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  ‘Tell me why,’ Pagan said.

  ‘Some years back, two, three, there was some talk about a group inside the Embassy that called itself The Undertakers. Upper-case U, Frank. They apparently specialized in such jolly pastimes as character assassination. Blackmail. They laundered money when it needed to be done. They were not above dipping their fingers in the waters of British politics either, when it served their purpose. I heard of one government minister – and perhaps this is apocryphal – whose taste for small boys led to him being coerced by The Undertakers into seeking certain highly favourable tax concessions for American corporations doing business on these shores. There were said to be rather delicate photographs.’ Burr paused, coughed into his hand. ‘There’s more, of course. Rumours have a way of spawning themselves and multiplying. The Undertakers, when necessary, would arrange accidents. They would make people disappear. They were reported to be very good at this kind of thing. Distance no obstacle. Anti-American radicals in Europe, fugitives from US justice and so forth.’

  Pagan was jolted into the realization he’d been thinking wrongly, he’d gone along with Foxie’s quite reasonable assumption that ‘the undertakers’ was Streik’s euphemism for people intent on killing Harcourt. But Burr’s information had turned this supposition upside-down. ‘Do you believe such a group existed?’ Pagan asked. ‘That it still exists?’

  ‘Frank, it was never more than one of those whispers that just breeze across your desk and pass on into oblivion. Nobody really knew how the story got started, but it went the rounds, then faded away, and I hadn’t even thought about it until I heard this tape. Never take scuttlebutt as gospel, Frank. You know better.’

  ‘But if they exist, it’s possible that the oddball Embassy personnel you mentioned are part of them.’

  ‘Possible, of course. In the sense that anything’s possible. But even if they exist, what in the world can you do about it? What can anyone do? The Embassy isn’t going to come out and admit it. Caan certainly isn’t going to sit you down and say, Well, Frank, what do you want to know about The Undertakers?’ Burr shook his head emphatically from side to side. ‘Besides, Caan’s position would certainly be one of official ignorance. There might be dirty work going on inside the Embassy – but it’s down in the basement, so to speak. Caan breathes a more rarefied air, I’m sure. It’s even possible that he doesn’t know what’s happening in his own cellar. Or he turns a blind eye to it. He’s the Ambassador, after all. How can he possibly be associated with illicit activity? You see the problem, Frank. Where do you point the finger? Where do you place culpability? You don’t, because you can’t.’

  Pagan let an echo of Streik’s message play inside his head. The only conclusion he could draw from it was that Harcourt and Streik had somehow crossed The Undertakers. Really useful. True progress.

  ‘Here’s what I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘If The Undertakers wanted Harcourt out of the way, how does Carlotta fit into the scheme of things? Did they hire her on a freelance basis to blow up the train?’

  Burr emitted a long sigh. ‘Frank. I couldn’t even begin to answer that one. I couldn’t begin to fathom the connections involved. For starters, you’d have to prove The Undertakers exist …’

  Burr was correct, of course. The Undertakers were eminently deniable, a fiction, a myth created by those people – and there were more than a few in the world – whose principal occupation was to disparage all things American. Where did this leave him? Fistfuls of sand, grainy particles of information that seeped through his fingers. Frustration, sheer and bloody.

  ‘Herself wants us to hie off to bloody Tangiers for a holiday,’ Burr said. The subject had been changed. The old man clapped his hand on Pagan’s shoulder. ‘Wants sunlight. Do the bazaars. Eat kebabs or whatever. I’m disinclined.’

  ‘Why?’

  Burr smiled. ‘Because I’m a funny old codger, Frank. I actually like England in the winter. It touches something in my heart. An expectation of spring. Renewal.’ He laughed, then tapped his cane on the floor with a gesture of finality. ‘Well. Come and see me again when it isn’t business.’

  ‘I will,’ Pagan said.

  ‘And tread carefully, Frank. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  Outside it was already dark. Pagan walked almost as far as Harrods before he found a taxi to return him to Golden Square. He was lost in contemplation, and the more he thought the more his reckonings diminished. When he stepped inside the taxi, his brain felt like an airless chamber.

  TWENTY-ONE

  LONDON

  THE BRITISH HOME SECRETARY, ARTHUR WESKER, DID NOT LIKE THE American Ambassador. This hostility was rooted in the relationship between Britain and the United States; while the former had shrunk in worldly significance, Wesker thought the latter imagined itself a strutting global policeman, the planet’s bully-boy. The Home Secretary, a man with a Lancashire accent and horn-rimmed glasses, tried to suppress an assortment of resentments. His working-class background, the way he pronounced his vowels, the fact he felt drab in contrast to the well-dressed William Caan – these matters grieved him.

  George Nimmo, who sat facing the two men at a table in the Home Secretary’s club – an oak-panelled room festooned with artless oil paintings of former members who’d achieved some kind of fame, notoriety, or total obscurity – seemed totally at ease with the Ambassador, a fact Wesker ascribed rather grudgingly to Nimmo’s expensive education. George would be comfortable around men of power, of course. It was a class thing.

  The Home Secretary scratched his head and flakes of dandruff showered the shoulders of his jacket. His suit was creased, another source of rancour, because Caan was fastidious in appearance, looking as if he were freshly shaved and showered. The American’s thick silver hair had been blow-dried. He wore a gold wrist watch, which the Home Secretary considered brassy.

  Caan had an easy kind of charm, though. You had to give him that. He spoke very gently, and without any visible evidence of annoyance. ‘It’s my understanding,’ he said, ‘that your police had questions to ask of Al Quarterman.’

  The Home Secretary, passing the leaden buck, looked at Nimmo. Nimmo said, ‘As part of the ongoing investigation into the explosion – yes.’

  ‘And this ongoing investigation is a licence for your man Pagan to kick down the door of Bryce Harcourt’s apartment and rummage among the dead man’s effects?’

  Nimmo had known nothing of doors being kicked down. The information rattled him. He said, ‘Pagan is sometimes a little crude, I’m afraid.’

  Caan smiled. ‘I am not criticizing you personally, Mr Nimmo. George, isn’t it? Do you mind? Call me William. God knows, cops can be overenthusiastic at times, George. Zealous. They have a difficult job to do. Our own policemen sometimes act with too much fervour. It’s a common fact, undeniable. I’m thinking of certain events that were videotaped in Los Angeles not so long ago. These things happen in the heat of the moment. And you can’t always oversee the behaviour of those under you.’ Caan adjusted his shirt cuffs, and more gold glinted.

  The Home Secretary looked at George Nimmo. First-name terms already, George and William. Wesker felt as if he were the non-member here, when in fact George and William were his guests at his club. ‘I think the Ambassador is being very agreeable, George.’

  ‘And why not? Allies shouldn’t squabble,’ Caan remarked amiably. He looked at George Nimmo. ‘I simply wonder why it was necessary to question Quarterman. Al had already gone to see your man Pagan to say that he thought Harcourt was killed in the miserable Tube business. The next thing, Pagan goes over to Hampstead, enters Harcourt’s apartment without a warrant, then arranges a meeting with Al. The tragic outcome …’ The Ambassador lit a small black cheroot. ‘Anyone mind?’

  Nobody minded. The Ambassador could have rolled himself a joint of Acapulco Gold and nobody would have minded. He sucked in smoke, exhaled a pale blue stream.

  Nimmo said, ‘Pagan suspected Harcourt was involved in s
ome kind of abnormal activity.’

  ‘Abnormal. Do you mean Bryce was trying to solicit sexual favours in the men’s room at Victoria Station? Or do you mean his tastes ran to bondage and handcuffs?’

  The Home Secretary smiled dutifully. Nimmo laughed in the brayingly jolly way he sometimes used.

  ‘By abnormal, of course you mean illegal?’ Caan asked.

  ‘Illegal, yes.’

  ‘What laws did Bryce break?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure. I don’t presume to intrude on my senior officers’ investigations. Frank Pagan obviously had a reason for thinking Bryce Harcourt had been involved in illegal activity. I have faith in his judgement, although I often question his approach. But in general, I do not disrupt the inquiries of any senior officer.’

  The Home Secretary looked away. Nimmo was amazing when it came to barefaced lying. A waiter glided past with a silver tray and the Home Secretary ordered three glasses of port.

  Caan smoked his cheroot. ‘Gentlemen, look,’ he said. ‘It is not within my jurisdiction to interfere with the operations of the British police. Quite the opposite. I simply represent my country’s interests in the UK. That’s as far as I go. That’s my job description. But when it comes to my own personnel, clearly I have an obligation. I’ll look into Harcourt’s affairs in the office. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’

  The Home Secretary leaned forward, took out his shabby old briar pipe, and filled it with tobacco. Shreds from the leather pouch spilled across his trousers. He’d begun to feel detached from the situation around him. His motto in life was to sit back and let other people take care of business. Nimmo and Caan could deal with this between themselves. They seemed to talk each other’s language. Besides, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place if it hadn’t been for the fact that Her Majesty’s Government took a dim view of dead American diplomats. He wished he was back in Lancashire walking his labradors on the moors, throwing sticks for them to fetch, which was his favourite mode of recreation.

  Nimmo looked at the Ambassador. ‘I propose that we keep you informed of any further investigation that might involve Embassy personnel. With the Home Secretary’s permission, of course.’

  ‘Permission granted,’ said Wesker. ‘No question.’

  ‘The spirit of co-operation,’ Caan said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Nimmo stared down into his glass of port a moment. ‘When our interests trespass on yours, you’ll be the first to know. You’ll have advance warning.’

  ‘That’s all I want to hear,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Now my mind’s at rest. I can enjoy this fine port. Cheers.’ He sipped from his glass; the port was utterly wretched, but he swallowed it anyway. He set the drink down and gazed at Nimmo. ‘As a matter of interest, how is the investigation going?’

  Nimmo said, ‘We know the kind of explosive used. And a certain name has popped up in connection with the incident, but there’s no certainty.’

  ‘May I ask what name?’ Caan stubbed out his cheroot. ‘Or am I out of line?’

  ‘Carlotta,’ Nimmo said quietly.

  Caan looked off into the middle distance in a slightly glazed manner. ‘Carlotta? Are you sure? She hasn’t surfaced in years.’

  Nimmo said, ‘Maybe Pagan’s barking up the wrong tree. I don’t know.’

  ‘Carlotta belongs to the era of bell-bottom jeans and hashish and toke pipes,’ said Caan. He forced a little smile that seemed to Wesker – who wondered what a toke pipe was and decided it had to be a form of American slang – altogether insincere. ‘I think of Carlotta and I smell incense.’

  ‘I think of Carlotta,’ said the Home Secretary, ‘and I smell blood.’

  Caan was quiet for a time. He looked at his watch, then stood up. ‘Well, gentlemen. Sorry this had to be so brief. I must run.’ He shook Wesker’s hand, and then Nimmo’s and said, ‘We’ll talk again soon, George.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nimmo agreed.

  When Caan had gone, Wesker said, ‘Bugger didn’t finish his port. Oh, well,’ and he reached for Caan’s glass, wiped the rim with a paper napkin, and drained the drink himself. ‘Waste not want not, George.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  LYON

  JACOB STREIK PULLED HIS CAR TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. HE LOOKED at the road sign blearily. Lyon 36km. What was that – about twenty miles? He’d never been at ease in the metrical world in spite of the years he’d spent going in and out of Eastern Europe. It was as if he wanted to retain a part of himself that was just plain old American, a guy happy with ounces and yards and pints. Yessiree.

  OK. He’d find a phone book somewhere. He’d look up Audrey’s number. He’d call. But he’d be circumspect, he’d use one of their old codes. And if there was any kind of problem she’d let him know. That was Audrey. Loyal. Consistent. She wouldn’t let him down.

  He continued to drive. Fifteen kilometres from the city limits he parked at a filling station. The afternoon had turned dark, a cold wind blew across the narrow highway, the stripped branches of trees roared in a field where a lonesome horse stared at him with a frigid baleful look.

  He hurried inside the public call-box. There was no directory. No goddam directory! He dashed across the forecourt, battered by the wind. A squeaking fuel sign swung back and forth overhead. He hesitated for a while before he decided to risk going inside the station. What if? What if his face was famous, notorious all across France? Shit, he needed to get to a phone book.

  Sucking air deeply, he went in the building, a concrete box, where an old geezer with an oxygen bottle attached by plastic tubes to his nose was writing in a ledger. He raised his face at Streik. The bottle, fixed by a harness to his side, made a slight hissing sound, like a bad lung.

  ‘Monsieur?’ he asked in a raw voice.

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Anglais? Non. Pas d’anglais. Je regrette.’

  ‘OK. Watch my hands.’ Streik mimed making a phone call. The old guy smiled and pointed across the forecourt to the call-box.

  Streik sighed and tried to be patient. ‘Look. There’s no directory. Understand? No phone book. No … Christ, no livre.’

  ‘Livre?’

  ‘Livre des nombres?’ Streik asked hopefully.

  The man pondered Streik’s words; he had to be in an advanced state of emphysema. Streik hadn’t heard anyone rattle like this guy before.

  ‘Nombres du telephone?’ Streik asked.

  ‘Ah ah ah.’ The old guy opened a drawer and produced a phone directory. Streik began to thumb the pages. He flicked quickly to the Rs. What if she’d married, changed her name? What if she was unlisted? He thumbed through the flimsy sheets. Audrey Audrey, where are you?

  R–R–R. He ran his index finger down the names – and there mercifully it was. Rozcak, Audrey. He took out a ballpoint pen and scribbled the number on the back of his hand, then dumped the book on the counter and hurried outside into the black howling wind, which tugged at his jacket, yanked at his pants, threatened to blow him off the face of the earth like a dirigible in a storm. Jacob Streik, lost in space.

  Inside the call-box he fumbled with coins, dialled the number, listened to the ringing tone for a long time. She isn’t home, he thought. She’s out. Shopping. Dinner. Possibilities tumbled down the concentrated chute of his brain like silver dollars from a slot machine. And then, praise Jesus, praise Jesus, she answered.

  ‘Hello.’ The voice was unmistakable, hoarse and smoky.

  Streik took a deep breath and asked, ‘I wonder if they have any vacancies at the Adria?’

  There was a long pause. Streik tried to picture Audrey’s face and wondered how long it had been since they’d last met. Eight years? Nine?

  She said in a whisper, ‘Do you mean the Adria in Wenceslas Square?’

  ‘Is there any other?’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Close. Meet me. I want you to meet me. Name a place, I’ll find it.’

  ‘You know the area?’

  ‘Like the backsi
de of the moon.’

  ‘Rue du Plat. There’s a bookshop. The Eton. Do you think you can find it?’

  Streik was assailed by a feeling of being hopelessly lost. Lyon could have been Rio or Adelaide for all he knew. He might venture into the unknown and roam for ever down one-way streets and become trapped in endless grids and never find the Rue du Plat and this Eton bookshop.

  She said, ‘Ask anybody for the Place Bellecour if you get lost. Rue du Plat’s right alongside it.’

  ‘Bellecour.’

  ‘Right. I’ll wait for you inside the bookshop. There’s underground parking at the Place, if that’s any help.’ She hung up.

  Streik stepped out of the call-box and hurried to his car. The horse in the field was gazing at him as if they were comrades in adversity, man and horse against the fiendish elements. Streik wished he could saddle the beast and ride off to far horizons. Hi-ho, Silver.

  He got in his car. Paralysis gripped him. He shut his eyes and laid his damp forehead against the steering wheel and saw with great clarity the eager young face of the German hitch-hiker and suddenly he was consumed by sorrow and guilt. He remembered firing the pistol and seeing the kid fall, remembered the ID card in the wallet; he felt sick to his heart. All this was strange to him, this struggle with conscience. Nerves, that was it. I don’t have time for this, this is too much of a luxury, this wallowing. He heard the wind whip round the car, watched the fuel sign swing, a metal disc brutalized by the weather.

  The Adria in Wenceslas Square. Old passwords, old keys. Often they were different. Would you recommend the Koruna Hotel at Opatovicka 16? How’s the grub at the Restaurace V Krakovske? Krak. Kracking up.

  He rolled down his window and let the biting air have his face. The wind stung his eyes, clawed his nose and lips. What if Audrey was being followed? What if she was being watched? No. She’d have said something on the phone. Most assuredly she’d have found a way of warning him. That was Audrey. She wouldn’t let him walk into a trap. Unless. Unless she didn’t know she was being watched. No way. She had terrific instincts about such things. She had a brain like a goddam satellite dish, always picking things up out of the clear blue nowhere.