The South Lawn Plot (19 page)

“E
AMOMN, DO SIT DOWN.
”

Evans beamed at Manning with her knock-down smile. Manning returned the gesture as best he could.

The British had been fit to be tied when Phillipa Evans had landed in Washington. She had been an instant hit on the diplomatic reception circuit. London's man was most notable for being, well London's man.

The British ambassador, Peter Price Jones, was, of course, a skilled and perfectly poised diplomat. In normal circumstances he would have been judged as ideal for the post; a little cautious perhaps and low key to the point of being borderline dull. He was solid, dependable, not one to drop the ball.

But matched against Phillipa Evans, an Irishwoman with a Welsh-sounding name, Jones, with his own Welsh-sounding name, seemed to merge with the nearest wallpaper. So did most of the rest of the in-town plenipotentiaries for that matter. Yes, Manning thought, we made the right move. The woman's a grand slam home run, a perfect game even if only half the rumors are untrue.

“Eamonn, I want you to meet Jake Voles. He's going to be helping us with our big move.”

Manning extended his hand a second time and Voles, who had remained standing, took it.

His handshake was strong, and Manning, who always made a point of looking a new acquaintance straight in the face, was immediately aware of intense blue eyes looking right back into his. Almost as if there was recognition, Manning sensed, before shifting his gaze to his boss.

“Sit down, both of you, please,” said Evans. “Coffee, gentlemen?”

Manning had a feeling he would be in the room for a while so he nodded in the affirmative. Evans poured him a cup from a pot she had sitting on a silver tray. Poured perfectly, with just enough cleavage showing as she leaned into the cup, Manning thought. Christ, what a flirt.

Voles nodded agreement to the offer of a cup and was similarly rewarded.

“Nice to meet you, Eamonn. Phillipa, the ambassador, tells me you are the man for all seasons in the embassy,” he said.

The two men were seated on one side of the ambassador's desk, but Evans had wheeled her chair around and was clearly intent on sitting herself down beside Voles, right beside as it turned out.

“Dog's body is another term for it,” Manning replied. He was smiling as he said it, his little jibe at Evans thus masked to the point of diplomatic acceptance.

“Eamonn's ability to meet and work with people is extraordinary. The Americans like him a lot. It helps, of course, when your wife is an American. Isn't that so Eamonn?”

Manning knew the game. Evans was reminding him that he was married and that she, in addition to being married herself, was out of reach. She wasn't making an innocent statement of fact, so much as teasing him.

“I've learned the lingua americana. But what about you, Jake? You're American. From around here?”

“New York born, but my family moved to California when I was fifteen. My dad was an early days Silicon Valley pioneer.”

“You're in computers, too?” Manning said.

“Yes, I was, indeed still am, but not in private business. I was in the FBI,” Voles replied.

“And before that Jake was in the United States Marines,” Evans said. She had a slightly dazed look on her face. To Manning's eyes it appeared that the ambassador wanted to throw all decorum out the window and tear the onetime G-Man's shirt off his body.

“Did you catch many bad guys?” said Manning.

“In a way I guess I did, but I was mostly in counter intelligence, working with computers, surveillance equipment, that sort of thing.”

Ah, a spook, Manning thought. Voles had the look of a man who had been places and seen things, not all of them routine. He had the feeling that he wasn't supposed to pry any deeper into G-Man's past, an idea that was confirmed when Evans came chirping in with an offer of more coffee.

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Manning said with mock politeness as he reached over with his cup and saucer.

Voles was clearly older, he thought. Probably in his mid-fifties. But he looked fit. A little under six feet and about 190 pounds. He had the air of a man who carried secrets.

Evans interrupted the silent assessment.

“I've explained to Jake that what we discuss in this room remains entirely within these walls.” Her demeanor had changed. She was staring purposefully at Manning, all business now.

“And that's precisely what's were going to be talking about,” she added. “Walls and what you can find in them. Jake now runs his own private security and intelligence company. He's going to be helping us out with our move to the new embassy. The building is large and right now undergoing preliminary reconstruction, and there's no telling what could end up in the place.

“We're not the Americans, and we're not the Russians, I know, but we do have interests from these past few years and, Pray God, a little money left, and that means the kind of information from time to time that some people would dearly like to get their hands on. And apart from that I have heard, believe it or not, that one of our fellow European Union embassies was bugged last year by a scurrilous gossip magazine. Would you believe it?”

Manning nodded gravely. He wasn't quite sure if Voles was necessary for the embassy of a small country with little strategic significance, but he could not argue with Evans over the possibility of talk of needed potential American investments being intercepted by another country, even a European Union friend and ally.

“Of course,” he said. “Welcome on board, Jake. Anything I can do to help you can depend on it,” he said.

“Splendid,” said Evans.

Voles nodded and smiled. “Looking forward to working with you, Eamonn.

Manning had the feeling that his role in the meeting had reached its end and stood up.

“I'll be in the office if you need me,” he said to Evans. She didn't reply. She was on her feet pouring more coffee for Voles. Slowly.

Manning let out air as he gently closed the door to the ambassador's office.

A shuffling sound on the winding staircase pulled Manning back from thoughts of Evans and her machinations. Frank Nesbitt, with whom Quinn was sharing an office until the move, was walking slowly up the stairs.

“Ah, stately, plump Frank Nesbitt,” Manning said.

“Only when I'm going in the other direction,” Nesbitt puffed. He was no athlete. Indeed he was something of a physical shambles. Manning, nevertheless, enjoyed his company. Nesbitt had more than an average talent for seeing right through people and the wall of formalities, clipped manners and nuance of everyday diplomacy. And he could do so in three languages.

“Your wife was on the phone,” said Nesbitt. He had stopped and was leaning heavily against the wall on one side of the stairwell. “She sounded a bit tired, I have to say. Have you been up to something?”

“Did you manage to tell her that I was at a wine tasting at the Romanian embassy? Something clever like that?”

“More or less,” Nesbitt replied. “How about a goat's cheese lunch with the Bulgarian ambassador?

“That would do,” Manning said as he began walking down the stairs. “Make sure you knock hard on the door. You wouldn't want to surprise the two of them. Phillipa had a look in her eye.”

“The Look,” said Nesbitt, with emphasis.

“The very same,” Manning replied. “Come back to the office when you're finished in there.”

“You can help me find that
Washington Post
editorial. It's in the pile somewhere, but it must be stuck under a paper clip on some other file. It bloody well always happens to something you need to get your hands on.”

“Doesn't it just,” said Nesbitt, turning slowly, his hand raised to knock on the ambassador's door. “What about looking for it online? Oh, never mind.”

Back in the shared office, Manning sat down heavily in his chair. His banter with Nesbitt had been precisely the kind of inconsequential exchange that he hoped would form a barrier between his present and future, and his past.

The more of it the better, he thought. Yet he well knew that such thinking was more than a little wishful. They wanted more from him and they would have it. But this would be the last time, yes, the very last time. He would tell them to take a hike; he would reveal everything to Rebecca, quit diplomacy and study law or something. He could be his father, the American version, Perry Mason with a lilt.

But for now he would simply call, check in with his wife and discuss the ordinary things, dinner tonight, Jessica's violin lesson. He hit the familiar numbers on his desk phone but only heard his own voice on the recorded message.

“Hi, it's me. Nothing much to report except just met an ex-G-Man. An interesting guy and I'll tell you more this evening. Call you back later. Love you.”

Manning replaced the receiver, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and rested his head on his cupped hands.

Evans clearly was planning for a lot of fuss and bother in the weeks ahead. Either the White House bunfight, or the move to the new embassy would, under normal circumstances, be more than enough to keep everybody busy. Both of them occurring more or less simultaneously, and on top of normal business, had all the ingredients of a logistical nightmare.

Manning sat up and ran his eyes over his notebook. His afternoon was more or less free. Evans had asked him to scan various invitation lists with a view to putting together a high level version for the White House reception, which, she had been led to understand, would be held on the South Lawn.

Cutting and splicing the various theme-based lists would be enough to pass the while. Manning already knew that one or two of the long familiar reception faces were, of late, deceased. If nothing else he would be able to deliver definite news to Evans about names and faces she would not need to remember.

Manning hit a key to reawaken his computer but as he did so his cell phone rang. He flipped it open and put the phone to his ear. He grimaced when he heard the voice, clear enough that it could be in the adjoining room.

“I thought I said you were never to call me here,” Manning said in a near whisper.

“It doesn't matter if it's my cell phone,” he hissed.

“Where?” he said after a short pause.

“Okay, all right. But this is positively the last time. After this I'm bloody well out.”

T
HE PLANE BANKED TO THE SOUTHWEST
. Far below, the ruddy brown land and lake landscape of Labrador signaled that the Atlantic had been crossed.

This British Airways 747 out of London's Heathrow was just one jet in the daily formation heading from Europe for the cities of the eastern United States and beyond. Its passenger manifest was made up of the usual assortment of people, all of them checked and vetted before being stowed in their seats for the transatlantic journey. Steven Pender did not stand out from the rest of them.

Pender was staring out of the cabin window, blinking in the glare 37,000 feet above the earth's surface. He could sense the pull of America, though the plane was still a good three hours from arrival at Kennedy. Looking away from the window he contemplated the plastic cup with the remains of what had passed for tea. His eyes returned to the news magazine on his pullout table.

The American president was pictured in the Oval Office, leaning back against the front of his desk, arms folded, the familiar determined jut to his jaw telling the world that nobody pushed him or the United States around.

The headline, “Dollars and Sense,” was an allusion to the president's reputation for seeing the world as a place where American business interests came before even the most hallowed policies of departments such as State and Defense.

William T. Packer, the article confirmed, was showing once again that he valued bottom line financial issues at home more than lofty foreign policy positions that many had believed were set in stone. When it came to Taipei versus Beijing, the writer was arguing that it was a matter of where the bucks accumulated rather than stopped. Right now, they were piling up fast because of new trade deals with Beijing. As a result, the reporter opined, much of the world was beginning to take the view that Taipei might be out of the loop to the point of being screwed.

The language wasn't quite so blunt, but Pender also read things into photos. He reckoned the president's pose in the Oval Office picture said much about the man. He was, Pender had concluded, not someone to lose sleep over ditching old friends if there was a new, bigger and more powerful partner waiting in the wings. Packer was a devious operator for sure, a right ornery bastard, an enormously successful politician.

“More tea sir.” It was more statement than question, and the stewardess was already leaning across the sleeping woman in the next seat, her metal teapot gripped firmly by her long fingers.

Pender was diplomatic. “Just a drop thanks.” He smiled at her and she at him. She poured, but he raised his hand for her to stop before the liquid reached the top of his plastic cup.

“Thank you,” he said.

Pender stared at the brew before his eyes turned to the cabin window. Yes, he thought, Packer was the kind of man who made enemies. And the more, the better. They would help provide the necessary cover for success in the upcoming operation.

Pender closed the magazine and returned to his book. His eyes stared at the page but his mind was wandering. By necessity, Pender's future, his life, would be anonymous. But it stood to be comfortable and that, he decided, was no mean compensation.

Pender was shaken from his thoughts as the aircraft shuddered. The fasten seat belts jingle carried through the cabin as the plane bobbed up and down in the unseen turbulence. The turbulence would be short lived, a crew member's reassuring voice announced on the intercom. But in the meantime the captain was advising everyone to remain seated with their seatbelts fastened.

The shaking had awakened Pender's neighbor, an impressively-sized woman who had fussed with things in her pocketbook before falling sound asleep after the dinner service. Pender had noticed that everything the woman had done since boarding the plane had been in neat and ordered segments. She had smiled at Pender when she first sat down but had said nothing since.

Now awake again, Pender reckoned, it would be time for her chat again.

“Was that turbulence? I was snoozing,” the woman said, her eyes fixed on Pender's tea.

“Oh, tea. What a good idea.”

Pender turned and half smiled. “I highly recommend it,” he said.

“Oh, you're English,” she replied at once. “I love the English. That was my third visit. What a wonderful, special country.”

“There's worse, I suppose,” said Pender, his eyes returning to his tea.

“I was visiting a friend,” the woman said. “She lives in a very nice apartment in London, or should I say a flat as you English do.”

“Apartment's fine. Everybody speaks a little American these days,” Pender responded, more or less pleasantly.

“Oh, but I'm not an American,” the woman said quickly. “I'm actually Canadian by birth though I have lived in the United States for most of my life. Must hold on to our heritage, I always say. I was born in a little town not too far from Toronto. And where are you from, Mister, um?”

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly awaiting Pender's revelatory response. Pender demurred.

“Ah, Toronto,” he said.

The woman nodded. She wasn't giving up.

“My name is Paula Neilson,” she said. “I live in New York, and I'm in banking, downtown, not far from where the World Trade Center towers once stood.”

She was throwing nuggets in succession, but Pender wasn't about to give anything back in a hurry. The plane shuddered as it encountered another pocket of turbulent air. Pender lost a little of his tea.

“Funny thing, isn't it?” he said, his eyes moving to the window, “The most turbulent air is always called clear. You wouldn't think there was anything out there at all to impede our progress. It's almost a vacuum.”

Paula Neilson was not about to be diverted.

“Did you say you were in Toronto? Is this your first visit to the United States?”

Pender turned and allowed himself to half smile. “No,” he said simply.

Paula Neilson let out a little sigh, but just as she was beginning to drift back to her bag and its eclectic contents, Pender gave her some slack. It was his habit to be parsimonious with personal information, but, yes, he did feel a little chattier in a plane. In a plane there was nowhere to go, nothing to do other than what everybody else was doing, and nothing to do about either of those limitations. Nothing, nothing, nothing; except, of course, to mentally plan out the more obscure details of the next job or take a little time to tease one's traveling companion.

He relented.

“My name, by the way, is Stephen Pender. I have been in the States quite a few times, a dozen or more. Wonderful country, great places to see, charming people,” he said.

Paula Neilson beamed.

“And I've been to Toronto. Fun town,” he added for good measure.

Neilson was beside herself.

“Oh, indeed it is. I still get up there on a fairly regular basis, once or twice a year. I have cousins,” she said. She was clearly, Pender reflected, fast approaching her own version of conversational full throttle.

Oh, what the heck; it would pass the time.

“Yeah,” he said, “and there are some great restaurants. What's the name of that place, the French one, Gaston's?

“Oh, I'm not sure if I know that one, but certainly there are some very good ones. Yes, Toronto is a fun place. They use it all the time for movies that are supposed to be set in New York, you know.”

Pender nodded and smiled.

“So I believe,” he said.

The conversation stalled for several seconds but Paula Neilson wasn't about to let go now.

“So, Mr. Pender, where do you stay in New York? A hotel? With friends?”

“I have an apartment, rented for the time I'm in town,” Pender replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It's self-catering, a bit like a home away from home.”

“Oh, yes,” Neilson replied. “That makes a lot of sense. Does it have a doorman?”

“I have not been there before, but I believe not,” Pender said. “It's self-catering right down to letting yourself in late at night.”

He was flirting now. He had noticed that Neilson was not wearing a wedding band and might be on the trail of an adventure. He just as quickly put thoughts of one out of his mind. This was not a pleasure trip.

The woman's eyes were fixed on his. He could sense it. She was building up to something. They were interrupted by the stewardess who was reaching across Neilson again with Pender's tea cup, now almost drained, squarely in her sights. She knew a good customer when she saw one and was clearly intent on emptying her teapot and stowing the wretched thing away.

“Oh, no, thank you,” Pender said in his best home county, his hand covering the cup.

The stewardess couldn't quite hide a little frown of disappointment.

Paula Neilson released another sigh, louder this time.

Jesus, Pender thought, I might have to use karate to keep all these women off.

It occurred to him that over the last few years he had not enjoyed much in the way of life's more obvious pleasures. Dalliances were awkward when on the job, sometimes too high a risk. Longer term affairs were a no-no. He had no doubt that his winning ways would work on Paula Neilson well before they landed. But she would have to wait for some future traveling companion.

Pender braced himself for the next question. He had a good idea what it would be. Neilson reached into her bag, rummaged for a few seconds and, with a small hoot of triumph, plucked a business card from its depths.

“This is me,” she said. “If you ever need a quick loan to smooth your way through New York's French restaurants just give me a holler.”

“Thank you,” said Pender taking the card.

“Senior Associate, very impressive.”

“I hate the word senior,” said Neilson. “By the way, I was meaning to ask you. What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Pender, Stephen?”

Now it was Pender's turn to draw in a breath. He turned and fixed Paula Neilson with narrowed eyes and a half smile.

“Very simple,” he said. “I shoot people.”