'Oh, go for the lecture. Condensed books are usually boring.'
She smiled. 'All right. Buddhism is like a lot of traditional religions in that, for a long time, virtually all of the ranking practitioners were men. Oh, there have always been nuns and women laity who walked the path as well as any man, but for a lot of folks even now, there is a gender bias. And in most traditional holy books — the Bible, the Koran, the Upanishads, and most Buddhist literature — when women are referred to at all, it is with a paternalistic and condescending tone, even while supposedly singing their praises: Women are the keepers of life, the bearers of children, the weaker, needs-to-be-protected-from-the-harsh-world sex. Blah, blah, blah. Most old-style religions see women more as property than as people. A man has a farm, goats, cattle, and a wife. Women have had the vote in this country for less than a hundred years. You still with me?'
'Flow on, I'm here.'
'Okay. So, the philosophies want to keep the girls barefoot and pregnant, tending the home fires while serious business is conducted by the boys. With few exceptions — various kinds of Goddess worship and Wicca and the like — until very recently, women were not really considered major players when it came to doctrine or practice, even in the more 'neutral' religions. There still aren't any Catholic priests who are women. In some of the Moslem countries, women still can't show their faces in public. It isn't as bad in Buddhism as some of the other religions, and great strides have been made in the last hundred years, but there is still a kind of unspoken belief among serious students that women aren't quite as good at it as men. Physicality discounted, women don't think the same way as men. Female chess players at the highest levels don't beat the male champions. Most men are better in spatial tests, in pure left-brain thinking, than women. Men — and some women — see this as reason that they should be in charge. Equality has been a long time coming, and in most places it still does not truly exist.'
Jay nodded. He knew this. And he could see where it was going, but he said, 'Still here.'
'In a lot of circles, if they think you're an old man, you get a lot more respect than if they think you're a young woman. Truth is truth, but a lot of people look to see who delivers it before they accept it. You know the old Hollywood joke about the producer and the writer? The writer sends in a script to the producer who is in a hurry for it. Weeks pass, the producer doesn't call back. Finally, the writer calls him. Says, 'Well, did you read the script?' 'Yeah, I read it.' 'So, what did you think?' The producer says, 'I dunno what I think. Nobody else has read it yet.' '
She shook her head. 'That's how it works in religion sometimes. If you have a choice between a seventy- year-old man and a twenty-something girl offering nuggets of wisdom, when push comes to shove, you pick the old guy. Old and wise are better than young and stupid.'
'That's dumb,' Jay said. 'If you can walk the walk as good as an old guy, it shouldn't matter. It's
She rewarded him with a big smile. 'I love you. Marry me,' she said.
He blinked. 'Huh?'
She laughed, a deep and melodious sound. 'We'll get back to that part of the Dharma later. How goes the monster hunt?'
He sighed. 'About to get really scary.'
'That's why I'm here. I think I should go with you.'
Stephens drove the Bentley along at a proper pace toward the computerworks. Goswell reclined in back, the scent of fresh mink oil hand rubbed into the leather a familiar and pleasing smell. Traffic was, as usual, awful, but Stephens was quite capable of dealing with anything London could throw at him. Goswell leaned back and enjoyed the ride.
A short while later, Stephens said, 'Milord. There is a telephone call for you. Sir Harold.'
'Yes, I'll take it.'
Stephens passed over a mobile phone. 'Hallo, Harry.'
'Hallo, Gossie. Out and about, are we?'
'In the car, yes. Off for a bit of an inspection tour of one of the facilities. Can't let the help get too complacent, can we?'
'Certainly not. Er… I say, Gossie… that is, hmm.'
'Something bothering you, Harry?'
'Well, yes. You had a conversation with a man by the name of, er… Pound-Sand recently? Regarding a matter of some delicacy of which we spoke at the club?'
'I do recall that, yes.'
'Er, well, it seems that Mr. Pound-Sand has… passed away.'
'Oh, dear.'
'Yes. Quite unexpectedly.'
'A sudden illness?'
'Very sudden, I'm afraid. I am given to understand that it happened even as he was attending to that very matter of delicacy. That, er, it was a more or less direct result of that very thing.'
'How unfortunate.'
'Isn't it just.'
'Well, these things happen.'
'Yes. Would you like for me to give Mr. Pound-Sand's associates a jingle? See if one of them might be interested in continuing the matter?'
Goswell thought about it for a second. 'That's decent of you, Harry, but perhaps we should wait a bit on that.'
'As you feel best, Gossie. I'm awfully sorry about this.'
'Tut, tut, not your fault at all, Harry. It's obvious I underestimated the difficulty of the problem, myself. Think no more about it.'
As Goswell handed the mobile back to Stephens, however, he thought about it. So, Mr. Pound-Sand was now Mr. Pushing-up-the-Daisies. Which meant that Peel was either lucky or good, or perhaps both. On the one hand, that gave Goswell a certain feeling of pride, that his man was adept enough to thwart an assassination by another professional. On the other hand, that also meant Peel would now be on his guard more than ever, and if he had been difficult to remove before, he would be doubly so now.
Hmm. That was certainly food for thought, wasn't it?
'We're very nearly there, milord.'
'What? Oh, yes. Quite.'
Well. One thing at a time. First he would be certain that Bascomb-Coombs was out of the loop. Then he would figure out a way to deal with the turncoat Peel.
'We got a break, Colonel,' Fernandez said.
Howard looked up from the stack of reports he was reading. They were in Michaels's temporary office, and the commander and his second were down the hall talking to one of the MI-6 higher-ups.
'How so?'
'Miz Cooper just came up with this.' He passed a hardcopy wax-laser drum photograph over.
Howard looked at the wazer image. 'Ruzhyo!'
'Yes, sir.' There was a long pause.
'All right, Sergeant, get off the dime. Where and when?'
'Sir.' He grinned. 'Yesterday the London police were called to an incident at a small bookstore near Piccadilly Circus. They found a body on the floor, shot. The dead man is one Henry Wyndham, a former MI-5 agent who ran a 'security service.' Cooper says that the local authorities suspect Wyndham was a high-priced and very discreet ice man for rich clients, but nobody has ever been able to pin him down. Turns out the bullet didn't kill him, he apparently croaked from a fast-acting poison. This picture was from the store's occult door cam, one of two men who left about the time patrons heard the shot. Here's the other man.'
Fernandez offered another picture.
'Anybody we know?'
