Part 18 (2/2)

I smiled. ”I will. When I see him.” I balled up my paper napkin and set it on the tray next to the teapot. ”Can I ask a favor? Two?”

”Ask me anything, sweetheart.”

”Can you let me know any new information concerning Archduke Orlando Haupt-von Vessey? He's in St. Mary's, recovering from pneumonia.”

”Have we turned into a paparazza?”

I glared at him. ”No, of course not. I'm the photographer at his son's wedding in Was.h.i.+ngton. I'm asking as a friend of the family. And before you say a word, I'm not turning into a wedding photographer, either. It's a one-time favor for Victor.”

Perry looked at me with more respect. ”I'm impressed. What's your other favor?”

”Do you remember a story in the British press concerning Edward Jaine? Something not very flattering, possibly involving computer exports to the Third World?”

He shook his head. ”Vaguely. I'll check it out and either call you or send you a link.”

”Thanks. I owe you.” I stood up. ”I probably ought to be getting back to the Connaught.”

Perry got up, too. ”How much longer are you staying in London?”

”We go home Friday.”

”Any more news about your grandfather?”

”Nope. Mom's still in Connecticut.”

He draped his arm around me as we walked outside. ”One more thing,” he said as though he'd just thought about it. ”There's an opening for a shooter in the D.C. bureau. Monica wants to talk to you.”

Monica Yablonski, the International Press Service Was.h.i.+ngton bureau chief, was tough as old boots, the kind of boss who made Perry-as demanding as he was-look like a p.u.s.s.ycat.

”What happened? Which photographer quit or got fired? I lost track of the body count in that bureau,” I said. ”Thanks, but I don't need my b.u.t.t kicked by Monica every day, Perry. It's nice to be my own boss for a change.”

He did his best impression of looking as if I'd stabbed him through the heart. ”Are you kidding me? You're not interested? Come on, Medina. You can handle Monica. Don't sit on the sidelines. You ought to still be in the game.”

”Was.h.i.+ngton is nothing like working in the field. It's press release city, full of talking heads and navel gazers.”

”It's a major bureau. People would kill to have that beat. Aren't you the least bit interested?” He gave me a sly look. ”The opening is at the White House. You wouldn't be based in the bureau. Job's yours if you want it.”

The White House. A plum job, press photographer for a major news bureau. He'd held that piece of information back until the end.

”Monica actually said that? Come on, Perry, what did she really say?”

”She'd like to talk to you.”

”Thought so. She needs to find someone who hasn't heard about her reputation for eating reporters and photogs for breakfast and spitting out the bones. Some benighted soul who's been living in a cave for the last couple of years.”

”Aren't you being a little harsh? Sweetheart, this is the bra.s.s ring. Talk it over with Nick if you want, but Monica's beating people away with a stick. At least promise me you'll call her and throw your hat in the ring.”

”I'll think about it. I'm happy freelancing and I'm plenty busy.”

”You haven't got long. She wants it filled by Friday. Tick, tick, tick.”

”Typical Monica,” I said. ”It's another road job if the president travels a lot. And this one goes to North Carolina for breakfast, Michigan for lunch, and Prague for dinner and a summit.”

A boxy black cab turned onto Duncannon Street. Perry put his hand up and the driver pulled over to the curb. He opened the door and turned to me.

”I miss you,” he said, giving me a hug and a quick kiss on the lips. ”Since you left no one turns in expenses for mileage on a camel or insists they didn't get my e-mails saying they couldn't upgrade their flight to first cla.s.s.”

”I miss you, too, and I was sore for weeks after that camel ride, and the upgrade was from Ulan Bator. The flight was full and the next one wasn't for another week.”

He grinned and helped me into the cab. ”She's going to the Connaught,” he said through the window to the driver. ”Take good care of her.”

”Don't you worry, she'll be safe as houses with me, guv'nor.”

Perry shut the door and the driver made one of those impossible tight circle turns London cabs are famous for. I looked over my shoulder and waved until we turned the corner onto the Strand.

”Everything all right, love?” The driver met my eyes in his rearview mirror as I settled back into the seat.

”Would you mind taking me down Whitehall? I'd like to see Horseguards Parade and Parliament and the Abbey.”

”Of course. I'll take you by the Palace as well.”

The training to become one of the world-famous London black-cab drivers is notoriously grueling and takes years to accomplish because it involves an intensive amount of studying, driving, and memorizing the city's maze of streets, both big and small. There are multiple exams and hundreds of routes that must be known by heart. The process even has a name: ”Doing the Knowledge.”

My driver, an elderly gentleman with flowing gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard, realized at once that I was checking his mirrors. ”No one's following us, miss. I promise you,” he said. ”And if they were, I'd let you know and I'd lose 'em.”

”Thank you.”

But in spite of his comforting promise, I couldn't help casting an occasional glance out the windows and in his mirrors. Because maybe Perry was right: Whoever locked us in the vault this afternoon might not have been targeting Alastair.

He might have been after me.

15.

Archduke Victor Haupt-von Vessey turned away from the front desk at the Connaught as I walked into the hotel lobby shortly before five. His face lit up with his warm smile when he saw me, but otherwise he looked haggard and as if he hadn't slept much lately.

He kissed me on both cheeks. ”It's good to see you here.”

At home he was always well dressed, no baggy shorts, T-s.h.i.+rts, flip-flops, or baseball caps. But here in London there was something different about him, the elegant cut of his expensive suit, his erect posture, a confidence that made me more aware of his stature as a member of one of Europe's most distinguished royal families.

”And you,” I said, smiling. ”What are you doing at the Connaught?”

”Looking for you,” he said, surprising me. ”I had a meeting in Grosvenor Square this afternoon and then I walked around the corner to the Jesuit church across the street from here to light a candle for my father. Maybe you know it? The Farm Street Church?”

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