by Craig Thomas
The scent of coffee lingered in the room, even though the housekeeper had removed the tray. Aubrey's own breakfast had been meagre, a failure of appetite.
The cramp of agitation that had kept him awake for most of the night remained knotted in his stomach.
"Why? Why you? As you say, you are unofficial, almost a non-person as far as these matters go." He glanced across at the man from the Home Office, perched on a narrow Louis Quinze chair, studiously analysing the intricate pattern of the Persian carpet near his feet.
"You have absolutely no authority, Kenneth. Why should anyone in their right mind have let you come?"
"A favour of a kind."
Aubrey had remained standing throughout their brief encounter, leaning heavily but firmly on his walking stick.
"A chance to gloat, then?"
The Home Office type had informed David of the reasons why he must accompany them, what allegations had been made. Customs & Excise were raiding his offices, those of Complete Security, other companies under the Winterborne Holdings umbrella. David was being taken into custody pending consideration of a State Department request for his extradition to face serious criminal charges. Aubrey had hovered at the man's tall shoulder like an ancient Nemesis. He had persuaded old acquaintances in the Branch, the DS and Customs to seize the opportunity to begin the surgical dissection of David's finances.
"Not to gloat to ask," he snapped, his temper suddenly heating him.
Winterborne faced him, his back to the window, making Aubrey squint into the sunlight. To ask why? And to ask, how did you dare?"
His anger was difficult to restrain; his reserves of hauteur seemed to have boiled away like steam. Marian was safely ensconced and comfortably recuperating in a Sussex nursing home. Giles and he were constant visitors. As was David's father, Clive. Giles' anger had died away, as if it was measured in a U-shaped thermometer; as Marian's health rose, his rage subsided. But not his own.
Especially not now, confronting David.
"You mean dear Marian, of course," Winterborne replied arrogantly.
"Of course, Marian! How could you try to have her killed?" Aubrey hissed. The rest of it I can see. The deaths of strangers for a clear advantage nothing more than items on the television news. But Marian…?"
"Marian placed herself in the path of the train," he replied evenly. It seemed a remark often rehearsed, something he had coached himself to believe.
"She was the last, the only obstacle…" His dark eyes blazed and his nostrils flared.
"She was so persistent!"
The final barrier, then. To success? Or to being what you really are, David?"
Winterborne moved closer to Aubrey, his back turned to Baird. He was tangibly pleased at the slight flinch of Aubrey's old frame.
"I was fighting for my very existence. For the survival of everything I had built up over a decade and more."
His voice was an intimate, hard whisper.
"I did not intend to lose any of it." His eyes registered Aubrey's contempt and he turned away sharply towards the window.
"I'm tired of this, Kenneth. It serves no purpose."
"No," Aubrey sighed.
"Perhaps I did come to gloat. To watch you fall."
"You wish."
"Strickland has been very cooperative in great detail. The FBI are determined.
Links will be forged, connections made. It is over, David."
Winterborne was silent for a long moment, then he said, without turning from the window and its view of the square:
"Shall we go? As soon as I have called my solicitor?"
"Yes, I think so. I–I'm lunching with your father…"
Winterborne's shoulders twitched, then in a calm voice he said:
Then you will have a very uncomfortable task to perform. An entirely indigestible one. I wish you good luck. Now, excuse me while I make my call—" As he stood beside the ornate French desk, the morning sun glared in at the window. He was haloed by the light, his shoulders unbowed, his tone easy as he spoke to his solicitor. Aubrey felt an overwhelming desire to break his walking stick across David's back.
Instead, he reminded himself of the Special Branch officers downstairs and Baird's silent presence in the room. The cars parked outside in the morning sunlight. It was over. At least to the extent that Gant had been cleared of all charges, all suspicion. When the story broke, very soon now, in the US media, his Medal of Honor would be mentioned, his service record. He would be entirely rehabilitated… presumably to return to his chosen career.
And David would know that he had been beaten by Marian, Gant, Giles, himself. He would probably, if only for a short time, go to prison. He would become untouchable by people of influence, by financial institutions, by governments… It did, after all, seem sufficient punishment, a proper justice.
The thought stimulated him as he waited for Winterborne to finish his conversation.