It took her a moment to absorb what was said. She asked, “How is he?”
“In bad shape. No sense fooling you.” The young paramedic had injected a quarter grain of morphine subcutaneously. He had a blood-pressure cuff in place and now was sloshing water on Miles’s face. Miles was semiconscious and, despite the morphine, moaning in pain. All the time the steward went on talking. “He’s in shock. That can kill him, if the burns don’t. This water’s to wash the acid away, though it’s late. As to his eyes, I wouldn’t want … Say, what the hell happened in there?”
Juanita shook her head, not wanting to waste time and effort in talk. She reached out, seeking to touch Miles, even through the blanket covering him. Tears filled her eyes. She pleaded, uncertain she was being heard, “Forgive me! Oh, forgive me!”
“He your husband?” the steward asked. He began putting splints, secured by cotton bandages, around Miles’s hands.
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes.” The tears were flowing faster. Was she still his friend? Need she have betrayed him? Here and now she wanted forgiveness, just as he had once asked forgiveness of her—it seemed long ago, though it was not. She knew it was no use.
“Hold this,” the steward said. He placed a mask over Miles’s face and handed her a portable oxygen bottle. She heard a hiss as the oxygen went on and grasped the bottle as if, through her touch, she could communicate, as she had wanted to communicate ever since they had found Miles, unconscious, bleeding, burned, still nailed to the table in the house.
Juanita and Nolan Wainwright had followed the federal agents and local police into the big gray mansion, Wainwright having held her back until he made sure there was not going to be any shooting. There had been none; not even any resistance apparently, the people inside having decided they were outflanked and outnumbered.
It was Wainwright, his face more strained than she had ever seen it, who carefully, as gently as he could, pried loose the nails and released Miles’s mangled hands. Dalrymple, ashen, cursing softly, held Eastin while, one by one, the nails came out. Juanita had been vaguely aware of other men, who had been in the house, lined up and handcuffed, but she hadn’t cared. When the ambulance came she stayed close to the stretcher brought for Miles. She followed it out and into the ambulance. No one tried to stop her.
Now she began praying. The words came readily; words from long ago … Acordaos, oh piadosísima Virgen Mariá … that never was it known that anyone who fed to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired by that confidence I fly unto you …
Something the ambulance steward had said, but she hadn’t taken in, played back in her subconscious. Miles’s eyes. They were burned with the remainder of his face. Her voice trembled. “Will he be blind?”
“The specialists will have to answer that. Soon’s we get to Emergency he’ll get the best treatment. There isn’t a lot more I can do right here.”
Juanita thought: there wasn’t anything she could do either. Except to stay with Miles, as she would, with love and devotion for as long as he wanted and needed her. That, and pray … ¡Oh Virgen Madre de las vírgines! … To thee I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions but hear and answer me. Amen.
Some colonnaded buildings flashed by. “We’re almost there,” the steward said. He had his fingers on Miles’s pulse. “He’s still alive—”
24
In the fifteen days since official investigation was begun by the SEC into the labyrinthine finances of Supranational, Roscoe Heyward had prayed for a miracle to avert total catastrophe. Heyward himself attended meetings with other SuNatCo creditors, their objective to keep the multinational giant operating and viable if they could. It had proven impossible. The more deeply investigators probed, the worse the financial debacle appeared. It seemed probable, too, that criminal charges of fraud would eventually be laid against some of Supranational’s officers, including G. G. Quartermain, assuming Big George could ever be enticed back from his Costa Rica hideaway—at the moment an unlikely prospect.
Therefore, in early November, a petition of bankruptcy under Section 77 of the Bankruptcy Act was filed on behalf of Supranational Corporation. Though it had been expected and feared, the immediate repercussions were worldwide. Several large creditors, as well as associated companies and many individuals, were considered likely to go down the drain along with SuNatCo. Whether First Mercantile American Bank would be one of them, or if the bank could survive its enormous loss, was still an open question.
No longer an open question—as Heyward fully realized—was the subject of his own career. At FMA, as the author of the greatest calamity in the bank’s one-hundred-year history, he was virtually finished. What remained at issue was whether he, personally, would be legally liable under regulations of the Federal Reserve, the Comptroller of the Currency, and the SEC. Obviously, there were those who thought so. Yesterday, an SEC official, whom Heyward knew well, advised him, “Roscoe, as a friend, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer.”
In his office, soon after the opening of the business day, Heyward’s hands trembled as he read The Wall Street Journal’s page one story on the Supranational bankruptcy petition. He was interrupted by his senior secretary, Mrs. Callaghan. “Mr. Heyward—Mr. Austin is here.”
Without waiting to be told, Harold Austin hurried in. In contrast to his normal role, the aging playboy today merely looked an overdressed old man. His face was drawn, serious, and pale; pouches beneath his eyes were rings of age and lack of sleep.
He wasted no time in preliminaries. “Have you heard anything from Quartermain?”
Heyward motioned to the Journal. “Only what I read.” In the past two weeks he had tried several times to telephone Big George in Costa Rica, without success. The SuNatCo chairman was staying incommunicado. Reports filtering out described him as living in feudal splendor, with a small army of thugs to guard him, and said he had no intention, ever, of returning to the United States. It was accepted that Costa Rica would not respond to U.S. extradition proceedings, as other swindlers and fugitives had already proved.
“I’m going down the tube,” the Honorable Harold said. His voice was close to breaking. “I put the family trust heavily into SuNatCo and I’m in hock myself for money I raised to buy Q-Investments.”
“What about Q-Investments?”
Heyward had tried to find out earlier the status of Quartermain’s private group which owed two million dollars to FMA in addition to the fifty million owing by Supranational.
“You mean you didn’t hear?”
Heyward flared, “If I did, would I be asking?”
“I found out last night from Inchbeck. That son of a bitch Quarter-main sold out all Q-Investments holdings—mostly stock in SuNatCo subsidiaries—when the group share prices were at their peak. There must have been a swimming pool full of cash.”
Including FMA’s two million, Heyward thought. He asked, “What happened to it?”
“The bastard transferred everything into offshore shell companies of his own, then moved the money out of them, so all Q-Investments is left with is shares in the shells—just worthless paper.” To Heyward’s disgust, Austin began to blubber. “The real money … my money … could be in Costa Rica, the Bahamas, Switzerland … Roscoe, you’ve got to help me get it back … Otherwise I’m finished … broke.”
Heyward said tersely, “There’s no way I can help you, Harold.” He was worried enough about his own part in Q-Investments without concerning himself with Austin’s.
“But if you hear anything new … if there’s any hope …”
“If there is, I’ll let you know.”
As quickly as he could, Heyward eased Austin out of the office. He had no sooner gone than Mrs. Callaghan said on the intercom, “There’s a reporter calling from Newsday. His name is Endicott. It’s about Supranational and he says it’s important that he speak to you personally
.”
“Tell him I have nothing to say, and to call the p.r. department.” Heyward remembered Dick French’s admonition to the senior officers: The press will try to contact you individually … refer every caller to me. At least that was one burden he need not bear.
Moments later he heard Dora Callaghan’s voice again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Heyward.”
“What is it?”
“Mr. Endicott is still on the line. He asked me to say to you: Do you wish him to discuss Miss Avril Deveraux with the p.r. department, or would you prefer to talk about her yourself?”
Heyward snatched up a phone. “What is all this?”
“Good morning, sir,” a quiet voice said. “I apologize for disturbing you. This is Bruce Endicott of Newsday.”
“You told my secretary …”
“I told her, sir, that I thought there were some things you’d prefer me to check with you personally, rather than lay them out for Dick French.”
Was there a subtle emphasis on the word “lay”? Heyward wasn’t sure. He said, “I’m extremely busy. I can spare a few minutes, that’s all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Heyward. I’ll be as brief as I can. Our paper has been doing some investigating of Supranational Corporation. As you know, there’s a good deal of public interest and we’re running a major story on the subject tomorrow. Among other things, we’re aware of the big loan to SuNatCo by your bank. I’ve talked to Dick French about that.”
“Then you have all the information you need.”
“Not quite, sir. We understand from other sources that you personally negotiated the Supranational loan, and there’s a question of when the subject first came up. By that I mean when did SuNatCo first ask for the money? Do you happen to remember?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I deal with many large loans.”
“Surely not too many for fifty million dollars.”
“I think I already answered your question.”
“I wonder if I could help, sir. Could it have been on a trip to the Bahamas in March? A trip you were on with Mr. Quartermain, Vice-President Stonebridge, and some others?”
Heyward hesitated. “Yes, it might have been.”
“Could you say definitely that it was?” The reporter’s tone was deferential, but it was clear he would not be put off with evasive answers.
“Yes, I remember now. It was.”
“Thank you, sir. On that particular trip, I believe, you traveled in Mr. Quartermain’s private jet—a 707?”
“Yes.”
“With a number of young lady escorts.”
“I’d hardly say they were escorts. I vaguely recall several stewardesses being aboard.”
“Was one of them Miss Avril Deveraux? Did you meet her then, and also in the several days which followed in the Bahamas?”
“I may have done. The name you mentioned seems familiar.”
“Mr. Heyward, forgive me for putting it this way, but was Miss Deveraux offered to you—sexually—in return for your sponsorship of the Supranational loan?”
“Certainly not!” Heyward was sweating now, the hand holding the telephone shaking. He wondered how much this smooth-voiced inquisitor really knew. Of course, he could end the conversation here and now; perhaps he should, though if he did he would go on wondering, not knowing.
“But did you, sir, as a result of that trip to the Bahamas, form a friendship with Miss Deveraux?”
“I suppose you could call it that. She is a pleasant, charming person.”
“Then you do remember her?”
He had walked into a trap. He conceded, “Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. By the way, have you met Miss Deveraux subsequently?”
The question was asked casually. But this man Endicott knew. Trying to keep a tremor out of his voice, Heyward insisted, “I’ve answered all the questions I intend to. As I told you, I’m extremely busy.”
“As you wish, sir. But I think I should tell you that we’ve talked with Miss Deveraux and she’s been extremely co-operative.”
Extremely co-operative? Avril would be, Heyward thought. Especially if the newspaper paid her, and he supposed they had. But he felt no bitterness toward her; Avril was what she was, and nothing could ever change the sweetness she had given him.
The reporter was continuing. “She’s supplied details of her meetings with you and we have some of the Columbia Hilton hotel bills—your bills, which Supranational paid. Do you wish to reconsider your statement, sir, that none of that had anything to do with the loan from First Mercantile American Bank to Supranational?”
Heyward was silent. What could he say? Confound all newspapers and writers, their obsession with invading privacy, their eternal digging, digging! Obviously someone inside SuNatCo had been induced to talk, had filched or copied papers. He remembered something Avril had said about “the list”—a confidential roster of those who could be entertained at Supranational’s expense. For a while, his own name had been on it. Probably they had that information, too. The irony, of course, was that Avril had not in any way influenced his decision about the SuNatCo loan. He had made up his mind to recommend it long before involvement with her. But who would believe him?
“There’s just one other thing, sir.” Endicott obviously assumed there would be no answer to the last question. “May I ask about a private investment company called Q-Investments? To save time, I’ll tell you we’ve managed to get copies of some of the records and you are shown as holding two thousand shares. Is that correct?”
“I have no comment to make.”
“Mr. Heyward, were those shares given to you as a payoff for arranging the Supranational loan, and further loans totaling two million dollars to Q-Investments?”
Without speaking, Roscoe Heyward slowly hung up the phone.
Tomorrow’s newspaper. That was what the caller had said. They would print it all, since obviously they had the evidence, and what one newspaper initiated, the rest of the media would repeat. He had no illusions, no doubts about what would follow. One newspaper story, one reporter, meant disgrace—total, absolute. Not only at the bank, but among friends, family. At his church, elsewhere. His prestige, influence, pride would be dissolved; for the first time he realized what a fragile mask they were. Even worse was the certainty of criminal prosecution for accepting bribes, the likelihood of other charges, the probability of prison.
He had sometimes wondered how the once-proud Nixon henchmen felt, brought low from their high places to be criminally charged, fingerprinted, stripped of dignity, judged by jurors whom not long before they would have treated with contempt. Now he knew. Or shortly would.
A quotation from Genesis came to him: My punishment is greater than I can bear.
A telephone rang on his desk. He ignored it. There was nothing more to be done here. Ever.
Almost without knowing it, he rose and walked out of the office, past Mrs. Callaghan who regarded him strangely and asked a question which he neither absorbed nor would have answered if he had. He walked down the 36th floor corridor, past the boardroom, so short a time ago an arena for his own ambitions. Several people spoke to him. He took no notice of them. Not far beyond the boardroom was a small door, seldom used. He opened it. There were stairs going upward and he ascended them, through several flights and turns, climbing steadily, neither hurrying nor pausing on the way.
Once, when FMA Headquarters Tower was new, Ben Rosselli had brought his executives this way. Heyward was one of them, and they had exited by another small door, which he could see ahead. Heyward opened it and went out, onto a narrow balcony almost at the building’s peak, high above the city.
A raw November wind struck him with blustering force. He leaned against it and found it somehow reassuring, as if enfolding him. It was on that other occasion, he remembered, that Ben Rosselli had held out his arms toward the city and said: “Gentlemen, what was once here was my grandfather’s promised land. What you see today is ours. Remember—as he did—that to profit in the truest sense, w
e must give to it, as well as take.” It seemed long ago, in precept as well as time. Now Heyward looked downward. He could see smaller buildings, the winding, omnipresent river, traffic, people moving like ants on Rosselli Plaza far below. The sounds of them all came to him, muted and blended, on the wind.
He put a leg over the waist-high railing, separating the balcony from a narrow, unprotected ledge. His second leg followed. Until this moment he had felt no fear, but now all of his body trembled with it, and his hands grasped the railing at his back tightly.
Somewhere behind him he heard agitated voices, feet racing on the stairs. Someone shouted, “Roscoe!”
His last thought but one was a line from I Samuel: Go, and the Lord be with thee. The very last was of Avril. O thou fairest among women … Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away …
Then, as figures burst through the door behind him, he closed his eyes and stepped forward into the void.
25
There were a handful of days in your life, Alex Vandervoort thought, which, as long as you breathed and remembered anything, would stay sharply and painfully engraved in memory. The day—little more than a year ago—on which Ben Rosselli announced his impending death was one. Today would be another.
It was evening. At home in his apartment, Alex—still shocked from what had happened earlier, uncertain and dispirited—was waiting for Margot. She would be here soon. He mixed himself a second scotch and soda and tossed a log on the fire, which had burned low.
This morning he had been first through the door to the high tower balcony, having raced up the stairs after hearing worry expressed about Heyward’s state of mind and deducing—from swift questioning of others—where Roscoe might have gone. Alex had cried out as he hurled himself through the doorway into the open, but was too late.
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