The only sign of life came from the headlights of the gravel trucks swerving past each other in the distance, like tin toys on a track. Their thin bright beams shone into total blackness. Back along the coastline, a line of steel towers glowed through the sea-mist like a phantom stockade.
Court realized that to get an answer he would have to give one. “You asked me what do I want?” he repeated. “I want to reach the top of my profession.”
“That’s not a desire, it’s an instinct, like releasing air from a diving tank.” Given the amount he had drunk, Lassiter surprised himself with the analogy. It was true; his career was as lonely and claustrophobic as being under the sea.
“All right. Then I desire respect.”
Lassiter turned to study him. “Surely you have that already. Don’t you?” From the way he said it, Lassiter made it clear that Court had yet to earn it from his teacher.
“I suppose so. In that case, I don’t know. That’s the answer to your question; I really don’t know.”
“Fair enough. I suppose that’s more honest than saying you want our hotels to be the finest in the world. You’re still only in your thirties-”
“Thirty-four.”
“You have time on your side. Now I suppose you want an answer to your question.” Lassiter lit the proffered cigar and drew hard on it. “I can’t sell you the company, Oliver.”
“Why not?”
“It would be too obvious.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s what you want. I can always tell what you’re going to do next. You’re positively metronomic in your habits. I can see inside your head, which means that from a business point of view I can always out-think you. And if I can, others will. That’s not good.”
“It’s because I learned everything from you. You’ll always be the one person who knows exactly what I think. You’ll always outguess me.”
The ocean air should have started sobering him up, but it was having the opposite effect. Lassiter struggled to understand what Court was saying to him. The air was completely still, and there was no sound. Even the distant trucks moved past each other in silence. If his wife were here he knew she would appreciate the beauty of the night, but she was asleep in London. It was late and he was still wearing his business suit, and polished black shoes that pinched.
“You know the story of the Caliph of Jaipur?” asked Court, draining his glass and setting it down on the balcony table. “He hired the finest painter in the land to create a fresco of heavenly angels for the walls of his harem. When it was finished, he asked the artisan if it really was the best fresco in all the kingdom. The painter told him that there was no finer artwork to be found beneath the horizons, nor would there ever be again until someone else could afford his services. So the Sultan had him beheaded.”
Lassiter looked at him blearily. Only the whites of Court’s eyes showed in the jet night, and then they were gone. A streak of silver sparkled in the ocean like a flash of static electricity, the signature of the moon. He felt tired and looked for a place to sit, but Court was crouching beside him. When he rose, he was holding Lassiter’s right ankle. Court stood taller and taller, rising higher and higher, until Lassiter realized he could no longer remain upright. “You’re not drunk,” he said absurdly.
“I don’t drink whisky.” Court raised his old friend’s ankle higher, until pain shot through Lassiter’s thigh muscles.
“Vodka-”
“Because it looks like water. Sure you don’t want to sell?”
“Over my dead body.”
Court shrugged his shoulders. “That was the general idea.” With both his hands clasped beneath Lassiter’s foot Court leaned back suddenly, like a Scotsman tossing a caber, raising his arms smartly so that Lassiter lost his battle with gravity and found himself lifted cleanly into the air, over the barrier of the balcony. His mouth opened in shock, but only the smallest sound emerged. His fingers grasped at the air beyond the low rail, too late, and he tumbled silently down, past the empty dark floors. The first part of the fall seemed to last for ever, as if he were wheeling through the night in slow motion, like a firework that had failed to ignite, or a spaceman with a cut cord.
But then he hit his head on the concrete lip of the thirtieth balcony, and this sent him spinning madly out of orbit. His head turned from white to black, leaving a matching stain on the building wall. His leg hit another ledge, his arm another, his head again, his arm, his leg, until there was hardly a bone in his body left unbroken – and that was long before he hit the ground.
Court stepped back into the room. “You might want to come out now,” he called. “We’re alone.” He heard running water stop.
The bathroom door was padded crimson with gold studs. It opened cautiously. Vienna emerged with her make-up refreshed, like a meticulously restored painting. She took in the suite, three glasses, one occupant less, an open balcony door, and decided to say nothing. Had she an inkling of what had just happened? Her face was a mask. Court’s decision to act had been spontaneous. He knew she could not have seen anything, and Lassiter had made no noise. He doubted that she cared anyway. It was not her job to care. She worked in a service industry.
“My colleague had to leave. Thanks for coming up,” said Court, feeling inside his jacket. He unclipped her handbag and dropped in a roll of banknotes. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“I’d like that.” Vienna’s smile was unreadable. She turned and walked to the door, seemingly aware of exactly how many steps it would take. “You know where to find me.”
And she was gone.
Court closed the window and rinsed the glasses, placing them back on the bar shelf. He had left no other mark in the suite. Letting himself out, he padded along the corridor and caught the elevator to his own room. He had paid the girl too much, but would not have been able to get Lassiter back to his suite without her. Everyone knew that even though the old man loved his wife, he still needed to prove himself with the ladies.
He would heed his mentor’s advice and not suggest the buyout immediately; that would be crass. There were plenty of other preparations he could be making while the company came to terms with Lassiter’s death. It would be interesting to see how long they could keep it out of the news.
Before the last day of the conference began, he took a stroll outside. The sky was a painful deep blue, sharper than knives. The pavements had been hosed down, and were already nearly dry. He circled the hotel but found no sign of any disturbance. Shielding his eyes, he squinted up at the balconies, trying to spot where Lassiter had hit the building, but realized that he was standing beneath the ledges, and would not be able to see anything.
The day dragged past in parades of PowerPoint bar charts, each more candy-coloured than the last, as if their radiance could make up for their dullness. At lunchtime he saw two men who looked like plainclothes police. They were standing motionless in the reception area, in mirror shades and shiny blue suits. By the time afternoon tea was served, even Lassiter’s reservation had disappeared from the records. Clearly, the hotel’s reputation was more important than its founder’s demise. The things we create outgrow us, thought Court, shutting down his laptop. One day you own the company, the next even your PA can’t remember you. I thought there would be repercussions. I guess Sean was right. It’s all part of the new business model.
Two weeks later, Court found himself at Domodedovo Airport in Moscow. He always seemed to be holding meetings in departure lounges. In the business-class bar he had bumped into an old English friend, a nervy, sticklike redhead called Amanda, and had invited her to join him. Watching snow fall on airfields from behind picture windows always had a calming effect on him. Amanda was a seasoned executive with half a dozen personal communication devices in her briefcase and no hint of a private life. She told him she was going to try internet dating when she finally settled in one city long enough to do so.