"Not really. I'm pleased that Skyliner has a future. So are a lot of my constituents not to mention the shareholders… people like David who must have stood to lose a fortune. He is a major investor in Aero UK, isn't he? And he's a subcontractor in a dozen ways…" She expelled a relieved-sounding breath.
"A damned close-run thing, as someone else once said in Brussels."
"Quite." Archly, he added: "Does this signal a change of heart. You'll go easy on poor Bryan Coulthard in future?"
"I was always keen for Skyliner to succeed, Ben. It was the cost that was close to being obscene, nothing else. Not even the dreams of bureaucrats, however wet."
He smiled a moment later.
"A hit. But you'll see it's a wonderful aircraft. More luxurious than this train, business-class level of comfort for every passenger, first-class sleeping compartments… and the food's out of this world!"
"I'm not in the market for one of my own," she murmured.
He seemed suddenly irritated by her mockery, and snapped:
"Perhaps you should try giving it a rest, Marian! Let people who care have a say for a change." His dark complexion was suffused with irritation. It was as if his role discomfited him, attached him to a stubborn, recalcitrant child he detested.
"Ben, I didn't know you cared—"
"Marian, yours isn't the only commitment in town." Then, with an effort: "Sorry… But it is important for Skyliner to succeed. The whole future of European plane making was at stake, you know."
"I know. Apart from millions, even billions government fundings, private fortunes."
His eyes narrowed momentarily and she was angry at her overconfidence.
Campbell only looked like a male model, she should not underestimate his intelligence. He was a highly attuned political animal.
Their glasses were topped up once more. Marian refused yet another tiny sandwich or sliver of toast and caviare. Around them, the noise of their companions was entirely convivial, the laughter hearty and uninhibited by party or personal antagonism. It was as if the scene had been arranged as a temptation. Why not join in, have fun, ignore the dark corners? It's all over and done with now why make a fuss?
If only it were that simple, she answered herself and the joviality.
"Did you know Michael Lloyd, Ben? Ever work with him at the
Commission?" It was asked carefully, almost gently, yet it startled him like blatant honesty might have done.
"Er yes. Couple of years back, when he first arrived. We were together in the Transport Commissioner's office. I — heard about his overdose." There was a slight emphasis upon the word, the shadowy mark left by an eraser. He shook his head.
"Great shame. Bright young man. Bit independent-minded, leftish where the Commission wasn't. Still, I'm sure he'd have gone far. Did you know him, Marian?"
"A little. Mutual acquaintances, interests. You know."
"Ah, I see. I thought you were closer than that."
"No…"
Campbell glanced at his watch, then along the aisle of the compartment.
She felt he seemed satisfied with the assiduity with which other Euro MPs and one or two Commission functionaries were soothing and smoothing, flattering and flannel ling
He murmured: "His current partner seems to have been at a loss to explain it I mean, it must have been a terrible shock." The embarrassment was almost instantly drained from his features by an effort of will. He leaned back.
"I heard she was in a terrible state, poor thing."
In her notebook, on a disk, they had been Marian's own words at a loss to explain it… There was no reason on earth why Campbell should have knowledge of the young woman, or have taken anything but the most cursory interest in Lloyd's death. Michael and he, she knew, had never liked each other. Campbell had either read, or been told of, the jottings from her PC. After the burglary.
"I expect she was. It's always so difficult to deal with that sort of death. Such a waste. Almost as if Michael was rejecting her. And she had no idea he had a heroin habit… Strange, that."
"I — er, I suppose so."
The lights of the Tunnel sped past. Her awareness of the train's bullet like velocity increased. It seemed to be rushing her headlong towards risk.
"And my girl is safe?" Giles Pyott asked from his position at the window, from where he had already announced the renewed presence of the surveillance on Aubrey's flat.
Aubrey wanted to be open with Pyott. Instead, his busy fears closed him like a mussel's shell, separating him from his oldest friend. What was there, after all, to make David stop now? Marian had not told Giles of the burglary, and now he could not do so, either. David had proof of her certain knowledge. He should not have allowed her to travel to Brussels, not without taking many more precautions than merely a repeated Take care, be careful… "Yes, Giles. Public places, in constant company I'm sure," he answered sweetly, almost with conviction.
Giles, for the stilling of his own fears and perhaps out of a pride in his daughter's competence, seemed to accept his reassurance.
"Very well. But Gant? He is our agent, but can he do anything?"
"I hope so."
Gant had left unseen at dawn. A light aircraft had been hired, a flight plan to Bordeaux filed. He had papers other than his own. Even so, it did not seem adequate, to pit one man against Fraser, French security, David. With no certainty that Strickland, the saboteur, was sitting calmly in the Dordogne, just waiting for Mitchell to collect him like a parcel.
"Very well, then," Giles announced.
"Us? What do we do?" The old man who turned from the window with grave impatience was as erect as ever he had been as a serving soldier.
This," Aubrey sighed, gesturing at the littered desk behind which he was seated, wedged into one corner of the flat's drawing room. He had, he realised, been sitting there, almost without stirring, since six-thirty.
"I think we might make a start here."
Pyott picked up the file and wandered nearer to the window, at once an old man again as he slipped on his reading glasses.
After Gant had left, Aubrey had attempted to sleep, but the effort had been futile.
Instead, he had risen, dressed and sat at his desk as the early-morning joggers had passed beneath the windows and pigeons and crows had busily inspected the grass beyond the railings of Regent's Park. He had heard mockery in the bird calls, out of which had arisen an anger at his age, his lack of office. And a fear that he had sent Gant on a mission that might prove fatal… and failed to prevent Marian from sailing off towards the reefs and disaster in her characteristic mood of utter selfconfidence and moral invulnerability. He had written the bitter thoughts in his diary, something he rarely did in recent, retired years. The exercise had not helped to calm or reassure.
"We shan't have much time, Kenneth Johnny Laxton's flying to Brussels today.
Marian told me. The European Commissioner for Urban Development has to show his face at the various bashes Tig's attending. Stands to reason." The last phrase was delivered with the snort of a soldier contemptuous of civilians and their petty corruptions.
"Yes I anticipated that. I've invited him to lunch with us at the Club, as a consequence. I have a brief board meeting one of David's companies, I have to confess," he added with a kind of soiled shame.
"But I shall be there before one."
"Fine. I'll be waiting for the two of you." He smiled in a hard, anticipatory expression.
"I don't want to pour cold water, Kenneth but are we likely to get anything from Johnny Laxton? The man was so stupid as a Cabinet minister I have to wonder whether he knows anything at all that would be useful to us."
Aubrey laughed, the sharp barking noise of a fox.