'That's poor Parnell-Greene,' he said, sighing deeply, 'unfortunate fellow.'
'Who's Parnell-Greene?'
'Our most recent casualty. You'll learn more about him later.' He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. 'All of them here,' he said, his voice resonant and wavering, 'they're all ours. All Loo people.'
Jonathan glanced at the inscriptions on nearby stones, just legible in the fading light.
'Didn't any of them die?' he asked.
'Pardon me?'
'Nothing.'
'The names and dates on the stones are false, of course. But they're all our brave lads.' He sighed stentoriously. 'Good youngsters, every one.'
'No shit?'
The Vicar stared at him with reproof, then he laughed. 'Ah, yes! Mr. Dragon warned me of your tendency to revert to the social atavism of your boyhood. It used to pain him, or so he said.'
'You seem to be on good terms with Dragon.'
'We correspond regularly, share information and personnel, that sort of thing. Does that surprise you? We also have arrangements with our Russian and French counterparts. After all, every game must be played by certain rules. But I must admit that Mr. Dragon was not of much help in the matter now before us, occupied as he is with the dire events on his own doorstep. No doubt you have heard about this Watergate business?'
'Oddly enough, it was mentioned just today at the Embassy. It seems to me to be a lot of fuss over a trivial and incompetent bit of spy-spy.'
'One would think so, but it can't be all that trivial if CII has been brought in on it. The affair evidently requires fairly heavy hushing up, and Mr. Dragon is involved in that side of it. I shouldn't be surprised if the statistics on death by accident showed an unaccountable rise over the next month or so. But I take it from your distant expression that you are not overly concerned with this election.'
'It's difficult to get excited when the choice is between a fool and a villain.'
'Personally, I prefer villains. They are more predictable.' The Vicar winked vigorously.
'So it was Dragon who put you onto me?'
'Yes. We knew, of course, that you were in the country, but we had been informed that you had retired from our line of work, so we did not interfere with your visit. At that time we had no intention of using you. There is nothing more dangerous than an unwilling and uncooperative active. But. This business came along and...' The Vicar blew out his broad cheeks and shrugged fatalistically. '...we had no other option, really.'
'But why me? Why not one of your own people?'
'You will learn that in due course. Lovely evening, isn't it? That precious moment when day and night are in delicate balance.'
Jonathan knew he was hooked. If he refused to cooperate, Loo would certainly hang him for the murder of that poor bastard on the toilet, even though it would make his services unavailable. Like CII, Loo realized that threats and blackmail were effective only if the mark was sure that the threat would be carried out at all cost.
'All right,' Jonathan said, sitting on a grave marker, 'let's talk about it.'
'Not just now. I'm awaiting some last odd bits of information from London. Once I have them, I shall be able to put you totally into the picture. Shall I see you at the rectory tomorrow? Say, midmorning?'
The Vicar made a simple gesture with his fingertips and Yank, who had been keeping them under close surveillance, straining his eyes in the gloom, came trotting over. Literally trotting.
As he ascended the narrow stairs to the second floor of the inn, Jonathan stepped aside to allow Maggie to pass on her way down. She paused and looked at him with troubled eyes. 'I suppose it would sound a little foolish to say I'm sorry?'
'Foolish certainly. And inadequate.'
She brushed back a wisp of amber hair and forced herself to maintain eye contact with him. 'I'll run the risk, then, of being foolish.'
'Come on,' The Sergeant growled from behind, 'I don't have all night to stand about!'
Jonathan turned to him and smiled his gentle combat smile. He beckoned him closer and spoke softly into the bland moon face with its shaved head and crisp military moustache. 'You know something? I am becoming very annoyed with everything that's happening here. And I have this conviction that my annoyance is eventually going to purge itself on you. And when it does...' Jonathan grinned and nodded. '...and when it does...' He patted The Sergeant's cheek. Then he turned away and went up to his room.
The Sergeant, not sure what had just happened, scratched the patted cheek angrily and mumbled after the retreating figure, 'Anytime, yank. Anytime!'
Yank had come to fetch him down to supper in the low-ceilinged, pseudo-Tudor dining room, a recent addition featuring stucco with capricious finger-swirl patterns and pressed plastic wooden beams placed in positions that could not possibly bear weight. There were fewer than a dozen diners served by a Portuguese waiter in an ill- fitting tuxedo who went about his task with great style and flourish that interfered with his efficiency.
Jonathan and Yank occupied a corner table, while The Sergeant sat alone three tables away and occupied himself, when he was not pushing great forkloads of food into his mouth, by glowering at Jonathan with a menacing intensity that was almost comic. Henry, the driver, sat in close conversation with the bird from the reception desk, who often giggled and pressed her knee against his. The rest of the guests were young men stamped from Henry's mold: longish hair, beefy faces, dark suits with flared jackets, and belled trousers.
'I see that Miss Coyne hasn't come down to supper,' Jonathan said.
'No,' Yank said. 'She's eating in her room. Not feeling too well.'
'A girl of delicate sensitivities.'
'I reckon so.'
It was a classically English meal: meat boiled until it was stringy, waterlogged potatoes, and the ubiquitous peas and carrots, tasteless and mushy. Directly the edge of his hunger was dulled, Jonathan pushed his plate away.
Although he had been eating with great appetite, Yank imitated Jonathan's gesture. 'This English chow's a crime, isn't it?' he said. 'Give me hamburgers and French fries any old time.'
'Who are all these young men?' Jonathan asked.
'Guards, mostly,' Yank said. 'Shall I order some Java?'
'Please. All these guards for me? I'm flattered.'
'No, they don't work here. They work...' He was visibly uncomfortable. '...up the road.'
'At the church?'
Yank shook his head. 'No-o. We have another establishment. Back in the fields.'
'What kind of establishment?'
'Ah! I think I caught the waiter's eye.' Yank held his coffee cup in the air and pointed to it. The Portuguese waiter was at first confused, then with a dawn of understanding, he help up a cup from an empty table and pointed to it, raising his eyebrows high in question. Yank nodded and mouthed the word: C-o-f-f-e-e, with exaggerated lip movement.
When the tea arrived, Jonathan's curiosity made him ask, 'This other establishment you mentioned. What goes on there?'
Yank's discomfort returned. 'Oh. It's nothing. Say!' He changed the subject without subtlety. 'I really envy you, you know.'
'Oh? Always had a secret desire to be kidnapped?'
'No, not that. I guess I envy every American. Can't understand why you came to live among us limeys. If I ever get to the old forty-eight, you can bet your bottom dollar I'll hang in there. And I'm going to do it some day. I'm going to the States and get a ranch in Nebraska or somewhere and settle down.'
'That's just wonderful, Yank.'
'It's not just a dream, either. I'm going to do it. As soon as I get the loot together.'
