11 Harrowhouse (42 page)

I know millions of reasons why not, thought Chesser. And he also wondered some about the origin of the word wedlock.

He felt the pincers of destiny tightening upon him. His undeniable love for Maren was taking him into impractical matrimony, while there was still the impending threat of violence, which Massey and/or The System would come to deliver at any moment. These were incompatible extremes, he believed, and on that basis he made a serious and tactful appeal to Maren for postponement, at least until they were in the clear, not hiding or on the run.

“Now or then, what's the difference?” was her reasoning.

“Exactly,” said Chesser.

“Might as well be now,” she declared decisively.

On the first night of the banns period, Chesser had an elaborate dream. A not impossible plot played by highly probable characters, with Meecham and Massey in feature roles. The action was set in and around the chalet and consisted of Chesser being murderously pursued. However, he performed various miraculous feats, such as disappearing and reappearing at will, jumping aside or up or ducking to evade bullets which he saw float harmlessly by in slow motion. Maren, content and child-bellied, sat nearby in a Swedish rocker while Chesser finished off a dozen or more of The System's most vicious enforcers, then Massey, and for a finale had a face-to-face sneering match with Meecham, who, realizing Chesser's clear superiority, sniveled for mercy, implored Chesser to accept a free million-dollar packet. Chesser propped Meecham up like a piece of life-sized cardboard and shot off his balls. One at a time. Which was a cue for Maren to exclaim, “Goodie!” as she popped a Swedish spice cookie into her hero's mouth.

Chesser awoke perspiring profusely, and with what struck him as an incongruous erection. He got up and went down to the kitchen for a cup of instant coffee. While he sat there sipping hot black coffee, he got to thinking about Thursday, and it came to him what he ought to do between now and then was face up to Massey and The System. At least, one or the other. His imagination played with the idea. The more he thought about it the more it lifted him, stirred him in a strange, strong, almost perverse way. Logic tried to intervene, but he wouldn't listen to it. Audacity was more appealing. Like a chemical stimulant.

At nine
A.M.
he placed the call. Circuits were busy. He hoped Maren would sleep late. He'd decided not to consult her. He was almost certain she would oppose it, now that she was pregnant, and almost married. She seemed now even less inclined to exert her old craving for dangerous excitement. Apparently, it was something she'd lost, and he'd found.

At nine thirty he tried the call again and got through to London.

After the usual three rings The System answered.

He asked for Meecham.

“I'll give you Mr. Coglin's secretary,” said The System's flawless switchboard voice.

“I asked for Meecham.”

“I realize that, sir. Perhaps Mr. Coglin will speak with you.”

“I want Meecham,” insisted Chesser.

“I'm afraid that's impossible, sir.”

“Impossible? Why?” And why, wondered Chesser, was his call being directed to Security Section, when he hadn't yet even identified himself.

“I'm ringing Mr. Coglin's line, sir,” said switchboard and clicked off.

Perhaps Meecham was on holiday, thought Chesser. He was tempted to hang up because he again felt cheated out of the satisfaction of getting to Meecham. But, at that moment, there was Coglin's secretary asking who. Chesser didn't hesitate, said his name with extra importance.

Coglin came right on with, “Ahhh, Chesser. Good of you to call.”

“I thought I might as well.”

“Yes. We've been wondering about you.”

That's putting it mildly, thought Chesser.

“What have you been up to?” asked Coglin.

As if he didn't know, thought Chesser. It occurred to him that Coglin was stalling in order to have the call traced.

Chesser would save him the bother. “I'm in Switzerland,” he informed. “Gstaad, to be exact.”

“Our people must have located you.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh? Then you're calling on your own, is that it?”

“You think that's stupid?”

“Not at all. In fact, it's quite accommodating.”

“I want The System to know where I am. I especially want Meecham to know.”

“Meecham?”

“Yes. I hope he'll try to take care of me personally.”

“Oh, come now, Chesser. I realize only too well what went on between you and Meecham, and I know how you must feel. Admittedly, Meecham singled you out for unfair treatment, but, I assure you, we're willing to make it up to you.”

What the hell was Coglin talking about, wondered Chesser.

“Come to London on the ninth of August,” invited Coglin. “That's the first day of our next sights. Come and I'll see to you myself. I promise.”

“You don't understand. I want …”

“Meecham. I know. But he won't be here,” said Coglin firmly.

“Why not?”

“Well, it's not yet been officially announced, but I see no harm in your knowing. Meecham resigned from the organization as of Friday last. For his health. I am now …”

Meecham out? Chesser was stunned.

Only a select few would ever know the inside facts of the matter. Chesser never would.

After the Soviet crisis, and when all efforts had failed to turn up any trace of the stolen inventory, Meecham, deciding he had borrowed all the time he could, prepared his defense and summoned an emergency meeting of the board. A matter of gravest importance, was the way he put it. So, those directors who weren't already in London flew in especially to attend.

Meecham presided. He informed the members of the board of the recent robbery. They gasped. He stated his analysis of the possible, terrible consequences. They sickened. He placed the blame squarely on Security Section and condemned Coglin for flagrant dereliction of duty. They agreed.

Of course, Coglin, not being a board member, was not at the meeting. But he heard Meecham's every word and monitored Meecham's every gesture via a concealed closed-circuit television tap he'd had his staff experts install in the board room two years previous.

Coglin didn't appear noticeably upset by Meecham's accusations. He took them calmly, sat there tireless, shirtsleeves rolled up, drinking Guinness stout from the bottle. He listened and watched for a while, then guzzled down what was left of the stout, put on his tie and jacket and went to his own highly confidential files. He removed seven very fat dossiers. He took them, along with other substantiating material, across the street and directly to the board room. Politely excusing his intrusion, he proceeded to make his presentation to the board. Including motion pictures with sound, color slides with facts, tape recordings with an easily identifiable voice. Meecham's dossier.

Most of the evidence was pornographic, some of it perhaps subversive. Meecham, off balance, muttered a few outraged protests, squirmed some, and retreated hastily from the room. The other six board members saw no reason why Coglin should reveal any further information. Each eyed the remaining six dossiers and agreed that the board had already seen and heard enough. Quite. All were in favor of Meecham's immediate resignation. Putting an end to this nasty business, the board hoped.

Coglin was expected to leave the room then. But he didn't. He sat there self-confidently facing the directors. It was their move.

What, the board inquired uncomfortably, were Coglin's recommendations regarding the inventory crisis? How should it be handled, in his opinion?

Coglin said he didn't believe the situation was as critical as Meecham had suggested. There was no real danger of the stolen inventory being used to oversupply and ruin the world market. Because, he said, the very structure of the industry—those channels of distribution which The System still held under strict control—prevented such a catastrophe.

Coglin also predicted that the thieves would be apprehended as soon as they attempted to sell the diamonds in any significant amount. It would be impossible, he insisted, for anyone to make a large-scale transaction anywhere in the world without The System becoming immediately aware of it. It would be a relatively simple matter to trace the diamonds to their source and recover the lot.

The board was very impressed.

Coglin didn't stop there. He demonstrated ingenuity by suggesting that the robbery might actually be to The System's benefit. With its huge inventory gone, wouldn't The System be justified in announcing an increase in the price of gem-quality stones? Hadn't The System always determined value on the excuse of scarcity? Then why not take advantage of the lack of inventory? A
genuine
scarcity.

Indeed, why not?

Protests against the price increase, Coglin said, could be dramatically overcome by permitting a few important buyers to take a convincing peek into The System's nearly depleted vault. Then the nature of the business would take over and spread the word around the world.

The board members pulled at their silk school ties, feeling relief.

Five minutes later Coglin emerged from the board room as Meecham's official replacement. President of The System. Despite the fact that he wasn't Eton or Queens or anything, the Board unanimously voted him lifetime cooperation. And, of course, he also maintained possession of all the dossiers.…

Now, via long distance, Coglin asked Chesser, “Shall we expect you on the ninth?”

No answer from Chesser. Too dazed.

“Or perhaps the tenth would be more convenient for you?”

“I don't know.”

“There'll be a pretty packet waiting for you, I'll guarantee that.”

“How pretty?”

“Say a hundred thousand. And that's just for starters. I have outstanding plans for you, Chesser.”

“Why?”

“I recognize your potential. Meecham underestimated you. But business instinct tells me you're my sort of man.”

Coglin was recruiting. A predecessor's enemy was usually a potential ally.

“You do want to be reinstated, don't you?” asked Coglin.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I'd expected a bit more enthusiasm.”

“I'm not feeling well today,” Chesser told him.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Just a touch of fever.”

“Well, get better and we'll look forward to seeing you on the ninth. Or did you say you preferred the tenth?”

“The ninth,” Chesser said, to sound definite.

Good-byes.

Chesser put the phone back onto its cradle. The System wasn't after them. Evidently The System hadn't even connected them to the robbery. He should have been greatly relieved about that but, instead, felt bitterly disappointed.

He went upstairs to tell Maren.

She was in the bathroom, soaking in the clear plastic tub. The water was fragrant, a baby-blue color. Chesser could see the exquisite bare line of her, slightly distorted, magnified. Her lower hair resembled a patch of delicate, glistening, nutmeg-colored weeds.

She didn't hear him enter. She had earphones on, connected by a long coiling cord stretched to the stereo outlet on the opposite wall.

“I called The System,” Chesser told her.

Maren didn't hear.

“I just called The System,” he shouted.

She smiled. She was listening to some medieval love ballads, very loud, while self-indulgently lathering her stomach with a frothy bar from Lubin.

Friday morning before breakfast, Maren and Chesser were at the town hall. Mr. Saltzman married them without even pausing for their “I do” s and “I will”s, assuming they did and would. They didn't realize the ceremony was over until Saltzman turned his back on them. The plain gold band Chesser slipped on Maren's finger was the same one they'd been using for the past two years. Saltzman gave them a certificate he'd stamped and signed in advance, which they could sign later.

When they returned to the chalet they noticed the Aston Martin was not in front where it had been. Maren always left the car's keys in the ignition, so as not ever to need to bother searching for them elsewhere—a convenience that had resulted in three of her cars being inconveniently stolen during the past two years. Now Chesser could only hope she hadn't discarded the registration or bill of sale. He didn't, and was sure she didn't, remember the license plate number.

Maren wasn't at all upset by the missing car. Chesser's stomach decided that he'd call the police after breakfast.

They approached the front entrance of the chalet. It was locked. Had she locked it? No. Neither had he. They went to the nearest expanse of glass and looked in.

Looking back at them from inside were two men. One short, one tall.

Maren knew immediately who the two men were. It took a few seconds for Chesser to realize.

“Let us in,” requested Chesser.

Both men raised their chins and shook their heads.

“Open up, goddamn it!” demanded Chesser.

“You're trespassing,” defied the short lawyer.

“This is private property,” informed the tall lawyer.

“They're right,” Maren told Chesser, who was searching around for something to smash the glass. “They sure in hell didn't waste any time, did they?” Chesser said bitterly.

“Actually, all things considered, I think they've been quite patient,” was Maren's opinion.

Chesser controlled his anger enough to tell them: “At least let us get our clothes.”

“Nothing here belongs to you,” said the short lawyer smugly.

His associate concurred with a pompous snap of his head.

That intimidated Chesser so much he thought if he did get inside the first things he'd go for were the guns. “Fucking French vultures!” he yelled at them.

“Go away,” the short lawyer advised.

“Or we'll call the authorities,” threatened the other.