Out of the Sun (23 page)

"Sure. And you can make up for it by reducing my stress levels. They need to be rock-bottom to expedite a swift recovery."

"How can I do that?"

"Call off your meeting with Lazenby."

"Didn't I say I would?"

"You did," Hackensack grinned. "But I didn't believe you."

When Harry left half an hour later, he had still not convinced Hackensack he meant to cancel his appointment with Lazenby.

This was hardly surprising, since he had not convinced himself either. Why turn back when he had come so far? Why give his nerves the chance to fail? They might hold for twenty-four hours. But they surely would not last until Hackensack came out of hospital. In the end, it did not matter if Hackensack knew he was being fobbed off. There was nothing he could do about it, apart from contacting Donna. And there was nothing she could do about it even if he did.

Harry boarded the four o'clock train back to Washington, armed with Isaac Rosenbaum's address and a firm intention of stopping off in Philadelphia to hunt him down. But fatigue proved stronger than his intentions. He had slept little and eaten less since his anxious vigil at Union Station the night before. Now, his anxiety relieved on one score at least, he plunged into the deep sleep of a body running on empty. To be woken by the conductor three hours later in Washington.

It was out of the question to return to Philadelphia at that stage. Irritating as it was, Harry concluded that his business with Mr. Rosenbaum would simply have to wait. He trudged out into the Washington night and headed for his hotel.

Halfway along E Street, he was lured into the Hard Rock Cafe by the doorman's promise of draught Bass. The beer turned out to be of such excellence that he found himself reminiscing to the barman about the arrival of the first juke-box in Swindon and his youthful admiration for Elvis Presley. As a result it was nearly ten o'clock when he entered the lobby of the Hay-Adams, walked unsteadily to the desk and asked for his key. Only for sobriety to pay him a sudden and unexpected call.

"Glad to see your colleague was able to join us after all, Mr. Page," the clerk said cheerily.

"What?"

"Mr. Cornford. I wasn't on duty when he booked in this afternoon, but I see from the register '

"Cornford?"

"Yes, sir. We gave him the room next to yours." He glanced at the key-board. "And it looks like you'll find him in."

THIRTY-FIVE

Harry lit another cigarette and gazed up at the southern facade of the Hay-Adams Hotel, checking his calculations for the umpteenth time. Those were definitely the windows of his room on the third floor. And those were just as definitely the windows next to them of the room occupied by whoever was posing as Bill Cornford. Golden lamplight seeped through the thick curtains, but no hand twitched them back to reveal the identity of his impersonator. Whether, strictly speaking, appropriating somebody else's alias qualified as impersonation was a point Harry did not propose to dwell on. He glanced nervously over his shoulder and commenced another circuit of Lafayette Square, pummelling his weary brain into some kind of logical thought.

What should he do? Get as far as possible from the Hay-Adams as quickly as possible? Or walk up to the third floor, knock boldly on the door next to his and see who opened it? The answer might be revealing as well as dangerous. So much that had dogged his path since leaving England had been unseen and unattestable, a threat made more potent by its elusiveness. Now, within the reassuringly solid walls of the Hay Adams Hotel, there was a chance to corner his foe, to look him in the eye and know him for who and what he was. And it was a chance he knew he had to take.

Ten minutes later, Harry emerged from the hotel lift and walked slowly along the third-floor corridor, easing his key from his pocket as he went. He paused by the door before his, but heard nothing, not even a footstep, within. Then he moved on to his room, slid the key gently into the lock, turned it and entered, closing the door softly behind him.

The walls were thick enough to absorb most sound. And a maid had already been in to switch on the lights, draw the curtains and turn down the bed. He went straight to the bedside table, picked up the telephone and dialled room service.

"Page here. Room 331."

"Yes sir?"

"Could I have a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Right away."

"Certainly, sir."

"Delivered to room 330. I'll be there."

"Be with you directly, sir."

Harry replaced the handset and sat slowly down on the bed. Then he lit a cigarette and listened to the silence in which his heart beat louder and faster than a funeral-drum. It would not be long now, though it would seem for ever. Five or ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Then he would know.

Or would he? A sudden crazy thought formed in his mind. Perhaps there was nobody in room 330. Perhaps there never had been. Like whatever had visited David at the Skyway Hotel and met Torben on the bridge in Copenhagen; like the push on the Metro platform, the trip on the stairs, the blocked flue in Montreal: it could touch but not be touched; it could see but not be seen.

He rose, circled the bed and leant his head against the wall, willing his ear to detect something, anything, that would tether his anxieties to physical reality. Somebody was in there. They had to be. They had signed the register, ridden the lift and tipped the porter. They existed. Yet he could hear nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if

Then he did hear a sound, though from a different direction. The opening and closing of the service lift, followed by footsteps in the corridor: a firm waiterly tread. He padded swiftly across the room. As he reached the door, there was a tap at the next one along. "Room service," a voice announced.

Harry turned the handle, edged the door open and peered out round the jamb. The waiter had his back to him, one hand fanned beneath a tray on which a bottle of champagne stood in an ice-bucket flanked by two glasses, the other hand raised, index knuckle cocked. "Room service," he repeated. Before he could knock again, the door opened, hinged to Harry's blind side. It snagged on a chain. There was a mumbled remark from within. The waiter smiled, shrugged and pulled out a chit. '330," he said. "Champagne ordered by Mr. Page. Took the order myself."

A momentary pause. The door closed, the chain was slipped and it opened again, wider. Harry stepped cautiously out into the corridor. The waiter caught sight of him and frowned. Then Harry lunged into the doorway in front of him, flinging the door wide and swinging round to meet

"You." The door rebounded from its stop and jogged his shoulder as he stared in astonishment.

"Well? Who did you expect?"

"But they said .. . Bill Cornford had .. ."

"The champagne was a really nice idea, Norman." Donna gave him an exasperated smile. "Why don't you come in and help me drink it?"

THIRTY-SIX

"What the hell did you expect me to do?" demanded Donna as she paced the plush-carpeted length of the room in voluminous to welling bathrobe and matching mules, hair still damp and face flushed from the shower she had been taking when the champagne arrived. "You and Woodrow had both vanished. Anything could have happened. I couldn't just sit in Baltimore and wait for you to call."

"I might have aged less rapidly if you had."

"Bad luck. If you'd called me, you'd have got the message I left for you. Then Wilhelmina Cornford wouldn't have come as such a big surprise."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Silence was worrying."

"Sorry. I just needed time to work out what to do."

"Pity you didn't put it to better use. Woodrow's right. We have to postpone."

"How can we?"

"We don't have a choice. We get one shot at this. Just one. Sending you in single-handed isn't the way to do it."

"Nor is giving Lazenby an opportunity to smell a rat."

"He won't. Not in a week. And that's all Woodrow needs, doesn't he?"

"So he reckons. But he'll be in plaster. On crutches. Maybe in a wheelchair. What happens if something goes wrong and we need to make a run for it?"

"Jesus, I don't know. Why did he have to fall down the stairs in the first place?" She made a despairing gesture with her hands and turned towards the curtained window. "It's all going wrong. All falling apart. That's the truth."

Harry had thought the same. But this was not the time to say so. If Donna suspected that going back into hiding was now the only sensible thing to do, it was not a suspicion he could afford to echo. For David's sake and his they had to go on. Without delay. "Have some champagne," he said, filling her glass. "You may as well."

Donna sighed. "Champagne," she murmured. "You crazy fool, Harry." She walked over, took the glass and sat down on the sofa beside him. "You really would go through with this, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"But you're not going to."

"Aren't I?"

"Phone Globescope in the morning and call it off."

"Are you sure you want me to?"

She half-smiled. "I'm sure I don't want you to. The thought of ending all this running and hiding. The thought of it being over by this time tomorrow. Can you imagine how attractive that is? But I can't let you do it. I can't let you take the risk."

"Why not?"

"Because the odds have changed. And you don't owe us enough to gamble on them. In fact, you don't owe us anything at all."

"David does."

"And you reckon you owe him, do you?"

"I reckon I must. Fathers don't come much more neglectful than me."

"But you didn't know you were a father."

"That's no excuse."

Donna sipped her champagne and gazed at him thoughtfully. "Do you have any other children?"

He grinned self-consciously. "Not that I know of."

"Ever been married?"

"I am married. Technically. But it's not what you'd call a love match."

"Has there ever been a love match?"

Forced to survey the emotional desert of his middle years, Harry shrugged. "No. There hasn't."

That's what you're looking for, isn't it? All this about debts,

duties and paternal obligations is just .. . camouflage. It's love you're after. Human warmth. An end to loneliness."

"I'm not lonely." Even as he spoke the words, he was aware of their hollowness. Donna was closer to the mark than he would have thought their brief acquaintance had made possible.

"Yes you are. I know the signs."

"From personal experience?"

"Maybe. But let's not talk about me."

"Why not? You're more interesting than I am."

"Not seen from over here. I'm just a straightforward neurotic-obsessive scientist. Childless feminist and lapsed Lutheran. It's a well-worn groove. Whereas you're .. . unclassifiable. A genuine puzzle. Just too sensitive, too intelligent, too stubborn to be the ambition less nonentity you claim to be. A few years ago, you were a drunken pot man in a Greek taverna. So how come you're capable of even trying to play the white knight with a rusty sword? What have you done with your life in the meantime?"

"It's thrown me a few challenges."

"And you measured up to them?"

"Most people wouldn't think so."

"Tell me about it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm curious. Because you want to know about me and David and I'm willing to trade. Because whatever we decide to do it can't be done till morning and I don't want to spend the whole night arguing about it."

"Then don't argue. I'll go back to my room. We could both use some sleep, I expect."

"Is that what you want to do?"

"No." The one word admitted a shared wish: a relief from solitude; a lowering of the de fences "I don't want to leave. You know that."

"Do I? I'm not sure what I know any more. All these months .. . Running and hiding .. . Christ, so long I've almost .. ." She was convulsed by a sudden wrenching sob. Instinctively, Harry reached out to comfort her and she fell against him, her shoulders heaving.

"It's OK," he said, sliding his arm around her. "It really is OK."

"I'm sorry." She pulled back, dabbing at her damp cheeks with the cuff of her robe. "This is so ... so very stupid."

"No. Just human."

"I've had to judge every move. Measure every risk. Pretend for

Makepeace's sake even Rawnsley's, I suppose that I really am in control." The tears were flowing freely now. And she was making no attempt to staunch or conceal them. "But I'm not. Am I?"

"You're as much in control as anyone else."

"And how much is that?"

Harry risked a smile. "Hardly at all."

She laughed through her tears. "You're such a fool, Harry. Such a dear sweet fool. If only David could have known."

"Maybe he still can."

"Maybe." She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand and smiled back at him. "Here, now, with you, at this moment ... I almost believe he will."

THIRTY-SEVEN

For a second, when Harry woke and glimpsed the first grey fingers of dawn pr ising between the curtains, he was uncertain where he was. Kensal Green? Copenhagen? Dallas? No. Suddenly, as he turned slightly on the pillow and saw Donna asleep beside him, realization and recollection collided. He closed his eyes and sighed. It had seemed such a natural progression at the time, from giving comfort to sharing pleasure. But what had seemed then simply too good to be true seemed now altogether too complicated for comfort. An accusatory voice of middle-aged responsibility whispered in his ear: "You're old enough to be her father, Harry. What would your son say if he knew? How would you explain it to him? How would you justify it?"

It was clear to him now. She had been, in some curious way, entrusted to him. And he had abused that trust. She had endured more than two months of a fugitive existence, guarding her tongue, stifling her anxieties, bottling up her emotions. It was understandable that the dam should eventually burst. He had merely been there when it had. And he had been lonely and fearful in his own right. But he should still have had the sense the maturity to foresee and avert the consequences of surrendering to his instincts and allowing Donna to surrender to hers. They were obvious now. As obvious as they were disturbing.