“You, young lady, are a cynic.”
“There’s a lot to be cynical about,” Harp replied. “Is Jim Rutledge your client?”
“Yes. I set up his business structure for him.”
“So you have attorney-client privilege with him?”
“Yes, but so far, you haven’t intruded on that.”
“Are you friends?”
“We have a cordial personal relationship.”
“Could you set up a dinner with us and him and Ms. Keane?”
“Funny you should mention that, we discussed getting together.”
“Well, let’s do it,” Harp said. “I’d like to get a closer look at Ms. Keane.”
“Okay, I’ll call him.” Herbie waved at a waiter for the check. “Maybe I’ll invite Stone, too.”
“That would be good. I’d like to get to know him better. Is he seeing somebody?”
“Always,” Herbie said.
Jasmine Shazaz sat at a desk by the window in a small waiting room at the personnel office of the United States State Department, across the street from the United States Embassy. She could see down into Upper Grosvenor Street, which ran off the south side of Grosvenor Square, where the embassy, a massive building of reinforced concrete with a giant eagle out front, sat facing the square.
From where she sat, slowly filling out a job application for a position as an interpreter, she could see down into the intersection of Upper Grosvenor Street with Burnes Street, which ran behind the embassy, crossing Culross Street, ending at Upper Brook Street.
“How are you coming with the application?” the receptionist asked.
“I want to get everything just right,” Jasmine said.
“Please be as quick as you can,” the woman said. “We close in an hour, at five, and if you don’t have your first interview before then, you’ll have to come back another day.”
“I won’t be much longer,” Jasmine replied, watching the DSL delivery van pull to a stop at Burnes Street, which was blocked by a steel security barrier.
—
The driver leaned out his window and shouted at the armed police constable at the barrier. “Hey, mate, I’ve got a delivery at the embassy, rear door. How do you want to handle this?”
“I’ll take it,” the cop said.
“It weighs over a hundred pounds,” the driver replied. “I’ll need to hand-truck it in there.”
“Who is the addressee?” the policeman asked.
The driver picked up a clipboard and flipped a page. “Bloke name of Thomas Riley, cultural attaché, from an address in Langley, Virginia, U S of A. And he has to sign for it personally.”
“Hang about,” the policeman replied. He press
ed the push-to-talk button on the microphone under the epaulet on his left shoulder. “Security, this is PC Bartlett at the Burnes Street barrier. I’ve got a DSL delivery of a heavy parcel for Mr. Thomas Riley, Cultural Affairs. Needs to come in on a hand truck, and he has to have Riley’s signature.”
“Where’s it shipped from?” a voice came back.
“A place called Langley, in Virginia, USA.”
“Stand by.”