“He’s German, isn’t he, just like Kepler and his Berlin colleagues?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Surely it’s obvious to you.”
“No, tell me why.”
“Because they failed to take our country so they’re now attempting to take our culture instead. It’s the Baedeker raids of 1942 all over again.”
“British culture would survive the loss of a manuscript and a sword,” Tom said. “You survived the bombing of Bath and Exeter.”
“Would it? It’s not just the paper and the steel. It’s the acknowledgment of the ease with which it could be accomplished. Tell me, did you ever see the manuscript when it was on display in the Museum?”
“Many years ago,” Tom said. “On a graduation trip. It was the first thing you saw when you entered the manuscript collection.”
“Precisely. It is the first thing. It cannot be lost. It must be found . . . at any cost. Where do you think it’s been taken? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Just . . .”
“What?” Tom asked.
“Just retrieve it. Please. I’m only one man, but you must know how important this is to all of us.”
“Yes, I think I know that.”
The waitress brought their drinks. Roberts handed her a £10 note. “I’ll get these,” he said, lifting his glass and drinking more than half of it in one gulp.
“How well do you know Baker?” Tom asked.
“Well enough. He’s a good detective. Likes to play it up a bit for the men, but he solves his fair share of the cases. Why do you ask?”
“No good reason. It just seemed that you were tilting with one another.”
“Yes . . .”
“I just wanted some assurance that he was the best man for the job.”
“Charles Baker is not a learned man, but he is diligent. That’s really a good bit of it, isn’t it? Continuing to look; refusing to give it up?”
“Yes, so long as you know where to look.”
“It’s a tricky case,” Roberts said. “So much of what a man like Baker sees is the fruit of passion . . . envy, greed, lust . . . usually fed by alcohol and a sense of personal betrayal. Organized crime is conducted like business. It has its rules and its sense of order. There’s blood about the edges, but there is in business as well, what? This case is different. There’s greed enough but there’s also organization and planning. From what Baker would say it seems to be the work of a single individual. That complicates it. There are no predictable suspects. If Baker seems a bit out of his element, that’s to be understood. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Roberts signaled the waitress, holding up two fingers.
“I’ll get these,” Tom said. Roberts nodded in approval.
“I still don’t understand why you wanted to meet with me.”
“It’s not easy . . .” Roberts said.
“What’s not easy, Professor Roberts?” Tom asked.
“We don’t do these things very well,” Roberts said, “but . . .”
Tom took a sip of his drink and let Roberts finish.
“I’m not a sentimental man, at least not to any extreme, but there are certain things about which I feel rather deeply. One is language and another is Britain. You see our present condition. You see us as the shadow of what we once had been. I’m not speaking of the empire. Bugger that. I’m speaking of the general state of things—not the Britain of Mayfair and Regent’s Park, but the Britain of Liverpool and Glasgow, of Manchester and Birmingham. There is a sense of impoverishment, of good times now passed. Very few really know how close we came to losing the war and fewer still are aware of the final costs of our survival.
“It was worth every last shilling of course and even though Germany is mighty again and we have faded, Hitler is dead, London is rebuilt, and this island is intact. The Russians still feel it, you know. For them it is . . . just yesterday. My father died in North Africa. I was living with my aunt then; my mother had died when I was a child. I still have his medals. They meant very little to me then; I was too young to understand the full import of what had happened and how my life had been changed irrevocably.
“Now there are winter evenings when I take them out and hold them in my hand . . . I’ve never done anything of that order myself, of course. I haven’t sacrificed life or limb, but I like to think that in some small way I’ve given something, preserved something. I think of you going off to find this thief. I know that I can’t be a part of it, but I wanted you to know that if there’s anything I can do to help, you should feel free to call me. Call me at any time. I also wanted you to know how very much I appreciate what you’re doing.”
“I was in the Imperial War Museum nearly ten years ago,” Tom said. “I was in the World War II display, standing in a mockup of a bunker with a sound and light demonstration. A man came up behind me, an elderly man. I could see from the corner of my eye that he was not well-dressed. He was old, doing his best to balance himself on arthritic feet and knees. He stepped closer to me and whispered something in my ear. He said, ‘You bombed them during the day and we bombed them at night.’ I turned to say something to him, but he was gone. Children were running around, people were handing out leaflets, soliciting contributions. It was a very strange experience. He somehow appeared, spoke, and then, instantly, he was gone. I’ve never forgotten it.”
“Are you a religious man, Detective Deaton?”
“I believe in the force of evil,” Tom said. “It’s very hard not to. I hope that there’s something or someone on the other side as well, someone in addition to ourselves.”
Roberts took a deep drink, finishing off his whiskey, as the waitress brought the second round. “I believe that there is some force for goodness which enables us to discover and create beautiful things. The preservation of those things then becomes our responsibility. Sometimes we give a good account of ourselves and sometimes we do not. Our ability to see that beauty and preserve it is what constitutes civilization. All of the rest of it is so much trumpery: crowns and palaces, silks, gold, and diamonds. The beauty comes from the spirit, not the substance itself, and it is the spirit which evil seeks to corrode and defeat.”
“To civilization,” Tom said, “as much of it as we can salvage.”
Roberts took another deep drink. “I was in Boston once for an academic term. The people there called it the ‘hub of the universe’. I was not anxious to contradict them, for they were my hosts and while I can be an irascible man, I do my best not to be an impolite one. In all honesty, however, I cannot say that they were right.
“A few blocks north of us on Baker Street is 221-B, the fanciful creation of an Edinburgh physician. Letters are still received at that address, desperate letters, asking for help from a character in fiction. He has given pleasure to people all over the world and still defines, for many, the ratiocinative process. And he is a fiction.
“From where we are sitting I could take you—in a matter of minutes—to the houses of Dickens, Keats, and Carlyle, to the building where Johnson made his dictionary, the square where Reynolds painted his portraits, and the street where Hogarth set up his painting academy. We could stand beside the graves of Milton, of Bunyan, of Defoe, and of Blake. This is the city of Marx and of Freud, of Newton and of Darwin. Chaucer was controller of customs in this port; Pepys was the founder of this nation’s civil service. Handel’s music was played on our great river and Mozart gave recitals in our pleasure gardens. This is the country of Alfred and of Arthur, of Harold, of Lawrence, Harris, Montgomery, and Churchill. This is the place to which one comes to hear the language of Shakespeare . . .”
He paused and took another drink. “Forgive me, I didn’t intend to run on like that.”
“That’s all right,” Tom said. “I was taught that soldiers should have a liberal education. They started as engineers, you kno
w, at least in America. The principal problems were always engineering problems, at least of some sort. That’s changed to some degree. When I was studying military history as a college junior our instructor told us that a liberal education was essential for their task. He was an older man, a veteran as I recall, with something of a southern accent and a flair for language. He told us that soldiers needed an education to appreciate what they someday might have to destroy. ‘But that is not their primary mission,’ he said. ‘Their principal task is to protect and preserve—not just words, not just platitudes about some system of government—but to protect and preserve books and paintings, libraries and cathedrals, vineyards, gardens and parks: the most beautiful works of man.’ I’ve always found that to be idealistic and, in its way, quaint. I’ve also always believed it to be true. Do you think that I’m being sentimental or silly?”
“I think there is a kind of madness in sentiment, just as there is a madness in love. The Elizabethans were right about these things. They froze and burned in their love of unattainable mistresses and they understood the world through the sounds of the planets and the meaning of flowers and herbs.”
“Good fighters though,” Tom said.
“Yes. With precious little tolerance for pirates and mutineers. They put their bodies on the bank of the Thames at Wapping Dock. It’s one of Charles Baker’s favorite sites . . .”
“He pointed it out to me,” Tom said.
“I thought he might have. The bodies stayed there until three tides had washed over them. A lesson. Wherever you are, whatever you do, wherever you should go, we shall find you, return you to this place, and this shall be your end. Not very pretty, of course. Some would call it barbaric. The practice did have the twin virtues of clarity and finality.”
“Nice counters to sentiment, wouldn’t you say?”
“I should say essential counters,” Roberts answered.
V
THE FIFTH CHAMBER
Chapter Forty-Seven
John Wayne Airport
Monday, 7:12 p.m.
Their connecting flight from Chicago arrived at John Wayne Airport on time. Its turnaround time was short and when Tom and Diana deplaned the waiting area was already crowded. Chris Dietrich was standing with his back against a pillar with detectives flanking him on either side. They spaced out as Tom and Diana approached Chris, bracketing them as they moved through the airport.
“Diana, Tom . . .” Dietrich said. “Welcome back to sunny southern California. We’re parked in the ramp.”
When they reached the baggage area their luggage was already on the conveyor. Tom picked up the bags, showed their baggage checks to an elderly attendant named Marta and followed the Chief to the ramp. As dusk settled in the sky was orange and gray with the remains of the day’s smog still hovering to the east and filtering through the pockets of buildings marking the skyline. The air was calm and the airport roadway thick with sounds and catalytic converter smells. The palms scattered between the traffic lanes and ramps offered a perfunctory welcome. The detectives who were standing by Dietrich at the gate moved in closer as they approached their cars. A third detective was on the ramp level where Dietrich had parked his car. He was drinking coffee from a Starbucks cup with a high plastic lid and Tommee Tippee spout. After Dietrich, Diana, and Tom got into the Chief’s blue sedan the other three got into a similar model in dark green and followed them through the parking attendant gates.
“I’ll take the coastal road,” Dietrich said, driving toward Newport Beach. Considering the time, there was a large volume of airport-related traffic that did not begin to thin out until they were nearly a mile and a half beyond the exit.
“Where are we, Chief?” Tom asked.
“About a block and a half from the new Courtyard by Marriott.”
“Sorry, I meant in the case.”
“Well, for one thing we’ve found his house.”
“Which is?”
“Just above the coast on something called Seaview Lane.”
“Overlooking the water?”
“Oh yes. An entry ticket to his neighborhood starts at about 10 mil. Alec sits at the end of a short, asphalt road. Going in and out will be tight. The road’s very narrow, barely wide enough for two cars, if that. There are nice circular drives for each house, once you leave the roadway, but the street itself is narrow. Alec’s house looks small from the front but the back sections of it sort of cascade down the side of the cliff.”
“How many levels?”
“Four, but the top one’s just an entryway, a few steps above the first real level.”
“How long has he lived there?”
“He’s owned the property for five years, but he’s only occupied it for two.”
“How so?”
“It was under construction for three years before he could move in.”
“That’s a long time. I wonder what he’s got in there besides wood, glass, and a lot of square footage.”
“Since you asked . . .” Dietrich said, pulling a tube from beneath the seat.
“You got the construction blueprints, Chief?”
“As a matter of fact we did. Several of the floors are half-underground.”
“Galleries probably. Security would be much less of a problem if there was only one side to worry about sealing. What’s the electronic system like?”
“Slightly more advanced than Ft. Knox’s. He’s got a lot more in that house than blacklight Elvis portraits and poker-playing bulldogs.”
“We figured that,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Dietrich said. “By the way, there’s more.”
“Yes?”
“What would you think of a building plan that would call for a ventilation system powerful enough to pull the smog out of the San Fernando Valley and a hydraulic system large enough to protect the Rose Bowl from the results of a double-digit earthquake?”
“He’s built a cave underneath the house.”
“Yes, and a rather large and secure one, I’d say.”
“He must have a lot in there to protect,” Tom said.
“That’s a fair assumption,” Dietrich answered, “since the actual assessed value of the shell that contains it is $28,000,000 plus change.”
“I’d like a closer look.”
“Hector tried to get in yesterday,” Dietrich said. “He dressed up like a deliveryman. We put him in a van, gave him a handful of parcels, and sent him to the door. The address on the boxes was Seaview Trail. If anybody came to the door he was supposed to act confused and in need of directions.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing really. He was greeted a few seconds after he pushed the bell. A woman answered, told him she wasn’t expecting anything, told him she didn’t know where Seaview Trail was, and told him to have a nice day.”
“Did she seem suspicious?”
“Hard to say. She was the modern type: high heels, a chalk-stripe power suit—all business. Not a hausfrau.”
“German?”
“As German as the Brandenburg Gate and just as cold. Stark blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, no makeup.”
“How old?” Tom asked.
“Thirty or so. Very fit.”
“Maybe a granddaughter. Did Hector say anything else?”
“He said she smelled good.”
“Did she smell of gardenias?” Diana asked, the first words she had spoken since getting into the car.
“How did you know that?” Dietrich asked.
“She broke into my house. Her scent was still in the air.”
“When?”
“It was Sunday afternoon, right after I found David’s body. The scent was heavy; it filled the whole house. When I got in my car to leave I realized I had carried some of it with me. I had to open the window in order to get rid of it. I remember at the time feeling n
ausea and anger. Someone had entered my house without permission and gone through my things. She was looking for David’s pictures, I suppose. What else did Officer Campo say?”
“I asked him if she identified herself and he said no,” Dietrich answered. “He couldn’t really see anything in the house. They were standing in some kind of anteroom or hallway. He said it was stucco with some exposed beams. There was no furniture except for a hanging light fixture and a single table of dark walnut. He did comment on the security system. He could see signal-trips along the window sills and some openings along the floorboards for light beams. He also said that the circular driveway in front of the property was gravel.”
“A natural alarm system,” Tom said.
“Yes. There were also some thick, rose arbors covering the ground floor windows. Very rustic and quaint, but also good natural barriers.”
The sign for the PCH was welcome, after slogging through the boulevards of Irvine. Dietrich signaled, moved to the exit lane, turned, merged, and began to drive south along the coast. The office buildings on the left contrasted with the glow of the lights shimmering along the water. The traffic was heavy, but moving steadily.
Dietrich picked up his cell phone, hit the speed dial, waited, and said something in numerical code to the detectives in the car following them. Diana turned toward Tom, seeking answers.
“They’re going to take some back streets and alleys, close off any possibilities of our being followed, and then head into Laguna. The Chief will take us to a safe house; the tail car will split off and go in another direction.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Standard operating procedure,” Tom said.
When they got to the safe house in the Hills they could see a shadowy figure in the rear of the garage. Dietrich drove directly in and parked the police sedan. The door was closing behind them before he had turned off the ignition.
“Hector probably parked several blocks away and then walked in. He left the garage space for the Chief. When they’re certain that we weren’t followed, the Chief will take off.”
INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL Page 24