Wolf in Shadow-eARC (55 page)

“Is this legally binding?”

“Absolutely, I have every legal reason to believe Jameson has the proper authority to sign on behalf of his employer as a senior member of staff. Besides, do you really see them dragging this business through the courts?”

“No, indeed,” Frankie said, handing Rhian the note.

Rhian skipped the text and fastened on Jameson’s signature below a large figure that started with a pound sterling sign. She counted the zeros after the one, and then recounted to make sure she had got it right.

“We’re rich,” she said.

“Yes,” Gary replied, “but how much is London worth? On another note, my fortunes are a little low at the moment, being unemployed and homeless. I wonder if the two of you could see your way to paying me a negotiator’s fee, say three percent.”

Dead silence.

“One percent would do,” Gary said, somewhat desperately.

“Out of the question, don’t you agree, Rhian?”

“Absolutely,” Rhian replied.

Gary seemed to shrink. Rhian worried she and Frankie might have gone too far teasing him.

“Full partnership with one third of the assets backdated to last week or nothing,” Rhian said.

“Quite,” Frankie added.

“You bitches,” Gary said, laughing.

“I think you got a letter wrong there,” Frankie replied.

“I think not,” said Gary.

“We could do with a business manager,” Rhian said. “You leave the witchy stuff to us and concentrate on making money.”

“Well, I do have a few ideas,” Gary said. “With this bonus we could buy the Swan and do it up a bit. We convert part of the upstairs into a separate office for the magic investigation business. It looks amateur operating from home on a mobile phone.”

“We would need a name,” Frankie said, thoughtfully. “How about Witch and Wolf Investigations?”

Something deep inside Rhian growled. The wolf had firm ideas about hierarchical structures and her place in them.

“Wolf and Witch would make my life easier,” Rhian said. She gazed fondly at her partners, her family.

“I rather like The Snow White Agency,” Gary said.

“Yuk!” Rhian replied.

They walked off, arguing amiably as the Sun rose over the River Thames.

Gaston and Jameson watched Gary and the women walk away. The surviving troopers piled gear into the minivan, and Karla went to start the Jag.

“What about Shternberg?” Gaston asked.

“What about him?”

“He just walks away after causing this mess?”

“Probably. He hasn’t committed any crime we could charge him with, and he’s powerful protectors.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Gaston said stubbornly.

“We don’t do what’s right, sergeant. We do what we have to. You know that. Being right is for priests and politicians.”

“He might try something similar.”

“Shouldn’t think so, he has no real connections to magic and this adventure hardly worked out well for him.”

“He could have an accident,” Gaston suggested stubbornly.

“It would have to be a damn good one, considering who his friends are,” Jameson said, thinking about it. “Any suggestion of foul play or mysterious health problems and the SIS would have the black on us for years.”

Karla hooted the Jag’s horn.

“Your pet monster is getting fractious,” Gaston said. “Bye Major.”

Jameson climbed in beside Karla, who accelerated away with smoking wheels.

“Turn the traction control back on,” he said automatically, still thinking of his conversation with Gaston. “These tires cost two-hundred-and-eighty quid each.

Karla pouted, but did as she was bid.

“What was that piece of paper you signed for Frankie’s friend?” she asked, curious.

“Oh, shit!” Jameson said, remembering. “Randolph is not going to like this.”

A few weeks later Rhian got a phone call.

“Jameson, Miss Jones, remember me?”

“I am hardly likely to forget,” she replied. “I didn’t know you had my number?”

“It took some tracking down,” Jameson said. “But I have my methods.”

“No doubt,” Rhian replied. “But Frankie is out.”

“I know, on a weekend break in Norfolk with her pub manager.”

Rhian wondered if she detected just a hint of snobbery in Major Jameson’s, late of Cambridge and the Brigade of Guards, tone. She still was not familiar enough with all the variations in English accents and their convoluted class system to be sure.

“But it’s you I wanted to speak to,” Jameson said.

“Why?” Rhian asked, guardedly.

“Have you ever seen London by night?” Jameson asked.

“Of course,” she replied.

“From the air,” Jameson said.

“I’m not sure . . .” Rhian began.

“Karla will be with us,” Jameson said.

He obviously thought he was reassuring her, that he was not asking her out but it was a strange world where Karla’s presence was reassuring.

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Jameson said, taking her hesitation for acceptance and ringing off before she could refuse.

Jameson slid the Commission’s helicopter through the night sky over London. Rhian sat between him and Karla in the large machine. Jameson insisted that she sit up front, where she could get a good view. She would have preferred one of the rear seats.

She fiddled with the microphone on her neck. The only way to communicate was via the intercom. It was Rhian’s first trip in a helicopter, and she had not realized how noisy they were. No wonder the Queen flatly refused to fly in them.

“Do they often let you joyride in these things?” she asked.

“I’m working. I need to brush up my pilot skills,” Jameson replied.

“Especially after Wales,” Karla added.

Rhian waited for one of them to explain Wales but they didn’t, and she didn’t like to ask.

Karla had her hand on the radio. She didn’t punch any buttons, but the machine flashed through a number of frequency changes anyway. It sprang to life, and Rhian heard a voice in her headphones.

“London City Tower, London City Tower, this is Cessna Light G769 at Beacon 47B requesting clearance for takeoff, destination Le Touquet.

“G769? Isn’t that Shternberg’s plane?” Karla asked innocently.

“Good Lord, yes. What a coincidence,” Jameson said, with a grin.

“Who’s Shternberg?” Rhian asked.

“He’s the banker chappy who was behind all our recent problems. He put up the money that funded the unlicensed magical experiment we terminated with your help.”

“I see,” Rhian said.

“And you know how dangerous it is for amateurs to play with magic,” Jameson said, pointedly.

Rhian didn’t rise to the bait.

“I suppose he has to fly over to the Continent to start up some new rackets after his recent financial hit,” Jameson said.

“Cessna Light G769, this is London Tower. You are clear to takeoff. Watch for traffic at three thousand on reciprocal.”

“Confirmed.”

Jameson put the chopper into a tight turn and lost altitude, watching the Cessna via the gimballed night-vision camera slung under the helicopter’s nose. Rhian leaned over so she could see. The big helicopter closed rapidly on the small plane.

Karla hit the quick release on her harness. She took off her helmet and opened the cabin door.

“What?” Rhian exclaimed, making a grab for her.

Karla shrugged Rhian off, leaned out of the cabin, and looked down, watching the climbing Cessna. Rhian couldn’t reach Karla, so she unclipped her own harness and slid over the seats but she was too late. Karla jumped. Rhian stuck her head into the slipstream, blinking furiously to clear her eyes.

Karla adopted the paradrop spread until she stabilized. Then she folded her arms and dived down to intercept the light aircraft like a kestrel after a vole. She smashed into the thin material on the light plane’s cabin roof. She punched through with her arms, and the plane wobbled uncertainly. Karla held tight with one hand and tore a hole with the other. Wriggling, she crawled head first into the cabin.

The Cessna’s nose tilted and it banked, diving towards the Millennium Dome. Before it hit, the plane reversed and plunged into the dark loop of the Thames.

Stunned, Rhian got the door closed and strapped herself in.

“For a horrible moment I thought it would crash into Tony Blair’s Folly,” he said, his voice sounding relieved even over the headphones.

“It’s the perfect accident, a plane crash. Independent witnesses can vouch that the pilot took off alone. In the cockpit no one will find evidence of bombs or sabotage of any kind, just a dead pilot with his body broken in the impact. Shternberg’s mates in MI6 can suspect dire deeds, but they won’t be able to prove a thing.”

“But why am I here?” Rhian asked.

“You were in this from the start, so I thought you might like to see the finish. There was no way I was going to let the bastard get away with it.”

“Aren’t you frightened I’ll tell someone?” she asked.

“We all have our secrets, Miss Jones, you especially. Best to let sleeping wolves lie.” Jameson thought for a moment. “But I should keep this secret from Frankie. She suffers from possession of an overactive conscience.”

And he believes I don’t, Rhian thought. She considered and discovered that she didn’t give a tinker’s curse about Shternberg.

She looked out over the blaze of light that was London. Streams of cars flowed down the radial roads into the city’s heart like blood cells along arteries. London was still alive, thanks to her and her friends. What was a Shternberg compared to the greatest city in the world?

Jameson followed her eyes and guessed at her thoughts.

“London’s beautiful from the sky at night when she’s all lit up in her finery. She’s a raddled old wrinkled tart of a town, a bit past her best and a little tatty at the edges, but she still scrubs up well,” he said.

He raised a hand in salute.

“Here’s to your next two thousand years,” he said to the city.

The End