"Which is what brings us here," Moore told us. "I've tried talking her out of it, but Her Ladyship is insisting that you motley bunch give me a hand with the protection. Pretty much the same as last time."
"Though preferably without the paranoid schizophrenic," Lady Ainsley-Hunter added.
"What's our schedule like?" I asked Natalie.
"We can clear it for this."
"Then you've got us," I told Moore.
"Brilliant," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "I'll leave you and Robert to discuss the details, and the rest of us can head out for a late lunch."
We all rose when Lady Ainsley-Hunter did, and Natalie and Corry headed to the equipment room to draw radios and other gear. They came back with their jackets on, guns in place, and we all headed to the front door. Moore made arrangements to rendezvous with the three of them later that afternoon, and then Lady Ainsley-Hunter said goodbye to me with a peck on the cheek.
"I'm so glad you can do the job. I was worried you might be too busy."
"We're never going to be too busy for you," I answered.
Moore and I waited until they were in the elevator and heading down before we went back inside, returning to my office. We each poured ourselves a cup of coffee, and I got out the laptop and settled back on the couch, rather than at my desk. Moore took the same chair again and lit a cigarette, and we began going over what would be required. He's one of the most disciplined men I've ever met, partially as a result of serving in the Special Air Service, which is considered by many who know to be the best special forces unit in the world, and perhaps also because he's black and has had to deal with prejudice all his life. He's in his mid-forties, and his face shows the lines of over twenty-five years of hard soldiering. Even working in the public sector, he still kept his hair in a military crop.
"Going to be a five-day stay in Manhattan," Moore said. "We're arranging for the usual press and speaking engagements, though once the U.N. announces the appointment we'll be getting more requests, so I'm trying to keep some of her schedule free. We'll let you know as more dates get filled."
"Where will she be staying?"
"The Edmonton. You know it?"
"Off Central Park, yeah."
"We'll be taking a suite on the eighteenth floor."
"Can you get a room closer to the ground?"
Moore shook his head. "You know she likes the suites at the Edmonton, and there aren't any below twelve."
"How many people will you be bringing over?"
"It'll be her, her personal secretary – young lass named Fiona Chester, you remember her – and myself. That's it."
I looked at him over the laptop. "No one else?"
"Her Ladyship thinks that's ostentatious," Moore said.
I laughed. "You have no idea how refreshing that is to hear."
"No, I do. I saw the Post today."
"Are we going to need extra guards?"
Moore dragged on his cigarette, then jetted smoke from his nose with a slight grimace. "I don't know, honestly. My professional paranoia keeps getting in my way."
That got a nod, because I understood exactly what he meant. If money and time and appearance were no object, both Moore and I would have preferred that Lady Ainsley-Hunter travel wrapped in Kevlar, and with a rotating detail of twelve guards that included emergency medical personnel.
He tapped ash into his now-empty coffee cup. "Threat level against her has been very low of late, especially since the burgeoning peace in Northern Ireland. Used to be that the IRA was the major worry, but not any longer. She gets the occasional letter, that's about it."
"What are the letters like?"
"Oh, standard nutter, mostly sexual. Fantasies, scenarios, and even those are rarely violent. I forward them to Scotland Yard as a matter of course."
"I'll want to see all of them, and the list of names, if any of the authors have been identified."
"Not a problem."
I typed up some more notes, then showed Moore what I had. He read it over and made a couple of changes, and by four we had a solid plan. I told him we'd get started on the advance work the next morning, and he promised to keep us informed as things developed on his end, especially as more appearances were confirmed. Then we spent another five minutes going over the price, and he got pissy with me when I tried to give him a break on the rate.
"You're a bloody awful businessman, Atticus. You should charge us what you're worth."
"You get a discount for being the people who made us famous."
"Shouldn't make a damn bit of difference, you berk. Now give me the real rate and I'll wire you the retainer tomorrow."
"Six thousand for the week, plus expenses."
"What's the bloody matter with you? You should be asking at least ten, and you know it."
"I can't believe we're arguing about this. Eight thousand, and that's my final offer, take it or leave it."
He took it and I got out a blank of our standard contract, filled in the appropriate information, and we each signed it. I made a photocopy and handed it over, saving the original for our files, by which time Moore said he had to be going. I escorted him to the door, we shook hands, and then he left.
I went back to my desk and filed the contract, then cleaned up the empty plate and mugs, dumping Moore's cigarette butt down the toilet. I washed the dishes and put them away, wiped down the counter in the coffee room, and rinsed out the dregs in the pot. Then I went back to my desk and sat down behind it. The lights were off and the shadows were growing long. To my left, opposite the couch, hung the framed covers from Time and New York magazine, and a couple of the front-page photographs from different papers. In the dimness, the newspaper shots reminded me of the slides I'd seen earlier in the day, the way the details blurred and the grays ran together.
When the light grew too faint for me to see what was inside my office I spun my chair and looked out the window. Traffic down below was backing up as more and more cars tried to squeeze their way into the tunnel, their headlights and taillights reflecting white and red off glass and painted metal. Once in a while the sound of a horn or a siren seeped in from the city around me, but other than that it was quiet.
I thought about Antonia Ainsley-Hunter, about how much I genuinely liked her, about how impressed I was with the way she used her life. I was proud to have protected her.
I was proud that she trusted me to do it again.
Chapter 5
Ten days later, Dale and I were working in the conference room when the temp at the front desk buzzed us on the intercom. We'd spent the morning on a risk analysis for the area around De Witt Clinton High School in the Bronx, where Lady Ainsley-Hunter would speak in the morning on the second day of her visit. She was going to address the students in the school auditorium, then do the meet-and-greet with members of the local Together Now chapter. Dale and I had driven the area, checking the approaches, then done a walk-through. We'd snapped three-dozen photographs and drawn maps, then dropped the film off at a one-hour place and grabbed lunch.
Now we were back in the office, trying to determine what the safest route to and from the school was, rather than the quickest. Dale was tacking the relevant pictures to the corkboard at the far end of the room and I was going through the Hagstrom atlas of the five boroughs, tracing out our route and transcribing it longhand onto a legal pad. Natalie and Corry were at the Edmonton, performing yet another walk-through of rooms.
When the intercom on the phone beeped, I poked the button with the pen. "Yeah?"
"Mr. Kodiak?" the temp said. "A Ms. Chris Havel is in reception. She doesn't have an appointment. She says she has something to give you."
"I'll just bet she does," Dale muttered, thumbtacking another photograph to the corkboard.
"Tell her I'll be right out," I told the intercom, then came off the button, capped my pen, and got up.
"If she only brought a copy for you, I'll be insulted," Dale said.