Yet another taxi pa.s.ses. Still not ours. Whatever does one wear for spies spies, darling? as her mother would have said. Cursing herself for even wondering, she has changed out of her office clothes into a skirt and high-necked blouse. And sensible shoes, nothing to stir the juices well, except Luke's, but how could she have known?

'Perhaps he's stuck in traffic,' she suggests, and again gets no answer, which serves her right. 'Anyway, to resume. You gave the letter to an Adam Adam. And an Adam received it. Otherwise he wouldn't have rung you, presumably.' She's being irritating and knows it. So does he. 'How many pages? Of our secret doc.u.ment? Yours.'

'Twenty-eight,' he replies.

'Handwritten or typed?'

'Handwritten.'

'Why not typed?'

'I decided handwritten was safer.'

'Really? On whose advice?'

'I hadn't had advice by then. Dima and Tamara were convinced they were bugged at every turn, so I decided to respect their anxieties and not do anything electronic. Interceptible.'

'Wasn't that rather paranoid?'

'I'm sure it was. We're both paranoid. So are Dima and Tamara. We're all all paranoid.' paranoid.'

'Then let's admit it. Let's be paranoid together.'

No answer. Silly little Gail tries yet another tack: 'Do you want to tell me how you got on to Mr Adam in the first place?'

'Anyone can do it. It's not a problem these days. You can do it on the Web.'

'Did you you do it on the Web?' do it on the Web?'

'No.'

'Didn't trust the Web?'

'No.'

'Do you trust me me?'

'Of course I do.'

'I hear the most amazing confidences every day of my life. You know that, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'And you don't exactly hear me regaling our friends at dinner parties with my clients' secrets, do you?'

'No.'

Reload: 'You also know that as a young barrister who is self-employed without a paddle and terrified of where the next job is or is not coming from, I am professionally disposed against mystery briefs that offer no prospect of prestige or reward.'

'n.o.body's offering you a brief, Gail. n.o.body's asking you to do anything except talk.'

'Which is what I call a brief.'

Another wrong taxi. Another silence, a bad one.

'Well, at least Mr Adam invited both of us,' she says, going for cheerful. 'I thought you'd airbrushed me out of your doc.u.ment completely.'

Which is when Perry becomes Perry again, and the dagger in her hand turns against herself as he gazes at her with so much hurt love that she is more alarmed for Perry than for herself.

'I tried tried to airbrush you out, Gail. I did my absolute d.a.m.nedest to airbrush you out. I believed I could protect you from being involved. It didn't work. They've got to have us both. Initially anyway. He was well adamant.' Lame laugh. 'The way you would be about witnesses. "If the two of you were present, then two of you must obviously come." I'm really sorry.' to airbrush you out, Gail. I did my absolute d.a.m.nedest to airbrush you out. I believed I could protect you from being involved. It didn't work. They've got to have us both. Initially anyway. He was well adamant.' Lame laugh. 'The way you would be about witnesses. "If the two of you were present, then two of you must obviously come." I'm really sorry.'

And he was. She knew he was. The day Perry learned to fake his feelings would be the day he wasn't Perry any more.

And she was as sorry as he was. Sorrier. She was in his arms telling him this when a black taxi with its flag down appeared in the street outside, last two numbers 73, and a nearly c.o.c.kney male voice informed them over the house entryphone that he was Ollie and he had two pa.s.sengers to pick up for Adam.

And now she was excluded again. Debarred, debriefed, discarded.

The obedient little woman, waiting for her man to come home, and having another man-sized gla.s.s of Rioja to help her do it.

All right, it was in the whole ridiculous contract from the start. She should never have let him get away with it. But that didn't mean she had to sit and twiddle her thumbs, and she hadn't.

That very morning, although he didn't know it, while Perry had been sitting here waiting obediently for the Voice of Adam, she had been busy in her Chambers tapping away at her computer, and not, for once, on the matter of Samson v. Samson Samson v. Samson.

That she had waited until she got to her office rather than use her own laptop from home that she had waited at all was still a puzzle to her, if not a cause for outright self-reproach. Put it down to the Perry-generated prevailing atmosphere of conspiracy.

That she still possessed Dima's deckle-edged business card was a hanging offence since Perry had told her to destroy it.

That she had gone electronic and therefore interceptible was as it now turned out also a hanging offence. But since he had not informed her in advance of this particular branch of his paranoia, he could hardly complain.

The Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate of Nicosia, Cyprus, its website informed her in bad, blotchy English, was a consulting company specializing in providing help for active traders specializing in providing help for active traders. Its head office was in Moscow. It had representatives in Toronto, Rome, Berne, Karachi, Frankfurt, Budapest, Prague, Tel Aviv and Nicosia. None, however, in Antigua. And no bra.s.s-plate bank. Or none mentioned.

'Arena Multi Global prides itself on confidentiality and entreprenurial [with an 'e' missing] [with an 'e' missing] flare flare [misspelled] [misspelled] at all levels. It offers top-cla.s.s oportunities at all levels. It offers top-cla.s.s oportunities [with one 'p'] [with one 'p'] and private banking facilities and private banking facilities' [spelled correctly]. Note: this web page is currently under reconstruction. Further information available on application to Moscow office Note: this web page is currently under reconstruction. Further information available on application to Moscow office.'

Ted was an American bachelor who sold futures for Morgan Stanley. From her desk in Chambers she rang Ted: 'Gail, sweetheart.'

'An outfit calling itself the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate. Can you dig up the dirt on them for me?'

Dirt? Ted could dig dirt like n.o.body else. Ten minutes later he was back.

'Those Russki friends of yours.'

'Russki?'

'They're like me. Hot as h.e.l.l and rich as figgy pudding.'

'How rich is rich?'

'Anybody's guess, but looks mega. Fifty-something subsidiaries, all with great trading records. You into money-laundering, Gail?'

'How did you know?'

'These Russki mothers pa.s.s the money around between them so fast n.o.body knows who owns it for how long. That's all I got for you but I paid blood. Will you love me for ever?'

'I'll think about it, Ted.'

Her next step was Ernie, the Chambers' resourceful, sixty-something clerk. She waited till lunchtime when the coast was clearest.

'Ernie. A favour. Rumour has it that there's a disgraceful chat site you visit when you want to check out the companies of our highly reputable clients. I'm deeply shocked and I need you to consult it for me.'

Thirty minutes on, and Ernie had presented her with an edited printout of disgraceful exchanges on the subject of the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate.

Any a.s.shole got an idea who runs this junk shop? The guys change MDs like socks. P. BROSNANRead, mark, learn and inwardly digest the wise words of Maynard Keynes: Markets can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. a.s.shole yourself. R. CROWWhat the f***'s happened to MG's website. It's curdled. B. PITTMG's website is down but not out. B-s rises to the surface. a.s.sholes all beware. M. MUNROEBut I'm really really curious. These guys come on at me like they have the hots, then they leave me panting and unfulfilled. P.B.Hey guys, listen to this! I just heard MGTC opened an office in Toronto. R.C.Office? You're s.h.i.tting me! It's a f***ing Russian nightclub, man. Pole dancers, Stolly and bortsch. M.M.Hey, a.s.shole, me again. Is the office they opened in Toronto the same one they closed in Equatorial Guinea? If so, run for cover man. Run now. R.C.Arena Multi f***ing Global has absolutely zero hits on Google. I repeat zero. The whole outfit is so uber-amateurish I get palpitations. P.B.Do you by any chance believe in the afterlife? If not, start believing now. You are treading on the Biggest Bananaskinski in the laundering arena. Official. M.M.They were just so enthusiastic about me. Now this. P.B.Stay away. Stay far, far away. R.C.

She is in Antigua, wafted there by another tumbler of Rioja from the kitchen.

She's listening to the pianist in the mauve bow tie crooning Simon and Garfunkel to an elderly American couple in ducks pirouetting all alone on the dance deck.

She's fending off the glances of beautiful waiters who have nothing to do but undress her with their eyes. She is overhearing the seventy-year-old Texan widow-woman of a thousand facelifts telling Ambrose to bring her red wine as long as it isn't French.

She's standing on the tennis court, demurely shaking hands for the first time with a bald fighting bull who calls himself Dima. She's remembering his reproachful brown eyes and rock jaw and the rigid, Erich von Stroheim backward lean of his upper body.

She's in the Bloomsbury bas.e.m.e.nt, one moment Perry's life companion, the next his surplus baggage, not wanted on voyage. She's sitting with three people who, thanks to our doc.u.ment our doc.u.ment and whatever else Perry has managed to bubble to them in the meantime, know a whole lot she doesn't. and whatever else Perry has managed to bubble to them in the meantime, know a whole lot she doesn't.

She's sitting alone in the drawing room of her desirable residence in Primrose Hill at half past midnight with Samson v. Samson Samson v. Samson on her lap and an empty winegla.s.s beside her. on her lap and an empty winegla.s.s beside her.

Springing to her feet whoops she climbs the spiral staircase to her bedroom, makes the bed, follows the trail of Perry's dirty clothes across the floor to the bathroom and stuffs them into the laundry basket. Five days since he made love to me. Will we establish a record?

She returns downstairs, one step at a time, one hand for the boat. She's back at the window, staring into the street, praying for her man to come home in a black cab with the last two numbers 73. She's riding b.u.t.tock to b.u.t.tock under the midnight stars with Perry in the b.u.mpy people carrier with blackened windows as Baby Face, the short-haired blond bodyguard with the linked gold bracelet, drives them to their hotel at the end of the birthday revels at Three Chimneys.

'You had good night, Gail?'

This is your driver speaking. Until now, Baby Face hasn't let on that he speaks English. When Perry challenged him outside the tennis court, he didn't speak a word of it. So why's he letting on now? she wonders, alert as never in her life.

'Fabulous night, thank you,' she declares in her father's voice, filling in for Perry, who appears to have gone deaf. 'Simply night, thank you,' she declares in her father's voice, filling in for Perry, who appears to have gone deaf. 'Simply wonderful wonderful. I'm so happy for those magnificent magnificent boys.' boys.'

'My name is Niki, OK?'

'OK. Great. h.e.l.lo, Niki,' says Gail. 'Where are you from?'

'Perm, Russia. Nice place. Perry, please? You had good night too?'

Gail is about to jab Perry with her elbow when he comes to life by himself. 'Great, thanks, Niki. Fantastic food. Really nice people. Super. Best evening of our holiday so far.'

Not bad for a beginner, thinks Gail.

'What time you arrive Three Chimneys?' Niki asks.

'We nearly didn't arrive at all all, Niki,' Gail exclaims, giggling to cover for Perry's hesitation. 'Did we, Perry? We took the Nature Path and had to hack hack our way through the undergrowth! Where did you learn your wonderful English, Niki?' our way through the undergrowth! Where did you learn your wonderful English, Niki?'

'Boston, Ma.s.sachusetts. You got knife?'

'Knife?'

'To cut undergrowth, you got to have big knife knife.'

Those dead eyes in the mirror, what have they seen? What are they seeing now?

'I wish we had, Niki,' Gail cries, still in her father's skin. 'I'm afraid we English English don't carry knives.' don't carry knives.' What gibberish am I talking? Never mind. Talk it What gibberish am I talking? Never mind. Talk it. 'Well, some some of us do, to be truthful, but not people like of us do, to be truthful, but not people like us us. We're the wrong social cla.s.s cla.s.s. You've heard about our cla.s.s system? Well, in England you only carry a knife if you're lower-middle or below!' And more hoots of laughter to see them round the roundabout and into the drive to the front entrance.

Dazed, they pick their way like strangers between the lighted hibiscus to their cabin. Perry closes the door behind them, locks it, but doesn't switch the light on. They stand facing each other across the bed in the darkness. For an age, there's no soundtrack. Which should not imply that Perry hasn't made up his mind what he's about to say: 'I need paper to write on. So do you.' His I'm-in-charge-here voice, normally reserved, she a.s.sumes, for errant undergraduates who have failed to turn in their weekly essay.

He draws the blinds. He switches on the inadequate reading light on my side of the bed, leaving the rest of the room in darkness.

He yanks open the drawer of my my bedside locker and fishes out a yellow legal pad: also mine. Emblazoned on it, my brilliant reflections on bedside locker and fishes out a yellow legal pad: also mine. Emblazoned on it, my brilliant reflections on Samson v. Samson Samson v. Samson: my first case as a top silk's junior, my quantum leap to instant fame and fortune.

Or not.

Ripping off the pages on which I have recorded my pearls of legal wisdom, he stuffs them back in the drawer, snaps what's left of my my yellow pad in two, and hands me my half. yellow pad in two, and hands me my half.

'I'm going in there' pointing to the bathroom. 'You stay here. Sit at the desk and write down everything you remember. Everything that happened. I'll do the same. All right by you?'

'What's wrong with both of us being in this room? Jesus, Perry. I'm f.u.c.king f.u.c.king scared. Aren't you?' scared. Aren't you?'

Setting aside any pardonable desire for his companionship, my question is entirely reasonable. Our cabin contains, in addition to a much-used bed the size of a rugger field, one desk, two armchairs and a table. Perry may have had his heart-to-heart with Dima, but what about me, banged up with bonkers Tamara and her bearded saints?

'Separate witnesses rate separate statements,' Perry decrees, heading for the bathroom.

'Perry! Stop! Come back! Stay here! I'm the f.u.c.king lawyer here, not you. What's Dima been telling you?'

Nothing, to judge by his face. It has slammed shut.

'Perry.'

'What?'

'For f.u.c.k's sake. It's me. Gail. Remember? So just sit yourself down and tell Auntie what Dima has told you that's turned you into a zombie. All right, don't sit down. Tell me standing up. Is the world ending? Is he a girl? What the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k is going on between you two that I can't know?' is going on between you two that I can't know?'

A flinch. A palpable flinch. Enough flinch to give grounds for optimism. Misplaced.

'I can't.'

'Can't what?'

'Involve you in this.'