Out of the Sun (26 page)

"I know. You said." The limousine entered Dupont Circle and cruised slowly round towards the Globescope Building. "And you're probably right."

"Make that definitely."

"But we're going through with it."

"I know." Chipchase sighed. "You said."

Harry had to announce their names and business through an entry-phone before the imposing doors of the Globescope Building hummed open. The foyer was an equally imposing expanse of reflective marble, presided over by a receptionist and two security officers who needed only a change of costume to pass as Cleopatra and her bodyguards.

They were required to sign a register and clip colour-coded badges to their lapels, then directed to take the middle elevator of three to the top floor, where they would be met. Seemingly at the last moment, one of the security men asked Harry to open his briefcase. The contents pocket calculator, investment magazine and Page-Muirson paperwork thoughtfully prepared by Makepeace Steiner excited no interest. They were invited to proceed.

"What happens if they search you on the way out?" muttered Chipchase as the elevator started on its journey.

"Search me."

"Ha-bloody-ha. We're no match for them. You do realize that, don't you?"

"What became of your famous confidence, Barry?"

"I left it in my other suit."

"Pity." The elevator eased silkily to a stop and the floor indicator clicked. Too late to go back for it now, I'm afraid." Then the doors slid open.

A tall curvily built middle-aged woman with grey hair, high cheekbones and eyes Harry felt he could take a warm bath in was waiting to greet them. "Hi, I'm Ann Mather. Mr. Page? Mr. Cornford?"

"That's right."

"Would you care to follow me? Mr. Lazenby can see you right away."

Following Ann Mather would ordinarily have been a pleasant occupation in itself, but Harry felt obliged to concentrate on their surroundings. Wide pale-carpeted spaces communicated in a series of leisurely right-angles past pastel-doored offices, some glass-panelled to reveal gadget-rich seminar rooms, others revealing nothing beyond an informally styled name on the door. Buzz somebody. Kitty somebody else. Names but nothing else.

They reached an area Ann Mather evidently shared with another secretary and paused before a set of double doors. Ann went ahead to announce them, then ushered them into Byron E. Lazenby's concept of a presidential space.

Space there predictably was in abundance, plus a considerable panorama of north-west Washington courtesy of raked windows set in the mansard roof. These plus a significant acreage of oak desktop and tabling gave the room something of the feel of a Nelsonian captain's cabin. But the grey metropolitan light, the graph-spattered world map covering most of one wall and above all the presence of Byron Lazenby imposed their own contemporary order.

"Come in," he boomed, striding forward to meet them. "Glad you could make it." His low but powerful tone, his suppressed but palpable energy, were exactly as Harry had unconsciously expected. He was a man accustomed to having his way and seeing it clear before him; a man whose surest prediction would always be his own success; a man not to be crossed.

"Norman Page," Harry announced, steeling himself to meet Lazenby's gaze and shake the proffered hand firmly. He detected no glimmer of recognition. Perhaps, he thought, he could rely on somebody so immensely self-confident to be immensely unobservant as well. "And my colleague, Bill Cornford."

"Pleasure," declared Chipchase, stepping between them as it had been agreed he would.

"You sound more than a little British to me, Mr. Cornford. I thought '

"I was in business over here before Norman proposed we work together. He calls me his American partner, but we're both born and bred Brits."

"Right. And what business was that?"

"Mobile phones." Harry's heart lurched at this sudden invention. What in the wide world did Barry know about mobile telephones? More than Harry, it was devoutly to be hoped. "I got in at the ground floor. And out before the whizz-kids started piling into the elevator."

Lazenby laughed, too loudly for comfort. "Maybe you don't need my services if you can spot a hot prospect so unerringly."

"Oh, it was mostly luck. You need a healthy dose of judgement as well to stay ahead."

"Which is where I come in, right?"

"Exactly."

"Great. Well, I'll have my projects manager, Cherie Liebermann, join us later to run over the specifics of what we can offer. To start, I thought I'd familiarize you with Globescope's founding concepts. Set the scene, so to speak."

"Sounds ideal," Harry woodenly enthused.

"Why don't you gentlemen take a seat? I'll have Ann fix us some tea. Guess that might appeal to you, right?"

"Fine." Harry turned in the direction of Lazenby's extended hand, moving ahead of Chipchase to claim the armchair nearest the windows, the 'huge and squashy' armchair Hammelgaard had recounted concealing the tape in. "Soft cream leather constructions' according to Makepeace Steiner. "Over-sized and none too comfortable." Harry had caught a sort of presumptive glimpse of them on entering the room while his mind was still fixed on verbal ploys and distractive techniques. Now all he had to do was

They were different. Large and obviously expensive, but not the same. Classically styled and upholstered in a delicately hued gold and grey fabric, they were patently not the chairs Harry had expected to see, planned to see, above all needed to see. The other ones had gone, God and Byron Lazenby alone knew where. They had been removed along with anything and everything hidden within them.

Harry stopped in his tracks and gaped at the farcical reality before him. His face might well have lost most of its colour. His jaw could easily have dropped. He was too dismayed to sense his own reaction. It might have ended with a bang or a whimper. But instead fate had held back a sour and scornful laugh for this moment when he least needed to hear it.

"Are you OK?" Lazenby asked. "You sure don't look it."

FORTY-ONE

Forty minutes had passed. Harry could only hope he had made some faintly coherent contributions to the discussion, though he could remember virtually nothing of it. He had drunk some tea without tasting it, introduced himself to Cherie Liebermann without absorbing the slightest impression of her character or appearance beyond the extreme brightness of her lipstick and had listened to every word uttered in the room without retaining one of them in his memory.

Gripped by a paralysis of thought as well as action, he had imagined David and Torben sitting there, smiling at Byron Lazenby every bit as falsely as he and Barry. He had seen, as distinctly as the glossy brochures placed in his lap, David's hospital room, its motionless occupant wired and monitored in the bed; and the bridge in Copenhagen where Torben had died, the water seeming to lap at its piers loudly enough to blot out the conversation around him.

Always Lazenby seemed to be either smiling or laughing outright, at some joke of Barry's or some drollery of his own. It was as if he knew the absurdity of Harry's plight and was savouring it. Helpless and squirming like a worm on a hook, Harry sat where he was, waiting for his futile pretence to run its course. Sustained by Cherie Liebermann's eager resume of Globescope's forecasting techniques and prolonged by Barry's energetic impersonation of a self-satisfied big spender, it was brought finally to a close by Lazenby's grinning conclusion: "I think I can safely say, gentlemen,

that Globescope could put you several steps ahead of the opposition in your field. It's up to you to decide whether you want to take advantage of our services. They're not inexpensive, but I hope we've persuaded you of their unique value to the truly far-sighted players in the game."

Whether he genuinely thought that was what his two guests were hardly mattered. Nor did it matter whether his Olympian assertions of where the world was going were any better founded than Cherie Liebermann's number-crunching econo metrical projections. Page-Muirson Ltd was about to vanish into the computerized void it had been summoned up from. And Harry's half-chance of saving his son was about to go the same way.

"We'll get back to you very shortly," Barry declared as they rose to leave. "Norman and I just need to talk this through."

"Of course," said Lazenby. "Decisions like this shouldn't be rushed. Don't hesitate to contact us if you need any supplementary information before making your minds up."

Thanks," mumbled Harry as he shook Lazenby's hand. "Very interesting."

"Hope it was. Cherie, would you show our guests to the elevator?"

"Surely. This way, gentlemen."

They moved out into the secretarial ante-room, the double doors swinging shut behind them. Ann Mather said something to Cherie which Harry did not catch. Cherie stepped across for a word with her, giving Chipchase the opportunity to wink at Harry and whisper: "Got it?" But all Harry could do was shake his head numbly in reply.

"Sorry about that," said Cherie, rejoining them. She smiled at Harry, then a tinge of puzzlement at his blank expression crossed her intent bespectacled features. Harry seemed to see her clearly for the first time. A lively and perceptive individual holding her vivacity in check, she had probably already written him off as a dull-witted nonentity who did not matter to her beyond the fee he might bring in. But his insignificance was also his opportunity. And it was the last one he was going to get. The realization was like a douche of cold water. He blinked and stepped back. "Mr. Page?"

"Sorry. Yes?"

"Shall we go?"

"Of course." They began to move, Harry slowing the pace as much as he dared. "Kind of you to spare us ... so much of your time, Miss Liebermann."

"My pleasure."

"Ours, I assure you. Mr. Lazenby ... has a lovely office, doesn't he?"

"It is kinda grand, isn't it?"

"I particularly liked the chairs we sat in." He sensed a momentary falter in Chipchase's stride beside him. "Elegant as well as ... comfortable."

"Glad you liked them."

"They seemed pretty new."

"I believe they are."

"And expensive."

"Quality doesn't come cheap."

"Were their predecessors .. . the same style?"

"No. Cream leather as I recall. Kinda lower slung. More contemporary. But why '

"He replaces costly items of furniture quite frequently, does he?"

"Pardon me?"

"I mean, what use have the old chairs been put to?"

That seems a strange question, Mr. Page." Cherie's puzzlement was deepening. And the elevator was already in sight.

"Hfcmour me, Miss Liebermann. Please." He would have fallen at her feet if necessary. But it was vital she should not know just how desperate he was to extract an answer to his question.

"Since you ask, I believe the previous suite was moved to Luke Brownlow's office. Luke's our vice-president in charge of recruitment. But why do you '

"Good housekeeping's the point. I appreciate thrift as much as hospitality. Economy as well as economics. I'm reassured to learn Globescope doesn't run on throwaway principles. That's important, believe me."

"I suppose it is." She smiled hesitantly. "Glad it was the right answer."

"Me too." Cherie called the elevator, which arrived almost instantly. Chipchase stepped inside and Harry followed, turning to avoid his gaze. Thanks again, Miss Liebermann. We'll be in touch." The elevator doors closed and their descent began.

"Did that bloody carry-on mean what I thought it meant, Harry?" Chipchase growled.

"Fraid so."

"So that's why you acted like a zombie leaving me to prattle on nineteen to the bloody dozen about the state of the Mexican bond market."

"You probably enjoyed it." Harry reached past Chipchase to the controls and stopped the elevator at the fourth floor, keeping his finger on the DOORS CLOSED button. "And the fun isn't over yet."

"You're planning to pay Luke Brownlow a call?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're bloody mad."

Then stay in the lift." Harry pressed the button for the top floor and stepped back. "But hold it for me, would you? I might need to leave in a hurry."

"You don't know where his office is."

"Vice-president, she said." The elevator stopped. The doors opened. There was no sign of Cherie Liebermann or, for the moment, anyone else. "Somewhere up here, don't you reckon?"

Chipchase groaned. "Matter of fact, I saw the name on one of the doors when we arrived. You'd better follow me."

He led the way at an anxious lope that was just the businesslike side of a bolt. A serious young fellow who looked as if he could be Superman in his spare time passed them, tut-tut ting over a computer print-out. Then, after one more turn of the hall, they were at Luke Brownlow's door.

Harry took a deep breath, knocked once and went straight in, praying that Brownlow had been called away, leaving the Voast clear for just as long as it would take.

But it was not clear. Brownlow, a lean balding figure in a black suit and jazzy tie, looked up in surprise, as did his guests, a pair of well-groomed young Globescopers seated in the large cream leather armchairs facing his desk.

Brownlow frowned. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry. Wrong room." Harry recoiled into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. He hurried away, grimacing forlornly at Chipchase. "There are people sitting in the damn things," he whispered.

"Well, they are chairs."

"Thanks for that helpful observation."

"What now?"

"I don't know. We'll draw attention to ourselves if we hang around much longer. But if we just give up and leave .. ."

"You won't get a second chance."

"Not a hope."

"Then you'd better shift their arses from those chairs, hadn't you?"

"How do you suggest I do that?"

"Lateral thinking." Chipchase pulled up and grinned at Harry. The answer's right behind you."

Harry turned slowly round and found himself looking at a bright-red metal lever fixed to a junction-box mounted on the wall. Stencilled on the lever were the words PULL DOWN IN CASE OF FIRE.