Stone 588 (45 page)

Audrey came up over the edge.

Then Strand and Scoot.

The time was four thirty-two.

Scoot hurriedly gathered up the climbing rope, untied it from the stand-pipe, and put it in his vest. They went to the rear corner of that roof to make the next climb, another three stories up to the ledge. They transferred their vests to around their necks and proceeded in the same order. From the handover-hand upward hauling of the weights of their bodies, the muscles of their arms and shoulders burned with fatigue, and it was a relief to reach the ledge and put the burden on their legs. Because of that and because they had already once safely experienced the danger of it, the narrow ledge seemed less perilous. They sidestepped along it, a few inches at a time, feeling the wall with their heels, mindful to keep their heads up. Their ally, the rain, had washed away the layers of bird droppings so the ledge was no longer slippery.

When they'd reached the nine-story roof, Scoot took in and untied that longer length of climbing rope. They hurried across the roofs and over the fences, one, two, three.

Dawn was coming.

Darkness was giving way to gray.

The rain, as though it knew it was no longer needed, was letting up.

They climbed in through the tenth-floor window of the Star Parking Garage. They heard the industrial elevator of the garage coming up. They ran: Strand and Scoot down the stairs to the blue Bonneville and the gray Cutlass on nine. Springer and Audrey up the stairs to the white Chrysler on eleven.

Springer opened the trunk of the Chrysler. They threw in their vests, quickly climbed in, and got into position on their sides, with Audrey's front pressed against Springer's back, spoon fashion. Springer didn't have time to close the trunk all the way. The parking attendant, who was now approaching the car, would have heard it.

The attendant got into the Chrysler and started it. He drove it onto the elevator and took it down.

Vince Fantuzzi, doing what he was told, was right on time.

The attendant did not bother with exactly leveling off the elevator with the ground floor, so when he drove the Chrysler out to Vince there was a jarring, noisy enough bump.

Click went the shutting of the Chrysler's trunk lid.

Unnoticed.

The black waiter in the white jacket came in carrying an ornate Georgian silver coffee server and tray that were worth his yearly salary.

Wintersgill stopped mid-sentence and gazed out from the sixty-second floor. Central Park was a carpet, a wide runner that led to his presence. Yesterday's rain had greened it, plumped the wilt from the blades and leaves. More than ever the park had the quality of a respected London park, Wintersgill thought. By tomorrow or the next day, however, it would again be abused and exhausted.

The waiter poured.

Steam, like a capricious spirit, ascended from the brew that went into the cup.

"Have another scone," Wintersgill suggested.

The man seated opposite flipped aside the white linen napkin that covered the silver latticed basket. He chose the scone that to him seemed most dotted with currants. "You must be in league with my tailor," he said, which was what he usually said whenever he accepted a rich treat.

Wintersgill had already taken stock of the man's suit: a three-piece ready-to-wear not even conscientiously altered. At least unlike so many of his kind he hadn't shown up in a gray hard finish gone shiny in the seat and elbows from too many hours of hard-chair Senate meetings.

The waiter aimed the spout of the coffee server Wintersgill's way. Wintersgill declined by quickly covering his cup with his flattened hand, came within a fraction of tilt of getting scalded. He dismissed the waiter with his eyes.

The "second breakfast" was what Wintersgill called it. He had it every morning he was in the office, shared it with whoever was his ten-thirty appointment. Thus his ten-thirty was reserved for anyone he might want something from or someone he was obliged to thank. Perhaps it was a peu de chose, the second breakfast; nevertheless, Wintersgill was sure that it had more than paid for its trouble over the years. It was in keeping with his belief that people came to the Hull Foundation knowing that its business was philanthropy and therefore would feel slighted if they left without having gotten at least a little something for themselves—even if it were only a couple of Callard and Bowser toffees from the dish in the reception area. Let the other foundations poor-mouth and tight-pocket. With plushness underfoot and wealth on the walls, Hull's generosity was all the more credible.

This morning's ten-thirty was a senator who had recently become the senior from his state because of another senator's demise. He had also inherited the chairmanship of the committee that could either stir or calm the waters of taxation. At the moment he was picking up crumbs from the Hull table linen, accumulating the little doughy dots of scone from around his plate and putting them into his mouth. "As you were saying . . ." the senator prompted.

"I was calling attention to the fact that last year the Hull Foundation gave six hundred and seventy million in grants."

The senator was politely impressed. "How does that break down?"

"I'll get the exact figures for you, but I know offhand about thirty percent of what we gave went to health and scientific projects. For the past few years we've really stepped out in the field of biomedical research. We've been responsible for some considerable advances in the understanding of immunological abnormalities." Wintersgill felt that ten minutes of this would put the senator to sleep.

"The Rockefeller people have quite a few Nobel laureates in their fold," the senator said, as though he'd personally done a head count.

"So do we."

"I've always had the impression that Hull involved itself mainly with cultural matters."

"That, of course, is only the tip of the iceberg, what is generally evident. Actually, we're comfortably diversified here at Hull. Last year, for instance, a number of sizable grants went toward studies in defense policy."

"That's about as close as you get to politics, I suppose."

Wintersgill's nod, they both knew, was a lie. In violation of the 1969 Tax Reform Act, which prohibited foundations from any sort of lobbying to influence legislation, Hull had discreet, hands-around-and-over-and-under-the-law ways of tangibly predisposing certain vital people in Washington. That stipulation of the 1969 reform only made everything seem a little more sensitive and justified the need for Hull to up the ante. Hull really didn't play politics, though. That is, it didn't favor either party or play one against the other. A politician's affiliation was not important to Hull, as long as he knew enough to close his hand when Hull put something in it.

The 1969 tax reform caused a lot of independent foundations to run for other cover. For Hull, however, it only necessitated some mark-time and a slight bit of reshaping. No matter that the act limited the amount of private business enterprises a foundation could own, the Hull-controlled conglomerates merely went on funneling their profits into the Hull Foundation and no one even raised a brow. Never mind the requirement that a philanthropic foundation had to be truly philanthropic, give away a minimum of 5 percent of its assets each year to worthwhile endeavors. As long as the amount granted by Hull appeared to be considerable, who questioned? No one was tabulating, no one came to seriously audit. Hull was never on any congressional hit list, and even if it had been, someone would have seen to it that it was an early scratch.

Now, the senior senator who was Wintersgill's ten-thirty this day added so much heavy cream to his coffee it overflowed. He used his spoon to bail a quarter inch or so from the cup and make it manageable. He blotted the base of the cup on the tablecloth before taking it to his lips. He had a steady hand for a southern drinker. "I hope you haven't gotten the wrong idea," he said. "I'm not here to snoop."

"It never occurred to me," Wintersgill told him.

"I assure you it's meant to be just a visit, more to get acquainted than anything."

Wintersgill's secretary entered with an air of urgency, a sheaf of papers in her hand. She begged pardon for the intrusion and explained that these were grants that required Wintersgill's signature immediately. People were anxious to receive their money, she said, handing Wintersgill a readied fountain pen and separating the sheets to facilitate his signing. "We don't operate like most other foundations," he said, along with the intermittent scratching of the nib of the pen. "By that I mean we never allow ourselves to become mired in bureaucratic nonsense. Our grants are made swiftly. We don't ask for evaluations, reports of progress, or any of that. We don't even look into how a recipient has spent the grant."

"Really?"

"A molecular biologist doesn't want to be encumbered with accounting for every penny. Nor does he function best with someone peering over his shoulder." Wintersgill signed the last of the grants. The secretary hurried out with them, as though a significant world event depended on them. It was a prearrangement, of course, a walk-on she performed for the benefit of every initiate ten-thirty.

Wintersgill sat back, glanced again out the window. To the west a small but angry remnant storm cloud appeared to be stuck between the twin towers of the San Remo apartment building.

"You still subsidize films, don't you?" the senator asked.

"For public broadcasting, yes."

"Would you be receptive to a documentary film about the Navajo Indians? My son-in-law ..."

God, not another documentary on the plight of the Navajos, Wintersgill thought. He assumed an interested expression and put himself on automatic behind it for as long as the senator's lips continued to move.

Then he said, "Sounds like something we'd be extremely interested in funding. Say no more. My secretary will take your son-in-law's name and address and send him an application for a grant."

That had the ring of a brush-off, the senator thought.

Wintersgill had purposely put it that way so he could mind-fuck the senator a bit. "1 personally will see that the grant is processed," he reassured him.

Ten minutes later the senator, satisfied, was gone.

Wintersgill was told by his secretary that Gilbert Townsend had called twice.

"Stiff him once more," Wintersgill told her. "When he calls after that, put him through. Meanwhile, I don't want to be disturbed." He removed his suit jacket, hitched up the legs of his trousers so as not to bag their creases, and sat at his desk. Leaning back with eyes closed he took pleasure in the stir of another windfall, this one to come from Townsend's direction.

He had learned of the Townsend burglary on the morning television news. The first report was that the thieves had gotten away with a hundred million. The last word Wintersgill had heard, that figure had tripled. Wintersgill tried to find in himself some sympathy for Townsend, and perhaps there was a speck of it way back in one of his long-lost callow corners, but how could he feel sorry when the timing was so perfect? Hell, if he knew who the thieves were he'd send them a note of gratitude.

He reached down into the black alligator business case beside his chair. Brought out a red kid drawstring pouch. Opened it and shook out onto his desk pad twelve smaller black chamois pouches. Those contained the twelve twenty-five-carat Russian diamonds Springer had acquired for Libby. She had given them to Wintersgill over the past weekend, for him to deliver to Townsend Monday, the day before yesterday. Wintersgill just hadn't gotten around to it. He'd planned on taking care of it today.

He removed the twelve diamonds from their pouches, lined them up girdle to girdle. Libby had shown them to him, but they were much more beautiful now.

His interphone blinked.

Townsend was calling for the second time in ten minutes. Wintersgill picked up. Instead of hello he said, "I've heard."

"I have to see you," Townsend said, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"I'm with auditors up from Washington, been with them since early morning, and it appears they'll be here all day."

"It's imperative that I see you."

"Can't it wait until tonight, or tomorrow?"

"No."

"I understand." Wintersgill sighed to dramatize the pressure he was enduring. "Well, a friend in dire straights takes precedence over all else," he recited. He told Townsend where to be in exactly fifteen minutes, then timed himself so that he arrived there in twenty.

The southeast corner of Central Park, opposite the Hotel Pierre.

Townsend was standing there in the middle of the walk. His eyes were fixed with painful introspect. He was somewhere between shock and catatonia. His jaw was slack. Wintersgill took hold of his elbow to get him going up Fifth alongside the park.

Wintersgill wanted to skip all the details. A robbery was a robbery. But it was looping in the most immediate layer of Townsend's consciousness, detained there because it was still too excruciating for the rest of his mind to accept. He had to unload. In that higher-octave grieving voice, he related how he'd come to his busmess that morning even though he'd known there'd be no electric power, no lights. How he'd discovered first the smashed-in panel and torn wires of the backup alarm and then the mess in the room above the vault. He described how the mountings with stones extracted were thrown like so much junk in the comer and how his most precious larger stones were depreciated to gray, faceted lumps. He had touched one and it crumbled. He called his security service, the Reliance people, and the next thing he knew police were all over the place. They still were. They didn't have a clue. They hadn't offered him any hope.

Before Townsend could tell it all again, Wintersgill asked, "Actually, how much was taken?"

"Three hundred million."

"Your cost, retail value, or what?"

"Mine."

"And how much is insured?"

"Twenty million. More than twenty would have cost a fortune in premiums. As it is I've been carrying two policies. That's how it is in the trade."