‘How are you this morning?’ Carl asked. It didn’t sound as though he cared much about the answer.
‘Fine thanks,’ Kite replied. ‘I managed to move the lamp.’
‘We know.’ Carl did not congratulate him for this nor remark on the take quality from the attic. Perhaps Strawson or Peele wanted to get there first. Instead he showed Kite into a living room where both men were waiting for him in rattan chairs, mugs of coffee in front of them. There was something startling about seeing them together in this new environment. Peele was wearing dark blue trousers, espadrilles and a Lacoste shirt. He looked tanned and slightly unkempt, younger than he had seemed in Hampstead just a few days earlier. His hair was already turning blond in the summer sun. Strawson was more formally dressed in a pale linen suit, like a character in a Graham Greene novel behaving disreputedly in the tropics.
‘There he is!’ said Peele, standing up and greeting Kite with a beaming smile. ‘The prodigal son. How are we this morning?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Kite felt suddenly ill-at-ease. ‘Good to be here.’
Strawson did not move. Kite had the impression he was in a sour mood. There had been moments during his training in London when the American had snapped at Kite and been impatient with his progress. At the time Peele had told him not to worry: Strawson was just overworked, concerned that the operation might not go ahead because of the death of the ayatollah. Kite mustn’t take it personally. It was just the way things were.
‘Late night?’ Strawson asked pointedly.
Kite cursed himself for not taking a shower or at least brushing his teeth before coming to the meeting.
‘Yeah. Unfortunately. Xavier kept me up and I couldn’t—’
‘Save it. You sure you’re up to this, Lachlan?’
Kite was stung by the question.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Strawson must have seen him smoking the joints with Xavier. Stupidly he added: ‘Look, I’m not into drugs.’
‘Who said anything about drugs?’
‘I just assumed—’
‘Smell coming from your poolhouse last night, you could have been at Woodstock.’
‘Mike, he’s fine,’ Peele interjected.
‘What have I done wrong?’ Kite was tired and lost his cool. It was pathetic of Strawson to be so uptight over a late night and a bit of mild Moroccan black. ‘I’m here on time, aren’t I?’
‘You look like shit. You smell like shit.’
‘I’m not being paid. I’m doing this as a volunteer. For my country.’
‘Don’t pull that one. We offered you money, you turned it down.’
Peele stepped between them.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, adopting a jovial, conciliatory tone. ‘Let’s try this again. We’re all off on the wrong foot. Mike, it was the first night of Lockie’s holiday. Our boy has to behave in character in front of Xavier. If that means smoking the odd joint and drinking a beer or six, so be it. He could hardly go to bed on the first night of his holiday with a mug of Horlicks.’
‘Fine,’ Strawson conceded. ‘But I’m telling you, kid. Stay off the hashish or whatever it was your friend was smoking last night. You need to keep your wits about you. That stuff fries your brain. This isn’t schoolboy fun we’re engaged on here. The stakes are very real for us, for thousands of people who might die because of this man’s activities. You need to stay sharp.’
‘Some interesting information emerged in the poolhouse last night,’ Kite replied. He didn’t need Strawson to emphasise the importance of the operation; it had been drummed into him a thousand times. ‘You want to hear it?’
The American looked surprised that Kite wasn’t backing down. ‘Sure. Tell us then,’ he said. ‘We’ll decide whether it’s interesting or not.’
Carl went into the kitchen to fetch a pot of coffee. Kite was thirsty. He reminded Strawson that he had done exactly what was expected of him and had moved the lamp almost as soon as he had reached the villa.
‘Is it working?’ he asked, when Strawson didn’t respond.
‘Oh, it’s working all right,’ Peele smirked. He leaned back on the sofa as Carl returned with a full cafetière. ‘Kept poor Hana up all night—’
‘Enough,’ said Strawson, who was nevertheless struggling to suppress a smile of his own. Kite was relieved by the change in atmosphere. Perhaps the whole thing had been a good-cop-bad-cop routine designed to keep him on his toes. ‘You don’t have a lot of time, kid. Give us your first impressions.’
‘Can I have a cup of coffee first?’ Kite asked.
Carl duly poured one.
‘My first impression is that Luc is doing some kind of business with Eskandarian that may be illegal. Xavier was hinting that sanctions were being breached. Do you know anything about that?’
Peele and Strawson looked at one another as if they did indeed know all about it, but weren’t going to share that knowledge with Kite or Carl.
‘Keep going,’ said Strawson.
‘That’s all I know. Just something Xav said down by the pool. Like he knew but didn’t approve of it. It might just be my imagination, but he’s been acting weirdly ever since we arrived. Drinking more than normal, stockpiling booze.’
‘OK,’ said Peele in a vague, non-committal way that suggested he was neither surprised by this nor particularly interested in Xavier’s behaviour.
‘What about the girlfriend?’ Strawson asked.
For a moment Kite thought Strawson was referring to Martha, then realised his mistake.
‘Hana? She’s his mistress. Told me they met last year in Paris.’
‘When she was – what? Twelve?’ Peele asked with a grin.
‘Her family are originally from Vietnam.’ Kite was suddenly hungry again and asked for bacon with the coffee. Strawson told him there wasn’t time. ‘She’s lived in France since the late seventies. I sat next to her at dinner, but she was mostly talking to Xavier.’
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Martha and Jacqui.’
Kite was wary of questions about Martha. He didn’t want BOX picking up on the strength of his feelings for her.
‘Age?’
‘Who, Hana? No idea. Sorry.’
‘Surname?’
Kite shook his head.
‘Can you get it from her passport?’ Peele asked.
Kite looked at Strawson to assess the level of
