“It’s got to be our secret.” This was Laetitia, calling from inside.
The equerry snorted, winked again, closed the door and swaggered away down the corridor, upon which the prince had no choice but to emerge from his hiding place.
The man did not even have the decency to seem embarrassed. “Good morning, sir.”
“What were you doing in my wife’s quarters, Silverman?”
“She required my advice, sir.”
“Your advice?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
The prince looked at his old friend and now saw no treachery in his face, no skullduggery or lecherous deceit. “I needed someone to dress me and you weren’t there.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I was on my way. You are not usually awake so early.”
“What time is it, Silverman?”
“Barely seven, sir.”
“Barely seven? Good God.”
“Is everything all right, sir? Is there anything I can attend to?”
“Of course not,” Arthur snapped. “How can everything be all right? I needed you to dress me and, as you can see, I’ve had to do that myself.” Without giving the equerry a chance to reply, the prince turned on his heel and stalked back to his rooms.
Inside, for a heartbeat, the mask slipped. He collapsed on his bed and let out a moan, the doomed cry of an animal dying in a trap. Then he collected himself, took a deep breath, reached for the phone and waited for his last true friend to speak.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Streater. So glad you’re awake.”
“Just got up. What can I do you for?”
“Please. Come to my rooms. I need you.”
“Sure. I’ll get dressed. Be right over.”
“And Mr. Streater?”
“Yep?”
“Bring me some ampersand.”
Down the telephone line, the prince could almost hear Mr. Streater’s smile.
Chapter 19
At nine A.M., the last of the Directorate gathered in the Eye for a council of war.
When the pod doors opened and Miss Morning and I walked inside, Jasper was already waiting. He was wearing the smug, self-satisfied expression of a man who’s just had a long-cherished dream rubber-stamped by someone who can actually make it happen. I didn’t like that look, as you can imagine. I didn’t like it at all.
Dedlock swiveled in his tank and splashed noisily through the fluid. “Henry Lamb! Miss Morning!”
“You seem cheerful,” the old lady said, understandably suspicious.
“Mr. Jasper has good news.”
“You’ve found the Prefects?” I asked.
“My jackboots have yet to track them down. But Jasper… Jasper may have given us the means.”
Miss Morning stepped up to Mr. Jasper, a wrinkled Holliday at the OK Corral. “What exactly,” she said, “are you proposing?”
“The Blueprint Programme,” said the smooth-skinned man, a gleam of triumph in his voice.
As usual, it was left to me to ask the necessary questions. “And what’s the Blueprint Programme exactly?”
“To track the Prefects,” Jasper explained, “we need a hunter. Someone ruthless. Someone tenacious. Someone with a talent for getting their hands dirty.”
Dedlock chipped in. “The Directorate may have lost Estella in 1967. But we did not let her make her sacrifice without persuading her to leave us with a memento.”
“A memento?” Miss Morning’s wizened frame seemed suddenly animated by rage. “What did you do?”
Dedlock spoke lightly, conversationally, like he was discussing the weather or the football or giving directions to tourists. “We made a copy of her etheric signature.”
“Her what?” I asked.
“Her essence, Mr. Lamb. Her animus.”
Miss Morning was furious. “Why?”
“So we could copy her abilities. So we could replicate the highlights of her mind in someone new. And we’ve finally found a way to do it.”
“But we’re looking for Estella,” I said. “Aren’t we? I mean, isn’t that what all this has been about?”
“We need her in physical form, yes,” said Dedlock. “We need the real Estella. But this is something quite different. I take it you’ve heard the phrase, ‘set a thief to catch a thief’?”
Jasper delved into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a silver pill and, like a soothsayer picking through the skeleton of some sacred animal, held it aloft for our scrutiny. “In this pill,” he said, “is the essence of the best field agent in the history of the Directorate. It only needs to be ingested for the subject to begin the transmogrification into a second Estella.”
“How remarkable,” Dedlock murmured.
“How wicked,” Miss Morning snapped.
“What exactly are your objections?” Dedlock asked Miss Morning.
“That boy’s grandfather would be appalled by this blasphemy,” she said. “It’s illegal and immoral. It disgraces the memory of a woman who gave up everything she had in the hope of keeping this city safe.”
I noticed that the old man couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. “The Blueprint Programme is already sanctioned. But I’ve made it very clear that our subject must be a volunteer.” He splashed toward Mr. Jasper. “You understand that? A volunteer. We’re not barbarians.”
Jasper rolled out his answer, smoothly prepared. “Naturally, sir. But bear in mind that we’ll need a woman in excellent physical condition, someone with a lively, eager mind, someone… clean.”
“Clean? What are you talking about — clean?”
“Trust me, sir. Estella was a formidable woman. Anyone we choose will be grateful for the improvement.”
Miss Morning was practically spinning in fury. “Disgusting. These methods are beneath you.”
Dedlock sighed. “We do whatever it takes. You understand me? Things have changed since you were last in the game. The world is much less genteel now.” He swiveled in my direction. “Mr. Lamb?”
I was starting to hope he had forgotten me.
“I want you to go to the hospital. Hawker and Boon have unfinished business with your grandfather and it’s just possible they might try to see him. Don’t look so worried. I’ll put a security detail on you. Morning? Have you anything useful to contribute?”
The old lady looked defiant. “I’ve a lead of my own I’d like to follow.”
Dedlock stared suspiciously at her. “Very well. I’ll see you all back here at six o’clock. Jasper, I expect to see your hunter. Now — get to work!”
There then followed an embarrassing ten minutes of small talk and chit-chat as the pod took a little age to complete its revolution and reach the ground again.
When we stepped out of the Eye, Jasper was still wearing that same look of smug vindication. I think I knew even then, although I lacked the slightest sliver of evidence to prove it, that he had been waiting a long time for the programme to go ahead and that all this suffering and death had ever meant to him was a chance to test his wretched theories. For this, I never forgave him. The rest of his betrayals I can live with, but for that, for his part in the inception of Blueprint, I can’t imagine I’ll ever find a shred of clemency.
Miss Morning, still denouncing the rank immorality of the man in the tank, walked away down the South Bank, off to pursue her nebulous lead. I can’t say I was unhappy to see her go. She was starting to unravel, sinking into confused, directionless rage, and I found the spectacle of it upsetting. It would have been better for her if she’d never got involved with the Directorate again. Better, perhaps, for us all.
“Jasper?” I said.
The baby-faced man, urgently tapping into his mobile phone, didn’t look up. “Shouldn’t you be with your grandfather?”