Philip Kerr - Esau

A fit-looking man in his late forties, but still suffering from the constant glaucoma that had forced an end to his once incessant globetrotting, Brindley saw his former Yale classmate first in the Bubble and then in the latter’s seventh-floor office, on the executive row of the CIA. With its view of the river, the old team photographs of the Orioles on the walls, and piles of computer printouts on the carpeted floor, Perrins’s office was only slightly less shabby than the rest of the building.

The two men exchanged pleasantries while Brindley opened an English leather briefcase and took out a copy of the familiar yellow-bordered magazine. On the cover was a blurred photograph of a gondola.

‘Are you interested in Venice?’ Brindley asked and then tossed his latest issue across the desk.

‘Not professionally,’ smiled Perrins.

‘Me, I don’t care for it at all. There’s something claustrophobic about the place, something corrupt and infective.’

‘What was it Henry James said about it? Originality of attitude is utterly impossible.’ Perceiving that Brindley had felt the point, he smiled sadistically. ‘But keep trying. Maybe you’ll think of something.’

‘Bastard. Beats me what people want to read about. National parks mostly.’

‘Well, Dunham, I’ll say one thing for you: You usually know what I want to read about. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

Brindley nodded at the magazine lying on the blotter in front of Perrins.

‘ “Behind the Scenes”. About six or seven pages in from the front cover. That’s a new feature. The editor’s idea. Amusing, sometimes amazing stories from staff members and freelancers about their experiences in the field. Piece of shit if you ask me.’

Perrins turned the pages.

‘Rock Jock’s Himalayan Tragedy,’ Brindley prompted.

The DDI glanced at a photograph of two mountain climbers and then started to read aloud from the short piece of copy printed underneath.

‘ “America’s leading ‘rock jock,’ Jack Furness, abandoned his attempt to climb all fourteen of the highest Himalayan peaks and returned home to California early, following the tragic death of his climbing partner, the Canadian Alpinist Didier Lauren. Lauren and Furness had forged an internationally famous climbing partnership with an unparalleled record of lightweight first ascents that has been the inspiration for a whole new generation of Alpine-style climbing in America. Furness and Lauren, two NGS research grant recipients, were climbing the southwest face of Annapurna when disaster struck.” ’

Perrins sighed and looked up.

‘Does this have a point, Dunham?’

‘Don’t stop,’ Brindley insisted.

Perrins looked back at the magazine and read the rest of the story in silence. When he finished, he nodded slowly.

‘Could be,’ he allowed.

‘He’s staying right here in Washington. At the Jefferson.’

‘The Jefferson, huh?’ Perrins sounded impressed. ‘I’d have thought an outdoors type like him would be more comfortable at a Howard Johnson.’

Brindley shook his head firmly. ‘Furness is a celebrity.’

‘That’s why I’ve never heard of him.’

‘People write books about him. Movie people use him. Stallone had him do all the stunts in one. He’s made a lot of money. He was a Rhodes scholar at Oxford University.’

‘That doesn’t mean shit, Dunham. Clinton was a Rhodes scholar.’

‘I’m just trying to turn you on to the fact that this is no hard-hat-for-a-brain kid who stinks of campfire smoke.’

‘Okay, okay, he’s Gore Vidal. What’s he doing in Washington?’

‘Presenting a grant proposal. He and an anthropologist, a woman called Stella Swift, want to return to the Annapurna Sanctuary to look for fossils.’

‘Jesus, don’t they read the newspapers? There might be a war in the Punjab.’

‘That’s tree or four hundred kilometres away.’

‘Near enough if it goes nuclear down there.’

‘Which ought to make them all the more valuable to you, Bryan. Right now there are not many people asking for money to go to a potential theatre of conflict.’

‘Point taken. A scientific expedition to the area would be good cover for us.’

‘Copies of the grant proposal are given to the Research and Exploration Committee. That’s about sixteen people. Each of them writes a critique of the grant, summarizing his or her evaluations in a rating, ranging from excellent to poor. After all the reviews come in, the ratings are averaged and a grant is or is not awarded accordingly. On paper, there’s nothing wrong with the proposal. Which reminds me.’

Brindley picked up his briefcase and took out a thermal-bound document that was as thick as a movie screenplay. He tossed it onto the desk on top of the magazine and leaned back in his chair.

‘I brought you a copy. I’m not on the committee myself. And here’s the problem. From what I hear, they didn’t get funded.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s just that money’s a little short right now in this particular field. Belt tightening, I’m afraid.’

Perrins’s intelligent eyes noted the expensive leather belt that was holding up the pants of the journalist’s Brooks Brothers suit, and he smiled thinly. To the right of the belt’s brass buckle the leather showed a dark band that seemed to indicate a belt that had been let out a notch or two to accommodate Brindley’s ample stomach.

‘I can see that,’ Perrins said dryly, and picked up his pen. ‘So who’s on the committee? Maybe we can influence the decision the other way.’

‘Brad Schaffer. He’s a friend. You’ve met him before. I think if we levelled with him he might help.’

‘Do you mean level with him, or bring him to a certain level, clearance-wise? ’

‘Bring him up.’

‘Maybe. What about the rest of the committee?’

‘You’ll find a list of their names in the magazine. It’s an International Who’s Who. Basically the trustees find the money. Often from their own pockets.’

Perrins turned the pages of his copy of National Geographic until he found one that was completely filled with the names of those who had anything to do with the magazine or the Society. Many of the names that appeared on the Board of Trustees and the companies they represented were familiar to him. One name in particular caught his eye.

‘Joel Beinart, chairman and CEO of the Semath Corporation.’

‘The electronic conglomerate. Yeah, I’ve met him.’

‘So have I,’ said Perrins. ‘He used to be secretary of commerce. We did quite a bit of work together. Commerce would often pick a country or a field of business endeavour and then ask us to deliver briefings to the appropriate businesspeople. Beinart’s always been sympathetic to the aims of this agency. Maybe he could front something for us. Organize what the Russians call a joint venture. With an injection of government money via Semath, Schaffer might persuade your Research and Exploration Committee to change their minds.’

‘All the years I’ve known you, it still surprises me when I hear my own ideas coming back to me as if they were yours.’

‘Shut up,’ smiled Perrins. ‘What does this kind of trip cost, anyway?’

‘It’s in the grant proposal,’ said Brindley. ‘But if memory serves, I think they were looking for something in the region of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Less the cost of any private sponsorship deals.’

‘They won’t have time to get any sponsors,’ said Perrins. ‘Three quarters of a mill, huh? You know how much that is out of the 1996 defence budget?’

Brindley shrugged.

‘I’ll tell you.’ Grinning like a schoolboy, Perrins was already tapping out numbers on the keyboard of his PC. ‘About two minutes’ worth.’