'Good evening. We have indeed got your reservation. The best table, of course…'
Sharon wore a close-fitting, simply cut shift dress in purple which must have cost a fortune, with elegant court shoes. Her blonde hair fell in sweeping waves almost to her shoulders. As she preceded Newman men turned to gaze at her. Some to the amusement of their escorts, other women looking annoyed. She was undoubtedly, Newman thought, the most striking-looking woman in the place. And there was competition aplenty.
Their table was placed next to a large window looking out over the river. The water actually flowed below them. Sharon sat down and her hypnotic green eyes stared at Newman. She seemed unaware of the stir she was causing at other tables.
'I hope this suits you, Bob,' she said in her soft voice. 'Perfect. You must have clout to have secured this table.'
'Not really. I used the Ambassador's name. I don't really want to be well known. The waiter's here. Let's order our aperitifs.'
She was very calm, almost withdrawn, her movements slow and dignified. Her eyes held his, without in any way being aggressive or come-hitherish. They touched glasses when the aperitifs arrived.
'Here's to a memorable evening,' Newman said buoyantly.
'I'll drink to that,' she agreed quietly.
'How are you settling in at the Embassy? Must be a major change from Washington.'
'I prefer London. After all, my mother was English.
So I feel at home here. Washington is rather a bear garden. I have a nice house in Dorset.'
'And yet everything important in your life happened in America.'
'You're probably referring to my four husbands. Let's study the menu. This is my treat, by the way.'
'No, it isn't…'
'I hope you don't mind, but you can't do much about it. I have opened an account here.'
'Wicked of you.' He grinned. 'Next time it's my treat.'
'I'll look forward to that.'
They took time examining the large selection. Newman glanced out of the window and saw a massive barge tied up for the night. He stared. Be very careful of the barges. Kurt's warning in his last communication flashed into his mind.
'A penny for your thoughts,' said Sharon.
'Sorry. The reflections in the river look wonderful.' 'Dreamy…'
'Like the outfit you're wearing. Purple really suits you.'
'Thank you.'
He noticed there was not a trace of an American accent in her voice. She spoke as though she had lived all her life in England. He found her voice, her calmness very attractive. It was no effort to talk to her. He just felt comfortable. And her greenish eyes were remarkable, although she made no effort to use them as a weapon the way some women did. They said little as they consumed a magnificent meal. Looking round the tastefully appointed restaurant, he saw a lot of the in crowd were present, most of whom he disliked. Sharon brought up the subject when they were drinking coffee.
'I hope you don't mind but I'm also in the way of a messenger tonight. I've been asked whether you'd consider writing an article urging a closer special relationship between Britain and America.'
'May I enquire who asked you to do that?'
'I'm sorry, Bob, but I'm not supposed to say. It comes from someone very high up…'
Paula and Pete Nield had arrived at Santorini's a few minutes before Sharon and Bob entered. Paula had used Howard's name to ask for a secluded table. Howard, a member of several clubs, could get any table he wanted in London. Their table was in an alcove and Paula had a clear but distant view of the table over the river.
'What do you think of her?' Nield asked as they finished their main course.
'They seem to be getting on very well together. What do I think of Sharon? I'm not sure. She's beautifully dressed. Real taste in every way.'
'That's not what I asked.'
'She's poised. Quite at home in a place like this. She has an unusual technique for impressing a man.'
'Go on.'
'She's cool, very calm on the surface. A good listener – and that appeals to a man. She has control of the situation, without appearing to do so.'
'You used the phrase 'on the surface'.'
'I just wonder what she's really like under that appearance of unusual calm. I'm honestly not sure.' 'Not sure of what?' Nield smiled. 'Come on. Give.' 'I'm simply dist- puzzled. She's hard to read.'
'You were going to say disturbed and then altered it to puzzled. What is it about her that disturbs you?' 'Maybe a touch of envy.' Paula smiled. 'She's a very beautiful woman.'
'Be cagey, as you'd say to Tweed. And for my money you're looking like a present from Heaven.'
'Thank you, Pete.' She almost blushed. 'Do you want pudding?'
'I'm full up – this meal I've had will last me for days. But you go ahead.'
'I'm in the same state as you. Talking about Tweed, I know the Raging Stag stays open late. He may still be there. Do you mind if we have coffee there? I feel we ought to check there are no thugs in that area.
'Good idea. I'll get the bill.'
They had chosen a moment when Sharon and Newman's table was masked by other guests also leaving. Nield drove them back towards Piccadilly, found the only empty parking slot in Mayfair and grabbed it. They made the rest of the journey on foot.
Paula clasped the collar of her coat round her neck. A wind which must have originated at the North Pole was blowing. Their natural route took them down Albemarle Street, which was deserted. It brought back to Paula the evening when she had bumped into Cord Dillon outside Brown's, the nerve-racking moment when a bullet fired from the Cadillac had smashed the glass behind them as they stood in front of it.
Nield made no comment on the incident but took Paula's arm and hurried her even more briskly. They slowed down as they approached the Raging Stag. Both their eyes were everywhere, checking for men waiting in the shadows. Piccadilly, also, was deserted.
Entering the expensively decorated pub-cum-restaurant, Paula scanned the place, saw Tweed, among the crowd sitting at a table in the restaurant further in. He had his back to her and next to him sat Ed Osborne. Nield had also spotted them.
'Two stools free at the bar,' he said. 'I'll take them.. He reached the stools seconds before two men, who looked annoyed and tried to muscle their way in. Nield shook his head.
'Those are our places,' a large middle-aged man said aggressively.
'Sorry, but I have a lady with me. You wouldn't want her to have to stand, I'm sure.'
Paula backed him up by slipping past and perching herself on one of the stools. She turned, spoke to the aggressive man.
'Thank you so much. That was very kind of you.'
'You worked that well,' said Nield as the two men went away, muttering. 'What are you having to drink?'
'I'll stick to wine, I think. A glass of medium dry French.'
The place was as crowded, even at that hour, as Santorini's. Paula found she was in an ideal position to observe Tweed's table – she had a clear view of it reflected in the mirror behind the bar. She slipped off her coat, folded it in her lap as the drinks arrived, then she stiffened, held her glass motionless.
Tweed and Osborne sat on chairs close together. She had the impression they were having a friendly argument as Osborne waved his hands about and Tweed nodded. What had made her stiffen was the sight of a bulging briefcase perched against Tweed's chair.
'Something wrong?' Nield enquired:
'Nothing.'
She wrapped her scarf round her head to conceal her hair. A waiter had brought back the bill to Osborne, placing his credit card on it, which Osborne whipped up and slipped inside his wallet. Nield slumped further forward across the bar. He was wearing a new suit and he'd sensed Paula didn't want Tweed to see them. The two men who had tried to take their stools were standing behind them now, holding drinks, chatting. In the mirror it seemed
