Chesser stood when he saw them, an almost involuntary reaction. Although they didn’t acknowledge Chesser, they seemed to know he was there. Whiteman was getting the important treatment from Meecham and Sir Harold. Chesser overheard them commenting on the lunch they’d shared.
They passed close to Chesser. Whiteman’s eyes were aimed down, as though watching his shoes. They paused at the door. Whiteman touched his tie to verify that it was in place. Gray silk tie exactly matching a gray silk shirt. He made a remark about sherry. Meecham and Sir Harold laughed appropriately, and Meecham said he would see that Whiteman received some, a case, he said. Chesser thought it likely they were referring to a woman. Whiteman made Meecham promise. He extended his hand for two perfunctory shakes and was smiling when he went out.
Meecham and Sir Harold remained in place. Sir Harold was in his seventies, wore a suit of expensive worsted, black with an almost imperceptible blue broken stripe. In his youth his hair had been blond and his complexion English fair. Now what hair he had was a creamy-to-yellow shade, and his face was red from pressure, as though all the capillaries were trying to surface.
Meecham was a decade younger and about two inches taller. His mannerisms were sharp, alert, contradicting his rather indefinite, round features.
The two men spoke confidentially for a long moment. Sir Harold was faced away from Chesser, and Meecham was doing most of the talking. Once Meecham glanced over at Chesser, and that made Chesser feel he was their topic.
Finally, they came down the hall to him. They gave him automatic handshakes, first Meecham and then Sir Harold. Their hands felt dry and pulpy.
“Good to see you looking so fit,” said Meecham, smiling. “Been in the sun, I see.”
Chesser had a good tan from Nice.
“You’ve met Sir Harold before, I’m sure.”
Chesser said yes and would have said more but Sir Harold broke in. “Of course I know young Chesser.” The way he said it implied a compliment. “I knew your father very well,” he added.
Chesser knew that was a lie. His father had never been important enough to receive any close attention from The System’s director. Besides, Chesser remembered his father speaking of Sir Harold with only distant respect, as one might refer to a force rather than a living man. So Sir Harold’s next words were unexpected.
“Your father always wanted to have a store, I remember. A first-class place on Fifth Avenue.”
That was true.
“I suppose you continue his ambition?”
“Of course,” lied Chesser.
“He was a fine man,” said Sir Harold, with Meecham nodding concurrence. “Fine man,” Sir Harold repeated, his attention directed vaguely down the hall. It was now evident that Sir Harold had given more than he cared to this inconsequential meeting. Chesser was no Whiteman. Never would be. Sir Harold took the first step that started them down the hall together.
As they neared the stairs, Sir Harold moved from them toward what appeared to be a panel of blank wall. Immediately, as though anticipating his approach, the panel slid aside to reveal an elevator.
“Do see that young Chesser is cared for,” instructed Sir Harold without turning, and entered the elevator.
Meecham said that he would.
The wall panel wiped Sir Harold from view.
Going up the stairs, Meecham remarked, “Sir Harold seems genuinely fond of you.”
Chesser hoped he looked grateful.
“I’m surprised he didn’t inquire about Mrs. Chesser. Can be a nasty thing, divorce.”
Chesser had never discussed his divorce with anyone this side of the Atlantic except Maren. He assumed The System had learned about it the same way they learned everything, however that was.
Meecham continued: “They take divorce much too lightly in America. It’s a serious problem.”
“Actually, it’s a solution,” was Chesser’s opinion.
“How’s that?” asked Meecham.
“Like peace,” Chesser told him. “Peace is a solution, war is a problem.”
“You believe marriage is a war?”
“It can be.”
Meecham grunted. Disagreement, particularly coming from anyone of Chesser’s status, was insubordination. It wasn’t done. “Thank the Lord we make divorce more difficult in this country,” he said.
Chesser thought of Henry the Eighth’s chopping block and almost said it.
“No offense meant, of course,” said Meecham. “It’s only that I’ve a personal prejudice against it. Married people should stick it out together, no matter what.”
Chesser wondered how many demerit marks The System had on his ledger. As yet, Meecham hadn’t said anything about yesterday’s missed appointment.
By then they were on the second floor landing. Meecham led the way into a room that was used exclusively for sights. It was a huge, high room. A pair of black leather Chesterfield sofas formed a seating area at one end. The walls were impressively paneled. Underfoot was a Persian rug, an authentic Kirman. At the other end was a long, sturdy table. The entire top surface of the table was covered with black velour.
The table was positioned beneath a large window that permitted exact northern daylight. This was the light for the entire diamond industry, considered such a criterion that electric illumination of precisely the same quality had been invented for use in diamond centers throughout the world. And in some important places the window itself had been identically duplicated in proportion and position, to standardize the examination of diamonds.
Behind the table was a man whom Meecham called by his last name. Watts. Chesser had seen Watts before in this room, at previous sights. The way he stood, Watts seemed more a fixture than a person.
On the table’s black velour surface there was only one thing.
Chesser’s packet.
It wasn’t, as might be imagined, a parcel elaborately wrapped and tied. No special ribbon or paper. It was just an ordinary small manila envelope.
Meecham asked: “Would you care to look?”
Chesser wanted to decline but decided it might be in his favor if he didn’t. A show of interest. He took a seat at the table. Meecham went around to the opposite side and stood beside Watts, a position that allowed him to maintain his view of Chesser, from above and head on.
From his business case Chesser removed a loupe, ten-power, the type of glass most jewelers use. He placed it on the table and picked up his packet. He undid the flap and, rather ceremoniously, emptied its contents. Four squares of neatly folded tissue. He undid one. It contained five uncut stones of two to four carats.
Chesser picked up the largest and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He placed the loupe to his right eye and sighted into the stone, turning it for various angles. He saw that it was of excellent quality, good color, and had but a single carbon spot on one side, close enough to its perimeter. It would cut nicely.
“A beauty,” Chesser approved.
He opened the other three folds of tissue. He sighted into several stones and then a few more, choosing at random, small and larger. All the while his expression remained set, and he made no comment. Finally, he refolded the tissues around the stones and replaced them in the envelope.
On the underneath side of the envelope’s flap he saw the figure “17,000.” He didn’t react. He brought his look up and found Meecham’s eyes upon him. He read Meecham’s eyes. Superiority inviting defiance.
Chesser’s packet had never been valued at less than twenty-five thousand dollars. This time he’d been presented with as many stones as usual but, with only a few exceptions, these were of inferior quality. He had seen the flaws in them, the inclusions, the bubbles, clouds, and feathers. The System was punishing him. But he knew if he complained there would never be a next time.
He took some of the edge off the moment by nonchalantly dropping the loupe into his business case. He picked up his packet, gave the envelope an extra fold and dropped that in also.
“I assume you
’re satisfied?” asked Meecham.
A nod from Chesser, and a forced smile. He felt transparent, as though Meecham were sighting into him for imperfections.
“Watts will complete the transaction,” said Meecham. And with that he left the room.
Chesser was relieved by Meecham’s departure. It improved Chesser’s chances of making it out of there before erupting. He wrote out a bank draft for seventeen thousand. Watts gave him a receipt. Chesser knew it was probably Watts who had chosen those stones for his packet. Watts was in charge of grading, classifying the stones according to carat, color, and clarity. But he couldn’t blame Watts. Watts was only a salaried employee, not an officer of The System. Just doing what he was told.
Watts verified that, as he handed the receipt across to Chesser. In a guarded, low tone he said, sincerely, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Moments later Meecham, in his fourth-floor office, was using his absolutely private phone. After he dialed, and while the number was ringing, he moved to the window. He looked out at his most frequent view of London and did not really see the dome of St. Paul’s, which dominated the horizon. He glanced down to the street and saw Chesser getting into a Daimler.
Meecham was certain that Chesser was cursing him personally and thought that perhaps Chesser’s next packet should be even more of the same, for good measure. However, he had to admire Chesser’s restraint. He would have wagered against it. He watched the Daimler drive off, and realized the number he was calling had rung more than enough.
Perhaps she was out, he thought, or more likely she was busy. He disconnected and tried the number again. He must have dialed incorrectly before, because now she picked up on the second ring.
After hello’s, she said, “I thought it might be you, love.”
He was pleased. It meant she’d had him in mind.
“It’s been more than a week,” she said.
“I’ve been busy,” he said, not as convincingly as he might have.
“And you haven’t been behaving yourself, have you?”
“No.”
“You’re a bad one, you are.”
“Very.”
“You deserve something for being bad. Don’t you love?”
A yes, with calculated submission.
“I’ve got just the thing,” she promised.
He was tempted but remembered Whiteman and had to sacrifice. He quickly arranged it, gave her the details, and told her he would be responsible for her fee.
When he said good-bye, he said it softly and, for the first time in the conversation, he referred to her by name. Sherry.
After the call, Meecham thought he might make another, similar, for himself. He decided to put it off until he’d had a sauna. One thing for sure, he’d stay in town tonight. Go out to Hampshire in the morning. A half Saturday and all of a Sunday would be almost too much wife and country.
CHAPTER 3
CHESSER WAS at Heathrow Airport a half hour early. Information said BEA flight 36 from Paris would arrive as scheduled, not early as Chesser hoped. He went quickly to the upper level, his eagerness taking him.
He could have spent the time more comfortably distracted. There was a convenient bar. But he chose to wait standing at one of the large windows overlooking the dulled silver of planes receiving final service or being guided in. A flow of sibilant sound underscored the embraces he witnessed, the last of farewells and the first of welcomings.
Chesser and Maren had been apart only four days, but to him it seemed longer. Waiting, Chesser looked at his watch at least twice every minute and, finally, there was the black, crimson, and white of the BEA insignia on a plane taxiing in and swinging into position. He appreciated that plane. It was the one. Bringing her to him.
His eyes searched for the color of nutmeg. The shade of her hair. Viking hair, he called it. His insides did a catch when he saw it. She came out of the plane with eyes up, aimed precisely at him, as though she’d expected where he would be. She was wearing rich blue, ample-legged trousers and a soft shirt. Better for traveling. Among the other passengers in their wrinkled suits and dresses, she was outstanding, casually neat and fresh. She carried a Vuitton satchel. With her free hand she waved to Chesser. The wind chose that moment to take her hair across her face and she made no attempt to discipline it. That was very much like her.
He waited for her outside customs, a delay that seemed particularly cruel, as they were in sight of one another but not permitted closer. They gestured impatiently while she waited her turn in line. Then, oblivous to the public place, she came to him, against him full length. Without words, each reassured the other that everything was all right now.
When they arrived at the Connaught suite, she quickly unpacked, hung, and placed her things beside his. It seemed to him that she was decorating, dispersing loneliness. Even while she was in the bathroom putting her cosmetics and other personal necessities into proper transient place, he sat on the covered commode to observe her every movement. She did not stop to kiss him, knowing that if she did they would not stop, and, although the unpacking could have been done later, it served their mutual want with extra provocation.
When there was nothing more to unpack, she went to the window and gazed out toward Grosvenor Square. It was still daytime.
“Shall I order a drink?” Chesser asked.
Her reply was her hand on the drapery drawstring, pulling to make the room almost dark.
They never did their lovemaking in total darkness, for they also loved with their eyes. It helped each to know more surely of the other’s needs. She liked him to undress her, particularly the first time in a new place. As now. She stood and he knew. He didn’t hurry, proof of his control. And she didn’t assist, which demonstrated her total willingness.
Across the large bed, in the kind half-light, they loved slowly and confidently. Afterward, they closed their eyes and floated on, feeling together. Her head on his shoulder, strands of her hair across his chest, her right leg overlapping both of his. He heard her breathing change and knew she was asleep. He needed to get up for the bathroom but didn’t want to disturb her. Soon she shifted in her sleep, turned from him, and he had only to remove his arm from beneath her head to be free. He took care to be quiet. He didn’t even flush the commode.
He sat in a chair near the bed and smoked. She was now in her usual sleeping position—on her side with both legs drawn up symmetrically and her hands, palm to palm, contained between her thighs. Chesser enjoyed observing her while she was so completely unaware. He thought, possessively, how deceiving her body was. When she was dressed she appeared angular, fashionably attractive but very thin. It led one to estimate she would be too thin when undressed. But there for Chesser to see was the naked truth. She was small-boned and her body had ample flesh in proportion. Ideally distributed. Each part of her curved nicely, just enough to define transition to her next part. No studding hipbones, as might be expected. Instead, a soft, rising line of hip that dipped gradually and then deeply to form her waist.
Her skin was northern pale, all over. She was Swedish, born and raised in a remote place far north, nearly on the Arctic Circle. Her ancestors had protected themselves from the harsh elements, so her paleness was inherent. She loved the sun, but it was too strong for her, burned her quickly whenever she trusted it.
The impression she created with her lean body and pale skin was fragility, perhaps a lack of stamina. She appeared to be the sort of woman who needed sanctuary, who would be at her best when dependent, relating passively to a man. Little more.
Chesser had thought that when he first saw her.
He had soon discovered how actively she contradicted that impression. At Gstaad she skied dangerously fast but very well. At Deauville she chose to ride the most nervous and challenging horses. En route to Le Mans she handled her sports car with alarming abandon and admirable authority. Once, in Monaco, on a day when a heavy mistral kept all small craft within the breakwater, Maren insisted on going out to pilot a speedboa
t through swells deep as canyons. Chesser went along merely because he preferred to drown with her. The boat smashed against the ridges of blown sea with such impact that at times it was nearly vertical. Maren was stimulated, while Chesser, reasonably enough, hung on.
He preferred to believe that she wasn’t compulsive about it, that she didn’t need to go from one dangerous challenge right to another. She merely took the chances as they came, and when something involved risk she seemed to enjoy it more. So he told himself.
Chesser, at first, was amazed and amused by Maren’s unexpected agility and daring. But, as his love for her grew, he became alarmed. He considered her reckless, skillfully reckless he had to admit, but nonetheless reckless. The fear of losing her, the possibility of it, infected him. To taunt that possibility was foolish and thoughtless of her. He told her that; calmly accused her. In reply she told him that everyone was always competing against death for life.
They argued then, vehemently. Words such as stupid and coward were used as weapons, and they spent that night apart. Sleepless. The following day all that was needed for reconciliation was the sight of one another.
It taught Chesser not to restrain her.
She made a silent vow not to take so many chances, for his sake.
However, it didn’t stop Chesser from wondering why Maren found danger so fascinating. Was it something left over from Jean Marc? Or had it always been there? He concluded the latter was most likely. It had probably been a mutual quality, one of the attractions that had brought Maren and Jean Marc together. Surely it was the cause of their violent severance. Jean Marc crushed beneath the overturned Lotus, instantly dead at four in the morning on a wet road of the Bois de Boulogne. It was assumed that Jean Marc, the husband, had been the driver. Maren, the wife, was thrown clear and suffered only minor injuries. But she was hurt, indelibly, by it. Jean Marc had been very young and very rich. Maren’s great beauty and youth were her equally important contributions. They had plenty of everything to spend together, until they gambled it all at once on a slick corner, taking it too fast for some extra exhilaration, just not matching that turn with a good enough turn.
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