Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(96)

37


WHEN HARRY WOKE, the first thing he did was to turn on the light by his bed and check his watch: 2.26 a.m. He cursed when he realized he hadn’t undressed.

He almost fell off the bed, walked across to the window and stared out at a city that from the noise of the traffic and the sparkling lights was clearly still wide awake. He closed the curtains, got undressed and climbed back into bed, hoping he would drop off again quickly. But he was robbed of sleep by thoughts of Martinez, Seb, Sir Alan, Emma, Giles and even Jessica, and the harder he tried to relax and dismiss them from his mind, the more they demanded his attention.

At 4.30 a.m., he gave up and decided he would have a bath. That’s when he fell asleep. When he woke, he jumped out of bed and pulled back the curtains to see the first rays of sunlight bathing the city. He checked the time. It was 7.10 a.m. He felt grubby, and smiled at the thought of a long, hot bath.

He went in search of a dressing gown, but the hotel could only manage a thin bath towel and a sliver of soap. He stepped into the corridor and headed for the bathroom. A sign saying Occupado was hanging on the door handle, and he could hear someone splashing around inside. Harry decided to wait, so no one would take his place in the queue. When the door eventually opened after about twenty minutes, Harry came face to face with the one man he’d hoped never to see again.

‘Good morning, captain,’ he said, blocking his path.

‘Good morning, Mr Bolton,’ Harry replied, trying to edge past him.

‘No rush, old fellow,’ he said. ‘It will take a quarter of an hour for the tub to empty, and then another fifteen minutes to fill it up again.’ Harry hoped that if he said nothing, Bolton would take the hint and move on. He didn’t. ‘Your exact double,’ said the persistent intruder, ‘writes detective novels. The weird thing is that I can remember the name of the detective, William Warwick, but I’m damned if I can recall the name of the author. It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

When Harry heard the last few drops of water gurgling down the drain, Bolton reluctantly moved aside, allowing him to enter the bathroom.

‘It’s on the tip of my tongue,’ Bolton repeated as he walked off down the corridor.

Harry closed the door and locked it, but no sooner had he turned on the tap than there was a knock on the door.

‘How long are you going to be?’

By the time there was enough water for him to step into the bath, he could hear two people holding a conversation on the other side of the door. Or was it three?

The bar of soap only just lasted long enough to reach his feet, and by the time he had dried between his toes, the towel was soaking. He opened the bathroom door to find a queue of disgruntled guests, and tried not to think what time it would be before the last of them went down to breakfast. Miss Carrick was right, he should have taken a bath when he woke in the middle of the night.

Once he was back in his room, Harry shaved and dressed quickly, realizing that he hadn’t eaten anything since he’d stepped off the plane. He locked his room, took the lift down to the ground floor and strolled across the lobby to the breakfast room. As he entered, the first person he spotted was Mr Bolton, sitting on his own, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast. Harry turned and fled. He thought about room service, but not for long.

His appointment with the ambassador wasn’t until ten o’clock, and he knew from his notes that it would take only ten to fifteen minutes to reach the embassy on foot. He would have gone for a walk and looked for a café but for one of Sir Alan’s repeated instructions: no unnecessary exposure. Nevertheless, he decided to leave a little early and walk slowly. He was relieved to find that Mr Bolton wasn’t lurking in the corridor, the lift or the lobby, and he managed to make it out of the hotel without a further encounter.

Three blocks to the right, then two more to the left, and he would find himself in Plaza de Mayo, the tourist guidebook assured him. Ten minutes later, it was proved right. Union Jacks were being raised on flagpoles around the square, and Harry could only wonder why.

He crossed the road, not easy in a city that prided itself on having no traffic lights, and continued down Constitutional Avenue, stopping for a moment to admire a statue of someone called Estrada. His instructions told him that if he kept walking, in 200 yards he’d come to a set of wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the royal coat of arms.

Harry found himself standing outside the embassy at 9.33. Once around the block: 9.43. Once again, even slower: 9.56. Finally, he walked through the gates, across a pebbled courtyard and up a dozen steps, where a large double door was opened for him by a guard whose medals indicated that they had served in the same theatre of war. Lieutenant Harry Clifton of the Texas Rangers would have liked to stop and chat to him, but not today. As he was walking towards the reception desk a young woman stepped forward and asked, ‘Are you Captain May?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘My name is Becky Shaw. I’m the ambassador’s private secretary, and he’s asked me to take you straight through to his office.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry. She led him down a red carpeted corridor, at the end of which she stopped, knocked gently on an imposing double door and entered without waiting for a response. Any fears Harry might have had of the ambassador not expecting him were proving unfounded.

He entered a large elegant room to find the ambassador sitting behind his desk in front of a vast semi-circle of windows. His Excellency, a small, square-jawed man who exuded energy, stood up and walked briskly over to Harry.