〃You got room back there；〃 he said。 A West Indian； dressed not in chauffeur's livery but in a battered leather flying jacket； looked Marty up and down。 He offered no weling smile。
〃Luther；〃 said Toy； 〃this is Marty。〃 〃Put the case over the front seat；〃 the driver replied； he leaned across and opened the front passenger door。 Marty got out and slid his case and plastic bag of belongings onto the front seat beside a litter of newspapers and a thumbed copy of Playboy； then got into the back with Toy and slammed the door。
〃No need to slam；〃 said Luther； but Marty scarcely heard the remark。 Not many cons get picked up from the gates of Wandsworth in a Daimler； he was thinking： maybe this time I've fallen on my feet。
The car purred away from the gates and made a left onto Trinity Road。 〃Luther's been with the estate for two years；〃 Toy said。
〃Three；〃 the other man corrected him。
〃Is it？〃 Toy replied。 〃Three then。 He drives me around； takes Mr。 Whitehead when he goes down to London。〃 〃Don't do that no more。〃 Marty caught the driver's eye in the mirror。
〃You been in that shit…house long？〃 the man asked； pouncing without a flicker of hesitation。
〃Long enough；〃 Marty replied。…He wasn't going to try to hide anything； there was no sense in that。 He waited for the next inevitable question： what were you in for？ But it didn't e。 Luther turned his attention back to the business of the road； apparently satisfied。 Marty was happy to let the conversation drop。 All he wanted to do was watch this brave new world go by； and drink it all in。 The people； the shopfronts； the advertisements； he had a hunger for all the details； no matter how trivial。 He glued his eyes to the window。 There was so much to see； and yet he had the distinct impression that it was all artificial； as though the people in the street； in the other cars； were actors； all cast to type and playing their parts immaculately。 His mind； struggling to acmodate the welter of information…on every side a new vista； at every corner a different parade passing…simply rejected their reality。 It was all stage…managed； his brain told him； all a fiction。 Because look； these people behaved as though they'd lived without him； as though the world had gone on while he'd been locked away； and some childlike part of him…the part that； hiding its eyes； believes itself hidden…could not conceive of a life for anyone without him to see it。
His mon sense told him otherwise； of course。 Whatever his confused senses might suspect； the world was older； and more weary probably； since he and it had last met。 He would have to renew his acquaintance with it： learn how its nature had changed； learn again its etiquette； its touchiness； its potential for pleasure。
They crossed the river via the Wandsworth Bridge and drove through Earl's Court and Shepherd's Bush onto Westway。 It was the middle of a Friday afternoon； and the traffic was heavy； muters eager to be home for the weekend。 He stared blatantly at the faces of the drivers in the cars they overtook； guessing occupations； or trying to catch the eyes of the women。
Mile by mile； the strangeness he'd felt initially began to wear off； and by the time they reached the M40 he was starting to tire of the spectacle。 Toy had nodded off in his corner of the back seat； his hands in his lap。 Luther was occupied with leapfrogging down the highway。
Only one event stowed their progress。 Twenty miles short of Oxford blue lights flashed on the road up ahead； and the sound of a siren speeding toward them from behind announced an accident。 The procession of cars slowed； like a line of mourners pausing to glance into a coffin。
A car had slewed across the eastbound lanes； crossed the divide； and met； head…on； a van ing in the opposite direction。 All of the westbound lanes were blocked； either by wreckage or by police cars； and the travelers were obliged to use the shoulder to skirt the scattered wreckage。 〃What's happened； can you see？〃 Luther asked； his attention too occupied by navigating past the signaling policeman for him to see for himself。 Marty described the scene as best he could。
A man； with blood streaming down his face as if somebody had cracked a blood…yolked egg on his head； was standing in the middle of the chaos； hypnotized by shock。 Behind him a group…police and rescued passengers alike…gathered around the concertinaed front section of the car to speak to somebody trapped in the driver's seat。 The figure was slumped； motionless。 As they crept past； one of these forters； her coat soaked either with her own blood or that of the driver； turned away from the vehicle and began to applaud。 At least that was how Marty interpreted the slapping together of her hands： as applause。 It was as if she were suffering the same delusion he'd tasted so recently…that this was all some meticulous but distasteful illusion…and at any moment it would all e to a wele end。 He wanted to lean out of the car window and tell her that she was wrong； that this was the real world…long…legged women； crystal sky and all。 But she'd know that tomorrow； wouldn't she？ Plenty of time for grief then。 But for now she clapped； and she was still clapping when the accident slid out of sight behind them。
II The Fox
10
Asylum； Whitehead knew； was a traitorous word。 In one breath it meant a sanctuary； a place of refuge； of safety。 In another； its meaning twisted on itself： asylum came to mean a madhouse； a hole for broken minds to bury themselves in。 It was； he reminded himself； a semantic trick； no more。 Why then did the ambiguity run in his head so often？
He sat in that too…fortable chair beside the window where he had sat now for a season of evenings watching the night begin to skulk across the lawn and thinking； without much shape to his ruminations； about how one thing became another； about how difficult it was to hold on to anything。 Life was a random business。 Whitehead had learned that lesson years ago； at the hands of a master； and he had never forgotten it。 Whether you were rewarded for your good works or skinned alive； it was all down to chance。 No use to cleave to some system of numbers or divinities； they all crumbled in the end。 Fortune belonged to the man who was willing to risk everything on a single throw。
He'd done that。 Not once； but many times at the beginning of his career； when he was still laying the foundations of his empire。 And thanks to that extraordinary sixth sense he possessed； the ability to preempt the roll of the dice； the risks had almost always paid off。 Other corporations had their virtuosi： puters that calculated the odds to the tenth place； advisers who kept their ears pressed to the stock markets of Tokyo； London and New York； but they were all overshadowed by Whitehead's instinct。 When it came to knowing the moment； for sensing the collision of time and opportunity that made a good decision into a great one； a monplace takeover into a coup； nobody was Old Man Whitehead's superior； and all the smart young men in the corporation's boardrooms knew that。 Joe's oracular advice still had to be sought before any significant expansion was undertaken or contract signed。
He guessed this authority； which remained absolute； was resented in some circles。 No doubt there were those who thought he should let go his hold pletely and leave the university men and their puters to get on with business。 But Whitehead had won these skills； these unique powers of second…guessing； at some hazard； foolish then that they lie forgotten when they could be used to lay a finger on the wheel。 Besides； the old man had an argument the young turks could never gainsay： his methods worked。 He'd never been properly schooled； his life before fame was…much to the journalists〃 dismay…a blank； but he had made the Whitehead Corporation out of nothing。 Its fate； for better or worse； was still his passionate concern。
There was no room for passion tonight； however； sitting in that chair （a chair to die in； he'd sometimes thought） beside the window。 Tonight there was only unease： that old man's plaint。
How he loathed age！ It was hardly bearable to be so reduced。 Not that he was infirm； just that a do