11 Harrowhouse (39 page)

There was nothing on the reel pertaining to
the
M. J. Mathew.

“Maybe you've got the wrong reel,” Coglin said.

The bank's man in charge of records double checked and insisted on his efficiency. He also took time to examine the microfilm with a 20X magnifier and was perplexed by what he discovered. He showed it first to Mr. Franklin, who remarked, “That's quite irregular,” before showing it to Coglin.

The microfilm had been spliced. The section containing a record of the M. J. Mathew account had been removed. As far as the bank was concerned, they had no proof whatsoever that there'd ever been such an account.

Coglin cursed modern banking methods and went back to headquarters on Harrowhouse. On his desk he found the fact sheet he'd asked for regarding the Upland Bank. He noted some of England's most influential men were listed as directors.

Coglin wasn't looking for the name Clyde Massey. And it wasn't there.

That same afternoon Meecham had two very unwelcome visitors.

Victor Keeling and Rupert Leander.

They came without appointment, without even phoning in advance, merely showed up at number 11 and arrogantly demanded to see Meecham.

Keeling and Leander were known Communists, but in no apparent way were they the stereotype. From the expensive cut of their correct city suits, shirts from Turnbull and Asser, the deft way they handled their bowlers and gloves, Keeling and Leander appeared to be true English gentlemen rather than Party members, self-confessed since 1953 when they'd both finished at Cambridge,

Actually, as the London intermediaries for the Soviet Committee of Natural Resources, Keeling and Leander enjoyed the best of both possible convictions. They received a fractional commission for acting as a link between the Soviets and The System. A legitimate yet hypocritical arrangement, which allowed the Russians to market their diamonds to best advantage without dealing directly with those they publicly designated as capitalist exploiters. Keeling and Leander for their part were guaranteed one-tenth of one per cent on all the stones they handled, seemingly a modest enough commission but actually a rate that had made both millionaires.

Meecham received them in the private conference room, a relatively small room, impressively paneled and decorated with conservative elegance. They sat in deep brown-tufted leather chairs and were served fine port and Havanas.

Keeling began: “We received an urgent communique from the minister this morning.”

“How is Minister Konofsky?” inquired Meecham.

“Skeptical,” answered Leander.

Meecham sensed a crisis but kept level to ask, “Why?”

“Certain recent actions by The System have been quite unorthodox,” said Keeling.

“You called up the reserve from Johannesburg,” Leander pointed out.

“Routine,” said Meecham, passing it off, although he was surprised that the Soviets knew about that. He wondered how much more they knew.

“You increased production,” said Keeling.

“You ordered additional output from your underwater fields,” said Leander.

“You've been buying up all the illicit stones you can get,” said Keeling.

Meecham was in a cross-fire. He decided to let them use up their ammunition.

“You,” accused Leander, “requested extensive consignments from all your affiliates.”

“Except us,” said Leander.

Keeling gulped port. Leander puffed a cloud. Their eyes remained on Meecham, whose expression admitted nothing while inwardly he resented the accuracy of their knowledge and realized what a grave misjudgment he'd made in excluding the Soviets from his emergency negotiations for more stones. He could invent excuses for everything but that. With what he hoped seemed cold indignation he told them, “The System is hardly obliged to explain its activities to the Kremlin.”

Keeling and Leander looked at one another.

“What we do is our business,” Meecham continued on the offensive.

“Surely, however, you can understand the minister's concern,” inserted Keeling, somewhat milder.

That encouraged Meecham. “As for Johannesburg, as I said, it was routine. Merely a transfer of inventory, which is something we do from time to time. The rest were merely actions intended to stimulate the industry.”

“You're stimulating the sale of illicit gems?” asked Leander.

“We're attempting new tactics in that area,” said Meecham, “to temporarily divert the flow of illicit stones via Beirut and Tel Aviv. Affording us the opportunity to cut it down altogether. Although I doubt very much your Soviet friends will appreciate that. As you well know, most of those illicit stones end up behind your curtain—and then on to us.”

Meecham was sharp, with an edge of outrage.

“Despite your formidable sources of information,” he continued, “you must concede that The System knows the intricacies of the world diamond market rather better than either of you or your somewhat excitable minister.”

Keeling glanced down at the expensive black antelope business case Leander had placed by his chair. Leander brought the case up, snapped it open, and removed a single sheet of pink-colored paper.

“Perhaps,” suggested Meecham, “I should call Minister Konofsky and personally assure him.”

That was disregarded.

Leander consulted the pink paper. “According to our figures, you're presently holding three million, one hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred fifty carats on consignment from the Soviet.”

“That would be correct,” said Meecham.

Keeling asked, “The Russian stones have been kept in separate inventory as stipulated?”

“They have,” said Meecham.

“You're familiar, of course, with the terms of the agreement made between The System and the Committee in Moscow in 1968?” said Leander.

Meecham had negotiated that agreement, knew it well.

“The Soviet may withdraw its diamonds from The System at any time without giving prior notice,” reminded Keeling.

“That was the purpose of the separate inventory,” said Leander.

“Get to the point!” snapped Meecham.

“The minister now wishes to exercise that option,” said Keeling. “The entire Soviet inventory is to be returned to Moscow. You are to ship in individual lots of three hundred fifty thousand carats every third day. Via Aeroflot, of course. We'll make those arrangements. In all it should take not more than a month.”

“Very well,” agreed Meecham, retaining external composure, while crumbling inside miserably, knowing there was no possible way to do what the Soviets were now rightfully requesting. Exposure was inevitable now. The System was ruined.
He
was ruined. There would be repercussions on a high level, possibly a diplomatic crisis between the governments. He told them, “We'll prepare to commence shipments immediately.”

Keeling drained his glass.

Leander crushed out his Havana.

“I do hope the minister finds a more expedient and profitable means of marketing the Soviet diamonds,” remarked Meecham.

“I'm sorry,” smiled Keeling, “we didn't make that point quite clear. Returning the diamonds to Moscow is only a temporary measure, for the sake of reassuring the minister. I'm sure he has no intention of permanently severing the arrangement between the Committee and The System.”

Meecham uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way.

Leander explained: “If, after a month or two all is well the Soviet inventory will be returned to The System and we'll be doing business as usual.”

“Is that satisfactory?” asked Keeling, confident that it was.

“No,” was Meecham's reply. “In keeping with the terms of our agreement, when you withdraw your consignment you relieve The System of any further obligation.”

“But—”

“A completely new agreement will have to be negotiated,” said Meecham.

“But …”

“The board will have to take it under consideration. And, out of fairness, I must warn you there are certain directors with conservative sensibilities who from the start were much against our having any dealings at all with the Soviet. Anyway, by no means should you take for granted that you'll be able automatically to resume marketing through The System.”

Keeling fussed with his shirtcuffs.

Leander stared thoughtfully into the depth of his shallow business case.

Meecham stood abruptly and without a good-bye left them sitting there.

He returned to his office, where, in privacy, he didn't have to suppress his trembling. He removed his suit jacket and realized he was soaked under the arms. He sat at his desk and placed his hands on its tooled leather-inlaid surface, palms down. To stop his hands. He lifted them after a moment and, detesting the moist imprints they'd made, swiveled around to look out and find the distant dome of St. Paul's. He silently petitioned for some miraculous, merciful intervention.

A half hour later he received a phone call.

It was Keeling.

Saying: He'd just heard from Moscow. Unfortunately not in time to prevent his and Leander's visit with Meecham that afternoon. Unfortunate because by that time Minister Konofsky had already convinced the Committee not to recall the Soviet diamonds. The minister's faith in The System had, of course, never for one minute been anything but positive.

Meaning: Keeling and Leander had called Moscow and told the minister the outcome of that afternoon's meeting with Meecham. To preserve their own profitable arrangement, they had supported and validated Meecham's explanations regarding The System's recent activities. What had really persuaded the minister not to withdraw the Soviet diamonds was the prospect of having to renegotiate and possibly lose the substantial benefit of The System's marketing power.

Meecham's bluff had worked. It was the most crucial sleight-of-hand business he'd ever attempted. And, although he was greatly pleased, he couldn't manage a smile.

He was too drained.

CHAPTER 26

G
STAAD IN
midsummer is a pretty, and unlikely place.

For those two reasons Maren and Chesser chose it for their next sanctuary. Though they'd dealt once with Massey, he was far from out of the way, and they believed they also had yet to contend with The System, a most complex, resourceful, and proficient enemy.

They thought it better to avoid airports. So Maren used her name to purchase a new Aston Martin DBS and drove them furiously over the Alps. The snaking, high-ledged roads had a neutralizing effect, reassuring them that they weren't, at least for the moment, being closely pursued. Now, for some reason, no matter how recklessly fast Maren's driving was, Chesser didn't hang on. Actually, he napped most of the way, she noticed.

They had, of course, been together in Gstaad several times before, but always during high season. Now, on the opposite side of the year, everything looked unfamiliar, particularly the houses and other buildings that they'd always seen humped down, half hidden in deep snow. Now all those structures seemed strangely taller and too angularly defined.

Maren's chalet, built in Jean Marc's final year, was located in the desirable section called Oberport near the Palace Hotel. It had a grand duchess for a left neighbor, a baron on the right, and an earl just across. Unlike the other private chalets of the area, which were relatively traditional in design, Maren's was outstandingly contemporary, linear in the style of Mies van der Rohe, composed of expanses of thermal glass firmly supported and narrowly framed by brushed steel. Its interior motif was in perfect accord: whites and clears and chromes luxuriously splotched warm with bright colors. Although the chalet wasn't of imposing size, ten rooms only, plus servants' quarters, it gave the impression of spaciousness. One of its features was an arboretum, where, under glass and controlled temperature-humidity, roses and violets and huge-faced pansies were grown to supply the house with delightful fresh touches during wintertime.

As soon as Maren and Chesser arrived, they took a long sleep and woke up refreshed and hungry. No permanent help served the chalet, and Maren hadn't arranged for any to be there. For discretion, but more to please her whim.

They helped themselves, like playing house or being married. They made the bed together. Maren picked up, while Chesser ran the sweeper. They walked to the village to do their own marketing, and Chesser was secretly proud as he stood aside and watched Maren being highly selective about the vegetables and fruits she bought and the way she dominated the butcher. Confidently, she refused to buy bread and spent most of one night and half the next day preparing and baking four loaves. She messed up the kitchen terribly, but Chesser sat and watched and offered encouraging smiles along with sips of Scotch, while the flour flew and the dough stuck.

Maren definitely would not consult any of the recipe books that were right there, preferring to rely on remembering the ingredients and measures her own mother had used.

The result was four squat and very heavy, overdone lumps.

Chesser relished a slice, feigning. Ate a thick one, even without butter. But Maren knew better, tossed away the entire batch and, determined, stayed up all night to produce four more loaves, these high and light and brown, smelling and tasting as delicious as they looked.

Then Chesser was truly impressed.

As a little sweet extra, Maren, with easy confidence, also baked some Swedish spice cookies, and Chesser thought he'd never tasted anything that pleased him more. While he devoured, Maren beamed, and they each wondered about the other's unspoken thoughts, and they both thought they knew.

At first, Chesser attributed Maren's domestic displays to her impetuosity, just another of her tangents, genuine enough but not to be taken seriously. She was, after all, one of the fortunates—that is, she could well afford to be waited upon, could demand and have, lavishly, and didn't need to concern herself with the menial or the trivial, no matter how romantically valuable such things might be. The fact that Maren didn't really have to perform these tasks, Chesser reasoned, was precisely why she could enjoy doing them. She was amusing herself, that was all, and any moment now he expected her to bring the phase to an abrupt end by summoning a housekeeper or two, and making use of her time with something more practical. Knife throwing, for example.