In his eyes, the landscape had now taken on the sort of pliancy and suggestiveness usually reserved for passing clouds. Its wild plasticity was checked by the narrow choice of forms that it conjured up. Dunbar saw only a series of crouching animals, often piebald with snow, their heads rearing up, their mouths jutting forward, their limbs extended in spurs, or planted underground to give their assault a more deadly impetus. Over to his left was one of Cerberus’s monstrous heads, which might be woken by the clatter of a loose stone, or the thud of a falling body. The rounded back of his serpent’s tail, pretending to be a hill, disappeared a few hundred yards away but might surface at any moment under Dunbar’s bruised feet. The spurs jutting out from the mountain to his right were the outstretched limbs of a Sphinx, its claws embedded in the earth. He didn’t dare look behind him at the open jaws of the white-backed wolf waiting for a final surge in the fluidity of the rock to leap forward and tear out his throat. He really must get to Simon’s farmhouse hidden round the bend of this crumbling hill, round the bend in this devouring landscape. He hoped that Simon knew what he was doing and wasn’t misleading him in some way. He seemed oddly silent today. Mind you, people often fell silent around him, even presidents and prime ministers. They were waiting, hoping for his benediction: “I had my doubts about your government, Maggie, until you started shooting terrorists in the back…I understand your strategy, Mr. President, and you can count on our support…I’m afraid all you’ve achieved, Bernanke, is to turn a private debt crisis into a public debt crisis.”
“Hang on!” said Dunbar, suddenly thrown out of his reverie and flushed with panic, “can you hear that thudding in the air? Quickly! Run!”
He let go of Simon’s shoulder and started to totter forward as fast as his excruciated legs would allow him, heading toward the nearest boulder that he might be able to hide behind. Helicopter gunships were on their way, their side doors open, their mounted machine guns ready. To them he would look like just another Vietcong sympathizer or Taliban insurgent whose back should be streaked with gunfire, sliced open from kidney to shoulder. A strange energy took over Dunbar’s decrepit body, a kind of ecstatic terror that made him feel that he was vaulting over the sometimes stony and sometimes sodden ground. The sound was growing stronger and he wasn’t sure where the helicopters were by the time he reached the boulder. As the roaring machine swept overhead, he crouched down with his back against the rock and his head between his knees, praying that he had not been seen.
—
Although he had managed to fall asleep toward dawn, Dr. Bob had almost immediately been woken by rage and anxiety at the thought of his imperiled pension scheme. With three nights of acute insomnia in succession, his thinking was full of sheer falls, downward spirals, and flitting ghosts. He had already betrayed Dunbar, and then betrayed the daughters with whom he had betrayed Dunbar, but now he had been out-betrayed by Cogniccenti. His financial security was under threat, his Machiavellian pride wounded, and his mind caught between the contradictory but equally turbulent currents of tiredness and aggression. The only thing he knew with any certainty was that he must do something twisted, more twisted than his thoroughly twisted opponents, but the details proved surprisingly hard to work out.
He had already concluded that it was too dangerous to betray Cogniccenti through Abby and Meg, since it would be impossible to disguise the fact that he had intended to betray them. Improvising a little wildly, he thought he might help Florence to find her father first and then get an anonymous message to her that the Dunbar Trust was under threat from Unicom. The old man could rally the troops, somehow. In any case, the Board would screw up Cogniccenti’s plans, and undermine Abby and Meg, for whom he now had such a resolute loathing that, whatever happened, he was determined that they should fail.
Looking out of the window of the King’s Head dining room, Dr. Bob spotted George, the faithful retainer who annoyed Abby with his solicitous and respectful questions about her father. He had been Dunbar’s driver, whenever he was in Europe, for over thirty years and could easily be persuaded to do anything that was presented as being in the old man’s best interests.
—
“Can you hear me?” said Chris through the microphone on his headset.
Florence smiled and nodded.
“Okay, so the pilot is talking on a different circuit and we can have a private conversation. If he needs to talk to us, he’ll warn us.”
“Great,” said Florence, “because I don’t want anyone except us to know what I arranged with Jim. It could get him into trouble.”
“Understood,” said Chris. “Be discreet with your phone because the pilot can’t technically allow you to use it, although it doesn’t interfere with the navigation.”
Florence nodded again and reached out for Chris’s hand.
Their helicopter swayed backward slightly as it lifted off the hotel lawn and then swooped forward in a curving path over the lake.
—
Luckily Kevin and J were too busy bickering to notice what Jim thought he had seen. He couldn’t take the risk of going back to check before texting the coordinates to Florence. He had agreed to give her a five-minute start.
—
“Do you know a place called Adam’s Hough?” said Chris to the pilot.
“He can’t hear you,” Florence reminded him.
“Right,” said Chris, smiling and tapping the pilot on the shoulder.
“I’ll contact the police,” said Florence.
Chris nodded and made a sign to the pilot to turn on his headphones.
—
“Come on. Let’s go,” said Abby, clapping her hands at Dr. Bob as she swept through the dining room. Meg was behind her, wearing dark glasses and yawning. “Jim has texted me saying that Daddy has been spotted.”
“At last, some good news,” said Dr. Bob, following the sisters to the front of the hotel.
“Take us to Adam’s Hough,” said Abby to George, as she got into the Range Rover.
“And don’t spare the horses,” said Dr. Bob to George as he got into the passenger seat next to him.
—
“Oy, Jimbo,” said Kevin, “we’re looking for an eighty-year-old businessman, not a marathon runner training for the fucking Olympics. Turn around.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Jim; “he probably didn’t make it this far.”
“Of course I’m right, fuckwit,” said Kevin.
Jim began a very leisurely curve back toward the place he thought he had seen Dunbar five minutes earlier. He had just told Abby, without the foul-mouthed mercenaries noticing, but hoped that Florence would get there first.
—
Dunbar fumbled in his pocket and got hold of his Swiss Army knife. He eventually managed to pull out the main blade with his gnarled and frozen fingers. He clasped the handle of the knife and stabbed the air a couple of times with the blade. When they tried to take him prisoner, he would take one of them with him; he would go down fighting. He was Henry Dunbar and nobody could mess with Henry Dunbar without paying a price.
He turned around and peeped over the edge of the boulder, wondering where Simon had gone. The hillside and the valley below were completely empty. He knew that there was something funny about his sense of time, but he was genuinely surprised that Simon had been able to disappear in what seemed like only a few minutes. Still, it might be better that way. Simon was a man of the cloth, probably no use in a fight.
“Mano-a-mano,” muttered Dunbar, “against my daughters’ trained assassins.”
He tilted his head. They were on their way. He could hear helicopter blades throbbing through the air.
—
“You’re going in the wrong direction, you moron!” Abby shouted.
“Oh, dear,” said George, “are you quite sure? I do apologize.”
Abby showed Megan her phone to confirm that the pulsing blue dot of their current location was moving farther away from their destination.
Megan, who h
ad been rather lethargic until then, suddenly became animated.
“Get out of the car!” she said.
“I do apologize,” said George.
“Get out!” she screamed.
“What for?” asked George.
“I’m going to drive, you idiot.”
George stopped the car and stepped out apprehensively. Megan pushed past him and got into the driving seat, pulling the door closed.
“I’m going to run the fucker over,” said Megan.
“You are not,” said Dr. Bob, tugging at the handbrake, “I forbid it.”
“You what?” laughed Megan.
“Oh, Meg,” said Abby, “he’s probably right. I forgot to tell you, Peter whatshisname, that awful comedian, committed suicide. There are going to be legal complications.”
“You forgot to tell us?” said Dr. Bob.
“Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind,” said Abby.
“Okay, okay, let’s just go,” said Megan.
Dr. Bob released the handbrake.
“I told you not to set him on fire,” said Dr. Bob.
“Oh, do stop harping on it,” said Abby.
Before he had time to reply, Megan had reversed the car swiftly over George’s feet, changed gears, and driven forward over them a second time.
“Whoops, sorry!” she cooed, over the sound of George’s screams.
“Jesus, Megan!” said Dr. Bob, “let me out of the car.”
“Why?”
“To see how much damage you’ve done. I’m a doctor, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“In case I’ve forgotten?” said Megan. “You didn’t take a Hippocratic oath, sweetheart, you took a hypocrite’s oath, in case you’ve forgotten.”
She sped off down the road.
Dr. Bob looked back at George lying on the roadside, clutching his shins to keep the weight of his crushed feet off the ground. George had served his purpose and with any luck would have delayed them enough to give Florence the advantage. Still, all this violence was so frivolous, so typical of the spoilt brats he had to work with. He was going to have to go back afterward and clear up the damage caused by Megan’s childish vindictiveness. He felt a wave of hatred for these two women who were brought up expecting every mess they made to be cleared up after them. Hearing the faint chime of an incoming message, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and glanced down at the screen.
“I am pleased to report that the funds have successfully arrived, with many apologies for the delay. Kind Regards, Kristoff Richter-Gulag.”
Shit. Okay. Patience had never been one of his greatest strengths. Still, he hadn’t yet done anything fundamentally wrong; given that he was now back in alliance with Cogniccenti. Nothing irrevocable, although Cogniccenti was expecting Dunbar to be taken out of circulation, rather than returned to New York in time for the Board meeting.
If only he could think straight. Perhaps he should warn Dunbar anyway, not tell him the whole thing, but just enough to bring down Meg and Abby. If Cogniccenti won, they would lose power, but the value of their shares would shoot up, making them even more redundantly rich. He wanted to see them destroyed and humiliated. The hatred he felt right now might well be the most authentic emotion he had ever experienced. It had to be included in his pension scheme, not just the money.
—
Florence made her way through the snow and bracken toward the boulder that she knew her father was hiding behind.
“Henry?” she called. “Daddy? It’s Florence.”
She saw the top half of Dunbar’s head appear over the stone’s upper edge.
“It’s Florence,” she repeated.
Dunbar gradually emerged, his white hair matted and filthy, his face unshaven and emaciated, his overcoat streaked with mud; a penknife thrust forward in his right hand. He looked at Florence with astonishment, not knowing what to make of her appearance.
“I’m here to look after you,” said Florence.
Still holding the penknife in his hand, he allowed his arm to drop by his side.
“After all I’ve done,” said Dunbar.
“After all you’ve been through,” she said.
Florence moved closer until she was within reach of her father.
“We must bring Simon with us as well,” said Dunbar, tears filling his eyes. “He’s been very badly treated and we should do something to help him.”
“We will,” said Florence. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure…I get confused more easily than before. He was here until a moment ago.”
“Come back with us and the police will look for Simon,” said Florence.
“We mustn’t let him die,” said Dunbar, sobbing. “You must find him.”
“We will,” said Florence. “Don’t worry.”
“I have been very worried,” said Dunbar.
“I know, Daddy,” said Florence, “but it’s all right now.”
Letting the penknife fall, Dunbar stepped forward, resting both his hands on Florence’s shoulders.
“We have a stretcher for you,” said Florence.
“I think I can walk if you help me,” said Dunbar.
Florence put her arm around her father’s waist and he put his arm around her shoulder and the two of them picked their way slowly through the patches of snow and the brown winter bracken toward the waiting helicopters.
“He’s asleep,” said Chris, coming out of Dunbar’s bedroom into the main cabin of the plane. “The doctor says that he’s happy to come down to London with us, but his passport is in Keswick so he can’t come on to New York. He thinks Henry is in reasonable shape physically, given what he’s been through, but that he’s quite delusional.”
“Well, surely he needs to get as much sleep as possible,” said Florence. “Do we really have to go via London?”
“Believe me, I’ve weighed it up carefully,” said Wilson. “I’ve persuaded the solicitors to come out to Farnborough airport, so Henry won’t even have to move from his bed, but there are certain things we can do legally, if we act quickly, that will potentially give us a significant edge over your sisters. Then he can sleep again. Half an hour of his time could save the company he’s spent fifty years building. Your sisters are hooligans. The police want to question them about a man who committed suicide, the comedian Peter Walker.”
“Oh, God,” said Florence. “He committed suicide? But they had him under observation.”
“He managed to hang himself in the shower,” said Chris. “He took the flex from his television and hid it around his waist.”
“I guess there’s always a way if you’re determined enough,” said Wilson. “For our purposes, one of the reasons to get the lawyers to meet us in London is to create a conflict of interest with your sisters. If we ask Braggs to make a case against Megan and Abigail for conspiring with Dr. Bob to imprison your father in Meadowmeade, then they can’t represent your sisters in the matter of Walker’s suicide, since I have presented Walker as a friend who tried to help your father escape. When two parties are in conflict, the ones to employ the lawyers first can exclude the others from being represented by the same firm.”
“What if Meg and Abby have already spoken to them?” asked Florence.
“They haven’t and now they can’t. I’ve made a preliminary request.”
“Well, if that’s already taken care of, why do we have to go to London?”
“There are still certain documents,” said Wilson, “that are lodged in London: a will for all his non-Trust property that could be changed in your favor. The Trust is incorporated in Delaware, but for historic reasons he made his private will over here.”
“I don’t want his property; I just want him to get well,” said Florence. “Anyhow, I don’t think the lawyers are going to agree to change anything in his current state.”
“Exactly,” said Wilson. “It’s a win–win: if we get what we appear to want, it will be to our advantage. We can change the will and get you a power of attorney, but if Braggs re
fuses to give it, we will insist on a document declaring that Henry is not of sound mind. I can use that to raise the question of whether he was fit to give away his power in the first place, and if he was fit, why he was put in a psychiatric clinic. In other words, I can make trouble and buy time for him to recover. I have allies on the Board who will insist that I come to the meeting if I can get that document.”
“So, we don’t really want what we’re asking for?”
“That’s the beauty of it—either result is good.”
“Half an hour?” said Florence.
“That’s all it should take. All the documents are ready, and we have a whole team coming: a senior partner, witnesses, and a very good American attorney to help us with the international implications—a British power of attorney won’t work in the States, so he has an American one prepared. After that Henry can sleep for ten hours and wake up in New York and it’ll still be Tuesday evening. He can have two more nights of rest before the meeting.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” said Florence.
“Shall I tell the pilot that we’re ready to go?” asked Chris.
“Go ahead,” said Florence. “I’m just going to sit with my father during the flight, in case he wakes up.”
Florence went into Dunbar’s bedroom, where she found the doctor standing at the foot of the bed with folded arms.
“Oh, hello,” he said. “He’s getting some sleep. The food rather knocked him out, after not sleeping for so long. I expect you’d like to be alone with him.”
“Yes, please,” said Florence. “Anyway, you should get a seat, we’re going to leave as soon as possible.”
Florence stretched out on the bed beside her father, ready to hold him in case the take-off disturbed his rest. The plane accelerated along the runway and made its steep and rapid ascent out of Manchester. Once its flight path flattened out, Florence sat up cross-legged, resting against the gray leather bedhead with a pillow in the small of her back. She looked down on her father’s face and realized that she had almost never seen it from above. In her eyes, he had always been towering over everyone. She had once been to visit him in Los Angeles when he was ill, but she had almost immediately, instinctively sat down in a chair next to his high bed to restore the natural order of things, looking up at him, raised among his pillows. When she was four or five, she could remember the time he had fallen asleep, stretched out on a sofa on the verandah at Home Lake, with a book spread open on his chest, and she went over and patted his face affectionately until her mother whispered to her to come away and let her father sleep. Now, his matted white hair was longer than she had ever seen it and three days of stubble covered his usually clean-shaven jaw. He had lost weight and looked older, with the lines on his forehead and around his eyes and in his sagging cheeks more deeply grooved than before.
Dunbar Page 13
