Bushell looked down at his notes. He wished he could be sure she was above suspicion. He knew too well that he couldn’t. Answering her indirectly, he said, “Many of the most infamous crimes are committed by people in positions of trust. Because they’re trusted, they can do things more ordinary criminals can’t.”
“Not this time, Colonel Bushell,” Kathleen Flannery said through tight lips and clenched teeth.
“I hope you’re right, but I can’t overlook the chance that you might be wrong,” Bushell said. “Not very long ago, if you’ll remember, you called me thorough. I was pleased to take it for a compliment.”
That reached her. Her nod was reluctant, but it was a nod. “All right, Colonel, I understand that. As you’ve said, you have your job to do. It’s just that - ” She didn’t go on, but buried her face in her hands. She saw her career crashing in flames like a hydrogen-filled airship from her great-grandfather’s day, just as Bushell did his. He said, “I - will - get - it - back, Dr. Flannery.”
She looked up at him. “You sound like the Lieutenant Colonel Bonaparte, blasting the rabble away from the Bastille. He must have used that same tone of voice when he said, ‘Ils ne passeront pas.’ “
“He made himself a great man in France that day,” Bushell answered. “I don’t care about being a great man. I just want to beat those” - the presence of a lady inhibited him in language - ”individuals who are laughing up their sleeves because they got the better of me here tonight.”
“That’s all well and good, but what will they do with The Two Georges while they have it?” Kathleen asked. “If any harm should come to the painting - ”
“What will they do with it?” Bushell had already started thinking about that. He rubbed at his mustache.
“One of two things, I think. They may destroy it, perhaps publicly, to show what they think of the British Empire and of the NAU’s being part of it.” At that, Kathleen Flannery looked physically ill. Bushell went on, “Or they may try to ransom it. That might fit their sense of humor, to get some great sum of money for The Two Georgesand then turn around and use that money to subvert the union the painting symbolizes.”
“That would be - better,” Kathleen Flannery said. “The NAU can defend itself; the poor painting can’t.”
She hesitated. “The Sons of Liberty seem to have quite enough money for subversion already. Where do they get it?”
“Their political wing, the Independence Party, isn’t clandestine; we’re sure some party dues end up with the Sons, though we’ve never been able to prove it in a court of law,” Bushell answered. “But they’ll take money from whoever will give it to them. The Holy Alliance and the Russians both funnel gold their way now and then: if we’re tied up with troubles inside the Empire, that works to their advantage.”
“The Russians?” Kathleen Flannery bit her lip. Bushell nodded. She said to him, “Because you’re thorough, you’ll be investigating me in more detail than just these few questions, won’t you?” He nodded again. She sighed. “In that case, let me tell you now that a few years ago I was engaged to be married to a gentleman named Kyril Lozovsky. He was the assistant commercial secretary at the Russian ministry in Victoria.”
Bushell wrote the information down without changing expression. “You were engaged, you say? The marriage did not take place?”
“No.” Kathleen looked down into her lap. A blush mounted from her throat to her forehead. “A couple of weeks before we were to wed, I learned Mr. Lozovsky was also engaged to a young woman back in Tsaritsin. I’ve heard he married her after he went back to Russia, but I don’t know that for a fact.”
“I - see,” Bushell said. “Thank you for telling me. If Mr. Lozovsky already had a fiancée in Russia, he was less than a gentleman to acquire one here.” And if something like that had happened to her, no wonder she hadn’t married since. One rotten apple must have spoiled the barrel of men for her. He shook his head. Too bad. Flipping his notebook to the next empty page, he said, “I think that will be all for now. I have a great many more people to question tonight.”
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can to help get The Two Georges back.”
Bushell was in the middle of his next interview, this one with a plump pastry chef, when someone knocked on the closed door to the office he was using. He frowned. “Excuse me,” he told the chef, and went to the door, expecting some impatient dignitary demanding his turn at once. But instead of an indignant politico or a wealthy baronet, he found himself face to face with Harrington Wilberforce. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, Colonel,” the Negro said, “but the governor-general has telephoned Governor Burnett, and also expresses the desire to speak with you. If you will please follow me?”
“Of course,” Bushell said, and hurried with Wilberforce past the line of prominent people, coal miners, mansion staff members, and reporters outside the office he had commandeered. A couple of them called after him as he went. “Back as soon as I can,” he said several times. Governor Burnett’s office was decorated and furnished in the same gaudy Rococo Revival style as the observation lounge in the Upper California Limited had been. It was also big enough to swallow both Wilberforce’s and Bushell’s offices with room to spare. The governor sat behind an oak dreadnought of a desk. He spoke into the telephone: “Here he is, Your Excellency.” He thrust the handset at Bushell.
“Your Excellency?” Bushell said. “How can I help you?”
“The greatest service you can do me, Colonel Bushell, and do the people of the North American Union, is to recover The Two Georges unharmed, and quickly.” Even across a telephone connection spanning the continent, Sir Martin Luther King’s deep, rich voice was unmistakable. It made Bushell want to push the investigation even harder than he was already.
“I’ll do everything I can, Your Excellency,” he said. He had to fight down the urge to hang up on the governor-general and rush back to interrogating the pastry chef.
“I’m sure of that, Colonel, and I shall pray for your success.” A minister before he entered politics, Sir Martin was able to imbue that sentiment with far more sincerity than most officials could have conjured up. He went on, “Lieutenant General Bragg gave me a brief summary of what happened in New Liverpool, and Governor Burnett has told me more. I want to hear the details from the man on the spot, however.”
“Yes, sir.” Bushell knew he was the man on the spot in more ways than one. Unconsciously, he drew himself up to attention, as if reporting to a military superior. He gave Sir Martin Luther King the same account he had to Horace Bragg, and also described what he was trying to learn from questioning the people who had been in and around the mansion: “I have no direct reason to suspect anyone here of aiding the thieves. I’m trying to eliminate indirect reasons as well.”
“A prudent course, Colonel.” Sir Martin sighed. “You are certain the Sons of Liberty are responsible for this - outrage?”
By way of reply, Bushell whistled the opening bars to “Yankee Doodle.” Not recognizing the song from that snatch, Governor Burnett looked puzzled. Harrington Wilberforce’s lean features contracted further: he knew what Bushell was whistling.
So did Sir Martin Luther King. “When Rome fell, Colonel, the barbarians poured in from over the borders,” he said, sighing again. “We raise up our own barbarians inside the nation.”