The Take(17)

There was a knock at the door. “Come.”

Lucy opened the door. “Mr. Neill to see you.”

Simon rose and came around the desk as the impromptu visitor entered the room.

“Mr. Riske, my name’s Barnaby Neill. I’m a friend of Bill Shea’s.”

The handshake was firm and forthright.

“Ambassador Shea?”

“We go back a long way.”

Lucy remained at the door, studying Neill. At some point in the past few months she’d appointed herself his guardian.

“Thank you, Miss Brown,” said Simon. And when she lingered: “Off you go.”

The door closed. Simon appraised the visitor. Barnaby Neill was lanky, fifty or fifty-five, with receding hair and rings beneath his eyes as black as coal. A worn, reliable face with a nose that had been broken. Married. College ring. Blue blazer. Rep tie. Gray trousers. Scuffed penny loafers. Hamilton wristwatch on a leather strap.

Simon did the math.

East Coast establishment.

Old money.

Friend of the U.S. ambassador to Great Britain.

Spy.

“You’re with?” asked Simon.

“Same family as Ambassador Shea. Different branch.”

Simon nodded to show that he got the picture.

Neill motioned toward the door. “Mind if we take a walk?”

“It’s raining.”

“I prefer the outdoors.”

Of course he did, thought Simon. “Suit yourself. Give me a minute.”

“I’ll be outside.”

On the way to the front door, Simon grabbed an umbrella from the stand. Lucy was hovering nearby, eyes following Neill. “Who’s he, then?”

“Just a guy that wants to talk to me. Why?”

“Reminds me of the undertaker who took care of my brother.”

“You don’t like him?”

“He’s fine, I suppose. I just had a strange feeling when I saw him.”

Simon opened the door. Rain fell in sheets ricocheting off the pavement. He had no desire to leave his office to speak with a spook named Neill. He looked at Lucy and remembered something. “Stay here.” He doubled back to his desk and returned with a sealed envelope. “Your fee for last night.”

Lucy opened the envelope. “A thousand quid,” she said, a hand rising to catch her falling jaw.

“You did a good job. Kept your cool. It was a big help.”

“It’s too much.”

Simon took her by the arms. “Put it in the bank. No spending it on anything you shouldn’t. Promise?”

Lucy met his eyes. “Promise.”

“And remember…not a word.”

Lucy rose onto her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Simon.”

“Get to work on the Dino. I got it started for you last night.” Simon opened the umbrella and ventured into the rain. He looked to his right and left, but his visitor was nowhere to be seen. “Mr. Neill!” he called.

The sidewalk was empty.

Simon started up the road toward Singh’s Café. Ten steps and rain was sluicing onto his shoulder and dribbling down the back of his neck. “Mr. Neill?”

And then, out of nowhere, Neill was at his side.

Simon tried not to appear startled. “Happy?” he asked, bunching his shoulders to fit under the umbrella.

“Necessary precautions.”

The two walked west along Kimber Road. The few pedestrians foolish enough to be out in the rain hurried past them without a glance. Simon kept close to the storefronts as much for the protection any awning might offer as to avoid being inundated by passing vehicles.

“How did you get into the car business?” asked Neill pleasantly. “I understand you were in finance. Royal Bank of Albion, was it?”

“Something like that.” Simon wasn’t about to go into his history. “You mentioned Ambassador Shea.”

“We served in the marines together. Afterward, he went to State. I took a job in a more interesting field.”

“My work for the embassy is strictly of a commercial nature,” said Simon. “Helping out U.S. multinationals, handling contract disputes, gathering evidence to assist in background checks.”

“The word is that you’re resourceful.”

“I’m sure your colleagues have me beat hands down.”

“Sometimes a certain distance is required.”

Simon drew up. He didn’t like the direction in which the conversation was headed. He was a man who dealt in realities, not suppositions. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but I think you’ve got the wrong man.”

“I haven’t mentioned the job yet.”

“Let me be clear. I apologize in advance if I’m rude. I don’t work for people like you.”

“Like me? In what way?”

“I prefer clients whose names match what’s on their birth certificates.”

“You might want to restate that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve done work for at least two U.S. intelligence agencies in the past.”

“You’re misinformed.”

“Maybe some of the clients the embassy referred to you weren’t as honest as I am.”