"Thanks, Toni."
He caught a hint of a frown from her, but she nodded and moved to watch the next pair of students.
Frowning? For what? Calling her Toni?
"Okay if I give it a try?" Giles said.
"Uh, sure."
Michaels set himself and attacked. The kid did a one-two-three-four, and Michaels hit the mat, hard. He came up fast.
"You all right, Mr. Michaels?"
"Yeah, fine. And call me Alex." Bad enough he was getting his butt kicked; he didn't need to feel like somebody's grandfather.
He set himself for another attack. It was good to burn some tension off and all, but so far, he couldn't say this class was the most fun he'd ever had. Not at all.
Lord Goswell stood in front of the big seascape that had decorated the east wall of the Smaller Room of his club for as long as he'd been coming here. It was a large oil, eight feet tall by twelve feet wide, done in actinic, watery blues and grays, a wave-tossed sailing ship in the eye of an electrical storm, lightning illuminating the frantic sailors trying to keep the wooden vessel afloat. Very dramatic, what, and almost a photographic realism. He swirled the ice around in his nearly empty gin and tonic glass and was rewarded by the appearance of Paddington and his tray. "Another, milord?"
"Why not? Tell me, do we know who painted this?"
"Yes, milord. It was painted by Jeffery Hawkesworth, in, I believe, 1872."
"It's quite good. A painter I should know?"
"No, milord. He was one of the few civilians killed by the Zulu in South Africa at Rorke's Drift, in 1879. He painted but a handful of canvases. The club came by this some years after he died, a legacy from his brother, Sir William Hawkesworth, who was knighted by Her Majesty Queen Victoria for services in India."
Goswell nodded. "Interesting."
"Shall I fetch your drink now, milord?"
"I don't suppose you'd consider quitting the club and going into service with me?"
"You do me a great honor, milord, but I should have to decline. It wouldn't be proper."
"No, of course not. Carry on."
He watched the servant leave. Drat. You couldn't buy that kind of loyalty. A pity. Bought loyalty was generally worth less than you paid for it.
Paddington returned, bearing another perfectly frosted glass upon his tray.
"There's a telephone call for you, milord." There was a mobile telephone on the tray next to the glass.
Goswell took his glass and the telephone. He nodded. "Thank you, Paddington."
Speaking of bought loyalty. When Paddington was out of earshot, Goswell activated the receiver. "You have the balance of what I need?"
"Roight, I'ave gawt it."
"The usual place then. Half an hour." He shut the phone off.
Goswell stared at the painting, sipping at his fresh drink. A pity this artist had been brought down by some bloody savages. He might have gone on to really great work. Of course, the Royal Army had taught the blackamoors a thing or two during that set-to at Rorke's Drift, hadn't they? A handful of soldiers against thousands of natives, and the troops had, by God, stood their ground and given an account of themselves, hadn't they? Taught the bloody niggers a thing or two about British resolve, by God!
He raised his glass in salute to the painting. "Cheers, old boy."
Chapter 17
Physically, Toni felt pretty good after the workout, though she was a little peeved at Alex for trying to get overly familiar with her in class. He was feeling insecure, she could tell, so he'd kept calling her Toni, instead of Guru, and he'd reached out to pat her on the shoulder or smile at her a couple of times, and she was sure that he did it just to let everybody know they were more than student and teacher. That was fine when they were alone in the gym at home, but here it was inappropriate. It had a "She can kick your ass and she is mine!" flavor to it, and Toni didn't much care for that. She loved him, but sometimes Alex could be such a… little boy about things.
Of course, most of the men she knew were that way, and he was less so than most. And he did love her, so she could maybe cut him a little slack.
There was something else on his mind, though. He was pensive about something, and she couldn't tell what. It could have been the whole situation at work, but it didn't feel that way.
She needed to talk about both things — and how to bring them up without starting a fight was the trick.
Having a lover who was your boss and your student got complicated at times. She'd never thought about that before they had gotten together. Probably because, in her heart of hearts, she'd never really expected they would get together. She'd wanted it, more than anything she'd ever wanted, but it had not seemed destined to happen. And then it had, and it had been wonderful, but not picture-perfect.
It was easier to have something in your imagination than it was in reality. All couples had problems; her parents had been married since just after The Flood, and they loved each other, but even they fought. It wouldn't have been healthy not to. Still, Toni hadn't had any real long-term relationships before, and every time she and Alex got on each other's nerves, she sweated it. She was afraid she was going to lose him. She was afraid that they'd grow apart. She was afraid that she'd had too high an expectation about how things would be and that the reality wouldn't measure up.
The class had been good, though. Guru Stewart was as good a teacher as he was a practitioner. He would take a moment from time to time, while the students were working with each other, to show Toni a move. Their arts were similar enough that she could see the use of what he was giving her, and she much appreciated it.
As the class had been winding down, Stewart had said, "We should work out together, either before or after a regular class, before you leave town. We could teach each other a lot more if we could concentrate on it."
She was thrilled. "I'd like that," she said.
Now, as she and Alex rode in the cab from the school back to the new hotel that MI-6 had sprung for, Toni realized just how much she had been enjoying the silat practice. It was simple, straightforward, no hidden agendas. You worked your body along with your mind, and it kept them both focused on simple things: strike here, step there, get a good base, use your angle and leverage.
Much less complex than dealing with people's emotions, even your own. Maybe especially your own.
Back at their hotel, as they were getting out of the cab, Michaels said, "We're being followed. Did you notice?"
She didn't look around but at him. "What?"
"There's a man in a gray Neon parked across the street and back a hundred feet. He was behind us on the way to the silat class. I'm pretty sure he was with me on foot when I went out to grab a sandwich at lunch today, too. It would be an awfully big coincidence if this guy just happened to be there every time I went out."
"British Intelligence?"
He nodded at the uniformed doorman as the man opened the portal for them. He felt sweaty and smelly after his workout, but he smiled at the doorman as if he and Toni were dressed for a royal wedding.
"Could be, I suppose. If we had one of them digging around in our secrets at Quantico, I'd have the FBI on their tail to make sure nobody grabbed them up and squeezed something out of them."
"You don't sound convinced," she said.
"Well, if we were having one of theirs followed, I'd make sure the field op doing the work was somebody they wouldn't spot — assuming we didn't want them to spot him. The Brits ought to have guys who are as good as ours at sub-rosa surveillance. This is their town; they know it. By all rights, I shouldn't have seen him."