Just for an instant a chill ran down Michael’s spine, and if he’d been the kind to pay more attention to intuitions-endowed with Geraint’s Celtic genes, perhaps-he’d have stayed with the sensation. But he put it down to the vodka, which had made him just a little light-headed, and he missed it. People do sometimes. They miss things because what they know prevents them from seeing what else is there. Brains are designed to keep information out, and they’re good at that.
Besides that, his stomach was running interference on his brain in any event. Being the last to get up meant scrounging up breakfast from what little was left by the time he got to the kitchen, so he hadn’t really eaten, save the tiny scraps of caviar with some sour cream and crackers. He rummnaged in one of the bags.
“Let’s wander outside and eat these saffron biscuits,” he said conspiratorially, and the serious child he’d been looking at turned into the larder-raiding variety. They made a swift exit back out into the bustling street to open the packet.
It was half-past four and Geraint had already retrieved his overcoat from the antique hatstand and was ready to leave with his familiar red box, when a bulky figure entered his office. Since he came in without knocking, it could only be one person.
“Llanfrechfa, glad I caught you,” the portly man grunted. He parked his spreading rear in Geraint’s own chair in an appropriating gesture. Geraint knew at once that this was going to be bad news. His boss, the Earl of Manchester, usually summoned him to his own offices. If he came to Geraint’s, then there was trouble to be shared or delegated, It might be gout, it might be one of his wives demanding more maintenance for the noble offspring, it might be anything-but it would be trouble. Geraint sat down opposite him, dutifully.
“Wanted a word,” the man continued. Geraint’s heart sank. That was a code, long-established through use. It meant it was serious trouble and he was the cause.
“If it’s about last night-” he began.
“Bugger last night!” the Earl said. “Not important. The Commissioner of Police hasn’t had to smooth anything over for some time, not since that idiot Earl and the scoutmaster, so it won’t cause many ripples. Not, however, that I suggest you involve yourself in such nocturnal alarums and excursions on a regular basis,” he finished in finger-wagging mode.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Geraint said fervently, making sure he got the “sir” into the conversation right at the start.
“But it is about last night, in a manner of speaking.” The Earl stopped there, and began the ritual of lighting one of his implausibly large cigars. Even in Havana, nimble-fingered artisans must have been appalled at the prospect of rolling one of these monstrosities Bizet’s famous heroine would have had thighs like a Sumo wrestler’s had she been obliged to roll such cigars all her life. Geraint could do nothing but wait.
Cunning old swine, he thought. It’s absolutely deliberate, leaving me to stew in my own anxiety until he chooses just the right moment to dump ten tons of stinking drek on me. Full-blown ministers need that kind of talent, I’ve learned.
“There are certain foreign interests to whom HMG does not wish to cause unnecessary offense at this particular moment in time.” the Earl said slowly. Again he paused, using his free hand to check the time on the pocket-watch he fished out of his waistcoat pocket. Geraint waited further for the punchline.
“Those interests are unhappy regarding the nature of certain enquiries you and a certain associate appear to be pursuing,” the Earl went on. “It gives them offense, I regret to say. And His Majesty’s Government does not wish that to happen. And of course I am a servant of HMG, even as you are.”
And of course we both know the other hold you have on me, Geraint added to himself. But he chanced something anyway.
“May I respectfully enquire as to whether you are familiar with the nature of the problem that has led to our undertaking certain enquiries?” he said, using the intractably long-winded language that was the lingua franca of professional British politicians.
“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.