“A couple of weeks after I got back from Florida, David came to see me. He was in one of his elated moods, when he could make you believe nothing was beyond him. He had an idea. A good one, he persuaded me. We could go to Lazenby and make a deal with him. We could offer to break ranks with the others and publicly contradict them. Dispute their predictions and say Globescope had behaved impeccably throughout. That would effectively kill the story. In exchange, we would require Lazenby to finance the establishment of HYDRA. It would cost him several million dollars, but that would be a fair price to pay for preserving Globescope’s reputation.” Hammelgaard glanced round at Harry. “Perhaps you think I should have turned him down there and then. But there was our dream, you see. A dream suddenly made attainable. With an elegant justification built in. Access to hyper-dimensional powers might help to solve many of the problems that Project Sybil had shown the future held. Whereas the reaction to the Globescope story when it broke might be just as ineffectual as all those other high-sounding appeals to safeguard the planet. Remember the Earth Summit? Long-term achievements nil. What made David’s idea so hard to resist was that it made sense. We could waste our lives applying for funds to this worthy body and that. There would never be enough to set up an institution that would actually work, actually succeed. Whereas, with the kind of money Lazenby could tap into… We’d be doing our friends a favour, David argued. In the end, they’d thank us. Around the same time as we won the Nobel Prize for Physics.”
They reached the harbour side road and turned left, still following the floodlit ramparts of Christiansborg. For a minute or so, neither of them spoke. Harry felt sick and fuddled, sated with knowledge, much of which he would have preferred not to possess. A peril-strewn future. And friendship betrayed by his own son. For the sake of half a chance, maybe less, of discovering something Harry had not the slightest hope of ever understanding. Yet something took the edge off his gloom, something he could never have brought himself to admit. The score was closer between him and David now. Condemnation and forgiveness were owed on both sides.
“We should have told the others. We should have consulted them first. It would have worked equally well as a put-up job. But we were afraid they’d veto the idea. Donna disagreed strongly with David’s theories about hyper-dimensional capability in the brain. And none of the others really understood them. It was too risky to seek their agreement. We decided to keep them in the dark.”
“You went to Lazenby together?”
“Yes. At the end of August.”
“What did he say?”
“He agreed to our terms. There was a lot of bluff and bluster, but eventually he caved in. Or so we thought. It’s obvious to me now he was just buying time. He wasn’t prepared to be blackmailed. Or to risk exposure. He decided to apply the ultimate sanction. To pick us off one by one. That has to be it. There’s no other possible explanation. I don’t know how they arranged David’s overdose. The circumstances sounded entirely accidental. I certainly believed it was an accident. But when Gerard died, then Marvin, I realized what was happening. We were being eliminated. The threat we posed was being neutralized. The others thought the same. I flew to New York with Donna. We met with Rawnsley and Makepeace at a hotel near the airport and agreed we’d have to go into hiding until we could finish our work on Sybil Two. Without David, Gerard and Marvin, it could never be as wide-ranging as before, but there was nothing else we could do. Accusing Lazenby of commissioning murders would get us nowhere if we couldn’t put forward a plausible motive.”
“But you didn’t stay with them?”
“No. I said I’d prefer to work alone. I said they’d find it easier to hide without a Dane for company. But that was just an excuse. I sound as American as the next guy on the subway. I couldn’t have stuck with them, though. Not knowing all the time that I was partly responsible for the situation we were in. I had to get away. To think the problem through. To find a solution.”
“And have you found one?”
“Maybe. As I see it, our only hope is to strike back. To cut the ground from under Lazenby’s feet.”
“How?”
That’s where the message comes in, Harry. The one you’ve agreed to carry.”
“You’d better tell me what it is.”
“If it works, you won’t just be repairing the damage David caused. You’ll be avenging what was done to him. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I’ve said I’ll do it.”
“All right. But remember. It’s dangerous. The insulin overdose. The Metro accident. The faulty heating system. Whoever set those up is patient and resourceful. I have no way of anticipating what they may try next. Nothing’s happened in over a month. They’re waiting for us to show ourselves.”
“But you won’t be showing yourself. I will.”
“You’re wrong. We have to distract their attention to give you a reasonable chance of success. As soon as you’re on your way, I shall contact Lazenby and tell him I want to speak to him. Here. In Copenhagen.”
“You expect him to agree?”
“No. I expect him to send his people after me. While they’re chasing me round this city I know so much better than they do, you’ll be delivering a message to my friends. Unobserved.” He chuckled. “With any luck.”
They had left Christiansborg behind now and were about to pass under one of the bridges spanning the harbour. Hammelgaard nodded at the steps leading up onto the bridge and turned towards them. “What if they get to you before your friends get to them?” asked Harry.
“Then it’s god That, K0benhavn. This really is the only way out, Harry. I’ve spent the past month trying to think of an easy answer. There isn’t one.” They reached the bridge and started across it, the wind tugging at Harry’s hair and sloshing the water at the piers beneath them. “This is Knippelsbro. The other side is Christianshavn. We part here. Come back this time tomorrow -one a.m. and wait at the top of the steps. I’ll tell you then what arrangements I’ve made to get you to the States. If I reckon it’s too risky to come myself, I’ll send a friend. Olaf Jensen. Tall and thin as a lamppost, with a ginger beard. Difficult to miss. You can trust him.”
They came to the middle of the bridge and stopped. Hammelgaard leant against the railings and gazed down into the harbour. He stayed like that for several seconds, saying nothing. Then Harry broke the silence. “What’s the message, Torben?”
“Sorry. You’re right. We mustn’t waste time. Tell Donna and the others everything I’ve told you. Then add this. When David and I went to see Lazenby, I was wired. A state of the art high-resolution micro-recorder. We wanted evidence of whatever Lazenby agreed to, you see. And we got it. But Lazenby’s always more suspicious than you reckon possible. He insisted we be searched before leaving. I knew they’d find the tape, of course. So, while we were waiting for Fredericks, the head of security, I disconnected the recorder, slipped it out of my pocket and stuffed it down the side of the chair. They’ll remember those huge squashy armchairs in Lazenby’s office. It was the one nearest the window. Down by the right arm. The recorder’s no bigger than a box of matches. It was safe there. I hoped to be able to retrieve it later. The microphone was inside a pen, which on its own didn’t arouse any suspicion. But we were shown the door straight after Fredericks had frisked us, so I had to leave the recorder where it was. There should be enough on the tape to make some kind of case against Lazenby. Even if it doesn’t stand up in court, it’ll ruin him. And that’s the only way to stop him now.”
That’s it?”
“Yes. I don’t know how they can lay their hands on the cassette, but they have to. It’s ‘
“A recording you’ve never listened to? Hidden in an armchairl Lazenby may have found it and destroyed it by now. It may not have been working properly, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not likely to have been found,” said Hammelgaard calmly. “And I made sure it was working before we went. It’s a recording of everything said, up to the moment of disconnection, by David, L
azenby and me in Lazenby’s office at Globescope on the afternoon of August twenty-ninth. Project Sybil. HYDRA. The whole deal. Everything. We spoke candidly, I can assure you. Very candidly. The recording won’t leave any room for doubt. It’ll destroy Lazenby.”
“It’s still there, If it can be retrieved.”
“It’s if against when, Harry. If you can pull this off. Against when they track us down. Take your pick.”
“But I already have, haven’t I? I’ve already agreed to go.”
“I can’t force you to honour that agreement. Walking away from this may still be an option. For you, anyway.”
“But not for you and the others. And not for David.”
“No. Not for us.”
“Then I seem to have no choice.”
“You’ll be here tomorrow night?”
“Yes. I’ll be here.”
Hammelgaard stared at him for a moment, his expression indecipherable in the darkness. Then he said: “Thank you, Harry. This means a lot. And not just to me.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Good. Worried men make good messengers.”
“How do I deliver the message?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow. I have a lot of arranging to do.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. And one more thing. About David’s notebooks. I assume they were taken in case they contain references to Project Sybil. It’s not likely they do. They’re actually a record of his hyper-dimensional work. Of no possible interest to Globescope. A precaution on their part, we must suppose. But it’s puzzling. Why go to such lengths to fake the circumstances of an accidental or suicidal overdose, then spoil it all with a pointless theft?”
“It doesn’t seem to have aroused much suspicion.”
“No. Except mine. Nothing was taken from Gerard or Marvin, but they would have had papers about them as well. Gerard carried a lap-top with him wherever he went. It was found intact on the Metro platform after he fell under the train. Why not take that too as a precaution?”
“Because there were witnesses?”
“Maybe. Maybe that’s it.”
“Iris thought David might have left the notebooks in Washington, but Dr. Tilson ‘
“Confirmed they were with him. I know. That’s what…” Hammelgaard lowered his voice still further. “Listen to me, Harry. This has no bearing on anything else. We’ll keep it personal between us, OK? Iris gave me the keys to David’s house in Washington. In case I wanted to check for the notebooks. I didn’t, of course. It would have been too risky. Anyway, Dr. Tilson had already told me I wouldn’t find them there. But there might be other papers other records of his most recent work. He was close to a breakthrough. Anything that can be salvaged could be … hugely significant. When this is all over, I want you to go there and remove all the disks and documents you can find. Everything. Then take it to Dr. Tilson. She might appreciate its importance. I’m not sure anyone else will. Here are the keys.” He grasped Harry’s hand and pressed three keys held on a ring into his palm. “Don’t lose them.”
“Why not search the house yourself? Like you say when this is all over.” But Harry knew the reason. He knew it as surely as Hammelgaard.
“Just do it, Harry. As soon as it’s safe. The tape will destroy David’s reputation along with Lazenby’s. Don’t let everything he achieved be destroyed as well. He was close. He was nearly there. He was on the brink of history.”
“He might still be able to carry on the work, you know. In person.”
“A fine hope, Harry. A father’s hope.” Hammelgaard stood upright and glanced around. Time to go. No more to be said. Here. Twenty-four hours from now. You will come, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Till then, lie low.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Harry.” Hammelgaard shook his hand firmly. “Held og lykke.” Then, catching his frown, he added: “I’m wishing us both luck.” With that, he turned and walked swiftly away across the bridge, without once looking back. Harry watched him go, then lit a cigarette and smoked it through, standing on the bridge above the dark plashing water, letting nicotine and solitude slow the turmoil of his thoughts. Till he too was ready to walk away, weary and confused, sure of nothing except his promise to return.
EIGHTEEN
Friday was cold and grey in Copenhagen. Harry wandered its wintry streets, trying not to think about the foolhardy mission he had agreed to undertake. Which proved possible, but only at the expense of surrendering to the tug of a comfortless memory.
Lindos, August 1988. The beach as crowded as the town. A burning sun striking the white roofs like a hammer. Every bar packed, every craft shop crammed. Noise and heat and too much jostling humanity. At the Taverna Silenou, Harry was more than a little drunk. Wisely, Kostas had told him to go home and sleep it off: absent waiters were better than inebriated ones. Taking his resentful leave, Harry had fallen into flirtatious conversation with a Danish girl. What about he could not remember. Nor could he remember the exact sequence of subsequent events. He thought he might have tripped on a chair-leg, but it could as easily have been a deliberately extended human foot. Either way, his hand, flailing for support, had ended up grabbing the front of the girl’s loosely buttoned blouse, ripping it open as he toppled to one side. He had already noticed she was not wearing a bra. Now everybody else noticed as well. The resulting scene blouse buttons flying, breasts bouncing, Danish voice shrieking, faces staring, arms restraining was a merciful haze. It was only the following day that Kostas had told him how seriously the girl had threatened to report him to the police for indecent assault; her companions had evidently dissuaded her.
Ah yes, her companions. There had been two men sitting at her table. That much Harry could recall. But his memory could dredge up no details of their appearance. They seemed now in his mind’s eye to be obscured by the sort of shimmering blur deployed in television interviews for the benefit of spies and super grasses He knew who they were, of course. He had met them both since. But still he would have liked to be able to form a distinct picture of them that day. Of one of them, anyway. The one he could only otherwise envisage as a motionless figure in a hospital bed. The son he had met and probably spoken to without realizing it; who had seen him, red-faced and barely coherent, clinging to the trunk of a fig tree as he offered a fuddled apology along with an unconvincing denial; who had studied him and judged him and gone on his way unannounced.
Three months later, shadowed by a far more serious allegation, his pleas of innocence once again disbelieved, Harry had left Rhodes, never to return. But the circularities of life wound him in as they had before. It was only in the physical sense that he had not returned. In the same sense, he had not visited the Yenning house in Swindon since the summer of 1960. But memory was a traveller who acknowledged no barriers. And whose journeyings could not be avoided. So to the Taverna Silenou and Iris Venning’s bed his thoughts slipped back with disconcerting ease as the Copenhagen day wore on. Somebody should have told him they really should how complicated life becomes the more there is of it to look back on. How complicated and how intractable. By mid-afternoon he had consumed enough Julebryg to guarantee a few hours’ sleep before a long and unpredictable night began. He went back to the Kong Knud actively looking forward to the escape from remembrance slumber would provide.
It was a twin-bedded room, an arrangement he distrusted on account of some superstitious saying of his mother that to sleep in a room with another made-up bed in it was unlucky. He had actually gone to the lengths of stripping the other bed his first night there, only for the slatternly chambermaid to make such a fuss that he had decided to ignore his mother’s advice. Not for the first time, he came to regret it.
It seemed to him that he woke at dusk and, rolling over to look towards the window, saw the shape of a human figure beneath the other bedspread, lying supine and inert, like a corpse beneath its shroud. It seemed to him that, gripped by horror, he rose, crossed the ro
om, reached out and grasped the edge of the bedspread, then pulled it back to expose…
Nothing. He was awake, staring down at an un dented pillow and undisturbed sheets, his heart pounding, his face bathed in sweat. He stumbled to the window and threw it open, leaning out to breathe the cold unhaunted air. NON-STOP SEX, the neon sign blinked at him from the other side of the street. STRIP AROUND THE CLOCK. Night had fallen in the real world. Darkness had welcomed him back. Death was only a dream.
A capacity audience comprising several hundred Danish teenagers plus Harry watched the late-night showing of Natural Born Killers at the Palads Cinema. Harry felt perversely grateful for being sickened by such a wallow in pointless violence. It at least distracted him from anxious anticipation of his 1 a.m. appointment on Knippelsbro.
He wandered along Stroget, forced down some coffee in a bar, then made his way to the harbour. It was still some minutes short of one o’clock when he reached the foot of the steps leading up onto the bridge. But it was better to be early than late. Glancing up at the parapet, he thought he saw a figure leaning on the railings, looking down at him. It was too dark to tell if it was Hammelgaard. He raised his hand cautiously and the figure moved instantly back out of sight. Suddenly anxious for no definable reason, Harry ran up the steps two at a time. At the top, he had to stop to recover his breath. But he had got there fast enough to be sure of seeing the figure, whoever it was and whichever direction it had been heading in. Yet there was nobody on the bridge. Nobody approaching him or retreating. Nobody at all.
He was trembling as he fumbled for a cigarette. Cursing his nerves, he wedged a Karelia Sertika between his lips and struck a match. Only to be seized by a conviction very close to a visual certainty that somebody was standing beside him. He whirled round to confront nothing but thick cold air. The match blew out. And the box slipped from his grasp. He made a grab for it as it struck the railings, but succeeded only in stubbing his thumb against a bar. The box bounced through and vanished. Then, a few seconds later, came a dismal plop as it hit the water. Thanks a lot,” he muttered. That’s all I need.” In an irritated spasm, he snatched the cigarette from his mouth and flung it in after the matches, then instantly regretted doing so. Hammelgaard would probably have a light.
Out of the Sun Page 11
