Sebastian stared through the hand-rolled diamond panes, sipping the porter Barwick had fetched him from the kitchens, and thought about Vincent Reynolds.
There could be only one explanation for the young man's sudden change of heart – he had discovered something damaging about the activities of the league. Unease showed in his face, his composure. At their final meeting Vince had avoided pushing for more detailed answers to his questions, as though he was afraid of what he might hear. He had cast his eyes aside, fidgeting like a cat unable to settle, awaiting the payment of the bill.
What had he discovered, though? The league's business activities existed in an area between the land's laws, a mysterious region of favour and reciprocation, of imperceptible nods and understanding smiles, of quietly stopped documents and discreetly passed bills. Isolating a single piece of firm evidence was like sifting through sand. God knows, some very clever journalists had tried and failed.
No, it had to be something personal. Sebastian was aware of several exposed chinks in his armour. The business with the girl was years ago and long forgotten. The pissed old hack who had fallen down the steps then? Or the idiot they had taught a lesson after the concert? The worst part was not knowing.
Sebastian had been careful to show no anger or suspicion that day at the restaurant, but carried out some careful surveillance later. He persuaded St John Warner to check inside the apartment in Tufnell Park. The photocopied notes which lay in his lap made depressing reading.
Perhaps it had been a mistake, trying quite so hard with Vincent. His conversation skills were minimal, his ambitions were low and his background was so common as to be untraceable. Encouragingly, he had a decent reputation among his night-school lecturers for – here he checked St John Warner's notes – 'determination and tenacity'. Not especially popular (any imbecile could be popular, as five minutes spent staring at a television testified) and of course his interests were awash in a groundswell of studenty left-wing ideals, the kind that eventually got crushed out by life's practicalities, but Vince's deep-rooted interest in the history of London manifested itself in the passionate articles he had written. He had earned money in his spare time hosting guided tours through places of historical interest, and had worked for the pleasure of it.
What drew him to study such an unfashionable subject? Why wasn't he out there consuming vast quantities of drugs at raves like every other moron in his social class? Did he manifest some glimmer of originality that rendered him a worthy opponent? The hardest part of any game, of course, was finding an appropriate challenger.
There was an additional personal element to this: Sebastian, the injured party, had been misled, which left him free to nurture a desire for revenge. Any game between them would therefore become a grudge match, for the city they loved and the deceit that had passed between them. Oh, it had the makings of a French prose poem.
Still, there was something tenacious about Vincent that might transform him into a formidable opponent. He was hungry; that was good. The boy had envy in his eyes, and despite his high ideals would probably switch places with him if he could. His biggest flaw would doubtless prove to be his hesitancy; in the moments he wasted deciding what to do, he would forfeit the game. If Sebastian chose to issue the challenge, he would inform his opponent that he intended to play fairly, in strict accordance with the rules. The gentleman would battle the barbarian in the arena of the city they both shared; if nothing else, it would provide an interesting contrast in their playing styles.
He drained the porter-pot and set it down on the sill. The challenge grows, he thought. It is, as yet, unformed. But it is there. It is simply a matter of planning every last detail and waiting for a window of opportunity.
Meanwhile, it had become important to find out what exactly Vincent had uncovered, and if necessary, to stop him from exposing the information.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Vince visited Louie's disgusting flat in Chalk Farm, and they posted a series of enquiries on the Internet. While they were awaiting replies Louie made coffee the colour of pre-war nicotine, which he poured into mugs bearing the lip-imprints of generations of users.
'There are some serious considerations to take into account,' said Vince. 'If I do uncover conclusive evidence about the League and denounce Sebastian in print, I could wind up having an accident down a flight of steps. Besides, someone's bound to point out that we were friends, and that's going to make me look pretty stupid.'
'Why?'
'I took money from him, you bozo. He didn't seem so bad when we first met. He wasn't one of those toffs you instantly loathe, like Jeffrey Archer. He had a lot of charm.'
'You have to expose this guy,' Louie insisted. 'People like him always get away with it. Doesn't that make you angry?'
'Not particularly,' he replied. 'It's the way things are, the way they've always been and there's not much we can do about it. Or at least,' he added, 'if I have to stir up trouble, I could try exposing someone who can't afford to have me killed.'
'If it worries you that much, maybe you should go back to writing nice little history pieces about London,' said Louie sarcastically. 'Go for a milder kind of expose. Start with Kentish Town. Try and figure out why they put the local florists next door to a wet fish shop. You have to stick with the class piece, man. You've got the perfect way of bringing your ideas to life.'
'Might I remind you that just a few days ago you were warning me to stay away from the man?'
'You were his friend then. Now the gloves are off, you can make a monumentally disgusting spectacle out of him.'
The screen between them beeped and started downloading typewritten material.
'Whoa. Look at this shit.'
87 Articles Located/Prometheus League/see
searchrefs@Mosley/Fascism/January Club/Disraelian
Society/Freemasonry/Hermetic Orders/Modern
Paganism/Crowley/Book Of Enoch/Wheatley/Borley Rectory/'Blue
Flame'/Corpse-Blindfolding/'Girl In The Lake' mystery/Monk's
Parlour/NAACP Bombings/Anti-Semitism Accusations/CIA
links/Blunt/Burgess/Jack The Ripper/Star Trek:TNG
'I can see some of the links there,' said Vince, 'but I can't imagine what the Bible's lost chapter on fallen angels has to do with Sebastian.'
'That's the trouble with newsgroups,' said Louie. 'They spend too much time discussing crappy old sci-fi TV shows. They probably accuse the League of alien abductions somewhere. There's no point in going through all of that conspiracy stuff. It's knocked together by lonely fat guys who can't get dates.'
'It could happen to you.' Vince eyed the tantalising list. 'I think I might check out some of it, though, just for fun. You never know.'
'Be my guest.' Louie pushed his chair back from the monitor. 'It'll make you crazy after a while.'
'I'm going to have to buy myself a modem. Meanwhile, I need you to keep looking out for related material. Anything that helps explain what the League actually does.'
'Hey, what are friends for?' asked Louie.
On the morning of October the 22nd they met up at a deserted Tex-Mex cafe in Camden Town, and after ordering beers and nachos, Louie leaned forward, checking about himself with an air of exaggerated caution. 'So tell me, Secret Squirrel, how are your burrowings? Get any good stuff yet?'
'I'm three quarters of the way through the first draft now, about 16,000 words in.' Vince accepted a beer, waving away a glass. 'To think that just a short while ago I was eating off bone china. Now I'm back to drinking out of a bottle. Anything good come through on the Internet?'