“Hi, Dad,” they said.
Trevor was fourteen and Tristan eleven. Trevor was tall for his age, strapping, and a gifted athlete. Tristan was short for his, chubby, and preferred playing his ONEBox to any real-world activity.
“Boys. How was your day?”
“Mom’s not letting us miss any Chinese lessons,” said Trevor. “I’m sick of it. I want to go to the studio. They’re shooting the new James Cameron movie.”
“Can’t you go after your Chinese?”
“I have golf lessons at Bel-Air Country Club. Afterwards I get a massage.”
“What about you, Tristan?”
“I like Chinese. Mom taught me how to say dew neh loh moh. Do you know what that means?”
“That sounds like Mom.” Ian kept his smile in place. Dew neh loh moh meant “Go fuck your mother.” “Hey, Premier League starts next week. We’re flying over to catch the opening match. Arsenal’s playing West Ham.”
“Arsenal will destroy them,” said Trevor. “Are we sitting with the coaches?”
“We own the team, don’t we?”
Ian had purchased Arsenal Football Club, one of England’s oldest and most prestigious, three years earlier and thrown in a sponsorship deal that put the ONE logo on the football players’ jerseys.
“I don’t want to go all the way to London for a stupid soccer game,” said Tristan. “Can’t I stay here and look after the animals?”
Since moving to Los Angeles, the boys had assembled a veritable menagerie. There was a chinchilla, two hamsters, a cat, a boa constrictor, and a three-legged rescue mutt named Howie.
“We’ll see, Tristan. I’d love to have you in the cockpit with me. I’ll even let you land the plane. What do you say?”
Tristan shrugged, uninterested. “Maybe.”
“I’ll land it,” said Trevor. “Just as well as you, Dad!”
Ian laughed. “Gotta run, fellas. Take care of Mom. And Tristan, no more animals.”
He hung up, feeling lonely. He loved the boys dearly, and he didn’t see them nearly enough. He walked to the rear of his office and entered a large dressing area accessed through a revolving bookcase. He showered and changed for dinner, dressing in black slacks and a form-fitting black dress shirt. He gave himself a final check in the mirror and froze in horror. It couldn’t be. Not already. He brought his face closer to the glass. And yet…there it was.
A gray hair.
Not gray, white. As bleached as a snowflake.
He found a pair of tweezers, plucked out the offending hair, and dropped it into the sink, where it disappeared, blending with the porcelain.
Mortality was the one concept he could not grasp.
57
Peter Briggs walked down the High toward his own quarters. Sergeant Briggs. Ian had some cheek. Of course, he was the boss and was allowed. Still…
He lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke bitterly. Always the NCO, never the officer. So be it, then. He walked around the corner of the building and looked out across the Meadow toward the River Isis, or whatever name Ian had given to the dried-up excuse for a stream. Oxford in Texas. What nonsense. And yet Ian had done it. He had commissioned an architect. He had imported the stone. He had spent two years and more than $1 billion building a damn-near-perfect replica of one of the world’s oldest universities. And Peter Briggs had been at his side the entire time.
A batman.
That was the term they’d used in the Boer War for an officer’s noncommissioned adjutant. The batman took care of all his officer’s affairs. He arranged his clothing, shined his boots, prepared his meals when necessary, looked after his mount, tucked him in at night, and gave him a bloody kiss on the cheek. And after all that, he fought at his side.
Like it or not, Briggs was Ian’s batman. It was his job to look after his officer’s welfare, and that meant undertaking actions the officer might not realize were in his own best interest. The actions Briggs was considering regarded Mary Grant.
He called Shanks. “The woman. She’s on the move.”
“The Mole told me. I’m on my way.”
“I’m impressed. Now let’s see if you can impress me some more. This is what you’re going to do. Listen closely.”
It took him less than a minute to describe the actions he wanted Shanks to take in regard to Mary Grant. “Everything clear?”
“Crystal,” said Shanks.
Peter Briggs hung up. Satisfied that he had taken the necessary steps to protect his officer, he set off to shower and dress for the gala dinner.
A loyal batman would do no less.
58
DRIPPING SPRINGS 20 MILES.
Mary pressed the accelerator, keeping the speed a hair under 80 miles per hour. Joe had a rule. No cop ever gave a speeding ticket if you kept the needle below 80. Eighty to 84, you were taking your chances. Above 85 you were toast.
It was 8:15. The sun hung directly in front of her, dirty dancing with the horizon. The sky was ablaze, the burnt orange of the Zane Grey westerns the admiral had so dearly loved. The road rose and dipped over and over again as it cut through the Texas scrub. Ten minutes outside the Austin city limits she felt isolated and apprehensive, a pioneer in strange, endless land. Any confidence she’d had looking in the mirror, safe in the confines of her home, was gone. Joe’s pistol had lost its ability to inspire. It hung like a dead weight on her belt, reminding her of her folly.
And Joe? What would he do?
He’d do what she was doing. He’d pound the pavement and burn some shoe leather. He’d get out there and ask some questions. He’d shake the tree and see what fell to the ground.
The thought consoled her, but not as much as she would have liked.
She picked up her phone and called home. “Hey, Jess, just checking in. How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Same thing we were doing half an hour ago.”
Mary had left the girls at home, with Jessie in charge. One look at their mom in a suit was enough to stifle any objections. “I’m going out,” she’d said. “I’ll be back by eleven, and you’d both better be in bed.”
For once Jessie hadn’t protested, and Mary had stood there dumbstruck, wondering if Jess was finally growing up-if maybe, as her daughter might put it, she was ready to “do floors and windows.”
“And your little sister?”
“She’s right here. Want to talk to her?”
“Just tell her Mom says hello.”
“ ’Kay. Bye.”
Mary hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat. Optimism might be premature. She should just be happy that Jess had accepted her assignment without mouthing off.
She entered the city limits of Cedar Valley, a small farm community. She passed the local Sonic and a gas station before spotting the twenty-foot neon cowboy tossing his lasso in the air and welcoming her to the Nutty Brown Cafe.
A signboard advertised that Gary Clark Jr. was playing that evening. The dirt lot was packed with cars snaking up and down the alleys. Parking spilled into two adjacent fields. She circled twice, settling for a spot at the far corner between an oak tree and an old VW van.
She locked the car and started toward the restaurant. Around her the last arrivals were making their way to the outdoor amphitheater behind the restaurant. Music from a blues band filled the air. She felt stiff and overdressed, wildly out of place. She had no idea what she was thinking, carrying a sidearm. She slowed, then stopped altogether. She looked at the entrance to the restaurant a hundred feet ahead and tried to work out what she was going to say. Nothing came to her. She turned and looked back at her car as the band kicked into an up-tempo number. The music gave her a little ’tude. She continued toward the café. She’d think of something when she got inside.