The Night Manager (35 page)

"Not what I mean at all. Bigger question altogether. In life. What do you want? What's your plan?"

"I haven't got a plan. Not at the moment. I'm drifting. Taking time out."

"Balls, frankly. Don't believe you. You've never relaxed in your life, my view. Not sure I have either. I try. Play a bit of golf, do the boat, bit of this and that, swim, screw. But my engine's going all the time. So's yours. What I like about you. No neutral gear."

He was still smiling. So was Jonathan, even though he wondered on what evidence Roper was able to base his judgment.

"If you say so," he said.

"Cooking. Climbing. Boating. Painting. Soldiering. Marrying. Languages. Divorcing. Some girl in Cairo, girl in Cornwall, girl in Canada. Some Australian doper you killed. Never trust a chap who tells me he's not after something. Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

Roper's charm was something Jonathan had not allowed himself to remember. Man-to-man, Roper let you know that you could tell him anything, and he would still be smiling at the end of it.

"Go out on a limb for old Daniel. Break a fellow's neck one day, save my boy's the next. You robbed Meister, why don't you rob me? Why don't you ask me for money?" He sounded almost deprived. "I'd pay you. I don't care what you've done; you saved my kid. No limit to my bounty where the boy's concerned."

"I didn't do it for money. You've patched me up. Looked after me. Been good to me. I'll just go."

"What languages y'got, anyway?" Roper asked, reaching for a sheet of paper, looking it over and tossing it aside.

"French. German. Spanish."

"Fools, most linguists. Damn all to say in one language, so they learn another and say damn all in that. Arabic?"

"No."

"Why not? You were there long enough."

"Well, just scraps. Elementary stuff."

"Should have got yourself an Arab woman. Perhaps you did. Did you know old Freddie Hamid while you were there, chum of mine? Bit of a wild chap? Must have done. Family owns the pub you worked in. Got some horses."

"He was on the board of management of the hotel."

"Total monk, you are, according to Freddie. Asked him. Model of discreet behaviour. Why did you go there?"

"It was chance. The job was advertised on the notice board at hotel school the day I graduated. I'd always wanted to see the Middle East, so I applied."

"Freddie had a girlfriend. Older woman. Bright. Too good for him, really. Lot of heart. Used to hang around the race course and the yacht club with him. Sophie. Ever meet her?"

"She was killed," Jonathan said.

"That's right. Just before you left. Ever meet her?"

"She had an apartment at the top of the hotel. Everyone knew her. She was Hamid's woman."

"Was she yours?"

The clear, clever eyes did not threaten. They appraised. They offered companionship and understanding.

"Of course not."

"Why of course?"

"It would have been madness. Even if she'd wanted it."

"Why shouldn't she? Hot-blooded Arab, forty if a day, loves a tumble. Personable young chap. God knows, Freddie's no oil painting. Who killed her?"

"It was still being investigated as I left. I never heard whether they arrested anyone. Some intruder, they thought. She surprised him, so he knifed her."

"Wasn't you, anyway?" The clear, clever eyes inviting him to share the joke. The dolphin smile.

"No."

"Sure?"

"There was a rumour Freddie did it."

"Was there, though? Why'd he do a thing like that?"

"Or had it done, anyway. She was said to have betrayed him in some way."

Roper was amused. "Not with you, though?"

"I'm afraid not."

The smile still there. So was Jonathan's.

"Corky can't make you out, you see. Suspicious chap, Corks. Got bad vibes about you. Record's one man, you're another, he says. What else have you been up to? Got any more skeletons in your cupboard? Tricks you've pulled that we don't know about? Police don't? More chaps you've topped?"

"I don't pull tricks. Things happen to me and I react. That's how it's always been."

"Well, Christ, you certainly react. They tell me you had to identify Sophie's corpse, cope with the coppers. That right?"

"Yes."

"Pretty foul assignment, wasn't it?"

"Someone had to do it."

"Freddie was grateful. Said, if I ever saw you, tell you thanks. Off the record, of course. He was a bit worried he'd have to go himself. Could have been tricky."

Was hate within Jonathan's reach at last? Nothing had altered in Roper's face. The half-smile was neither more nor less. Out of focus, Corkoran tiptoed back into the room and lowered himself onto a sofa. Indefinably, Roper's style altered and he began playing to an audience.

"This boat you came to Canada on," he resumed in his confiding way. "Got a name at all?"

"The Star of Bethel."

"Registered?"

"South Shields."

"How'd you gel the berth? Not easy, is it? Bum a berth on a dirty little boat?"

"I cooked."

Seated in the wings, Corkoran was unable to restrain himself.

"With one hand?" he demanded.

"I wore rubber gloves."

"How'd you get the berth?" Roper repeated.

"I bribed the ship's cook, and the captain took me on as a supernumerary."

"Name?"

"Greville."

"Your agent chap, Billy Bourne. Crewing agent, Newport, Rhode Island," Roper continued. "How did you bump into Bourne?"

"Everyone knows him. Ask any of us."

"Us?"

"Crew. Catering staff."

"Got that fax from Billy there, Corks? Likes him, doesn't he? Full of balm, far as I remember?"

"Oh, Billy Bourne adores him," Corkoran confirmed sourly.

"Lamont can do no wrong. Cooks, pleases, doesn't pinch the silver or the guests, there when you want him, fades away when you don't, sun shines out of his fundament."

"But didn't we check some of the other references? They weren't all that clever, were they?"

"A tad fanciful, Chief," Corkoran conceded. "Moonshine, in fact."

"Fake 'em. Pine?"

"Yes."

"That fellow whose arm you smashed up. Ever see him before that night?"

"No."

"Not eating at Low's some other evening?"

"No."

"Never sailed a boat for him? Cooked for him? Run dope for him?"

There was no apparent menace to these questions, no quickening of the flow. Roper's friendly smile remained unruffled, even if Corkoran was scowling and pulling at his ear.

"No," said Jonathan.

"Killed for him, stole with him?"

"No."

"How about his mate?"

"No."

"Occurred to us you could have started out as their inside man and decided to switch sides halfway through. Wondered whether that was the reason you gave him such a working over. Show you're holier than the Pope, get my meaning?"

"That's idiotic," said Jonathan sharply. He gathered strength. "Actually, that's just bloody insulting." And on a more literary note. "I think you should take that back. Why should I put up with this?"

Play the plucky loser, Burr had said. Never crawl. It makes him sick.

But Roper appeared not to hear Jonathan's protests. "Form like yours, on the run, funny name, you might not be looking for another brush with the law. Better to earn favour with the rich Brit instead of kidnapping his boy. See our point?"

"I had nothing to do with either of them. I told you. I'd never seen them or heard of them or spoken to them before that night. I got your boy back, didn't I? I don't even want a reward. I want out. That's all. Just let me go."

"How did you know they were heading for the cookhouse? Could have been heading anywhere."

"They knew the layout. They knew where the cash was kept. They'd obviously done their reconnaissance. For God's sake."

"With a little help from you?"

"No!"

"You could have hidden yourself away. Why didn't you? Kept out of trouble. That's what most chaps on the run would have done, wouldn't they? Never been on the run myself."

Jonathan let a long silence pass, sighed and appeared to resign himself to the madness of his hosts. "I'm beginning to wish I had," he said, and let his body slump in frustration.

"Corks, what's happened to that bottle? Haven't drunk it, have you?"

"Right here. Chief."

Back to Jonathan: "I want you to stick around, enjoy yourself, make yourself useful, swim, get your strength back, see what we'll do with you. May even find a job for you, something a bit special. Depends." The smile widened. "Cook us a few carrot cakes. What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I'm not doing that," Jonathan said. "It's not what I want."

"Balls. Course it is."

"Where else have you got to go?" Corkoran asked. "Carlyle in New York? Ritz-Carlton in Boston?"

"I'll just go my own way," Jonathan said, politely but resolutely.

He had had enough. Acting and being had become one for him. He no longer knew the difference. I need my own space, my own agenda, he was telling himself. I'm sick of being someone's creature. He was standing, ready to leave.

"Hell are you talking about?" Roper complained, mystified. "I'll pay you. Not mean. Pay you top whack. Nice little house, other side of the island. He can have Woody's place, Corky. Horses. Swimming. Borrow a boat. Right up your street. Anyway, what're you going to use for a passport?"

"Mine," said Jonathan. "Lamont. Thomas Lamont." He appealed to Corkoran. "It was among my things."

A cloud moved across the sun, making a brief, unnatural evening in the room.

"Corky, sock him the bad news," Roper ordered, one arm outstretched as if Pavarotti had started singing again.

Corkoran shrugged and pulled an apologetic grin. "Yes, well, it's about this Canadian passport of ours, old love," he said. "Thing of the past, I'm afraid. Popped it in the shredder. Seemed the right thing to do at the time."

"What are you talking about?"

Corkoran was working the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other.

"No good getting in a paddy, heart. Doing you a favour. Your cover's blown sky-high. As of a few days ago, T. Lamont is on every watch list in the Western what-not. Interpol, Salvation Army, you name it. Show you the evidence if you like. Blue chip. Sorry about that. Fact."

"That was my passport!"

It was the anger that had seized him in the kitchen at Mama Low's, unfeigned, unbridled, blind--or almost. That was any name, my woman, my betrayal, my shadow! I lied for that passport! I cheated for it! I cooked and skivvied and ate din for it, left warm bodies on my trail for it!

"We're getting you a new one, something clean," Roper said. "Least we can do for you. Corky, get your Polaroid, take his mug shot. Has to be colour these days. Somebody better touch out the bruises. Nobody else knows, understand? Crushers, gardeners, maids, grooms, nobody." A deliberate break.

"Jed, nothing. Jed keeps out of all this." He did not say all what. "What did you do with that motorbike you owned--the one in Cornwall?"

"Ditched it outside Bristol," Jonathan said.

"So why didn't you flog it?" Corkoran demanded vindictively. "Or take it to France? You could have done, couldn't you?"

"It was an albatross. Everyone knew I rode a bike."

"One more thing." Roper's back was turned to the terrace, and his pistol finger was pointing at Jonathan's skull. "I run a tight ship here. We thieve a little, but we play straight with each other. You saved my boy. But if you step out of line, you'll wish you'd never been born."

Hearing footsteps on the terrace, Roper swung round, prepared to be angry that his order had been flouted, and saw Jed setting out name cards in silver stands on the tables spread about the terrace. Her chestnut hair fell over her shoulders. Her body was hidden demurely in a wrap.

"Jeds! Come over here a minute! Got a spot of good news for you. Name of Thomas. Joining the family for a bit. Better tell Daniel; he'll be tickled pink."

She allowed a beat. She raised her head and turned it, favouring the cameras with her best smile.

"Oh, gosh. Thomas. Super." Eyebrows up. Registers misty pleasure. "That's terribly good news. Roper, shouldn't we celebrate or something?"

It was the next morning, soon after seven, but in the Miami headquarters it could have been midnight. The same neon lights glowed on the same green-painted brick walls. Sick of his art deco hotel. Burr had made the building his solitary home.

"Yes, it's me," he replied quietly into the red receiver. "And you're you, by the sound of you. How've you been?"

As he spoke, his spare hand slowly rose above his head until the whole arm was stretched toward the shut-off sky. All was forgiven. God was in His heaven. Jonathan was calling his controller on his magic box.

"They won't have me," Palfrey told Goodhew with satisfaction, as they rode round Battersea in a taxi. Goodhew had picked him up at the Festival Hall. We'll have to make it quick, Palfrey had said.

"Who won't?"

"Darker's new committee. They've invented a code name for themselves: Flagship. You have to be on their list, otherwise you're not Flagship cleared."

"So who is on the list?"

"Not known. They're colour coded."

"Meaning?"

"They're identified by an electronic band printed into their office passes. There's a Flagship reading room. They go there, they shove their passes into a machine, the door opens. They go in, it shuts. They sit down, read the stuff, have a meeting. The door opens, and they come out."

"What do they read?"

"The developments. The game plan."

"Where's the reading room?"

"Away from the building. Far from prying eyes. Rented. They pay cash. No receipts. Probably the upstairs of a bank. Darker loves banks." He kept talking, anxious to unload and go. "If you're Flagship cleared, you're a Mariner. There's a new insider-speak based on sea lore. If something's a bit wet for circulation, that means it ought to be Flagship classified. Or it's too nautical for non-Mariners. Or somebody's a dry bob, not a wet bob. They've got a kind of outer rampart of code names to protect the inner bailey."