By Forum Easters 2 страница

He was pleased, too, about the scheduled return by air next Saturday. It meant he would not have to miss an appearance in his church St. Athanasius's where he was a lay reader and delivered the lesson, clearly and solemnly, every Sunday.

The thought reminded him of tomorrow's reading which he had planned to go over in advance, as he usually did. Now he lifted a heavy family Bible from a bookshelf and turned to a page already flagged. The page was in Proverbs where tomorrow's reading included a verse which was a Heyward favorite: Righteousness exalteth a nation. but sin is a reproach to any people.

To Roscoe Heyward, the Bahamas excursion was an education.

He was not unfamiliar with high living. Like most senior bankers, Heyward had mingled socially with customers and others who used money freely, even aggressively, in achieving princely comforts and amusements. Almost always, he envied their financial freedom. But G. G. Quartermain outdid them all.

The 707 jet identified by a large Q on fuselage and tail, landed at the city's international airport precisely as scheduled, to the minute. It taxied to a private terminal where the Honorable Harold and Heyward left the limousine which had brought them from downtown and were whisked aboard, entering at the rear.

In a foyer like a miniature hotel lobby, a quartet greeted them a middle-aged man, graying and with the mix of authority and deference which stamped him a majordomo, and three young women. "Welcome aboard, gentlemen," the majordomo said.

Heyward nodded, but scarcely noticed the man, his attention being distracted by the women breathtakingly beautiful girls in their twenties who were smiling agreeably. It occurred to Roscoe Heyward that the Quartermain organization must have assembled the most comely stewardesses from TWA, United, and American, then skimmed off these three, like cream from richest milk. One girl was honey-blonde, another a striking brunette, the third a long-haired redhead. They were long-legged, willowy, healthily suntanned. The tans contrasted against their stylish but abbreviated pale beige uniform

The majordomo's uniform was of the same smart material as the girls'. AU four had an embroidered Q on the left breast pocket.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Heyward," the redhead said. Her voice, pleasantly modulated, had a soft, almost seductive quality. She went on, "I'm Avril. If you'll come this way, I’ll show you to your room."

As Heyward followed her, surprised at the reference to a "room," the Honorable Harold was being greeted by the blonde.

The elegant Avril preceded Heyward down a corridor extending part way along the aircraft on one side. Several doors opened from it.

Over her shoulder, she announced, "Mr. Quartermain is having a sauna and massage. He'd join you later in the lounge." "A sauna? Aboard here'

"Oh, yes. There's one directly behind the flight deck. A steam room, too. Mr. Ouartermain likes either a sauna or a Russian bath wherever he is, and he has his own masseur always with him." Avril flashed a dazzling smile. "Ill you'd like a bath and massage there'll be plenty of time on the flight. I'll be glad to attend to it. "No, thank you."

The girl stopped at a doorway. "This is your room, Mr. Heyward." As she spoke, the aircraft moved forward, beginning to taxi. At the unexpected movement, Heyward stumbled. "Oops!" Avril put out her arm, steadying him, and for a moment they were close. He was conscious of long slim fingers, bronze-orange polished nails, a light firm touch and a waft of perfume.

She kept her hand on his arm. "I'd better strap you in for takeoff. The captain always goes quickly. Mr. Quartermain doesn't like lingering at airports."

He had a quick impression of a small, sumptuous parlor into which the girl led him, then he was seated on a softly comfortable settee while the fingers he had already become aware of deftly fastened a strap around his waist. Even through the strap he could feel the fingers moving. The sensation was not disagreeable.

"There!" The aircraft was taxying fast now. Avril said, "If you don't mind, I'll stay until we're airborne." She sat beside him on the settee and fastened a strap herself.

"No," Roscoe Heyward said. He felt absurdly dazed. "I don't mind at all."

Looking around, he took in more details. The parlor or cabin, such as he had seen on no aircraft before, had been designed to make efficient but luxurious use of space. Three of the walls were paneled in teak, with carved Q motifs embellished in gold leaf. The fourth wall was almost entirely mirror, ingeniously making the compartment seem larger than it was. Recessed into the wall on. his left was a compactly organized office bureau, including a telephone console and glass-shielded teletype. Nearby a small bar was stocked with an array of miniature bottles. Built into the mirror wall, which faced Heyward and Avril, was a TV screen with duplicate sets of controls, reachable from either side of the settee. A folding door behind was presumably to a bathrooms

"Would you like to watch our takeoff' Avril asked. Without waiting for an answer, she touched the TV controls nearest her and a picture, clear and in color, sprang to life. Obviously a camera was in the aircraft nose and, on the screen, they could see a taxiway leading to a wide runway, the latter coming fully into view as the 707 swung onto it. With no time wasted, the aircraft moved forward, simultaneously the runway began to rush beneaththem, then the remainder of it tilted downward as the big jet angled up and they were airborne. Roscoe Heyward had a sense of soaring, not merely because of the TV image. With only sky and clouds ahead, Avril snapped it off.

"The regular TV channels are there if you need them," she informed him, then motioned to the teleprinter. "Over there you can get the Dow Jones, AP, UPI, or Telex. Just phone the flight deck and they'll feed in whichever you say."

Heyward observed cautiously, "All this is a little beyond my normal experience."

"I know. It has that effect on people sometimes, though it's surprising how quickly everyone adapts." Again the direct look and dazzling smile. "We have four of these private cabins and each one converts to a bedroom quite easily. You just push some buttons. I’ll show you if you like." ~ He shook his head. "It seems unnecessary now." "Whatever you wish, Mr. Heyward."

She released her seat belt and stood up. "If you want Mr. Austin, he's in the cabin immediately behind. Up forward is the main lounge you're invited to when you're ready, then there's a dining room, offices, and beyond that Mr. Quartermain's private apartment."

"Thank you for the geography." Heyward removed his rimless glasses and took out a handkerchief to wipe them.

"Oh, please let me do thatl" Gently but finely Avril took the glasses from his hand, produced a square of silk and polished them. Then she replaced the glasses on his face, her fingers traveling lightly behind his ears in doing so. Heyward had a feeling he should protest, but didn't.

"My job on this trip, Mr. Heyward, is to take care of you exclusively and make sure you have everything you want."

Was it imagination, he wondered,or had the girl placed subtle emphasis on the word "everything"? He reminded himself sharply that he hoped not. If she had, the implication would be shocking.

'Two other things," Avril said. Gorgeous and slender, she had moved to the doorway, preparing to leave. "If you want me for anything at all, please press button number seven on the telephone."

Heyward answered gruffly, 'Thank you, young lady, but I doubt if I'll do that."

She seemed unperturbed. "And the other thing: On the way to the Bahamas we'll be landing in Washington briefly. The Vice-President is joining us there." "A Vice-President from Supranational?"

Her eyes were cocking. "No, silly. The Vice-President of the United States."

Some Sfteen minutes later, Big George Quartermain demanded of Roscoe Heyward, "For Chrissakesl Whatinhellzat you're drinking? Mother's milk?

"It's lemonade." Heyward held up his glass, inspecting the insipid liquid. "I rather enjoy it.

The Supranational chairman shrugged his massive shoulders. "Every addict to his own poison. Girls taking care of you both?"

"No complaints from this quarter," the Honorable Harold Austin offered with a chuckle. Like the others, he was reclining comfortably in the 707's splendidly appointed main lounge with the blonde, who had revealed her name as Rhetta, curled on the rug at his feet.

Avril said sweetly, "We're trying our best." She was standing behind Heyward's chair and let a hand travel lightly across his back. He felt her angers touch the base of his neck, linger momentarily, then move on.

Moments earlier, G. G. Quartermain had come into the lounge, resplendent in a crimson towel robe with white piping, the inevitable Q embroidered largely. Like a Roman senator, he was attended by acolytes a hardfaced, silent man in gym whites, presumably the masseur, and still another hostess in trim beige uniform, her features delicately Japanese. The masseur and the girl supervised Big George's entry into a broad, throne-like chair, clearly reserved for him Then a third figure theoriginal majordomo as if by magic produced a chilled martini and eased it into G. G. Quartermain's awaiting hand.

Even more than on previous occasions they had met, Heyward decided, the name "Big George" seemed apposite in every way. Physically their host was a mountain of a man at least six and a half feet in height, his chest, arms, and torso like a village blacksmith's. His head was half the size again of most other men's and his facial features matched prominent, large eyes, swift-moving and darkly shrewd, the mouth wide-lipped and strong, as accustomed to issuing commands as a Marine drill sergeant's, though on larger issues. Equally clearly, surface joviality could be banished instantly by powerful displeasure.

Yet he stopped short of coarseness, nor was there any sign of overweight or nab. Through the enfolding towel robe, muscles bulged. Heyward observed, too, that Big George's face betrayed no fat layers, his massive chin no jowls. His belly appeared flat and taut.

As to other bigness, his corporate reach and appetite were reported daily in the business press. And his living style aboard this twelve-million-dollar airplane was unabashedly royal.

The masseur and majordomo quietly disappeared. Replacing them, like one more character emerging on stage, was a chef a pale, worried pencil of a man, immaculate in kitchen whites with a high chef's hat which brushed the cabin ceiling. Heyward wondered just how big the onboard staff was. Later, he learned it totaled sixteen.

The chef stood stiffly beside Big George's chair, proffering an out-size black leather folder embossed with a golden Q. Big George ignored him.

"That trouble at your bank." Quartermain addressed Roscoe Heyward. "Demonstrations. All the rest. Is everything settled? Are you solid?"

"We were always solid," Heyward answered. 'That was never in question." "The market didn't think so."

"Since when was the stock market an accurate barometer of anything?"

Big George smiled fleetingly, then swung to the petite Japanese hostess. "Moonbeam, get me the latest quote on FMA.

"Yes, Mister Q." the girl said. She went out by a forward door.

Big George nodded in the direction she had gone. "Still can't get that tongue of hers around Quartermain. Always calls me 'Mister Q.' " He grinned at the others. "Manages nicely elsewhere, though."

Roscoe Heyward said quickly, "The reports you heard about our bank concerned a trifling incident, magnified beyond importance. It happened also at a time of management transition."

"But you people didn't stand firm," Big George insisted. "You let outside agitators have their way. You went soft and surrendered."

"Yes, we did. And I'll be frank to say I didn't like the decision. In fact, I opposed it.

"Stand up to 'em! Always clobber the bastards one way or another! Never back down" The Supranational chairman drained his martini and the majordomo appeared from nowhere, removed the original glass and placed a fresh one in Big George's hand. The drink's perfect chill was apparent from its outside frosting.

The chef was still standing, waiting. Quartermain continued to ignore him.

He rumbled reminiscently, "Had a sub-assembly manufacturing plant near Denver. Lots of labor trouble. Wage demands beyond all reason. Early this year, union called a strike, the last of many. I told our people the subsidiary which ran it warn the sons of bitches we'll close the plant down. Nobody believed us. So we made studies, planned arrangements. Shipped tools and dies to one of our other companies. They took up the manufacturing slack. At Denver we closed. Suddenly no plant, no jobs, no payroll. Now, the lot of 'em employees, union, Denver city, state government, you name it are down on theirknees pleading with us to reopen." He considered his martini, then said magnanimously, "Well, we may. Doing other manufacturing, and on our terms. But we didn't back down."

"Good for you, George!" the Honorable Harold said. "We need more people to take that kind of stand. The problem at our bank, though, has been somewhat different. In some ways we're still in an interim situation which began, as you know, with Ben Rosselli's death. But by spring next year a good many of us on the board hope to see Roscoe here firmly at the helm."

"Glad to hear it. Don't like dealing with people not at the top. Those I do business with must be able to decide, then make decisions stick."

"I assure you, George," Heyward said, "that any decisions you and I arrive at will be adhered to by the bank."

In an adroit way, Heyward realized, their host had maneuvered Harold Austin and himself into the stance of supplicants a reversal of a banker's usual role. But the fact was, any loan to Supranational would be worry-free, as well as prestigious for FMA. Equally important, it could be a precursor of other new industrial accounts since Supranational Corporation was a pacesetter whose example others followed.

Big George snapped abruptly at the chef. "Well, what is it?"

The figure in white was galvanized to action. He thrust forward the black leather folder he had been holding since his entry. "The luncheon menu, monsieur. For your approval."

Big George made no attempt to take the folder but scanned its contents held before him. He stabbed with a finger. "Change that Waldorf salad to a Caesar." "Oui, monsieur."

"And dessert. Not Glazed Martinique. A Souffle Grand Marnier." "Certainly, monsieur."

A nod of dismissal. Then, as the chef turned away, Big George glared. "And when I order a steak, how do I like it….”

"Monsieur" the chef gestured imploringly with his free hand "I have already apologize twice for the unfortunate last night." "Never mind that. The question was: How do I like it..'

With a Gallic shrug, repeating a lesson learned, the chef intoned, "On the slightly well-done side of medium-rare." "Just remember that." The chef asked despairingly, " 'Ow can I forget, monsieur?" Crestfallen, he went out.

"Something else that's important," Big George informed his guests, "is not to let people get away with things. I pay that frog a fortune to know exactly how I like my food. He slipped last night not much, but enough to ream him out so next time he'll remember. What's the quote?" Moonbeam had returned with a slip of paper.

She read out in accented English, "FMA trading now at forty-five and three quarters."

"There we are," Roscoe Heyward said, "we're up another point."

"But still not as high as before Rosselli bit the bullet," Big George said. He grinned. "Though when word gets out that you're helping finance Supranational, your stock'll soar."

It could happen, Heyward thought. In the tangled world of finance and stock prices, inexplicable things occurred. That someone would lend money to someone else might not seem to mean much yet the market would respond.

More importantly, though, Big George had now declared positively that some kind of business was to be transacted between First Mercantile American Bank and SuNatCo. No doubt they would thrash out details through the next two days. He felt his excitement rising.

Above their heads a chime sounded softly. Outside, the jet thrum changed to lower tempo.

"Washington" Avril said. She and the other girls began fastening the men to their seats.

The time on the ground in Washington was even briefer than at the previous stop. With a 14-carat-VIP passenger,it seemed, top priorities for landing, taxiing, and takeoff were axiomatic.

Thus, in less than twenty minutes they had returned to cruising altitude en route to the Bahamas.

The Vice-President was installed, with the brunette, Krista, taking care of him, an arrangement which he patently approved.

Secret Service men, guarding the Vice-President, had been accommodated somewhere at the rear.

Soon after, Big George Quartermain, now attired in a striking cream silk one-piece suit, jovially led the way forward from the lounge into the airliner's dining room a richly decorated apartment, predominantly silver and royal blue. There, the four men, seated at a carved oak table beneath a crystal chandelier, and with Moonbeam, Avril, Rhetta, and Krista hovering deliciously behind, lunched in a style and on cuisine which any of the world's great restaurants would have found it hard to equal.

Roscoe Heyward, while relishing the meal, did not share in the several wines or a thirty-year-old Cognac brandy at the end. But he did observe that the heavy, gold-rimmed brandy goblets omitted the traditional decorative N of Napoleon in favor of a Q. Warm sunshine from an unbroken azure sky shone on the lush green fairway of the long par-5 fifth hole at the Bahamas' Lordly Cay Club golf course The course and its adjoining luxury club were among the half dozen most exclusive in the world.

Beyond the green, a white sand beech, palm-fringed, deserted, extended like a strip of Paradise into the distance. At the edge of the beach a pellucid turquoise sea lapped gently in tiny waveless. A half mile out from shore a line of breakers creamed on coral reefs.

Nearer to hand, beside the fairway, an exotic crazyquilt of flowers hibiscus, bougainvillea, poinsettia, frangipani competed in belief-defying colors. The fresh, clear air, moved agreeably by a zephyr breeze, held a scent of jasmine. "I imagine," the Vice-President of the United States observed, "that this is as close to heaven as any politician gets."

"My idea of heaven," the Honorable Harold Austin told him, "would not include slicing." He grimaced and swung his four iron viciously. 'There must be some way to get better at this game." The four were playing a best-ball match Big Georgeand Roscoe Heyward against Harold Austin and the Vice President.

"What you should do, Harold," the Vice-President, Byron Stonebridge, said, "is get back into Congress, then work your way to the job I have. Once there, you'd have nothing else to do but golf; you could take all the time you wanted to improve your game. It's an accepted historical fact that almost every Vice-President in the past half century left office a better golfer than when he entered it."

As if to confirm his words, moments later he lofted his third shot a beautiful eight iron straight at the flagstick.

Stonebridge, lean and lithe, his movements fluid, was playing a spectacular game today. He had begun life as a farmer's son, working long hours on a family small holding, and across the years had kept his body sinewy. Now his homely plainsman's features beamed as his ball dropped, then rolled to within a foot of the cup.

"Not bad," Big George acknowledged as his cart drew even. "Washington not keeping you too busy, eh, By?"

"Oh, I suppose I shouldn't complain. I ran an inventory of Administration paper clips last month And there's been a news leak from the White House it seems there's a chance I'll sharpen pencils over there quite soon."

The others chuckled dutifully. It was no secret that Stonebridge, ex-State governor, ex-Minority Leader in the Senate, was fretful and restless in his present role. Before the election which had thrust him there, his running mate, the presidential candidate, declared that his Vice-President would in a new post-Watergate era play a meaningful busy part in government. As always after inauguration, the promise stayed unfulfilled.

Heyward and Quartermain chipped onto the green, then waited with Stonebridge as the Honorable Harold, who had been playing erratically, shanked, laughed, flubbed, laughed, and finally chipped on.

The four men made a diverse foursome. G. G. Quartermain, towering above the others, was expensively immaculate in tartan slacks, a Lacoste cardigan, and navy suede Foot-Joys. He wore a red golf cap, its badge proclaiming the coveted status of a member of Lordly Cay Club.

The Vice-President portrayed stylish neatness double knit slacks, a mildly colorful shirt, his golfing footwear an ambivalent black and white In dramatic contrast was HaroldAustin the most flamboyant dresser and a study in shocking pink and lavender. Roscoe Heyward was efficiently practical in dark gray slacks, a white, short-sleeved "dress" shirt and soft black shoes. Even on a golf course he looked like a banker.

Their progress since the first tee had been something of a cavalcade. Big George and Heyward shared one electric golf cart; Stonebridge and the Honorable Harold occupied another. Six more electric carts had been requisitioned by the Vice-President's Secret Service escort and now surrounded them on both sides and fore and aft like a destroyer squadron.

"If you had free choice, By," Roscoe Heyward said, "free choice to set some government priorities, what would they be?"

Yesterday, Heyward had addressed Stonebridge formally as "Mr. Vice-President,', but was quickly assured, "Forget the formality; I get weary of it. You'll find I answer best to 'By.' " Heyward, who cherished first namefriendships with important people, was delighted.

Stonebridge answered, "If I had my choice I'd concentrate on economics restoring fiscal sanity, some balanced national bookkeeping."

Big G. Quartermain, who had overheard, remarked, "A brave few tried it, By. They failed. And you're too late." "It's late, George, but not too late."

"I’ll debate that with you." Big George squatted, considering the line of his putt. "After nine. Right now the priority is sinking this."

Since the game started, Quartermain had been quieter than the others, and intense. He had his handicap down to three and always played to win. Winning or turning in a sub-par score pleased him (so he said) as much as acquiring a new company for Supranational.

Heyward was playing with consistent competence, his performance neither flashily spectacular nor anything to be ashamed of.

As all four walked from their carts at the sixth tee, Big George cautioned: "Keep your banker's eye on the scores of those two, Roscoe. To a politician and an advertising man, accuracy's not a natural habit."

"My exalted status requires that I win," the Vice-President said. "By any means."

"Oh, I have the scores." Roscoe Heyward tapped his forehead. "They're all in here. On 1, George and By had fours, Harold a six, and I had a bogey. We all had pars on 2 except for By with that incredible birdie. Of course, Harold and I had net birds there, too. Everyone held par on 3 except Harold; he had another six. The fourth hole was our good one, fours for George and me (and I had a stroke there), a five for By, a seven for Harold. And, of course, this last hole was a real disaster for Harold but then his partner comes through with another bird. So as far as the match is concerned, right now we're even."

Byron Stonebridge stared at him. "That's uncanny! I'll be damned."

"You have me wrong for that first hole," the Honorable Harold said. "I had a five, not a six." '

Heyward said firmly, "Not so, Harold. Remember, you drove into that palm grove, punched out, hit your fairway wood short of the green, chipped long and two-putted." "He's right," Stonebridge confirmed. "I remember."

"Goddamn', Roscoe," Harold Austin grumbled, "whose friend are you?"

"Mine, by Godl" Big George exclaimed. He draped a friendly arm over Heyward's shoulders. "I'm beginning to like you, Roscoe, especially your handicap!" As Heyward glowed, Big George lowered his voice to a confidential level. "Was everything satisfactory last night?"

"Perfectly satisfactory, thank you. I enjoyed the journey, the evening, and I slept extremely well."

He had not slept well at first. In the course of the previous evening at G. G. Quartermain's Bahamas mansion it had become evident that Avril, the slim and lovely redhead, was available to Roscoe Heyward on any terms he chose. That was made plain both by innuendo from the others and Avril's increasing nearness as the day, then night, progressed. She lost no opportunity to lean toward Heyward so that sometimes her soft hair brushed his face, or to make physical contact with him on the slightest pretext. And while he did not encourage her, neither did he object.

Equally clear was that the gorgeous Krista was available to Byron Stonebridge and the glamorous blonde Rhetta to Harold Austin.

The exquisitely beautiful Japanese girl Moonbeam was seldom more than a fey: feet away from G. G. Quartermain.

The Quartermain menage, one of a half dozen owned by the Supranational chairman in various countries, was on Prospero Ridge, high above Nassau city and with a panoramic view of land and sea The house was in landscaped grounds behind high stone walls. Heyward's room on the second floor, to which Avril escorted him on arrival, commanded the view. It also afforded a glimpse, through trees, of the house of a near-neighbor the prime minister, his privacy protected by patrolling Royal Bahamian Police.

In late afternoon they had drinks beside a colonnaded swimming pool. Dinner followed, served on a terrace out of doors, by candlelight. This time the girls, who had shed their uniforms and were superbly gowned, joined the men at table. Hovering white-gloved waiters sewed while two strolling players added music. Companionship and conversation flowed.

After dinner, while Vice-President Stonebridge and Krista elected to stay on at the house, the others entered a trio of Rolls-Royces cars which had met them at Nassau Airport earlier and were driven to the Paradise Island gambling casino. There Big George played heavily and appeared to win. Austin participated mildly, Roscoe Heyward not at all. Heyward disapproved of gambling but was interested in Avril's description of the finer points of chemin de fer, roulette, and blackjack, which were new to him. Because of the hum of other conversations, Avril kept her face close to Heyward's while she talked and, as on the airplane earlier, he found the sensation not unpleasing

But then, with disconcerting suddenness, his body began taking greater cognizance of Avril so that ideas and inclinations which he knew to be reprehensible were increasingly hard to banish. He sensed Avril's amused awareness of his struggle, which failed to help. Finally, at his bedroom door to which she escorted him at 2 A.M., it was with the greatest effort of will particularly when she showed a willingness to linger that he did not invite her in.

Before Avril left for wherever her own room was, she swirled her red hair and told him, smiling, "There's an intercom beside the bed. If there's anything you want, press button number seven and I’ll come." This time there was no doubt of what "anything" meant. And the number seven, it seemed, was a code for Avril wherever she might be.

Inexplicably his voice had thickened and his tongue seemed oversized as he informed her, "Thank you, no. Good night." Even then his inner conflict was not over. Undressing,his thoughts returned to Avril and he saw to his chagrin that his body was undermining his will's resolve. It had been a long time since, unbidden, it had happened.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14