11 Harrowhouse (26 page)

“Sure.”

Chesser knew Weaver had good reason to be edgy. If Weaver was arrested in England he was a dead man. They'd kill him legally but they'd kill him. Weaver might be resigned to dying but he at least wanted to do it in a more useful way.

“Be best for both of us if we don't get into any political shit at all,” Weaver said.

Chesser agreed. “Actually I didn't read your book. I got through the first part but I fell asleep.”

Weaver wasn't offended. Rather, he considered it a point in Chesser's favor. He didn't know any other white man who could fall asleep while being kicked in the balls by black hostility. It was perversely reassuring to Weaver that that was the sort of man to whom he was now literally trusting his life.

At that moment, Chesser's thoughts were involved with that future sometime when and if the blacks got what they wanted and more. He hoped Weaver would still be alive then, to vouch for him. Thus distracted, Chesser was looking ahead but not really seeing the parked lorry. Until it was almost too late. He had to brake suddenly to avoid hitting it. Defensively, he resorted to blowing his horn, several staccato blasts. He kept on with it, grinned over at Weaver. “You know what I am, don't you?” he asked, really blasting the horn.

Weaver shrugged.

“A honky bastard,” declared Chesser, still trying for a laugh.

He got it this time. A full out laugh that made Weaver choke on his Gauloise. Finally, recovering enough, Weaver asked, “Know what I am?”

Chesser nodded.

Weaver told him anyway. “One big, mean, black mother effer!”

CHAPTER 17

M
OST PEOPLE
are better at taking things apart than putting things together.

Marylebone, Ltd., claimed to be adept at both these functions. It displayed on its letterhead, as well as its trucks, the tradesman's coveted symbol for having performed services to the high standards of royal demand: crowned lion on the left and fairy-tale unicorn on the right hoofing and clawing at a crest with
Dieu et mon droit
inscribed across the base. No matter that the most important major royal commission ever received by Marylebone, Ltd., was when Queen Victoria gave it the nod to convert an atrocious bath at Windsor Castle into an even more atrocious aviary.

When Marylebone received a call on behalf of Clyde Massey, it caught the scent of big money and acted with dispatch. Preliminary blueprints and some exaggerated perspectives in full color were rendered overnight. The executives of Mid-Continental Oil were evacuated just barely ahead of all furnishings, and the following day Marylebone began tearing at the insides of number 13 Harrowhouse Street with such ambitious fury that it might have been mistaken for wrath. Interior walls were smashed down, fixtures yanked out, floors were mercilessly mistreated. Nothing escaped the specialized destruction of Marylebone, whose catechism was: whatever was destroyed at the client's expense would have to be repaired at the client's expense.

However, it had to be said in favor of Marylebone that it destroyed with dignity. It made efforts to minimize the inconvenience caused to others in the area. For example, as soon as windows were ripped out, Marylebone sealed the openings with a clear plastic material to prevent the float of dirt and plaster particles. Rubble was swiftly taken away, and the drivers of the various Marylebone vehicles were instructed to do their loading and unloading only at the rear of the building, on Puffing Mews.

Despite such discretions, those in the immediate vicinity had to tolerate a considerable amount of dust and noise. And a continuous stir of unusual activity. Therefore, shortly after dark on the night of June twenty-seventh, it was not inconsistent for a white panel truck bearing the understated Marylebone name and mark to turn into Puffing Mews and park close to the rear entrance of number 13. The three figures dressed in Marylebone work uniforms would not have created suspicion had they been seen. The only unusual thing about them was their gloves. Each wore snug latex surgical gloves to prevent fingerprints.

With the casual attitude of workmen, they removed their tools from the truck and entered the renovation site. They went up from floor to floor, slowly, using the carefully aimed beams of powerful flashlights to help avoid such things as ladders and sawhorses and stacked bags of plaster. All the way up to the fifth, the top, floor, where they played their beams of light on the ceiling.

It was Weaver who found the recessed rectangle that offered access to the roof. Accommodated by one of Marylebone's taller ladders, he climbed high and pressed upward with all his strength. But the horizontal trapdoor refused to give way. Chesser shone his light up and Weaver saw the reason. Only a simple spring latch. He released it and effortlessly shoved the door up. He climbed up and out. Maren and Chesser followed.

As they crouched together on the roof, each had the sensation of being apart from the world, above it, with numerous silhouettes of chimney pipes forming a rather surrealistic vista. And far off were the higher buildings of London, landmarks such as the lighted dome of St. Paul's, only vaguely discernible through the night mist.

Maren was first to stand. She walked over to the low brick ledge that joined number 13 to number 11. Mounted on the ledge, solidly inset, was a steel mesh fence about seven feet high, topped with huge, overhanging burrs of sharp spikes. An unexpected obstacle. Watts's report hadn't mentioned it. The fence ran the entire length of the building, there and also on the opposite side. It extended out on each end to prevent circumvention.

“Don't touch it!” warned Chesser.

Maren had been about to do just that. She jerked her hand away.

Weaver got a pair of insulated gloves from his satchel of tools. He put them on and used the raw metal face of a pair of pliers to make contact with the fence. No sparks.

They played their flashlights on the roof of number 11, scanning. The roof seemed to be flat, no interruptions or protrusions of any sort. They examined all the edges and corners. Maren discovered the only irregularity. On the outer rear edge, adjacent to the dividing ledge opposite. A symmetrical outcropping of bricks that might possibly be housing something.

“Even if it is something,” said Chesser, “how the hell do we get to it?”

Maren investigated further. Her flashlight revealed a gutter drain attached to the roof's outer edge. Merely an ordinary galvanized tin drain about five inches wide that ran the entire width of the roof, about thirty feet.

“It's worth a try,” Maren said.

“Have to be a fucking tightrope walker,” Weaver said.

“I'm good at it. Even better than Elvira Madigan was,” boasted Maren. She was inspired by the danger of it, wanted to do it. Also, as the lightest of the three she obviously was the logical choice.

Maren asked Weaver: “Can you cut through the fence?”

With a pair of long-handled wire-clippers he snipped vertically and horizontally and bent back a section of the fence.

Maren climbed through the opening. She used the fence to help make her way quickly to the edge of the roof, where she hesitated and looked down on Puffing Mews.

Watching her, Chesser had a clutch in his stomach. This could be the great all-time loss, he thought, and at that moment wanted to call the whole thing off. But he realized from knowing her that nothing he could say now would persuade her to stop. It was too wonderfully risky.

Maren removed her shoes and recklessly tossed them back over the fence. If one had dropped onto the roof of number 11 it might have come down with enough force to set off the pressure alarm, bringing Security Section's gunmen. She raised her right foot and softly placed it into the drain gutter. She gradually shifted more of her weight onto that foot. All her weight. The drain gave slightly but then proved it was strong enough to support her.

She began her perilous walk, took several precise steps, and paused. After several more steps she paused again, remained absolutely frozen. Because she'd caught the movement of someone in the Mews below. One of Security Section's men making his patrol. If he looked up he would certainly see her. He didn't. He went past and away, down the mews. Maren relaxed. Too much. She lost her balance. If she fell to the right she would plunge five stories, to the left, she would activate the alarm. She steadied herself with her arms out, palms flat, like a plane using its wings for control and when she continued on, she kept her eyes level ahead and pretended she was merely walking a sidewalk curb. Until she reached the other side.

Chesser breathed normally again.

Weaver was also relieved.

Maren examined the outcropping of brick. She peered over the edge and saw that it ran all the way down the rear of the building, evidently serving some purpose. But it gave no indication of what it contained. She related that in a whisper-shout to Chesser and Weaver.

“Come back,” Chesser instructed.

She refused. “I'm sure this is it,” she insisted.

An unconvinced shrug from Weaver. It was up to Chesser. He climbed through the fence opening and out to the edge, feeling as though he wasn't in the same dimension as his body. He stepped out onto the drain gutter, and his greater weight caused it to tear away from where it was lightly bolted to the edge of the roof. For a moment it seemed about to collapse completely, but then it held. Chesser steadied and tried to swallow. When he could feel his legs again, he continued on and made it across. He acted nonchalant, but at that moment he wanted very much to take Maren in his arms.

Weaver started across. It was more difficult for him because he was carrying the satchel of tools. This also wasn't the way he wanted to die. Chesser and Maren silently petitioned fate to be kind, and Weaver made it across safely.

Together they examined the brick outcropping and agreed it appeared promising. Weaver immediately went to work on it with a chisel, appropriately diamond-edged, that cut easily into the mortar between the bricks. In less than five minutes he had one brick out. Maren eager shined her flashlight into the hole and saw the metallic inverted U of a pipe.

“May be from a toilet,” she said.

“It's all toilet,” said Chesser. Weaver continued with the chisel until eight bricks had been removed. That exposed enough of the pipe for them to see that it emerged from the roof and was connected to a wide elbow which reversed its direction. Housed within brick, apparently the pipe ran straight down the building and into the ground below.

Weaver looped a diamond-covered filament around the pipe and connected it through a portable, powered instrument. A special type of vibrating saw. He switched it on and the filament began cutting through the steel as if it were mere wood. He was careful not to cut too deep, so as not to sever whatever the pipe contained. The saw made only a faint gritting sound.

A quarter hour later a large enough section of the pipe was lifted away.

The pipe contained five electrical conduits. Each identical, two hundred forty-volt size. Weaver took the opportunity to cut open each of them. Then he replaced the bricks, so that nothing appeared out of place.

They retreated as they'd come, cautiously but more confidently, back across the drain gutter and through the fence to the roof of number 13. They took time to bend the section of fence back into its original position. They replaced and latched the trapdoor after them before descending all the way down and out to the Marylebone truck.

No one had seen them.

They were, of course, greatly encouraged by the success of their reconnaissance. As soon as they arrived home, they rewarded themselves with some chilled Tattinger and a delicious supper served by Siv and Britta.

Those two pretty au pair Danes. Chesser detected a distinct change in their attitude since Weaver had come. An obvious increase in provocativeness unmistakably directed toward Weaver. Siv and Britta were not competing with one another. Rather, they seemed consolidated, as though performing a purposely choreographed pas de deux.

Chesser's initial reaction to it was some resentment, jealousy. He figured that Siv and Britta had held back on him, and if that didn't deeply wound his vanity, it did bruise. For consolation he reminded himself that fair-skinned Nordic girls, being naturally free of prejudice, find dark-skinned men extremely attractive.

Maren was well aware of what was going on. She understood why Siv and Britta were aroused by Weaver. She was even tempted to let Weaver know that with some flirting of her own. But she checked the impulse in deference to Chesser's possessiveness. Now she sat closer to Chesser. “You were wonderful tonight.”

He nodded. To hell with modesty. “We all were,” he said, and raised a toast.

“What about the pipe?” asked Weaver, not trying to deny his partial distraction by what Britta's see-through blouse didn't quite conceal.

“Five to one's not good odds,” Chesser said. “Be okay if we have five shots at it, but we've got only one.”

“Could be worse. Could be ten to one,” said Weaver.

“Actually,” reminded Chesser, “we don't know if any one of the five conduits is what we want.”

“Man, there's no way of telling.”

“There must be,” hoped Maren.

For a long moment each tried to imagine a solution.

Weaver watched Siv's walk, a rear view. He asked Chesser, “What you said about the Russians, is it true?”

“Sure.”

“That pisses me, man,” said Weaver. He knew the hopes the Communists were pouring into the black ears of Africa, playing on the truth that the blacks had pulled their own riches out of their own earth and handed them over to the whites in return for just pennies and a bed and a bottle of beer a day. The blacks of South Africa got shafted, spent their bodies, and got nothing out for themselves, even when they stuck stones up their assholes. All they got was apartheid. Action against that injustice was one of the primary reasons Weaver had come in on Chesser's project. Now he had another, knowing that the Communists were stirring with one hand and dipping into the pot with the other. Fucking hypocrites, thought Weaver, glad he'd never really been a Communist. He'd almost joined the party once, in prison, because a very persuasive cat was proselytizing. But about that same time he'd gotten into his own black thing. He was only a little surprised to learn now that the Communists were users, just like all the whites.