“Do you know why he always does that, Roger? I mean, get out of the car out front instead of taking the elevator from the car park?”
“Likes to make a grand entrance, I guess.”
“Could be. But I reckon he dislikes those dark corners down in the basement.”
“Afraid somebody might be lying in wait for him, you mean?”
“Something like that.”
“Heaven help anyone who was.” Roger sniggered. “Getting the jump on Byron has to be the original mission impossible.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Harry left Starbucks in a daze and wandered south-west along New Hampshire Avenue. His only aim was to quit Dupont Circle without heading back to the Hay-Adams. No destination no purpose, let alone a plan had formed in his mind. The probability that Lazenby would recognize him rendered the whole Page-Muirson pretence un sustainable And his objective in setting up their meeting unachievable. His fond notions of simultaneously defeating Lazenby, rescuing Donna and saving David were in ruins.
He reached Washington Circle and shambled round it, uncertain which direction to take. A down-and-out clutching a half-bottle of Jamaican rum and smelling strongly of the contents propositioned him for a hand-out, no doubt deceived by his gleaming shoes and cashmere overcoat. Harry gave him a dollar and seriously contemplated asking him for a swig of rum in return.
He chose 23rd Street more or less at random, trudging down through the university precincts and on past dour well-spaced government buildings towards the distant bulk of the Lincoln Memorial. The working day was in full swing now, the administrative machine up and cranking. Back at Globescope, Byron Lazenby was probably sipping a cup of freshly filtered coffee and casting an eagle eye over his diary for the day. A call on this influential politician; a check on that province of his empire. A meeting here; an appointment there. And at four o’clock: Messrs Page and Coraford of Page-Muirson Ltd. One way or the other,
it was unavoidable. The only question was: should Harry call it off or simply not show up? Postponement was obviously the sensible course. But the cut and run option was sorely tempting.
He found himself on Constitution Avenue, separated by surging traffic from the greenery of the Mall. A view of the Washington Monument above the trees gave him a fix on where he was in relation to the Hay-Adams. Then, through the bushes on his left, he saw a familiar face gazing benignly at him. It was a statue of Albert Einstein.
Harry walked round to the giant bronze likeness of the physicist, depicted lounging on a low wall in sandal led feet, holding a parchment in his left hand with the final workings of his most famous theory inscribed on it. Harry sat down beside him and smoked a cigarette. He recalled Einstein’s photograph on Dr. Tilson’s study wall, along with his own vague and partial understanding of relativity. Something to do with tiny amounts of matter containing vast amounts of energy. Hence the atom bomb. Something to do with the elasticity of time. Hence clocks moving faster on an orbiting spaceship than on Earth. Or was it slower? He could do with a slowing down of time just now, he really could. He could do with four o’clock never coming. But he did not suppose Einstein could have arranged that even before he was cast in bronze.
Suddenly, time’s status as a higher dimension in its own right burst into Harry’s thoughts. In some sense he did not comprehend, that was the key to relativity. And it had placed previously undreamt-of power in human hands. But time itself remained invisible and untouchable, just like all those other preposterously numerous higher dimensions the theoreticians had conjured up. What if each of them could unlock just as much power as time? Or more? At last he felt he grasped something of their meaning. And something of the irresistibility of their appeal to David. E = me2 x n. The universe, not just the world, made his oyster. And he became… scarcely less than a god.
But the god was sleeping. And his father was no nearer finding a spell to wake him. Harry crossed Constitution Avenue and walked out through the scattered yellow leaves of late autumn onto the Mall. A path led him down past the Vietnam Wall, where the tourists and grieving relatives had not yet gathered in force, then up to the circle enclosing the Lincoln Memorial. He climbed the steps and stood at the top, gazing back along the Reflecting Pool towards the Capitol, its dome no more than a smudge of grey against the pastier grey of the sky. A cold wind was blowing and there were spits of rain in the air. The prospect, both real and metaphorical, was bleak.
Once more, Harry confronted the intractable question of what he should do. With Woodrow beside him, he would have advocated going through with it, since Woodrow could have distracted Lazenby whenever recognition seemed to be dawning on him. But there was nobody beside him. And no reason to think Lazenby would fail to place him long before he had had a chance to retrieve the tape. Risk was one thing, certain failure another. He would be doing nobody a favour by embarking on a task he knew to be hopeless.
But what were the alternatives? There were none he could envisage that were not equally hopeless. Every choice was a counsel of despair. He needed a friend who would stand by him in crisis; an ally in a fragile cause; a deus ex machina. But squint as far into the Washingtonian distance as he pleased, he could not see one. And nothing in his experience encouraged him to think he ever would. Except the perverse reflection that providence had so seldom smiled on him that the statistics of its workings must some day turn in his favour.
He heard a muffled fragment of commentary drift up from a tourist shuttle bus as it drew to a halt near the foot of the memorial. Most of the few tourists on board emerged to cam cord the sights. Several crossed the road and headed up the graded flights of steps towards him. He started down, unwilling to find himself suddenly part of a noisy crowd.
As he reached the broad platform at the foot of the second flight, a couple appeared directly ahead of him who seized his attention almost before he was aware of the reason. One was a slightly built middle-aged woman in a bright red coat, with curly ash-blond hair and a serene smiling face. The other was a man of about Harry’s own age, a thick-set figure in raincoat and hat, puffing at a cigarette. He pulled up as soon as he saw Harry, causing the woman to do the same. Harry stopped in his tracks at the same instant and stared astonished into the man’s darkly twinkling forever untrustworthy eyes. Beneath them, a mischievously disbelieving grin was slowly forming.
“Harry, old cock?” said Barry Chipchase. “Is that really you?”
THIRTY-NINE
“Remarkable,” trilled the ash-blond woman, beaming at Harry and Barry in turn. “You mean to say you know each other?”
“We certainly do,” Harry replied, smiling at his lapsed friend and former partner with a meaningful beetling of the brow.
“But I thought you said you’d never been to the United States before, Barry.”
“I haven’t.” Chipchase’s laugh had a nervous edge Harry felt sure only he could have detected. “Harry and I go way back. We were in the R.A.F together.” Strangely he did not go on to mention their ill-fated spell as co-proprietors of Barnchase Motors, Swindon. “Longer ago than either of us would like to admit.”
“And this is the first time you’ve met since? That really is extraordinary.”
“Not exactly the first time. But I’m forgetting my manners.” He waved a hand between them. “Harry Barnett; Gloria Bayliss.”
“Pleased to meet you, Harry. What brings you to Washington?”
“Oh, business. And you?”
“Absolutely the reverse. Barry is escorting me on the holiday of a lifetime.” Gloria’s capped and crowned smile burst forth once more. “We’re going on from here all the way through the Carolinas and Georgia to Florida, then across to New Orleans and back home in time for Christmas.”
“And where is home?”
“Easingwold, near York. What about you?”
“Oh, wherever I lay my head.”
“Another globetrotter, like Barry? You do remind me of each other as a matter of fact. Itchy feet and a sparkle in the eye. Yes, I c
an see that.”
“Really?” Harry was not sure he cared for being likened to Barry Chipchase in any way.
“Why don’t I take a snap of this rare encounter?” Without waiting for their agreement, Gloria ushered the two of them together, then retreated down the steps and began trying out angles through the viewfinder of her camera.
“What the bloody hell are you doing in Washington, Harry?” muttered Chipchase through a cheesy grin.
“I told you. Business.”
“Business my left buttock. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Don’t I? Well, what about bankruptcy, fraud, embezzlement and repossession? Think I might have any experience of them? Think of anyone, can you, who might have given me some experience of them?”
“Take your hat off, Barry,” shouted Gloria. “I can’t see your face for the brim’
Talking of business, Barry, what line are you in now?”
“Mind your own whatever it is.”
“Aegean time-share when we last met, wasn’t it? Is that how you met Gloria?”
“Put a comb through your hair, would you, Barry? It’s all over the place’
“I think we ought to have a word in private. I really do.”
“Not on. Gloria’s got a full day’s sightseeing planned.”
“Does she know about Barnchase Motors? Or Jackie? Or me -and the lurch you two left me in?”
“Smile for goodness’ sake! Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see one another after all these years’
“I have a suspicion she knows nothing about what we could charitably call your cheque red career. Nothing accurate, anyway. Want me to enlighten her?”
“Christ almighty, Harry, it’s more than twenty years ago. I never took you for the vindictive type.”
“Needs must. Now what do you say to that chat?”
“There’s nothing to chat about.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Splendid! Hold there’ The camera shutter clicked. “You can relax now’
“Well?”
“Can’t you see how bloody awkward this is?” “Yes. Which is why I’m hoping you’ll agree.” “Oh, bloody hell.”
Gloria Bayliss turned out to be as enthusiastic a talker as she was an energetic a sightseer. Undaunted by a chill wind and incipient rainfall, she led Harry and Barry on a thorough inspection of the memorials and vistas of Constitution Gardens, reaching the Washington Monument three-quarters of an hour later with an unguarded description of her nascent relationship with Barry Chipchase threaded into recited extracts from a Michelin guidebook.
She was, it transpired, a widow, wealthy by Harry’s inference, comfortably off by her own admission. Her late husband, Fred Bayliss, had been a third-generation undertaker. The family firm, now managed by their son Eric, owned funeral parlours throughout Yorkshire and Humberside, with subsidiary interests in floristry and monumental masonry. She had gone on a Mediterranean cruise back in the spring to avoid spending the first anniversary of Fred’s death in the family home. Among her fellow passengers she had met a widower of about her own age, a man of charm, tact and ebullience who had recently taken early retirement from an Anglo-Turkish property company. It did not sound like Barry Chipchase to one who had known him longer and better than most, but a true account of Barry’s past would have prompted Gloria to check her credit cards rather than her make-up, so Harry was not unduly surprised. As for the motive behind Barry’s proposal of an autumn holiday in the American South, Harry thought he knew what it was. So did Gloria. Fortunately for Barry, though, they did not think the same. “Two lonely people who’ve had the good fortune to meet and discover they’re compatible,” she had announced as they crossed 17th Street. That’s us, isn’t it, luv?”
“I reckon it is,” Barry had replied, meeting her affectionate glance so directly that Harry had been unable to catch his eye. “I can’t tell you how glad I am I booked that cruise. It’s turning out to be one of the best decisions of my life.”
The weather had shrivelled the queue at the Washington Monument to bus-stop proportions. Gloria proposed an ascent to the observation room at the top. Prompted by a faint nudge from
Harry, Barry urged her to go alone while they discussed old times over a cigarette. Blithely unsuspecting and with a parting smile of unalloyed trustfulness, she went. Leaving the partners in a long since bankrupt Swindon garage to prowl the windy lawn at the foot of the monument and pretend an interest in the view south of the Jefferson Memorial.
“You’re looking bloody prosperous, Harry. Better than the last time we met.”
“Appearances can be deceptive. Rather like shipboard acquaintances’ accounts of themselves.”
“Now hold on a ‘
“Jackie’s alive and well, legs just as long and lovely as ever. So what’s with the widower bit?”
“A minor inaccuracy.”
“And early retirement? Come off it, Barry. I shouldn’t think you’ve ever done anything you could retire from. Early or late.”
“No call to look down your bloody nose at me. I just didn’t want to … disappoint her expectations.”
This is about your expectations, not Gloria’s. Marriage to a moneyed widow. A taste of well-heeled Yorkshire squiredom. A Chipchase finger in the undertaker’s till. That’s what you see looming on your horizon, isn’t it?”
“What if it is? What’s it to you, anyway?”
“She seems a nice woman.”
“She is a nice woman.”
“Pity to let her be snared by a fortune-hunter, then … for the lack of a word to the wise.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’m afraid I would, Barry.”
“But she’s having a good time. I’m giving her a good time. Why spoil it?”
“What does son Eric think of you?”
“The same as I think of him. He’s been whispering sour somethings about me into her ear all summer. To no bloody effect, I might add.”
“Ah, but I don’t expect he has the sort of hard evidence I can bring to bear.”
“I can’t believe you’d punch so low. We’re both too old to harbour grudges, Harry. And we need to think about our declining years. This is my personal pension plan. You wouldn’t try to queer it for me, would you?”
“I would.”
“Why, for Christ’s sake? Surely not for revenge. Mellow pliable genial old Harry wouldn’t stoop to that, would he? Think of all the scrapes I got you out of in the R.A.F.”
“Only because you got me into them in the first place.”
The favours I did you.”
“I don’t remember any.”
“For the love of Mike! Just give me a break will you? Times have been tough lately, even for old Chipchase.”
“For me too.”
“If there’s anything I can do … You know, a loan or something. I mean, I’m not completely un-bloody-reasonable.”
There is something, as a matter of fact.”
“What?”
“You could call it a loan.”
“How much?”
“Oh, about six hours.” Harry glanced at his watch. “Yes, about six hours of your invaluable time is what I need, Barry. And a bravura piece of play-acting. Should be no problem for a widower who’s just taken early retirement from an Anglo-Turkish property company.”
FORTY
Just after a quarter to four that afternoon, a limousine pulled up outside the Watergate Hotel on Virginia Avenue. Two smartly dressed middle-aged men emerged through the revolving door from the hotel lobby and clambered into the car, which then drew slowly away. It eased out into the traffic, hung a gentle left at the lights into New Hampshire Avenue and cruised steadily northeast in the direction of Washington Circle and, beyond that, Dupont Circle.
“What did you tell Gloria?” Harry enquired, as much to ease the tension as to satisfy his curiosity. “She seemed suspiciously reasonable about being left to her own devices.”
&
nbsp; “I told her you wanted me to cast my expert eye over a luxury homes development out at Forestville you’re thinking of investing in.”
“Where?”
“Forestville, Maryland. I saw an advert for it in the paper this morning. Old Chipchase likes to keep his eyes peeled.”
“Just as well she didn’t want to come along.”
The Freer Gallery held more appeal. She knows I hate foot-slogging round a load of grimy works of so-called bloody art. Why not just buy postcards of the bloody things? That’s what I say.”
“Quite the old married couple, aren’t you?”
“Not yet. Nor likely to be if any more skeletons come rattling out of my cupboard. Not that anyone could mistake you for a skeleton. Still keen on the beer, I see.”
“You don’t exactly look like a famine victim yourself, Barry.”
“Financiers don’t tend to. And it’s a financier you want me to play, isn’t it? So don’t bloody complain.”
“I’m not about to. But remember you have to sound the part as well as look it.”
“Piece of cake. Pulling the wool over friend Lazenby’s eyes doesn’t bother me.”
“What does, then?”
“You do, Harry old cock. Dressed up like a Mayfair divorce lawyer with a haircut that looks as if it’s been styled, for God’s sake. And undertaking some hush-hush find-and-remove mission on behalf of … well, who exactly?”
“Best you shouldn’t know.”
“It’s never best for old Chipchase not to know. I think you’re out of your depth and quite bloody possibly out of your mind as well. Which would be fine by me, except I seem to be diving into the deep end with you.”
“And all for the love of a good woman.”
“Sneer as much as you like, Harry. But remember our deal. I do the talking. You do the half-inching. And if you’re caught in the act I’ll make it plain as a puritans’ picnic that I haven’t the remotest bloody clue what you’re up to. Which won’t be difficult, since it happens to be the gospel truth.”
Out of the Sun Page 20