west along the river to Marrick Priory and back, and they were also ready for a hearty lunch.
When the food came, they all ate in silence for a few moments, then Victor looked up at Banks and said, “Very good meal. Nasty business, that Hindswell Woods and Castleview Heights. You involved?”
“I was,” said Banks, with a sideways glance at Sophia, who had told him exactly what she thought of his pursuit of chimeras.
“Funny chap, Laurence Silbert.”
Banks paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “You
“Well, yes, sort of. Not in Eastvale, of course. Didn’t even know he lived there. Years ago. Bonn. Back in the old days, before the Wall came down.” He nodded toward Sophia. “She was still at school,” he said, then turned back to Banks as if his words were some sort of accusation or challenge.
Banks said nothing.
Sophia looked at her mother, who said something in Greek. The two of them started chatting quietly.
Victor cleared his throat and went on between mouthfuls of food.
“Anyway, I say I knew him, but it was more by reputation than anything. I believe I only met him the once, in passing. But you hear things, you know, and things happen. Embassies, consulates, pieces of home ground abroad, a sort of sanctuary, hallowed ground. The soil in the vampire’s coffin, so to speak. People come and go at all times of the night and day, in a hell of a state, some of them. I often wondered why we didn’t employ a full-time doctor. We didn’t like it, of course.
All that cloak-and-dagger sort of thing is supposed to be kept out of sight. Not supposed to be happening at all, most of it, but . . . what can you do? A fellow countryman in pain, trouble or danger? And there were documents, of course. Diplomatic bags. Sometimes you couldn’t help but see their contents. Why people feel compelled to keep written records of even the worst things they do is beyond me. Lucky for you they do, I suppose, though, isn’t it?” He went back to his meal.
“Sometimes,” said Banks, who had often wondered the same thing himself. “When did you meet him? Do you remember?”
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“Remember, of course I do. I might be going a bit deaf, but I’m not senile yet, you know.”
“I wasn’t—”
Victor waved his fork. “It was the eighties, eighty-six or eighty-seven. Not too long before the Wall came down, at any rate. The embassy was in Bonn then, of course, not West Berlin. Bonn was the capital. Interesting times.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward to catch Banks’s ear as he spoke. He needn’t have worried about people overhearing, Banks thought; the pub was noisy with family conversations, laughter and the shrieks of children. There was a man at the bar, Banks had noticed, who looked out of place and kept glancing over, but he wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation.
“Were you involved in intelligence work?” Banks asked.
“No, not at all. And I’m not just saying that because it’s classified or anything. We weren’t all spies, you know. A lot of us were just your basic office workers. Some of us were genuine diplomats, attaches, consuls, vice- consuls, undersecretaries, what have you, not like the Russians. Spies to a man, that lot. No, in fact I tried to keep as much distance as possible . . . you know. But one hears things, sees things, especially in heady times like those. I mean, we didn’t stand around with our heads buried in the sand. There was gossip. The lifeblood of the diplomatic service, I sometimes thought, gossip.”
Banks slipped the photograph out of his pocket and discreetly showed it to Victor. “Do you recognize this man with Silbert?” he asked.
Sophia shot him an annoyed glance, but he ignored it and she went back to talking to her mother.
Victor studied the photo and finally shook his head. “No, I’ve no idea who he is,” he said.
Banks hadn’t expected him to know, really. It had been a long shot, a ref lex action. “Why do you remember Laurence Silbert in particular?” he asked.
“Well, it’s funny you should mention that. His reputation, I suppose. I was just thinking about him a little while ago when all that stuff about Litvinenko hit the fan.
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never was interested in that direction, but he had the good looks, the coldness, ruthlessness, and he was tough as nails.”
“He killed people?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. Not that I ever had any evidence, mind you.
Just rumor. But he worked on the other side a lot, so he’s bound to have faced danger and . . . well . . . I’m sure you can imagine what it was like.”
“Yes,” said Banks.
Sophia kept glancing at Banks sideways, and he could tell from her expression that she was half annoyed and perplexed that he was talking shop with her father, but also pleased that they were getting along, not reduced to the usual monosyllabic grunts that had become their excuse for conversation lately. He turned and smiled at her while Victor was cutting off another lump of Yorkshire pudding, and she smiled back. “Shall I get more drinks?” she asked.
“I’ll have one, please,” Banks said. “Victor?”
Victor picked up his empty glass. “Please, dear.”
Sophia went up to the bar to get another round. Victor watched her go and turned his watery gray eyes back on
