Mind, Machines and Evolution Part 8

Harry waited for a couple of seconds and then nodded. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "I'll probably be able to call you later this afternoon. Will you be at home?"

"Until about six," Nigel told him. He looked around him to invite any final comments, but there were none. "Very well, we'll consider the subject closed until I hear further from you." The Englishman set his empty gla.s.s down and braced his arms along the side of his chair. "There was another matter that you wished to finalize today, I believe," he said.

Stone nodded and reached inside the jacket pocket of his suit for an envelope containing a bank check for forty thousand pounds. He had purchased it two days before in Las Vegas with unlaundered cash bought at a substantial discount, and arranged for it to be wired on to London for collection on his way to the Philimans' apartment that morning. "One hundred thousand dollars, less twenty percent for handling as agreed," he said as he leaned forward to hand the envelope to Nigel. "It gives me a much better break than the standard rate. We're throwing it in as a goodwill gesture."

"We?" Nigel looked mildly surprised. "I thought you said this was a private matter."

"A figure of speech," Harry told him with a grin. "Okay, I'm throwing it in as a goodwill gesture. I think you'll find everything in order."

Nigel opened the envelope and took out the check, examined it briefly, and nodded. "Excuse me for a moment, please," he said, and with that got up and left the room.

Clive stood up from the sofa and brought his arms up level with his shoulders to stretch gratefully, his action echoing the more relaxed atmosphere that had descended to mark the end of the day's primary business. "It's a beautiful day for seeing some of London if you're not intending to return straightaway,"

he remarked, glancing across at the window. "The weather must be the best we've had so far this year."

"I am staying over tonight, but I've got other things to do," Harry said. "I'll have to schedule that in for some other time."

"Perhaps you would care to join us for lunch," Delia suggested. "A new French restaurant has opened in the plaza downstairs. I'm told the cuisine is excellent."

Harry turned his hand palm upward and smiled regretfully. "I'd love to, but I only got in from Vegas this morning and it's a full day. I promise I'll allow for it next time."

"You must live a very busy life," Barbara murmured, leaning forward on the sofa and looking at him with a hint of intrigue that he felt she was not in the habit of displaying toward everyone. He was flattered, and he wondered for a moment if the look in her eyes might be an oblique invitation to get in touch sometime when his schedule was less crowded.

"Always busy, but never too busy," he said, winking in a way he knew could be read as not completely playful, and pretending not to notice Clive's stiffening posture out of the corner of his eye. "You know how it is with Americans-work hard, but play hard, too, huh? Who needs ulcers?"

"I presume you travel Arabee," Clive said in a voice cooler than before. Though speaking to Harry, he glanced down at Barbara pointedly. "There were some things I was hoping to discuss, but I don't think this would be a good time. Could we fix something for a day next week, perhaps?"

Harry realized he had been getting carried away. "Yes," he replied, dropping his smile and producing a pocket vipad from his jacket as he turned to look up at Clive. He activated the unit and studied the information that appeared on its miniature screen. "Sure, I've got some free slots next week. When do you want to make it?"

"Before Thursday," Delia said, looking at Clive. "Don't forget we're due for a long weekend with Maurice and Brigitte in Cannes."

Clive took his own unit from his shirt pocket, compared his schedule with Harry's, and eventually they settled for a Tuesday morning meeting to be followed by lunch. They had just finished dictating the details into the two vipads when Nigel returned with a flat leather briefcase. He set it down on the side table next to Harry, then opened it to reveal bundles of used one-hundred-pound notes.

"Fifty thousand," Nigel announced, at the same time handing Harry a white envelope he had been carrying. "Here is the promissory note and some ID that you will have no trouble with."

Harry checked the contents of the envelope and then leaned over the table to spend the next minute or two counting the cash. His canceled bank check plus a copy of the promissory note from Zephyr Enterprises to repay the "loan" would satisfy the British authorities that forty thousand pounds had been invested in the company from legitimate sources. Thus through the two transactions that he had made in two days, Harry had converted fifty thousand dollars he had borrowed on a short-term basis into the equivalent of one hundred thousand dollars in illicitly obtained cash. That left him with the problem of translating the profit into personal a.s.sets that couldn't be questioned, but he would take advantage of his visit to London as an opportunity to solve that.

At last he p.r.o.nounced himself satisfied, closed the briefcase, and exchanged final farewells as he stood up to leave. Nigel and Clive began talking about some office s.p.a.ce that was available in Piccadilly, leaving Delia and Barbara to escort Harry to the door. Just as she was about to close the door behind him, Barbara said in a low voice, "It might be fun to find out what you're really like, Harry."

"I'm planning on moving over permanently not long from now," he murmured. "Maybe when I do, I'll give you a call at the office. I still need somebody to show me this city."

"Do that," she whispered, smiling a promise, then eased the door shut. Harry tightened his grip on the briefcase and began whistling jubilantly through his teeth as he turned and walked in the direction of the elevators.

The first thing he did after he came out of the main entrance to the apartments was call the States and arrange for a contract to be beamed through to Nigel Philiman in accordance with the terms agreed. The terms were immediately accepted as Harry knew they would be, but not wanting to give the impression that things had been too easy, he postponed calling Nigel back until later. After that he had a snack lunch consisting of an unchilled beer and a ham sandwich in a pub at the top end of Sloane Street, and then took an autocab eastward toward the center of the city.

He found the premises of Melvin & Cooper, Dealers in Rare Stamps, Coins, and Curios, in a side street off Charing Cross Road. It was one of those quaint old London establishments that had barred windows guarding its displays, and solid bra.s.swork its portal, and gave off the impression of having stood there since the street was first laid down way back in whatever century and of boasting the same venerable and dignified staff that had unlocked the doors on its opening day. Inside, Harry spent almost another hour discussing and examining postage stamps, eventually selecting a modest collection dating back twenty years. The complete purchase came to just short of fifty thousand pounds, and Harry paid in cash. The dealer dutifully recorded the details of the transaction and the date along with the name and address of the buyer, the latter of which he took from the doc.u.ment that Nigel Philiman had provided.

From there he took a cab to Marble Arch, where he locked the briefcase containing the collection in a bank deposit box rented for twenty-four hours under his a.s.sumed name, after which he called Nigel as promised and advised him that, after a lot of haggling and effort, he had persuaded his a.s.sociates in the States to go with the figures that Nigel had asked for. That issue having been resolved satisfactorily, he spent thirty minutes in a corner house unwinding and congratulating himself over a cigarette and coffee. It had been a good day's work, and the time was three-thirty, just right for him to get to Bayswater by four to meet Sandra. Now business was really over, and for the rest of the evening, not to mention the night, he would be able to abandon himself totally and with unashamed selfishness.

As he drained the last of his coffee he paused to check back over the day's events for any last detail he might have forgotten. Then, finding nothing, he stubbed his cigarette, smiled to himself in satisfaction, rose from the table, paid the bill, and left.

Feeling ecstatically content, Harry Stone lay back against the silky softness of the pillows admiring the rear view of Sandra's perfect body as she stooped provocatively in front of the vanity to straighten her hair in the mirror. "Wow!" he murmured approvingly.

Sandra smiled over her shoulder in the mirror. "Feeling better?"

"Fantastic! If this is only the beginning, hey, are we gonna have some good times. I never went much for that c.r.a.p about people being made for each other, but you know something-it's true."

"You, a romantic? I'd never have believed it." Sandra smirked wickedly. "I'm starting to get hungry, Alex. How about eating dinner early? Then maybe we could go on to a club for a couple of hours and still have plenty of night left. I have to be away early in the morning."

"Oh, how come?"

"I promised I'd go to an art show with a couple of the girls from the health club I told you about."

"The place with all the loaded man-hungry widows and debutantes on the prowl for rich husbands?"

"Uh-huh."

Harry shrugged. "Sounds good to me . . . especially the last part. We could go to that place in the park again by the bridge."

"Great." Sandra moved over to the door and slipped on a robe she took off a peg on the back. "I need to shower," she said. "Don't run away, Alex." She left the room, leaving the door open behind her, and disappeared into the bathroom in the hallway. The sounds of cabinet doors being opened and closed and bottles being set down trickled back into the bedroom. Harry stretched out an arm to pick up his cigarettes and lighter from the bedside table, lit one, tossed the pack and lighter down again, and settled back to relax.

There was nothing especially remarkable about b.u.mping into a fellow American overseas, but to have decided for no particular reason to have lunch in the same restaurant as this American three months before had been a rare and unexpected stroke of good fortune, even for somebody like Harry, who made it his business to be lucky. Sandra had come to England three years ago as the wife of a vice-president of a Texas-based construction company who had moved over temporarily to set up a British division of the firm. Her husband had become infatuated with an English girl and taken her back to the States with him at the end of his stay after offering Sandra a generous settlement in return for an easy divorce. Since then she had continued living a life of ease and leisure in London, cultivating the circle of social acquaintances that her husband's position had brought her into contact with, but always managing to be free when "Alex" was due to stay in town.

But what he liked most was that she was the same kind of person as he-a born winner. She knew what she wanted and played hard for it, and acknowledged the fact realistically without hiding behind apologies or pretense. Without doubt she was his kind of woman. They both understood the rules of the game and would play it together for as long as they both had something to gain; if that ever changed, then that would be it, with no dues, debts, or recriminations either way. So nothing was guaranteed, but his prospects were looking pretty good, and all the signs indicated that when Harry finally moved over to London as planned, he'd have everything set up and waiting for him. Success, in all its aspects, had never smelled sweeter.

The sounds of shower water were replaced by the low hum of the hot-air dryer system. "When are you going back home to Surrey, Alex?" Sandra called through the doorway.

"Not until later tomorrow," he replied, making his tone not very enthusiastic. "I'll let myself out if you have to get away. I've got to see a couple of guys from a broker's in the city, but not until around lunchtime."

"Which ones are those-the Australian nickel or the Brazilian coffee beans?"

"Something different. We tied up both those deals this morning," he told her.

"So how many millions was that worth?"

"Oh, you know how it is," he drawled carelessly. "A couple here and a couple there. I figure the commission on it should take care of the dinner check tonight."

"So what is it? Tell me."

"Ocean-ridge mining. A new treaty's been drafted by the U.N. that's pretty well bound to go through.

It's the right time to be taking out options."

A short pause ensued. Then Sandra remarked in a more sober tone, "You didn't sound too happy about going home tomorrow. Is she being a b.i.t.c.h again?"

Harry scowled and blew a stream of smoke across the bed. "Yes, but I don't want to talk about it. Why spoil a nice evening? Anyhow, it's not as if it was going to be for much longer."

The hum of the dryer stopped, and Sandra reappeared through the doorway, her robe on again. For the first time that afternoon her expression was serious and her manner tense. "You are still sure you want to go through with it?" she said. "You haven't changed your mind?"

Harry hesitated for just a second, then nodded once decisively. "I don't change my mind," he told her, stubbing the b.u.t.t of his cigarette in the ashtray by the bed and looking up. "Did you get the . . . things?"

"Do you really want to talk about that now?" she asked. "Why not leave it until we get back?"

He shook his head. "Let's get it over with and out of the way now. Then we'll be able to enjoy dinner without it hanging around in the background. . . ." He grinned crookedly. "Not to mention afterward."

Sandra nodded and, keeping her face cool and expressionless, walked over to the wall closet. She slid open the door and reached up to the shelf inside for a padded brown mailer. She drew out a small white package, replaced the mailer on the shelf, and came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Harry watched as she opened the white package to reveal a preformed plastic container-flat and about two inches square-of the kind used for holding one-shot medical infusers. She flipped the lid open with her thumbnail and uncovered slender metal tubes lying side by side in three of the container's slots, the remaining two slots being empty. Each tube was a little longer and slightly thicker than a match, and was tipped by a gla.s.s bead at one end. Two of them had a tiny dot of red paint on the outside about halfway along; the third was plain. Sandra selected the plain one and lifted it from the container. She handled it delicately but surely, her movements telegraphing a cool determination that Harry found momentarily chilling.

"Anyone would think you're unwrapping candy or something," he murmured. "Doesn't this bother you at all?"

"Objective thinking," she said, glancing up at him from under her long, curling eyelashes. "It doesn't have to be like this, Alex. You could always walk out and get a divorce. I thought you wanted it this way."

Harry inhaled deeply and was surprised to feel his breath coming shakily. "And get screwed out of every penny I'm worth to keep her in Scotch and hippie boyfriends who don't have the brains to earn their own suppers?" The sound of the bitterness in his own voice steeled his resolve; he nodded curtly. "Yes, I do want it this way. Come on, explain it again and show me how this thing works."

Sandra held up the tiny tube she had taken from the plastic container. "This is a standard medical infuser for injecting drugs as an atomized jet straight through the skin," she said. Harry nodded. Though he was not on any course of medication that required their use, he knew about them, since such devices were not uncommon. Sandra indicated the container in her other hand. "Those other two, with the dots on, are not filled with anything prescribed by any doctor. They're a special kind you can get if you know the right people, and they contain a volatile nerve toxin that's lethal within seconds of becoming active. You'd use one of them like this." She put the container with the two "special" infusers in it down on the bedside table and pulled a cigarette out of the pack lying beside it. Then she snapped the gla.s.s bead off the end of the tube she was still holding and touched it lightly against the side of the cigarette just below the end.

Nothing happened for about a second, and then the tube began emitting a faint hissing sound. As soon as the hiss started, Sandra drew the tube smoothly and slowly along the length of the cigarette, timing her movement such that it just reached the filter as the sound died. "It takes four or five seconds," she told him. "Make sure you get rid of the gla.s.s tip. A few people are doing long stretches because they got careless over that."

Harry took the cigarette from her fingers and examined it curiously. There was nothing on its surface to indicate anything abnormal. Actually he did know about "squirts," as the lethal brand of infusers were called in the underworld, which was where they were usually procured. In fact he could have obtained some himself from Max or Tony or a couple of his other less salubrious acquaintances in Vegas; but there had been no point in risking leaving a trail that might lead back to him there, where he was known, especially not after Sandra had suggested such a solution independently and offered to obtain the stuff for him. But too much familiarity with such matters would not have gone with the image of Alexander Moorfield, commodity broker and investment banker from Maryland, currently living in Surrey, England.

So he pretended to be fascinated and just a little nervous.

"That's all you have to do," Sandra said, watching his face. "Then there'll be no alimony to worry about, and you'll be able to afford some nice flowers out of the life insurance."

"Wouldn't I taste anything funny when I smoked it?" he asked, looking up at her with a mild frown that was fitting to his role.

Sandra shook her head. "The poison enters the bloodstream though the lungs and doesn't become active until about half a day," she said. "Then, when it reaches a certain center in the brain, it works almost immediately. It's quite painless. You get hit by a sudden feeling of tiredness that lasts maybe a couple of seconds, and then it's all over. The molecules break down into residues that are indistinguishable from waste toxins produced naturally in the body, so there's no way that anything could show up in an autopsy."

"What about the b.u.t.t?" Harry said. "Wouldn't a lab be able to find traces in that?"

"That's possible, but you'd have to be really unlucky," Sandra replied. "Just remember to clean out all the ashtrays before anybody has a chance to think about getting suspicious."

He met her eyes for a second. They were calm and unwavering, and seemed to be challenging him to prove he was everything he said he was by not backing down at the last minute. He drew a long breath to give the impression of a respectable citizen bracing himself to take an irrevocable plunge and found that the nervousness he tried to feign was coming naturally. "Okay," he said from somewhere down in the back of his throat. "It looks simple enough."

Sandra closed the plastic container and returned it to the white package, then took it across the room to the closet and slipped it into a jacket pocket of his suit. When she came back to the bedside table, she picked up the gla.s.s bead, the empty infuser, and the cigarette that she had treated, and carried them through to the kitchen where she dropped the lot into the garbage incinerator.

"Where the h.e.l.l did you get those?" Harry asked as she came back into the bedroom.

"You don't really expect me to answer that," she said reproachfully. Her manner was becoming more teasing now that they had the worst of that particular subject out of the way. "Let's just say I've got friends, and they're not all pillars of virtuous society."

"Did you have to go to bed with someone?" he asked. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were studying hers curiously as he spoke.

"If I did, would it bother you?"

"Aw, come on . . ." Harry spread his hands appealingly. "We're both grown-up people. If that's what you have to do, it's what you have to do."

Sandra hesitated for a split second, then said, "Yes, I did."

With her chin raised a fraction, she was looking at him defiantly. Harry had the feeling that her answer was meant to test his reaction. "Hey, stop glaring at me as if that's supposed to cut any ice," he told her.

"I've been around too much for that." He lay back against the pillows and grinned. "Anyhow, what's new? I already knew you were a b.i.t.c.h. That's why we're right for each other. Boy, are we gonna go places together when all this is over."

"So when will that be?" Sandra asked, moving a step nearer. "Have you worked something out yet?"

Harry nodded. "I've got a business meeting scheduled at one of the banks in town for Tuesday morning," he said. "I'll take care of it sometime just before I leave. That'll give her all day with me out of the way, and I could see you here in the afternoon to celebrate."

"And after that, are you still planning on selling up the house in Surrey and moving into town?" He detected a trace of disappointment in her voice. "It sounds such a nice place."

"h.e.l.l, I wouldn't want you in there," Harry said, pulling a face. "I could use a break in town for a while.

After that-aw, there are plenty of nice places."

Sandra nodded in resignation. "How long do you think it'll take?"

"Who knows?" Harry spread his palms. "But there's no reason why I couldn't move out right away-the end of next week, maybe. So if you owe any outstanding payments on those little babies, you'd better get 'em cleared up pretty quick."

Sandra brought her hands up to her hips and stared down at him accusingly. "You really are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d,"

she told him. "You don't give a d.a.m.n how I got them, do you?"

Harry clasped his hands behind his head and grinned up at her. "You said I shouldn't ask about that, and I believe you. Anyhow, now tell me you don't like b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Mmm . . . maybe there are one or two around that I could find time for," she said, breaking into a smile.

Sandra had been gone for a few hours by the time Harry emerged from the apartment late the next morning, the white package zipped securely in an inside pocket of his jacket. He went to Marble Arch and retrieved the briefcase from the deposit box, added the package to its contents, and then took the briefcase to a store in Edgware Road that handled a variety of lines including packaging materials. For a small fee one of the a.s.sistants boxed and wrapped the briefcase in a manner suitable for mailing, and Harry then took the parcel to the Marble Arch post office, where he consigned it to himself under a box number in Las Vegas. After that he walked half a block along Oxford Street and into the central London branch of Remote-Activated Biovehicles (U.K.), Limited.

The girl at the reception desk greeted him with a warm smile of recognition. "Good morning," she said.

"Was your trip enjoyable?"

"Very enjoyable, thanks," Harry told her. "I need another reservation for Tuesday. Any problems?"

"The same model?" the girl inquired, activating the computer terminal beside her.

"Oh, yes. It's very important."

The girl scanned quickly down the table of information that appeared on the screen and began tapping a string of commands into the touchpad with deft motions of her fingers. "No problem," she announced brightly. "The reservation is made, and you can pick up the confirmation in Las Vegas." She looked up from the screen. "Are there any problems to report?"