“Another lesson learned,” said Harry.
“And have they finally decided which country they are going to live in?” asked Emma.
“I decided,” said Jessica. “England.”
“And have you let them know?”
“Pops can hardly be expected to run Farthings from Washington, and in any case Mom has been shortlisted for a job at the Tate.”
“I’m so glad you’ve been able to sort everything out to your satisfaction,” said Emma.
“Got to go,” said Jessica. “I’m in charge of confetti distribution.”
A few minutes later, Samantha and Sebastian came down the sweeping staircase arm in arm, Seb’s limp now almost indiscernible. They walked slowly through a tunnel of well-wishers throwing confetti vaguely in their direction, until they emerged into the evening sun of the courtyard, to be surrounded by friends and family.
Samantha looked at a dozen hopeful young women, then turned and tossed her bouquet of blush-pink roses over her head and high into the air. It landed in Jessica’s arms, which was greeted with wild laughter and applause.
“God help the man,” said Sebastian as the chauffeur opened the back door of the waiting car.
The ambassador took his daughter in his arms and seemed reluctant to let her go. When he finally relinquished her, he whispered to Seb, “Please take care of her.”
“For the rest of my life, sir,” said Seb, before joining his wife in the backseat.
The car drove sedately out of the courtyard through the sculpted gates and onto the main road, with several of the younger guests in pursuit.
Mr. and Mrs. Clifton looked back and continued to wave until they were all out of sight. Sam rested her head on Seb’s shoulder.
“Do you remember the last time we were in Amsterdam, my darling?”
“Could I ever forget?”
“When I forgot to mention I was pregnant.”
44
THE TWO MEN shook hands, which helped Sloane to relax.
“It was good of you to come in at such short notice, Mr. Sloane,” said Chief Inspector Stokes. “When a policeman visits someone like you in their office, it can lead to unnecessary gossip among the staff.”
“I can assure you, chief inspector, that I have nothing to hide from anyone, including my staff,” said Sloane as he sat down, leaving the policeman standing. Sloane stared at the large Grundig tape recorder on the table between them. His mind began working overtime as he tried to anticipate what might be on the tape.
“I wasn’t suggesting that you have anything to hide,” said Stokes, sitting down opposite Sloane. “But you may be able to help me by answering one or two questions concerning a case I’m currently working on.”
Sloane clenched his fists below the table, but didn’t respond.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to listen to this tape, sir.” Stokes leaned forward and pressed the Play button on the tape recorder.
“Customs office, Heathrow.”
“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“No, you may not.”
“I’ll see if he’s available.” There was a pause before another voice was heard. “SCO Collier. How can I help you?”
“If you’re interested, I can tell you about some drugs that a passenger will be trying to smuggle in today.”
“Yes, I’m interested. But first, would you tell me your name?”
“The passenger’s name is Hakim Bishara. He’s well known in the trade, and is traveling on flight 207 from Lagos. He has thirteen ounces of heroin in his overnight bag.”
Sloane remained silent after the tape had come to an end. The chief inspector removed the spool and replaced it with another one. Once again he pressed the Play button. Once again he said nothing.
“Is this Adrian Sloane?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Chief Inspector Mike Stokes. I’m attached to the drug squad at Scotland Yard.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Stokes?”
“I’d like to make an appointment to see you, sir.”
“Why?”
“I can’t discuss the matter over the phone, sir. Either I could come to you, or you could visit me at Scotland Yard, whichever is more convenient.”
“I’ll come to you.”
Sloane shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve had both those tapes analyzed by an American voice specialist,” said Stokes, “and he’s confirmed that not only were they made by the same person, but from the same telephone.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you sure?” asked the interrogator, his eyes never leaving Sloane.
“Yes, I am, because the telephone call to the customs officer lasted less than three minutes, and is therefore untraceable.”
“How could you possibly know that, Mr. Sloane, if it wasn’t you who made the call?”
“Because I attended every day of Hakim Bishara’s trial and heard all the evidence firsthand.”