The Loo Sanction

'Yes. You could.'

'Then I'd be able to call on Vanessa first thing in the morning.'

'Shall I come help you pack?'

'Do you think that's wise?'

'No.'

'Come help me pack.'

It was early dawn when he loaded his suitcase into the yellow Lotus, pressing the boot closed so as not to disturb the misty silence. His hands came up wet from the coating of dew that smoked the car. A bird sounded a tentative note, as though seeking avian support for his suspicion that this grudging gray might be morning. No confirmation was forthcoming. There was no sky.

'Yes,' he muttered to himself, 'but what about the early worm?'

The interior of the car was coldly humid, and it smelled new. He turned on the wipers to clear the windscreen of condensation, then he looked up toward the window of her room before pressing the stiff gearbox into reverse and easing back over the crunching gravel.

He had untangled himself from her carefully and eased out of bed so as not to disturb her. Her position had not changed when he returned from the bathroom, dressed and shaven. He had looked up at her with a wince when the locks of his suitcase snapped too loudly, but she didn't move. As he eased the door open, she said in a voice so clear he knew she had been awake for some time.

'Keep well.'

'You too, Maggie.'

Putney

The Lotus was tight and the roads were clear that early in the morning, so Jonathan pulled into the parking area of the Baker Street Hotel far too early to telephone Vanessa, who was a constitutionally nocturnal animal. He bought a few newspapers in the lobby and ordered breakfast sent up to his penthouse flat, and an hour later he was sitting before an untidy tray, newspapers littered around him. Time passed torpidly, and he found himself staring through the page of print, his mind on the unknown persona of Maximilian Strange. With sudden decision, he rose and located Sir Wilfred Pyles's number in his rotary file. After a sequence of guardian secretaries at the U.K. Cultural Commission, Sir Wilfred's hearty and gruffly civil voice said, 'Jon! How good of you to call so early in the morning.'

'Yes, I'm sorry about that.'

'Quite all right. Coincidentally, I just opened a letter from that academic wallah—whatshisname, the Welshman?'

'fforbes-Ffitch?'

'That's the one. Seems he has a plot to send you off to Sweden on some kind of lecture series. Asked me to use my good offices to persuade you to go.'

'He doesn't give up easily.'

'Hm-m. National trait of the Welsh. They call it laudable determination; others see it as obtuse bull- headedness. Still, one becomes used to it. Teachers and baritones constitute the major exports of Wales, and one can't blame them for trying to be rid of both. But look here, if you are determined to scatter gems of insight on the saline soil of the Vikings, you can count on the commission's support.'

'That's not what I called you about.'

'Ah-ha.'

'I need a bit of information.'

'If it's within my power.'

'How are your contacts at MI-5?'

'Oh.' There was a prolonged pause at the other end of the line. 'That kind of information, is it? As I told you, I've been on the beach for several years.'

'But surely your contacts haven't dried up.'

'Oh, I suppose I still have some of that influence that accompanies the loss of power. But before we go further, Jon... you're not up to any nastiness, are you?'

'Fred!'

'Hm-m. I warn you, Jon—'

'Just a background check—maybe with an Interpol input.'

'I see.' Sir Wilfred was capable of subarctic tones.

'I want you to run down a name for me. Will you do it?'

'You are absolutely sure you're not engaged in anything that will bring discomfort to the government.'

'I could mention times when we were working together and you were strung out.'

'Please spare me. All right. The name?'

'Maximilian Strange. Any bells?'

'A faint tinkle. But it's been years since I've been involved in all that. Very well. I'll call you later this afternoon.'

'I'd better call you. I can't be sure of my schedule.'

'I'll need a little time. About five?'

'About five.'

'Now I have your word, haven't I, that you're not up to anything detrimental to our side? Because if you are, Jon, I shall be actively against you.'

'Don't worry. I'm working for the White Hats. And if anything were to blow, you could rely on 'maximum deniability.' '

Sir Wilfred laughed. They had always made fun of the advertising agency argot that riddled CII communications.

'If any questions come up, Fred, just pass the buck to me.'

'Precisely what I had intended to do, old man.'

'You're a good person.'

'I've always felt that. Ciao, Jon.'

'Tchuss.'

After waiting another long half hour, Jonathan dialed Vanessa Dyke's number. He arranged to drop over for a cup of tea and a chat. She seemed a little reluctant to meet him, but their friendship of years turned the trick. After he hung up, he spent a few minutes looking out his window over Regent's Park, sorting himself out. Two things had bothered him about the conversation with Van. Her speech had been blurred, as though she had been drinking. And the first question she had asked was: 'Are you all right, Jon?'

He had never visited Vanessa in London, and the minute he stepped from the Underground station, he felt that this part of Putney was an odd setting for her vivacious, pungent personality. The high street was typical of the urban concentrations south of the river, its modest Victorian charm scabbed over by false fronts of enameled aluminum and glass brick; short rows of derelict town houses stared blind through uncurtained and broken windows, awaiting destruction and replacement by shopping centers; the visual richness of decay was diluted here and there by the mute cube of a modern bank; and there were several cheap cafes featuring yawning waitresses and permanent table decorations of crumbs and spills.

Clouds and smoke hung in umber compound close above the housetops, and a dirty drizzle made the pavements oily. Every woman pushed a pram containing a shopping bag, a laundry bag, and, presumably, a baby; and every man shuffled along with his head down.

Monserrat Street was a double row of shabby brick row houses, built with a certain architectural nostalgia for Victorian comfort and permanence, but with the cheaper materials and sloppier craftsmanship of the 1920s. The shallow gardens were tarnished and scruffy, the occasional autumn flower dulled by soot, and all looking as though they were maintained by the aged and the indifferent. An abnormal number of houses were vacant and placarded for sale, an indication that West Indians were approaching the neighborhood.