It took looking in the first copy of The Sun that I could find to confirm that Lady Antonia Ainsley-Hunter was in London, and I caught a cab from Heathrow into the city, got dropped off in front of the Burns Hotel in Kensington. It was just past seven in the morning when I checked into my room, a double with an almost queen and a passable bathroom, and I fiddled with the alarm clock until I got it to work, then crashed on the bed until a quarter past ten. When I woke I did some yoga and some sit-ups, showered, then headed out in search of a pay phone. When I found one I liked, I called Robert Moore on his cellular phone.
"Moore."
"This is Mr. Klein," I said. "You're holding a letter for me."
He didn't miss a beat. "Yes, it arrived several days ago. Do you need it delivered?"
"If that's possible, and the sooner the better."
"Where can I meet you?"
"There's a tube stop at Earl's Court."
"I can be there in fifty minutes."
"That would be fine."
"I'll come in on the train." Then he added, "Mind the gap."
I was laughing as I hung up the phone.
London subway stations, even at their worst, make New York's look like they were constructed by giant rats, and that the giant rats still reside in them. Those in London are also, for the most part, far less crowded, and as a result I spotted Moore as he came off the train. He was wearing a Burberry coat and holding a black plastic shopping bag, and he waited by the tracks until the train had pulled away again before moving forward.
I let him pass me before saying, "Hey."
He stopped and said, "I thought it was you, but the hair threw me. You've been in the sun."
"Lots of sun," I admitted, and I took his offered hand and shook it warmly.
"Christ Almighty, but I'm glad you're okay."
"I figured you might be pissed."
"You daft? You got her back, and that was the most important thing." Moore looked around the station, then handed me the shopping bag. "Is this what you were after, then?"
"Actually, no," I said. "I need a little help."
"You always do. Buy me a pint and we'll chat about it."
We had a late lunch at a well-hidden pub in Chelsea called The Surprise, on a crooked street called Christchurch Street, about a block from Oscar Wilde's townhouse. It was comfortable and quiet inside, with bare oak floors and wood on the walls. A small dining area was at the rear and we got a table and some food. Moore tried to get me to try one of the ales, saying that it was a good, living brew and that I owed it to myself to try some. I drank a ginger beer instead.
"How's Her Ladyship?"
"Running great guns, as you might expect," he said. "She'll be disappointed that she didn't get to see you."
"I don't want anyone to know I'm here."
"That much I'd already gathered." He nudged the plastic bag with the toe of his shoe, pushing it farther against the legs of my chair. "I opened it when it arrived, of course. It's well done."
"It is."
"Made me curious, you might imagine. Wondered what you were doing sending me paper like that, after everything that had happened. You care to explain it?"
"Not right now."
"All business, then?"
"What I need, I need as quickly as possible."
"And what you need is.?.."
"A name and an address. And I can't get them through my sources."
He opened his pack of Dunhills, lit one. "Think you perhaps better tell me a little more."
"There is an individual, could be female, most likely male. This individual is an accountant or a banker or possibly a lawyer. Most likely working in Europe, in one of the major financial centers."
"This a hypothetical person?"
"No, this person exists. And aside from his normal job crunching numbers or selling loans, he handles accounts and investments for one very specific, very particular client. He does this with absolute discretion and more than a little fear, and in exchange for this work, he makes at least a million dollars a year himself."
"Powerful client."
"Oxford," I said.
Moore leaked smoke from his nose studying me. His eyes were thoughtful, but I couldn't tell if the thoughts were pleasant or not.
"You're looking for Oxford's banker?" he asked. "You sure he's got one?"
"I have it on reliable authority."
"And this authority would be who?"
"Someone who knows."
He took another drag, looking sidelong towards the bar and the door. Then he brought his eyes back to me, and it was clear he knew who I meant. He asked, "Why come to me? You've got contacts on your side of the ocean, why not use them?"
"If they make inquiries, the wrong people will notice."
"Wrong how?"
"Wrong as in the people who've hired Oxford in the first place are also the people one would normally ask about this sort of thing. You've got to understand, Robert – he's not just after my principal, he's after me, too. I'm part of the contract, and he already got too close once."
"So you're appealing to me on the basis of… what? Our history?"
"If that's what it takes."
He shook his head. "No, that won't wash. This is a business transaction between us, all right? We keep it on that level, it won't arse up the friendship."
"Business."
That actually had a visible effect on him, and he relaxed in his seat. "I'll need two thousand pounds and a way to reach you."
"How long will it take?"
"I'll talk to the blokes I know tonight, all goes well, I'll have something for you by morning."
"Then I'll call you tomorrow morning." I dug out my wallet, counted ten of the hundred-pound notes I'd acquired earlier, and handed them over. "You get the rest when I get your report."
He counted the money, then folded it away in his pocket. "Your business sense has improved."
"I need this information, and I need it fast, Robert," I said. "Every day that passes, this guy gets closer to me, to my principal, to the people I love."
"Supposing I bring you what you want tomorrow, what're you doing then? Sharing that with your – ahem – principal?"
"You don't have to worry about that."
"Actually, I do, and if I don't get an answer I can work with, you can take your damn money back."
I shook my head. "You're the one who made this business."
"That I did." He finished his cigarette, ground it out with a grin, then drained the last of his living ale from its glass and got to his feet. "Call me after nine."
He was already on his cell phone before he had left the pub.
I spent the rest of the day wandering through the bookstores on Charing Cross Road, not buying anything. I found another pub around seven and got myself a very limp salad and some very bland fish, and I walked all the way back to the Burns Hotel fighting the craving for some deep-fried food. At the desk I got directions to a twenty-four-hour gym nearby, and spent three hours in it working myself into a lather. When I was done I didn't want fried food, just sleep, so I returned to the hotel and went to bed.
At nine the next morning I called Moore from a different pay phone.
"I'll have something by the end of the day," he said. "But the price is going up."
"How much?"
"There's a rental fee, I'll explain when I see you. Call me at five."
When I contacted him again at five, he told me that Mr. Klein should get a room at the Hilton before nine that evening, and hung up. I went to the Hilton and did as ordered, found that I had most of four hours before anyone would come calling, and used the pool at the hotel for a long swim. Then I went for a run in the rain. Then I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and tried not to think about how slow Alena was on the stairs, about the four men and one woman who were standing guard over her, about the fact that Oxford would go through them like they were made of tissue.
At one past nine Moore knocked on the door and I let him inside, then checked the hall.
"I came clean," he said. "No one's following me."
He was wearing the same raincoat from the day before, and beneath it a well-tailored navy suit. He was also carrying a burgundy leather briefcase, and he set it on the floor between his legs after I'd shut and double locked the door.
"Four thousand," Moore said.
"You taking advantage of my generous nature?"
"Like I said, it's a rental fee. The people I got this information from, they did it as a favor to me, but they didn't do it for free. I'm covering my expenses." He folded his overcoat once and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. "I'm keeping this business."
"I'd like to see what I'm getting for the money."
"You're not getting anything, you're borrowing." He picked up the case and laid it flat on the bed, then popped open the locks. Inside were several folders, manila with red stenciled warnings about violations of The Official Secrets Act. Moore looked at me to see if I understood.
"When do they have to be back?" I asked, gesturing at the folders.
"By oh-five-hundred, no later, otherwise they'll be missed. Gives you shy of eight hours to review them."
I dug out my wallet and handed over the bills. Moore pocketed the money, this time without counting it, then removed the folders from the case, handing them to me.
"Where will you be?" I asked.
"Right bloody here. Those don't leave my sight."
"I'm not going to steal them."
"I'm committing an act of treason for you." He sounded angry. "That should give you some idea of the measure of my trust. But trust you as I do, I don't want to leave and find out someone else blew through here and walked out with Her Majesty's documents. So I'll stay. You can order up some dinner. But those papers never leave my sight."
"The menu's by the phone," I told him, and then sat down at the desk and opened the first folder.
The files had been prepared by someone in military intelligence, using data compiled from a wide variety of sources that included British Intelligence, Interpol, the DEA, and the CIA. As I began working, Moore told me that one of the problems had been in actually assembling the data; apparently no one had ever bothered to try and track down Oxford's money man before.
"Bloke who helped me on this didn't give you much hope," Moore told me as I got started.
There were files on five men, each of whom had earned government or law enforcement attention through their financial dealings. The files were piecemeal assemblies, printouts and copies and faxes and copies of copies and copies of faxes, slips of paper stapled together, the occasional photograph. It took me nearly an hour just to get everything sorted into usable piles. Once I had that done, though, things went fairly quickly, mostly because I knew what I was looking for.
The first file was of an Englishman named Meadows living in London and employed by Lloyd's. A notation in the file said he was on his third marriage, no children. Along with the personal data were copies of various police reports, indicating two arrests for drunk driving and one for the solicitation of a prostitute who had turned out to be an undercover officer. Meadows had earned his file courtesy of the DEA, who suspected him of laundering money for a group of arms dealers out of the Middle East.
There was no way Alena would have trusted this guy with her money.
The next file was on a Swiss named Junot, an attorney in his early forties, living in Geneva, on the lake. Employed by Brunschwig Wittmer, twenty-two years of service. His personal information was at the bottom of the file, stated that he was divorced and that his ex-wife and their nine-year-old son had subsequently died in an avalanche during a skiing holiday in the Alps. He had earned Interpol's notice by purchasing a marble bust of Nike at an auction three years earlier, and the only reason they'd noticed him at all was that the seller had been the point man for an organization out of Turkey that trafficked in a lot of heroin. A note queried where Junot had gotten the money to purchase the statue, but the investigation had apparently ended there when no one could find a connection between him and the seller other than that single transaction.
He was a possible, and I set him aside.
The third was an American named Collier who worked for Bank of America, which I found kind of amusing. Collier specialized in loans for foreign development, was in his late thirties, married with three children, all girls. He was also financing foreign loans, and while many of those loans had been high-risk, that wasn't what had earned him CIA attention: six years ago he'd gone to China on some sort of trade junket and begun an affair with a woman who said she was in software development in Taiwan, but was actually part of the Chinese Security Force. Collier had been leaking her technology information as opportunity allowed.
Another discard.
The fourth was another Swiss, living in Zurich, named Blanc. I discarded him immediately when I saw that he had served ten years for killing a pedestrian in a hit-and-run accident. I never bothered to see why he'd made the file.
The fifth was a South African named Martins, single, never married, fifty-six years old. He was another banker, and had been identified by Interpol, the DEA, and the CIA as a bookkeeper for the Sicilian mafia, though apparently that employment had ended some ten years ago.
He, too, was a possible.
It was nearly one when I finished going through the paperwork.
"Any joy?" Moore asked.
"Maybe. I've got two guys here that I'd trust to do the job if it were mine. The others are all too unreliable – either histories with drugs or the authorities or potential personality problems that would make them untrustworthy."
Moore moved from where he'd been slumped on the couch, watching television, and came to the desk, looking over my shoulder. "Fifty-fifty chance."
"Problem is I don't have time for those odds," I said. "I'm leaning toward Junot."
"Let me see."
I handed the folders over, then got up and went to the window. There wasn't much of a view, just scattered lights filtering through the fog. I heard Moore rustling papers as he flipped through the files.
"Why Junot?" he asked.
"No prior history."
"Martins is pretty clean."
"But he's known."
"Oxford an American?"
"I'm pretty sure he is."
"That would connect him with the CIA."
"And Martins is known to the CIA."
"What I'm thinking, yes."
"No. The more I think about it, the more it's got to be Junot if it's any of them."
"You don't think the dead wife and child would be a problem?"
"It's a bonus, actually. Junot's isolated, doesn't have people. Won't be talking to anyone about the money."
"People who collect ancient pieces of art tend to show it off."
"Depends why they like the art. You look at Junot's file, you tell me if that looks like the kind of man who shows off. To me it reads like a man who spends an awful lot of his time alone."
"Martins…" Moore mused. "Looks like he's a homosexual. Mid-fifties, never married. Could mean he's discreet."
"Problem is that the file doesn't actually say that he's queer," I said. "Which could mean he's so far in the closet, it's an issue for him. That could be used against him as blackmail. It would make him a potential risk."
"In this day?" Moore asked.
"I've never been to South Africa, I don't know what the public perception of gays there is." I turned and went back to the desk, gathered up the remaining files and handed them to Moore, who dropped them back in the briefcase. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." He latched the case shut. "This isn't the kind of thing I do for just anyone, you understand that."
"I do. And I appreciate the risk you've taken."
"It levels the field."
"I thought this was just business."
"If it was just business, I'd have told you to sod off when you called this morning. You need anything else?"
"Actually, I do," I said. "This should be easier, though. I need a contact in Austria, someone who'd be willing to make a couple bucks doing something marginally illegal."
"How much and how marginal?"
"Say ten grand? They'd have to open an account for me at a bank, a specific kind of account. The account has to be opened by an Austrian national, and I don't have the German or the papers to do it myself."
He took his coat from the back of the chair, slipping into it, thinking. "There's a woman I know, she could do it. I'd have to ask her first, of course."
"Of course," I replied. "It may be a couple of days before I need her."
He took the briefcase off the bed. "Give me a call when you do."
"I will," I said.
When he reached the open door, Moore said, "You're walking a very narrow rope. Be careful you don't fall off."
"I'm not going to kill anyone, Robert…"
"See that you don't."
"At least no one who doesn't have it coming," I said, shutting the door after him.