The hours after Tanya left turned into days and then weeks, but she was never far from my thoughts. And even after the months had become years, no one ever took her place. I often wondered whether things would be the same if our paths ever crossed again. I’d almost lost hope of that happening, though, when she did suddenly resurface. It was at the end of the case I’d just closed. And her presence showed me two things.
The flame had not burned out during our time apart.
And the line that should have separated us had been drawn for a reason.
So, with both the personal and professional sides of my life needing a shot in the arm, it’s fair to say I was looking for a short-term distraction. Richard Fothergill sounded like he could fit the bill. He was a very unusual person. Because although he worked in liaison now, he’d started his service life in the field. He’d made a transition that most observers would tell you is impossible. Which statistically, it is. I’ve checked. And from what I’ve been told, only sixteen people have ever managed it.
I figured the Hancock Center was a suitably innocuous location, so I bailed out and found a good spot, near the flags and the fountains. I paused there for five minutes, watching the shoppers and tourists and office workers bracing themselves against the wind. I waited until I was certain that no one was paying me any undue attention. Then I walked north for another block, crossed the street, and made my way back up the opposite side of Michigan Avenue.
It took me twelve minutes to reach the Wrigley Building. The public entrance to the British Consulate is on the thirteenth floor, but I took the elevator to the fourteenth, to an office marked with our usual cover name—UK Trade & Investment. The receptionist was expecting me. She checked my ID and then came out from behind her desk and led me to a row of doors on the right of the lobby area, away from the main corridor. There were four. They looked like closets from the outside, but when she opened the nearest one I saw it led to a clear cylinder, about seven feet tall and three feet across. The segment facing me slid open, and she gestured for me to step inside. It was unusual for people to make me bother with this kind of thing, but after what had apparently happened here in the last couple of days I supposed a bit of stable-door bolting was inevitable. I complied, and immediately the curved glass slotted back into place behind me. I heard a gentle hiss and dry, bottled air swirled around me for fully twenty seconds. The sound died away. I waited while the machine sniffed for incriminating particles. Then an indicator light above my head turned from red to green and the panel ahead of me swung aside, releasing me into the narrow gray corridor on the other side.
The office I wanted was at the far end, on the left. The door was standing open, so I gave a cursory knock and stepped straight inside. The room was larger than I was expecting. Around twenty feet by thirty. Not a bad size for a liaison guy. In fact, the biggest I’d ever seen. There was a glass desk to my left, completely bare, with a high-tech chrome and black mesh chair behind it. A round glass coffee table to my right, covered with newspapers, and surrounded by four black leather chairs. A densely woven Oriental rug filling most of the floor space between the two areas. And another man, directly ahead of me on the far side of the room. He was on his feet, his back toward me, gazing out at the river from the central one of three large windows. He was around five feet eleven with thick, glossy gray hair clipped neatly above the collar of his blue pin-striped jacket. When he turned to greet me I saw that his lined face looked somber and dignified, like a statesman or a judge. I put him in his late fifties. He was smart. Imposing. The kind of person a corporation or government department would put on TV to break the worst kind of news. The only thing that jarred was his left arm. It was in a sling. But it wasn’t the injury that struck me. I’d already heard the rumor about his recent brush with a 9 mm bullet. Fired by a fellow officer. In that very room. No. It was the material he’d used to support it that caught my eye. It was fine, blue, pin-striped wool. Exactly the same kind of cloth as his suit. A haute couture bandage. I couldn’t see this guy cutting it easily in the field, anymore. He must be spending too much time behind his desk. Or in front of a mirror.
“Commander Trevellyan?” he said, offering me his hand. “David?”
“In the flesh,” I said, as we shook.
“Delighted to meet you,” he said, taking my arm and guiding me toward the easy chairs. “Shall we sit? My name’s Fothergill, by the way. But please, call me Richard.”
“Any chance of a coffee around here, Richard?”
“I’m sure we could round some up for you,” Fothergill said. “Be pleased to. We’ve heard a lot about you. Word spreads quickly. Especially from New York. The Big Apple’s a very leaky place, you know. You should remember that. Though I doubt you’ll be rushing back there, anytime soon.”
I didn’t reply.
“No trouble en route, I hope?” he said.
“None,” I said. “Why? Should there be? It’s hardly an arduous journey.”
“Nothing untoward at La Guardia?”
“Nothing. I used the Marine Terminal. It’s small. Quiet. There was no problem at all. I wish all airports were like that.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s a relief, actually. I’m just glad we were able to pull the right strings. Get the NYPD to back off for long enough to get you out.”
“We?”
“Well, the New York people did the actual string pulling, obviously. But I’m happy we’re here to offer you a port in a storm, as it were. No use them getting you out if you had nowhere safe to go.”
“Are you confusing me with someone else? No one got me out of anything. I’d finished what I was doing over there. And the police had no reason to be sniffing around me.”
“Of course,” Fothergill said, pulling a newspaper from the bottom of the pile and placing it in front of me. “Whatever works for you. I completely understand.”
The paper was a copy of yesterday’s New York Times. It was folded to emphasize the story beneath a double-width photograph. The picture showed a house festooned with crime-scene tape. The headline read BUTCHERED IN THE BRONX: WOMAN, MEN MASSACRED IN UNEXPLAINED, SAVAGE ATTACK. I didn’t need to read the report. I knew they wouldn’t have got the details right. And what happened in that house didn’t strike me as unduly savage, given the circumstances. So instead I took a moment to glance around the room, checking the walls and furniture for signs of bullet damage. I wanted to know if the story about how he’d been injured was true. Being shot in your own office by a colleague did seem a little unusual. Not to mention embarrassing. But then, I’d known this guy less than two minutes and already I was beginning to understand how it could happen. Only if it had been me pulling the trigger, he’d have been left needing more than a fancy sling.
“Interesting story,” I said, thinking of the last time I’d seen Tanya. “Someone must have had a pretty good reason to do all that.”
“A very good reason,” he said. “I hear the first officer to respond lost his breakfast, the scene was so brutal. Which is something, for a cop used to working the Bronx.”
“Really?” I said. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been there.”
Well, I’d been there once, actually. To one house. To take care of one piece of business.
“Of course you haven’t,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Of course, the NYPD think otherwise.”
“They’ve been wrong before,” I said.
“Not this time. I understand they’re very confident.”