‘I’ll be there. And, sir, I suggest a stiff bourbon, help you with your nerves. Shock plays havoc with nerves.’
Paul Brougham had been discussing circulation figures with his editor-in-chief for an hour when his eye fell on his watch. ‘Christ, got to go, have to dress for this Guildhall dinner,’ he groaned. He had totally forgotten about the evening in front of him; he wished he did not have to go to the dinner. He would far rather go home to Cathy.
The editor looked at his own watch. ‘Is that the time? I must get changed, too. I’m dining with the French ambassador.’
‘Give him my compliments,’ Paul said, grinning. The ambassador was a personal friend, they watched Rugby games together whenever France played England at Twickenham, and they shared other pleasures. Until Paul met Cathy they had even shared a woman once or twice, but now their mutual interests were food, good wine, and a love of the French language. Paul’s French was perfect, of course, so fluent that it would be easy to believe he had never lived anywhere else. He still went back to France as often as he could manage it, and owned a villa in the south of France, on the Côte d’Azur, not far from Cannes, his favourite place along that blue-gold coast. He disliked Nice; a beautiful but dangerous city, a glittering playground for some of the creatures that lurked in the murkier waters of French society.
When the editor had gone, Paul was about to take the lift to his penthouse flat above the newspaper, where he would change into evening dress to attend the dinner at the Guildhall at which his father-in-law was to be guest of honour, when the phone rang.
‘Your wife, sir, she says it’s urgent.’
‘Put her through, then.’ A click, then Cathy’s voice, breathless, quivering.
‘Paul?’
‘Hello, darling – what’s the problem? I was just going to get dressed.’
‘Paul . . . I need you, will you come home at once, instead of going to the dinner tonight?’
‘Skip the dinner?’ Paul felt a leap of fear in his chest. ‘Why? What is all this? Has something happened, Cathy?’
‘I can’t talk on the phone. I’d just like you to get here as fast as possible. Take a helicopter, don’t drive home.’ Her voice sounded shaky, scared. ‘I don’t want you hurrying on the roads tonight.’
‘Are you ill? For God’s sake, Cathy, what is all this?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here.’
‘What shall I say to your father? He expects –’
‘Don’t tell him anything! Don’t even tell him you won’t be at the dinner. Just come.
The phone went dead. Paul stood there stupidly, staring at it, his mind racing with questions, with terror. Cathy had sounded so weird. Terrified, yes, she had sounded terrified. He thought of everything that could have happened to her – his imagination went crazy. Terrorists could have snatched Cathy as a hostage to use against her father, these things happened all the time. Or the Mafia could have grabbed her for ransom. Ever since Don Gowrie let them know he would be visiting England and would come to Arbory there had been an awareness of risk at the back of their minds. Why else had Gowrie’s security people visited the house to check it out? They expected trouble. Paul had thought it was just the usual paranoia that hung around the American presidency like a fog, making anyone within reach of it feel threatened by invisible forces.
But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone had got into Arbory and was threatening Don Gowrie through his daughter?
But why would someone like that let her ring him? Her father wasn’t due at Arbory until tomorrow. Maybe she had had an accident. What if she was badly injured? Oh, but she had rung him herself, so she was alive, it couldn’t be that serious. Maybe she had just found out that she was ill? Cancer, leukaemia, brain tumour . . . his mind was rushing with terrifying suggestions.
Icy sweat dewed his forehead; he was shivering as if in a high wind. His hand shot out to press down a key on his office console.
‘Yes, sir?’ his secretary asked.
‘My plans have changed. I’m not going to the Guildhall dinner. Get me my chauffeur, then get me the helipad, I’m flying home right away.’
Nursing a whisky, Jack Beverley listened to Gowrie’s muttered story. His face did not betray what he was thinking; his cold, shrewd eyes simply watched the other man, skewering him in his chair.
When Gowrie had finished, Beverley said, ‘This is serious, sir. Well, if you aren’t to walk away from the presidency, which might be the wise thing to do at this stage . . .’ His eyes queried Gowrie’s and the other man shook his head angrily.
‘Not unless there’s no alternative!’
Beverley nodded. ‘OK, then we must start some immediate damage-limitation. You should have told me at once. A lot of time has been wasted. Firstly, I’m afraid you have to talk to your daughter, to Mrs Brougham.’
Bitterly, Don Gowrie said, ‘You can bet that that Czech bitch is doing so right now. I wish to God I’d dealt with her myself. Or got you to do it.’
‘Yes, you should have done that, sir. But there’s no point in crying about spilt milk. OK, my men are outside the grounds of Arbory House at the moment. There are police all over the place, fire engines, ambulances, and crowds of people watching what’s going on – my men won’t even be noticed. But before the police can talk to Miss Narodni I think my men should move in to Arbory House and snatch her. We’ll need a good story. My men will talk to your daughter and explain that whatever Miss Narodni has told her, the truth is that she’s in the UK to cause trouble for you. She’s a political extremist, dangerous – she wanted to get into Arbory House so that she could assassinate you. That should counter whatever the girl has been telling Mrs Brougham.’
With a wild leap of hope, Don Gowrie said eagerly, ‘That’s clever. It could work, it’s convincing, Cathy knows how crazy some people can get over politics.’ He began to breathe properly for the first time since he heard the news about Emily. ‘How soon can your men get in there, get her away from Cathy?’
‘I’ll ring them back on their mobile at once and give them their orders.’