Storm is not surprised when, less than five minutes later, Remi and Caprio emerge from the front entrance of the embassy and traipse down the stairs, arm in arm. Storm waits for her to follow the plan and lead Caprio towards his surveillance van.
“Come on,” Storm whispers. The plan is to wait until they have safely left the embassy’s entry way.
At the bottom of the stairs Remi strains her neck, supposedly trying to remember where she parked her car. “Erm, I think it’s over there,” she says, vaguely pointing in Storm’s direction.
But Caprio has other things on his mind. He pushes her up against the wall, moving in for a kiss. It takes Remi by surprise. She gives a cry of dismay as the wall hits her back, and Storm instantly knows what has happened. The bulletproof bracelets had fired their magic to cushion her from the unexpected impact at her back. Caprio is close enough to have felt it.
“What was that?” he says, sounding confused. And then. “What the fuck? Are you wearing protection?”
“What are you talking about, baby?”
“Yes you are! You’re a cop!”
“Special Agent, actually, baby,” she retorts, all pretense gone. “And I’m taking you in for questioning.” She grabs hold of his arm, twisting it behind his back.
The strength of Remi’s grip catches Caprio by surprise. He tries to twist away but is unable to break her hold. Then he stomps on her foot at an angle that causes her heel to break. She falls back as her foot gives way. The momentary lapse gives him the leverage to break free. H
e rushes back up the embassy stairs, taking them three at a time, and then freezes when he sees Monroe blocking the way.
Cursing, Caprio turns tail and sprints full-tilt down the road, right towards Storm’s van. Storm waits until the very last moment before opening his door. Caprio slams into it with rib-bruising force. He collapses, stunned.
Storm whips out his restraints and cuffs him. “Kris Caprio, you’re under arrest for assaulting Special Agent Remi Bronwyn.”
Chapter 21
DIANA
I had waited a full fifteen minutes after Beatrice and the ambassador had left the bathroom before I emerged from it. I’d headed towards the ballroom, and stood in a doorway for some time watching the crowds of elegantly dressed people arriving.
Everyone is in their finest outfits, greeting the ambassador and Beatrice with great joy. All so pleased to have been invited to the top society event in London this month. The arriving guests are still high on the red carpet buzz that had been outside, with numerous TV crews filming the arrivals.
A stage has been set up to one side of the large ballroom, ready for a lineup of singers who have yet to arrive, including a world famous jazz crooner and an even more famous big-voiced diva who is guaranteed to hype the crowd up later with her incredible vocals and her shaking, shimmying dance moves.
In the meantime it is occupied by a live band cranking out some well-known classics. People are already dancing, enjoying the music and glasses of champagne from silver trays smoothly navigated around the room by my colleagues.
Smithers is just one of many catering managers tonight keeping watch over things. I can see him hovering off to one side, his eagle eyes scanning the staff for any mistakes. I sense he is also keeping an eye open for me and that dance I had promised him that I have no intention of giving.
Worried? asks the little voice. I’ll take over if you like.
“No, I’ve got this.”
Beatrice is holding court near the main entrance, her one hand propping the ambassador up by his elbow, and her other hand proffered to the arriving guests, to be kissed by the gallant among the men and to be clutched by the ladies while they plant kisses on her cheeks. Caroline and Xander are with them, as if they are prime attractions on show.
A new group of guests arrives, including a famous celebrity couple and an angelus prince and princess from Otherworld. The ambassador revels in their presence, regaling them with some tale that has everyone laughing, Xander and Caroline included.
It is a long time before Beatrice murmurs something to the ambassador and slips away from the group. She hurries, clutching her little purse to her side, seemingly intent on some urgent task.
Even in her rush she skips as gracefully as a little fawn, every once in a while rising on tiptoe either to check if she is headed in the right direction or to try to catch sight of someone in the crowd.
I hurry to intercept her. This might be my one chance to catch her alone. “Mrs Grictor?” I call.
She turns on her heel towards me, looking startled, especially when she recognises it is me. “You’ve changed your dress,” she says, her eyes scanning me from head to foot.
“All the better to blend in,” I joke.
I can’t very well admit that I thought it would be easier to corner her while I was posing as a guest, rather than looking like a member of staff accosting the hostesses. And I like it better this way too. It makes me feel like her equal, rather than a servant.
She gives me a quizzical look, as if to say I’d better hurry to explain why I have detained her.