by Ray O'Hanlon
“Was it that long? Seemed like just a couple of days,” Bailey replied. “Sorry I forgot to ask you last night, but how was that place? Were you shooting guns all the time or what?”
“Milton,” said Walsh. “And no, we were not shooting guns all the time, though we did manage to put quite a dent in the ammunition supply.”
“So,” said Bailey, “there I was between the sheets last night with Deadeye Jane. Are you a decent shot?”
“I certainly wouldn't miss you from this range,” said Walsh.
She slipped sideways out of the bed, walked across the room and sat down on Bailey's lap. She could feel his body grow taut and allowed him to surround her with his arms. They kissed, furiously, slowly and furiously again, before she pinned him to the back of the chair with a forearm to his windpipe.
“Now, Mr. Bailey,” she said with mock seriousness, “are you going to peacefully make breakfast, or am I going to have to clap you in irons and haul you off to the clink?”
“Can I plead inability to function in a kitchen?” Bailey said, faking a choking voice.
“No pleas,” said Walsh as she stood up and stretched. “Unless it's temporary insanity.”
“I'm quite sane, Samantha,” said Bailey. “More than I've ever been in my life.” He stood up and took hold of her. She allowed him to kiss her neck and caress her hair but after a few moments gently pulled herself away. She wasn't quite sure yet. She patted her stomach and Bailey laughed.
“They say it's the way to a man's heart, but that's only half the story, not even that, just the lead paragraph,” he said.
“And by the way, you've been doing a lot more at that coppers’ camp than just gently squeezing triggers. I didn't know girls were allowed muscles like that. Remind me not to meet you in any dark alleyways.”
Walsh and Bailey enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and were well into their second pot of tea when a ringing doorbell reminded both that there was a world beyond the flat and their nascent relationship.
“That will be the post,” said Bailey.
“The postman rings the doorbell when he delivers? Nice of him,” said Walsh.
“Well, yes,” Bailey responded. “When he found out that I was in the newspaper game he decided that I was not to be kept waiting. Tip-offs, informers, sources and all that. He thinks I'm Woodward and Bernstein, and whopping exclusives arrive by snail mail.”
“How sweet,” said Walsh as she finished off a slice of toast and marmalade.
Bailey stood and moved to the door. “Back in a second,” he said. “Help yourself to more toast, or anything your little heart desires for that matter.”
“Cheeky boy,” Walsh said. She smiled as she reached for another slice. It was strange, she thought, so peaceful, domestic and normal. Could she get used to this, a life with Nicholas Bailey?
Before she could even begin to answer her own question, Bailey had returned, shuffling in his hands an inch thick batch of envelopes along with a single magazine.
“What's the magazine?” Walsh said. “Oh, a gentleman's publication. Give us a look.”
Bailey handed her the magazine, a sheepish look on his face. “A trial subscription,” he said, though not with much conviction.
He glanced at the envelopes. “Usual rubbish,” he said. “Except for this.”
He sat back in his chair and placed the pile of post on the table. He lifted the letter of interest in front of his face and examined it intently.
“Nice handwriting. Who from? I wonder; no return address. Perhaps it's a tip-off about a scandal at Scotland Yard. Plod on the take.”
Walsh ignored his dig as she devoured the toast and magazine at roughly equal speed. It was only after several minutes that she noticed the silence and sensed Bailey's concentration. Bailey was staring at the letter that she could see ran to a second page.
“Something wrong?” she said.
Bailey did not immediately reply. “I'm not quite sure.”
“Something is certainly up, that's for certain. Did I mention to you that I recently met this guy, a colleague? I don't really know him personally. His name is Sydney Small, our Buckingham Palace man. A bit of a legend in his own reign. Henderson is certainly a fan, and that says something.”
“You never mentioned him Nick, nor your meeting,” said Walsh, putting down her toast and closing the magazine.
“Didn't I? Well, I did meet him a couple of weeks ago in a pub on the south side of the river. A real out of the way place. Never heard of it, and believe me, I've heard of most of them.”
“No doubt,” said Walsh.
Bailey, with a mock smile, continued, “Well, there he was, tucked into the back of the place with his glass of gin, all on his lonesome and looking like some toff in the paddock at Sandown Park. Certainly didn't quite match my mental image, though when I thought of it afterwards it made perfect sense to have a man who looked like part of the royal rat pack covering the dear noble things.
“Well, we sat and chatted for a few minutes. He was a nice bloke, don't get me wrong, and he cracked a joke or two about Henderson which helped me ease up a bit. You never know what gets back to Henderson except that everything gets back to him. Anyway, he was going on about the dead priests, certainly giving the impression that if he had not direct knowledge he had certainly formed a theory based on something firm.”
Bailey stopped and looked at the letter again.
“Yes, go on,” said Walsh.
“Well, he was about to get really stuck into the matter when his cell phone went off. He had a quick conversation, said something about the palace being on the line and took off. He said he would be in touch, but that I wasn't to say a word to anyone. I wouldn't have known what to say anyway, and that's where we left it. But now this letter.”
“Can I read it?” Walsh said, her hand reaching across the table.
Bailey stood up, walked back to the table, passed the letter over and stood with his arms folded.
“Very bloody odd,” he said, as much to himself as to Walsh who was now scanning the letter with what seemed to Bailey a well-practiced eye.
“Nice handwriting,” said Bailey, but Walsh did not respond.
She read it once and then began to read it again.
“Dear Nicholas,” it began. “I must apologize profusely for my rude behavior the other day in the pub. I hope you will forgive me and trust in the fact that my sudden departure was absolutely unavoidable. A matter of life and death, you might say. I had started to tell you about my theory with regard to the deaths of those unfortunate priests.
“Had I been able to tarry, I would have taken my position beyond the realm of mere theory. There is a connection between the four, though just what the common denominator is I had no clue on the day we met. I have a rather better idea now, and to tell you the truth, it rather scares me out of my wits. As a result I am having to make myself scarce for a while. Don't bother trying to find me because you will not succeed. It's a big world, and I know one or two of the darker corners.
“I must warn you that while I expect you will want to inquire more deeply into the deaths of the good fathers, there are risks involved in such work, extreme risks, so for God's sake be careful. As I stated, I have yet to fill in the complete picture. It's a bit like the first part of a steeplechase on a foggy day; one must wait until the nags come out of the murk before drawing any real conclusions as to the result. I must apologize for not being entirely clear in this correspondence, and I am sure you are asking yourself why I would be remotely interested in this matter, or even involved in a mere peripheral way. But I am involved, Nicholas, and not just around the edge of what could turn out to be a most shocking affair.
“Let me repeat: do not even think of seeking me out. Nevertheless, I suspect that you will try. A story is a story, and I well understand that. I do not trust even the Royal Mail enough to elaborate any further. But I had a sense about you, Nicholas. You're a man with a good nose, the kind that finds the most extraordinary
truffles. I am not sure if I will be able to contact you again in the near future, if at all. But again, Nicholas, please watch your back. Yours faithfully, Sydney Small.”
“Truffles,” said Walsh. “Oink oink.”
“Odd, isn't it?” said Bailey.
“Odd, indeed,” said Walsh. “But there could be more to this letter than that.”
“Yes, go on,” said Bailey.
Walsh, reaching for the teapot bit her lip and narrowed here eyes. “What exactly is it? A hint, a lead, a guarded come-on and a warning all rolled into one. Beyond that, and most importantly, is it just gossip, information, or is it evidence of a quadruple murder?”
“That's quite a lot,” said Bailey. “I should make a fresh pot before we try to decide, or do anything else.”
Walsh was reading the letter again, her brow was furrowed, and the fingers of her left hand were drumming furiously on the table.
“Do you know what?” she said. “Your friend is hinting strongly at some kind of conspiracy, a murderous plot. I don't care what he says, or how good he is at losing himself. I think we should find him.”
“Sí, inspector,” said Bailey.
“Shut up and make the tea,” the woman Bailey suspected he might be falling in love with replied, without sympathy.
36
“EAMOMN, DO SIT DOWN.”
Evans beamed at Manning with her knock-down smile. Manning returned the gesture as best he could.
The British had been fit to be tied when Phillipa Evans had landed in Washington. She had been an instant hit on the diplomatic reception circuit. London's man was most notable for being, well London's man.
The British ambassador, Peter Price Jones, was, of course, a skilled and perfectly poised diplomat. In normal circumstances he would have been judged as ideal for the post; a little cautious perhaps and low key to the point of being borderline dull. He was solid, dependable, not one to drop the ball.
But matched against Phillipa Evans, an Irishwoman with a Welsh-sounding name, Jones, with his own Welsh-sounding name, seemed to merge with the nearest wallpaper. So did most of the rest of the in-town plenipotentiaries for that matter. Yes, Manning thought, we made the right move. The woman's a grand slam home run, a perfect game even if only half the rumors are untrue.
“Eamonn, I want you to meet Jake Voles. He's going to be helping us with our big move.”
Manning extended his hand a second time and Voles, who had remained standing, took it.
His handshake was strong, and Manning, who always made a point of looking a new acquaintance straight in the face, was immediately aware of intense blue eyes looking right back into his. Almost as if there was recognition, Manning sensed, before shifting his gaze to his boss.
“Sit down, both of you, please,” said Evans. “Coffee, gentlemen?”
Manning had a feeling he would be in the room for a while so he nodded in the affirmative. Evans poured him a cup from a pot she had sitting on a silver tray. Poured perfectly, with just enough cleavage showing as she leaned into the cup, Manning thought. Christ, what a flirt.
Voles nodded agreement to the offer of a cup and was similarly rewarded.
“Nice to meet you, Eamonn. Phillipa, the ambassador, tells me you are the man for all seasons in the embassy,” he said.
The two men were seated on one side of the ambassador's desk, but Evans had wheeled her chair around and was clearly intent on sitting herself down beside Voles, right beside as it turned out.
“Dog's body is another term for it,” Manning replied. He was smiling as he said it, his little jibe at Evans thus masked to the point of diplomatic acceptance.
“Eamonn's ability to meet and work with people is extraordinary. The Americans like him a lot. It helps, of course, when your wife is an American. Isn't that so Eamonn?”
Manning knew the game. Evans was reminding him that he was married and that she, in addition to being married herself, was out of reach. She wasn't making an innocent statement of fact, so much as teasing him.
“I've learned the lingua americana. But what about you, Jake? You're American. From around here?”
“New York born, but my family moved to California when I was fifteen. My dad was an early days Silicon Valley pioneer.”
“You're in computers, too?” Manning said.
“Yes, I was, indeed still am, but not in private business. I was in the FBI,” Voles replied.
“And before that Jake was in the United States Marines,” Evans said. She had a slightly dazed look on her face. To Manning's eyes it appeared that the ambassador wanted to throw all decorum out the window and tear the onetime G-Man's shirt off his body.
“Did you catch many bad guys?” said Manning.
“In a way I guess I did, but I was mostly in counter intelligence, working with computers, surveillance equipment, that sort of thing.”
Ah, a spook, Manning thought. Voles had the look of a man who had been places and seen things, not all of them routine. He had the feeling that he wasn't supposed to pry any deeper into G-Man's past, an idea that was confirmed when Evans came chirping in with an offer of more coffee.
“Thank you, Ambassador,” Manning said with mock politeness as he reached over with his cup and saucer.
Voles was clearly older, he thought. Probably in his mid-fifties. But he looked fit. A little under six feet and about 190 pounds. He had the air of a man who carried secrets.
Evans interrupted the silent assessment.
“I've explained to Jake that what we discuss in this room remains entirely within these walls.” Her demeanor had changed. She was staring purposefully at Manning, all business now.
“And that's precisely what's were going to be talking about,” she added. “Walls and what you can find in them. Jake now runs his own private security and intelligence company. He's going to be helping us out with our move to the new embassy. The building is large and right now undergoing preliminary reconstruction, and there's no telling what could end up in the place.
“We're not the Americans, and we're not the Russians, I know, but we do have interests from these past few years and, Pray God, a little money left, and that means the kind of information from time to time that some people would dearly like to get their hands on. And apart from that I have heard, believe it or not, that one of our fellow European Union embassies was bugged last year by a scurrilous gossip magazine. Would you believe it?”
Manning nodded gravely. He wasn't quite sure if Voles was necessary for the embassy of a small country with little strategic significance, but he could not argue with Evans over the possibility of talk of needed potential American investments being intercepted by another country, even a European Union friend and ally.
“Of course,” he said. “Welcome on board, Jake. Anything I can do to help you can depend on it,” he said.
“Splendid,” said Evans.
Voles nodded and smiled. “Looking forward to working with you, Eamonn.
Manning had the feeling that his role in the meeting had reached its end and stood up.
“I'll be in the office if you need me,” he said to Evans. She didn't reply. She was on her feet pouring more coffee for Voles. Slowly.
Manning let out air as he gently closed the door to the ambassador's office.
A shuffling sound on the winding staircase pulled Manning back from thoughts of Evans and her machinations. Frank Nesbitt, with whom Quinn was sharing an office until the move, was walking slowly up the stairs.
“Ah, stately, plump Frank Nesbitt,” Manning said.
“Only when I'm going in the other direction,” Nesbitt puffed. He was no athlete. Indeed he was something of a physical shambles. Manning, nevertheless, enjoyed his company. Nesbitt had more than an average talent for seeing right through people and the wall of formalities, clipped manners and nuance of everyday diplomacy. And he could do so in three languages.
“Your wife was on the phone,” said Nesbitt. He had stopped and was leaning heavily against the w
all on one side of the stairwell. “She sounded a bit tired, I have to say. Have you been up to something?”
“Did you manage to tell her that I was at a wine tasting at the Romanian embassy? Something clever like that?”
“More or less,” Nesbitt replied. “How about a goat's cheese lunch with the Bulgarian ambassador?
“That would do,” Manning said as he began walking down the stairs. “Make sure you knock hard on the door. You wouldn't want to surprise the two of them. Phillipa had a look in her eye.”
“The Look,” said Nesbitt, with emphasis.
“The very same,” Manning replied. “Come back to the office when you're finished in there.”
“You can help me find that Washington Post editorial. It's in the pile somewhere, but it must be stuck under a paper clip on some other file. It bloody well always happens to something you need to get your hands on.”
“Doesn't it just,” said Nesbitt, turning slowly, his hand raised to knock on the ambassador's door. “What about looking for it online? Oh, never mind.”
Back in the shared office, Manning sat down heavily in his chair. His banter with Nesbitt had been precisely the kind of inconsequential exchange that he hoped would form a barrier between his present and future, and his past.
The more of it the better, he thought. Yet he well knew that such thinking was more than a little wishful. They wanted more from him and they would have it. But this would be the last time, yes, the very last time. He would tell them to take a hike; he would reveal everything to Rebecca, quit diplomacy and study law or something. He could be his father, the American version, Perry Mason with a lilt.
But for now he would simply call, check in with his wife and discuss the ordinary things, dinner tonight, Jessica's violin lesson. He hit the familiar numbers on his desk phone but only heard his own voice on the recorded message.
“Hi, it's me. Nothing much to report except just met an ex-G-Man. An interesting guy and I'll tell you more this evening. Call you back later. Love you.”