She pocketed the money without bothering to see how much I'd given her. She'd already put the cigarette out, and she could tell I was getting ready to leave, because she was up before I was, and she gave me another hug.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," I told the top of her head.
"I know," she said. "You always come back for me."
At seven fifty-three that evening, I was a man named Dennis Murphy, in seat 29B on a British Airways 747, making my way to London.
Chapter 5
It took looking in the first copy of The Sun that I could find to confirm that Lady Antonia Ainsley-Hunter was in London, and I caught a cab from Heathrow into the city, got dropped off in front of the Burns Hotel in Kensington. It was just past seven in the morning when I checked into my room, a double with an almost queen and a passable bathroom, and I fiddled with the alarm clock until I got it to work, then crashed on the bed until a quarter past ten. When I woke I did some yoga and some sit-ups, showered, then headed out in search of a pay phone. When I found one I liked, I called Robert Moore on his cellular phone.
"Moore."
"This is Mr. Klein," I said. "You're holding a letter for me."
He didn't miss a beat. "Yes, it arrived several days ago. Do you need it delivered?"
"If that's possible, and the sooner the better."
"Where can I meet you?"
"There's a tube stop at Earl's Court."
"I can be there in fifty minutes."
"That would be fine."
"I'll come in on the train." Then he added, "Mind the gap."
I was laughing as I hung up the phone.
London subway stations, even at their worst, make New York's look like they were constructed by giant rats, and that the giant rats still reside in them. Those in London are also, for the most part, far less crowded, and as a result I spotted Moore as he came off the train. He was wearing a Burberry coat and holding a black plastic shopping bag, and he waited by the tracks until the train had pulled away again before moving forward.
I let him pass me before saying, "Hey."
He stopped and said, "I thought it was you, but the hair threw me. You've been in the sun."
"Lots of sun," I admitted, and I took his offered hand and shook it warmly.
"Christ Almighty, but I'm glad you're okay."
"I figured you might be pissed."
"You daft? You got her back, and that was the most important thing." Moore looked around the station, then handed me the shopping bag. "Is this what you were after, then?"
"Actually, no," I said. "I need a little help."
"You always do. Buy me a pint and we'll chat about it."
We had a late lunch at a well-hidden pub in Chelsea called The Surprise, on a crooked street called Christchurch Street, about a block from Oscar Wilde's townhouse. It was comfortable and quiet inside, with bare oak floors and wood on the walls. A small dining area was at the rear and we got a table and some food. Moore tried to get me to try one of the ales, saying that it was a good, living brew and that I owed it to myself to try some. I drank a ginger beer instead.
"How's Her Ladyship?"
"Running great guns, as you might expect," he said. "She'll be disappointed that she didn't get to see you."
"I don't want anyone to know I'm here."
"That much I'd already gathered." He nudged the plastic bag with the toe of his shoe, pushing it farther against the legs of my chair. "I opened it when it arrived, of course. It's well done."
"It is."
"Made me curious, you might imagine. Wondered what you were doing sending me paper like that, after everything that had happened. You care to explain it?"
"Not right now."
"All business, then?"
"What I need, I need as quickly as possible."
"And what you need is.?.."
"A name and an address. And I can't get them through my sources."
He opened his pack of Dunhills, lit one. "Think you perhaps better tell me a little more."
"There is an individual, could be female, most likely male. This individual is an accountant or a banker or possibly a lawyer. Most likely working in Europe, in one of the major financial centers."
"This a hypothetical person?"
"No, this person exists. And aside from his normal job crunching numbers or selling loans, he handles accounts and investments for one very specific, very particular client. He does this with absolute discretion and more than a little fear, and in exchange for this work, he makes at least a million dollars a year himself."
"Powerful client."
"Oxford," I said.
Moore leaked smoke from his nose studying me. His eyes were thoughtful, but I couldn't tell if the thoughts were pleasant or not.
"You're looking for Oxford's banker?" he asked. "You sure he's got one?"
"I have it on reliable authority."
"And this authority would be who?"
"Someone who knows."
He took another drag, looking sidelong towards the bar and the door. Then he brought his eyes back to me, and it was clear he knew who I meant. He asked, "Why come to me? You've got contacts on your side of the ocean, why not use them?"
"If they make inquiries, the wrong people will notice."
"Wrong how?"
"Wrong as in the people who've hired Oxford in the first place are also the people one would normally ask about this sort of thing. You've got to understand, Robert – he's not just after my principal, he's after me, too. I'm part of the contract, and he already got too close once."
"So you're appealing to me on the basis of… what? Our history?"
"If that's what it takes."
He shook his head. "No, that won't wash. This is a business transaction between us, all right? We keep it on that level, it won't arse up the friendship."
"Business."
That actually had a visible effect on him, and he relaxed in his seat. "I'll need two thousand pounds and a way to reach you."
"How long will it take?"
"I'll talk to the blokes I know tonight, all goes well, I'll have something for you by morning."
"Then I'll call you tomorrow morning." I dug out my wallet, counted ten of the hundred-pound notes I'd acquired earlier, and handed them over. "You get the rest when I get your report."
He counted the money, then folded it away in his pocket. "Your business sense has improved."
"I need this information, and I need it fast, Robert," I said. "Every day that passes, this guy gets closer to me, to my principal, to the people I love."
"Supposing I bring you what you want tomorrow, what're you doing then? Sharing that with your – ahem – principal?"
"You don't have to worry about that."
"Actually, I do, and if I don't get an answer I can work with, you can take your damn money back."
I shook my head. "You're the one who made this business."
"That I did." He finished his cigarette, ground it out with a grin, then drained the last of his living ale from its glass and got to his feet. "Call me after nine."
He was already on his cell phone before he had left the pub.
I spent the rest of the day wandering through the bookstores on Charing Cross Road, not buying anything. I found another pub around seven and got myself a very limp salad and some very bland fish, and I walked all the way back to the Burns Hotel fighting the craving for some deep-fried food. At the desk I got directions to a twenty-four-hour gym nearby, and spent three hours in it working myself into a lather. When I was done I didn't want fried food, just sleep, so I returned to the hotel and went to bed.
At nine the next morning I called Moore from a different pay phone.
"I'll have something by the end of the day," he said. "But the price is going up."
"How much?"
"There's a rental fee, I'll explain when I see you. Call me at five."
When I contacted him again at five, he told me that Mr. Klein should get a room at the Hilton before nine that evening, and hung up. I went to the Hilton and did as ordered, found that I had most of four hours before anyone would come calling, and used the pool at the hotel for a long swim. Then I went for a run in the rain. Then I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and tried not to think about how slow Alena was on the stairs, about the four men and one woman who were standing guard over her, about the fact that Oxford would go through them like they were made of tissue.