He wanted this guy, wanted him as bad as anything he had wanted in a long time. If he found out where he was, Howard was going to hop on a plane, officially or unofficially, whatever it took, and go get the sucker.
"Colonel?"
He shook himself from the red fog he'd allowed to envelop him and turned. Julio.
"Got something you might find interesting."
He was grinning.
Damn. Good news, at last.
The news on the telly was, as it always seemed to be these days, disgusting. The American President was going on about "moral fiber," a subject about which he certainly knew little, if anything. Presidents in the U.S. were notorious for their lack of self-control, from Warren G. Harding to Kennedy to Clinton. The idea that the leader of a country with such slipshod spiritual and moral values could hold forth on how anybody should behave was patently ridiculous. Especially when the leader himself was known to have the sexual ethics of a mink. The current U.S. President was as bad as any — he just hadn't been found out yet.
Goswell nodded at the telly. Well, yes, he would have to do something about that, now wouldn't he? He would put in a call to his man, see if there wasn't some way to use the new toy to find out what the President had been up to. If records existed in a computer anywhere — and surely they must — the scientist could get them. Give the Americans another scandal to drool over, and get the bastard so busy defending his so-called honor that he wouldn't have time to meddle elsewhere.
Meanwhile, he had another call to make. "Applewhite?"
The butler appeared next to him. "Milord?"
"A telephone, please. And one with a dial, if you would."
"Yes, milord."
The butler went to fetch the telephone. Goswell hated to do such business, but it was the nature of reality that a man was sometimes forced to do things he would rather not if he was to stay afloat in stormy seas.
Applewhite returned with the phone. It looked like one of the old Bakelite rotary dial models he had used as a boy, but it was just a replica. Inside, it was full of electronics as modern as any, and there was no thick black cord connecting it to anything. It was a wireless model.
As he took the phone, he said, "Any sign of that rabbit?"
"Cook said she saw him when she went to the garden this morning, milord."
"Ah, well. Fetch me my shotgun, then. We'll just go and see if we can't give the little bugger something to think about."
"Yes, milord."
As the man trundled off to the lockbox where the guns were kept, Goswell dialed the number for the man he wished to reach. It rang once on the other end, and the voice that answered was gruff. The words came out as an uneducated-sounding, "Whot's it, then?"
"Goswell here. You have some information for me?"
"Roight, Guv, I 'ave."
"The usual place, then. Say… seven?"
"Gawt it."
Goswell cradled the phone's receiver, sighed, and shook his head. A pity to have to deal with such men, but this wasn't something that could be delegated.
Applewhite returned, the open shotgun cradled in one arm, with a pair of the custom-made brass and waxed green cardboard shells in hand. Two shots was all Goswell allowed himself per adventure. If he missed, then the rabbit would live to raid the garden another day. It was only fair.
The gun was a handmade Rigby Bros. fowling piece, but certainly suitable for bunnies, a sixteen-gauge side-by-side double with Damascus-twist barrels. The water-patterned steel was beautiful, but not up to modern ammunition, so he had his gunsmith make loads that the weapon could digest without blowing apart. They produced quite the smelly smoke, the shells did, when touched off. The smith, George Walker, said he could substitute Pyrodex for the black powder he used, and the smoke would be lessened, but Goswell didn't care all that much. A couple of blasts of #8 birdshot would take Mr. Rabbit right out of the game — if he could but draw a bead on him. That was the trick, for the rabbit seemed to know when Goswell was armed and when he was not.
Applewhite held out a pair of earmuffs. Goswell glared at the butler.
"The doctor insists, milord."
Goswell nodded. "All right, give me the blasted things." But secretly, he approved of the earmuffs. These were electronic hearing protectors, produced by one of Goswell's own companies in France — devil take the Frogs — and he had to admit they were useful devices. A circuit in the headset sensed incoming noise and immediately shut it out, reducing the loud blast to a small pop. However, when they were not picking up explosions, the muffs actually amplified regular sounds, so that one could hear better than normal. Truth be known, Goswell's hearing was not what it had been, and he was seriously considering the implants that would bring back his ability to pick up normal conversation, which had faded appreciably. The implants were apparently good for five or six years, using microbatteries that were somehow recharged by the vibrations of sound upon them. He knew a few chaps and one old lady who had undergone the surgical procedure, and all of them had been most satisfied with the results. Perhaps he would have it done. He had already had the laser surgery on his eyes, didn't even need his reading glasses unless he was very tired. It was a mixed blessing, technology, but now and again it did offer something worthwhile.
"After I pot this rabbit, have Stephens bring the car round. I'll be going to the club."
"Yes, milord. Good hunting."
Goswell smiled. "Thank, you, Applewhite. I will get the rascal, indeed I will!"
Peel drove toward the meeting place where Bascomb-Coombs had directed him, still somewhat unsettled by this new twist in his fortunes. And fortune was certainly smiling upon him. Bascomb-Coombs had caused this morning a new account to be opened at an Indonesian bank, a numbered account upon which Peel could draw, and therein was the sum in Indonesian rupias equivalent to one million euros.
Just like that, Peel had become a millionaire, and the promise was for much more if he performed his new duties adequately.
The small office suite was off Old Kent Road, not far from the old South Eastern Gas Works. Not a place Peel would have picked, but perhaps that was just as well, for none of Peel's investigations had spotted the building.
He turned into the car park, shut the engine off, and walked to the two-story, squarish gray block. The windows were barred, and a guard sat behind a desk just inside the lobby. The guard checked a computer screen, matched the name and face on it to Peel's, and buzzed him through a locked door to a stair.
Peel climbed quickly, reached the second floor, and turned down the hall toward the office at the end. As he passed other offices, some with windows in their doors, he observed that they all appeared to be quite empty.
The last door on the right was unlocked, and he opened it and stepped inside.
"Ah, Major, right on time. I appreciate that. Come in, come in, let me show you around."
There didn't appear to be much to see. In one corner was a computer desk, a holoprojector and workstation upon it and a leather rolling chair in front of it. A small fridge and stove sat to one side, and there was a fold-out couch next to that. A sign on a door past the couch identified it as a loo.