‘Hello?’ Javed said as Cornish’s car disappeared into the distance. ‘Come in, number twenty-nine, your time is up.’
‘Huh?’ Holm flipped back to real life.
‘I was asking about Ben Western and SeaPak.’ Javed’s gaze drifted seawards. On the horizon one tiny smudge after another lay strung out in a line. Cargo ships awaiting clearance into Felixstowe. ‘What the hell can the murder of Western have to do with Taher?’
Holm moved towards their car. A breeze blew in off the sea, cold and damp. He’d neglected to put his jacket on when they arrived and now he felt chilled. ‘I have no idea.’
The event started at six, and as they struggled through the rush-hour crowds, Silva felt ridiculously overdressed in her black cocktail dress. In his smart suit, Sean looked like an actor about to step onto the red carpet.
‘The reception is at the National Gallery,’ Sean said as they emerged from the tube at Charing Cross and walked across Trafalgar Square. ‘It’s a private function.’
They climbed the steps to the gallery and joined a small queue. A man was checking tickets and guiding people in past heavy security. Two guards were frisking every guest and leading them through a metal detector for good measure.
‘You can’t be too careful these days,’ Sean said.
They strolled along a corridor and into a wing with restricted access. Another pair of suits, well muscled, a flash of a shoulder holster under one man’s jacket.
‘Howya doin’, Sean?’ one of the men said in a heavy American accent. He shook his head. ‘Them Patriots not doing so well, right?’
‘You got me there, Frank,’ Sean said as they walked past. ‘Maybe next season.’
‘You didn’t tell me this was work.’ Silva understood now: she was eye candy for Sean at some embassy function. ‘And to be honest I wouldn’t have come if you had.’
‘There you go, then. But I promise the experience will be worth it. Come on.’ Sean took her arm and guided her across the room to where a rotund man was selecting nibbles from a table. He was eyeing a cocktail sausage with suspicion as they approached.
‘Sean.’ The man popped the sausage in his mouth and barely chewed before swallowing. Like the security detail he was American. He wore an expensive dark suit, but over his large frame the tailoring was wasted. Heavy jowls sagged with flesh and his neck was almost non-existent, while a bushy crop of curly brown hair added to the impression of size. ‘Hell, where are my manners? And in front of a beautiful woman too. Who’s your delightful partner, young man?’
‘Mr Deputy Ambassador,’ Sean said. ‘This is my friend Rebecca.’
‘Friend?’ The deputy ambassador shook his head and extended his hand. ‘Well, if you say so.’
‘Hello, Mr Ambassador,’ Rebecca said, feeling awkward.
‘It’s Greg. Greg Mavers. And I’m not the ambassador quite yet.’ Mavers gave a wink to Sean. ‘Now tell me, young lady, just what is it you do?’
‘She’s ex-military, sir,’ Sean said. ‘Served in Afghanistan.’
‘A privilege, Rebecca,’ Mavers said. ‘You know, the way things have turned out, the vets just don’t get the appreciation they deserve.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Silva said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Rebecca was hard done by, sir,’ Sean said. ‘Like a lot of soldiers were.’
‘Beats me why anyone joins the army in the first place. The problem is…’ Mavers shook his head and his voice trailed off as a smattering of applause echoed off the ceiling. ‘Damn. My apologies, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my cue.’
He moved away through the crowd towards a small stage with a lectern. Silva craned her neck to see over the people in front of her. The crowd had surged forward like kids at a tweeny-pop gig, but she still couldn’t understand what the fuss was about. Then there was another round of applause as Mavers stepped up to the lectern.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ Mavers’s voice boomed out, the PA system totally redundant. ‘The new American Room is a fitting symbol of the pan-Atlantic relationship. A gallery filled with portraits of notable Americans right here on British soil. I wonder if Thomas Paine could have envisaged such a thing when he set sail two and a half centuries ago.’ Here Mavers paused for a burst of laughter. ‘Anyway, without further ado, I’m pleased to introduce the benefactor who made the new gallery possible.’ Mavers swung an arm out to one side where a tall brunette with striking features and iceberg-blue eyes stood waiting. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Karen Hope.’
Silva clutched at Sean, her legs almost buckling with the shock. Hope climbed the steps to the lectern and the room erupted in cheers and whoops. Silva felt Sean’s hand take hers in a tight grip. If he noticed her reaction he appeared to think it was from excitement.
‘Amazing, huh?’ he said. ‘I told you we’d be witnessing history. This is something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Hope waved the audience quiet, but in the manner of an experienced politician she continued to milk the applause, not speaking until the clapping had faded to almost nothing. ‘I’m honoured to be here today…’
The speech descended into a fuzz of noise. The woman’s lips moved, mouthing words that made no sound. Sean stood next to Silva, staring in admiration. Nearly everyone was as beguiled as he was, but by the end of the speech, Silva felt physically sick. She excused herself, pushed through the throng and went to
