He rode on. He was being brilliant again.
"What precise conspiracy Justin has dreamed up — and where we come into it, we in the High Commission — whether we're in league with the Freemasons, or the Jesuits, or the Ku Klux Klan, or the World Bank — I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. What I can tell you is, he's out there. He's already made some serious insinuations, he's still very plausible, very personable — when wasn't he? — and it's perfectly possible that tomorrow or in three months' time he'll head this way." He hardened again. "In which case, you all — collectively and individually — are under instruction, please — this is not a request, I'm afraid, Ghita, it's a straight order-whatever your personal feelings toward Justin may be — and believe me, I'm no different, he's a sweet, kind, generous chap, we all know that-whatever time of night or day it is — to inform me. Or Porter when he's back. Or — " a glance at him — "Mike Mildren." He had nearly said Mildred. "Or if it's nighttime the High Commission's duty officer immediately. Before the press or the police or anybody else gets to him — tell us."
Ghita's eyes, covertly observed, seemed darker and more languorous than ever, Donohue's sicklier. Scruffy Sheila's were as hard as diamonds and as unblinking. "For ease of reference — and for security reasons — London has given Justin the code name of Dutchman. As in Flying Dutchman. If by any chance — it's a long shot, but we're speaking of a deeply disturbed man with unlimited money at his disposal — if by any chance he crosses your path-directly, indirectly, hearsay, whatever — or has done so already — then for his sake as well as ours, pick up the phone, wherever you are, and say, "It's about the Dutchman, the Dutchman is doing this or that, I've got a letter from the Dutchman, he's just phoned or faxed or emailed me, he's sitting here in front of me in my armchair." Are we all completely clear on that one? Questions. Yes, Barney?"
"You said "serious insinuations." Who to? Insinuating what?"
It was the dangerous area. Woodrow had discussed it at length with Pellegrin on Porter Coleridge's encrypted telephone. "There seems to be very little pattern to it. He's obsessed with pharmaceutical stuff. As far as we can fathom, he's convinced himself that the manufacturers of a particular drug — and the inventors — were responsible for Tessa's murder."
"He thinks she didn't get her throat cut? He saw her body!" Barney again, disgusted.
"I'm afraid the drug dates back to her unhappy spell in the hospital here. It killed her child. That was the first shot fired by the conspirators. Tessa complained to the manufacturers, so the manufacturers killed her too."
"Is he dangerous?" Donohue's Sheila is asking the question, presumably to demonstrate to all present that she possesses no superior knowledge.
"He could be dangerous. That's the wisdom from London. His primary target is the pharmaceutical company that manufactured the poison. After that, it's the scientists who designed it. Then there'll be the people who administered it, which means in this case the company here in Nairobi that imports it, which in turn means House of ThreeBees, so we may have to warn them." From Donohue, not a flicker. "And do let me repeat that we are dealing with a seemingly rational and composed British diplomat. Don't expect some loony with ash in his hair and yellow cross-garters, frothing at the mouth. Outwardly, he's the chap we all remember and love. Smooth, well dressed, good-looking and frightfully polite. Until he starts screaming at you about the world-class conspiracy that killed his child and his wife." A break. A personal note — God, what wells the man has! "It's tragic. It's worse than tragic. I think all of us who were close to him must feel that. But that's precisely why I have to beat the drum. No sentiment, please. If the Dutchman comes your way, we have to know immediately. Right, guys? Thanks. Other business while we're all here? Yes, Ghita."
* * *
If Woodrow was having a hard time deciphering Ghita's emotions, he was for once closer than he imagined to her state of mind. She was getting to her feet while everyone else, including Woodrow, was sitting. That much she knew. And she was getting up in order to be seen. But mostly she was getting up because she had never in her life listened to such a pack of wicked lies, and because her impulse was quite literally not to take them sitting down. So here she was standing: in protest, in outrage, in preparation for branding Woodrow a liar to his face; and because in her short, bewildering life till now she had never met better people than Tessa, Arnold and Justin.
That much Ghita was aware of. But when she peered across the room — over the stern heads of the Defense Attache and the Commercial Attache and Mildren the High Commissioner's private secretary, all turned toward her — straight into the truthless, insinuating eyes of Sandy Woodrow, she knew she must find a different way.
Tessa's way. Not out of cowardice, but out of tactic.
To call Woodrow a liar to his face was to win one minute of doubtful glory, followed by certain dismissal. And what could she prove? Nothing. His lies were not fabrications. They were a brilliantly devised distorting lens that turned facts into monsters, yet left them looking like facts.
"Yes, Ghita dear."
He had his head back and his eyebrows up and his mouth half open like a choirmaster's, as if he were about to sing along with her. She looked quickly away from him. That old man Donohue's face is all downward lines, she thought. Sister Marie at the convent had a dog like him. A bloodhound's cheeks are called flews, Justin told me. I played badminton with Sheila last night and she's watching me too. To her astonishment, Ghita heard herself addressing the meeting.
"Well, it may be not a good time for me to be suggesting this, Sandy. Perhaps I should leave it over for a few days," she began. "With so much going on."
"Leave what over? Don't tease us, Ghita."
"Only we've had this inquiry through the World Food Program, Sandy. They are agitating most vigorously for us to send a representative from EADEC to attend the next focus group on Customer Self-Sustainment."
It was a lie. A working, effective, acceptable lie. By some miracle of deceit she had dug a standing request from her memory, and revamped it to sound like a pressing invitation. If Woodrow should ask to see the file, she would not have the least idea what to do. But he didn't.
"Customer what, Ghita?" Woodrow inquired, amid mild, cathartic laughter.
"It is what is also called Aid Parturition, Sandy," Ghita replied severely, dredging another piece of jargon from the circular. "How does a community that has received substantial food aid and medicare learn to sustain itself once the agencies withdraw? That is the issue here. What precautions must be taken by the donors to make sure that adequate logistical provisions remain in place and no undue deprivation results? Great store is set by these discussions."
"Well, that sounds reasonable enough. How long does the jamboree last?"
"Three full days, Sandy. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday with a possible overrun. But our problem is, Sandy, we don't have an EADEC representative now that Justin's gone."
"So you wondered whether you might go in his place," Woodrow cried, with a knowing laugh for the wiles of pretty women. "Where's it being held, Ghita? Up in Sin City?" His pet name for the United Nations complex.