'Yeah. You're about the only person from the old New York bunch who would understand that. The little row house, the antimacassars, the mauve hydrangeas—all pretty far from the image I used to cut.'
'True. Even the other evening at Tomlinson's you were still playing it for superbutch.'
'I know it's silly. I just feel impelled to be the first to say it. You know what I mean?'
'I know.
'What?'
'I know!'
'Still. This is the real me. Little lady peeking through lace curtains. Cup of tea in hand. Brilliant statement taking form on my typewriter. Gas fire hissing in hearth. Christ, I'll be glad when I get so old I'm never horny. Being on the hunt makes you act such a fool.' She came in with a small pot under a cozy and two Spode cups, and pulled her chair up close to his and poured. 'I used to fear the thought of becoming an ugly old woman. But now that I'm there, I can tell you this: It beats hell out of being an ugly young girl.'
Jonathan raised his cup. 'Cheers.'
'Cheers, Jon.'
They drank in silence as the rain stiffened against the window.
'Grace,' she said at last.
'Madam?'
'The person who can get you into The Cloisters. A really beautiful black woman who owns a club in Chelsea. She's very close to Strange.'
'Her name is Grace?'
'Yes. Amazing Grace. Kind of a stage name, I suppose. A nom de guerre. Her club is superposh with expensive drinks and cute little black hookers with tiny waists and fine wide asses. But she's the real attraction herself.'
'Beautiful?'
'Oh Christ yes!'
'Amazing Grace. Great name.'
'Great chick. Her place is called the Cellar d'Or. It doesn't open until midnight.'
Jonathan finished his tea and put down the cup. 'I better get a lot of sleep before I go over there. It may be a long night.'
Vanessa walked him to the door. 'Listen, old friend and aging stud, you'll take real care of yourself, won't you?'
'I will. Now, let's think about you. Is there somewhere you could go for a few days? Somewhere well away from here?'
'I see your point. There's a woman I know in Devon. She writes mysteries.'
'...and she lives in a cottage, keeps a Siamese cat, and drinks red wine.'
Her eyebrows lifted.
'No, I don't know her, Van. It's just that people love to play out their stereotypes.'
'Even you?'
'Probably. But it's hard to recognize. I'm a typical example of a species of which there is only one living specimen.'
'Blowhard bastard.'
'Right family, but what's the genus?'
'Wiseass?'
'I didn't know you were up on animal taxonomy. But seriously, Van. You will get out of town, won't you?'
'Yes, I will.'
'This afternoon?'
'I have a little work to do. I'll get through it as soon as I can.'
'Make sure you do.'
She smiled. 'For a cold-blooded bastard, you're not a bad guy. Come, give us a big hug.'
They embraced firmly.
Halfway down the walk, he stopped to smell the wet hydrangeas again. 'I've got a problem,' he told Vanessa who was leaning against the bright green door, the Gauloise dangling from her lips. 'I can't remember what bathing caps smell like.'
'Like hydrangeas,' Van said.
Back in the gaudy Baker Street flat, he stretched full length on the bed he and Maggie had used a few days before. Beyond the windows, a cold wet evening had already descended, and he lay in the growing gloom, alone and unmoving, putting himself together for whatever lay ahead at the Cellar d'Or.
Amazing Grace. Outlandish name, but somehow consonant with this whole bizarre business. This was not at all like his sanction experiences with CII. Those had been simple mechanical affairs. He had taken an assignment only when he really needed the money, and had gone to Berne or Montreal or Rome, met a Search agent who had already done all the background work, and received the complete tout on the target: his habits, the layout of his home or office, his daily routine. And after working it out, he had walked in, performed the sanction, and walked away. They were never real people; only faceless beings, most of them examples of the humanoid fungus that populates the world of espionage—scabs and pus pots the world was better rid of.
And there had been very little personal danger for him. He traveled freely under his professional role of art historian. He had no motive, no personal relation to the target. He didn't even have fingerprints. CII had seen to that. When he became a sanction active, his fingerprints disappeared from all government, police, and army files.
But this Loo business was different. He hated this job, and he was afraid of it. He had quit working for Search and Sanction because his nerves had become frayed, and because his tolerance for working with well-meaning patriotic monsters had worn thin. And now he was older, and the task was more complicated. And there was Maggie to look after. The ingredients of disaster.
Shit!
But they had him. Loo and that damned vicar had him against the wall. And he wasn't going to prison for murder, even if it meant killing a dozen Maximilian Stranges.
He ran a shallow meditation unit and got some rest that way, slightly under the surface of the still pond he projected on the back of his eyelids.
He snapped out of it. It was time to call Sir Wilfred Pyles.
'Don't speak,' Sir Wilfred said directly they were connected. 'Fifteen minutes. This number.' He gave Jonathan a number, then hung up.
During the fifteen minutes before he dialed, Jonathan sat hunched over the instrument, realizing that something had tumbled. Sir Wilfred obviously couldn't use his own phone for fear of a tap and he had doubtless moved to a public phone to await the call.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. 'Jon?'
'Yes.'
'I assume you have the picture?'
'Yes.'
'Rather like old times, eh?'
'I'm afraid so. I take it something tumbled.'
'Indeed it did! You're into something very hot, Jon. I rang up an old chum in MI-5 and asked him to run a little check for me. They often do it for old boys who want to sort out a business acquaintance, or a call girl. He said he'd be delighted to. It seemed a piece of cake. But when I mentioned the name of your Maximilian Strange, he froze up and asked me to hold the line. Next thing you know, one of those intense young spy wallahs was talking to me, demanding to know details. Well, I fobbed him off as best I could, but I'm sure he saw right through me.'
'So you weren't able to find out anything.'
'Well, nothing directly. But their reactions speak volumes. If that constitutionally lethargic lot in MI-5 were stirred to action by the mere mention of your fellow's name, he must be top drawer. You haven't gotten to Bormann
