The proprietor frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it in good condition? Does it do what it’s supposed to do?”
The shop owner ran his fingers over the strings. “It’s perfect.”
Phoebe nestled her body closer to Dickie. “I think it’s gorgeous. Will would love to play this.” She looked sternly at the proprietor, and this time there was nothing false in her expression. “However, I agree with the major that we need to know what we’re dealing with. How much?”
The proprietor’s smile widened. “It’s not easy to put a value on an instrument of such—”
“How much?”
The proprietor pinged one of the strings. “Three thousand pounds.”
Phoebe was shocked. “I think you might have mistakenly added an extra naught on the price.”
“It has been valued with precision, and my Viennese potential buyer agrees with my valuation.” He shut the case. “By all means get an independent assessment of its value. But, I can show you my receipt of purchase, which unequivocally states that I bought it for five hundred pounds less than I’m asking for it. I believe the markup accurately reflects the effort and cost it took for me to source the lute.”
Dickie nodded at the case. “We’ll take it.”
“Dickie?” Phoebe pulled his arm. “You mustn’t spend that much money. My—”
“Mind’s made up.” He withdrew his wallet, containing five thousand pounds that he’d withdrawn from his post office pension fund earlier in the day. “It’s worth the price to make Mr. Cochrane happy, and to get out of this faggoty place.”
Ten minutes later, Dickie was standing on the sidewalk while Phoebe was holding the encased lute in one hand and hailing a taxi with the other. To Dickie’s surprise, she wasn’t staying out in the West End to make a night of it, but instead wanted to return to West Square because David was cooking for her. He coughed onto the back of his hand, silently cursed as he saw blood on his glove, and caught the headline on the billboard.
ROGUE MI6 OFFICER SPOTTED IN U.S. NET CLOSING IN.
“Keep going, lad. Don’t give up,” Dickie muttered to himself.
Traversing New Jersey, the Greyhound bus was 160 miles from Washington, D.C., and was due to arrive in the capital in exactly three hours and ten minutes’ time. Outside the bus, nothing was visible in the darkness; inside, every seat was taken and most people were sleeping or talking in the hushed tones that all but the brash and dumb adopt on a bus at night.
Toward the rear of the coach Will Cochrane was in an aisle seat next to a twenty-eight-year-old named Emma, who’d introduced herself to Will when she’d boarded the vehicle in New York City and had told him, somewhat flirtatiously, that she hoped he didn’t snore when he slept.
He felt cramped in the seat, and he couldn’t get his big frame and head into the right position; every time he tilted his skull back he feared an involuntary snort, and as he drifted into sleep, his head would move forward — slowly at first, but then culminating in a whiplash butt against nothing and an inhalation of air that produced a grunt. He decided it was too embarrassing to continue and stared ahead down the aisle.
“Want a slice of orange?” Emma held up a segment of fruit. “Good for the sinuses.”
Will smiled and replied in his Virginian accent, “Sinuses or snoring?”
“Same thing.” Emma dropped the orange segment into Will’s palm. “Actually, I don’t know if orange helps at all. But it sounds about right, doesn’t it?”
“Guess so. Thanks. I haven’t had fruit for a while.” His teeth crushed the segment, sending shots of vitamin C into his mouth.
“You look like you’re desperate for sleep.”
“That obvious, is it?”
Emma nodded. “Tell you what.” She rummaged in her knapsack. “I got a spare travel cushion. They’re great for getting comfortable, and”—she grinned—“stopping sinuses getting noisy.” She pulled out the pillow and held it out to Will.
“You sure?”
“Totally, because I’d kind of like to get some sleep myself.”
Will fixed the cushion around his neck. He knew that he shouldn’t sleep, but his whole body and mind were craving a few hours of shutdown. He decided to close his eyes and take a chance.
Ten minutes later, Emma could tell from her fellow passenger’s slow, deep breathing that he was asleep. She was relieved that her cushion had done the trick, not just because she wanted some peace and quiet to rest, but also because she’d meant what she’d said to him — the guy really looked dog tired.
He seemed like a nice man, and she was happy to help him.
She looked at him, thinking how odd it was that strangers could sleep next to each other when traveling on public transportion, as if they were sharing a bed. Not that she was complaining; this guy was hot. She decided to go to sleep fantasizing about watching him fall asleep in their bed while caressing his fatigued face.
The image made her feel good.
And made her frown.
Because there was something about his face that was familiar.
Actor? TV personality? Unlikely somebody from that world would travel on a bus. And the name he’d given her — John Jones — didn’t ring any bells. Oh well, in all probability he was a nobody who just happened to have the looks of someone famous.
She closed her eyes, picturing her fantasy, and at the same time wondering, Who are you?
It was nearly 1:00 A.M. when Ed Parker entered the Russian and European Analysis division’s archive room at CIA headquarters. He’d considered leaving this inquiry until morning, but couldn’t sleep. So he’d gotten out of bed, put on jeans and a sweater, made a call to the head of the archive, and driven over to Langley.
The archivist was already in the room, working on his computer while looking majorly annoyed that he’d been summoned by Ed to work at this ungodly hour. The man — in his early sixties and thin, aside from a belly that came from decades of sitting at a desk and drinking gallons of beer in his off hours — was wearing casual attire and socks that didn’t match, and his hair was ruffled. “Director Parker. So pleased to see you.”
“No you’re not.” Parker strode to the archivist’s desk. “You got any coffee around here?”
“Nope. But I got a bottle of Jack in my drawer in case of emergencies.”
“I have to drive home after this.”
“So do I.”
“Well, fuck it, then. If we get caught, we can spend a night together in a cell while swapping stories about the good ol’ days.”
The archivist poured whiskey into mugs, handed one to the director, and returned to his workstation. “What do you want?”
Parker placed a hand on the archivist’s computer. “Your password to your database.”
The archivist laughed. “Can’t give you that.”
“Thought you’d say that, which is why I needed you here.” He took a sip of the liquor. “The Project Ferryman files: Who last pulled them and when?”
The head of the archive spent a few minutes tapping on his keyboard and glancing at his computer screen before looking at Parker. “Helen Coombs pulled the files three days ago at 0906 hours. As per access protocols for these files, she read them in one of the booths and they were then returned to us at 0957 hours. You know her?”
Parker nodded. “She’s cleared to read the files: she’s involved in distributing Ferryman intel to our key government contacts. Anyone else read the files in the last few weeks?”
The archivist returned to his screen. “You, Mr. Sheridan, and Senator Jellicoe. No one else.”
Parker polished off his drink. “Okay. Send an e-mail to Helen Coombs telling her I want to see her at ten A.M. tomorrow in my office.” He checked his watch. “Correction, today. But don’t tell her why.”