“MI-5 has no conclusive information as to the source of the attacks on Ms. Kenmare,” Elizabeth said, “but we are prepared to protect her to the extent of our powers.”
“Us, too,” Boo-Boo said. “Even if it turns out to be a wild goose chase. Better that than real trouble, although my superiors won't like it much.”
“Look,” the manager said tentatively, eyeing them, “I don't know what I'm getting into now. I don't want two governments angry at Fionna, but I don't want her hurt, either. Do you think the things that are happening are real, or not?”
The two agents exchanged glances.
“Won't know until they strike again,” Boo-Boo said. “We've got to keep an open mind about that until we see for ourselves.”
“Whether the attacks are of paranormal origin or not,” Elizabeth said, “if we are to believe her, and I am inclined to do so, someone or something has targeted Fionna Kenmare.”
“Right,” said Peters grimly. “Then, security's the main concern.”
“Right,” Elizabeth echoed. She accepted a gin and tonic from the waiter, and paused until he was out of earshot. She turned to Boo-Boo. “You already know how many people are with the party. Three band members, twelve permanent roadies, Mr. Peters here, her personal bodyguard, publicist, special effects woman, technical director, the costumer, and the makeup artist. None of them appear to have any connections with the United States other than professional contacts in the business, particularly Michael Scott, who is known as the Guitarchangel. He had quite an independent career going earlier in the decade, two platinum albums, and all,” Elizabeth finished hastily, lowering her face so the others couldn't see it. She had hardly had to refer to her notes for Michael. She'd been a big fan for years. Working in proximity to him was going to be distracting.
“The keyboard player, Eddie Vincent, was well known in the American group Skywatch, a Christian rock band. He began to play with Fee—Fionna around five years ago.” Better be careful about her old friend's secret identity. There was no telling whether she had enraged someone by her masquerade as a starving Irish waif and what they might do if they found out she was no such thing. “Voe Lockney's only been with her for two years. He replaced her last drummer . . .”
“Former boyfriend,” Nigel said, dismissively. “They broke up, and he couldn't handle being around her. Too bad. He was stellar.”
“How many other newcomers?” Boo-Boo asked.
“Because of the labor laws, we've had to hire most of our backup staff here in the States,” Nigel said, taking a healthy gulp of his drink. “It's all I've spent the last three weeks doing. Six musicians, three backup singers, a couple dozen grips and technicians. They're really out of the picture. Most of them haven't even met Fee yet. They've been working with our stage manager, who's been here on site for a week with most of our techs. Only the key personnel flew in with us this evening.”
Elizabeth dismissed the newcomers from her calculations. If they'd had no contact with Fionna Kenmare in Dublin, they could not have been responsible for the previous attacks, or the mysterious indisposition of the other agent.
“The costumer,” Elizabeth read from her jottings, “Thomas Fitzgibbon, came to her from the West End theater scene. Did a lot of work for Andrew Lloyd Webber's Really Useful Company. Kenneth Lewis, lighting engineer. A New Yorker, he last worked in some off-Broadway theaters. Laura Manning, the makeup artist, is also from the West End. The special effects designer is a woman, too, Roberta Unterburger.”
“Call her Robbie. She hates Roberta,” the publicist advised.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, writing it down. “She's from Marin County, California, three years ago. They've all been with her for at least two years, predating the first attack by at least fifteen months.”
“We didn't hear anything from our end, either,” Boo-Boo said. “Any problems on your end, Nigel?”
“None,” the manager said. He leaned forward, placing his open hands palms up on the table in appeal. “They're all good people. They like being part of the Fionna phenom. She's got something special. People gravitate towards her. She's been sort of protected by her fans.”
“It sounds as if someone loony has broken through that cordon,” Elizabeth said, matter-of-factly. “Possibly someone with special abilities. That's yet to be determined. I'm here to see that nothing more happens.”
“What can you do?” Peters asked, his fists closing reflexively. Elizabeth shook her head.
“If someone tries to get to her again, we can detect him, or her, or it. I've examined her room. There are four doors to the suite itself, the one from the hallway on each floor, and one from the suite to a balcony and the pool on the third floor. One of those doors leads into my room, and I'm prepared to repel attacks. I've seen to it the other doors are securely locked, and warded.”
“What'd you use to ward?” Boo-Boo asked.
Elizabeth eyed him, wondering just how far she could trust him. “Who brought you in?” she asked, suddenly.
Peters looked from one to the other, puzzled. “The FBI brought him in, you know that.”
“No, that's not what she means.” Boo-Boo gave her that easy smile, his eyes glinting. He understood. “She wants to know how I qualify to ask her questions.” He leaned over so that his mouth was close to Elizabeth's ear. “A welcoming woman who smiles,” he told her. She closed her eyes, relieved, and continued the litany.
“Where was it?” she whispered.
“In the heart of the world,” Boo-Boo said, formally.
“Where was the moon?”
“Shining over our heads. And her name was Elmira.”
“All right,” Elizabeth said, relaxing. She recognized the name. Boo-Boo was not only qualified to help the department, he knew something about her grandmother's ancient tradition of magic as well. It would be easier to confide in him, because she wouldn't be breaking solemn oaths to tell him. She sat up. “I'm so sorry,” she told the manager. “Department business. I used an . . . Earth-Fire ward, tapping into the hotel's electrical system.”
Peters looked bewildered, but Boo-Boo nodded. If he was up on New Forest magic, he'd have recognized the reference to a Ward of Vulcan, from the Trilistene Grimoire of 1585, with modern variations that obviated the need to burn charcoal or use a focusing lens to provide the fire power.
“That'd give anything trying to pass it a mighty hotfoot,” he said approvingly. “I mighta put down an Earth-Water combo, but that could get messy. What about the windows?”
“No problem. I left them so they can still open—it's so bloody hot in this city—but air's the only thing they'll let in.”
Boo-Boo grinned. “You should see it come summer, ma'am. This is just warming up.”
Nigel Peters reflexively unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. “Warm! If it were any hotter you'd have to mop me off the pavement.”
Elizabeth referred to her notes again. “There wasn't time to bring much from the department, so what I have with me is rather a hodgepodge of government equipment and personal tools. What OOPSI does run to is a decent line of general issue psychic monitors. I've left some concealed amongst Fionna's personal effects to warn us if anyone is staging an attack using her own possessions. I've also been down to the kitchen to arrange for food analysis before any room service order is taken up to the suite. The only employees who will have contact with any of the band or the stage crew will be ones I have vetted personally. You can't concentrate on the arcane and overlook the mundane. Have I missed anything?”
Boo-Boo's slow smile spread across his face. “No, ma'am. You're plenty efficient.”
With a smile for the compliment, Elizabeth read off the last of her shorthand notes. “And, finally, escorts to and from the New Orleans Superdome. I'll need the limousines here at least twenty minutes ahead of time to examine them for traps or tricks.”
“As you wish,” Peters said. “But that's not until tomorrow. Fee's itinerary doesn't have her doing anything until the morning, and that's just publicity. I'll have the cars here for you to inspect ahead of time. No trouble there. Until then, there's nothing more for us to do. She'll be perfectly safe here in the hotel overnight.”
“Oh, I don't know about that,” Boo-Boo interrupted them, rocking his chair back and forth on its rear legs. “While I was waiting for you all to come down, I saw her and that big fellah turn out the door and light out down Bourbon Street.”
“What?” Elizabeth and Nigel exclaimed in unison, leaping to their feet. Boo-Boo didn't move.
“Why didn't you stop them?” Elizabeth demanded, staring down at him. If this was an example of American agents, then they were sloppy, haphazard, and careless. No wonder they were always having troubles over here.
“Nothing strange by me,” Boo-Boo said, looking up at them with a hurt expression. “Most folks who come to town want to see the Quarter, and all. Plenty of interesting night life. Finest music in the world. Any bar you go into probably has at least one live musician. Usually a band.”
Elizabeth felt herself swaying slightly with exhaustion. “But it's past twelve,” she said. “The bars will be closing.”
Boo-Boo shook his head. “Ma'am, bars around here don't close until at least dawn. Some of 'em don't open until midnight.”
“We've got to catch up with them!” Elizabeth had a vision of Ringwall's ruddy face turning more purple than usual. “Right now!”
Boo-Boo rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head at the haste with which out-of-towners seemed to move.
“Well, all right, ma'am. Whatever you want.”
Elizabeth had barely taken three steps outside before she was drenched in sweat. The heat and humidity of New Orleans wrapped itself around her like a hot, wet blanket, all prevailing and merciless.
Pausing in an attempt to orient herself while fighting off a sudden wave of dizziness, she turned to her companion, only to find him chatting with the doorman she had passed without really noticing.
“Hey, Boo!” the uniformed man said. “How ya doin', man? Ah didn't see you come in.”
“Came in off Conti,” Beauray was saying, all the while exchanging a bewildering series of handshakes and palm slappings with him. “No sense fightin' the crowds if you can walk inside.”
“You got that right!” the doorman responded, throwing his head back in an exaggerated laugh.
“How's that pretty lady of yours these days?”
“Mean as a snake, and that's a fact!”
“Umm. Mr. Boudreau?” Elizabeth began. “I hate to interrupt, but . . .”
“Be right with you, darlin',” Boo said, holding up one finger in restraint. “Say, Willie. Did you see a cute little thing come out of here a while back? Green hair?”
“Hard to miss her,” the doorman said, nodding. “She and the folks she was with headed up Bourbon towards St. Anne. Lookin' to party would be my guess.”
He made an offhand gesture to indicate the direction.
“'Preciate it, man,” Boo said, holding up his hand for a parting palm slap. “Got to roll, now. You tell your lady that Boo said, `Hey,' hear?”
“Later, Boo!” the man said, waving, then returned to his duties with an aloof, deadpan expression.
“Sorry 'bout the delay,” Beauray said, putting a hand lightly on Elizabeth's back and steering her into the street. “I figured it would be worth the time to be sure we was lookin' in the right direction.”
Thus began one of the strangest, most memorable walks of Elizabeth's life.
The world-famous Bourbon Street was closed to vehicular traffic at this hour, but was nonetheless choked with pedestrians. At first, Elizabeth was overwhelmed by a kaleidoscope of apparently random noise, music and lights.
“NO cover charge! NO minimum drinks!”
“ . . . feelin' tomorrow, just like I feel today!”
“Spare change?”
“Oooh, Darlin'! Lookin' GOOD!”
“ . . . Can't touch this!”
“Lucky Dogs! Get your Lucky Dogs! Right here!”
Within the first block or so, however, a certain order became apparent to her in the seeming chaos.
Most of the crowd were tourists or sightseers. They traveled in groups or pairs, lugging their cameras or hand-cams with them like identifying badges. While some of them wore three-piece suits that marked them as conventioneers, the majority were decked out casually in shorts, new T-shirts sporting New Orleans designs ranging from the silly to the obscene, and some of the most ridiculous hats it had ever been her misfortune to see. They moved at a leisurely pace, stopping often to look in windows, listen to the music radiating forth from various bars, or to take pictures of each other standing next to street signs, the little tap dancing kids, or even trash cans.
“Table dances! World famous love acts! NO cover charge!”
“Crawfish! Best eating in the Quarter!”
“ . . . Hey now. Jump in the river now . . .”
“ICE cold. Get your ICE cold Coca-Cola here!”
In the space of a few blocks they had walked from Conti, Bourbon Street featured at least eight bars with live bands and/or singers, eight more with recorded music blaring from speakers, six shops featuring exotic dancing or other delights (“wash the girl of your choice!”), more than twelve souvenir shops selling masks and feather boas, coffee and beignet mixes in yellow cans, hot sauce with health warnings printed on the labels, metallic-covered plastic beads in a rainbow of colors, and the ubiquitous tasteless T-shirts. Every one of the shops overflowed with tourists.
Overhead on the first- and second-floor balconies (second and third floors here in the U.S.; Elizabeth realized they counted things differently here), stood crowds of men and women brandishing plastic cups full of beer. People in the dense crowd below shouted up to them, and threw bead necklaces up to the women on the balconies. When one flushed girl in her twenties had collected an armful of necklaces, she hiked her shirt up to her neck. She wasn't wearing anything underneath it. The crowd erupted in cheers of joy. New Orleans was more wide open than Elizabeth had ever dreamed.
This part of the city resembled an undermaintained amusement park. Worn, broken pavement, cracking paint, wrought iron twisted like lace and painted in muted colors. Men held up signs that advertised psychic readings, draft beers for $1.00, or that the end was near. Walls sported unexpectedly bright colors, yellow, purple, moss green, Venetian red. Buildings proudly displayed brass or ceramic plaques describing their origins, name, function, and first owners often dating back two hundred years or more. London could take a cue from the Big Easy's excellence of labelling. World War II had been over for more than half a century, yet the city seemed still to be trying to misdirect invading Nazis.
There were others in the crowd besides tourists. Some, like the shills outside the restaurants and topless bars or the couples selling roses from pushcarts, were obviously workers, not unlike the mounted, uniformed police who sat at each intersection like watchtowers in the flow of humanity. More subtle were the gaudily-dressed individuals who strutted stylishly up and down the street, stopping occasionally to pose for pictures with the tourists in exchange for tips. Also workers, but self-employed, not salaried. Then, there were what could only be thought of as “locals,” making their way through the crowds with bags of groceries or baskets of laundry, obviously running household errands even at this late hour. It was an interesting reminder that the French Quarter of New Orleans was a functioning community where people lived and worked, rather than a planned, constructed amusement park.
Even more noticeable to Elizabeth, however, was that of this latter, non-tourist population, it seemed that at least two out of every three knew her escort.
“BOO-RAY! What's happenin', man?”
“Hey, Boo! Where y'at, bro?”
“Boo, darlin'! When you comin' by again?”
Every five or six steps, Boudreau was pausing to wave at someone or to exchange handshakes or greetings. Despite her impatience to be on their mission, Elizabeth could not help but be impressed with how well-known Beauray was, though she was a bit taken aback by the volume of the hailings . . . by both meanings. That is, they were not only numerous, they were loud!
People down here seemed to do all their conversing, not to mention their casual greetings, at the top of their lungs. If they happened to be across the street, on one of the everpresent wrought-iron balconies, or half a block away, it didn't really matter. They just reared back and shouted a little louder, neither minding nor caring that dozens of total strangers were forced to listen in to every word. It was completely different than anything in England, even in weekend street markets. Elizabeth put the fault down to the French influence that had founded New Orleans in the first place.
“Do you think we'll be able to find them?” Elizabeth said, making an effort to wrench Beauray's focus away from his friends and back onto her and their assignment.
“That depends. Do you happen to know if the folks we're lookin' for have eaten recently?” Beauray asked, leaning close to her so she could hear him over the street racket.
“Not really, no,” Elizabeth said. “Why?”
“Well, it'll be rough findin' 'em if they've holed up in a restaurant somewheres,” he said. “There're almost as many restaurants as bars in the Quarter, and it's hard to see into most of them from the street. If they're just wanderin' or stoppin' off once in a while for a drink, we should be able to find 'em with no problem.”
“They seemed to have virtually ongoing food service in First Class, but that was hours ago,” Elizabeth said. “I don't know what they had to eat up there, but the food in Economy Class was pretty ghastly. I ended up making do with a few candy bars, myself . . .”
Beauray halted in his tracks and cocked his head at her.
“Is that what's wrong?” he asked. “I must be goin' crazy, forgettin' my manners like that. Here I am draggin' you up and down the street, and all the while it never occurred to me to ask if you was hungry. I thought you were lookin' a mite peaked.”
“I'm not really all that hungry,” Elizabeth protested, embarrassed by the sudden attentiveness. “I don't think my stomach will catch up with me until tomorrow.”
Beauray squinted at her, the blue laser beams boring into her eyes. “You sure?”
“I'm fine. Really,” she insisted, though touched by his concern. “Tell you what. If it will make you feel better, I'll have another candy bar. They do sell them here, don't they?” she asked, playfully.
Beauray studied her for a moment, then shrugged.
“Well, as soon as your stomach catches up with you, you've got to promise to let me treat you to some of our fine N'Awlins cookin'. In the meantime, though, if it's a candy bar you want, I've got just the thing for you.”
Taking her by the elbow, he steered her off the street and through the door of one of the numerous T-shirt shops that prospered between the bars and dance clubs.
The icy blast of the shop's air conditioning was such a welcome relief from the saunalike streets that for a moment Elizabeth thought seriously of asking Beauray to continue the search alone while she waited here. A few breaths later, however, her sense of duty and her companion returned to her at the same time.
“Here. Try one of these.”
He thrust a cellophane envelope into her hands, containing what looked for all the world like a light brown cow pat . . . from an unhealthy cow.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.
“They're called pralines,” he said. “It's a favorite candy in these parts. Go ahead and try it. They're good.”
Unable to think of a graceful evasion, Elizabeth unwrapped his offering and took a cautious bite.
It was heaven!
Like most of her countrymen, Elizabeth had an incredible sweet tooth, and the candy she was now sampling was like nothing she had ever had before. It tasted almost like pure turbinado sugar, but with a smoother texture; like a very sweet toffee, but soft, and had a goodly dollop of chopped pecans mounded in the center.
“Are you sure you wouldn't like something more solid to eat?”
Beauray's voice brought her back to her senses, and she realized guiltily that she had wolfed down almost the entire praline in a very few bites.
“No. This is fine,” she said hastily. “You're right. They're quite good.”
Her companion frowned at her for a moment more, then shrugged.
“All right. If you say so,” he said. “I surely do want to see you some time when you do have an appetite, though.”
Elizabeth was inwardly writhing with embarrassment over her brief display of gluttony as they made their way back out onto the street. She was not, however, so uncomfortable as to fail to mark the location of the store in her mind. Before her stay in New Orleans was over, she planned to stock up on a few boxes of those pralines. Delicately, she licked her fingers, and smiled blithely at Beauray. Maybe they even had a mail order business so she could order more from England. A few of these would go a long way toward sweetening Ringwall's sour temper when she gave her expense report.
* * *
Music, music was everywhere in this city. Fee drifted from door to door, borne on an energy wave that carried her along the street without feeling its cobbles under her feet. The crowds were thick, but no one bumped into her. Fee found herself walking to the beat of the music pouring out of doorways, down from balconies, unexpectedly around corners from impromptu groups who had sat down wherever the muse had struck them, never paying attention to the people passing by. She might have been alone in this mob of people who were simply enjoying themselves.
She almost wished she was.
“Wait up,” panted Robbie-cursed-Unterburger, striding to catch up with Fee and Lloyd on her short little legs. They'd almost lost her in the last crowd clustered around the entrance to a blues bar. They hadn't, more's the pity.
All of them were toddling along back there, her band, Green Fire, and her chief techies, but Fee resented Robbie most of all. She was so wet. The girl wanted to get close to Lloyd, and it killed her that she couldn't. You could see the pain and frustration in her eyes. Too bad. Lloyd belonged to Fee. Such a hunk, and so good when it counted. Like later on, if the music continued to turned her on as it was doing right now.
The blare of horns and pounding of drums and pianos pouring out of storefronts interrupted the eternal argument going on between the members of the band. They were always getting into it. You would never know that they were the best of friends, the way they sniped. It was as though Fee had three little brothers, though every one of the men was older than she. She was their leader, literally, figuratively and spiritually. She liked to think of herself as guiding them—although this was where she and Eddie disagreed the most. He could be so . . . Christian sometimes, positively pushing all the guilt buttons from her Church of England upbringing.
She let the sounds of New Orleans carry her along. This was so primevally strong, almost cavemanlike, smooth and rough at the same time, like the best whisky. The music filled her head. She scarcely felt the pavement under her feet. She breathed it in like the air, letting it take her where it willed.
“Let's go in somewhere,” Fitzgibbon protested.
“No, Fitzy,” Fee said, holding up her hand like an Indian scout. “Not until I find the right place.”
“I want a drink,” Voe said.
“You always want a drink,” Eddie complained. He was such a Puritan, worse than Lizzie Mayfield. How very strange to have her appear out of nowhere. It was like old times having her around. How things had changed. Back then, they were earnest young women trying to earn degrees, and pretty good friends, really. Now Fee was rich and famous, and Liz was—what, a spy? But they still had something in common: magic. Fee pouted. Not that Liz truly believed in the connection. Not yet. But she would.