within minutes I could see Mike descending the staircase at the far end of the
room, stopping every few feet to examine the paintings and armored figures
that were part of the Cliveden collection.
C mon, let s do the sightseeing later. We ve been summoned for lunch.
We returned to the front entrance, followed the path pointed out by Graham s
gloved finger, and made our way over to the series of rooms that housed the
conference facilities. The Pavilion was a light-filled, cheerful area
overlooking the notorious swimming pool scene of the Profumo scandal that had
been set up with eight rectangular tables for the meeting participants and
their guests.
I immediately spotted Commander Creavey s substantial figure as he stood to
wave us into the room, where he had held empty seats on both sides for Mike
and me to join him. He rose and bellowed to the polite diners after he kissed
me on the cheek and embraced Mike with a few sound slaps on the back. This
ere is Alexandra Cooper. Top of the line in America. She prosecutes rapists,
wife beaters, child abusers all that type of bloke. I don t advise you to
trifle with her while she s here. And this is Commander Michael Chapman. I ve
promoted him a few notches, but that s because over ere with what e
knows e d be running the show. Be no need for me.
Sit and enjoy your lunch. There ll be time to mix with all these fine gents
this evening.
Chapman and Creavey jumped right into discussing each other s work and
catching up with on-the-job events since they had last had the opportunity
to talk at a session in New York. I played with my salad as I looked around
the room to see whether I recognized any familiar faces. I knew from the list
that Battaglia had passed along to me that most of the speakers and panelists
were from the United Kingdom and Western Europe and it was quite clear that
diversity was not an element in selecting voices to speak about the future of
society as we neared the millennium.
The sixty-something, blue-rinse matron with painfully pink skin sitting on my
other side began to chat me up, introducing herself as Winifred Bartlett, wife
of the Home Secretary.
And what is it exactly that your husband is going to be speaking about at
the conference, dear? she inquired, pausing between bites of her smoked
salmon as she eyed me through cataract-dimmed lenses.
Actually,I am the one who ll be speaking this afternoon. I m not married.
Michael is my colleague, not my husband.
How refreshing, Alice, came the cheerful response. Commander Creavey
wasn t joking, then? Do you really deal with all those dreadful crimes
yourself?
Yes, I do. Fascinating work, Mrs. Bartlett, and enormously satisfying.
We don t have so many of those kind of problems in Britain. Not enough work
for you here, dear, I m afraid.
Perhaps that used to be the case, but I understand there s been quite an
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increase in reporting of rapes all over the U.K.
Now she was considering that perhaps she didn t need me as a distraction from
her meal. Every ounce of her concentration returned to the plate. Can t
imagine that s so. My husband used to be a Crown Prosecutor. Embezzlement,
insurance frauds, the occasional murder. Nothing as unsavory as your work. You
should get yourself a husband, Alice, and leave this disgusting business to
Creavey and his ilk. It s nasty for a girl. No wonder you re unmarried.
I hadn t been there long enough to answer as I would have liked to and held
my tongue as I reminded myself I was standing in Battaglia s shoes for
forty-eight hours.
John Creavey caught me back up in the tale he was spinning about how his men
had foiled a Colombian drug cartel scam downriver at Tilbury until the waiters
arrived with the sweet trolley and coffee to end the luncheon recess.
Nice to have met you, Mrs. Bartlett, I lied.
Pleasure. So did she.
We followed the well-mannered group as they sauntered from the Pavilion back
toward the Churchill Boardroom. Thirty or so stiff-looking men queued near the
entry to the conference area and fifteen or twenty of the ladies paired off in
the opposite direction. Lord Windlethorne stood at the head of the table and
introduced himself as I moved past him to look for my seat. I guessed him to
be in his late fifties, lean and angular, with the features and dark coloring
of Gregory Peck cum Oxford don.
He welcomed me and pointed to my name plate at the table. I was docked two
places away, between Professore Vittorio Vicario of the University of Milan
and Monsieur Jean-Jacques Carnet of the Institut de la Paix in Paris. Vicario
bowed his head in greeting and Carnet smiled, giving me the once-over and
an Enchanté.
Mr. Chapman, Windlethorne told Mike as he entered after me. We ve only [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]