Thursday’s visit to the museum has a whole different vibe than the one five days ago. The museum hasn’t changed; we have. Miranda’s polishing up her rich-widow persona, and Carson and I have pulled on our cover roles along with dress slacks and open-necked suit shirts.
Are there more docents today? Are they more alert? It’s hard to kick the feeling that they know we’re rehearsing, not just visiting. Will someone recognize us from last time? Does the museum keep track? Every time we turn a corner of the serpentine, I expect Kwana—or the “proper guards” she mentioned—to be waiting for us.
Miranda asks “This is the one?” when we reach Dorotea. Her semi-American accent’s pretty solid by now.
“How’d you know?”
“The postcard on your desk. Mind you don’t leave it out for the cleaners.”
I don’t, but I hadn’t thought to hide it from her. Clearly I’m not paranoid enough yet.
Miranda studies the portrait for a moment. She’s in a cream suit with black trim that looks a lot like the famous Chanel from the early ’70s. A knockoff? I can’t tell, and I sure won’t ask.
It’s nice to see Dorotea full-size again. I risk a long look. She gives me an impatient stare: aren’t you done screwing around yet? “Sorry,” I whisper. “Not too long now. Hang on.” By the time I think to find Miranda again, she’s moved on.
Miranda insists on lunching at the Marks & Spencer Café in the mall next door. “Don’t ask why,” she warns us both. It’s small, busy, full of laminate and sandwiches in plastic bags, totally empty of any character. If K-mart had cafes, they’d be like this. Miranda’s suit is probably the first and last Chanel to ever cross the threshold.
“I’ve been thinking about this scheme of yours,” she says between bites of her chicken, leek and mustard pie. It’s ugly, but probably not the worst thing she could’ve ordered. “What will you do if you can nae get into the laboratory?”
Her lapse into Scottish sounds doubly weird since she’s still using her cover accent. “‘Can’t,’ not ‘can nae.’ Also, we say ‘lab-ra-tory,’ not ‘la-bora-tree.’”
She bobs her head. “Of course. Ta, lad. The question stands, though.”
“There’s too much security?” Carson asks. “Plan B.”
We have a Plan B?
“And what’s that, then?”
I exchange looks with Carson. She wins the staring match. I feel foolish for not having thought this out better. “We’re still working on that.”
Miranda sighs. “I thought as much. Never leave yourself only one escape. Always have a backup plan. It may be a daft plan, but it’s a plan.” She downs some mashed potatoes. “Your Plan A—that’s what this is?—it’s daft, too, but I’ve worked with worse.”
Great. This is the second time she’s called my plan “daft,” and it’s after I’ve made most of the changes she suggested. But she’s the pro. There’s nothing like having my nose rubbed in my own inadequacy.
“I wanna just take the damn thing,” Carson says. She’s been bulldozing a baked potato covered with what M&S claims is chili, though it doesn’t look like any chili I’ve seen lately.
“No, hen. The lad’s instinct is good. If you leave a blank bit on the wall, the plods’ll be after you in a shot. You have to give yourself a good chance to get away with the touch.”
That was nice of her. “How would you do it?”
She finishes off over half her pie before she answers. “Nobody questions the police or the security services anymore. It’s nae healthy.” I’m not going to correct her in the middle of this. “Give two or three lads in naff suits and not enough hair the right warrant cards and papers with enough crests, and they’ll get their way.” She switches to an Oxbridge accent. “‘Have you any artworks from Russia or the Mideast? You do? Smashing. We’ll need to photograph them front and back, and place a small chip on the stretcher. Sorry, can’t explain, national security, you know. Needs must. Of course your staff can handle them, we shouldn’t want to risk it ourselves. No, no, no damage at all. Just a precaution, you know. Shall we?’”
I pick at my chicken sandwich. It’s a good plan, and a whole lot less complicated than mine. We’d have to get the actors. Allyson’s guy would have to forge the IDs and warrants. But if he’s really ex-MI-6, at least he’d know what they’re supposed to look like. Could it work?
Can mine?
After lunch, I spend another five hours with Miranda. It’s not constant attention; she reads and asks questions while I look up more background and burp up my sandwich’s cranberry spread (it’s no better the second time around). We keep working on her semi-American accent and vocabulary. At one point, she asks me to read from part of a Reacher paperback she’d scored from somewhere, just so she can hear my voice and how I pronounce things. I don’t have the heart to tell her that Lee Child is English.
Carson joins us for a while to hang around Miranda. She’s so much like the good daughter that it’s kinda cute to watch. She fetches water, gets a pillow for Miranda’s back, turns on the lights when Miranda mentions it’s getting dark. When they talk, it’s shorthand, or maybe code. Is Carson this way with her real mom? Or did biology and history screw up that relationship—like it did with Dad and me—and Miranda’s the substitute? However it goes, as Carson leaves to “check on something,” she gets a mom-hug from Miranda.
Miranda’s nice to me in a kind of maiden-aunt way. Maybe she thinks she bruised my feelings at lunch (she did, sort of, but that’s nothing new). Whatever the reason, by the time we pack it up, we’re getting along okay and she’s stopped calling my plan daft. “This should work fine,” she tells me on her way out the door. “There’s a good lad.”
Tomorrow—Friday—she’s going to stay in Southampton to get a feel for the place in case someone asks her about it. She’ll be in London over the weekend, cramming in all the art museums she can stand. Monday, I’ll give her an online tour of L.A.’s art and museum scene. I have no doubt that when we meet the Mainwaring’s administration on Wednesday morning, she’ll be more convincing than I am. Once again, I feel like a fraud.
Carson abuses my door around six-thirty. She doesn’t look happy. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Eat. Fucking starving. Potato wore off two hours ago.”
Mine, too. Plus, I think she wants to talk—she usually doesn’t ask me to dinner just for my company. Julie left me a note saying she wanted to have dinner, but it’s time we had a break from each other. “Indian?”
Carson makes a face. “Pub.”
I give in on the pub, but insist on going somewhere other than the Florence Arms. The Brewhouse & Kitchen is a half-timbered, multi-gabled pile on Guildhall Walk next to the university. It’s jumbled and funky inside and full of the after-class and after-work crowd. We grab a high table and two stools from a departing herd of college dudes and get a view of the copper kettles where the beer’s brewed.
“Been staking out the lab.” Carson’s downed half her stout in about three draws. I let her discover her own foam moustache.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve driven you.”
“Didn’t need that. That fence across the street? Golf course. Go through the front gate, never get close to the lab. Anyway, there’s a pattern. PD goes by one-fifteen, boyfriend shows at two, leaves around two forty-five. Guard patrols at one and three.”
“What happens when she’s off?”
“Don’t know yet.”
I think about all the hours she’s spent out in the cold and wet getting this information, and I feel guilty for sleeping in a bed. “Is Smoking Man still around?”
“Came back Monday and Tuesday.” Carson scans around us, then lowers her voice, though nobody can hear us with all the noise. “Not last night. Maybe he knows I made him.”
“Think he’s a coincidence?”
She concentrates on a mouthful of stout, then leans in close enough for me to smell the hops. “Someone random casing the same place we are? Doesn’t feel right. But if he’s tracking us, he’d know where we’re staying. Someone’d be on us. Haven’t seen anyone.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
“You’re learning. You tell the Princess about the lab?”
I know exactly where she’s going with this. “Not yet. I told her about the fake museum donor. She needed to know so she could ask for the money. By the way, she’s got it already.”
“At least that’s going right.” Carson backs off a little. “Say Bowen’s having her followed, or us followed. Say the Princess knows. Would she tell you?”
I try to untangle Julie the person from Julie the client’s rep. It’s hard, and not just because I’m starting to like her. If she really is in on having Carson followed, then Julie’s up to something. If she’s not, and the shadow belongs to Cousin Ron, then he doesn’t trust her, meaning we have the worst of both worlds here.
There’s an old poker saying: “If you can’t spot the sucker, you’re it.” Gar and the FBI beat that lesson into my head, but guys like me have a hard time believing we can be suckers. Right now, there’s not enough info to make me believe that Smoking Man’s connected to Julie.
“I think if she knew, she’d be more careful about being seen with me in public.”
Carson snorts. “Unless she wants Bowen to think she’s cozy with you. What do we know about Tovorovsky?”
“Bowen with a Russian accent. He’s got a different racket, but it’s still a racket.” If I have to believe something, I’d believe the Russian’s up to no good before I decide that Julie is.
Carson nods. “Look at him some more. I’ll call Olivia about Bowen.” She shakes a finger at me. “In case the Princess is part of this? Watch your ass around her. And your other parts.”
“Wait, what? What’re you—”
“You got like this around the Italian girl. I got it with her—she was cute if you’re into that kinda thing. The Princess? She’s the client. And she’s just… old.”
“She’s not old.”
“Older’n us.”
“You’re older than blondie over there behind the bar. Does that make you old?”
Carson growls. “She’s still the client. Just think with this—” she stabs my forehead with an index finger “—and not that.” The same finger aims through the table.
Goddamnit! Before I can process anything, I grab the finger. “When’s the last time I told you what part to use when you think?”
She glares at her trapped finger. “Don’t have this problem.”
“Yeah? This’ the second time in a row you’ve harshed on a woman I’ve paid attention to on a job.” That fires up a red flush on Carson’s neck. “You told me to keep her happy, remember? So whatever part you’re thinking with, use it on this: I think Bowen’s a means to an end for her. I also think she thinks we’re the people who can get her what she wants, whatever that is. So maybe, if we can keep her on our side? She can do us some good.” I throw back the finger.
Carson glooms at me. She reaches for her glass, realizes it’s empty, then flags down a waitress. “Whatever. She blows up, it’s all on you.”
She doesn’t throw me out. We have dinner and do those little things that mean “sorry” without saying it out loud. I hate fighting with Carson, but I’ve found she plays nicer when I draw lines.
Her pounding on the door blows me out of a sound sleep at four in the morning. While I pull on some shorts, I wonder what the hell’s gotten into her now.
She’s in her ninja outfit. Her eyes are huge and hot. “Miranda’s been hurt.”