Jack told his lawyer that he had paid American dollars for the only export paperwork there was to be had in Nepal. But at the same time, he decided it would be better simply not to mention the fossil to the people at the National Geographic Society, at least until Swift had a better idea of what the fossil was.
Whenever that would be.
Arriving at Washington’s National Airport with only one bag. Jack could see no reason not to take the metro into town instead of a taxi, and thirty minutes after boarding a blue line train to Metro Center, where he changed onto a red line bound for Dupont Circle, he was checking into the Jefferson Hotel on 16th Street, just around the corner from the Society’s headquarters.
Located on a busy intersection, the Jefferson was a small but elegant hotel and a favourite with politicians and senior public servants. The interior was reminiscent of an early-nineteenth-century house, and many of the rooms were furnished with antiques. Jack had often stayed there and would have chosen the Jefferson even if National Geographic had not agreed to pick up the bill.
It was too late to go anywhere except the mini-bar. So he sat in front of the TV, drinking not one but several whisky miniatures, draining each tiny bottle’s contents as if it had been nothing more potent than antiseptic mouthwash. There was something so ersatz about spirit miniatures, like something you might find in an outsized doll’s house, that he found it hard to take them seriously as containers of real alcohol, almost as if he expected the effect of the spirits to be somehow in proportion to the size of the bottles. It wasn’t and he awoke the following morning with a very adult-size hangover.
Jack met the sponsorship director of White Fang, Chuck Farrell, over a breakfast for which he had no appetite.
‘Good to see you. Jack,’ said Farrell when their breakfast meeting was at last over. ‘Next time you’re coming to town, give me a call. I’ve got some new sticky climbing boots I want you to try. They’re made of a really remarkable new rubber compound that we think is really going to change the face of big-wall climbing in this country. We call it the Brundle Shoe.’ He chuckled. ‘Think about it. Look, take care of yourself, okay? You’re not looking so good right now.’
Jack didn’t doubt it, and when Farrell had gone he decided that with a couple of hours to kill before his meeting with the National Geographic Society, what he needed most was some fresh air. So he went back up to his room, collected his overcoat, and went out to brave a typically cold Washington winter morning.
His footsteps took him south, past the White House, and then east along the Mall. Gradually he began to feel better. But he also began to feel cold. In search of warmth he ducked into the Smithsonian, where it was the very last day of an exhibition entitled ‘Science in America.’ Designed to show the impact of science on the United States, a substantial part of the exhibition was devoted to the Manhattan Project and the development of the first nuclear bomb. This was the most interesting part of the exhibition. Jack had never before seen some of the photographs they had of post-detonation Hiroshima. He wondered how keen the governments of India and Pakistan would be to blow each other up if they could see those pictures.
The news was not good. Several Arab countries appeared to be preparing forces for deployment to Pakistan as an act of Muslim solidarity, while the Indian prime minister had called an emergency meeting with his military leaders, in an ongoing effort to defuse the crisis, the U.S. secretary of state was flying to Islamabad and then New Delhi for the fourth time in as many weeks.
Jack hoped the secretary had a better understanding of the reasons underlying the crisis than he had. Like most Americans he had little idea of why the Indians and Pakistanis should be at each other’s throats again.
Leaving the Smithsonian, Jack took a cab back to his hotel and then walked around the corner to the tall, international modernist building that housed the National Geographic Society.
Back in 1888, when the Society and its famous yellow-bordered magazine were founded, it had been intended that proceeds from the periodical should help to support the Society’s expeditions. But by the late twentieth century, and with almost eleven million readers, most of the Society’s activities were supported by its annual membership dues.
Among scientific organizations, the National Geographic Society was one of the richest and most benevolent. Yet while the creed of the magazine may have been ‘Only what is of a kindly nature is printed about any country or people’, Jack knew better than to assume that the same kindliness would automatically extend to himself in the shape of generous sponsorship. He was well aware that there was stiff competition for the Society’s patronage and that he could not afford to minimize the disaster on Machhapuchhare. Even if he was still sticking to the line that it had taken place on Annapurna.
During his meeting with the representatives of the Society and the magazine, however, he spoke with a degree of candour and self-criticism that surprised even himself. He knew that what had happened had been an accident. He was equally certain that there had been no negligence beyond the obvious risk inherent in any lightweight, Alpine-style ascent of the Himalayan big walls — particularly those, like his own, that scorned the use of oxygen. But in his heart of hearts Jack still held himself responsible for what happened, for no other reason than that the attempt to climb all the major peaks in this hazardous way had been his idea.
When Jack had completed his account of the expedition, the director of sponsorship. Brad Schaffer, nodded solemnly and said’
‘I want to thank you. Jack, for a very full and frank explanation of what happened. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that we appreciate your coming here so soon after this tragedy and giving us the complete picture. I’m sure that it will greatly accelerate the payment of compensation to the family of Didier Lauren. Is that not so. Miss Harman?’
Miss Harman, an attractive, soberly suited brunette from the insurance company, looked up from Jack’s accident report and cleared her throat.
‘Yes,’ she said vaguely, as if still troubled by something. ‘I expect you’re right.’ Glancing back at the report, she added, ‘However, I do have just a couple of questions relating to what happened.’
‘Oh?’ Jack tried to sound unperturbed in the face of her cool scrutiny.
‘Relating to funeral expenses and compensations already paid out to your Sherpas and their families, Mister Furness.’
‘Is that right?’
In order to keep his illegal ascent of Machhapuchhare a secret. Jack had been obliged to handle the costs of five Sherpa funerals.
‘Yes.’
Jack rolled the trackball of his laptop computer and found the items in the accounts to which she was referring.
‘Fire away,’ he said.
‘You paid ten thousand dollars in compensation to the families of your Sherpas, at two thousand dollars each. And you also paid for the cost of five funerals, at five hundred dollars each. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘However, you just told us that you only recovered three bodies.’
‘That’s correct. Didier and two of the Sherpas are still up there somewhere.’
Miss Harman’s sharp little face took on an exasperated demeanour.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How can you have funerals without bodies? And why is a funeral so expensive in comparison with what you paid out in compensation? Five hundred dollars represents twenty-five percent of the compensation.’
Jack glanced over at Brad Schaffer, looking for support. But Schaffer shifted awkwardly in his seat and said nothing. Smiling nervously Jack took out a chunk of Exer-Flex silicone exercise putty and, looking back at Miss Harman, started to work it with his fingers.