Play the plucky loser, Burr had said. Never crawl. It makes him sick.
But Roper appeared not to hear Jonathan's protests. "Form like yours, on the run, funny name, you might not be looking for another brush with the law. Better to earn favour with the rich Brit instead of kidnapping his boy. See our point?"
"I had nothing to do with either of them. I told you. I'd never seen them or heard of them or spoken to them before that night. I got your boy back, didn't I? I don't even want a reward. I want out. That's all. Just let me go."
"How did you know they were heading for the cookhouse? Could have been heading anywhere."
"They knew the layout. They knew where the cash was kept. They'd obviously done their reconnaissance. For God's sake."
"With a little help from you?"
"No!"
"You could have hidden yourself away. Why didn't you? Kept out of trouble. That's what most chaps on the run would have done, wouldn't they? Never been on the run myself."
Jonathan let a long silence pass, sighed and appeared to resign himself to the madness of his hosts. "I'm beginning to wish I had," he said, and let his body slump in frustration.
"Corks, what's happened to that bottle? Haven't drunk it, have you?"
"Right here, Chief."
Back to Jonathan: "I want you to stick around, enjoy yourself, make yourself useful, swim, get your strength back, see what we'll do with you. May even find a job for you, something a bit special. Depends." The smile widened. "Cook us a few carrot cakes. What's the matter?"
"I'm afraid I'm not doing that," Jonathan said. "It's not what I want."
"Balls. Course it is."
"Where else have you got to go?" Corkoran asked. "Carlyle in New York? Ritz-Carlton in Boston?"
"I'll just go my own way," Jonathan said, politely but resolutely.
He had had enough. Acting and being had become one for him. He no longer knew the difference. I need my own space, my own agenda, he was telling himself. I'm sick of being someone's creature. He was standing, ready to leave.
"Hell are you talking about?" Roper complained, mystified. "I'll pay you. Not mean. Pay you top whack. Nice little house, other side of the island. He can have Woody's place, Corky. Horses. Swimming. Borrow a boat. Right up your street. Anyway, what're you going to use for a passport?"
"Mine," said Jonathan. "Lamont. Thomas Lamont." He appealed to Corkoran. "It was among my things."
A cloud moved across the sun, making a brief, unnatural evening in the room.
"Corky, sock him the bad news," Roper ordered, one arm outstretched as if Pavarotti had started singing again.
Corkoran shrugged and pulled an apologetic grin. "Yes, well, it's about this Canadian passport of ours, old love," he said. "Thing of the past, I'm afraid. Popped it in the shredder. Seemed the right thing to do at the time."
"What are you talking about?"
Corkoran was working the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other.
"No good getting in a paddy, heart. Doing you a favour. Your cover's blown sky-high. As of a few days ago, T. Lamont is on every watch list in the Western what-not. Interpol, Salvation Army, you name it. Show you the evidence if you like. Blue chip. Sorry about that. Fact."
"That was my passport!"
It was the anger that had seized him in the kitchen at Mama Low's, unfeigned, unbridled, blind ― or almost. That was my name, my woman, my betrayal, my shadow! I lied for that passport! I cheated for it! I cooked and skivvied and ate din for it, left warm bodies on my trail for it!
"We're getting you a new one, something clean," Roper said. "Least we can do for you. Corky, get your Polaroid, take his mug shot. Has to be colour these days. Somebody better touch out the bruises. Nobody else knows, understand? Crushers, gardeners, maids, grooms, nobody." A deliberate break.
"Jed, nothing. Jed keeps out of all this." He did not say all what. "What did you do with that motorbike you owned ― the one in Cornwall?"
"Ditched it outside Bristol," Jonathan said.
"So why didn't you flog it?" Corkoran demanded vindictively. "Or take it to France? You could have done, couldn't you?"
"It was an albatross. Everyone knew I rode a bike."
"One more thing." Roper's back was turned to the terrace, and his pistol finger was pointing at Jonathan's skull. "I run a tight ship here. We thieve a little, but we play straight with each other. You saved my boy. But if you step out of line, you'll wish you'd never been born."
Hearing footsteps on the terrace, Roper swung round, prepared to be angry that his order had been flouted, and saw Jed setting out name cards in silver stands on the tables spread about the terrace. Her chestnut hair fell over her shoulders. Her body was hidden demurely in a wrap.
"Jeds! Come over here a minute! Got a spot of good news for you. Name of Thomas. Joining the family for a bit. Better tell Daniel; he'll be tickled pink."
She allowed a beat. She raised her head and turned it, favouring the cameras with her best smile.
"Oh, gosh. Thomas. Super." Eyebrows up. Registers misty pleasure. "That's terribly good news. Roper, shouldn't we celebrate, or something?"
* * *
It was the next morning, soon after seven, but in the Miami headquarters it could have been midnight. The same neon lights glowed on the same green-painted brick walls. Sick of his art deco hotel. Burr had made the building his solitary home.
"Yes, it's me," he replied quietly into the red receiver. "And you're you, by the sound of you. How've you been?"
As he spoke, his spare hand slowly rose above his head until the whole arm was stretched toward the shut-off sky. All was forgiven. God was in His heaven. Jonathan was calling his controller on his magic box.
* * *
"They won't have me," Palfrey told Goodhew with satisfaction, as they rode round Battersea in a taxi. Goodhew had picked him up at the Festival Hall. We'll have to make it quick, Palfrey had said.
"Who won't?"
"Darker's new committee. They've invented a code name for themselves: Flagship. You have to be on their list, otherwise you're not Flagship cleared."
"So who is on the list?"
"Not known. They're colour coded."
"Meaning?"
"They're identified by an electronic band printed into their office passes. There's a Flagship reading room. They go there, they shove their passes into a machine, the door opens. They go in, it shuts. They sit down, read the stuff, have a meeting. The door opens, and they come out."
"What do they read?"
"The developments. The game plan."
"Where's the reading room?"
"Away from the building. Far from prying eyes. Rented. They pay cash. No receipts. Probably the upstairs of a bank. Darker loves banks." He kept talking, anxious to unload and go. "If you're Flagship cleared, you're a Mariner. There's a new insider-speak based on sea lore. If something's a bit wet for circulation, that means it ought to be Flagship classified. Or it's too nautical for non-Mariners. Or somebody's a dry bob, not a wet bob. They've got a kind of outer rampart of code names to protect the inner bailey."
"Are all the Mariners members of the River House?"
"Purists, bankers, civil servants, couple of MPs, couple of makers."
"Makers?"
"Manufacturers. Arms makers. For Christ's sake, Rex!"
"Are the makers British?"
"Near enough."
"Are they American? Are there American Mariners, Harry? Is there an American Flagship? Is there an equivalent over there?"
"Pass."
"Can you give me one name, Harry? Just one way into this?"