Magic important, eh? More so perhaps than even Fionna anticipated, Elizabeth thought. But she didn't know why MI-5 was involved at all. All of the complaints Mr. Ringwall had told her about could have been the result of drug-induced hallucination. The problem seemed more like a matter for Interpol or a good therapist. Chances were that she'd never know who or why was sending down pressure from Higher Up.
"Hey, that's Fionna Kenmare," said her seatmate on the aisle, who was an American man about her age. He aimed a thumb at the picture and spoke to Elizabeth out of the corner of his mouth. "I thought I saw her get on the jet. Did you see her, with the makeup and the hair and all that? Cool, huh?"
He grinned at Elizabeth, who smiled weakly back. Should she confirm the star's presence, like any other fascinated passenger, or ought she to keep the information to herself? After all, this man might be part of the unknown threat.
"I don't know," Elizabeth said, affecting an innocent expression. "You see, it looked like her, but it could be anybody under that makeup."
The man brightened. "You mean, like Kiss? Wow, what if that's her double, and she's traveling incognito? Wouldn't that be something?"
"That'd be something, all right," Elizabeth said, and wished with all her heart that the Service had thought of it first. Draw attention away from the target, and give them something else to look at. But misdirection wouldn't fool a magical foe. Probably the attacks on Fionna Kenmare were part of a great big publicity stunt. That wouldn't wear well Upstairs, since they'd been forced into acting sub rosa, and committing a field agent plus the requisite monetary outlay. If it turned out to be a hoax, she, Elizabeth, would be the scapegoat because the office had to spend half its meager budget on a trip to America. She'd better not go too far on her new wardrobe. Having swallowed the obligatory camel, the department was likely to choke on a gnat, no matter how fashionable or appropriate.
She tried listening up the cantrip-formed link, to find out if anyone was meeting Green Fire in New Orleans. No luck. All she got was a kind of psychic static. Too much Cold Iron and too many people were in the way. She was lucky that the spell had fired up at all. Not three hours on assignment, and Elizabeth had already lost control of the situation. No more. The moment they landed in New Orleans, she was taking charge.
Chapter 4
As 9:00 P.M. Central Standard Time approached, the preliminaries of touchdown seemed to go on forever. Out of the constricted portholes, Elizabeth watched twilight advancing slowly across the flat, flat plains of the central United States. The chief flight attendant showed a lengthy video on the wild night life in New Orleans, followed by an information film on how to pass through Customs and Immigration into the United States. By the time the landing gear crunched and ground its way out of the belly of the plane, Elizabeth was wriggling in her seat with impatience. She forced her way out into the aisle as soon as she could, and hurried off the jet in the wake of tired business people and families pulling rolling suitcases.
The First Class passengers, Kenmare among them, were far ahead of her in the gateway. The VIP treatment began again at once. A jeeplike transport was waiting for the star and her entourage. With a roar and a honk, the car zipped into a U-turn and sped away down the tiled corridor of the terminal. Elizabeth ran along behind, but it swiftly outpaced her and vanished into the crowd. More bollixing. Wait until she got that London courier alone. She'd make sure he wished he'd never been late for anything in his life!
She didn't manage to catch up with the party until past Immigration, when Kenmare and the others were waiting for a limousine at the curb outside in the hot, sticky evening. The American courier must have missed her, too. She'd have to face the singer without her credentials.
"So it's you again," Kenmare said with high good humor as Elizabeth arrived at her side. "I'm sorry to be inhospitable, but it's been a long flight and I drank far too much. I'm too tired to socialize just now, lady dear. I'm glad to know such a perseverant fan as you, and I hope I'll see you at a concert some time." And with that she turned her back.
Frustrated, tired, and disheveled, Elizabeth stalked around her until she was face to face. She didn't know how prissy she sounded until the first words were out of her mouth.
"Miss Kenmare, I am Special Agent Elizabeth Mayfield. I have been assigned to you by the British government as your security escort for the duration of your tour through America. I believe you were told to expect me. I would appreciate it if you would stay within reach of me at all times. I have been informed you have been the victim of certain attacks. I can't protect you if you will not cooperate. You must understand that I speak with the full force of the British government."
Fionna Kenmare stared her squarely in the eye, while her whole body swayed slightly, as if that focused gaze was the only thing holding her steady. In an entirely different voice, devoid of the folksy Irish accent, she said, "God, you're the same shirty prig you were back at University, Elizabeth. Will you never get over being hall prefect?"
Elizabeth goggled. With the utmost self-control, she pulled her jaw back into its upright and locked position.
"Phoebe? Phoebe Kendale?" she hissed. "Is that you under that awful paint job?"
Suddenly, everything became clear. Elizabeth knew who it was Upstairs that had set the wheels in motion and put the pressure on from Whitehalclass="underline" Phoebe's daddy. Lord Kendale, one of the very great muckety-mucks in the Ministry of Defense, wouldn't hesitate to call in favors from companion services to protect his only daughter. Fionna Kenmare had a legitimate Irish passport, but Elizabeth was able to make a shrewd guess how she got it. Phoebe's mother was Irish. Under laws which had only recently been changed, Phoebe was entitled to apply to the Irish government as the immediate descendant of a citizen. She must have changed her name at the same time. It wasn't illegal, so long as she wasn't defrauding anyone. Her father must have been mortified that his child had thrown over her allegiance to the Queen while he was a trusted member of her very government. Fionna Kenmare was vocal in interview and song as favoring Irish independence. Lord Kendale would have insisted on that veil of secrecy that was drawn over Fionna Kenmare's past. No wonder the bio had read like something out of Girls' Own Adventure magazine. The reporters hadn't a clue.
Fionna/Phoebe looked at her in horror, realizing that she'd let her secret slip.
"Shh!" she said, clapping her hand over her mouth and whispering through her fingers. Her ridiculously made-up eyes were huge. "Secret identity. Come on, be a sport, Liz. Don't tell."
"I won't," Elizabeth whispered back, "but you do have to cooperate with me. I'm here to protect you."
"Protect away," Fionna/Phoebe said airily, fluttering both hands. The accent came flowing effortlessly back, and the consonants rolled together on her tongue. She had so ingrained herself with the Irish persona that not only didn't the accent slip when she was drunk, it became even more flowery. "I'll not stop you. In fact, I love a party. I love all mankind, all the world." She was three sheets to the wind, Elizabeth realized, and taking on more sail all the time. The bodyguard took a few steps forward to catch Fionna and hold her steady. She leaned back against him and caressed his cheek with a languid palm. "And Lloyd will look after me, won't you, looove?"
Lloyd Preston wrapped one arm around her lean waist. Elizabeth saw the possessive look on his face, and knew she had to get him on her side if she was expecting not to be locked out of dressing rooms and stage wings, accidentally on purpose. In all the wide angle photographs of Fionna, the dark-haired, thick-eyebrowed man had been an aggressive presence hovering at her shoulder or in the background.