There had been a moment, when she got into the car behind this man Bernard Samson, when she thought she was going to fault. But it was just like being on the stage: at that final moment her professionalism took over and it all went smoothly.
'It's me, darling. I hope I didn't terrify you.' That sweet and careful upper-class voice with just a hint of taunting in it.
'Fiona, are you mad?' said Samson. He didn't look round and in any case the driving mirror had been twisted away from nun. It went just as Harmony said it would. Bernard Samson, Harmony told her, was a professional; pros don't do and die, they reason why.
Samson was convinced. It was the most successful performance of Miranda's career: what a pity that there were only two people in the audience. But an allowance had to be made for the fact that fifty per cent of the audience was startled out of his senses and being threatened by a very nasty-looking hypodermic syringe held close against his thigh.
Miranda continued, 'To come here? There is no warrant for my arrest. I have changed my appearance and my name… no, don't look round. I don't want you unconscious.' She had rehearsed every syllable of it so many times that it was automatic. The poor devil was completely fooled. Miranda felt sorry for him. Of course he would try to follow Harmony afterwards, what husband wouldn't?
When Miranda returned to this fisherman's cottage, from her performance at London Heathrow, Moskvin had given no word of appreciation. Miranda hated him.
'Suppose Bernard Samson doesn't track Harmony's movements?' said Miranda. 'Suppose he doesn't come? Suppose he tells the police?'
'He'll come,' said Moskvin. 'He doesn't get paid to send for the police; it's his job to find people. He'll trace Harmony's movements. He'll think his wife is here and he'll come.'
'Then what?' said Miranda. She was still wearing the expensive wig and make-up that Moskvin had chosen for her. She hoped to keep the wig.
Harmony smiled sourly. She had been the one who had laid the trail for Samson, asking the way three times before buying the tickets, doing the stupid things that mere common sense would have avoided. Moskvin's final obvious vulgarity had been to choose a beautiful black girl just in case anyone should miss her. What kind of jerk wouldn't be suspicious following that brass band parade to get here? And her brief confrontation with Bernard Samson gave her reason to suspect that he wasn't a jerk. She didn't want to be here when he arrived.
'Who cares?' said Harmony. 'Us girls are getting out of here, Miranda baby! Go upstairs and scrub that damned make-up off your face, and then we'll scram. A day in Rome is what we both need after three long days with this fat fart.' She got to her feet.
'Give me thirty minutes,' said Miranda.
Moskvin was annoyed at the way that Harmony Jones had sweet-talked him into routeing the two women through Rome. She'd given him persuasive operational reasons at the time but now it was clear that she just wanted to enjoy a sidetrip.
'I might need you,' said Moskvin, but his former ability to terrify the two women had gone, largely due to the insolence with which the black woman treated every order he gave her.
'What you need, boss man…' she began but then decided not to provoke him further. She took Miranda's make-up box and went to the stairs. Miranda followed.
'And don't call me shit-face,' said Moskvin solemnly as the two women went through the low door that led to the stairs.
Harmony made an obscene gesture but did it out of Moskvin's sight. As they went upstairs Miranda began to giggle.
It was a wonderful old house: the crude staircase, confined between white painted plank walls, echoed with the footsteps of the two women. At the top, the narrow latched door had a corner lopped off to accommodate the pitch of the roof. Its essential Englishness produced in Miranda a sudden but not entirely unexpected yearning to live in England again.
As the sound of the footsteps overhead revealed the movements of the women, Erich Stinnes looked up from his guidebook. 'Did you know that Bosham village is depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry?' he asked. 'This is where King Canute ordered the incoming tide to go back.'
Moskvin knew that Stinnes was only trying to provoke him into a fit of anger, so he didn't reply. He got up and went to the window. Bosham is on a tiny peninsula between two tidal creeks. From here he could see the water and the boats: motor boats and sailing boats of all shapes and sizes. When Samson was dead and finished with, they would leave by boat. Stinnes was a skilful yachtsman. Under cover of darkness they would slip away as if they had never been here. The perfect conclusion to a perfect operation.
'I wouldn't stand too near the window,' said Stinnes helpfully. 'It's an elementary principle on this sort of operation.'
Moskvin moved away. Stinnes was right of course: he hated Stinnes.
'The back-up team should be here by now.'
Stinnes looked at him and displayed surprise. They arrived half an hour ago.'
'Then where are they?'
'You didn't expect them to come and knock on the door, did you? They have a mattress: they'll sleep in the van until they're needed. It's parked near the pub.'
'How do you know all this?'
'I arranged it, didn't I? Why do you think I've been visiting the bathroom: did you think I had diarrhoea? From upstairs you can see the pub car park.'
'Do you have a gun?'
Stinnes shook his head.
'I brought a gun,' said Moskvin. He put it on the table. It was a Smith and Wesson.44 Magnum, a truly enormous pistol that Moskvin had gone to great trouble to have waiting here for him.
Stinnes looked at the colossal pistol and at Moskvin. That should be enough gun for both of us,' said Stinnes.
'Then there is nothing to do but wait,' said Moskvin.
Stinnes put a marker into a page of his guidebook and closed it. 'Remember, this place – Bosham – is where King Canute ordered the tide to go back.'
'What happened?' said Moskvin, who had never heard of King Canute.
'The tide kept coming in.' Stinnes picked up his shoulder bag and said, 'I'll be in the way here. I'd better go down and check that the boat is gassed up and ready to sail. You know the phone number.'
'Yes, I know it,' said Moskvin. He'd been counting on help from Stinnes but he was determined not to ask for it.
Upstairs Miranda was wiping the make-up off her face, using lots of cold cream and peering closely at herself in the mirror.
Harmony, who was packing her case, said. That bastard. I cleared everything out of the car, just the way I've been trained to do, and he yells at me for being late. Most of the trash belonged to Moskvin anyway. He's an untidy swine.' She produced a clear plastic sandwich bag into which she had carefully put everything from the rented car. There were two maps of southern England, bits of scrap paper, a broken ballpoint pen, an old lipstick, three pennies and a watch crystal. 'Any of this junk yours, honey?' she asked Miranda.
'No,' said Miranda.
'These rental companies never clean out the cars right: a quick wipe of the ashtray and that's it.' She emptied the contents of the bag, to use it for her make-up.
'I'm almost ready,' said Miranda. 'I think I'll have a day or two in England. I'll join you in Rome the day after tomorrow. Would that be all right?'
'Suit yourself, baby,' said Harmony Jones. 'I have a lot of catching up to do in Rome.'
Stinnes slept on the boat that night. There were three double cabins and he made himself comfortable in one of them. He had the generator going and stayed up late reading: The White Company. He was a dedicated Sherlock Holmes fan and was persevering with his favourite author's excursion into medievalism. The weather was good and Stinnes enjoyed the sounds and motion of the anchored boat and the smells of the wet timber and the salt water.