"The chief 's in the office."

Littel felt relief as if he were taking a cool shower. Wonderful.

"Perfect, Agent Staughton. Please pa.s.s him the phone."

"Ah, that's not going to be possible," Staughton refused.

"Why not? Do what I tell you." Although he was being rude, Littel knew why Staughton couldn't pa.s.s him the phone. Barnes had another priority.

"What petulance," Colonel Garrison muttered.

Littel got up and raised his hand for silence.

"It's just . . . it's that . . ." Staughton stammered.

"It's what, man? Spit it out."

Except for Littel, everyone in the room was holding his breath. What the h.e.l.l could Barnes be doing that his agent couldn't pa.s.s him the telephone?

"He's on the direct line with the White House."

Everyone turned red except Littel, who saw his thinking rewarded. He looked at Sebastian Ford, careful not to let his inner smile show. It was always good to see those who think the worst of others have to retreat with their tails between their legs and eat their words.

"Excellent, Agent Staughton," Littel continued. "Tell your superior to call me as soon as the call from the White House is over."

"Okay, sir." Staughton's voice recovered its confidence. Maybe someday he'd even get used to receiving these calls.

The call ended on the American side, leaving a heavy silence in the air. Everyone chose a neutral or indistinct point on which to fix his eyes. Most preferred the mahogany table, the phone in second place. Littel was the first to stir the waters, as he ought to be. The time for thinking was past.

"It's obvious the situation has escaped our control," he a.s.serted sadly.

"In an alarming way," Wally Johnson concluded.

"Sebastian," Littel said. "Prepare the crisis committee."

"When?"

These politicos could only deal with appointments and schedules. "Within a half hour," Littel answered curtly.

Ford went out with his two a.s.sistants, who'd been seated at his side.

"Colonel?" Littel turned to Garrison this time. "Who do we have in Russia?"

"Nestov and Litvinenko."

"Didn't Litvinenko die of poisoning?" Wally Johnson was astonished.

The colonel and Littel looked at him with disdain.

"There is more than one Litvinenko in the RSS," the old soldier explained.

"Try to contact them. This is going to get hot, and we have to be prepared."

The colonel wheeled himself back and then was helped by an a.s.sistant around the table and into the hallway. Littel, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson remained. Littel and Johnson exchanged looks silently, and immediately burst into laughter, leaving Priscilla astonished.

"Get us two coffees, please, Cil," Littel asked, wiping his eyes from laughing. "It's going to be a long night."

Priscilla went out to fulfill their request, leaving the two men alone.

Wally was the first to break the silence.

"What do you think the president wants with Barnes?"

"A recipe for cod in sauce," Littel responded seriously, provoking a laugh from the soldier.

"How does it happen that that son of a b.i.t.c.h Keys gets himself killed so far away and in a bathroom?" Wally Johnson wanted to know.

"That is what we have to find out. The idea of collateral damage doesn't convince me."

"Do you think anyone suspects?"

"No," Littel answered without a shadow of doubt. "It's going to be a bombsh.e.l.l."

30.

A door saved Simon Lloyd from certain death. That irony was lost on those whose steps echoed in the dark hallway, disturbing the silence that had fallen since night began. This was the orthopedic wing of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, and moans caused by iron staples that pierced the flesh and fixed the bones couldn't be heard only because the doors were reinforced and closed. So Sarah's loud footsteps and John Fox's quieter ones at her side left no impression on the patients stretched out on beds who could be seen inside the rooms, where they tried to endure another night of pain, hoping for a better day soon. door saved Simon Lloyd from certain death. That irony was lost on those whose steps echoed in the dark hallway, disturbing the silence that had fallen since night began. This was the orthopedic wing of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, and moans caused by iron staples that pierced the flesh and fixed the bones couldn't be heard only because the doors were reinforced and closed. So Sarah's loud footsteps and John Fox's quieter ones at her side left no impression on the patients stretched out on beds who could be seen inside the rooms, where they tried to endure another night of pain, hoping for a better day soon.

Sarah avoided showing the weakness she felt. It wasn't a good time, walking next to an SIS agent, although John Fox acted reasonably friendly. Simon Templar preferred to stay in the car, thus his absence-better to stare at the steering wheel than serve as a lady-in-waiting for the Portuguese woman.

As soon as the coroner had taken Grigori Nestov's body out of the ruins of Sarah's house, Agent John Fox had tried to excuse her. Enough things had happened, enough surprises, for one day. They could call her if they needed to make further contact. Conscious that the orders she'd received from JC were very explicit, she decided to go to Waterloo International, the train station, and catch the first Eurostar for Paris. Once there she would call her father. She remembered her duty to visit Simon Lloyd. It was the least she could do for all he'd gone through. So she decided to visit the hospital, close to her house, before heading out for Wellington. She asked John Fox for someone to go with her, and he offered to do it himself, as we see. It was a way of checking on Simon Lloyd's condition for giving a statement. By coming with Sarah, he would gain Simon's confidence sooner and be able to arrange a visit the next day.

Sarah's worried expression didn't leave him unmoved. He sympathized with what he had seen of her, not just as a woman but also the mystery she carried within her. This woman knew a lot, although he didn't know what or how. He had read the articles she wrote for the paper, sometimes of great help to various SIS departments, as well as foreign agencies, he well knew. It was as if Sarah were sending messages to the various factions, Western and East European, as if she knew them all, their true, secret ident.i.ties. She would be a valuable a.s.set as an ally; for that reason, John didn't understand Simon Templar's suspicions. Was it because it was a woman who possessed the information they all would like to have? It didn't matter. He, John Fox, was ready to invest in this contact, not pressure her, show himself a friend. Later he'd see. Good things could come out of artifice.

"Don't worry," he tried to calm her. "He'll be all right."

"I hope so." Sarah took a deep breath and answered with a timid smile.

But it's not him I'm thinking about, she confessed to herself. Her mind went back over the past year, remembering everything. He was at her side, the protege, in spite of his irritating tendency to not tell her anything, or tell things in bits and pieces according to a logic only he understood. How much she missed him at moments like this. She felt alone, unprotected, although she didn't feel truly in danger despite all the deaths around her, some close enough she didn't want to think about them, as with the explosion in her house, JC's alarming call, and all that. Not like that night a year ago when they'd broken into her house and put a gun to her head. Maybe today's bad guys, whoever they were, knew she was with SIS agents. That was obvious. The short ride to Waterloo International would be tense, since she didn't plan to accept John Fox's amiable company again. They couldn't find out about her intention to leave London.

"What's the room number?" Sarah had forgotten in her nervousness.

"Twenty-five," John Fox told her. "We're almost there."

Their steps closed the distance to the room, where, according to the reception desk, the patient from emergency number 259475, listed under the name Simon Lloyd, was a.s.signed. They pa.s.sed 19, 20. Unconsciously Sarah slowed her pace, feeling defensive about what she was going to find.

She breathed deeply. . . .

21 . . .

Breathed deeply . . .

22 . . .

She hung back even more, letting John Fox get a few feet ahead.

23 . . .

She let herself close her eyes for a few seconds. Why was this happening all over again? No one should have to go through this twice, or once, for that matter. Simon Lloyd, another victim of the power of men who didn't care what means they used. All because of her, her father, his past . . . last year . . .

24 . . .

"Do you feel all right?" John Fox stopped, waiting for her three paces ahead.

Natalie and Greg. Dead. Why? She didn't want her mind to wander through these dark subjects, but she couldn't avoid it. So many doubts, so many questions, no answers. She thought about her own life in danger. Natalie and Greg punished by someone without the least respect for the existence of others. Let alone fear of G.o.d. They were the most dangerous. She could think of one reason why they were killed. Yes, it existed. Practically inoffensive but real. That must have been what killed them. Good G.o.d, capable of killing for so little . . . if only he were here . . .

She opened her eyes.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she replied in a weak voice. If the light hadn't been so dim, almost nonexistent, John Fox would have seen the dark ocean in her eyes.

"Ready?"

Sarah's apathetic look restrained him. "I'll go in first and call you in later." It was an order, not a suggestion, and John Fox had to accept it.

Sarah opened the door carefully to make as little noise as possible and closed it as soon as she was inside. The room was brighter than the hallway. She dried her eyes with her hands and looked at the bed where Simon was sleeping, leaning against the head of the bed, his head hanging to the right side. Saliva ran from his open mouth onto his hospital gown. Somebody must have been visiting him, and he had fallen asleep watching television, remaining in this position, half sitting, slumped over, not quite one or the other. The television cast an irritating glow in this moment, brighter, darker, great contrasts of tone, depending on the image from the horror film that filled the screen. Simon slept on, oblivious to all this, giving a slight, almost imperceptible snore of pure exhaustion.

Sarah took a deep breath and approached her colleague cautiously in order not to startle him.

"You're back?" she heard Simon say without opening his eyes, in a drugged voice.

"It's me, Sarah."

She looked him up and down, inspecting him carefully at first glance to see if he was all there. She saw nothing more than a bandage on his left hand. Of course the light blanket covered his lower body from her inspection.

Simon opened his eyes and smiled alertly.

"Hi, boss. What time is it?" He looked at his wrist.w.a.tch on top of the table. "d.a.m.n. So early," he exclaimed. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

He pulled himself together to sit up completely.

"I've come to see you." She intended to maintain a normal voice with the intention of sending a subliminal message that everything was all right. "How are you?"

"Considering the circ.u.mstances, I couldn't be better. My hand was burned, as you can see, and a leg. I'm in a little pain. It seems I hit a bus, but I'm ready for more."

His shining eyes suggested a certain pride in having pa.s.sed a test and survived.

"What really happened? Was it really a gas explosion?"

Sarah was not prepared to discuss this. Besides, she didn't have answers to Simon's questions. The less he knew, the better for him, at least for now.

"Yes, that's what it was," was all she said. "A problem with the installation. I apologize for that," she excused herself awkwardly.

"You don't have to apologize. It's over," Simon replied a little condescendingly. "We can continue the trip tomorrow." He changed the subject with a smile.

"You'd better stay here and recover. I'll take care of everything."

"No way," he protested. "I'm fine."

Journalistic perseverance. A hazard of the profession. One of the first things one learns if one hopes to survive in the job.

"Besides, there are people who are going to want to ask you questions in the next few days," she added. She wasn't going to give in. The danger was real. She had to be alone, not dragging more innocent people along with her.

"More?" He moved his hand in irritation more than he should have and let out a moan. "I'm sick of answering stupid questions."

"Careful. Calm down," Sarah replied, going over to him and pa.s.sing her hand through his sweaty hair. "Who's been here?" she asked, as if this were only a normal conversation.

"Scotland Yard, the FBI, also MI6," he sighed with annoyance. "They were right here at my bed when I woke up. After the doctors, they were the first people I saw."

"And what did they want?"

"To give me instructions, but I think I can tell you. We're in this together."

Sarah brought a chair over to the bed and sat down to listen carefully.

"I've been the victim of a gas explosion and that's what I have to tell anyone who comes here. If they ask me about you, I'm to say I don't know where you were. I went to the house alone."

"And have you complied?"

"Of course. With others it's been easy. The hardest has been convincing our editor."

"He's been here?"

"Yes. And asked about you. Haven't you gotten his calls on your cell?"

"Where I was I couldn't get calls."

"I don't know if he was convinced, but I told him we'd split up. I'd gone to pick up some stuff at your house, while you were buying some clothes you needed. We had agreed to meet at the station. If he asks you, this is the official version. Don't get me in trouble." He offered a timid smile.

"Don't worry. You can relax. I'll call him and confirm the story." She carried on in a friendly manner with Simon, although her mind was seething with other matters more pressing than convincing the editor.

"I never thought I'd be a media star. All because of a gas leak. They even apologized to me."

"Who?"