Scruples? he mocked himself. But he sensed that some sort of Rubicon had been crossed, just by intimating this design to Fraser. Very well, he had made no final decision, he could always rethink, withdraw…
And yet he was almost certain he would not change his mind, retreat from the place where he suddenly found himself. He reached out and pressed the bell on his desk. Coffee, which he had not offered Fraser, appealed. He glanced at his watch-realised he had forgotten that he had promised to accompany Marian to Covent Garden that evening, for the revival of Dowell's production of Sleeping Beauty with the magnificent Maria Bjornson sets. He would have to go. His absence would be remarked create further problems. Damn… And yet… He savoured his decision. Problem-solving through other channels.
Business by means of David Winterborne smiled, feeling himself looking back towards a rock ledge he had traversed; a high fence he had hurdled with ease.
PART ONE
MACHINES AND SHADOWS
Machines and Shadows Fortune calls.
I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,
Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.
CHAPTER ONE
Business Arrangements "Look, Major—" The FBI agent employed his former rank without respect, as if it was a shrivelled fruit bitter on his tongue.
"It's in your own interest to cooperate with the Bureau…"
There were two of them in the small apartment's main room. Fall sunlight exposed the age of the carpet, the weary furniture. If he craned his neck, he would catch a glimpse of the Washington Monument in the distance, narrow and sharp as a missile against the faded blue of the sky.
"I know nothing about Alan Vance or his business deals," he replied for perhaps the fourth or fifth time. Midmorning traffic three floors below the window protested like animals caught in quicksand with the squeal of horns and brakes.
"For Christ's sake, Major, you were married to his daughter until a couple of years ago!" It was spoken by the senior of the two, his back to the room, his face in half-profile irritated, squinting into the light as if it challenged him.
"What d'you mean, you know nothing? You were family, Major!"
They were short-tempered with frustration, with a kind of righteousness. It was entirely probable that his former father-in-law was as crooked as they came, and their investigation overdue. Vance in trouble with the federal authorities amused him — however much he resisted being drawn back, even at such a tangent, into the morass that his brief marriage had become. The FBI men threatened to reawaken painful memories. He squinted towards the window.
"I wasn't family, Mclntyre never family."
The younger of the two, seated opposite him in a narrow armchair that seemed designed more for interrogation than comfort, appeared embarrassed. Mclntyre remained at the window, his features set in a grimace that expressed a determination to disbelieve. Then he turned to him.
"For Christ's sake, you don't owe the guy a free beer, Major! Why cover for him now?" He came closer, wafting ahead of him the scent of a masculine aftershave and tobacco. And moral outrage. He stood before the sofa, hands clenched at his sides.
"We're going to get Vance, Major for bribery, tax evasion, corruptly obtaining government funding the works. I don't see how you can refuse to help us with your record."
"My record?" he mocked, sensing himself smaller, more compact than the man who bulked over him, the soft hair above his collar haloed by the sunlight.
"Desert Storm, Major you were there. Instructor on Stealth Fighters, you even flew missions. Your other work for the Company, your air force record…" His effort suggested there had to be some button he could push that would activate the human being he confronted.
Trying to wrap me in Old Glory won't do it," he remarked, angering Mclntyre. The younger man's bland, pale features extinguished the beginnings of a smile.
Mclntyre turned on his heel.
"What the hell is it with you, Gant?" he snapped.
"Your file says you're an asshole. I believe the file!"
"Your privilege, Mclntyre. I told you, I know nothing about Vance's aircraft company. I flew his company jet, I married his daughter. I left his company, I left his daughter." With a deliberateness that was designed to anger, he glanced at his watch.
"I'm late for work, Mclntyre you through with me?"
"Not by a long way, Gant not by a long way," Mclntyre threatened.
"What happened to Major! It kind of dropped out of sight—"
"Why are you siding with a guy who screwed up your job and your marriage, Gant?
Tell me what you owe him."
"Nothing you'd understand, Mclntyre." He realised he was leaning forward tensely in the chair, in some vague, reminiscent form imitating the posture of someone refusing to answer an interrogator. His Vietnamese interrogators, KGB questioners… it was of no significance which memory was evoked. It was important only that he was once more confronting the world as something pitted against him, antagonistic and dangerous.
"I don't owe him anything. I just don't know anything."
Mclntyre was leaning forward as he stood, large hands clasping his thighs like a footballer paused for a set play.
The Senate Committee is going to call him to give evidence. We already got a great deal of data against Vance. Don't be a hick from Iowa all your life, Gant.
Wise up. Help us… It ought to be your duty as a Federal employee, for Christ's sake-!" His exasperation was entire, consuming. That helped. This guy," Mclntyre continued, his arm wildly addressing the younger man while he continued to stare with a baffled rage at Gant, 'let me tell you about this guy, Chris. This hero dropped out of high school this hero demonstrated against the war in Vietnam, in Iowa, for
Christ's sake, then he went there himself! He was arrested at the age of fourteen for one of those Peace March things all that Kennedy crap."
Gant made a noise that was almost a growl, and Mclntyre battened on the small betrayal of emotion, grinning.
"Maybe the guy didn't know living out in the boondocks that Jack and Bobby were both dead." Chris, whose surname he had forgotten, looked at him as if watching a father or uncle being humiliated.
"Jack and Bobby," Mclntyre continued, 'neither of them could keep their pissers in their pants, not even on Inauguration Day. Jack and Bobby…" He sighed theatrically.
"Your hero here is just a fucking liberal, like them. And a pain in the ass ever since." Gant remained immobile, passive in his chair.
That Camelot bullshit eh, Gant? Haven't you wised up yet?"
There had been mane-tossing, half-wild horses near his bedroom window in the first heat of the morning, and the unexpected strips of grass gleamed after the ministrations of arching sprays of water.
He had nevertheless felt comfortable, embraced by the stark ranch-style house beneath the high desert air and sharp grey mountains where miners had died following golden illusions. Now, squinting at the gleaming aircraft at the end of the desert runway, as speck like as a stranded gull in the morning heat haze, the high air tickled his agoraphobia, however mildly, and he resented the mood of exposure because it tainted what was to be savoured the tide of his expectations.
He was eager, he realised as eager as he had been at the very beginning of Artemis, his company, when the only aircraft they had had were two old, hired Boeings with which to take on British Airways and the Americans.
As eager, he realised, as he had been at the very beginning of everything, when the figures on the balance sheets had proclaimed that he had made his first million.