Fane sighed as Liz made to leave. ‘I haven’t seen Andy Bokus for a while. I was hoping to keep it that way.’
An enigmatic smile appeared on Liz’s face. ‘That’s funny. I was saying something just like that to Peggy Kinsolving earlier today.’
As it turned out, Fane decided to call on Andy Bokus at his office in the American Embassy, rather than summoning him to Vauxhall Cross as protocol would dictate. He thought he might get more out of Bokus on his own ground.
It was something of a sacrifice, though, for Fane hated the sight of Grosvenor Square, littered as it now was with concrete blocks, huge flower pots and metal barriers. He was in a bad temper when he got out of his taxi on the opposite side of the square into a steady drizzle. ‘Can’t get no nearer, guv,’ the taxi driver had just announced.
Fane paid him off, unfurled his umbrella and strode round the barriers to the police post outside the embassy. He waved his Foreign Office pass and glowered as he waited for clearance to come through from inside. Thank goodness the Americans were moving south of the river, to a brand-new compound where they could be isolated and have no neighbours to annoy. The Mayfair residents would be delighted to see them go.
He thought about Bokus – a man with whom he had nothing at all in common. Bokus presented himself as the typical corn-fed Midwesterner; a man whose idea of a foreign country was New York City. Once when Fane had taken him for lunch at the Travellers, Bokus had asked for a can of Budweiser – Fane still smiled to himself at the memory of the waiter’s expression. But Fane had come to suspect that this unsophisticated, not to say boorish, exterior was carefully cultivated. Bokus disliked and distrusted the Brits, so he had adopted a persona designed to discomfit them. But Fane knew what he was up to; Bokus was no fool. In fact, Fane was certain that beneath that crude exterior lay a razor-sharp mind. Which made him simultaneously more interesting and more difficult to deal with.
‘What’s this all about, Geoffrey?’ Bokus asked bluntly.
‘We’ve got a rather interesting situation on our hands,’ Fane replied languidly, shooting his cuffs.
‘Well, take a seat and tell me about it.’
Fane sat down. Crossing one long leg casually over the other, he proceeded to outline the problems UCSO had been having with their shipments. As he talked, he decided that there would be no harm in mentioning the young British-Pakistani, Amir Khan, who had been picked up by the French.
Bokus nodded. ‘Yeah, we heard from the French about that kid,’ he said indifferently.
Fane raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He wondered for a moment why Bokus hadn’t been more interested in Amir Khan. Why hadn’t he enquired what the British knew about the lad, if he’d heard about him from the French? Were the Americans doing something with the French that Fane didn’t know about? Was Elizabeth Carlyle right in thinking that the CIA had something going on in UCSO? But then he decided that Bokus’ lack of interest was both genuine and utterly predictable – if something directly affected American interests you always had his full attention. If a US angle were less obvious, he’d play it cool.
Fane continued: ‘We thought it best to take a look at all the UCSO employees, since one of them would be the most likely source of any tip-off to the pirates about shipments coming past the Horn. It seemed a bit hard to believe at first,’ he added, ‘but on the other hand, it seemed too much of a coincidence that UCSO was so repeatedly the victim of these attacks.’ There were other reasons to think there was a traitor inside UCSO – including, of course, the wretched girl Maria’s murder – but Fane saw no need to lay these on the table. Instead he took out a typed piece of paper and, leaning over, put it on the desktop under Bokus’ eyes.
‘What’s this?’ the American demanded.
‘It’s the CV of the head of the UCSO office in Athens. Or do you chaps say “résumé”? He’s an American, as you see, and jolly interesting, I think you’ll agree.’
Bokus bent his head over the desk and his bald pate shone in the light. After thirty seconds’ silent inspection of the paper, his head lifted and Fane found Bokus’ brown eyes fixed on him. The American said neutrally, ‘What do you want me to say, Geoffrey?’
Fane decided to ignore this. ‘The thing is, Andy, this chap is no doubt perfectly sound. Blakey, his boss in London, swears by him.’
Bokus interjected, ‘Why does that name ring a bell?’
‘Possibly for the same reason Berger’s name rings bells for me.’ Fane shrugged, unwilling to be deflected, and stared back at Bokus.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Bokus said. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours – is that it?’ He laughed unexpectedly, a full-throated guffaw that Fane found intensely annoying. He liked it when Bokus stayed close to stereotype – the serious heavy-set ex-football player who thought the Limeys were all too arch and highfalutin’ for words.
‘You go first,’ said Fane dryly.
