Jason watched as the cab drove along Hyde Park and turned into Park Lane. Two blocks ahead was Grosvenor Square. Already Jason could see a line of people waiting for admission in hopes of obtaining visas. For some reason, the London embassy receives more than twice as many such applications than any other in Western Europe.
“This will do,” he said, opening the taxi’s door and reaching for his roll-aboard.
The cabbie mumbled what might have been a thank-you before driving off.
Bag trailing behind, Jason walked beside the increasing line. Asians, Middle Easterners, some of undeterminable origins, but none conspicuously British. For some reason, it must be easier to enter the United States from the UK than from other countries. A few glared at him resentfully as he made his way to the guard shack at the front gate, where a US Marine sergeant in blue pants, khaki blouse, field scarf, and white cap stared straight ahead to where two corporals herded people through a metal detector before admitting them to a second, much shorter, line.
“Sir,” the sergeant said, barely moving his lips and his head not at all, “you will need to go to the back of the line to fill out a visa application.”
Jason wasn’t aware he had been in the man’s line of sight. He took out his passport and held it up. “Don’t need a visa, but I do need to see someone in the trade attaché’s section.”
This time the Marine swiveled his head slightly, taking in Jason’s disheveled and filthy appearance. “And just who in the trade section might that be?” he asked, amusement in his voice.
“Anyone above the rank of clerical help will do, for starters.”
A smile broke across the man’s face. “And just like that you expect me to call for some unknown person in this embassy to do exactly what?”
“Above your pay grade, Sergeant …” Jason made a show of reading the man’s name tag pinned over the left pocket of his blouse. “Sergeant Kiwoski. You put me in touch with someone in the trade section on the double or I promise you you’ve seen your last days in this cushy Marine Security Guard deployment. Fuck with me, Sergeant, and you’ll be on your way to the head shed at Eighth and I for reassignment to the sandbox before you have time to pack your sea bag. Understood?”
Perhaps it was Jason’s familiarity with Marine jargon (Eighth and I Streets being the location of US Marine headquarters) or maybe it was his tone, which had all the softness of one or more of Kiwoski’s former drill instructors. Possibly it was the man in the shabby outfit’s eyes, hard and cold as glacial ice. For whatever reason, Kiwoski picked up the phone at his elbow, spoke no more than half a dozen words, and said, “Someone will be here in the next three minutes.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Sure enough, barely ninety seconds had passed before a young man appeared. With emphasis on young. Despite the dark suit, club tie, and starched white shirt, the kid didn’t look old enough to have graduated from high school.
He extended his right hand. “Wandsworth, George Wandsworth.”
When he saw how grubby Jason’s hand was he looked as though he might withdraw his own.
“Jason Peters.”
“Follow me, Mr. Peters.”
With brief stops at a metal detector and to examine Jason’s bag, Wandsworth led Jason to a bank of elevators. As a door silently slid open, he motioned Jason in, followed him, and punched an unnumbered button. The car began a steady descent. They exited into what could have been a corridor in any office building, except there were no windows to the outside.
At the third door on the left, Wandsworth stopped, indicating Jason should enter. He did. The room was small, furnished with a government-issue metal table and four uncomfortable-looking chairs. The place reminded Jason of the interrogation rooms he had seen on TV cop shows.
Wandsworth indicated the closest chair and slid into the one across the table. “OK, Mr. Peters, what can your government do for you today?”
It had taken Jason less than fifteen seconds to spot the two cameras partially concealed in the ceiling. “That, Mr. Wandsworth, depends on your duties here.”
Wandsworth put his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers. Somehow the gesture seemed feminine. “I’m not sure what you mean. As trade attaché, this office acts as a sort of chamber of commerce for the United States. If an English manufacturer, for example, is considering perhaps opening a plant in, say, Alabama, we do whatever we can to expedite the operation. That sort of thing.”
Jason was shaking his head. “Then, the answer to your question as to what you can do is to let me speak to the head of section.”
Wandsworth’s eyes narrowed. “You’re some kind of spook, aren’t you?”
“Second time since I got here someone’s asked me a question that’s none of their business. You got a pen and paper?”
The young man patted his jacket pockets, producing a small spiral notebook and a pen.
Jason tore out a blank page, briefly wrote on it, folded the page, and handed it across the table. “I suggest you give this to your chief of station without delay.”
Wandsworth was skeptical. “And then what?”
“Trust me, you’ll receive appropriate instructions.”
It took a full twenty minutes before the door to the little room opened. A man in his mid-forties stood with Jason’s note in his hand. He was average height and weight with hair seriously thinning on top. He was, in other words, totally unremarkable.
He carefully shut the door behind him before stepping next to Jason. “Mr. Peters, I’m Howard Cassidy.”
Jason rose and shook his hand. “Don’t tell me, let me guess: your friends call you Hopalong.”
A grin flickered and died. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“And stimulating trade is not your mission here.”
“Right again. Just like half the people in embassy trade attaché offices around the world. That’s why I’m familiar with Narcom. And that’s why it took me so long to verify your employment and check with Langley. They told me to give you whatever you wanted as long as it didn’t involve killing somebody.”
Jason wasn’t sure the restriction was a joke. “Nothing that serious. I just need to borrow a car for a couple of days.”
Hoppy was clearly relieved. “I think I can arrange that.” Then he frowned. “Our bean counters are going to want to know why you can’t use public transportation.”
“Just tell them security requires it.”
Not entirely untrue, since Jason’s picture by now had probably been circulated to every cop at every rail station and airport in the United Kingdom.
“Any particular flavor?”
“Mid-range or lower. British-made, preferably.”
“The ambassador’s private secretary just bought a nice used Vauxhall VX220.”
The mid-engine, targa-topped two-seater was tempting but Jason said, “Something a little less eye-catching.”
Besides, his experience with British sports cars — from the MG, Austin Healy, and Triumph to the last of the pre-Ford Jaguars — had been one of dependable undependability. The parts that regularly fell off of them were, at least, of the highest British quality.
“We, the embassy, own an old Morris Minor. Been around so long no one wants to part with it.”