“I’d be very glad to, if he’s around,” Nigel says affably. He feels a warmly benevolent glow of gratitude towards the CEO of GP Services as Anneka tugs his arm down around her waist, squeezing his fingers in friendly reproach—perhaps he’s been trying to move too speedily for her, or she feels this is too public a setting for hanky-panky—but he has to admit to being slightly puzzled. Isn’t the fellow reputed to be some sort of god-bothering sky pilot? But this is a terribly worldly sort of party. “Is he around?”
“He was earlier, in fact—oh yes! There he is now! I can introduce you briefly and then perhaps I can show you around the rest of the house? There are rooms upstairs if you feel like a lie-down or a massage,” she adds, then turns him towards a distinguished-looking fellow in his fifties with a remarkably full head of silver hair and an avuncular smile. Anneka unglues herself from Nigel’s side and curtsies to him. “Sir! May I introduce the Right Honorable Nigel Irving, Secretary of State for Defense? This is Dr. Raymond Schiller, Chief Executive of GP Services and its subsidiary GP Security.” She stands between them, clutching her hands and smiling anxiously as if unsure which master she wishes most to please.
“Jolly pleased to meet you, Dr. Schiller.” Nigel dials up the Old English Bonhomie to eleven and offers his hand as a ritual sacrifice. Schiller shakes it with the expected trans-Atlantic nutcracker grip. “I’ve been hearing a lot about your operation lately. Number Ten is keen.” He smiles. “I hear we have you to thank for solving our problem with a certain loose cannon agency.”
“Oh, call me Raymond. And thanks aren’t necessary: we’re pleased to help out!” Schiller sounds appropriately discreet. “We’re used to handling these matters for the State Department and we have all the clearances. That’s why we were able to make a head start on getting assets into position for the spin-up of the new agency next week. But of course we’re committed to openness and transparency in service to government, and I couldn’t possibly ask for any favors, much less special treatment.”
Schiller says this with such deadpan sincerity that Nigel almost believes him despite his better judgment. From what Adrian was saying he’d been expecting some sort of dry stick of a fire-and-brimstone preacher man, but Raymond is speaking his language with note-perfect accent. “I look forward to talking later,” he says.
“Yes, absolutely.” Schiller glances around. “But this really isn’t a business meeting! It’s a party, and if you’ll excuse me, I need to play host and ensure everyone is having a good time.” He smiles broadly. “I gather you’ve made Anneka’s acquaintance?” The girl has her back turned as they speak, offering a pretense of privacy; Nigel’s gaze lingers possessively over her naked shoulder blades, follows the elegant line of her spine down into her dress. “She’s been my executive assistant for the past three years, you know. A remarkable lady; I’m so sad she’s leaving in a couple of weeks, to take up a post as special advisor to Norman Grove.” A minister without portfolio: Nigel feels a flash of jealousy, even though his own post is stratospherically senior to Grove’s. “She can take care of all your requirements, and if you let her know what you want, she’ll make sure it happens.”
“Really?” Nigel is almost amused, but slightly on edge. And I thought she was—he stifles the thought. “She has hidden depths.”
“She seems to have taken to you,” Schiller assures him, then winks. “I must circulate, see you later?”
“Indeed! Until later.”
As Schiller turns away Nigel begins to follow up the uneasy realization that Schiller’s words jogged loose in his mind. But then Anneka turns to face him, a flash of thigh tantalizingly visible through the slit in her gown. She beams brilliantly, then she steps inside his reaching arm and wraps an arm around him. “Mm-hmm! And now you’ve fulfilled your obligation to your host we’re free for the rest of the evening! Let me show you upstairs? You’ll adore the Old Earl’s Bedroom,” she promises.
*
“This is ridiculous!” Cassie swears quietly. There’s a hiss and crackle of static as she rubs a fingertip inside her collar, disturbing the hidden microphone. “How am I supposed to not spill the drinks if they keep groping me?”
I glance across the table. Alex is glaring at the battered laptop in front of him but his fingertips are white with tension. His expression is livid. Mhari is making notes on her tablet next to the floor plan 3-view displaying the location of the tagged wineglasses Cassie has handed out. Everyone in the living room of the holiday rental property in the neighboring village that we picked for a field office is uncomfortable. “Situation?” I ask.
Mhari clears her throat. “That was His Excellency, Prince—”
I cut Mhari off. “So the wandering hands don’t belong to one of ours,” I say pointedly.
“No,” she snaps. Aside: “But please don’t let her have a snit about this, we’ve got nobody else who’s remotely as good at this job…”
“From your lips to the Black Pharaoh’s ears,” I snark. But she’s absolutely right: this wasn’t in the risk matrix we drew up for the mission as originally scoped. When Schiller rented a posh country pad as a venue for boozed-up receptions for business contacts it looked like a good idea to put some of our people on the inside wearing wires. Rooting the vacation cottage and getting a router-level packet monitor on the leased line to the country house wasn’t a huge problem, and that gave us access to the CCTV and a carrier signal for our own roving commentators. The wineglasses are a neat trick. They’re tiny Bluetooth transmitters with resonant contacts that turn the goblets into microphones, reporting back through a couple of rooted smartphones, like the gizmos we planted in the BBC newsroom an eternity ago. It’s the sort of Maxwell Smart hack that used to cost the CIA black budget half a billion to develop in the ’60s but is off-the-shelf from a Chinese toy factory these days. Where we ran into trouble was in getting past GP Security’s vetting. It’s dismayingly professional, and the weak corner of our coverage envelope is the human factor. In the end our ability to kibitz on Schiller’s shindig was entirely dependent on us being able to get an experienced infiltration asset who wasn’t on any national databases (fingerprint, DNA, Immigration, or other) and who could sweet-talk—or englamour—their way past the door and replace a contract catering body. Subtype: unskilled, or at least trainable at a day’s notice.