The Ambassador (19 page)

Without switching on the light he locked the door and put the key prominently on the desk. She could leave at any time, if she chose.

Then he took her fingers in his hands and, as he had done on the garden bench, lifted them to his lips and kissed each one. She slid her own hands to the side of his head, smoothing his hair as if to get his measure, and pulled his face down to her level. Then she kissed him, lightly first then harder, till he gave in to the ache buried deep inside and caressed her shoulders then her breasts, cupping them in his big hands. Her body under the silk was taut and warm. He pointed to the bedroom. ‘In there. Come on.’

The dress had no zip or fastening. The fabric was yielding and fluid; with a wriggle, Lisa slipped her arms out of the top and let it fall away, then kicked off her shoes. She wore only a scrap of black lace as panties; the breasts were firm, the aureoles rosy. Her waist was narrow, the hips rounded and feminine. In the dim room her eyes darkened to blackness, their honey flecks elusive and secret.

Then as Strether watched, hardly daring to breathe, she stepped out of the garment and placed it casually over a chair. ‘If we’re a crumpled mess when we leave here, it’ll be obvious what we’ve been up to.’ She took a step back. ‘The new jacket’s terrific, Bill, but you’d better get it off. Here, let me help.’

As she leaned close to him, Strether held saw how the shape of her breasts caught the moonlight, how sturdy she was on those handsome thighs. He did not mind that she readily took the lead – it felt right, as if the imbalance of his age and status was reset. ‘Lisa. Oh, Lisa. I haven’t – for ages. It’s been such a long time. Forgive me.’

She slipped open the velcro of his shirt and slacks and laid them also, not too neatly, on the back of the chair. The silk stars and stripes scarf slipped to the floor. He tugged off his shoes and socks, his shorts. In a moment he stood before her, the hairs on his torso stirring in the air.

‘Me neither,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t sleep around. Here, love, hold me; I want to feel 
your arms around me.’

He swallowed hard. ‘Should I – I mean, are you – ?’

She smiled, and smoothed her hand over his shoulder so that the touch of her fingertips made his skin sing; her palm floated lightly over his abdomen, so close he could sense its warmth, then came to rest on his thigh. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. I have an implant. I suspected you were getting interested. Some day I want a baby, but not this way, and not tonight.’

And she led him to the bed, and bade him lie on it, and propped him up with pillows; and she perched agilely before him, her knees each side of his, she with her lithe body and natural grace. She guided his hands, and murmured her pleasure, till he gathered confidence and tried old movements which his wife had loved, long ago when they had first been married. Perhaps something in Lisa’s dark looks reminded him, or her spirited independence. He reached up and rubbed his thumbs over her nipples and watched them harden, laughing softly with her. He bent his face and took the precious nibs of flesh between his teeth, first one then the other, and sucked like an infant till she gasped and arched her neck. Then he pushed her on to her back and did the same between her legs, relishing the taste and moistness of her. At last he took her firmly, turned her over and entered her from behind, his mouth buried in her tangled hair and his breathing in short gasps, quicker, quicker – until it came, for them both, with a deep drawn-out moan from him – then a collapse on the strewn pillows, in a gurgle of spent excitement and shared joy.

Lisa rolled over and stroked his sweaty face. ‘Dear, sweet Bill. D’you know you’re good at this?’

He lay on his back, his arm relaxed around her shoulders. ‘Had a bit of practice, but years ago.’ He lifted himself up on his elbow and gazed happily down at her. ‘Haven’t got much time, so I’ll say this now. You are a fabulous lady. So smart, so womanly. I want to see you, I’d love to do this, over and over again. More romantically, if we can manage it. Not just a one-night stand. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds great.’ She was smiling at him, her honeyed eyes bright.

‘Better warn you, I’m not a one-night-stand sort of a fellow.’

‘Fine by me.’

He felt drunk, wild. ‘I mean, Lisa, that if you’re not careful I could fall in love with you. I’m an old-fashioned kinda man.’

She gave him a gentle push. ‘Got it. But if we don’t move now, sweetie, your Secret Service guys’ll be sending out a search party. Then you’ll be in hot water. That’d do wonders for your reputation and authority.’

In a few minutes the two had showered, sharing a towel, and dressed. Lisa switched on the light and attempted to restore her hairstyle. By the time she gave it up as a bad job, rather more curls framed her face than when she had arrived but, combined with her flushed cheeks, the effect was sensual and alluring. Strether told her so as he combed his own hair and checked himself back and front in the hologram mirror. As he refastened jacket buttons and fumbled with velcro his hands trembled. Lisa, with a conspiratorial chuckle, had to help him.

‘Wait.’ He went to the main door and unlocked it slowly, checked up and down the corridor then ushered her out. In the elevator they stood side by side and demure, but her 
expression none the less kept breaking out in grins and dimples.

‘You look like a dame who’s been enjoying herself,’ he murmured. ‘Have to get you another drink so you have an excuse.’

As the elevator hummed Strether struggled to bring himself back under control; he felt light-headed, and wanted to sing with joy, rather than embroil himself once more in affairs of state. He wanted to dwell on his adventure and how lucky he believed himself to be, and how it would be even better next time, more relaxed. They would get to know each other’s bodies, and he would plan a future for them.

He pulled himself up short. He barely knew the young woman beside him. He must not take for granted that his interest was reciprocated. Despite her assurances, to Lisa he might be merely a passing fancy. He had no idea what she was truly like, nor any other European women. Other than her passion for her strange profession, her belief in its efficacy, her fears about some lost files, she was as yet an unread book. She had taken the lead with him tonight; for that, there could be another motive. Surrounded as he was by puzzles, perhaps she was just one more piece in the jigsaw. He had little notion what motivated her, what inspired her.

Then it would be fun to find out, he resolved. He shook his head to clear the fuzziness; he still tasted her lips on his. He was deeply reluctant to re-enter the hard world of duty. But she had made it plain that a repeat episode would be welcome. He would cling to that.

As they emerged from the private corridor Matt Brewer was waiting. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, ma’am, but we’ve received …’ He pulled his chief to one side and dropped his voice. ‘We’ve had a call from the police. There’s some trouble three blocks away, near Parliament Square. We’ve been asked to keep the guests here for a while, till we get the
all-clear
. And not to alarm them.’

‘Still got plenty of booze?’

Brewer nodded.

‘Then that bit’s straightforward. Put a couple of guards by the exits – choose big ones, but ultra-polite. Do people know?’

‘No, sir. It’s not on the news networks. I’ve seen one or two guests using mobile vidphones. Mr Packer has gone. And Sir Lyndon has had to slip away – he presents his apologies, sir.’

‘What sort of trouble? Criminals, a shoot-out? Or what?’ Strether began to stride beside him towards the crowded rooms. Behind, Lisa made to rejoin her group. He halted and spoke to her direct. ‘You’re not to leave until it’s safe. Any of your party.’ His face softened. For the second time that evening the Ambassador strove to put his jumbled feelings in order. This time he did not entirely succeed. ‘And thank you for – for the discussion, Dr Pasteur. You’re a very special lady.’

Matt Brewer allowed himself a fleeting smile. ‘The bar is that way, ma’am.’ The two Americans waited while Lisa glided away, her hair bobbing insecurely on the top of her head. At the far door Prince Marius hovered, and spoke a few words to her. She nodded vaguely and disappeared in the direction of the Manhattan bar.

Then the staffer continued, his voice urgent. ‘We don’t know who’s behind it, sir. The unit involved down on the street is a crack team against organised crime. But our guess is it 
could be political.’

No one seemed to have noticed his absence, though Strether suspected Matt Brewer had missed little. The officer would be far too discreet, and loyal, to mention it. In a moment their tour took them to the balcony where he and Marius had spoken earlier. The french windows were still open. He stepped outside.

Down below cars had been halted in a double stationary line, headlights ablaze. Several drivers had got out and were leaning on their cars or standing in a gaggle, all eyes in one direction. There appeared to be a police blockade of some kind. Blue lights winked, a siren wailed. Strether leaned over the balcony, craned his neck and peered into the night. Behind him Marius re-appeared, his face studiously set, as if he had expected the Ambassador to return to this spot.

Strether could hear shouting, but too far away and faint to identify any phrases. Then somewhere in the distance came a sharp crack. A high-velocity rifle? Instinctively he pulled back, then cautiously leaned out again. The rifle was answered by the distinctive buzz of max-power laser weapons, familiar from his National Guard days. Car drivers dived and scattered with yelps of terror. Red beams zinged from behind police vehicles and were directed at windows two or three blocks further down. A block of masonry at third-floor level slowly detached itself and crashed to the ground, scattering singed chunks into the road. The rifle fired back angrily and a police officer slid sideways. A woman in a car screamed.

‘Get inside, sir.’ Matt Brewer grabbed at his jacket and closed the windows. ‘Not safe.’

Strether’s gaze switched rapidly from Brewer to the silent Prince and back again. He erupted, his face working in fury and fear. ‘So what the hell’s going on? The police are shooting the hell outta somebody down there. Not for the first time, is it? I bet it’s linked with those pirate broadcasts. So what’s happening? Some kinda revolution, or what?’

Marius shook his head. ‘Don’t get involved, Ambassador. That’s the best advice.’

But Matt’s expression was grim. He answered the question directly. ‘Dunno, sir. But someone sure is lying to us. Probably somebody in this building.’ He glared at Marius. ‘Or maybe, every man jack of them. What do you think?’ 

There can be few more desolate places, Colonel Mike Thompson considered, than an airport at the end of a line: ramshackle buildings, a passenger hall that smelled like a toilet, toilets that smelled unspeakable, cash machines long since wrenched from the wall, automatic doors defunct and propped open with wedges. Tattered posters hung from a tourist shop barely larger than a cabin, whose window display of stained vodka bottles and Russian dolls was barred and forbidding. The surveillance cameras looked as if they had not been functional for years. He pitied the civilians huddled around a creaking luggage conveyor. With luck, their bags would come tumbling out eventually, zips half open and clothing strewn about, greasy fingermarks on the handles. The more luxurious luggage would not reappear at all.

A blast of noise hit the cavernous hall from a loudspeaker: tinny martial music, somebody’s anthem, or, perhaps, a national march. A sallow man nearby stood to attention, pebble glasses misty. He at least had come home.

Thompson, shouldered his kitbag and began to walk towards the exit, avoiding the stinking puddles. Aided by a tail-wind, the fastjet had been ahead of schedule. He would wait for his transport away from the intrusive noise and odours of this batch of humanity.

It was not his first tour of duty on the Euro-Chinese border. If tempers flared, it might not be his last. In a way, however, his current posting suggested the area was fairly quiet; for he had trained as a traditional soldier, normally a commander of fast-moving mobile troops in Eurocorps, not of specialised units involved in nuclear warfare or chemical or biological protection. His forces relied on intelligence and speed; their usual task in a conflict was to move in once an area had been declared clean and take possession of bridges, secure utilities and crossing points. After that it would be the turn of the infantry to dig in. And after
that
, the politicians would arrive by the plane-load, and would make better or worse the gains their military had secured.

It had to be admitted that the politicians had had some success. The nuclear arsenals were sheathed, for the time being. Chemical and biological weapons had proved notoriously difficult to eradicate, but had not been used between the great powers for nearly a century. Between them the European Union, the United States and the Chinese Republic colluded, openly or otherwise, on what should appertain in many other parts of the world, where local firefights broke out with much the same depressing frequency as ever. It was not clear to Thompson, brought up on Union codes that guaranteed and celebrated diversity, why it was still the case that ethnic Malays hated their ethnic Chinese neighbours with such ferocity or why Sudan and Eritrea insisted – even now – on fighting over arid, desert while their people starved. Peace had replaced ancient strife in the Balkans and Ireland, in Cyprus and, more or less, in Afghanistan. If his efforts could help establish calm in other strife-torn areas, then he would die content.

It suited him far better than Buckingham Palace. He could now admit to himself the truth, that despite a sneaking liking for the empty-headed young King, he had been bored rigid. He was a soldier, not a courtier. Attendance at dinners, listening to arcane or shallow discourse, trying to stay smartly upright for hours of public duty, had tested his powers of endurance to the limit. It had not however been entirely useless, which is why he suspected his superiors had arranged it. He had met the highest in the land and begun to form opinions 
on them. And he was not impressed by what he had seen.

He sniffed the breeze: it hinted at dry heat devoid of moisture. Beyond the terminal building were palm trees whose dusty fronds waved limply. The deserts were still advancing. Although climate change had been so beneficial in the West where water was plentiful – indeed, London was plagued with too much as sea levels had risen – in the great inland areas of Africa and central Asia vast tracts had become virtually uninhabitable. Populations had trudged across borders, become refugees, sat down as homeless and survived on UN rations. They never went back for there was nothing to return to but bare scrub and hopelessness; they never settled and became prosperous, for they knew nothing but poverty and bitter displacement.

Thompson sighed. A hand tugged his trouser leg and he looked down. At his feet a legless beggar crouched, an adult but no bigger than a dog. The face was twisted and deformed, the hand had a single blackened thumb and no fingers. The whole thing stank and was filthy. The product of genetic damage, no doubt – a lot of that in this region. Trying not to recoil, Thompson searched his pockets for a local coin and gave it to the creature, who scuttled away.

A lean young soldier, swarthy and moustached, came running towards him, then skidded to a halt and saluted.

‘Colonel Thompson sir! I’m so sorry. We heard you were going to be late.’

‘No, it was a good journey. Surprisingly so, for Russian Commercial Airlines.’ The Colonel handed over his bag and shook hands. ‘Captain Neimat Vesirov? Where are you from?’

‘I’m Azerbaijani, sir,’ the officer answered proudly. ‘The first commissioned in your regiment.’ The two men fell into step and walked out into the blazing heat.

‘I thought Captain Mahwala was going to look after me again,’ Thompson commented as he climbed into the hover-jeep and strapped himself in. ‘Has he been posted?’ The adjutant shook his head. ‘He had an accident, sir. To be honest, there was some trouble.’

‘Really? I never thought of Ranjit as a hothead. Is he hurt?’

‘He had to be sent home on medical leave, yes. But he had been most unhappy beforehand. He did not enjoy service at the prison camps. That was well known.’

Thompson shrugged. ‘Lord, have they put us in charge there again? Then his reaction was quite understandable. Pity, he was a fine man to work with. I’m sure you’ll be excellent too, Captain. Let’s go, shall we?’

It was hard to concentrate. Lisa pulled her lab coat round her as if to remind herself that she was seated at her console in Porton Down, not on the tousled bed in Lambert Strether’s embassy. The events of a few days before had been profoundly stirring. To focus instead on microbiological specimens was proving almost impossible.

Would it always be like this? Was her reaction normal? It annoyed her to think that a single episode like that should knock her sideways for days. If this was the way the biological clock affected her, then it was more than a little irritating. She had read that pregnancy made women cow-like, as their hormones adjusted to the demands of the growing foetus. Nature ensured that the baby came first and the adult second. That, among other reasons, was a powerful argument against natural pregnancy even with an approved and enhanced embryo. 
Far better to let science take over in the most pristine conditions, and thereby ensure both that the baby would be born immaculate, and that its parents could continue to fulfil their economic potential as long as they wished.

So why this buzz in her head, this ache under her ribcage? She was not ill, not dehydrated, not suffering from any low-level infection – every physical possibility had been checked and eliminated. But she felt disoriented and light-headed, as if strange compounds were circulating in her brain, making her less incisive, less acute. More feminine.
Dammit
, as Strether would say. That was not in the game-plan.

So what did it mean – was this love? Was she lovesick, was that it?

Lisa leaned back and folded her arms. An observer would have noted the frown-line between her eyes, the loosely tied brown hair, the slight smudge to the lipstick she had taken regularly to wearing. The tired look and worried expression were present only when she stared hardest at the computer screen. More often, when she was gazing into space, her face was dreamy rather than anxious.

She did not feel love-sick. She did not feel
in love
, if truth be told. Her body had thrilled to the touch of a man after such a period of abstinence; if she listened to her innermost soul carefully, which she had tended to do rarely, she could detect a delight that certain parts of herself, blanked out and forgotten till Strether had kissed her, had returned boisterously to full use. It bewildered her, this loss of control, this
pleasure
.

With the greatest caution, for she did not want to come to any unbending conclusions, she explored her emotions. She liked Bill. A lot. Of that she could be certain. He was a big, shambling man whose character, what she knew of it, would commend him to anybody. The fact that he was so different from almost everyone she knew added spice and excitement, and a frisson of – what? – maybe fear, too: fear of the unknown.

She adored the way he treated her with such courtesy. And the way he talked, especially about his own life. It had taken a while before he had been at all forthcoming about himself; he was insignificant, he had told her, it was purely fortuitous that he was in England, and his main worry was that he was not up to the job set for him by his President. But when she had asked him what his President wanted he had clammed up instantly. From which she had deduced, and joshed him lightly, that he had no cause for concern. He was, rather, an excellent diplomat.

He had spoken of his wife, with such sweet adoration that Lisa had found herself admiring him and seeing him through her eyes. On reflection it told a great deal about him, that he had married a Native American; in his circles, surely an unusual choice. Lisa had a vague picture in her head of a typical Texas oilman’s moll, a brassy piece in high-heeled cowboy boots with a Stetson perched on bottle-blonde curls. But Strether’s wife had not been like that. Perhaps Colorado was more tolerant.

She had gained the impression that, while he might not be immune to more garish attractions, the qualities he was most drawn to were thoughtfulness and a warm heart. That was deeply flattering, but it also gave Lisa pause.

She sucked her teeth and breathed slowly. The views he had let slip about the role of a wife in marriage were almost old-fashioned. It was best, he had ventured, if it were clear from the start, and agreed, who was the dominant partner, at least in public: what went on behind closed doors was entirely between the couple. He had been especially blessed, he 
admitted, because his wife had always insisted it should be him.

‘I don’t think that’s me,’ Lisa whispered to herself. ‘Somehow.’

The screen before her had been left undisturbed so long it had gone into standby mode. She tapped it to bring it back to life. The computer programme flipped to the main menu and asked what she wanted to do next. She was unsure of the answer.

Darling that he was, Bill Strether could be no more than a friend. She would have to be careful that he did not fall in love with her. Kid-glove treatment, and the greatest consideration for his feelings, would be necessary. But it was delicious, nevertheless, to have restarted sexual activity. The sheer pleasure that gave – the lingering sensations, days afterwards – suggested that celibacy had been wrong for her, and should have been abandoned much sooner. Bill wanted to carry on an affair, and she was not about to refuse. But she would behave responsibly, and try to ensure that whatever happened he was not hurt.

So if Strether was not to be the love of her life, who might be? Wicked thoughts began to flit unbidden through her brain. With an oath she tried to discipline them, but not before the following had registered: that he should be younger than Bill, and in better shape. And preferably European, and an NT. Call that prejudice, perhaps, but at least, she told herself bluntly, she had had the clarity to recognise it.

He would have to be at her own level. Not necessarily a scientist – of course not. But someone who could understand her life’s work, her passion for it and, in guarded moments, out of sight of automatic eyes and voice-monitors, her deepest fears about it. Not an innocent, not a strident advocate of the system, yet wise enough to be a guide and mentor, and to push her in the directions that scientific probity urged her to take.

A face floated into her mind. With a quick laugh, she dismissed it. The idea was preposterous. But where had it come from? Ah, yes, she had seen him fleetingly just as she and Strether had parted at the embassy, when that aide had drawn Bill aside and she had been warned not to leave. The face was quite familiar: she had seen him on television with that mocking smile and those shrewd eyes, dark like her own. It came back: he had asked her then if she was enjoying herself, taken in the tousled hair and the flushed cheeks, and smiled at her. She had reckoned that he had guessed what she and their host had been up to, and was most amused. He had glanced back at Strether, then realised that something grimmer was under way, and had moved away from her to follow the Ambassador.

The guest knew her from official trips to the laboratory, such as the day he brought Strether. But he had seen her only in the clothes she wore now, the white coat and trousers, devoid of makeup or jewellery. She had been putting out no sexual signals then, and the visitor, who had a reputation for escorting society women, must barely have noticed her. Until that night at the embassy, when she had been so aroused, and he had come to her like a bee to a honeypot, and had leaned so close.

How strange, that such a momentary encounter should come back in such detail. Probably because it had occurred when her own awareness had been so heightened. Or because in some recess of her subconscious the younger man, so smart in his velvet tunic, his dark eyes sharp and teasing, had come closer to her ideal. If so, that insight was not to be dismissed lightly, but savoured and considered with the greatest care.

For the man was Prince Marius. And the opportunity might arise – or be made to arise – to meet him again.

Strictly speaking the Queen Anne public house was named after an eighteenth-century monarch, but it had received a new lease of life with her formidable namesake, the grandmother of the present King. The swinging sign outside, a sop to heritage laws, showed a haughty woman with the prominent nose and receding chin of her clan, characteristics that had been corrected in subsequent generations. Indoors, tradition was maintained, with wood panelling, sawdust floors and the odour of ale, tobacco and sweat. Nor did the royal connections do the pub any harm, for it was the favourite watering place of officers of the Metropolitan Police from the nearby station. Even after retirement they would drift in for companionship and solace.