‘Yes? And how can I help?’

‘My department is keen to undertake research into the effects of,’ he hesitated, recalling the book he had found at the Bodleian, the one Florence had been reading. ‘We’re researching the effects on children of a long separation. This has been an area of interest for many years but we think we now have the ideal test subjects. Right here in Yale.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ Instead of a rictus smile, this woman’s forehead was furrowed with a kind of puzzled concern.

‘My name is Zennor,’ he said, the mumble dipping, he hoped, into the positively inaudible. ‘We would like to approach the Oxford mothers about their children taking part in a study. We would interview the children at the start, then at later intervals-’

‘That sounds a very interesting idea.’

James brightened, lifting his chin to face the woman directly. He was about to give her his charming smile before remembering Magnus Hook; he instead resumed staring at the floor and mumbled something about consulting the files so that he might contact the children.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Dean has given strict undertakings to the families concerned, to the British authorities and to the State Department, regarding confidentiality.’

‘Yes, I appreciate that-’

‘This is something you would have to discuss with the Dean directly.’

He was about to explain why the nature of the research project did not allow for delay, that it was vital to record the children’s sentiments at the very start of the period of separation, when instinct made him look up and meet her gaze. The second he did so, he knew it was a mistake. A thought passed across her face, as visible as a shadow. ‘Could you repeat your name for me, sir?’

‘It’s Zennor.’

‘Were you here earlier this morning, talking to my colleague?’

At that moment, a door from the inner office opened and a man — tall, long-faced, bespectacled and probably no older than James himself — stepped through. ‘What seems to be the trouble, Miss Rodgers?’

In desperation and knowing it was folly, James made a last attempt. ‘Are you the Dean?’ He extended his hand but the man ignored it. ‘I’m Dr James Zennor from Oxford. I believe my wife and son are here at Yale and I need to find them.’

‘Are you the man who threatened one of the secretaries here today?’

‘I’m begging you. Just tell me-’

‘Either leave this office now or I will have you forcibly removed.’

‘Just let me see the bloody file!’

With surprising speed, the man advanced towards him, grabbing him by the elbow, then placed his other hand on James’s left shoulder. Unavoidably, James howled in pain, a sound that made Miss Rodgers scream.

That did it. The man tightened his grip, swivelling James’s arm behind his back into an instant half-nelson, and frogmarched him back down the corridor.

The porter who had ejected James a few hours earlier appeared from the other end, looking aghast. ‘Assistant Dean, I’m right here.’

‘No need, Murphy. I have this under control.’ As if to prove his point, he raised James’s arm a further two inches, making him cry out in even sharper pain.

Through the agony, James assessed his torturer. The Assistant Dean. A fellow athlete, he reckoned. Maybe an American football player, though he looked too thin for that. Maybe a rower. Whatever his training, he was a bastard and a sadist to boot.

They had reached the front entrance by now, the blue sky of a summer afternoon visible. James could see people rushing by, cars gliding along the road, the bustle of a busy American city. But he was about to be cast out into the desert — into a land where he knew no one and no one knew him, where every path led nowhere.

Now on the steps, with the porter watching them from just a few paces behind, James prepared himself for the moment of expulsion, picturing how it must look, like a drunk turfed out of a saloon bar in a western. His hand still on James’s shoulder, the Assistant Dean leaned in closer. James could feel the man’s breath in his ear, the plosive blasts as he spoke: ‘Meet me tonight. Seven o’clock at Frank Pepe’s. I can help you.’ And with a last, hard shove to his back, the Assistant Dean despatched Dr James Zennor as if he were throwing out a sack of garbage.

Chapter Seventeen

London

The afternoon passed slowly, the work laborious. No matter how often Taylor Hastings looked up at the clock, it insisted on advancing with slow, heavy steps. He looked down at the pile of documents awaiting decoding. He could gallop through it, but a new pile would take its place: it wouldn’t make the time pass any quicker.

He needed another excuse to go back into his briefcase. He had already retrieved a pencil sharpener from there; he couldn’t pull that stunt again, not without his beetle-eyed colleague becoming curious. Yet he was desperate to look inside.

Help came in the form of a phone call, the distraction allowing him to bend low and retrieve what he wanted from his case. It was a card in an envelope, the card stiff, both in a rich shade of cream. He slipped it in among his papers, so that when, a few minutes later, the beetle-eyes were averted, he could steal another look at it.

Embossed at the top was the green, portcullis crest of the House of Commons. On the right, in the blue ink of an expensive fountain pen, today’s date, the month rendered in roman numerals. Below that, the time of writing: ten am, an indication, along with the missing postmark on the envelope, that this message had been hand- delivered. Had Reginald Rawls Murray taken a risk by despatching it here, of all places? A calculated risk, Taylor concluded. Using the Royal Mail would have been far riskier, given the likelihood of surveillance and interception: thanks to Regulation 18B, Murray’s mail was surely opened and checked routinely. Hand delivery by courier was much safer. If Murray had delivered it himself, so much the better.

On the other hand, if minimizing risk had been the MP’s objective it would have been better to have dropped off the card at Taylor’s home rather than here. But not if the message was urgent: Taylor wouldn’t have seen it till late this evening. Very late, most likely, since he had ‘dinner’ plans with Anna (though it was not food that was on the menu). It wouldn’t have surprised him if Murray knew as much and so had opted to get this message to him at work. Looking at it again, it certainly seemed urgent.

Meet me tonight, House of Commons terrace. 7.30 pm. RRM.

The evening was close and sticky. Taylor Hastings had known a thousand such humid nights, the air choking with ragweed pollen, in Washington. But the Brits seemed to find it unbearable. Murray was constantly running his finger along his shirt collar, as if breaking a seal formed by the sweat on his neck.

But perhaps it wasn’t just the weather that made him agitated. After ten minutes of chit-chat on the terrace — admiring the view over to the South Bank, eyeing up County Hall, watching the river in the still-bright evening — Murray finally got down to business. What was it with the English, always feeling obligated to pretend that a transaction between parties was really a conversation among friends?

‘The situation’s getting awfully tight for us, Hastings, I’m sure you appreciate that. Awfully tight. They’ve banged up Diana and Oswald under the bloody 18B and they’ve done the same with Norah. Pretty soon, there’ll be more of us inside than out,’ he said, knocking back what was left of his gin and tonic. ‘Which is why we need you.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, they can’t damn well put you in choky, can they? Against the rules. Immunity and what have you. Which is why I have a little gift for you.’

‘That’s very kind, Mr Murray.’

‘You haven’t seen what it is yet,’ the MP said sharply, a hint, Taylor decided, of the boarding school bully in his voice. He was unzipping a slim, leather portfolio case that Taylor hadn’t noticed. Perhaps it had been tucked under Murray’s suit jacket. ’On the count of three, take this from me and put it inside your briefcase, all right?

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