Out of the Sun (12 page)

"It doesn't work like that, Mr. Barnett."

"How does it work, then?"

"You'll have to wait and see, won't you?"

"How long?"

"A day or two, maybe."

That's too long."

"Then don't wait." She turned to meet his gaze. "It's your choice."

Harry waited as he was bound to. The rest of that day and most of the next. While Copenhagen's strange mixture of licence and austerity chewed at his nerves. And the irrational conviction grew that he was being watched, followed, tracked every step of the way. He mooched round the sex shops of Istedgade, trying to work out what the more exotic items on display were actually for. He sat in bars drinking Julebryg and staring at David's photograph until he had memorized every detail of the boy's expression. He experimented with Danish cigarettes to eke out his dwindling supply of Greek ones, while watching the comings and goings of the car ferries down at the harbour. And every now and again he would find himself glancing nervously over his shoulder. But never quite quickly enough. If there was something there beyond his own baseless fears, it was always too fast for him.

"Letter for you," announced the misanthropic manager of the Kong Knud as Harry shambled into the foyer late on Thursday afternoon. He slid a crumpled brown envelope across the counter along with the key. Harry grabbed the letter and tore it open as he moved towards the lift. There was a tourist street-map of Copenhagen inside. He looked back at the manager. "Did you see who delivered this?"

"No. There was nobody on the desk when it arrived." Hammel-gaard then. It had to be.

Harry unfolded the map. Kongens Nytorv, the square at the eastern end of Stroget, had been circled in red ink. And one word had been written in the margin, unmissably large. MIDNIGHT.

SEVENTEEN

It was cold. There was rain in the air. And a chill stirring of rigging against masts down in the harbour reach that ended at a wharf on one side of the square. The dregs of the opera crowd had dispersed from the Royal Theatre. The last diners had quit the street-front restaurant of the Hotel d'Angleterre. The traffic had dribbled away. Harry felt exposed and far more conspicuous than he really was, circling the darkened centre of Kongens Nytorv. He lit another cigarette one of his precious Karelia Sertika and held the match close to his watch to read the time. Midnight had come and gone. But there was no sign of Torben Hammelgaard.

Harry drew on the cigarette and mixed a sigh with the smoke as he breathed out. Despite a lengthy soak in a bar halfway along Stroget, he felt completely sober. At this hour of the night, it was a particularly disagreeable sensation. Not least because he had so little experience of it.

Suddenly he spun round, convinced there was somebody close behind him. But no. It was just his nerves playing up again. Damp cobbles and glimmering tram-lines curved away towards the harbour, yielding nothing to his gaze. A late and empty bus sped by in a rush of sound. He turned back. And was no longer alone.

A short square-shouldered figure in black stood about six yards from him, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a donkey-jacket, face partially obscured beneath a fur-peaked cap. But the steel-framed glasses and trimmed beard were enough to clinch his identity. He took a slow deliberate step into better light and nodded in greeting.

"Hi, Harry." The voice was soft and low, an odd fusion of Danish and American. But it was not the accent so much as the hint of familiarity that Harry found confusing.

Torben Hammelgaard?"

"Of course. Don't you recognize me?"

"Well, yes. From a photograph in one of your books. But how did '

"Don't you recognize me from the last time we met, I mean."

"We've never met."

"You must remember."

"No. Our paths have never crossed. Why should they have?"

"Why? I'd have thought you'd know the reason well enough."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Rhodes, Harry. August eighty-eight. The bar in Lindos where you used to work. What was it called?"

The Taverna Silenou?"

"Yes. That's it."

"You went there?"

"Yes. I went there. And I didn't go alone."

Dread seized Harry's thoughts. A sickening guess began to form in his mind. "Who were you with?"

"Two friends. A girl who was keen on me at the time called Hanne. And .. . somebody else."

"August eighty-eight, you said?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

"And this .. . Hanne .. . was Danish?"

"Yes. I was still at the Niels Bohr Institute then. Most of my friends were Danish. But not all of them."

Some things never went away, never diminished, never faded. They just grew and worsened, swelling like a tumour in the memory. A drunken misunderstanding one broiling summer's day in Lindos should have been inconsequential. But three months later it had counted against him during the police investigations into the disappearance of Heather Mallender. And now, more than six years on, it had returned again to mock him.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry. Hanne was trying to make me jealous by flirting with you. She probably thought you were harmless. When things got out of hand, she made a fuss. She was always making a fuss. She manages a geological field station in Greenland now. That should have cooled her down."

"Who was your other friend?"

"You know who he was."

"But I can't remember. You or him. I suppose I thought you were all Danish. I was .. . too drunk to pay much attention."

"He never said a word. He let me talk Hanne into dropping it. He was ... very subdued. At the time, I couldn't understand why. Going to Lindos was his idea, of course, but I thought we chose the bar at random. We didn't though, did we? David made the choice. He wanted to see you. To find out what you were like. That has to be it."

And what had David seen? After making the effort Harry had thought he had spurned to track down his father? He had seen a middle-aged ex-pat making a drunken fool of himself. And if he had been planning to make himself known, he had surely changed his mind then. When he had realized what he would be making himself known to.

"We should be glad, I suppose."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise I wouldn't have believed the story you told Margrethe. I wouldn't have recognized the man I watched entering and leaving the Kong Knud. And I wouldn't have kept this appointment. You told my sister I was in danger and you were right. But you don't know how much danger. You can't. If you did, you wouldn't have come here. You'd have been mad to."

"Why?"

"Because they'll be after you now as well as me. If I've walked into a trap tonight, Harry, then so have you."

They headed west, by ever narrower and emptier streets, Hammel-gaard choosing such a maze-like route that to Harry it seemed aimless and utterly disorientating. Not that it mattered where they went. Their words were their destination. Hammelgaard wanted to know how Harry had become aware of his son's existence, let alone his condition. He wanted to know what had led him to Copenhagen. And what he heard he did not like.

"The telephone message. The newspaper cutting. Communications you have no explanation for. But I have. Carrot and stick, Harry. With you as the donkey. And me as the target. They must have known you'd be able to flush me out. But how? How could they know that? And why didn't they follow you tonight? Nobody trailed you to Kongens Nytorv. I made sure of that. But why not? What are they waiting for?"

"Who is it you're talking about?"

"Globescope, Harry. Byron Lazenby. Or whoever he's employing to do this. They killed Gerard and Marvin. They put David in a coma. And they won't stop there."

"What's this about?"

The future. And who owns it. Lazenby would trademark it if he could, then sell it to the highest bidder."

"You mean Project Sybil?"

That was just the spark. It's what we did because of Project Sybil that's led to this."

Tell me what you did."

"No. It's safer for you not to know. What you don't know you can't tell."

"Why did you agree to meet me, then?"

"Because I have to get a message to the others. And you're the only way I can do it. You could have been set up. Perhaps I should abandon the idea. But I can't afford to. It's their only hope. And mine. I could be wrong. Maybe your informant was some well-meaning relative. Maybe they're not onto us at all. I can't be sure. But I have to take the chance. I'm not going to get another."

"I'm carrying no messages until I hear the truth."

Hammelgaard glanced round at him. "What's happened to you since we last met, Harry? Barflies shouldn't be as tough as this."

"You got me on a bad day."

"A pity. For you and David."

"I'm trying to make up for it now."

"For his sake?"

"For mine as well."

There's clearly more to you than meets the eye. David thought you weren't worth bothering with, I'm afraid. He was depressed when we got back to Rhodes Town. In a really black mood. That's how he could be sometimes. For no reason. The price of genius, he used to say. Modesty was never one of his faults. But it was different that night. Deeper. Sharper."

"Why were you on the island?"

To discuss higher dimensions and have a holiday at the same time. I first met David at a conference at Los Alamos earlier that year. He was already planning a summer gathering for people who shared his enthusiasm for the subject. The venue was his suggestion. It seemed inspired. Now I know by what."

The man he'd thought of as his father died in eighty-six. That's when his mother told him about me."

"And two years later he decided to go take a look at you."

"So it seems. But he obviously didn't like what he saw."

"I'm sorry, Harry. Really."

"Don't be. Just tell me what you and he were mixed up in."

"You don't want to know. Believe me. David doesn't come out of it a hero."

"I want to understand. I think I need to."

They emerged into a small square with the outline of a church looming ahead of them, a starker black than the sky. Hammelgaard pulled up and glanced around, as if checking the route. Then he cast a long look behind them. "All right," he said. "I'll tell you. Some of it, anyway. On one condition. That you agree now in advance to take a message for me to the others. They're in hiding in the States. I can put you in touch with them."

"Why don't you just phone them?"

"Because phones can be tapped, computers hacked, letters opened and read. And my face can be recognized. Globescope has the power to do all of those things. But it's possible just possible they don't know about you. I may have been dealt a losing hand, but you could be the joker in the pack."

"What's the message?"

"Will you take it?"

"Is Donna Trangam one of them?"

The pale hint of a smile appeared on Hammelgaard's face. "Yes, Harry. She's one of them. But she has no magical powers. I can't promise she'll be able to rouse David from his coma. If that's what you want to hear me say .. ." He shrugged. "Agree or not. But don't ask me to lie. I've told too many lies already. I'd say your chances of ever speaking to David again are pitifully small. But there is something you can do for him. Donna and the others are in danger because of David and me. We betrayed them. By helping them, you'd be settling a debt for your son. And the message I'm asking you to carry will help them. As just about nothing else can. So what do you say? Yes or no?"

The question was chance and challenge combined. A chance to play the part of a good father, however briefly, however obliquely. And a challenge he was probably unequal to. But he could not have one without the other. He could not wipe away the shame of six years ago without risking failure in the present. It was, as Hammelgaard had said, yes or no. And though he might regret saying yes, it was certain he would regret saying no even more. "OK," he murmured. "I'll do it."

They crossed the square and turned into what was scarcely wider than an alley. Hammelgaard's voice sank nearly to a whisper, forcing Harry to stick close to his shoulder and cock his head to catch the words.

"What turns people into traitors, Harry? Money? Sex? Or some other kind of greed? David and I dreamt of masterminding the single most significant step in human evolution. We dreamt of unlocking the power of higher dimensions. Splitting the atom gave the human race hydrogen bombs and power stations and nuclear waste. But access to higher dimensions would transform our minds along with our lives. Nothing would be beyond us. And no honour would be denied those who had found and opened the door. Most scientists believe the technology required to generate the energy we would need to unlock that door lies many centuries in the future. But David believed he was on the way to finding a shortcut. Some of his mathematical insights were beyond me, but I could see where they were leading. We needed time and help and money to carry them through. That's why we were so keen to set up HYDRA. Because with enough mathematicians and physicists working on the problem full-time, we were certain it could be solved. And that certainty convinced us almost any sacrifice was justifiable to achieve our objective. Friendship. Loyalty. Integrity. What do they matter what do they count for when you think the destiny of the entire species lies in your grasp?"

They emerged from the alley onto a broad canal side street. Beyond the canal lay the floodlit roofs and courtyards of Christiansborg Castle. Hammelgaard kept to the shadows of the shuttered buildings to their right as they went on.

"Globescope started in a small way, about ten years ago. Lazenby had a partner then, later disposed of. Under his sole control, the corporation grew and extended itself, selling guesses about the future to whoever wanted to listen. Plenty did. The future's such a hostile place you'd take advice on what to go armed against if you thought the advice was good, wouldn't you? And Globescope's was good. The Soviet Union to collapse at the end of the eighties but the Chinese version of communism to adapt and endure. That was their call. And calling right earned them a lot of credit. As well as a lot of customers, commercial and political. I wouldn't know whether it was good luck or good judgement. I wasn't with them then. But it turned them into a big-time operation. And Byron Lazenby into a very wealthy man."