The Night Manager полностью

The handshaking again: everyone to everyone in turn, like dear friends at the changing of the year.

* * *

"So what d'you reckon?" Roper asked, through his dolphin smile, as he lay sprawled in a plastic chair on the balcony of Jonathan's suite. "Worked it out yet? Or still over your head?"

It was the nervous time. Time to be waiting in the truck with your face blacked, exchanging casual intimacies to keep the adrenaline at bay. Roper had propped his feet on the balustrade. Jonathan was arched forward over his glass, gazing at the darkening sea. There was no moon. A steady wind was flicking the waves. The first stars were pricking through the stacks of blue-black cloud. In the lighted drawing room behind them, Frisky, Gus and Tabby were making murmured conversation. Only Langbourne, draped on a sofa and reading Private Eye, seemed unaware of the tension.

"There's a Curaçaoan company called Tradepaths, and it owns a hundred million U.S. dollars, less twenty-five," Jonathan said.

"Except," Roper suggested, his smile widening.

"Except it doesn't own a damn thing because Tradepaths is a wholly owned subsidiary of Ironbrand."

"No, it's not."

"Officially Tradepaths is an independent company, no connection with any other firm. In reality it's your creature and can't move a finger without you. Ironbrand can't be seen to be investing in Tradepaths. So Ironbrand lends the investors' money to a tame bank, and the tame bank happens to invest the money in Tradepaths. The bank's the cutout. When the deal's done, Tradepaths pays off the investors with a handsome profit, everybody goes away happy and you keep the rest."

"Who gets hurt?"

"I do. If it goes wrong."

"It won't. Anyone else?"

It occurred to Jonathan that Roper required his absolution.

"Somebody does, for sure."

"Put it another way. Who gets hurt who wouldn't get hurt anyway?"

"We're selling guns, aren't we?"

"So?"

"Well, presumably they're being sold to be used. And since it's a disguised deal, one might reasonably assume they're being sold to people who shouldn't have them."

Roper shrugged. "Who says? Who says who shoots who in the world? Who makes the bloody laws? The big powers? Jesus!" Unusually animated, he flung a hand at the darkening seascape. "You can't change the colour of the sky. Told Jed. Wouldn't listen. Can't blame her. She's young like you. Give her ten years, she'll come round."

Emboldened, Jonathan went over to the attack. "So who's buying?" he demanded, repeating the question he had put to Roper on the aeroplane.

"Moranti."

"No, he's not. He hasn't paid you a cent. You've put up a hundred million dollars ― or the investors have. What's Moranti putting up? You're selling him guns. He's buying them. So where's his money? Or is he paying you in something that's better than money? Something you can sell for much, much more than a hundred mill?"

Roper's face was sculptured marble in the darkness, but it wore the long, bland smile.

"Been there yourself, haven't you? You and the Aussie you killed. All right, you deny it. Didn't see it big enough, your trouble. See it big or don't see it at all, my view. You're a smart chap all the same. Pity we didn't meet earlier. Could have done with you in a few other places."

A phone rang in the room behind them. Roper turned sharply, and Jonathan followed his gaze in time to see Langbourne standing with the receiver to his ear, looking at his wristwatch while he talked. He replaced the receiver, shook his head at Roper and returned to the sofa and Private Eye. Roper settled back into his plastic chair.

"Remember the old China trade?" he asked nostalgically.

"I thought that was in the 1830s."

"You've read about it, though, haven't you? You've read everything else, far as I can see."

"Yes."

"Remember what those Hong Kong Brits were running up the river to Canton? Dodging the Chinese customs, funding the empire, building themselves fortunes?"

"Opium," said Jonathan.

"For tea. Opium for tea. Barter. Came home to England, captains of industry. Knighthoods, honours, whole shebang. Hell's the difference? Go for it! That's all that matters. Americans know that. Why don't we? Tight-arsed vicars braying from the pulpit every Sunday, old nellies' tea parties, seedcake, poor Mrs. So-and-so's died of the what-nots? Screw it. Worse than bloody prison. Know what Jed asked me?"

"What?"

" 'How bad are you? Tell me the worst!' Christ!"

"What did you say?"

" 'Not bloody well bad enough!' I told her. 'There's me and there's the jungle,' I told her. 'No policemen on the street corner. No justice handed down by chaps in wigs familiar with the law. Nothing. I thought that was what you liked.' Shook her a bit. Serves her right."

Langbourne was tapping on the glass.

"So why are you present at the meetings?" Jonathan said. They were standing up. "Why keep a dog and bark yourself?"