The South Lawn Plot (25 page)

Manning leaned over and hesitated.

“Yes, go ahead,” Evans said impatiently.

Manning lifted Evans off the ground, trying not to push her already short skirt any higher above her knees.

“Strong boy,” Evans said. She almost purred.

Manning glanced over his shoulder in search of support. Voles, however, had gone back to the front door of the house.

“Let's get you in the door, Ambassador. Then we can try putting a bit of weight on that ankle. It doesn't appear to be broken, although you might have to inspect the place in your stocking feet,” he said.

“I've inspected quite a few places in my stocking feet,” Evans replied with a look that could not easily be interpreted.

Manning did not respond. Despite the fact that Evans was a little heavier than she appeared, he was concentrating on reaching the door.

“Pity the place isn't furnished yet, Eamonn. If it was, you would quickly see the possibilities and potential of our new home.”

“I'm sure it's going to look really grand,” he replied. Evans was flirting with him. She was smiling at him as they reached the door.

“Carry me across the threshold,” she cooed.

Manning ignored the instruction. Gently, he placed Evans back on her feet. Her ankle held, though she made a pouting face.

“Oh well,” she said, “the days of gallantry would appear to be well and truly gone. Sometimes I wish I lived in a time when men knew how to treat a lady. The seventeenth century. That's my time, Eamonn. I would have done well in the palace of the Sun King, don't you think?”

“I'm sure, Ambassador, you would have dazzled old Louis himself. Mind as you go, the floors look polished enough for Versailles.”

H
OW, PENDER WONDERED
, was it possible to compare a mile in the desert of Arabia to one on an English moor? How much energy was expended over the scorched sand as opposed to, say, the trampled grass of Clapham?

The book was resting on his lap, and he, in turn, was resting in a lazy boy chair in the apartment that was to be his domicile in New York for as long, well, as long as it took.

It had, he thought, been a campaign defined in great part by distance, the great empty spaces between Mecca and Medina, Jiddah and Aqaba, Abu ash Shahm and Damascus. Spaces spanned on the back of a dromedary.

Arabia in the Great War had been the very antithesis of the overcrowded butcher's shop, Flanders. It had been an endless place for unbounded heroes like Lawrence of Arabia.

Pender fixed his eyes on the spackled white space of the ceiling and the light fixture that looked like some instrument of medieval torture.

“No prisoners,” he said, aiming his right forefinger at the offending device.

It would be a goner, he thought, if he were staying in the place long. But he wouldn't be. The plan was for a quick tour of beauty spots in the New England area while he awaited news on the White House gathering. Then it would be total attention to the operation, his very last hurrah.

Pender raised himself a little in the chair and closed the book. He knew all this was pretty typical: target or targets revealed and then days of absolutely nothing. As was usually the case, he resisted asking himself why. But it was hard not to wonder. Were the president and prime minister both targets, or were they merely testing his nerve?

Perhaps the real target was someone else, or some other persons. No, it was Spencer and Packer. Yet the question that was far bigger than why was how. And where. It could only be in Washington, the White House, the most secure address on the planet. So how was he to accomplish his task undetected?

It was only after turning the same questions over and over in his mind without being able to come up with anything approaching satisfactory answers that Pender realized that the light outside had faded. Manhattan was edging into its night. He stared out the window at the lighted apartments across the street. It took several seconds for him to realize that the phone that was ringing was his, or at least the one in the apartment.

“Hello,” he said.

The voice at the other end was female, English accented and a little hesitant. When he returned the phone to its mount a few moments later, Pender smiled. The consulate, curious as always, was throwing out its welcome mat. And of course he had responded in kind, agreeing to pop in to meet with the press office team, the consul general too, of course. Tomorrow morning would be fine, he had told the woman at the other end of the line.

Pender's apartment was twenty minutes walk from the British consulate, an anonymous outpost in a Third Avenue office tower. As he covered the blocks the following morning, just before his eleven o'clock appointment, Pender allowed himself a few tourist moments, though he had decided not to take along a camera, not even a pocket digital.

He was off duty. Nevertheless, his eyes took in buildings, shafts of light and reflection in glass, people and traffic, the mood of the morning. He had slurped down two cups of instant coffee, minus his usual milk, but no food because the apartment was devoid of even a crumb. So now he was feeling hungry. Hopefully, he thought, someone would offer him breakfast at the consulate. If not, he was fully prepared to buck protocol and ask.

Rounding a street corner he saw his destination. The giveaway was an oversized union flag with the royal crest moving gently in the light breeze. Moments later, Pender walked into the foyer of the building. After announcing himself and producing his passport, as advised by the previous night's caller, he walked to the bank of elevators and took one to the appropriate floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, Pender glanced to his left. There was a reception office behind bullet proof glass and a small waiting room to one side of it. He walked up to the glass pane, waited a moment while a man in front of him was directed to an adjacent waiting area and announced himself to the young woman behind the screen. After speaking into a phone, she directed him to a sealed waiting room, a kind of airlock, between the public area and the inner offices. Pender sat and waited. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Jet lag would take a few days to shake.

He had known diplomats in a number of countries, not all of them Her Majesty's. A few years back, and he remembered this with a split second smile, he had been hired to assassinate one. Not a real diplomat of course, just a thug from an African country that had more or less disintegrated after years of civil war. He had not carried out his instructions, simply because somebody else had done the job before him, thus erasing the man's diplomatic immunity and, according to some accounts, just about every other aspect of his being.

“Hello. You must be Mr. Pender.”

Pender, eyes still shut, had not seen the young man with the oversized red tie who had opened the inner door and was now standing just inches away with an inquisitive look on a face that, by the look of it, had yet to meet twenty-five, never mind thirty.

“That's me,” said Pender, slowly getting up.

The greeter smiled in return without revealing his teeth.

“Jonathan Eccles,” he said. “Press section. Very nice to meet you.”

Eccles offered his hand and Pender returned the gesture. The handshake was firm to the point of being forced.

“Let's go in, shall we?” Eccles said, turning quickly to the inner door.

Pender followed Eccles into the consulate's office area, past various glass walled fiefdoms, what appeared to be a storeroom and at a point where the corridor took a sharp turn, a large office with an especially large map of the United States on the wall. The map was peppered with colored pins.

“Our secret agents, I suppose,” Pender said.

Eccles did not respond. He was about to collide with a blonde woman with her back turned who was picking up a pile of files outside another office door.

“Jane, sorry, well, I'd like you to meet Mister Pender the famous photographer. Jane Hurst, this is.”

“Welcome to New York,” Hurst said before Eccles could finish his sentence. She had turned quickly and was now standing straight. She ignored Eccles but only, it seemed, to insult the visitor.

Pender made a quick assessment. A little over the hill, almost married but never did; in dire need of a wild night.

“You're not one of those dreadful paparazzi,” she said.

“No,” Pender replied. “I just shoot the anonymous, anonymously.”

It would have been difficult for anyone but an especially sensitive subject
of Pender's response to detect the barely noticeable hint of literal seriousness. Eccles certainly did not, but Jane Hurst adopted an odd, questioning look on her face before returning to her files. She had sensed something, but it was evident that she could not follow through on her instinctive reaction to the half smile and narrowed eyes that had accompanied Pender's reply.

“As long as you weren't chasing Princess Diana. Jonathan, be a dear and help me with these.”

Eccles winced. “In a minute Jane,” he said. “I have to take our guest to see Mark.”

Jane Hurst nodded and darted back into her office, closing the door quickly behind her.

A few paces farther down the hall the two men came to another door that was half way ajar. Pender paused and took a look inside. It was a room larger that any so far and was filled with a long conference table. Behind a glass partition at the near end there was what appeared to be a sound studio.

“Conferences, monitoring news, recording and that sort of thing. We have just installed a new generation of video phones. An awful bloody nuisance, if you ask me. You have to look happy on the damn things even when you're pissed off,” said Eccles, chattily. “But please, just a little more,” he said, motioning Pender to follow.

“Ah, here we are,” he said after a few more paces. They had arrived at another large corner office. The door was closed, and Eccles knocked it gently with his knuckles before opening it.

Sitting behind a desk and backed by yet another map of the United States was a slim, prematurely balding man who, in contrast to Eccles, didn't look too much short of forty.

“He's here,” said Eccles, nodding for emphasis and stepping into the room so as to allow Pender free passage.

The man behind the desk jumped to his feet and positively scampered around the desk.

“Mark Robinson, head of press. Good to meet you. I've long admired your work,” he said, hand outstretched.

Pender returned the gesture. “Not all of it, I'm sure,” he said. “Some of my work, well, it never sees the light of day, I'm afraid.”

“Oh well,” said Robinson, “but what does certainly has had the most enormous impact. I can tell you that some of your photos have had a direct
effect on government attitude and, dare I say it, policy in one or two instances. Picture worth a thousand words and all of that. By the way, I think we met once before.”

“Could have,” said Pender. “You do look a little familiar. Middle East perhaps?

“Ever in Rome?”

“Yes, a few times.”

“Ah, and you attended an embassy reception on one of your visits. Do you recall, it was about five years ago?”

“Well, yes, vaguely,” Pender responded. He felt uncomfortable because he was uncertain.

“Yes,” said Robinson. I think we talked about churches and such. You were on a bit of a tour. You're Roman Catholic if I remember correctly.”

“Just Catholic. And lapsed,” said Pender, folding his arms in impatience. Robinson did not take the hint.

“Sorry. But you know where we come from, always the geographic prefix. I'm Catholic myself in fact. Lapsed as well, though. Very lapsed.”

“You're in the right town then.”

“Yes indeed,” said Robinson, laughing. “Better than Kabul for sure. Anyway, I'm delighted you popped over. I'm aware of your interest in this Washington bash. It will be at the White House, that's confirmed now. We've put together the guest list, and invitations have been posted. You're on the press list, of course, delighted that you will be there. In the meantime, however, you'll have a little time to fill. Are you planning on staying all the while in New York?”

“No,” said Pender. “I'll be heading up to New England for a few days, Maine in particular. It's for a coffee table book. A break from, well, you know.”

Robinson nodded.

“Maine is wonderful, though I've not been. By the way, and you're probably the first to hear this, but the prime minister will be at the White House event as will of course the American president and perhaps the Irish prime minister, though we're not quite sure about that yet. It should be quite the occasion, memorable for sure.”

Pender turned slightly and stared out the office window.

“I have not the slightest doubt that it will be.”

“Y
ou WOULD THINK
that at this stage of the game we would have someone on hand to scan a room for bloody bugs.”

Manning was standing beside the window staring outwards. The air outside was shimmering. It was close to a record heat wave for May.

For a few moments Nesbitt did not respond. He was scanning a speech that Evans was due to deliver at a conference.

“Well,” he said eventually, “strictly speaking, if you're going to bring in spooks to your embassy, you have to clear it first with the Americans, because we're friends, not enemies you understand.

“Then there's the matter of all the technical gizmos that would be used to sweep a building. We would probably have to hire them, and that would get around. One thing the government likes is the fact that the world doesn't worry too much about us having much of an intelligence operation.

“We don't have an MI6, CIA or SDECE and that can be an advantage sometimes. You would be surprised what little gems we've picked up over the years by virtue of simply not being taken notice of. It's a case of what the butler saw rather than what the bug heard. But anyway, that's the way it is, so we hire what's his name, Mr. G-Man, Voles.”

“I wasn't able to track him as he went through the building,” said Manning.

“What if he's freelancing for the Brits as well? He could just as easily plant a bug for them as find one for us.”

Nesbitt nodded. “That's true. But he would also know that one of us might suspect that and check his work out. He needs a good reputation to keep his business going. If he was double dealing it would eventually become apparent, and that would be the end of his work in this town. Besides, I got a look at his bill. He certainly doesn't need to double dip.”

Manning shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, nobody gets to listen in on her ladyship's midnight adventures. Meanwhile, the days are dropping like flies. This trade conference at the White
House is turning into a monster. And the hilarious thing is that the guest of honor is some Taiwanese guy who might not have a country by then. I hope his money is in Switzerland. June thirteenth, that's not much more than a month away. I assume that downstairs and our British and American friends got the invitations out.”

Nesbitt looked up. “I believe they went out last week actually. But you're right. I hardly see this affair going on if mainland Chinese troops are swarming through the streets of Taipei. Why would the guy possibly be thinking of Belfast? Why is he thinking of it in the first place?”

“I would think that's obvious,” said Manning, half turning towards his colleague. “He's moving his operations out of Taiwan to London. I'll bet he's in line for British citizenship if he hasn't got it already. The rich always get to flee before the storm. It must be getting pretty hairy at State, and across the river. The Americans are getting very worked up over all of this.”

“As you would expect,” said Nesbitt. “Still, it must be exciting for their diplomats. I hope it doesn't sound perverse, but I envy them in a way in times like this. Maybe we'll end up in a war with Andorra, or Lichtenstein. Battle of the mice.”

Manning let out a snort. “I can't speak for Lichtenstein but I met a guy from Andorra in Brussels a few years back. I would not underestimate a people who have spent history scrunched up between the French and the Spanish. We could easily lose that scrap.”

Nesbitt did not respond. He had set down the text of the ambassador's speech and had moved on to
The Washington Post
.

“Jesus, this Taiwan business is getting serious,” he said. “It seems to be running away from everybody. The Chinese look like they are gearing up to level Taipei with missiles, and the Yanks are calling up every aircraft carrier they can muster.

“It's hard to know what to make of it. I see here they are not even talking to each other on the Security Council. The Brits are four square behind the Americans of course, but the French are being awkward and the Russians are just sitting on their hands. This thing could really go off; world war bloody three.”

“Yeah,” said Manning. “I'm sure the Americans are sorely pissed off with the Taiwanese for pushing this independence idea to the edge. They would rather things went on as they were,
ad infinitum
.”

“The Security Council is convening tonight,” said Nesbitt, turning to an
inside page. “Pity we're not on it at the moment. That would be fun for the boys and girls up in New York. They would be eyewitnesses to history. Where were you, daddy, when the world ended?”

“It's not going to go that far,” Manning said. “This is going to be like the Cuban Missile Crisis. The Chinese will back down.”

Nesbitt, his head almost hidden behind the open newspaper, let out a low humming noise. It was his way of neither agreeing, nor disagreeing.

“I'm not so sure you're right,” he said. “Stranger things have happened. Put it this way, the Chinese unleash a salvo of rockets. Say they demolish a few high profile buildings in Taipei, the stock market and a big bank or two. What do you think all the moneybags tycoons in the place are going to do then?

“They'll be right up the arses of every politician who clings to even the barest notion of independence. Next thing, somebody proposes a revised referendum with two questions: Independence, or a Hong Kong-style deal with twenty years of near absolute autonomy, preservation of the capitalist system and eventual union with the motherland, and everyone's happy.

“Let's face it, all the original Kuomintang guys are either dead or pickled. As long as they can go on making money I don't think the real movers and shakers in Taiwan are going to lose much sleep at night. What they want is to be independent from the kind of uncertainty that has hung over the place for years. And the Americans would be delighted with all this. They would be off the hook, and a major stumbling block to even more trade with China would be kicked back into the Ming Dynasty. I think the Chinese know exactly what they are at, and I think they will get what they want. Okay, so there's no out and out war, but the Olympics are ancient history, Beijing is on to a far bigger big project, reunification, and I think they are going to get it. We could have done this years ago with Northern Ireland if we had a four-million-man army.”

Manning was laughing. “You know, Frank, I really think the world's nations should elect you dictator. Planet Earth would be a better place with you giving the orders. Even Evans might be convinced after a few days of
Pax Nesbitt
. But I'm still not so sure. You might be underestimating Packer.”

“He's a tough bastard all right, and maybe just a little crazy,” said Nesbitt. “And his people in Congress are wearing a lot of war paint. I would agree that he might just ram himself into the middle of the Taiwan Straits and force the Chinese to back off. But that's expecting a lot from the Chinese. You know this whole saving face thing.”

“I think he's a bluffer, though a good one,” Manning responded. “Remember
that coup down in central America last year? He was going to send in the cavalry one minute, and then he just ignored it, let it slide.”

“That just means he might simply be smart. Doesn't like to blunder into things,” Nesbitt retorted. “Besides, he never went this far in that coup. This time it's different. The US Navy is already in harm's way, and the Taiwan Straits are becoming so crammed with ships that they could start colliding any minute for sheer lack of space. I think we're looking at a dust-up, and it could go all the way, pal.”

“Maybe you're right. Time to head for the hills. Speaking of dust-up. I think I see the very man right now,” said Manning, his face against the window and eyes looking out to his left.

“It's Packer's helicopter, what do they call it, Marine One. Yep, there's the second one and the third can't be far behind. He's taking the long way around from Andrews or wherever. Looks like he's heading home for his lunch. Christ, must be great to have your own helicopter.”

Nesbitt put down his newspaper. “I suppose it is,” he said. “Check them out. If he's mounted machine guns on the sides of those things it means we're definitely going to the mattresses. I fancy a bit of lunch myself. Are you hungry?”