Whoever he was, he was a rogue, unanticipated element of the situation.
He stared at the closed doors as if watching the meeting taking place behind them. Aero UK's CEO, screaming rape by MoD because the helicopter contract was going to the Yanks and the shiny new airliner they were building with the Frogs, who were in there, wasn't selling… to anyone. The Euro Commissioners, both of them, squealing because of the pressure they were under to arm lock the national carriers and the various aviation authorities into buying and flying and approving routes and slots for the Skyliner… Everyone hanging on for the new Boeing 777 or he smiled the Vance 494, which had just so conveniently fallen out of the sky.
Aero UK might be going to the wall, which meant his employer would lose millions, and limp away wounded from the collapse. Blackmail, bribery, cut rate special offers… none of it was working in favour of the Skyliner. The man was angry… and his anger could turn against Fraser and his minions.
He rubbed his face. Took out the mobile phone and dialled Jessop.
"Where are you?"
"Rue de la Loi, near the Commission—"
"Is that where he's heading?"
"You'll have to wait for an answer I'm not a mind-reader."
"I'll wait."
The line sounded like a tunnel through which a wind blew coldly, then, after perhaps a minute in which Fraser waited as patiently as a machine:
"He's dropping down into one of the underground car parks — must be a fully paid up—"
"IsCobbwithyou?"
"Yes."
Then find out who he is now."
"How?"
"Use your imagination!"
He switched off the phone, the skin of his cheeks and jaw tight with angry suspicion. The European Commission building… He worked there, in some capacity or other, because he had a car park pass, accreditation. He glowered at the conference suite's closed doors.
There were two Commissioners behind them, engaged in confidential talk with prominent businessmen… which was not criminal. But it interested the man who'd photographed them. He'd wanted to know who, why… Why? Why keep people he worked for, or worked alongside, under surveillance? Was he working for the Euros in the meeting? Against them or against the business interests in the room? Working for the Frogs, who were never to be trusted in anything?
He waited, itchy to move, act but one place was as good as another to wait. The maid had drifted out of sight now and the corridor was empty, airlessly warm, desiccated.
"Well?" he demanded when the mobile eventually offered him its peremptory chirping.
"Who is he?"
"His name's Lloyd Michael Lloyd. A researcher for one of the Commissioners.
It's cost Cobb his mobile. Claimed Lloyd had left it in the cafe and he tried to catch him before he drove off… followed him public-spiritedly to return it. Good deed in a naughty—" ' Which Commissioner?"
Transport."
Who was behind those closed doors at that moment… He had been keeping his boss under surveillance.
"He'll be put on his guard getting a phone delivered that isn't his," Fraser observed.
"Never mind. OK, find out everything about this Michael Lloyd. Who there is around him, behind him, in the shadows. He's interested in what's happening here why should he be?"
"Will we—?"
Take measures to prevent his further interest? I should think so, Jessop. I really don't see why not."
"Just a minute, Daddy I want a word with that weasel over there. Sit tight for a moment—" The Commons Terrace was, as yet, un littered with MPs. There were a few early arrivals scattered at the dark wood tables that reminded Marian of nothing so much as garden furniture from a DIY chain store. There had been no morning business in the House, and there'd be nothing more than written answers to questions on the helicopter contract. Neither the PM nor the Minister would appear if they were wise. But the junior procurement minister from Defence was seated at one of the tables, a gin and tonic sparkling in the sunlight clutched in his long-fingered hand, some constituent or contact opposite him, dazzled by the locale, the occasion.
"Hello, Jimmy," she announced portentously, standing close to him so that he was less likely to stand. The junior minister was languidly, gracefully tall, as all former Guards officers seemed to be, and her protest would be more effective if he remained seated. No, she did not recognise the other man. He was not a Member.
"Marian not here, I think," the junior minister warned.
"Perhaps I should let my rebuke leak out, then?" she snapped.
On the slats of the table lay a jumble of the day's papers, their headlines uniformly gloomy. She had already read every newspaper as if cramming for an examination.
Jimmy's guest appeared slightly wary, intensely curious, as if a spectator at some arcane bloodsport. The junior minister uncoiled from his chair, stood up and steered her firmly away from the table.
"Minimum embarrassment factor, Marian," he murmured.
"Jimmy what the hell's going on? You've been issuing the smoothest assurances for weeks—" Sunlight splintered from glass towers across the river. The flanks of the Commons were serenely biscuit-coloured. Small craft on the Thames were like scraps of coloured paper, "It's no more than a leak at this stage, Marian—"
"A creeping barrage, Jimmy! Why, for heaven's sake?"
She confronted him, hands on her hips, the breeze rustling her full cotton skirt around her. The minister smiled condescendingly.
"It's a very good helicopter, the Mamba," he soothed.
"My minister—"
"Has been bought off, Jimmy. It's a bloody disaster for Aero UK, for the subcontractors. It shouldn't have been allowed to happen!"
"Ah, my dear girl, if only we could always do what was most obviously the right thing."
"Your height allows you to patronise me, Jimmy your age and brains don't."
The junior minister flushed, then said: The generals wanted the Mamba.
It makes sense to experts' "I'll be sure to tell my constituents as much, Jimmy. I'm sure it will be a great comfort at the Job Centre."
"By God, she's beautiful when she's angry," he mocked.
A senior Labour backbencher passed, winking at her. She pretended not to notice.
"Angry I am, Jimmy."
"Marian the battle's lost."
"A warning?"
"Just friendly advice from a fervent admirer." He grinned, his early-greying hair distressed by the breeze. He brushed it smooth.
"But you'll no doubt receive the usual encomiums in the press for your stalwart defence of the British aerospace industry…" He was warned by the clouding of her features, and added: "Is that Sir Giles with you? Lunching at the House? I must have a word with him. Excuse me, Marian. Go easy on us poor mortals in government from the moral ramparts of the back benches, won't you?"
He waved a languid hand and returned to his guest. Marian felt her anger tight in her chest. She had hardly begun to discharge it before the conversation was terminated. Reluctantly, she returned to her father, who was engaged with a knight of the shires and senior member of the 1922 Committee. They parted as Marian approached.
"I never cease to be amazed how that man ever rose above the rank of second lieutenant," Giles murmured.
"And you, my girl, look as if you've just suffered a nasty bout of indigestion. No joy?"
She shook her head.
"No hope, Daddy. It's been decided everything's cut and dried. No amount of complaining is going to get us anywhere!"
"Sit down." A Commons waiter had brought their drinks.
"I'm desperately sorry for Aero UK, for the Italians and the Germans
… and your constituents. The problem is there was always very little on paper between the two helicopters, ours and the Americans. In military terms, there isn't a good case to be made in objecting to—"