‘And there’s been a telex message,’ added the receptionist.
Remaining at the desk, Charlie tore open the envelope.
‘Lu today issued High Court writs,’ it said. It was signed by Willoughby.
Charlie had started towards the lift, head still bent over the message, when he felt the hand upon his arm.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ said the man. ‘Gather you’re as interested in the ship fire as I am.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Charlie, recognising the accent and feeling the immediate stir of anxiety deep in his stomach.
‘Harvey Jones,’ said the man, offering his hand. ‘United States Maritime Authority.’
My ass, thought Charlie, instinctively. And this time, he knew, there was nothing wrong with his instinct.
‘It was never part of the original proposal,’ protested Lu. As always, he spoke quietly, despite his anger.
‘It was an over-reaction,’ admitted his son. His habitual nervousness was even more pronounced.
‘Which you could have prevented.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re stupid,’ said Lu. ‘Is there a risk of the police treating it as murder?’
‘There’s been no announcement. It was done carefully.’
‘The absence of an announcement doesn’t mean anything.’
‘I know.’
‘So you’ve permitted an uncertainty.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what would have happened to anyone who wasn’t my son?’
‘Yes.’
‘And even that wouldn’t be an obstacle if it became a choice between us.’
‘I know.’
‘There mustn’t be any more mistakes.’
‘There won’t be.’
‘I’m determined there won’t be,’ said Lu. ‘Quite determined.’
12
Charlie was forcing the calmness, sitting deep into the chair with his hands outstretched along the armrests, watching Harvey Jones pace the room.
Trapped, Charlie decided. Not quite as positively as he had been beside Sir Archibald’s grave. Or during the chase that had followed. But it was close. Too close. And all his own fault. He hadn’t considered it properly, realising the obvious American reaction to the possibility of communist China deliberately destroying something so recently U.S. property.
He’d managed to conceal the nervousness churning through him, Charlie knew. But only just. The American was already worryingly curious. Otherwise he wouldn’t have stage-managed the lobby meeting. So it would only take one mistake. And Jones would isolate it. Charlie was sure of that, because he recognised the American was good. Bloody good. Which meant he had to be better. A damned sight better.
So far, he had been. With the caution of a poacher tickling a trout into the net, Charlie had put out the lures. And Jones had taken them. But even then it had needed all Charlie’s experience to spot the tradecraft in the other man. For him Charlie felt the respect of one professional for another. He hesitated at the thought: a professional wouldn’t have allowed the miscalculation which had brought about this meeting.
‘I’d have expected someone with Johnson’s experience to see the bit that doesn’t fit,’ suggested Jones.
‘What was that?’ asked Charlie. He would have to be cautious of apparently innocent questions. Cautious of everything.
‘That Peking would hardly have used ignorant hop-heads for a job like this.’
‘Johnson told you?’
Jones completed a half-circuit of the room. The movement was as much of a test as the questions, Charlie recognised; an attempt to irritate him by its very theatricality.
‘Made a joke of it,’ said the American, inviting some annoyed response.
‘Johnson seems to think almost everything I say is amusing,’ said Charlie.
‘Oh?’
Shit, thought Charlie. He had to continue.
‘I asked him today to investigate what I really think happened to the Pride of America,’ he said, covering the awkwardness. Perhaps volunteering Jenny’s story wouldn’t be so much of a mistake. Jones would become suspicious of obvious evasion.
‘And what do you think really happened?’
‘That Lu planned the fire. And the destruction of the ship.’
‘What!’
Jones eased into a facing chair, halted by the announcement.
Again leaving out the girl’s attempted seduction, Charlie recounted the story. He was getting very adept at it, he thought. To tell Jones could be another lure, rather than a mistake. The man’s reaction would be a further confirmation. Not that he really needed it.
‘Jesus!’ said Jones.
‘Clever, isn’t it?’ said Charlie.
‘But how the hell can you prove it?’
The man had failed, thought Charlie. If Jones really had represented the U.S. Maritime Authority, he’d have been as interested in proving it as Charlie. And accepted it as a joint operation. Jones would realise the mistake and recover quickly, he guessed.
‘I can’t prove it,’ admitted Charlie.
‘Johnson isn’t interested?’
‘Called it preposterous.’
‘Which it is.’
Clever, assessed Charlie. Now he was forced to talk further, always with the risk of a slip.
‘But it fits better with opium-smoking illiterates,’ he pointed out.
‘That really was damned smart of you,’ repeated Jones.
The American was still manipulating the conversation.
‘It seems obvious,’ Charlie said uneasily.
‘Not to Johnson, who’s supposed to be the expert.’
‘He’s got a policeman’s mind… trained only to accept fact.’
‘What are you trained in?’ demanded Jones openly.
‘Trying to avoid?6,000,000 settlements,’ said Charlie.
Jones smiled.
Amusement? wondered Charlie. Or admiration at escaping again? There was as much danger in showing himself an expert in this type of interrogation as there was in a misplaced word.
The American rose, to pace the room again.
He went towards the bar and Charlie said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Never touch it.’
Because it might blur his faculties, no matter how slightly, guessed Charlie. And he judged Jones to be the sort of man who didn’t like to lose control of anything, most of all himself. About him there was an overwhelming impression of care. It was most obvious in the pressed and matched clothes, but extended to the manicured hands and close-cropped hair and even to the choice of cologne that retained his just-out-of-the-bathroom freshness.
‘Can I help you to one?’ offered the American.
‘No,’ said Charlie. Jones didn’t want to impair his thinking, he reflected. And he couldn’t afford to.
‘Thought about asking for an independent autopsy?’ asked Jones. ‘If you could discover any injury to Nelson inconsistent with his being drowned it would be something upon which Johnson would have to act.’
An invitation to reveal his expertise, saw Charlie, the apprehension tightening within him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Might be an idea,’ said Jones.
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘It might.’
‘How much time do you think you have, now that Lu’s issued writs?’ asked Jones, nodding to Willoughby’s telex message that lay between them on the table.
He’d endangered the underwriter by letting the American read the cable as they had travelled up in the lift, Charlie realised belatedly. It had been a panicked reaction, to gain time. Now, unless he allayed the uncertainties, it would be automatic for Jones to have their London bureau check Willoughby. And in his present state, the underwriter wouldn’t be able to satisfy any enquiry.
‘Not much,’ said Charlie. ‘Our lawyers will want to begin preparing an answer to Lu’s claim almost immediately. And they won’t be able to do that on what I’ve got available.’
‘So you’re in trouble?’
But just how much? wondered Charlie.
‘Looks like it,’ he said.
‘I’ll be intrigued to see what you do,’ said Jones.
‘What would you do?’ demanded Charlie, turning the question.