A Darker God (17 page)

They stood listening to the bursts of chatter and gusts of laughter as doors opened and closed; they enjoyed the sound of a string band which was suddenly joined by a bandonéon, guiding the players seamlessly from the
Merry Widow
waltz into a throbbing Argentinian tango.

“No,” said Letty. “We weren’t invited, but two of the cast told me they were expected here for a party. They weren’t deceiving me, evidently.”

“Probably on their third tango by now,” Gunning commented.

“I wonder what’s going on,” said Letty.

“Some shindig or other,” said Gunning. “They don’t need much of an excuse to shake out their epaulettes, starch their ties, and slip into their glad rags. I think it’s to do with an anniversary of something international … the Entente not-so-Cordiale most probably. Diplomats!” He spat out the word.
“Oozing around, flattering and fascinating each other … oiling the wheels of their own state’s juggernaut! Do they ever notice the vehicle they’re servicing so assiduously is heading straight for a war zone?”

“William! I don’t think …”

“Sorry, Letty! It’s my theory that if you got rid of all the embassies in the world you’d have a better chance of peace. They’re probably all in there negotiating alliances, planning invasions, redrawing borders, arranging transfers of populations. Doesn’t it occur to you that all those starving scrappits we passed on the way here were uprooted from their homelands by bureaucrats and their political masters?”

“William!”

Again he ignored her. Hadn’t even heard her, she thought. “How would you like your nationality assigned by a new line drawn on a map? One day you go to sleep knowing you’re Greek, speaking Greek, your family has tilled the land around you for generations, your friends and neighbours are all around you, but you wake up and find that overnight, you’ve become a Turkish citizen and must return to that homeland, leaving everything behind. And it’s all been decided according to your religion. If you worship in a mosque—that does it. Off you go. And, no—you can’t suddenly change religion … not allowed … not playing by the rules …

“If someone’s omitted to sharpen his pencil before the planning meeting, which will, of course, be convened thousands of miles away in a congenial place—like Lausanne—your village is no longer Greek and Christian, it’s Turkish and Muslim. And vice versa. You take to the roads in your donkey cart. And you pass other displaced souls coming in the opposite direction. Life or death at sea doled out by the pencilling-in of an arrow. Peacemaking? Warmongering? Do they make any distinction? Do they care so long as they get their patent-leather dancing shoe on the next rung of the ladder?”

Letty was speechless with embarrassment at his outburst, and it was the sergeant who picked up the pieces.

“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” he said, puzzled by Gunning’s bitterness. “I think it’s just a bunch of nobs in there getting as drunk as skunks, having a good time. Dressing up. Showing off. Harmless enough sort of entertainment. And at least while they’re in there annoying each other with their gossip and scandal they’re not out here bothering us in the real world. That’s what the inspector thinks at any rate. Good luck to ’em, I say.”

Chapter 13

T
he butler tracked down his quarry, spotting his highly polished size twelves tapping in time to a tango behind a lemon tree on the terrace. Sipping his third glass of champagne and flirting merrily with the wife of the French ambassador, Thomas Wentworth, His Britannic Majesty’s First Secretary at the Embassy in Athens, was not pleased to be found. The mischief died in his eyes, the smile slipped from his lips, as he became aware of the discreetly coughing presence at his elbow.

“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” murmured the butler, with an apologetic bow to the Countess. “I have a message for Mr. Wentworth.”

Wentworth concealed his rush of alarm behind a tetchy sigh. Notes would be delivered during an Embassy soirée only in the utmost urgency and then by a footman. If Grant had taken it upon himself to appear with his silver tray, then the piece of folded paper being offered to him must contain something of moment. Wentworth bit back an urge to make a jocular and nervous remark … “What ho, Grant! Serbs and Bulgars decided to have a go at each other at last, have they? Balkans
on the brink again?” He tightened his lips. Might just as well chuck a grenade into the middle of the floor. Any indiscreet remark, even delivered in jest and under the influence, would be picked up by these raucous vultures and passed around the Foreign Offices of Europe to be picked over, swallowed, or spat out by the hundreds of spies and hangers-on who infested them.

“Pull yourself together, Wentworth!” he silently told himself. Three glasses, was it? He counted them up, then remembered the large glass of Talisker he’d shared with the Ambassador before the junket had started. He had mentally taken himself off watch for the evening and here was Grant with his granite features putting him on the spot, warning him to raise his guard.

Inspiration struck. “The Wellington Cup at Newmarket … got a horse running, my dear …” he muttered to the Countess. “I only hope the result warrants the interruption to my evening, Grant?” He accepted the note with a convincing show of disapproval.

The butler caught his cue. “You asked to be informed, I believe, sir. It came through on the wire moments ago. I trust the news will in no way detract from your evening. Sir.” Grant permitted himself a reassuring smile.

Wentworth gave the note a brief perusal and put it away in his pocket. “No, indeed! Felicitations in order, it would seem! I say, would you excuse me for a moment, your ladyship? This requires an instant response. London can never seem to work out the time difference … they think the whole world runs on Greenwich time … Ah! There’s young Clarendon arriving. The well-set-up chap with his arm in a sling—javelin thrower, don’t you know. Have you met him? Come and be introduced. Vastly entertaining young fellow. I’ll leave you in his capable hands-um, hand,” he finished vaguely, and beckoned the young man
over to him. Introductions made, with a neat bow he headed for the door. The butler eased his passage through the crowds of guests, flushed and chattering in many languages.

“Bloody hell, Grant!” spluttered the First Secretary when they were out of the reception room and he was sure they were unobserved. “Was that necessary? And—
Newmarket?
That
is
where they run in October, isn’t it? Do I have that right? Better check the results of one of those damned races.” They hurried through deserted corridors, leaving the sounds of jollity and the string band behind them. “The lady’s mad keen on horse racing … It occurred to me that might be just about the only reason she’d be ready to swallow for my pushing off in a hurry. But she’ll check up on me, that’s for certain! She’s much more on the ball than that husband of hers. The
on dit
is that she’s the one who’s really in charge in Vassilis Sophia Avenue. Attractive woman, too. Curse you, Grant, for interrupting!”

“I’ll get straight on to it, sir. And if verisimilitude is a priority, why don’t I order up a few copies of the
Racing Times
for you to be discovered studying?… I put the gentleman to wait in your office. People swarming all over the building … it seemed the safest thing. He could hardly appear at the soirée-he’s not dressed yet. Still in his acting gear.” Grant forged ahead, throwing muttered phrases over his shoulder. “Cool as a cucumber on the surface … writhing with tension underneath. Not sure whether he’s come to report success or failure. Hard to tell with him—not the usual style of Invisible Fixer. A touch histrionic, sure you’d agree?”

“A touch
touched
, if you’re
really
asking me,” grunted Wentworth. “Nutty as a fruitcake. Gives me the creeps! Can’t imagine who thought it was a good idea to ship him out to us. Do you suppose every embassy is allocated one like him? Or have we been specially selected? Who’ve we annoyed? Let’s hope he’s clocked in to confess to
failure
, then we’ll have every excuse
to post him back home on the next boat or shunt him up the line to … Salonika! Or, better yet, Mid-Balkans … What’s that dreadful place where I came down with the dysentery in ’25? Pishtush? No—Slopsi Blob. That’s it! We’ll send him up to Slopsi Blob … Over Mount Zlatibor … By
mule,”
he finished with evil emphasis. “That’ll make our friend a little more respectful.” Wentworth checked himself, suddenly aware that he was chattering nervously.

“But he does possess the essential qualities,” Grant conceded.

“Well, I suppose you’d be likely to recognise them, Grant. Past master at skulduggery that you are.”

Grant replied with the slanting grimace that, with him, signalled displeasure: “He is so quietly effective, so alarmingly professional, isn’t he? It’s rather like owning a not fully tamed predatory creature—a hawk, or a very superior ferret—”

Wentworth shivered. “Polecat, I’d say—polecat,” he muttered. “Sleek, vicious, and uncontrollable.”

Reaching the door of his office, he hesitated. He cleared his throat and fumbled with his white tie, wasting time. Reluctant to walk into his own territory and face the temporary occupant of his bolt-hole, he turned to Grant. “You’re going to sit in on this?” he asked, trying for a neutral tone. He was reassured to see the majordomo’s swift nod and his automatic gesture as he checked the pistol he kept below the well-padded shoulder of his uniform jacket.

“Wouldn’t miss one of
his
performances for the world,” said Grant with a smile. “As good as a three-act drama at the Old Vic.”

    Wentworth made a bold entrance, taking in the robed figure lounging in one of the leather armchairs. One leg was casually crossed over the other; a tragic theatre mask dangled
insouciantly from one finger of his left hand. The other hand was holding a glass of whisky to the light. A staged appearance. Did he fancy himself sitting in the lamplight for a portrait by John Singer Sargent, perhaps? Yes, Sargent would have been able to capture the arrogant tilt of the head, the gleam of the narrowed eyes which seemed never quite to focus on the person who was talking to him. It occurred to Wentworth that, if asked, he couldn’t have sworn to the colour of those eyes. Blue? Grey? Brown? He’d never managed to look into them for long enough to know. All he could be certain of was: cold. The French had a word for chaps like this. In fact they had several:
poseur, crâneur, il se croit un peu …
The First Secretary often wondered what creature lurked behind the flawless façade.

He waited pointedly and for rather a long time until his visitor rose to his feet before saying cheerfully: “Oh, do sit down, old man. I say, may I get you a drink? Oh, I see … you’ve helped yourself. Islay to your taste, is it? And you’ve had the sense to select the twenty-year? Good. Good. Now, Grant will be sitting in on this, of course.”

Grant took up a stance by the door with an air of calm menace, an attitude unconsciously revealing his years of service with a British regiment.

“Always nice to know The Branch is with us,” continued the visitor with a sarcastic nod in his direction. “So—we’re both masquerading this evening, Grant? If I may be permitted an observation, as one third-rate thespian to another? You really ought to work on your
deference
if you’re going to go about the place butling. Not sure casting have quite got it right …” He tilted his head, affecting to observe critically. “Some might judge the craggy Highland countenance out of place in the douce getup of an Embassy butler … Like coming upon Ben Nevis in the middle of Hertfordshire … And do get
Costume to attend to your jacket—that bulge is too big to be taken for a corkscrew.”

Grant acknowledged the advice with a tilt of the head and looked thoughtfully down at the right leg of his trousers where the comforting handle of his preferred weapon nestled in the top of his sock. His dagger. Three seconds was all it would take. He allowed himself a second’s fantasy and smiled.

“We weren’t expecting you to report back quite so soon, were we, old chap? Surely we weren’t looking for news before the opening night?” Wentworth brayed loudly, sensitive to the dangerous animosity between these two. “I say, I trust this is urgent enough to justify breaking into my evening? The French Ambassadress was just about to show me her scars …” he finished on a lighter note. Into the surprised silence he enlarged: “Acquired fighting off a gang of local
apaches
with her brolly, she tells me …”

“Utter balls! It’s a birthmark. We’ve all seen it—the whole
corps diplomatique
has been accorded a viewing. All those of us under the age of fifty, that is” was the laconic remark. “The lady is predatory. Be warned, Wentworth—this is her way of sorting out the sheep from the goats—a distinction not always immediately obvious amongst diplomatic staff. All kinds and conditions of men … those who show an interest in surveying the Promised Land more closely go down on her list as exploitable; the others: blackmailable. It’s crude but effective. You’ve had a lucky escape. Something else to thank me for.”

“Ah, yes. Your news?” Wentworth snapped back, goaded into a show of haughty efficiency. “What have you to report?”