I WOKE AT TEN the next morning to find the bed empty and a note saying she had gone to mass and was spending the day with her parents. I dressed and drove slowly back to the cottage, lured by the thought of the roast beef I knew Annie would be preparing. Mark and Annie had a strong streak of English traditionalism in them, and never was it more apparent than when Annie put a joint of beef or a leg of lamb on the Sunday table. I stopped in Carrigaline and picked up the English Sunday papers, The Sunday Times and The Observer. We didn’t see the papers often, but a nap after lunch and a browse through them seemed a pleasant prospect.
The smell of the cooking beef struck me before I was even inside the cottage. I closed the door. “Hey, that really smells good!”
“Shhh!” Annie cautioned, sticking her head out from the kitchen. “Mark’s sleeping in.” She pointed to a pad beside the phone. “Your father called last night and asked that you call him back at that number.”
She went back to her cooking and I called the international operator and asked for the number, which was to the apartment my parents kept in Atlanta. I waited somewhat nervously for the operator to call back. Neither of my parents used the long distance telephone with me very often, preferring to write and be written to. I was worried that something might be wrong. The ringing of the phone jolted me.
“Hello, Will?” my father’s voice came over the line, scratchy and faint.
“Hello, Dad, I’m afraid we haven’t got a very good line. I’m sorry to call so early, but I thought it might be important.” It was five hours earlier in Atlanta. “Is something wrong?”
“Not really; we’re all fine. But I had a call from a London newspaper yesterday. They knew about our dinner with Derek Thrasher and were calling to find out what I knew about him.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I confirmed that we had dinner and that I hadn’t met Mr. Thrasher before that time or since; said that he was an acquaintance of yours and Jane’s. They wanted to know how to get in touch with you; I said you were traveling in Ireland. I don’t know how resourceful they are, but I doubt if they’ll find you.”
“Why would they be interested in a dinner that took place nearly a month ago?
“They wouldn’t say. I had the impression they had some sort of story and didn’t want to leak any details until they’d published. Have you heard anything about him over there?”
“No, but I’ve just bought the Sunday papers. I’ll go through them and call you back if there’s anything. How are you and Mother doing?”
“We’re just fine. You knew Jimmy Carter won the governor’s race?” My father had been a strong supporter of Carl Sanders, Carter’s opponent.
“Mom wrote me. I’m sorry about that; I know it’ll cause some complications for you.”
“Probably. Well, at least we won’t have Lester Maddox there anymore. You knew he got elected lieutenant governor this time?” Maddox was a racist clown who had caused great embarrassment for moderate Georgians such as my father.
“Yeah, I guess you won’t be rid of him entirely.”
“Listen, read the papers and call me back if there’s anything worth knowing. Your mother isn’t up yet, but she’s dying to know any news about Thrasher.”
I hung up and sat down with the papers. Mark appeared at the bedroom door, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on? What’s all the shouting about?”
“Sorry, Mark. I was talking to my father, and we had a bad line. He says he had a call from a London paper about Derek Thrasher. I’m just looking to see if there’s anything in today’s papers about him.” I had to look no further than the front page of The Observer. In the lower right corner I was greeted by the headline:
FINANCIER SOUGHT BY PUBLIC PROSECUTOR
DOCUMENTS MAY MEAN CHARGES AGAINST DEREK THRASHER
Mark snatched the newspaper from me and stared at it.
Annie came in from the kitchen. “Well, let us in on it, Mark.”
He read aloud:
“The Director of Public Prosecutions has expressed a keen interest in talking with mysterious financial wizard Mr. Derek Thrasher about exchange control violations and irregularities in Thrasher’s company reports to the Inland Revenue over the last two years. The Observer. has learned that an apparently disgruntled former employee of Mr. Thrasher, Mr. Patrick Fitzgerald Pearce, of Streatham, several days ago delivered a set of books from an investment firm principally owned by Mr. Thrasher that are said to be different from the books previously examined by the Bank of England and the Inland Revenue. A spokesman for the Prosecutor would confirm only that information about Mr. Thrasher’s business activities had been received, and, as a result, that the prosecutor wished to meet with Mr. Thrasher for “discussions” and sought to learn of his whereabouts. The spokesman denied that charges had been brought, though he declined to rule out that possibility in the near future.
Mr. Pearce worked as an accountant for Avondale Enterprises, said to be a company set up to invest profits of other Thrasher businesses in property and holiday resorts on the Continent. A spokesman for Avondale, who declined to be identified, confirmed that Mr. Pearce had been employed for some months by the company and that he had resigned a week ago, saying he wished to return to his native Ireland.
The significance of the documents now in the hands of the Prosecutor lies not so much in the dealings of Avondale, but, The Observer has learned, in the personal dealings of Mr. Derek Thrasher himself. It is believed that the documents may shed light on how one of Europe’s most reclusive and, it is rumoured, wealthiest businessmen conducts his affairs.
Mr. Thrasher has for some time been seen rarely in public, most recently in mid-November, when he dined at the Connaught Hotel in the company of Mrs. Genevieve Wheatley, widow of Mr. Winston Wheatley MP, Mr. William H. “Billy” Lee, former governor of the State of Georgia, USA, Mrs. Lee and their son, and Lady Jane Berkeley, eldest daughter of the Duke of Kensington. Governor Lee, reached at his home in Atlanta, said that he had not met Mr. Thrasher before that evening, nor since; that he had been introduced to Mr. Thrasher at the dinner by his son, William H. Lee IV, apparently a friend of Lady Jane. “We found him very pleasant company,” Governor Lee said. He denied any business connection with Mr. Thrasher and said the evening was purely social in nature.
Two days following that dinner a car bomb was set off in Berkeley Square, outside a building occupied by a construction firm owned by Mr. Thrasher, and credit for the explosion was later claimed by the Irish Freedom Brigade, a radical offshoot of the Provisional IRA, who said they had a quarrel with the company’s hiring practices on several Northern Ireland building sites. It is believed that, because of the explosion and the possibility of threats on his life, Mr. Thrasher has since become even more reclusive. Prior to the explosion he apparently resided in a house adjacent to the office building, according to reports from people who know him, but now none of those people nor anyone else can say with any certainty even what country hé now resides in.
The spokesman for the Director of Public Prosecutions said that it may be several days or weeks before a decision is made whether to charge Mr. Thrasher or his employees with violations of the law.
Mark stopped reading and sat down heavily. “Oh shit,” he said.
We were hard at work on the boat the next morning when a man in a business suit, carrying a briefcase, turned up at the boatyard. Finbar took the man into his office and talked with him for a moment, then asked Mark to join him. Mark motioned for me to come with him.
“This is Mr. Murray, my bank manager in Cork. Mr. Murray, this is Captain Robinson and Mr. Lee.”
“How are you this morning, gentlemen?” Mr. Murray was very cheerful.
“Very well, thank you,” Mark replied, with equal cheer.
“Ah, that’s a fine looking craft you’ve got building, there.”
“Thank you very much; Finbar is doing a fine job on her. You’re lucky to have such a customer.”
“Ah, yes, Finbar’s been with us forever.” Murray then became a bit more serious. “Ah, Captain Robinson, I wanted just to ask you about something …” I knew what was coming. “… your next periodic payment on the building of your boat … let’s see … ” he put on his glasses and consulted a paper … “That’s thirty-three thousand, four hundred pounds sterling… is due in two days’ time, on Wednesday. I believe that’s correct?”
Mark nodded affably. “It is indeed.”
“Right. Ah, Captain Robinson, do you anticipate any difficulty in meeting that payment on that date?”
Mark appeared surprised. “Why do you ask, Mr. Murray?”
“Well, you see, we provide Finbar with financing for his working capital, and, of course, we’re very concerned that his clients are able to meet their obligations.”
“I anticipate no difficulty in meeting my obligations, Mr. Murray. My sponsor has been prompt in his payments, and I’ve no reason to expect him to be any less so on this occasion,” Mark replied smoothly.”
“Ah, good, your sponsor … that would be a Mr. Derek Thrasher, would it?”
Mark wrinkled his brow but maintained his composure. “My sponsor prefers to remain anonymous, Mr. Murray, but may I ask why you think it might be this … Mr. Thrasher?” I was glad Murray was looking at Mark and not at me.
“Well, Finbar … ” Murray turned and looked for confirmation from Finbar, who was looking very embarrassed.
“I’ve never told Finbar the name of my sponsor, Mr. Murray,” Mark said easily, “so anything he may have told you in that regard would merely be speculation on his part.”
“Well, now, Captain Robinson, we’re all in business together here, so to speak; you may be sure that anything you tell me will remain in the strictest confidence.”
“I have nothing to tell you, Mr. Murray. I’ve already said that my sponsor prefers to remain anonymous, and I must respect his wishes in that regard.”
“Well, let me put it this way, then, if I assumed that your sponsor is this Mr. Thrasher, would I be going too far astray?” Murray accompanied this with a wink and a grin.
“I think it would be best for all concerned if you made no assumptions at all, Mr. Murray.” Murray’s face fell; he was suddenly less cheerful. “And if you should choose to make assumptions along those lines I think it would be in the bank’s interests if you kept your assumptions closely to yourself.”
Murray was looking decidedly annoyed, now. “Captain Robinson, do you deny that your sponsor is, in fact, Mr. Derek Thrasher?”
“I do not deny it, Mr. Murray, nor do I confirm it.”
Murray produced Sunday’s Observer from his briefcase and handed it to Mark. “Have you seen this, Captain?”
Mark glanced at the newspaper. “I read both The Observer and The Sunday Times quite thoroughly yesterday.”
“Well, now, Captain, unless you will deny it and give me the name of your sponsor and a means of confirming his participation and his intention of continuing his sponsorship, I am going to have to proceed on the basis that your sponsor is, in fact, Mr. Thrasher. As you can see from this report, Mr. Thrasher seems to be in considerable difficulties with the authorities at the moment, and the bank is very concerned that these difficulties may prevent him from continuing his sponsorship.”
Mark stood up. “Mr. Murray, you may proceed on any basis you wish. It is my intention to meet my obligations to Finbar; I have no obligation of any sort to you or your bank. My bankers are Coutts & Company of Cadogan Place, London, as they were my father’s and my grandfather’s. If you feel you need reassurance of my credibility or character you may feel free to contact them for a reference.” Mark delivered this quietly, almost kindly.
Murray was turning red, now. “Captain Robinson, I feel I must tell you that if your payment to Finbar is not made by the close of business on the fifteenth, the day after tomorrow, the bank will feel it necessary to take immediate steps to protect its interests. I—”
Mark stuck out his hand. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murray; now I must bid you good day; we have a lot of work to do.” He left the office, and I followed him. Finbar remained with the banker.
“Jesus, Mark,” I whispered to him as we walked toward the boat, “didn’t you come on a little strong with him? It’s not going to do us any good to have him mad with you, especially in the circumstances.”
Mark stopped and turned to me. “Willie, my father told me a long time ago never to be intimidated by a banker. I’m not about to start now, especially with a little shit like that one. Look at it this way—bankers sell money, customers buy it. Finbar is the customer in this case. If I’d sucked up to that fellow he’d have known immediately that we had no money, and he’d have had his solicitors all over us. As it is, he may back down and wait a bit, even if we’re late. There’s at least a chance of that. It’s a lot of trouble for a bank to foreclose, and Finbar’s a good customer. We’ll be all right for a few days. In the meantime, let’s just keep hoping Derek comes through.”
Finbar showed the banker out and joined us. He looked very angry. “I’m sorry about that, Captain,” he said to Mark. “He’s got no call to come around here like that. I’ve always paid those people on time. Well, nearly always.”
“It’s all right, Finbar. Something I’d like to know, though. Where did you hear that my sponsor was Derek Thrasher?”
Finbar looked embarrassed. “Ah, it was just a rumor. I’m sorry I mentioned it to Murray, but I thought it’d put him off a bit if he knew there was somebody big behind your project.”
“When did you hear the rumor, Finbar, and where?”
“Oh, a while back. A week or two, I guess. That’s when I told Murray. He was all impressed, he was; then he saw that thing in the paper.”
“And where did you hear it? Who told you that?”
“Oh, it’s not important, Captain.”
Mark put his hand on Finbar’s shoulder. “Finbar, I must know.”
Finbar rubbed the back of his neck angrily. “Well, I’m something of a republican, you know. My father was a fighter during the troubles. I think some of the lads thought if I knew that Thrasher was involved I’d back off the project, what with the Provos being after him and all, but I’d made an agreement, and I’ll stick to it. Murray can go fuck himself; I’ll—”
“Finbar.”
“It was Denny O’Donnell told me,” Finbar said, then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off toward the boat.
Mark stood, frozen, looking at Finbar’s back. It was the first time I had ever seen him shaken by anything. This was bad, and it was my fault.