Roper said, “Last chance, Greta, or
“To hell with it – to hell with all of you.” She walked out like a ship under sail.
Driving through the London streets, Dillon sitting beside Billy, Greta leaned back, looking from side to side, her face serious. Dillon didn’t say a word, and Billy seemed to take his cue from him.
The rain hammered down on lots of traffic, London traffic, and she appeared restless, ill at ease. They were hemmed in by cars for a while.
She said, “Christ, look at it. Do people have to live like this?”
Billy said, “It was snowing in Moscow when I was there the other night. It was a bloody sight colder than this.”
“But not as cold as it would be in Siberia,” Dillon said.
The Aston moved down the High Street and turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and was moving toward the embassy, when she suddenly slammed a hand down on Billy’s left shoulder.
“No!” she said.
He braked. “No what?”
“I don’t want to go in there. Take me to Ferguson.”
“ Cavendish Place, Billy,” Dillon said wearily. “You’ll find she’s expected.”
At Cavendish Place, Billy pulled in at the curb and turned off the engine. He opened the door for her and retrieved her suitcase. Dillon got out, reached for an umbrella and put it up against the rain.
“Good-bye, Major,” he said.
“You bastard, Dillon.”
She turned and walked through the rain and mounted the steps to Ferguson ’s place and pressed the bell. Dillon caught a glimpse of Kim, Ferguson ’s Ghurka manservant, who stood to one side to let her pass and accepted the suitcase handed to him by Billy.
As the rain suddenly increased, Dillon closed the umbrella, got back in the Aston, and Billy slid behind the wheel.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About her having a change of heart? Not much. How about you?”
“Not for a minute – not for a bleeding minute.” Billy turned on the engine. “But then, neither will Ferguson.” He smiled and drove away.
