Jonathan remembered two loose-limbed men in British blazers.
"What about them?"
"They come from London, all right, but they're not Forbes and Lubbock. Belgium is where they're based, and they're purveyors of military trainers to the leading crazies of the world."
The Brussels boys, Jonathan was thinking as he began to follow the threads that Burr was deliberately weaving before his memory's eye. Soldier Boris. Who's next?
"This one ring any bells? You didn't describe him, not in as many words, but I thought he might be one of those suited gentlemen our chum received in the ground-floor conference room."
While Burr was speaking he had drawn a small photograph from his wallet and passed it across the table for Jonathan's inspection.
It showed a tight-mouthed man in his forties with saddened shallow eyes and unnaturally waved black hair and an incongruous gold cross hanging over his Adam's apple. It had been taken in bright sunlight and, to judge by the shadows, with the sun directly overhead.
"Yes," Jonathan said.
"Yes what?"
"He was half the size of anyone else, but they deferred to him. Carried a black briefcase that was too big for him. Wore risers."
"A Swiss? A Brit? Pin him down."
"More a Latin American of some sort." He handed back the photograph. "Could be anything. Could be Arab."
"His name is Apostoll, believe it or not, Apo for short."
And Appetites for long, thought Jonathan, once again remembering Major Corkoran's asides to his chief. "Greek, first-generation American, doctor of law at Michigan, magna cum laude, crook. Offices in New Orleans, Miami and Panama City, all places of impeccable respectability, as you are no doubt aware. Remember Lord Langbourne? Sandy?"
"Of course," Jonathan replied, recalling the unnervingly beautiful man with the ponytail and the sour wife.
"He's another bloody lawyer. Dicky Roper's, actually. Apo and Sandy Langbourne do deals together. Very lucrative deals."
"No, you don't, but you're getting the idea. How's your Spanish, by the by?"
"All right."
"Should be more than all right, shouldn't it? Eighteen months at the Ritz in Madrid, with your gifts, it should be bloody perfect."
"I've let it go a bit, that's all."
An interval while Burr sat back in his chair and let the waiter clear away their plates. Jonathan was surprised to rediscover excitement: the feeling of edging toward the secret centre, the pull of action after too long away.
"You're not going to be a pudding traitor, are you?" Burr asked aggressively as the waiter handed them each a plastic-coated card.
"Good Lord, no."
They settled for a puree of chestnut with whipped cream.
"And Corky, Major Corkoran, your brother soldier, his gofer," said Burr, in the tone of one who has left the best until the end. "What did you make of him, then? Why are you laughing?"
"He was amusing."
"What else is he?"
"The gofer, as you say. The major-domo. He signs."
Burr leapt on the word as if it were the one he had been waiting for all lunch. "What does he sign?"
"Registration forms. Bills."
"Bills, letters, contracts, waivers, guarantees, company accounts, bills of lading, checks," said Burr excitedly. "Waybills, freight certificates, and a very large number of documents saying that everything his employer ever did wrong wasn't done by Richard Onslow Roper but by his loyal servant Major Corkoran. Very rich man Major Corkoran. Hundreds of millions to his name, except he's signed them all away to Mr. Roper. There's not a dirty deal the Roper does but Corky puts his signature to it. 'Corks, come over here! You don't have to read it, Corks old boy, sign it, there's a good lad. You've just earned yourself another ten years in Sing Sing.' "
The force with which Burr delivered this image, combined with the jagged edge to his voice as he imitated Roper's, gave a jolt to the easy rhythm of their conversation.
"There's not a paper trail worth a damn," Burr confided, his pale face close to Jonathan's. "You can go back twenty years, I don't care, you'll not find Roper's name on anything worse than a church donation. All right, I hate him. I'll admit it. So should you, after what he did to Sophie."
"Oh, I have no problem about that."
"You don't, eh?"
"No. I don't."
"Well, keep it that way. I'll be right back. Hold everything."
Fastening the waistband of his trousers, Burr went off for a pee, leaving Jonathan mysteriously elated. Hate him? Hate was not an emotion he had so far indulged. He could do anger; certainly he could mourn. But hate, like desire, seemed a lowly thing until it had a noble context, and Roper with his Sotheby's catalogue and his beautiful mistress had not yet provided one.
Nevertheless, the idea of hate, dignified by Sophie's murder ― of hate turned perhaps to revenge ― began to appeal to Jonathan. It was like the promise of a distant great love, and Burr had appointed himself its procurer.
* * *
"So why?" Burr continued cosily, settling back into his chair. "That's what I kept asking myself. Why's he doing it? Why does Mr. Jonathan Pine the distinguished hotelier risk his career pinching faxes and snitching on a valued client? First Cairo, now again in Zürich. 'Specially after you were cross with us. Quite right. I was cross with us too."
Jonathan pretended to address the question for the first time. "You just do it," he said.
"No, you don't. You're not an animal, all instinct. You decide to do it. What drove you?"
"Something stirred, I suppose."
"What stirred? How does it stop stirring? What would stir it again?"
Jonathan took a breath but for a moment did not speak. He had discovered that he was angry, and didn't know why. "If a man's peddling a private arsenal to an Egyptian crook... and he's English... and you're English... and there's a war brewing... and the English are going to be fighting on the other side ― "
"And you've been a soldier yourself..."
" ― you just do it," Jonathan repeated, feeling his throat clog.
Burr pushed aside his empty plate and leaned forward across the table. " 'Feeding the rat' ― isn't that the climbers' expression? The rat that gnaws inside us, telling us to take the risk? It's quite a big rat, yours is, I suppose, with that father of yours to live up to. He was undercover too, wasn't he? Well, you knew that."
"No, I'm afraid I didn't," said Jonathan politely as his stomach turned.
"They had to put him back into uniform after he was shot. They didn't tell you?"
Jonathan's hotelier smile, cast iron from cheek to cheek. His hotelier voice, iron soft. "No. They didn't. Really not. How strange. You'd think they would, wouldn't you?"
Burr shook his head at the enigmatic ways of civil servants.
* * *
"I mean, you did retire quite early, when you work it out," Burr resumed reasonably. "It's not everyone gives up a promising army career at twenty-five in favour of being a night flunky. Not with all the sailing and climbing and Outward Bound activities in the world. What made you choose hoteling, for heaven's sake? Of all the ways you could have gone, why that one?"
To submit, thought Jonathan.
To abdicate.
To rest my head.
Mind your own fucking business.
"Oh, I don't know," he confessed with a self-negating smile. "For the quiet life, I suppose. I expect I'm a bit of a closet sybarite, if I'm honest."