right man.

Bringing him, incredibly, to this place, at this time, shacked up in a suite on the top floor of the Hilton with a woman whose touch was like fire, whose eyes were like—

The phone rang. Quickly Graham crossed to the imitation French Provincial desk, a reasonably good copy. Across the living room, Helen closed a fashion magazine on her finger, smiled at him as he answered the phone on the second ring.

“It’s Alan Bernhardt, John. Can you talk?”

“Yes. No problem.” He turned the hotel notepad to a fresh sheet, sat down at the desk, pen poised.

“Are you ready? The money—is everything ready?”

“It’s in my account,” Graham answered. “I plan to leave it overnight, for safety’s sake. Tomorrow morning, anytime after nine, I can get it. I’m told I have to allow an hour after I make the withdrawal request, if I want cash. Meaning that ten o’clock is the earliest I can be ready.”

“I was hoping to be all finished by ten o’clock.” Bernhardt’s voice was peevish. Was it an attack of nerves? Graham speculated. A ploy, establishing who gave the orders, who took orders?

“Well, it can’t be done,” he answered. “Not unless I want to take the money to bed with me tonight. Which, definitely, I don’t.”

“What about security tomorrow?”

“No problem. I hired two guards from the best security service in Los Angeles. They’ll meet me at the bank whenever I say. Ten o’clock, if that’s what you and I decide.”

“These guards—will they be in uniform?”

“If that’s what I want. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Will they be armed?”

“Of course.”

“Heavily armed?”

“Heavily enough. The way it’ll work, they provide an armored van. So the transfer of money will be handled like a Brinks pickup and delivery. One man stays inside the van. He’ll have an assault weapon. The other one, packing a revolver, will transfer the sacks of money from the bank to the van. And, of course, I’ll be there. And I’ll be armed.” As he said it, his eyes met Helen’s. She was on her feet now, and was standing with her whole body tightened. Her hands were clenched, rigid at her sides. Her lips were parted, her dark eyes smoldered. As if she were sexually aroused, her breathing had quickened. In this pose, her breasts were perfection.

“I’ve been talking to Forster,” Bernhardt was saying. “And Blair, too.”

“That’s as high as you got?” Pleased, Graham smiled into the telephone. “Blair?”

Bernhardt made no reply.

“I knew, of course, that you’d be checking my back trail,” Graham said. “But I’m not going to help you.”

“Why not?”

“Company policy. The more people know about transactions like this, the greater the risk.”

During the silence that followed, Graham smiled at Helen, beckoned for her to come to him, stand beside him, let him touch her. Obeying, her eyes now dusky with the languor of desire, she obeyed. Holding the phone with his left hand, he drew her close, dropped his right hand to the swell of her buttocks. With her head in the hollow of his shoulder, he felt her hands caressing him as he caressed her, both of them deeply aroused.

“Where can I reach you tomorrow?” Bernhardt was asking.

Pantomiming deep reluctance, first things first, Graham pulled away from the woman, smiled at her, stroked her buttocks one last time, then slid open the desk drawer, took out the sheet of plain paper that contained the numbers essential to the operation. He read off the number of the pay phone he’d selected. Adding to Bernhardt: “I’ll be there as soon after ten o’clock as possible. I assume you plan to take the paintings to some place other than their present location.”

“That’s true.”

“Is the place large enough to accommodate two vans—assuming you’ll have a van?”

“Yes.”

“How many people and vehicles will you have?”

“I’ll have two sedans and a van. I’ll probably have three people with me. Armed.”

“Good,” Graham answered cheerfully. “That’d be a precise balance of forces.”

“You’re sounding very—” Bernhardt hesitated, searching for the word. Finally: “Very upbeat.”

“That’s not surprising. I’m having the time of my life.”

“Does that mean you’ve got your secretary with you?”

“Ah … you’re a sly one, Alan. It’s always a pleasure doing business with someone who has an active imagination.”

“
Is
she with you?”

Graham dropped his voice to a more brittle register. “Let’s not belabor the point, Alan. The money’s come, and the arrangements are complete. Tomorrow at this time, the paintings’ll be on their way to New York in a chartered airplane. You’ll have a pocketful of money, and I’ll be in line for a handsome bonus. End of the story.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s more? A kicker.”

“If I may say so,” Graham answered, “that’s a very common feeling in matters like this. You’re doubtless unable to believe that all that money will really materialize. Not to worry, though. Twenty million is fine.” As he spoke, Graham looked through the open bedroom door. Helen was sitting on the edge of the bed. She’d taken his revolver from the nightstand, and was fondling it, caressing it. Her dark eyes were musky.

“You’re very smooth, John. Very persuasive.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, ten o’clock.”

“If we miss connections, I’ll come back here to the hotel. I’ll wait for your call.”

“Yes.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” Graham broke the connection. After smiling once more at Helen, erotic promises yet to be kept, he turned his back on her, consulted the list of telephone numbers. As he punched out the number he wanted he glanced at his watch. Almost three o’clock. So far, so good. On the fourth series of rings, the now-familiar voice came on the line:

“Yes?”

“Everything’s set here. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready. Have you got the airplane? The clearances for customs? Are the pilots reliable? Did you check them out? Did you—”

“Don’t worry about it. This is my business, remember.”

“I know. But—”

“I’ll pick up the package between nine and ten tomorrow, as we agreed. You probably should be there when I get it. But then, afterwards, you should go to your office, keep a very high profile.”

“Yes, but—” Powers broke off. His voice had sunk to a low, cowed monotone.

“But you want to be there when I trade the package for the merchandise. Is that it?”

“Well, it’s a simple matter of—of equity.” Now Powers’s voice rose peevishly. “I’m the one that’s taking the risk, you know. I’m the one who—”

“If you want to tag along, fine. You should bear in mind, though, that our friend from San Francisco knows you. If he sees you, connects you with this, you’re screwed.”

“But I don’t have any protection. I turn over the package to you, and you trade it for the merchandise, and an hour later you’re in the air, out of the country. All I’ve got is your word that—”

“Listen, asshole. I don’t have time to wipe your nose, so I’ll lay it out for you. Right now, I’ve got at least three people waiting to buy some of that merchandise. A week after I arrive at an unnamed South American country I’ll have raised two million dollars, minimum, for the least valuable piece of merchandise. As per our agreement, you’ll get half that amount, which will be delivered to you by my own private courier.” As he said it, Graham smiled at the designated courier: Helen, still sitting on the bed, fondling the revolver. “You will continue to get half as, over the space of perhaps two years, the items of merchandise are sold. If at any time you feel like you’ve been cheated, all you have to do is make a deal with the authorities. You’ll be a hero.”

No response; only the sound of irregular breathing.

“If I don’t get the package from you tomorrow, as we’ve planned, then I’m out of it. I’ll have hopped the fence,” Graham said.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be back on the sunny side of the law, asshole. I’ll be back in my corner office at Consolidated. And the first thing I’ll do is blow the whistle on you.” Graham hung up the phone, took a moment to regain his composure, then went into the bedroom. He took the revolver, put it in the drawer of the nightstand. Then, standing before her as she still sat on the edge of the bed, he put both hands on her shoulders, drew her close—and waited for the rush.

G
ENTLY, DELICATELY, POWERS REPLACED
the phone in its cradle, glanced at his watch: five minutes after four, Monday, the twelfth of April. Three more days until taxes were due. At the thought, he was aware that he was smiling slightly. Was it predictable, that, facing a crisis, the instinct was to find a verity and cling to it?
April fifteenth …
the time of reckoning, of secular atonement, the dread date graven into the consciousness of the affluent. And yet how comforting the April fifteenth preoccupation was now, something eternal to occupy the mind, blessed relief from the prospect of doom approaching.