11 Harrowhouse (33 page)

At that moment superstar husband got up abruptly and, without a word, went below deck. Superstar wife brought the seventy-carat object up to her mouth and, without apparent intention, played it casually upon and between her lips. She impatiently answered two more questions and then excused herself graciously to also go below.

She walked forward down the yacht's mahogany-lined passageway to the master cabin, where superstar husband lay nude on a slant board, his eyes closed. “Fucking creeps,” she complained as she took off the diamond. “Have somebody go up and tell them to split.”

Superstar husband did a sit-up on the slant board, lowered half way and held, until he was red-faced and straining.

“C'mon,” she said, as she dropped the seventy carats on superstar husband's own sizable and precious jewels, “roll us a joint. I think I feel like balling.”

Chesser watched for the BBC television early-morning news.

He anticipated the pleasure of observing the object lesson he'd administered to the almighty cartel. However, as he watched his satisfaction gave way to the terrifying consequence that he'd brought on himself in his eagerness to antagonize The System. Massey. Surely now Massey had to know he'd been deceived. Surely Chesser would be the target of the billionaire's vindictive wrath. Massey had probably already dispatched some of his forces, large Hickey, for example. And others.

Chesser cautiously looked out one of the front windows to see a man in black standing across the street. Just standing there. A glum, sallow-faced character, definitely evil and dangerous, was Chesser's appraisal. Perhaps it was already too late. Well, at least they would make a run for it.

He found Maren downstairs in the main reception room. She appeared ready to go out, probably to Mildred's. No time for that. Chesser began explaining the circumstances.

Maren interrupted, calmly told him, “Siv and Britta are already gone. I gave them a year's vacation with pay.”

“Let's not bother to pack.”

“Everything's packed.”

“How did you know?”

She parried that with, “The car's all serviced. All I have left to do is call Mildred. I've been trying to reach her since ten but her line's been busy. I hate to leave without at least saying good-bye to Mildred.” She went to the nearest phone and started to dial. Chesser grabbed the phone from her, slammed it down, and pulled her away from it.

They went quickly through to the garage. Maren insisted on driving. “In case we have to lose someone,” she said.

She backed the car out fast, nearly to the opposite curb, where the sallow man in black was standing. He was faced away, acting preoccupied with the sky.

Chesser wondered why Maren hesitated. “Let's go,” he said.

Maren called to the man, who turned, blinked, and pointed to himself quizzically.

“Come here,” ordered Maren.

“Pardon,” said the man, approaching.

“Ça va?”
inquired Maren.

“Ça va,”
the man nodded.

“Nous allons,”
said Maren brightly.

“Pourquoi?”

Maren told him in French that she and Chesser were on their way to be married.

That last word was magic. It excited the man so much he seemed about to jump out of his clothes.
“Vraiment?”

“Really,” smiled Maren, and then changed and added defiantly, “but you're going to have to prove it!” She had the engine doing about five thousand rpm's, so she just let the clutch out all at once and the car shot away, leaving that spy of the French lawyers with his mind in a knot.

She headed out of London, going southeast, disregarding speed limits. Chesser glanced back frequently, but when they were out of the city proper and there was only clear road ahead and behind, he relaxed enough to ask where she was going.

“The Fokker-28 is meeting us at Biggin Hill,” she said, meaning her private jet and a small airport about fifteen miles out. “I called early this morning to arrange it.”

That suited Chesser. But he got to thinking. “First I want to go to Hindhead,” he told her. “To the gravel pit.”

“For what?”

“No reason why we should go off empty handed.”

“It's the same whether we do or not.”

“Not to me it isn't.”

She sighed. “All right, if it means that much to you.” She downshifted sharply and turned right to change their route. “Stupid diamonds,” she muttered.

“I want at least a satchelful,” said Chesser. “Then know what I'm going to do?” He'd just decided.

“Be a millionaire again,” said Maren, exaggerating her indifference.

That reminded him he'd blown fifteen million by double-crossing Massey and was now running away from a possible fifty, settling for a couple. Considerably better than nothing, he decided. Much better than dead. “I'm going to call The System and tell them where the diamonds are.”

“You're not!”

“It might get them off our tails.”

“No.”

“At least then we'll only have Massey to contend with. Which is more than enough.”

“It won't be half as much fun,” she protested.

“Okay, which do you want, Massey or The System?”

“Both.”

She acted victimized, then angry, then petulant.

Chesser remained firm, and in a while she began humming—her signal that she'd accepted his decision.

That made it definite. He'd call The System. He disliked letting Meecham off so easy, but got some gratification in the suffering he'd surely caused Meecham the past week. And one day, Chesser fantasized, he'd confront Meecham with the whole inside story, with special emphasis on the fact that the inventory had been returned and the entire diamond industry preserved only as a result of his, Chesser's, benevolence.

Actually, Chesser was relieved by the mere idea of the diamonds being back where they belonged. He already felt twenty million carats less responsible.

He asked Maren, “Why didn't you try to stop me from throwing those diamonds all over the street?”

“It was good for your anger,” she replied.

“And better for your pleasure. You enjoy the prospect of being chased, whereas I don't find it at all amusing. As a matter of fact, I'm scared shitless and I don't mind admitting it.”

“I'm not.”

“You never are. And that's not normal.”

“Normal what?”

“Behavior. Even animals avoid danger when they can.”

“Not all animals.”

“Name one that doesn't.”

She tried to think of one but couldn't. After a moment of silence she asked, “Have you ever thought of leaving me?”

“No,” he answered too quickly.

A disbelieving side glance from her. “I've never thought of leaving you either.”

He was pleased to hear that, but doubted it.

She leaned forward over the steering wheel and stretched her shoulders. “Why didn't you?” she asked.

“Just never have, that's all,” he lied.

“No, I mean, when you thought about it, why didn't you leave?”

He said what he thought was an absolute truth. “I've never stopped loving you.”

“Sure you have.”

“Never.”

“Love is full of stops and starts.”

“Not mine.”

“Yours is so exceptional?”

“Definitely.”

“What's so exceptional about it?”

“You.”

That succeeded, got a soft, pleased laugh from her.

He asked, “When did you last think of leaving me?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Why? Just because I wouldn't let you have your way?”

“Of course.”

“Do you stop loving me often? Actually stop loving me?” He wanted her to deny it.

“For maybe a second or two. Never longer.”

A second or two, he thought, might begin a chain reaction into forever.

“It's good,” she contended, “because when I start loving you again it makes me realize how very much.”

“One thing for sure. We ought to stop lying to one another.”

“We might some day,” she said thoughtfully, “but I hope not.”

“You hope not?”

She nodded. “I can't imagine not caring enough to not want to lie at least a little. Can you?”

“No,” he said because it sounded good, even if it was an excuse. He looked down at his hands and thought how fortunate they had been for having ever touched her. He looked up to appreciate her profile. She knew that was what he was doing, so she relaxed her mouth open to make it appear even more sensual.

“Do you lie to me often?” he wanted to know.

“Can't you tell?”

“Not always.”

“I can with you. Always. I have my own natural lie detector.”

“Your ears ring, I suppose.”

She laughed. “No. My love lights up.”

“Do you know when other people are lying?”

“Only you,” she said meaningfully.

“I love you to hell and gone,” he declared, shaking his head, helpless.

“To hell and gone,” she echoed, and her foot made the speedometer climb another ten mph's, to a perilous ninety on that narrow black ribbon of road.

They vroomed through Hindhead as though it were on the Grand Prix circuit, and arrived a few minutes later at the turn-off to the gravel pit. Going in, the makeshift road was still a mucky slime from the recent rains, obscuring some tire tracks, which neither of them noticed.

She didn't stop until she'd wheeled a fast, full-about turn, and, at first, Chesser thought that swift, blurring change of direction had disoriented him. He got out, carrying the empty satchel. He saw piles of crushed rock and piles of sand.

But no pile of diamonds.

There, right there, was where they had been, where he now stood, struck speechless. He could barely manage a gesture to Maren, wanting her to get out and verify what he didn't want to believe. She remained in the car.

Chesser examined the ground. There were some broad, smooth impressions obviously made by a mechanical shovel. Someone had come in and just scooped them up, he thought, every goddamn carat. Except a few that were partially imbedded in the damp soil.

He squatted and dug them out, not knowing really why he bothered. No more than a dozen. He looked around, went over to the equipment shack. Everything was the same. Only the diamonds were gone.
Where?
It was too incredible to accept. He had to look again at where they'd been, a long look, before he finally got back into the car. “They're gone,” he said, empty.

“So I see,” said Maren.

“But who? Who could have taken them?”

She shrugged. “Maybe somewhere England now has the world's most valuable strip of road.”

“You mean, someone mistook them for ordinary gravel?”

“I said maybe.”

It was a tormenting, ironic idea, and not very plausible, really. This was an unused, out-of-the-way pit. That's why he'd chosen it. He shook his head sharply.

“Got a better explanation?” she asked.

“No.”

“Actually, it's really quite funny when you think of it—”

His hard look stopped her. He opened his hand and looked at the few diamonds he'd picked up. “I don't give a shit.”

She agreed and suggested, “Let's just forget about it and remember us.” She leaned to deliver a soft, pacifying cheek kiss.

That helped some. He told her, “I think we better start running.”

“From everyone,” she said, her enthusiasm renewed.

He put the diamonds in his shirt pocket, thinking he would keep them as mementos. But, feeling bitter on the way to Biggin Hill Airport, every few miles he flipped one out the window.

Until he had none.

CHAPTER 22

T
HE YELLOW
and silver Fokker-28 came in perfectly on runway one. Nearly everyone there at Nice's Areoport du Plage took notice, for such an expensive private plane would surely be carrying someone worth seeing.

Maren and Chesser disembarked, and, as they hurried through the terminal to a waiting dark blue Mercedes limousine, many inquired who they were. Some knew.

The limousine took them to Cannes and Maren's yacht, which was moored at the new marina. Of all the boats there, hers was the most noted. It was longer at a hundred ninety feet, more imposing in design, impeccably black, and fitted with polished chrome rather than the usual brass. Displayed on its stern was its name, as designated by Maren.
Après Vie
. And properly below that was Panama, where, for tax advantages, the vessel had been legally registered at the advice of Jean Marc's lawyers. The
Après Vie
had a cruising speed of fifteen knots, an eight-thousand-mile range, slept twelve luxuriously, and was served by a permanent crew of twenty-two. Its captain was a rust-bearded Englishman, who contended that a ship of such quality was better maintained through use, a theory that justified long cruises to various warm and pleasant places, whether the owner was aboard or not—not being usually the case. Thus captain and crew enjoyed a life style above their means, one they were anxious to perpetuate.

Going aboard, Maren atracted the attention of everyone within seeing distance. She made sure she exposed an ample length of her fine legs when she made her exit from the limousine and she walked up the gangway with an air of exaggerated
haute
. At once, she demanded a half-hour private conference with the captain. To discuss sailing plans. Then she and Chesser dressed for an evening ashore.

First they had drinks on the terrace of the Carlton at the most advantageous table, not to be missed by numerous acquaintances who stopped by to give and get meaningless cheek kisses and doses of flattery. Maren was extremely animated, exchanging comments freely, gayly. To all appearances neither she nor Chesser had a worry between them. They were just ideal lovers loving every minute of the ideal life. Of course, they were asked where they'd been, where they were staying, and, most important, where they were going.