‘I warned you not to be.’
‘It just seemed so good…’
The broker’s death registered fully for the first time.
‘Poor Robert,’ said Willoughby. ‘Christ, what a disaster.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Charlie.
He had to warn Willoughby of the danger of Harvey Jones, he knew.
Charlie had expected alarm but it was more hopeless resignation in the underwriter’s voice when he had finished telling of the American’s visit.
‘You could be wrong,’ said Willoughby. ‘He really could be employed by the maritime agency.’
‘No chance,’ said Charlie, refusing Willoughby any false reassurance, despite his awareness of the man’s need. ‘I’ve spent all my life seeing people like Harvey Jones for what they really are.’
‘And he suspects you?’
‘Of course not. At the moment he’s just curious.’
‘But why?’
‘He’s trained to spot inconsistencies. And he saw it straight away in the official account, just like I did. It’s only natural he should wonder about someone who thinks like he does.’
‘What the hell are we going to do, Charlie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Get out,’ insisted Willoughby suddenly. ‘The only thing you can do is run.’
‘I’ve already thought of that,’ admitted Charlie. ‘It would be the worst thing I could do.’
‘What then?’
The idea was only half formed in Charlie’s mind, but at least it indicated some intention.
‘I think it’s time that I saw Lucky Lu.’
‘I’m not sure that’s strictly legal, now that he’s issued writs.’
It probably wasn’t, thought Charlie. But being strictly legal had never been a consideration in the past.
‘We don’t have time to worry about legal niceties,’ said Charlie.
‘Be careful then. Be bloody careful.’
Charlie hesitated at the words.
‘I will,’ he promised. Or dead, he thought.
It would have helped, decided Harvey Jones, had he had someone with whom he could have discussed the meeting. But the instructions had been explicit. So he had to reach a judgment by himself. The man was unusual, certainly. But was he any more than that? The apparent awareness of interrogation techniques was intriguing. But there were many sorts of people who might have experience of that. Lawyers, for instance. And insurance investigators would have had a lot of contact with the law. A smart lawyer would have spotted the inconsistency about the Chinese dockyard workers, too. Or again, someone who spent a lot of time involved with them.
Specially chosen: to prove himself. That’s what the deputy director had said.
And he didn’t want to prove himself an idiot by suggesting British Intelligence were in some way interested, with a cover as good as his own.
He’d wait, he decided. Until he was sure. And only when he was convinced would he cable Langley and get them to run a check in London, so that there could be some official instruction for them to work together. Ridiculous to operate separately, after all.
Jones smoothed the robe around him, looking across to where his suit hung crisp and fresh after its return from the hotel valet.
That was another thing he’d found difficult to accept about the man. For someone important enough to be investigating a?6,000,000 insurance claim, he was a scruffy son of a bitch.
Meant one thing, though. With a description like that, it wouldn’t take the computer long to come up with the man’s proper name. So they could even approach London with an identity, in case the bastards tried to deny their interest.
13
The reception area was enormous and everywhere there were pictures of L. W. Lu.
Charlie examined them with the professionalism of his teenage training, appreciating the care that had gone into their taking and selection. The biggest, a gigantic enlargement occupying nearly the whole wall behind the desk of identically uniformed girls, showed the millionaire with two American Presidents and another, only slightly smaller, with Henry Kissinger. Along another wall were a series showing Lu individually and then in groups with all the British Commonwealth leaders during the Singapore conference. And the area to the left was given over to a pictorial history of Lu’s charity work, showing him at the two orphanages he had established for Vietnamese refugees after the fall of Saigon and touring wards of the hospitals which were maintained entirely by the charitable trust he had created.
‘Christ,’ said Charlie mockingly, moving forward and looking for the lift he had been told would bypass the other eighteen floors of the skyscraper block from which Lu Industries were controlled and take him direct to the penthouse office.
He located it by the guards. Both were armed, he saw. A separate receptionist, male this time, sat behind them at a small desk.
‘You have an appointment for eleven o’clock with Mr Lu?’ he said, before Charlie could speak.
‘Yes.’
‘We were told to expect you.’
The lift door opened by some control which the man obviously operated but which Charlie could not see. As he entered, he saw the man reach for a telephone to announce his arrival above. Predictably, there were more photographs lining the lift panels, this time showing Lu at the launchings of his various tankers and passenger ships. The facing wall had pictures of the Pride of America leaving New York, another of its Hong Kong arrival and a third showing Lu in a small boat alongside the destroyed hull. John Lu really did resemble his father, thought Charlie, studying the photographs. Except for the smile. The younger man was a miserable-looking sod. Charlie paused, considering the judgment. Not really miserable, more apprehensive.
Despite the obvious entry he could have expected from the Willoughby company name and the warning from the increasingly distracted underwriter in a hurried telephone call earlier that morning that Lu’s London office had made contact to establish he had directorial authority, Charlie had still been intrigued at the speed with which the millionaire had agreed to see him. He’d anticipated a delay of several days instead of the instantaneous agreement.
Another man, uniformed like his colleague on the ground floor, awaited Charlie when the lift doors opened.
‘Please,’ he said, inviting Charlie to follow.
This time the photographs around the walls were of world leaders. Charlie identified the nearest as President Giscard d’Estaing and Pierre Trudeau. And on easels this time because the wall area was entirely glass, giving a 180 degree view of Hong Kong, Kowloon and the mainland beyond.
There were uniformed and armed guards in the corridor and even in three outer offices through which they had to pass to reach the door to Lu’s personal suite. It would be virtually impossible to make an unauthorised entry, Charlie realised.
Lu’s office was very large, created from the corner of the building with the views of Kowloon and the New Territories. Rotating smoked-glass slats running from floor to ceiling gave the room an unexpectedly subdued lighting compared to the brightness of the other rooms through which he had passed. And there was a further surprise. Here there were no photographs. A bookcase occupied one of the two unglassed walls, broken only by a doorway, and along the other were showcases containing models of boats.
Lu rose as Charlie entered, hurrying around his desk, hand outstretched, teeth glinting.
‘Welcome,’ he said, the hiss in his voice only just evident. ‘Welcome indeed.’
For how long? wondered Charlie.
The millionaire personally led him to a couch away from the desk, then sat down in a matching easy chair. He was a puppy-dog fat, polished sort of person, thought Charlie. But it was only surface plumpness. Beneath it he recognised a very hard man.
‘Some refreshment?’
‘No thank you,’ said Charlie.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Nothing.’
Charlie looked around the office again.
‘What is it?’ asked Lu.