“We’ve talked about him.” Barclay sat up, wedging a pillow between him and the headboard.
“I know, but I’m...”
“Nervous? So am I.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Yes, really.”
She smiled for a moment, staring at the carpet. “I don’t know whether that makes me feel better or not.”
“Dominique, don’t worry. Like you say, either we find out something or we don’t. Is it me? Are you worried about my superiors finding out? I’m not worried,” he lied, “so it’s stupid for you to be.”
“Stupid?”
“Well, no, not stupid. I mean, it’s very... I’m glad you worry about me. It’s nice of you to worry, but you shouldn’t.”
She came over to the side of the bed and knelt down in front of it. Barclay shifted uneasily beneath the sheets. She stared hard at him.
“Michael,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you.” She paused. The spell seemed to break, and she shifted her gaze to the headboard. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow will be time enough.” She got back to her feet. “I’m sorry I woke you up.” She smiled again and bent down to kiss his forehead. “Try to sleep.” After the view he’d just had down the front of her T-shirt, he doubted he would.
Then she padded to the door and was gone. Just like that. Barclay didn’t move for a couple of minutes, and then when he did move it was merely to sit up a little higher against the headboard. He drew his knees up in front of him and rested his arms on them. He stared at the bedroom door, willing Dominique to walk back through it. She didn’t. Eventually, he slid back down beneath the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. Etched on the insides of his eyelids were supple shadowy bodies, hanging breasts, shapes concave and convex. His forehead tingled where she’d kissed him. The birds were starting to sing as he eventually drifted off to sleep.
Sunday 14 June
There was a big meeting at the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. Central London was deserted except for the tourists, the security people, and some of the twenty-five hundred media representatives who would cover the summit. Before the meeting, there was a photo session. Most of the security people, for obvious reasons, didn’t want to become involved in the photo shoot, which seemed to suit the Home Secretary just fine. Jonathan Barker had been Home Secretary for just under a year, his political career having been steady rather than meteoric. There had been a rough few months at the beginning, with calls for his resignation after several prison escapes, a mainland terrorist attack, and a police scandal. But for the moment he could do little wrong, his second wife, Marion, having died two months back. She had been a tireless worker for charity, especially children’s charities, as all the obituaries had pointed out. And it was as if some of her polish had rubbed off on her handsome widower.
Watching the photo opportunity take its course, Elder smiled. Only one of the obituaries had mentioned Marion Barker’s crankier side, her belief in spiritualism. And no one had mentioned how she’d been Barker’s secretary while he’d still been married to his first wife. There had been gossip about that at the time. Then the first wife had died, and slowly, without unseemly haste, Marion and Jonathan had begun to appear together in public.
It wasn’t even close to a scandal. Nothing of the sort. Yet Elder wondered how significantly it had slowed Barker’s political progress. He wondered as he watched the Home Secretary smiling again, this time shaking hands with yet another dignitary. They all stood in a line off camera, all the people who still had to have their photo taken. They preened, straightened ties, flicked a stray hair back behind an ear. They were all men. An underling gave them instructions, sending them on their way when each photo was taken. It was a real production line. And all for half a dozen photographers. The media wasn’t really interested, not yet. The real scrum would begin when the summit got under way. This was a day of dress rehearsals and final checks. That was why the Home Secretary was on the scene, to give a very public thumbs-up to the security arrangements.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the underling said at last to the photographers, who had already turned away and were winding back rolls of film, chatting in huddles. Elder stood in another huddle, a huddle of security chiefs. Trilling was there, and was in whispered conversation with an American. There were two Germans, a tall and dapper Frenchman, a Canadian, and many more... a real United Nations of secret agents and policemen. Elder had been introduced to them all, but they were names to him, little more. They were simply in his way.
But then he, of course, shouldn’t be here at all. Joyce had only sent him because there was no one else available at such short notice. Her fury the previous evening had been tempered only by the arrival of her chauffeur. She’d still managed to make known her views. Elder was not to speak to Barclay “under any circumstances.” In fact, he wasn’t to do anything at all. But then she’d remembered this meeting...
The Home Secretary, sweeping back his hair as he walked, was approaching. His underling was telling him something, to which Jonathan Barker did not appear to be listening. He stuck out a hand towards Trilling.
“Commander, nice to see you.” They shook hands. Barker smiled and half-nodded towards Elder, as if to say “I know you,” when in fact he couldn’t even be sure of Elder’s nationality.
“Mr. Elder,” explained the underling, “is here as Mrs. Parry’s representative.”
“Ah,” said Barker, nodding and frowning at the same time. “Thought I didn’t see her.” His tone, to Elder’s ears, was slightly ominous.
“Mrs. Parry sends her apologies,” said Elder. “Something came up last night, very last-minute, very important.”
Barker looked as though he might have something to say about this, but he was already being introduced to the Canadian, to the Germans... Elder had to give the underling his due: the guy knew all the names and faces. Trilling’s voice was a peppermint murmur beside him.
“What’s Joyce up to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Barker didn’t sound too pleased.”
Elder nodded slowly. Not too pleased at all... Well, he wasn’t in such a good mood himself. If Barker wanted to pick a fight, that was fine by Elder. He’d spent a sleepless night in his room, a piece of paper by his telephone. On the paper was a note of Barclay’s phone number in Germany. Joyce had warned him not to speak to Barclay. And hadn’t Barclay let himself in for it? Elder had requested that no calls be put through to his room.
But this morning he’d cracked. He’d placed a call to the Gasthof Hirschen, only to be informed that Herr Barclay had already checked out. Well, that was that.
“If you’ll come this way, gentlemen,” said the Home Secretary, taking charge. Introductions over, they were on their way into the Conference Centre proper.
“First stop,” said the Home Secretary, “screening unit.” They had stopped in front of a doorway, the edges of which were thick metal, painted bright orange. Two guards stood this side of the doorway, two the other. This was the start of the tour which, conducted by the Home Secretary, was supposed to reassure everyone that the security precautions were, well, more than adequate. Elder believed it; he knew they were more than adequate. He still wasn’t impressed.
“Anyone entering has to pass through this metal detector. It’s a special design, extremely accurate, not yet, I believe, in place in any airports due to the costs involved. Cost has not been a factor at this summit. But before even this, a body search takes place. Nothing too distracting or disruptive, and of course the heads of state will not be subject to this particular search.” A smile. “We think we can trust them.” There were a few laughs, Trilling’s among them. “Any baggage is checked by hand and by a hand-held detector, before being passed through this X-ray machine.” Barker patted the machine itself. “Again, it’s British-designed and British-built and it’s more sophisticated than similar devices found in airports. An inbuilt computer, for example, points out anomalies to the operator. Now, can I ask you all to submit to a search, then walk, one at a time, through the doorway?”