“Quite,” Sir Martin Luther King said, his voice icy. “Please sit down, Colonel. You are most definitely out of order.”
Like a dirigible unable to stay airborne because of a leak, Bushell sank slowly back into his seat. He knew what he had to do next. And if it was to be done, it had to be done well. Looking Clarke in the eye, he said, “Sir David, I apologize for my violent, intemperate remarks.” Every word came out burning like vitriol.
“Let it pass,” Sir David Clarke said. “We are not friends, and we shall not be friends: I understand that. Your loyalty to a man who is your friend deserves nothing but commendation.”
If anything, giving Sir David the chance to be magnanimous at his expense hurt worse than apologizing. Sir Horace Bragg pulled the meeting back toward the purpose for which it had been called: “Your Excellency, let us suppose it draws near the middle of August. His Majesty the King-Emperor is on the high seas, sailing nearer to Victoria day by day. Despite our best efforts, we have not succeeded in recovering The Two Georges . What then? Do we pay what the Sons of Liberty demand? Or do we cast defiance in their face?”
Bushell knew his answer. He’d already given it. But then he’d proceeded to discredit that answer by his own conduct, just as the actions of the Sons of Liberty discredited what they called patriotism. That was more humiliating even than Sir David’s magnanimity. As Sir Horace had said, a public servant should have a certain rudimentary feel for politics.
Sir Martin Luther King looked unhappy. No politico enjoyed being put on the spot. But no man of sense - which Sir Martin certainly was - faced the future without a plan. Reluctantly, the governor-general said, “If worse comes to worst, Sir Horace, my thought is to pay the ransom, recover the painting, and then bend every effort toward capturing those responsible for the theft and regaining the money. They may get their ransom, but they shall not employ it.”
Sir David Clarke beamed as if his favorite football club had just won the All-Empire Cup. Sir Horace Bragg, by contrast, was utterly expressionless. “I shall conduct myself according to your decision, Your Excellency,” he said, his voice empty.
“And you, Colonel Bushell?” Sir Martin asked. He was justly proud of his powers of persuasion, and wanted everyone to be happy with his choices once he’d made them.
“Your Excellency, you represent His Majesty in North America, so of course I shall obey your orders,” Bushell said. Even now, though, he would not leave well enough alone: “If you’re asking my personal opinion, however, I believe you are making a dreadful mistake. If you once treat with these bandits and murderers, you and your successors will have to do it again and again for the next hundred years.”
“Thank you for expressing your views so forthrightly, Colonel.” Sir Martin’s tone was anything but grateful. He got to his feet. “I think everything that needs saying for the moment has been said.” Bushell would have bet he thought a good deal more than needed saying had been said. The formalities as the meeting broke up were perfunctory at best.
Walking back to RAM headquarters, Sir Horace Bragg sadly shook his head. “You do look for new and different ways to stick your foot in it, don’t you, Tom?”
“If you mean I won’t say chalk is cheese just because someone wants me to, you’re right,” Bushell said.
“You didn’t seem any too happy with the notion of ransom, either. What policeman would?”
“Even if we have to pay it, it may work out all right.” Bragg sounded like a man trying to convince himself. “One thing’s sure: if the Sons start spending sterling like a sailor home from six months at sea, they’ll every one of them be wearing the broad arrow in short order.”
“That’s so,” Bushell said, “but if they were stupid enough to do that, they’d not be the problem they are.” He walked on a few paces in silence then changed the subject: “Just how long do you expect to be heading up the investigation here in New Liverpool, sir?”
“A fortnight or so at most, as I said before,” Sir Horace answered. “Why?”
“Just wondering, sir,” Bushell answered innocently.
At a little past nine the next morning, Bushell walked into Major Gordon Rhodes’s office. That he’d had a decent night’s sleep was shown by the gently steaming cup of tea he held in his hand. He was unsurprised to find Samuel Stanley huddled with Rhodes over their charts. Both men glanced up as he came in and shut the door behind himself.
“Uh-oh,” Stanley said. “I don’t like the look on your face, Chief.”
Bushell could not see the expression he was wearing, but had no trouble figuring out what it was. “I don’t like it, either,” he said. “Now, gentlemen, I want your promise that what I’m going to tell you will not go beyond this room.”
Stanley nodded at once, Rhodes after a moment’s hesitation. Bushell did not think ill of him for that pause; he was visibly deciding whether he could in good conscience make such a promise. “Go ahead, sir,” he said at last.
“I met with Sir Horace, Sir Martin, and his chief of staff yesterday,” Bushell began, unwilling even to name Sir David Clarke. He explained what Sir Martin had decided to do, and also how long Sir Horace was likely to stay in New Liverpool to head up the investigation.
When he was through, Samuel Stanley’s face twisted. “Paying ransom,” he said, as if someone had dropped a large, dead, stinking fish in front of him. “You just can’t do anything worse than that.”
“You’re right, Sam,” Rhodes said. “You beat me to it, that’s all.”
“You both knew it, and I know it, and Sir Horace knows it, too, but the politicos don’t know it, and that ties Sir Horace’s hands, and that ties ours,” Bushell said. “The only thing I can think of to do is to make sure The Two Georges is safe before the deadline gets here. I can’t do everything I would be doing to make sure we recover the painting, because Sir Horace will be doing most of those things himself. I am not going to let myself be taken out of this game, either. I’m responsible for The Two Georges’ going missing, and I’m not about to sit on the shelf while it’s being found.”
“What will you do, Chief?” Stanley asked. “What can you do, in a fix like that?”
Bushell’s smile was half predatory, half beatific. “For some reason or other, Sir Martin’s chief of staff and I had a disagreement yesterday. I don’t think Sir Martin is happy with me for that, or for saying I didn’t want to ransom The Two Georges. If I suggest that I go off investigating at places far, far away from New Liverpool, I doubt the prospect will break His Excellency the governor-general’s heart. In fact, I think he’ll leap to say yes before I change my mind. And that, by God, will get me out from under Sir Horace’s thumb.”
“And let you do what you wanted to do all along,” Stanley said admiringly. “Tell me, did you pick the fight with Sir David on purpose?”
“Who, me?” Bushell said, as if in surprise. “But he is a piece of work, that one. He even had the cheek to insult Sir Horace, for no better reason than to bait me.” Scowling, he shook his head again, then turned to Major Rhodes. “When I go into the field, Gordon, the weight of coordinating the investigation will fall even more heavily on you. You’ll be Sir Horace’s prop, that’s certain. You may have to be his brains as well; I have no notion of how good he is at casework these days.”
“I can see where you might be worried, sir, but I think I can handle it,” Gordon Rhodes said, without arrogance but also without false modesty. He would have been doing most of the job under Bushell; now he might be doing more still, but his shoulders seemed wide enough to carry the weight. Bushell clapped him on one of those shoulders. “Stout fellow!” He resolved to do something to get Rhodes a promotion when this mess finally ended. What with the political odor he was in at the moment, the best thing he might be able to do for the up-and-coming major was to stay as far away from him as possible. Well, he was taking care of that.