Geraint’s jaw dropped. In comparison Kristen, brought up in a culture where the name meant nothing, registered no response at all.
“God, you’re right,” Geraint said. “I realize now. What the frag-Oh, idiot, idiot!” He thumped a clenched fist into midair. “There was something I forgot. Better late than never, I hope.” He began frantically keying in instructions to a souped-up laptop sitting demurely beneath the lowlight lamp on his smaller study desk, rapping in passwords and ID. Within a minute or so he had his answer.
“Our pursuer this afternoon can be found in Chelsea,” he said cheerfully. “One Monsignor Giovanni Seratini. a cultural attache for the Tuscany Republic. Something of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I was followed by this chappie on the way to pick up you two, and before the day is out an icon of the Holy Roman Church comes waltzing in to say, ‘Rakk off, chaps, or it’s a thousand years of purgatory for you.’ ”
“Eternal damnation in the flaming fires themselves, actually,” Michael said laconically.
“I rather think we should visit Monsignor Seratini and make some enquiries of him,” Geraint said.
“The car had diplomatic plates,” Michael pointed out.
“Oh, yes, well, I wouldn’t have got the woodentops of the Met in anyway. If you want something more complicated than knowing the correct time these days, you do not ask a London copper,” Geraint replied. However, one of the fringe benefits of working with the MoD most days is that one gets access to some very interesting personnel?”
“MoD?” Serrin wasn’t familiar with the British acronym.
“Ministry of Defense,” Geraint explained. “Now, the MoD has a long list of ex-military personnel who work in, shall we say, semi-official security. They won’t do anything that actively messes with officialdom, but they don’t worry too much about what currently passes for the law. Especially when it comes to diplomatic immunity and dastardly foreigners. I know of some ex-SAS men who should be just the ticket. They even have enough sense not to kill our Italian term on sight and to realize that we’d like to talk to him, which is a lot better than you can get from most military lardbrains. Excuse me While I put through an encrypted call from my bedroom phone.”
“Isn’t this a bit premature?” Michael said. “I mean, it could be just coincidence. Not much to base a raid on.”
“I don’t think so. Our friends car was parked outside the building all last night. Harold got him on the security cameras, He’s had the place under surveillance, and then followed me. Dammit, we can’t have one of His Majesty’s ministers being spied on by a representative of a foreign power, can we? Have to put a stop to it. It’s my patriotic duty, Geraint replied in a suitably, not to mention deliberately pompous tone of voice. There’s also an easy way to cover our tracks, as it happens. There’ve been suspicions concerning alleged elements of the Tuscan embassy in London regarding certain art thefts in recent years, Nothing the Met specialists could prove. But the word is that no one would be terribly surprised if some, shall we say, competing criminal element, ahem, took a shot at finding out if there are any tasty Old Masters on the premises. Especially since Seratini has an interesting Interpol file implicating him-nothing proven, again-with certain smuggling operations in the Italian states. I’m sure my associates will be able to dress things up to look as if that’s what will have happened by the time they’re through.
“How long have we got anyway?”
“Nine days,” Michael said. “Didn’t I already say that?”
“Right, then. Would you like to spend a few of them digging on our friend Seratini or shall we take a reasonable chance and go say ‘Howdy’ to him now?” Getting only a nod in reply, Geraint turned and left the room.
“This is going to be interesting,” Michael said after the Welshman had left them to their drinks. “Midnight rambling again.”
“Just like old times,” Serrin grinned. “This time yesterday I was peacefully examining some shellfish down by the rocks. Now it’s magical assaults. Latin warnings, and trolls with big guns in Chelsea.
“It’s all right, lekker,” he added as an aside, hugging his wife to him. “We’ll be fine.” She looked a little anxiously at him, and nestled into his warm side. But for all her apprehension, Kristen could never have survived so many years as a Street kid in Cape Town’s predatory culture without strength and resourcefulness to spare.
“You know, I think it’s about time we got the whole story,” she suddenly demanded of Michael. “Everything you know, from the top.”
“You’re right,” he said. “it’s overdue.”
He began at the beginning, and told them the full works. By the time he was through, Geraint already had the guns.
“The repairmen have gone. I’m expecting half a dozen very large gentlemen with military weapons and attitude to appear in the parking lot in a black van very shortly,” he said as he offered them the latest range of hardware. “Coming?”
“Couldn’t keep us away,” Serrin said cheerfully.
6
Just before three in the morning, the black van rolled quietly into Cheney Walk, and Geraint lowered the window to reassure the resident security patrol. His government ID seemed to pull slightly less weight than the leader of the goons with him, who knew the senior guard on duty.
“We have a little semi-official business with a certain foreign gentleman, Charles,” the man said meaningfully.
“Sure, Jim,” the ork security guard said impassively. “Try not to disturb the neighbors, eh?”
The van rolled another few meters forward, and the rigger parked it a little way down a side street.
“Now, lads, let’s get this straight,” Jim said to emphasize the final briefing. “As little noise as possible and keep the casualties down. Disable at all times. Use the grenades and the tank shots whenever possible, and let’s keep this nice and quick and painless. For us, anyway.”
A dry laugh came from a dark-haired elf toying with an elaborate weapon that appeared to combine a grenade launcher, integrated taser, and trank-shot barrel all in one, and that was before the manufacturers had added stabilizers, IR sights, and whole range of other gizmos. Geraint had been impressed by the size of the elf’s muscles to even carry the thing, though the gyromount harness was obviously helping with that. That he could still move with amazing swiftness when encumbered by the monstrosity was a testimony to his wired reflexes.
It was a well-balanced squad, Michael thought. Two trolls for strength and power, two elves for speed and reaction, a dwarf who appeared to be a combined engineer, quartermaster, and tactician rolled into one, and a single human who looked as big as the trolls and as fast as the elves, not even Counting the chromed rigger. Judging by Serrin’s thoughtful look, Geraint guessed that one of the elves was a magical adept at the very least, probably assensing even as they were approaching the building. The team ordered the nobleman not to come in until they’d disabled anything that moved inside number 16, and he was only too happy to comply. The flag of the Tuscany Republic hung outside, but that wouldn’t do the occupants any good. it wasn’t the official residence of the ambassador Geraint had reassured them that while a raid might cause a slight ripple, it would be nothing he couldn’t handle.
The black-swathed, armored figures slipped out the back of the van and merged effortlessly into the night, leaving the rigger behind to monitor the scene from a dozen different angles and taking downloaded data from the head cameras of two of those approaching the building. Within seconds the familiar tinkle of breaking glass announced that a gas grenade had hit the first floor of the building even as rope lines were being fired to enable the elves to strike at any targets upstairs.
“Good, aren’t they?” Geraint whispered as they watched the monitors’ grainy image of broken windows and black figures darting into the building. “I think we can venture forth ourselves now. Right through the front door. Do you want to wait here?” He looked at Kristen, who shot back a look of disdain.