“I may or may not be,” the Earl said, “but I do know where the interests of King and country lie. So I trust I can rely on your discretion in this matter. Perhaps we shall take dinner at my club, then?”
The invitation couldn’t be refused. It was like a gentleman’s handshake, a seal on the matter. To do so would implicitly reject the Earl’s demand. Accepting it, of course, would mean that Geraint could not go back to Michael and the others and engage in any more mischief. Despite his irritation, Geraint admired the aging Earl. He knows the rules of the game and how to impose himself, he thought. And best of all, he reassured himself, he has no idea why we’re doing what we’re doing. Which gives me one loophole. If we’re successful, I can argue that the end justified the means and he won’t be angry afterward. But if we’re not…
“Delighted to,” Geraint said cheerfully. “Does Alphonse still do that wonderful sea bass?”
The Earl’s face lit up with that expression of delight that can only be seen on a politician who thinks he’s just gained the submission of an underling. When he rose to his feet, he didn’t even fart, which he almost invariably did. Juniors at the Foreign Office had been known to refer to their minister as The Lemur, interpreting this behavior as some bizarre form of territorial scent-marking. Clearly the Earl was in excellent spirits, feeling entirely secure.
You don’t know how wrong you are, Geraint thought as he picked up the phone to warn Michael of his impending absence while the Earl summoned his limo. Now I know that whoever’s against us can get to you, which means we really are on to something big.
And if I can crack this one, maybe I’ll get the monkey off my back that you put there.
It had been a standard black taxi like any other London taxi cab. The trip from Oxford Street to Mayfair was through crowded streets, a short enough haul, a small fare, and it could have been any taxi. Michael had barely glanced at the driver. Dusting the last of the cracker crumbs from his mouth, he’d climbed into the first one in the queue waiting for fares in front of Selfridges. After giving the address, he sat back with a yawn, a bit sleepy after too few hours of rest the night before and the lingering effects of the drink. He hadn’t taken much, but it had been ferociously strong.
But surely not so strong, he’d thought while loosening his tie. He’d felt hot and sweaty, and light-headed, and then he registered that Kristen was tugging at his sleeve and looking at him with an expression of concern, an expression that turned to panic as the taxi began to run the red lights. After that it was a long enough stretch of almost-open road ahead to be able to pick up a little speed and minimize the chance of any passerby registering that two people were trying to clutch at the windows and not managing it, two people finally slumping back into their seats as the last of the gas billowed soundlessly into the sealed back compartment.
Black taxi cabs are not so unlike the cars that follow the hearse in a funeral cortege, after all.
9
“They’re still out,” Serrin told Geraint when he rang the apartment. “Not back yet.”
“Oh, well, never mind,” Geraint said. “I won’t be back until eleven or so, I don’t expect. Fortunately the old bastard usually nods off in his chair about half-past ten and the liveried servants carry him away to sleep it off. See you thereabouts.”
Serrin was surprised that Geraint hadn’t asked him how his own searches were going. He was already intrigued, and after a few more phone calls had gotten even more so.
While adding to his notes, he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and went to raid the fridge. He managed to put together some highly inept sandwiches from soft cheese and Parma ham, wishing the bread were a bagel, and went back to his writing. Finally, pausing at the last sentence, he caught the time on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
Ten minutes to eight.
He was astonished. Subjectively it felt around six at the latest, and with the heavy drapes drawn in the room-Geraint’s suggestion, since they had, after all, been subject to surveillance-he hadn’t realized that it had long since grown dark outside.
Something was clearly wrong. Michael and Kristen had been gone for more than seven hours and they would surely have phoned in the normal course of events.
There was a knock at the door, and a whole host of paranoid thoughts and images leaped into his mind. He found himself walking over to get the Predator from his jacket, and then realized this was only bloody England, after all. Even in this day and age, there was barely one licensed gun for every hundred people-about the exact reverse of the situation at home-and there weren’t that many illegal weapons on the street.
And those that were usually didn’t make it north of the Thames all the way to posh Mayfair.
Opening the door a crack Serrin saw a uniformed delivery man standing outside with his clipboard and pen. awaiting his signature.
“His Lordship isn’t home. Detained on urgent government business,” he said.
The delivery man didn’t look terribly impressed. “Has to be his signature,” he insisted. “Says so on the paperwork. Look,” and he demonstrated the fact with a thick, ink-stained finger.
Senin shrugged. “He probably won’t be back until midnight.”
“Look, mate, this is well out of hours already. Special service extra delivery, know what I mean? Rakk me if I’m coming back at rakking midnight.”
“Yes, yes, all right.” Serrin was irritated at the man’s foul mouth. “Look, I’ll sign and everything will be in order.”
“Rakk off. You’re not a lordship,” the man said huffily. “You can’t even be one of his servants-you’re a bloody Sep. you are! I can’t let you have this, guy. More than my job’s worth.”
Serrin fished into his pockets and located what he considered a reasonable sum in pounds sterling.
The man looked at the bills rather dubiously.
Serrin exchanged the sum for nuyen, and upped the ante fifty percent.
The man shrugged philosophically. “Just sign as ‘im and no one will ever know the difference,” he said casually. Serrin did as he was told.
“So where’s the package?” he asked.
“Down in the parking lot. I’m not lugging it all the rakking way up here.”
“Thanks,” Serrin said dryly, wishing he hadn’t upped the payment. Just as the delivery man turned to leave, a dark-haired elf dressed in black emerged from the elevator and fixed him with a stare by way of greeting.
“Lord Llanfrechfa at home?”
“Frag me, this is worse than Piccadilly Circus!” Serrin sputtered. “He’s out and isn’t likely to be back until midnight.”
“Pity. It was urgent,” the elf said quietly. Serrin appraised him. He was muscular of build, but very lithe and in excellent physical condition. A street samurai or a physad, he thought.
“You Serrin?” the other elf asked suddenly, to which Serrin nodded. “Streak. Maybe Geraint mentioned me?”
Serrin recalled the name from breakfast and said so, making the mistake of mumbling some thanks for the help the elf had given his friends. Streak took the advantage.
“Look, mind if I wait? It really is urgent,” he said insistently.
“This isn’t my place,” Serrin began, but the elf cut him short.
“Look, brother, last p.m. I had five terms working with me on a raid for his lordship. By the time we shipped out again this morning, I had three and a half, with what was left of one of the trolls. Now I’m down to two and a half. Maybe, some time soon, one of my terms is going to find out he’s down to one and a half.” The elf drew his right forefinger across his throat. It was melodramatic, but he was dead serious.
“I reckon I could use at least enough explanation to keep from becoming another statistic myself. Frag it, brother, I’m not here to knock you on the head and take the family silver. Give me a sodding break, okay?”
Serrin decided to let the other elf in, then locked the door and drew the chain bolt as well.