But it wasn’t the first time she’d seen it. She’d seen the exact same expression the time he’d come back from Canada, having, so he said, exposed and defeated the racketeers inside Powell Lambert. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have worn such an expression. He’d been through a time of uncertainty and danger. He’d used his guts and his brains. He’d avenged a good man’s death and brought justice to a criminal conspiracy. But it was so like the movies!
Rosalind played the moment over and over in her head. And the more she played it, the more she saw something different in it. Willard’s expression had been careful, controlled, deliberate.
Fake.
108
Willard had travelled plenty in his life. Manhattan was ‘his’ town, the East Coast his back yard. He had skied in Colorado, sunned himself in the south, visited relations in Canada, spent Augusts in England and Scotland, travelled west to Hollywood and the blue Pacific. But oddly enough, he’d never once been to Washington, his nation’s capital.
And now he was on his way. Not because he’d chosen to go, but because Powell had made him.
‘A vacation, Will. You’ve earned it. Think of it as a gift from the Firm. And when did you last see your old man? I swear to you, your pa spends too much time thinking about his guns and bombs. You go tell him how business is done in the rest of America.’
‘But, listen Powell, I’m busy.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not if I say you’re not. I’ll get people to cover for you.’
‘Well, there’s Rosalind too. I’m about to get married, Powell. I’ve got –’
But Powell had his hand up. ‘Send her a postcard.’ The banker had a grin pasted across his face like an advert for toothpaste, but with Powell, Willard knew, you should always look at the eyes and the eyes weren’t smiling. And this wasn’t a vacation. He was being sent away so Roeder and Powell could do whatever the hell they wanted in Marion without interference. He felt powerless, stupid and angry.
But what could he do? Nothing. If he didn’t agree to go to Washington, Powell would make him go anyway. So he agreed. He agreed, but he did one extra thing. He booked a ticket on a liner leaving Los Angeles for Sydney, Australia in sixteen days’ time. He booked the ticket in the name John Jackson and arranged with one of the Firm’s clients, a drinks peddler with a profitable sideline in counterfeit documents, for a passport to be prepared in the same name. He put the ticket and passport in an envelope along with two thousand dollars in cash. He kept the envelope in his inside jacket pocket, close to his skin.
Because Willard had finally made a decision. He would do everything he could to get the package to Rockwell. He’d do what he could to make Rockwell see sense and get the hell out. He’d do what he could, and if he failed then he failed. Captain Rockwell had voluntarily entered a dangerous game.
Unltimately the consequences would be down to him.
109
Out on the airfield in Miami, the air was deathly still.
The hangar had its doors open, but not a single draught penetrated its gloomy walls. Hueffer’s shirt stuck to him as though glued. Any movement brought on a prickle of sweat. Two hundred yards away, down on the beach, the sea was an odd combination of sluggish and turbulent. On the surface, the waves looked dead. Greasy waves rolled over with hardly a ripple. But all the time, an uneasy swell grew in size. Bigger waves, not high but very broad, rolled steadily in.
The humid lifelessness of the air could mean only one thing, and that thing was confirmed by a glance to the south-east. Out to sea, a line of clouds, like some vast fortification, crept slowly forward as though on giant rollers. Hueffer had already been out to check that Poll was snug outside under her canvas cover. She was settled down as tight as could be, but even so Hueffer went out with extra ropes, a couple more steel pegs. He did what he could, then thought about checking the hangar roof. It was no good securing Poll if the hangar went and blew itself to bits. But before he could act, the phone rang. He snatched it up.
‘Yes? Hello?’
‘Hello?’ The voice was a woman’s, its pitch and intonation unfamiliar yet also reminiscent of something or someone.
‘May I help you?’
‘My name is Miss Torrance calling from the Savings Bank of Northern Florida. Who am I speaking with please?’ The familiar-unfamiliar voice suddenly made sense. It was Pen’s voice shifted and distorted, but still hers. She was speaking strangely in order to fool any listeners on the line. Hueffer gripped the phone harder and answered carefully.
‘This is Arnie Hueffer. I’m afraid Captain Rockwell is away on business. I can reach him by telephone if you wish.’
‘No, I’d like to speak with Mr Anderson, if possible.’
She spoke very clearly and deliberately. A wrong number call for Mr Anderson was the agreed code calling for instant help, for Abe to launch an airborne rescue mission.
‘There’s no Mr Anderson here. You maybe need to check your number.’
There was a pause. The code had been used and acknowledged. By rights they ought to hang up, only neither of them wanted to. Hueffer wanted to ask what the problem was, but knew he couldn’t.
‘I guess so. I’ll check it,’ said Pen. She too was hanging on to the call: a friendly voice, a trusted one. Oceans of unspoken friendship and concern washed around in the silences.
‘Listen, if you’ve got a call to make, you should make it soon. There’s a bad storm coming in. Real bad. I’d say there ain’t gonna be many phone lines standing after it’s passed through.’
He wanted to say: There’s no way on God’s earth Abe can fly in this weather. He wanted to say: ‘ Get the hell out. We’ll come find you later; soon as we can.
‘Right… It’s Mr Anderson I need,’ said Pen stupidly. ‘Mr Anderson.’
She was saying: I have to have Abe. With an airplane. Storm or no storm, I have to have them.’
‘Right… Well, like I say, no Mr Anderson here.
Code acknowledged once again. He’d do what he could. He wanted to say. Look after yourself, Fen. For Christ’s sake. Whatever happens. Look after yourself.
‘OK. Sure. I’ll check the number.’
Maybe it was the line, but Pen’s voice sounded a million miles away, small and lost.
‘You do that.’
‘Sure.’
Hueffer hung up. It was no use checking the hangar now. Loose sheets of tin, cracked roof joints, who cared any more? That phone call meant the endgame was in its last desperate stage. The three of them had already agreed that if Pen made her emergency call, they’d all assume their cover had been finally compromised. Arnie could no longer risk remaining where he was. He’d have to run for it, try to escape into the vastness of America.
But first he made the call he had to make. He called Abe in Marion.
‘Just had a call. Some dame wanting a Mr Anderson. You don’t know an Anderson, do you?’
‘Not me,’ said Abe. The same unspoken sentences washed between the two men. Then Abe changed the subject, or appeared to. His voice mostly sounded like its normal self: unhurried, decisive, quiet. But beneath the confidence there was something else. Anxiety not just for Pen, but for the conditions in which he was being asked to fly. ‘I don’t quite like the weather up here. There’s a bank of cloud a long way out still, but maybe you can see more your end.’
Hueffer glanced out of the gaping hangar door. The storm was unmistakable now. The sky south and east of Miami was dominated by the vast black wall of thundercloud. A greyish-yellow lightning flickered evilly between the parapets of clouds.
‘It’s bad,’ he said simply. ‘As bad as we’ve had. Not flying weather. It’ll hit here soon.’
‘I guess…’ Abe started, then let his voice fade. But Hueffer knew what he’d wanted to ask.
‘I told the dame there was a storm coming in. I told her if she wanted to reach this Anderson guy, she’d better do it before the phone lines are blown to hell. She was sure anxious about it.’
/> ‘Uh-huh. OK… No, Arnie, I don’t know anyone of that name. Sorry I can’t help.’
‘OK. Don’t worry.’
A pause.
‘Take care, buddy.’
‘Yeah, you too. Take care.’
Just before they hung up, Abe said, ‘Oh, Arnie. I guess… I mean it isn’t worth worrying about or anything, I wouldn’t want you to…’
‘You’re worried about Poll?’
‘Not worried, I just wanted to know … well, OK, yes, darn it, I am worried.’
‘I’ve been out to check her out. I put a couple of extra turns around her. She’s as snug as I can make her. But this is a bad one, buddy. I don’t know if the hangar will be here in the morning.’
‘OK Arnie, thanks anyway. Any case, I’d prefer her to smash up in a storm than just rot away.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But still…’
‘I know.’
‘OK, anyway, you’ve got stuff to do. So long.’
‘Yeah, so long.’
Hueffer hung up.
The hangar filled with silence and the unstirring air. Up in Jacksonville, Pen was in danger, running for her life. In Marion, Abe was about to take to the skies, hoping to snatch her up and away. And here in Miami, Arnie Hueffer’s work was done. He moved along the silent workbenches, straightening things out, replacing tools, his cherished friends. Quietly, not seeming to rush, but quickly all the same, he found his hat and coat, went to the door of the hangar and slipped quietly away.
110
The train pulled into Washington at four o’clock on that bright March afternoon, with the sun still heaping gold on the buildings and monuments. Willard felt what every patriotic American ought to feel. A glow. An expectation. A sense of an all-American promise being abundantly fulfilled. In the rush and bustle of Manhattan, it was possible to forget all that was best about America. But not here. Not in Washington.
Willard was met off the train by a suave executive from Thornton Ordnance. The man, Henry Geddes, was only a year or two older than Willard, but the man’s demeanour – something between an international diplomat and a senior civil servant – gave him the air of a man two decades older again.
‘A good journey, I hope?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘It all depends on whom one is obliged to travel with. I always seem to get the nervous old ladies. Either that or the pot-bellied snorers.’
‘It was OK. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Excellent.’ Geddes’ tone of voice somehow implied it was Willard’s fault that he’d ended his journey with nothing to complain about. ‘I have a car waiting. You’ll want to freshen up before meeting your father.’
‘Yes. Where are we … am I…?’
Geddes ignored Willard’s question as he eased through a crowd to a silver-grey Buick with a uniformed chauffeur sitting at the wheel. Geddes waved Willard into the car then got in on the other side. Velvety. Geddes was velvety and everything he did was velvety too. That was OK if you liked velvet. Willard didn’t.
He tried again. ‘You mentioned a meeting with Father. He’s coming to the hotel is he, or…?’
Geddes had produced a white envelope from his pocket and held it up. ‘The details you need are here. This car is yours for the duration of your stay, as is Gregory here –’ The chauffeur caught Willard’s eye in the mirror and nodded slightly, but was otherwise completely impassive. ‘We’ve found a suite for you at the Jefferson. It wasn’t our first choice, but its suites are first-class. Please call the Firm’s offices if we can help in any way. Opera tickets, excursions, dinner reservations, anything. The Firm has a fine tradition of hospitality, so please try us out.’
Willard nodded, suddenly unsure of which Firm Geddes was talking about. Thornton Ordnance or Powell Lambert? Willard had assumed that Geddes belonged to Thornton Ordnance’s discreet lobbying organisation, but he was suddenly unsure. There was something in the way he spoke about ‘the Firm’ that was somehow reminiscent of Powell Lambert. Perhaps the two organisations crossed over from time to time. Willard was about to ask, when he saw that Geddes had put the envelope away again, sat back in his seat and had turned to look out of the window. Willard closed his mouth and did the same.
Washington!
The city’s spell descended. Fragments of history learned as a schoolboy came rushing back. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal…’ Here in Washington the words from the Declaration of Independence took on a new and deeper resonance. Willard’s lips actually moved as he continued the recitation in his head. ‘That they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness…’
The driver took them up Constitution Avenue towards the Lincoln Memorial, now glowing orange-pink in the late afternoon sun. Willard craned forward to look.
‘You’ve been in Washington before, of course,’ said Geddes.
‘No. Never.’
‘Really?’ Geddes’ answer was theoretically polite, but his tone somehow implied that Willard had just admitted to something shameful – like being Jewish or having an uncle living in a tin shack in Alabama. Willard wondered how Geddes would sound if he punched him full force in the mouth. Mushy? Soggy? Not so goddamned velvety.
They drew level with the Lincoln Memorial. ‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal…’ Lincoln’s Gettysburg address boomed through Willard’s mind like half-remembered gunfire.
‘The statue’s such a pity, don’t you think?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You were looking at the Memorial,’ said Geddes. ‘I think Lincoln must have been one of the ugliest men ever born. Personally, I’d have dispensed with the statue.’
The conversation sputtered out. The Buick rolled forwards through city traffic until they arrived at the Jefferson. Geddes saw Willard out of the car, then wished him a good stay and handed over the white envelope. It was typical of Geddes that he could hold a largish envelope in his jacket pocket throughout a longish car journey, then produce it utterly uncreased, unmarked, and gleaming new. Geddes left. Gregory, the chauffeur, let Willard know how to reach him, then the Buick slid away too.
Up in his suite, Willard sat on his bed and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, Thornton Ordnance stationery, with a handwritten note from his father.
‘Dear son, I’m delighted to catch you in town. I shall be in the Senate Library from seven. I’ll let the people there know to expect you. Your father, Junius.’
The Senate Library! The private sanctum of the country’s most senior lawmakers. The holy heart of the holy city.
111
Pen stood by the window, sipping slowly from a cup of coffee.
From her vantage point she was able to survey the street outside, including a parked car – a Ford sedan, with a single man inside. At this distance, she couldn’t make out much, but the man had been there for an hour already and hadn’t moved once. People didn’t do that. No one just goes to a place to sit doing nothing. They have a reason. Maybe they’re waiting for someone. Waiting to pick them up, to give them a kiss, to give them a ride. Or to kill them.
Pen felt nauseous and giddy. As a pilot, she had accepted a high degree of risk. She was a stand-out participant in a pastime which killed a significant proportion of its adherents. But they were risks she knew and understood. The threat represented by the assassin outside was of a totally different nature. What if he had a sadistic streak? What if, where women were concerned, he liked to violate them before murdering them? The thought of dying was bad. The thought of a strange man’s fingers touching her with lust and violence was utterly repugnant. She reeled back from the window.
She needed to get out.
That was certain. There were two exits from the bank. One at the front, which gave onto the street o
utside and the fat assassin. There was a second one at the back, which might also be watched. But there was a third option. A flight of stairs led up to a couple of offices and a stationery room on the first floor. From the window at the head of the stairs, Pen had seen a flat roof and the possibility of escape.
But first: a dilemma.
If she ran, she’d save her skin but lose everything that she and Abe and Arnie and poor Brad Lundmark had worked to achieve. Nobody would blame her, but her failure would still be total. Or she could do this. She could try to snatch the bank documents that Haggerty McBride had asked for. She knew where they were. She had the keys. She was literally just a matter of yards away from the documents that would link Marion to New York, Cuban booze to Powell Lambert.
It was dangerous, foolish, but she knew she had to try.
On the street outside, the light glittered with unhealthy intensity. Pen felt sweaty and warm, but also calm. Suddenly calm. She went up to Rogers’ door, knocked and entered.
‘Ah, Miss Torrance, Sarah! Yes?
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, only it’s this Southern Fruit Growers account.’
‘Yes?’
The Southern Fruit Growers was one of the bank’s major accounts, and the client had been kicking up a fuss recently over a string of interest charges.
‘I’ve just had them on the phone,’ Pen lied. ‘They seemed very upset about their latest statement.’ She began a confusing and hard-to-follow explanation of the customer’s complaint.
‘Yes, yes, Sarah, you need to try to get things in order. What exactly were they asking us for?’
‘I don’t exactly know, sir. They just seemed quite upset. I wonder if this is the kind of thing you need to talk over with Mr Ashley …?’ Mr Ashley was the head of the bank and Mr Rogers’ boss.
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