Jigsaw (39 page)

Why not, he thought. Why the hell not?

He went up the steps. The marine remained motionless. It was only when Pagan reached the glass door that the marine finally moved, allowing his white-gloved hands to fall to his sides. His black face was impassive. Pagan pushed the door open and the marine said, ‘Is there something I can do for you.' It wasn't a question.

Pagan took out his wallet. The marine studied the Special Branch ID, checking Pagan's face against the photograph. ‘I want to see the Ambassador,' Pagan said, a little surprised by his own nerve. But you needed gall at times. You needed brass.

‘You have an appointment?' The marine handed back the wallet.

‘No, I don't. But I think he'll see me.'

‘Yeah?'

Pagan looked beyond the marine. There was a photograph on the wall of the President. Various signs indicated the location of offices. Visa Applications. Permanent Resident Applications. General Enquiries. US Citizens Advisory Office. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner was running.

‘Generally speaking,' said the marine, ‘you need an appointment to see the Ambassador.'

‘Do me a favour,' Pagan said. ‘Just get a message to him that I'm here. Then we'll see what happens.'

The marine looked reluctant, but ushered Pagan to a chair and told him to wait. Pagan sat. The marine, walking crisply, vanished behind a door. While he was gone Pagan leafed through some tourist brochures. Visit Florida. See the Everglades. Wonder at the Grand Canyon. The Embassy was in the business of vigorously promoting tourism.

His thoughts ticked over into romantic fantasies in the course of which he and Brennan Carberry held hands in sight of Mount Rushmore or made love in a sailboat on some lonesome Minnesota lake as geese flew across the setting sun. While he leafed these glossy pages and amused himself, various office workers entered the building, secretaries, receptionists, men in raincoats whose functions you couldn't guess. The place was coming to life.

‘Mr Pagan?'

He looked up. The man was young, bright-eyed, fresh-shaved, smelled of cologne. He wore a lapel badge that identified him as a vice-consul,
Butterworth, Peter
.

‘May I see your ID, please?'

Pagan offered the young man his wallet. Butterworth looked at the photograph. ‘You understand the need for caution, Mr Pagan. We get all kinds of strange people asking to see the Ambassador.'

‘I'm sure you do,' said Pagan, smiling in an understanding way.

Butterworth produced a lapel badge which he clipped to Pagan's coat and identified him as an Authorized Visitor. ‘Follow me,' he said.

Pagan rose, followed Butterworth along a corridor carpeted in dark blue; the walls were decorated with photographs of presidents past. Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Harry Truman, Ford: these hung in neat alignment. This was unmistakably American territory. Pagan had the feeling he'd been whisked directly from London into the United States. He wondered what would happen if he suddenly took a wrong turning, slipped away from Butterworth and roamed the hallways, opening closed doors, peering into rooms, looking for visible evidence of The Undertakers. Panic stations. Alarm bells. Armed marines.

Butterworth said, ‘This way,' and escorted him inside a lift. The American pushed a button. He said nothing as they travelled up; he looked once at Pagan and smiled in a kindly way. When they got out of the lift they walked another corridor, Butterworth opened a door, a middle-aged woman at a typewriter raised her face and regarded Pagan without any interest, and then, this time in a manner that was almost reverent, Butterworth opened another door.

Finally. The inner sanctum.

‘Frank Pagan, Mr Ambassador,' Butterworth said, and withdrew.

William Caan got up from behind his large desk. He held out his hand for Pagan to shake; the grasp was solid and friendly, the contact prolonged.

‘I've heard about you, of course,' the Ambassador said. He had the kind of accent Pagan associated with Harvard: flattened vowels, a certain crispness to the way he bit off words.

Pagan looked at Caan's impeccable hair, the unblemished skin. He was glossy. You had the feeling rainwater would simply slide off him. ‘I'm sorry I didn't make an appointment,' Pagan said, and glanced round the office, which was decorated with framed photographs of more American landscapes. The Blue Ridge Mountains. A vast empty prairie. The red rocks of northern Arizona.

‘No problem.' Caan went back to his chair. ‘Have a seat.'

Pagan sat down facing the Ambassador. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I was about Al Quarterman,' he remarked. ‘It was the last thing I expected. I feel responsible.' He was winging it, he knew, trying to exploit this encounter for anything it was worth.

‘I hardly think you can blame yourself,' Caan said. ‘You were doing your duty. Pursuing a line of inquiry.'

‘I thought Al might have some information.' Pagan gave a little shrug. He needed an opening here, he needed to make a reference of some muted kind to the possibility of odd activities inside the Embassy because what he wanted was to see Caan's reactions.

‘I've already discussed this with your Home Secretary. And with your Mr Nimmo. The meeting was cordial, Frank.'

First name. Nice touch. Pagan looked into the Ambassador's blue eyes. He had a sudden image of Bill Caan in shirtsleeves and bermuda shorts, presiding over a barbecue, forking burgers and turning them, while happy families played Softball on the lawn.

The Ambassador reached for a paperweight on his desk, an onyx oval he stroked as if it were an oversized worry bead. ‘I understand the name of Carlotta has entered the frame.'

Pagan nodded. Nimmo must have chatted freely with Caan. Sharing confidences. Caan was the kind of man with whom Nimmo would want to ingratiate himself. Yes, Mr Ambassador. No, Mr Ambassador.

Caan said, ‘I was surprised. I thought she'd gone to ground. Are you sure your information is valid?'

‘I have good reason to believe it is.'

‘But you can't go into it.'

‘Not now.'

‘I understand,' said Caan. He pulled his hand back from the paperweight. ‘If you locate Carlotta, there might be a tug of war. She's a fugitive, Frank. I'm sure our own authorities would like to put her back where she belongs.'

‘I'm sure,' Pagan said. ‘It's a bridge we'll have to cross when we come to it.' He changed the subject. He didn't want to be steered in the direction of Carlotta, although he was intrigued by the fact Caan had raised her name in the first place and was laying some kind of mild claim to the woman – if she were captured. Perhaps Caan was concerned that Carlotta might have too much to reveal. ‘What kind of work did Bryce Harcourt do here?'

‘He was a researcher, but I'm sure you already know that,' Caan said. ‘A good one too. I understand you had some cockamamie idea he was involved in other activities.'

‘It was a line of inquiry, nothing else,' Pagan said.

‘Lines of inquiry can go off at misleading tangents, Frank. They can lead to such things as doors being kicked down, for example,' Caan said, and smiled. Christ, it was a great smile, Pagan thought. It was confident, open, charming. Caan could make a miser break free his lifetime hoard of coins from under the floorboards. Here, Mr Caan, take it all. Give it to the poor.

‘Frank, I run a complex organization here. There is a variety of departments. Immigration. Security. Commerce. I pride myself on knowing exactly what goes on in every room of this building.'

‘I don't dispute it,' Pagan said. ‘But you can see the complexity of my own problems, I'm sure. Somebody killed Quarterman, and I don't know why, I don't know who. People don't get assassinated for no reason, Mr Ambassador.'

‘I can't help you with that one,' Caan answered. ‘I'm no cop.'

‘My only intention was to ask Quarterman what he knew of Bryce Harcourt's life,' Pagan said. ‘Is that reason enough for somebody to kill the man?'

The Ambassador said, ‘We live in a complicated time, Frank. Something you know only too well yourself. We Americans are often blamed for events in which we were not involved. There are people in the world with grievances against us. There are grudges, and perhaps some of these are justified. I won't debate that matter here and now. But some people are resentful of us. Sometimes in foreign countries we're targets of animosity. Diplomats are kidnapped. Killed. I'm sure you know all this. Who can say what grudge somebody bore against Quarterman? He was an American. And in this world, Frank, that alone is often reason enough for murder.'

‘Maybe,' Pagan said. ‘But it's the timing that bothers me. The fact he was shot in my company. The fact I had certain questions to ask. This worries me, Mr Ambassador.'

Caan surveyed his office, as if he suspected something were out of place, something moved by a cleaner. ‘I'm as perplexed as you are, Frank. Let me assure you – as I've already assured your Home Secretary – that I intend to make a thorough examination of Harcourt's background, and his relationship with Quarterman. And if I find anything that gives me cause for concern, you will be informed through channels.'

Through channels, Pagan thought. That meant nothing. Channels were places where paperwork clogged like shit in narrow pipes. No. Channels weren't good enough. He studied the Ambassador a second: the man was glib, you had to give him that. And he had the old pro's knack of making you feel you were the only important person in his world.

Pagan decided on a headlong approach, a lunge – what did he have to lose anyway? ‘I found a message on Harcourt's answering-machine.'

Caan smiled again. ‘This was after you'd kicked the door down, of course.'

Pagan decided to let this one ride and go straight to the heart of the matter. ‘The message was a warning to Harcourt from a man called Streik.'

The Ambassador's expression didn't change. ‘What was the nature of the warning?'

OK. Throw the ball up, see how Caan plays it. ‘Streik told Harcourt to get away from The Undertakers.' There. Done. The ball hung in the air.

‘The Undertakers?'

Pagan sat back in his chair and watched Caan, who stood up – perhaps a shade too briskly – and came round the front of his desk. He perched himself on the edge of the desk, swinging one leg back and forth. Pagan thought he detected a very slight alteration in Caan's expression, nothing he could quite describe; maybe he only imagined the change because he wanted to, but he had a sense he'd somehow touched a nerve. And then this small feeling of discovery passed because Caan was suddenly grinning.

‘I think you've been kidded, Frank,' he said.

‘How?'

‘The Undertakers,' and Caan shook his head in exasperation. ‘Goddam. I thought I'd scotched that nonsense a long time ago.'

‘Oh?' Pagan had the feeling that the situation was about to be turned around on him, that any tiny initiative he might have seized was going to be proven illusory.

Caan said, ‘I used to hear whispers
constantly
about some rogue outfit operating from this place. It was said they pulled some dirty stunts. They allegedly called themselves The Undertakers. When I first got here I ran a fine-tooth comb through the Embassy, Frank. Now, it's no great secret to say that some of the people here …' Caan leaned forward, drawing Pagan into his confidence. He reached out, touched Pagan's shoulder. ‘Well, let's just say their connection with diplomacy is minimal and leave it at that. But they're not breaking laws, Frank. They look after certain US interests that don't strictly fall into the category of diplomacy. But there sure as hell isn't any group in this building that goes by the name of The Undertakers, Frank. I can assure you of that.'

He was good, Pagan thought. In one deft stroke, he'd admitted that a semi-clandestine element did indeed work in the Embassy,
and
he'd eliminated The Undertakers, relegating them to the category of groundless rumour. Pagan felt as if he'd just witnessed a nifty piece of sleight of hand.

‘So Streik's message to Harcourt was what – some kind of bad joke?'

‘A bad joke. A bit of malice. The perpetuation of gossip. I don't know this Streik, so I couldn't possibly impute a motive to the man.'

Pagan looked into the Ambassador's face. Caan's legerdemain was impressive, but after every trick there was always a moment when you tried to figure out how it was done, a moment when the smoke cleared. And this trickery was too pat, too slick; it was a lacquered cabinet with false doors and concealed exits. Pagan longed to take an axe to it.

‘I suppose I better scratch that lead,' Pagan said. He got to his feet. ‘Well. Thanks for your time.'

‘The Undertakers,' Caan said, and shook his head. ‘I can't believe that one's still doing the rounds.'

He walked Pagan to the door, where he grasped his hand. ‘You need to ask me anything else, Frank, my door is always open to you.'

‘I appreciate that.'

Butterworth appeared to escort Pagan out of the building. In Grosvenor Square, Pagan got inside his car and with one last glance at the Embassy drove away. A pigeon flew into his windshield after he'd gone half a block, thumping the glass, sliding over the bonnet in a flurry of feathers. He wondered if this were an omen and, if so, of what kind.

It was ten a.m. when Foxworth met Alistair McLaren in a Victorian pub near Trafalgar Square. He'd waited for an hour the night before in a Soho pub, but McLaren, whose sense of time was as poor as his grip on reality, hadn't shown up, and now he was awfully apologetic about it, plunging into a rambling drunken story concerning a party in Greek Street that had led mysteriously to another party in Wimbledon, and you know, good Lord, how these things can get out of hand … It was clear McLaren had been up all night drinking. He was a benign drunk with a gentle manner; he had a blood-red face and enormous uncontrollable eyebrows, a bear of a man. He clutched the brass rail that ran around the bar and often closed his eyes in mid-sentence as if seeking some tiny sober part of himself.