'What's his background?'
'As I told Vincent, there doesn't seem to be much written down about the League of Prometheus since the war. Sebastian and his members have been used to spin-doctoring any publicity that manages to leak out. When they can get away with it, of course. They don't like to be seen as obvious, so they put in a quiet word here and there. What it is to have friends in high places, eh? I collected a little material on him but never used any of it.'
'Why not?'
'I abandoned that avenue of enquiry after Wells put pressure on me.'
'Did you keep any documentation at all?'
'I saved some bits and pieces. I vaguely recall a couple of articles about some personal tragedy he or his family suffered. The files should still be in the attic – if Jane hasn't thrown them out.'
'Now, Harold, you know I wouldn't dare touch any of your papers,' said Jane.
'Could you have a look for me?' asked Bryant. 'I'd be particularly interested in shedding some light on his personal life. We can't know what he's thinking at the moment, but it might help us if we fill in his background. Especially as we seem to be in a period of radio silence. It's a lucky chance this boy found you.'
'Lucky perhaps,' agreed Masters, 'but not much to do with chance. The moment you start investigating London's private clubs and societies you come up against the League of Prometheus in one form or another. It's just that most people don't get very much further.'
The sudden loud trill of the telephone startled everyone. When Maggie answered it she was surprised not to hear Vince's voice but that of an unknown man asking her questions.
'Slow down,' she snapped, 'I can't understand a word you're saying.'
'I'm sorry, I've just had a bit of a fight with someone and I think it's making me speedy. I'm trying to find Vincent Reynolds.'
'This isn't Directory Enquiries. Who are you?'
'No, I just – look, I got a message to call Vince, but there's no answer from his flat and he left your number on my machine, and everything's very – hyper, if you know what I mean -'
'Are you a friend or foe?' asked Maggie sharply.
'Friend! Friend! If there's something wrong, I want to help him.'
'Perhaps you should start by explaining yourself more clearly,' said Maggie, lighting a herbal cigarette.
'I think he might be in trouble. You won't believe me…'
She exhaled a plume of smoke. 'If this is about the League of Prometheus we're way ahead of you,' she offered.
'Let me talk to Doctor Masters.'
'It's for you.' Maggie handed him the phone, miffed. Masters spoke quietly, with an exactitude and attention to detail that had always defeated Maggie. She strained impatiently, trying to hear both ends of the conversation.
Louie had alighted from a night bus at the Trafalgar Square central stop. He did not realise that he was standing no more than a thousand yards from Vince when he made his call. Masters was able to verify that the man who had broken into his flat had not been feeding him false information, although he had simply said 'National Gallery' before passing out.
'So he should be right around here somewhere.'
'That's right,' said Masters. 'Our last contact point for him was at the side entrance of the National, just around the corner from your call box.'
Considering London was a home to seven million people and covered six hundred and one square miles, the coincidence of looking up and catching sight of the back of Vince's head should have startled him. It didn't, of course, because it was precisely the kind of thing that occurred in the capital every day. But locating Vince proved easier than catching up with him, for once Louie spotted his friend darting along the walls of the buildings in Charing Cross Road, he realised that dozens of home-going clubbers clogged the pavement between them. Something in the Camberwell Carrot he had smoked must have been impure because his stomach was turning over. He tried to concentrate as he kept the retreating figure in his sights, but as his quarry rounded the corner ahead, the gap between them grew frustratingly wider.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
'IT'S NOT my fault,' said Pam, holding out her hands and rubbing the wrists. 'If you want me to stay tied up, it's your responsibility to make sure the knots work.'
'It's no use using pieces of film, they're not flexible enough.' Barwick threw the celluloid strips on the floor in disgust. He was tired of being everyone else's caretaker. If Pam escaped, he would doubtless be blamed and punished.
'He's the big mastermind, him upstairs, isn't he?' She pointed to the ceiling. 'He should take responsibility, not leave it all to you. The truth is obvious, he doesn't care what happens to anyone.' She spoke urgently, sure that someone would appear any minute to accuse her of having sent Xavier on a wild goose chase.
If Barwick had not been such a coward, he would have been able to admit how much he hated Sebastian, Caton-James and the rest. He had been thrust in their path for years, through school, through college, through family ties, and now through blood. He would never be free of them, any of them, ever.
'You don't understand,' he said miserably, 'nobody chooses to join the League, and nobody can ever leave it. Membership is by birth, and for life. That's what they tell you.'
Sometimes Barwick sat on the bench at the top of Primrose Hill and looked down across the sprawling city, and felt like a visitor from another planet. He had nothing in common with the people who walked the streets below, and wished he had. He was not quite good enough for the people of his own class. Caton-James and the rest thought him too slow, too lacking in style, too fat, too dull. But he would never be able to fit in anywhere else, no matter how hard he tried. Sometimes he thought of himself as a lift stuck between floors. He would always be an alien, awkwardly cemented into limiting social strata by his background. Pam wore her lower-middle class origins as proudly as a designer label, but in her case it fitted beautifully. She was beautiful.
'I don't want to escape and get you into trouble,' she was whispering to him, 'but let me make a phone call, just to a friend who can help Vince, that's all.' She threw him a pleading look. 'That's all.'
Her mobile phone was still in her handbag. If he took her to the alcove beneath the stairs, nobody would be able to hear her. Half of his colleagues were asleep in the big armchairs upstairs. Sebastian and the others had no reason to come down. 'All right,' he said finally, taking her hand. 'I'll be with you, but if you say one word about where you are, we're done for. Understand?'
She nodded thankfully.
'Follow me.'
Tucked safely in the shadows, Xavier Stevens watched and waited. Christ, what a night, he thought. The others were so panic-stricken about its events that they had lost all sense of its sport. Of course it was a serious matter, deadly serious, but Sebastian saw it simply as some kind of power-game to be played out, a way of scoring against his father. He saw right through Sebastian. Like all bullies, the man was a coward at heart. He always found someone else to do his dirty work.
Wells had done some dirty work tonight. He had not enjoyed killing the agent; it seemed unnecessary, but it was what Wells had wanted, and he was willing to pay. He smiled grimly. You could do anything in this city and get away with it, if you were familiar with the right routes.
Stevens moved forward and peered around the corner. Vince was still standing there by the shop window of Rymans, utterly immobilised. Why wasn't he phoning, asking his friends, taking action? Could it be that Wells had misjudged his stamina after all? He longed to step up to Vince and goad him into action, push him, shove him, stab at him, make him do something. Instead, he was forced to crouch and watch and wait while he arrived at his own independent conclusions. Come on, he urged him silently, you can do it, work it out. Stevens checked his watch. Not much time left now. Three more challenges and then the dawn. He wanted to be there when the fireworks began.