His book would not be some tawdry tell-all about the Scotland Yard detective’s famous exploits amongst the criminal classes; in actual fact, it was projected as a slim volume to be titled Inspector Congreve’s Single Malt Cookbook. Congreve envisioned the thing as a gentleman’s companion, something that would be right at home on the shelf below one’s first editions of H.R. Haggard or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Now, they’d abandoned the bar for Black’s cavernous smoking lounge. Their faces hidden in the shadows of two large leather wing chairs, the two men spoke of serious matters like love. A tall window, spattered with rain, rose above them and the dingy light filtering down from above was watery and gray. It was a perfectly miserable London afternoon in late November.
Ambrose was freshly aglow, a man in love; his companion Hawke was happy simply to be alive.
“Congratulations, Ambrose. I am extremely happy for you both.” Hawke raised his glass of Gosling’s rum.
“Cheers,” Congreve said, clinking it.
“One thing you must never forget. I may have said this before, but it bears repeating. Great marriages are made in heaven; but so, too, are thunder and lightning.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ambrose said, smiling. “I say, you don’t think I’m being impetuous, do you? I’ve known her less than two years after all.”
“Not at all. I think it’s high time you settled down. And Diana will be a brilliant match for you. You two will be very happy. I wonder, Constable, how do you envision the thing?”
“Well, I am mad about her and—”
“No, no. The marriage. How do you see it? If she says ‘yes,’I mean.”
“I suppose I haven’t really thought that much about it. A comfortable marriage, I’d say. Sturdy.”
“Good word, sturdy.”
“Yes. I imagine our marriage will be a sturdy little barque upon which to ride out the tumult. You know, the tides that sweep us along, and all that sort of thing.”
“Quite poetic for a flatfoot. Have you set a date yet?”
“Good Lord, no! As I say, I haven’t even officially asked her yet. Although I suppose I’ll get round to it one day.”
“Well, you—”
A somber porter in cutaway and striped trousers appeared out of nowhere and interrupted whatever it was that Hawke had on his mind. He leaned down toward Hawke in what Congreve imagined to be a conspiratorial fashion.
He whispered, “Sorry to disturb your lordship, but there’s a gentleman would like to have a word, sir.”
“Is he downstairs?”
“No, sir. He’d like you to give him a call, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“He said please give you this, sir.”
Hawke took the small envelope from the silver tray and extracted a stiff cream-colored card. He glanced briefly at it, with a silent nod to Congreve as he got to his feet. His expression had changed so quickly, it was as if someone had tapped him with a wand. His eyes, a second ago alight with warmth and humor, had instantly turned ice blue.
“Sorry, Constable, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I might be a considerable while. Perhaps I’ll ring you in the morning. Something’s come up, you see, and—”
“Don’t give it a thought, dear boy, I’ll just see myself out. Most enjoyable afternoon.”
Hawke turned back to the porter.
“I’ll use a private booth, please,” Hawke said and quickly strode off into the smoky shadows, porter in tow. Something caught Congreve’s eye and he turned to see the accidentally dropped card falling to the faded Persian carpet as Hawke disappeared from the room.
Congreve gazed at the spattered window for a moment, following the descent of a single raindrop, then rose and tossed off the balance of his whisky. He stared at the card face down on the floor for some long seconds. He and Alex were lifelong friends and they had few, if any, secrets between them. He bent and picked the thing up, pausing for a moment to give his conscience some operating room, and then opened the folded message.
On it was the single letter, C, written in green ink.
C was the name given to every chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes known as MI-6, since 1909. This was, as Ambrose well knew, because the Service’s original founder, Sir Mansfield Cumming, had a habit of scrawling a big green C on every SIS document he signed.
Ambrose Congreve certainly knew the implications of a summons from C. He sighed, audibly, and sank down into the soft womb of the nearest chair, still holding the card twixt thumb and forefinger. It was once more time, it seemed, to don the cloak and unsheathe the dagger. Knowing Hawke as he did, his happy fantasies of marriage and a quiet dog-and-stick life of a country scribe would most probably be put on hold.
Yes. Perhaps delayed indefinitely if, as he imagined, Hawke was soon to journey back into the heart of darkness.
“So it begins,” the Scotland Yard man said, the merest trace of an anticipatory smile crossing his lips.
10
WEST TEXAS
T he big red, white, and blue painted trailer rig was parked on the shoulder at the crest of the hill. Just sitting there. Big red baseball bat on the sides and rear doors. The words Yankee Slugger in blue letters circling the bat. Homer Prudhomme slowed the cruiser, approaching the sixteen-wheeler from the rear. Franklin looked over at him. He was still a little wet behind the ears but he was coming along pretty good for a rookie.
“Okay, we got him,” the sheriff said. “Tuck in there behind him, son. Keep your brights on. He’s not likely to bolt on you again. Some hophead with a sense of humor most likely. Pay attention to what you’re doing, however. These road warriors can get overexcited.”
“Yessir.”
“Go on now, git.”
“Sheriff?” June said on the radio. Homer had opened the door but he still had one hand clenched around the steering wheel.
“Hold the phone a second, June—Homer, go have a word with that gentleman. Inform him we don’t speed here in Mesa County. Anything over a hundred entitles you to free bed and breakfast. Write him up and we’ll take him on in.”
Prudhomme climbed out from behind the wheel and disappeared into the dust cloud still rising around the trailer. Had his hand on his right hip. Franklin had to smile. He might not be a lawman yet, but he had the walk, by God, down.
“Go ahead, June. I’m sorry.”
“What I was saying was, I think we maybe caught a break here with the North boy, Sheriff. The boyfriend says he saw somebody. There was a man at the candy counter. Hollis thought he was looking at Charlotte funny. Before the show.”
“Hollis get a good look at him?”
“The unsub?”
Franklin looked out his window a second, eyes searching the blue-white mesquite flats, and then said, “Yeah, June, the unsub if that’s what we’re calling ’em on the TV these days. Hollis get a good look at him? This unknown subject.”
“Says he did.”
“Caucasian?”
“No profiling,” June said.
“June!”
“No, sir. Latino.”
