15
I sensed Bee stiffen behind me, then relax as he managed to overcome the distraction. I pressed my fingertips tightly together, fighting to give no sign of the anger that surged up inside me. Was Lucas watching this on TV? How would he feel if I failed to extend forgiveness to this man? Let alone what everyone else would think.
Georg Friedrich shot a look of resentment at me, but when he looked at Reginald Hill his eyes were full of hate. They were blackmailing him, all right. He didn’t look so tough, now, nor did he seem like some sort of mind-controlled military drone. In fact, he looked far from healthy. He still had one arm in a sling and looked pasty and sick, not nearly so recovered as I’d assumed when I’d heard they were putting him on trial so soon.
“Hello, Herr Friedrich,” I managed. “You look a lot better than the last time I saw you, but are you really well enough to be here?”
He just glared at me for a moment and looked down at the floor again.
“Well, it’s not like there’ll be another opportunity,” said Reginald Hill lightly. “What with the sentence that was passed this afternoon.”
Sentence? To my surprise, Georg Friedrich’s trial had ended during the day we’d spent en route on the train—with him found guilty, of course—but surely they hadn’t sentenced him already?
“But perhaps you’ve been too busy to watch the news,” went on Reginald Hill. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that justice is to be done: this very night, no less. At nine-thirty this evening, Herr Friedrich is to be executed at Brussels Detention Facility.”
The clock on the wall at the back of the stage said eight o’clock. A chill went through me, despite the man’s crimes. “But not dismantled, surely?” I checked. Not with the Moratorium? But in that case, what pressure were they bringing to bear…
“Why, yes, indeed,” said Reginald Hill smoothly. “Brussels Detention Facility are acting in this matter as agents of the Monacan government, by whom the trial has of course been conducted. It is hardly reasonable to expect Free States to suspend their normal methods of punishment just to comply with a EuroBloc Moratorium on the dismantling of EuroBloc detainees. Naturally the Moratorium does not apply in this case.”
I swallowed, and tried to keep breathing through my anger and surging emotions. Oh, I could see it now—his two-forked plan—see why he was so confident. Either, he reasoned, I would be unable to treat the conscious, much-recovered assassin with the forgiveness I’d so famously extended before or my hatred of dismantlement would overwhelm me and I’d turn my rage on him. Either way, little Miss Forgiveness would be dead and buried on live TV.
Angel Margaret, help me!
“I’m very sorry to hear about your sentence,” I told Georg Friedrich. Honestly.
He looked up, disbelief on his face. “Yeah, right!”
I couldn’t help a surprised blink. “Come on, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have bothered with that bandage, would I?”
He looked blank. “What bandage?”
Oh… “Uh…well, uh, you were bleeding rather badly when my bodyguard rendered you unconscious, so, uh, I put on a dressing and applied some pressure, just until the medics arrived.” My cheeks were burning.
Sister Krayj leaned forward slightly. “She saved your life,” she said bluntly.
Friedrich stared at me, glanced at Reginald Hill, clearly expecting to hear what had just been said roundly denied. When Reginald Hill went right on relaxing in his chair, he turned back to me. “Why?”
“Why? Because I didn’t want you to die.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “I tried to kill you!”
“I know. But if I killed you or allowed you to die unnecessarily, how does that make me better than you?”
From his expression, unraveling this was giving him a headache. “No one would have thought you were wrong,” he said at last.
“I would,” I said.
He frowned. “What would you do with me, then? If not the…gurney…” His voice squeaked slightly on the last word. He wasn’t really so very old. Under thirty, surely? Sweat beaded on his brow.
“Me? Well, I’m not part of the Vatican Justice Department, but if you’d been taken into our custody, then since you committed crimes against Vatican State citizens, you’d be tried and found guilty, but we don’t use the death penalty. We’d have sent you to a secure rehabilitation farm we have in Africa. I was reading about it recently; it’s much nicer than most prisons. But the only way to get out is to change. For the better. As part of your rehabilitation, you’d have had to communicate with the friends and relatives of Javier Alvarez—and the Monacan policemen, if their family were prepared to get involved—and get to know the men you killed, but you wouldn’t have been killed yourself. I’m sorry you can’t go there.”
“You’re sorry.” He gave a bitter snort, but there was no hostility in it, now. Not towards me, anyway. “Trust me, right now even the touchy-feely stuff sounds like heaven.” His voice was very strained, and his eyes flicked to the clock. He’d an hour and a quarter to live. He must be able to feel every passing second, vibrating through his gut.
“Margaret,” said Reginald Hill, in the delicate tone of someone pressing a detonator into a block of explosive. “Why don’t you tell us all a bit about your poor bodyguard—now what was the name? Javier Alvarez?”
Friedrich looked at the floor again, clearly guessing this question boded nothing good for him.
“Well…” Dear Lord, please help me to talk about Snakey without getting so mad I say something awful to that man. Or to Reginald Hill, surely almost equally responsible for Snakey’s death. “Snakey—that was his nickname—was a very lively guy, very full of life. He could make everyone laugh. But never at someone else’s expense. He was actually really quite gentle, underneath. He ran away from his home in Spain at age fifteen to devote his life to his faith—he was never afraid of taking a risk for what he believed in. He was…” I swallowed. My throat was getting tight. “He was a great person.”
“And his full nickname was Grass Snake, I believe?” said Reginald Hill. “An animal name, so…part of your Liberation team?”
“We were both part of Bane’s team, yes. Snakey’s partner was Gecko—my brother Kyle. It was nice to know Snakey had his back—and vice versa.” Yes…and I’d been so wrapped up in how I felt about Snakey’s death and how Bane felt about it, had I ever really considered how Kyle must be feeling?
“And this Javier was your bodyguard on all your speaking tours, am I right? He and the British guard.”
“Jack Willmott. Yes. I felt very safe with them there. Clearly I was right to feel that way. Actually…” I took out the omniPhone Eduardo had issued me as an emergency means of contact on my trips out-of-state and flicked quickly through to a photo I’d taken whilst blending in with the other queuing boats. “Here’s a picture of Javier and Jack on the boat to Monaco.” Hours before Snakey was killed hung in the air unsaid.
I got up and went to hold the phone in front of one of the video cameras, glancing at the screen that was angled towards us to check the photo was showing okay. Snakey and U, laughing. The audience murmured in sympathy, and I swallowed another lump in my throat.
I took the phone back to my seat and held it out to Friedrich. “Do you want to see?”
He looked up, but only to glare at me. “If you’re trying to make me feel bad, it won’t work! I was just doing my job!” He shot a nervous look at Reginald Hill. “The job my Resistance commander gave me,” he added quickly.
I put the phone away and said levelly, “Personally, I find killing for money even more distasteful than dismantling.”
“Well I wasn’t killing for money, was I?” snapped Friedrich. “I was fighting the EuroGov. I’m Resistance, aren’t I?”
I sat for a moment in silence. “You know,” I said at last, “surely by now you’ve realized that even if I was dead and you’d completed your mission, the ‘escape’ you were no doubt promised would never have materialized, and you’d still be watching that clock tick your life away. After Lucas Everington, did you really think the EuroGov would allow a second high-profile prisoner to give them the slip within the space of six months? You were a dead man from the moment you accepted the job, though clearly you didn’t realize in time.”
Friedrich glared at me yet again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy schwein!” he hissed. “You’re just mad ’cos I took out your bodyguard!”
“Much good it’s done you!” I snapped before belatedly registering the fear in Friedrich’s voice. Oh—afraid that if I convinced everyone he wasn’t Resistance, Hill might make him pay for it.
I’d better leave the subject alone. It wasn’t like it was within my power to save him, and I’d no wish to be responsible for anyone getting Conscious Dismantlement. Even him.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him. I simply mustn’t say anything else, I mustn’t. Oh Lord, help me?
Reginald Hill still waited, smugger than ever, patient as a stalking cat. Watching, all the time, for the trigger that might set me off. Bee shifted his stance behind me, no doubt making sure his muscles weren’t stiffening up. He was a good bodyguard, no question, but I still missed Snakey—
Wait a minute…bodyguard…something about that word was triggering a subliminal squeal of excitement. Not within my power to save him…or was it? The idea fell together in my mind but—I needed information. Couldn’t do anything without it… I glanced at the clock again. Barely an hour before the execution. Friedrich would be taken away within the next quarter hour, surely?
I put a hand to my stomach, trying to look uncomfortable—but not too hard—and got to my feet. “I’m so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry, but I’m going to have to excuse myself just for a minute.”
Reginald Hill smiled in such a way that I almost expected to see canary feathers sticking out of his mouth. “No problem, Margaret. Herr Friedrich can stay a little longer. He’ll still be here when you get back.”
Trying to greet this with an expression of glumness rather than triumph, I hurried offstage. Hill thought I was getting mad—thought I was bolting in the hope Friedrich wouldn’t be there when I returned. He wouldn’t be letting Friedrich go anywhere just yet, schedule or no schedule. Good.
“Margo? Are you okay?” Sister Krayj, Bee, and Snail pretty much chorused, as we got a little further from the stage.
“I’m fine,” I said, very softly. “Don’t get in a tizz.” I dived into the ladies’ room, turned on all the taps to foil any bugs, and pulled out my phone again.
“Margo, everyone will think you were getting angry,” said Sister Krayj, looking unusually anxious. “Who are you calling that’s worth that?”
“Shhh…” I said. “I’ve no time to explain, I need to get back out there ASAP.” I pushed my handbag into her arms. “Can you find a piece of blank paper and a pen, please?” Now, the person I needed to talk to…I knew the name of their ‘residence’, as the large group houses in African Free Towns were termed, but I only knew the phone number of another residence in the same Free Town. Let’s hope that was enough. I dialed quickly.
A woman answered and spoke in an African language, as usual.
“Hi,” I said in Latin. “Is there any chance you can put me through to Kangbe Residence, please? It’s very important.”
“Should be able to. Hold on,” said the woman cheerfully, after the usual time lag. I waited…and waited. It felt like forever before…
“Kangbe Residence,” said a man’s voice in Latin, clearly appraised of the Underground call. “Can I help?”
“Yes, I need to speak urgently with Juwan Toure.”
“He’s watching the debate with the rest of us. I’ll go and get him. Who shall I say is calling?”
“A friend.”
“Oh. Okay.” Footsteps echoed down the phone as the man walked away. Come on, come on…
More footsteps. “Hello?”
“Juwan? It’s Margo.”
“Margo? You’re supposed to be on stage right now! Why did you rush off like that?”
“Because I needed to speak to you. No time to explain—how much do you know about EuroBloc employment law?”
“Well…I never did do that Law degree, but…un petite. What do you need to know?”
“What’s necessary to constitute a binding contract of employment? I take it you have to sign something?”
“Non, you don’t have to sign anything. You can have a verbal contract. All you have to do is agree that they’re going to work for you. For it to stand up in a court of law, you need witnesses, though. It’s pretty meaningless without any.”
“That’s it?” My heart leapt. Might this actually be doable? “Nothing else?”
“Well, you have to pay them the first time, before the contract is in force. That’s to protect employers from discussing a job with someone and having them turn around and say they have a verbal contract.”
“Pay them? How much?”
“Oh, a week, a day, an hour. Doesn’t have to be much. The money changes hands, the contract’s legally binding. Most bosses pay in arrears, so if they’re hiring on casual workers on verbal contracts, they just pay a single hour to bring the contract into force, then pay in arrears as usual. Standard practice.”
“Nothing else?”
“That’s all there is to it, Margo. Written contracts, well, that’s a different kettle of fish. Better protections for both parties, but things need to be signed and so on.”
“Okay, thanks Juwan! I’ve got to go!” I ended the call and stuffed the phone and the piece of paper Sister Krayj was now holding back in my handbag. Took out my purse instead—Eduardo had given me some emergency money. I pulled out a ten euron note and tucked it into my waistband, pulling my blouse down to hide it.
“Oh my…” said Sister Krayj, catching up with my train of thought at last. But she checked her nonLee, helped me turn off the taps again, and followed me out without another word.
Surprise, surprise, Georg Friedrich still sat, sullen, trapped and miserable, in his chair. I settled myself back in my own chair and gave a deliberately slightly false smile. Keep Reginald Hill thinking his plan was working for as long as possible…
“I’m very sorry, the embassy are giving us all this wonderful South American food, but some of it isn’t quite what I’m used to.” Let everyone deduce what they liked from that perfectly true statement.
Reginald Hill murmured something polite and sympathetic. Friedrich went on staring at his feet. “So, Herr Friedrich,” I said brightly, allowing my voice to sound slightly strained. “Did you always want to be an assassin?” Friedrich looked up, scowled and opened his mouth, so I said, “Sorry, Resistance fighter, of course.”
He looked at his feet again, like he wasn’t going to reply. Come on, think… You’re clearly not the brain of the German department, but you must see that talking about yourself makes you more sympathetic to the audience, and that is the only thing that could conceivably help you now. So little chance, of course, that he might not think it worth the effort…
No, he was looking up again. “I…wanted to join the military for quite a long time. Some type of military,” he amended quickly. “But before that…well…I wanted to be a chef, actually.” He made the admission as though it were something to be ashamed of.
“A chef?” I blinked in surprise. “But that’s a good thing to be. Why did you decide to go in for killing people instead?” A chef…surely I could make that work?
Friedrich scowled some more. “My pa showed up out of the blue one day—not around much, my vater—heard my dream and went ape. Said cooking was no job for a real man and I was to forget all about it. After that I still cooked loads for fun, but I just couldn’t bring myself to consider it as a serious career anymore. So I fixed on the military instead. I always liked computer games with lots of shooting.” He directed another look at Reginald Hill. “Uh…I got all patriotic in my late teens, so I chose the Resistance.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Can you cook any British food?”
He uncurled slightly, a hint of pride stiffening his spine. “Oh yeah, I can cook loads of British recipes. And French and Spanish. Not so much Scandinavian, but some. I’m good on Italian, too. And I make great German chocolates.”
“Really? I wish I could hire you to cook a goodbye breakfast for the USSA ambassadors tomorrow morning. They’ve treated us so well, sharing their diplomatic immunity and their embassy and everything, I’d have liked to give them a gesture of our appreciation.”
Friedrich congealed, sinking back into his hunched position. Thinking I was deliberately twisting that invisible knife in his back by mentioning a morning he would not be alive to see. No doubt everyone else thought the same—Reginald Hill looked ready to start purring. I simply had to bring this off, or no one would ever know any better!
“What would you prepare if I engaged you to cook a British breakfast for some high-level diplomats?” I asked.
Friedrich glowered, then looked at the floor again.
“Come on,” I said coaxingly, “I’d really like to know.”
Perhaps remembering the audience sympathy thing again, he raised his head and spoke resentfully at first, but with gathering enthusiasm. “Well, Latin taste is heavily into hot cooked breakfasts, so I’d do a Full English, as the main dish. And I’d cook some proper porridge, made with milk, not water, and serve it with cream and brown sugar. Boiled eggs, with proper toast soldiers. And grapefruit halves. And I’d serve proper coffee, because even Brits would serve proper coffee to guests like that. But I’d have English tea as the second option, along with milk and fruit juice. Plus anything else you wanted…” Remembering this was all an empty—and cruel—fantasy, he ran down and focused on the floor again.
“That sounds perfect!” I said, ever so light-heartedly. “Will you come and cook it for me?”
“Schwein!” he muttered, without looking up.
“Oh, come on,” I chirped, “won’t you take the job? Say you will. I’d pay you, and everything…”
Gah, how to get one dim-witted assassin to catch on, without one razor-minded Internal Affairs minister catching on as well? If Hill figured it out, he’d have Friedrich out of here before you could say boiled eggs, and I’d go down in history as the hypocritical vixen who’d tormented a condemned man in his last hour of life. It could cost us the vote. Probably would. I tried not to swallow too noticeably. And Lucas probably was watching, as well. I had to bring this off…
“What’s so interesting about your feet?” I simpered. “Surely I’m more interesting?” Ag, I was making myself sick! But I pulled the money out of my waistband and had it ready in my hand when Friedrich shot me another angry look. Hill wasn’t looking at the screen and the money was hidden behind my body… I held the bank note out a little way, so Friedrich couldn’t miss it, and twitched it at him. “Won’t you work for me?” I cooed. “Please, say you will?”
His stare became blank and baffled. Come on, think, man, think; see that I’m hiding it from Hill and remember you’ve just found out I tried to save your life before and don’t just dismiss it as an extreme level of…
I saw the thought enter his eyes, saw astonishment blossom, closely followed by a meteorite of insuppressible hope, the kind you try so hard to contain, because if you’re wrong the agony of disappointment will be just so—
“Yeah, I’ll work for you,” he said quickly.
“Good, here’s an hour’s pay!” I leaned forward.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the jerk that ran down Reginald Hill’s body as he figured it out—he began to move out of his seat…too late. I shoved the money into Friedrich’s hand; his fingers closed on it like it was a lifeline. Suddenly breathing as though he’d been running, he stared at Hill. So did I.
Reginald Hill made a quick gesture to the waiting EuroBloc Security men—they moved forward towards Friedrich.
I sprang to my feet, actually grabbed a handful of prison pajama, and said all in one breath, “Herr Georg Friedrich is now in the employ of the Vatican Free State and as such comes under the diplomatic immunity of the United States of South America, so back off!”
The audience’s bewildered silence broke into gasps, cries of shock, a roar of conversation and a few outright whoops of laughter or approval.
But I was still looking at Hill. His lined face had frozen into an unreadable mask, only the barest traces of dismay and anger leaking through. Which way would he jump?
He had only two options. Try to claim that hiring someone specifically to help them escape justice didn’t make them a valid employee as far as diplomatic immunity was concerned and seize Friedrich anyway—but most other states would view that as violation of diplomatic immunity, whatever he said. Almost more importantly, for the EuroGov to insist on Friedrich’s death when I, one of the parties most wronged by him, was fighting to save his life, would leave them looking utterly horrible. Hill would be a positive ogre to my saintly little angel.
Or he could laugh it off as the whim of a silly, sentimental girl with no appreciation for the importance of justice—and let us carry Friedrich away. Which would leave him looking a fool, but prevent the awful publicity. I’d a feeling Reginald Hill was not a man who enjoyed looking a fool. But he was also smart enough to know that just now, good publicity was worth more than anything else.
Finally, he raised a hand for silence. “Let me see,” he said evenly, “You agreed basic employment terms, and you paid him. A verbal contract is therefore in force, and the USSA’s diplomatic immunity does indeed extend to all Vatican employees present in Brussels. Much as it saddens me to see such a vicious terrorist go free, it seems he is all yours.
“I can only extend my apologies to the people of the EuroBloc.” He spoke now to the audience and to the cameras. “I feel I have failed you. I would never have brought this Resistance terrorist together with Margaret Verrall had I know she would aid and abet his escape from justice in this underhand manner. Once again, my sincerest apologies to you all and my assurances that if this killer ever ventures out from behind Margaret’s skirts and enters EuroBloc territory again, he will be seized immediately.”
Friedrich had gone so white he looked like he might pass out, and his hands shook visibly.
My own belly was beginning to flutter with reaction. “Thank you, Mr. Hill.” I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes, still another twenty minutes, oh Lord, be with me! I turned to the audience myself. “I would just like to reassure everyone that Herr Friedrich will certainly not be set loose at any time in the near future. He will go to the rehabilitation center I spoke about earlier, until such a time as he is no longer a danger to others.
“However, I will not apologize for what I have just done. I believe very strongly that rehabilitating people who have made bad moral decisions is a much preferable way of dealing with them than simply killing them. I will be happy to address any concerns you may still have about this matter. Just leave a comment on my blog.”
A movement at the stage entrance…Snail had stepped into sight. When he saw me looking, he gestured beside him. There were Spitfire and Croquet, sent by Eduardo to take charge of Friedrich, no doubt. I beckoned to Snail and all three of them crossed the stage.
“I don’t suppose I could trouble you for the key to the handcuffs?” I asked Reginald Hill politely.
A sour expression very nearly made it onto his face, but he directed a nod at one of the Security men, who pulled out the keys and handed them to me. I passed them to Spitfire, who pocketed them.
“Come along, then,” Spitfire said to Friedrich, in a voice of professional neutrality. “Can you walk? You look a bit peaky…”
Friedrich stumbled to his feet as though dazed. But when he got level with my chair, he stopped. “Do you really want me to cook that breakfast?” he asked, almost…hopefully?
“Uh…” No, of course not, it was just a pretext. I closed my mouth quickly. “Uh, naturally. That’s what I hired you for, right?”
A sour smile did make it onto Reginald Hill’s face, this time, but a look of genuine pleasure covered Friedrich’s as he shuffled off between Spitfire and Croquet. Good grief, he really wanted to do it, didn’t he?
Reginald Hill and I made rather fierce conversation for the remaining time, he bombarding me with all the worries that would most be plaguing people and me providing verbal ointment to soothe them—I hoped. But nothing he said could possibly top what had come before for interest and drama and from the slight downward turn of his mouth, he was all too aware of it.
“Margo!” Bane gathered me in his arms for a tight hug. “That was amazing! We couldn’t think what you were doing, Jon kept whispering, she’s being so horrible! I’ve never known her act like this! I could practically feel him wringing his hands.”
Jon smiled slightly apologetically. “And Bane kept saying, she’s up to something, she’s up to something, can’t you tell? And then—!”
“Reginald Hill sounded like an utter fool!” crowed Bane. “You totally owned him, Margo!”
“I was afraid you might be cross,” I admitted, into his hair, since he hadn’t let me go yet, and I didn’t particularly want him too. I was starting to shake all over, now. I’d run a terrible risk.
Bane snorted. “I didn’t care two hoots what the EuroGov were going to do to that man. He deserved it. But you just counted coup on Hill, on the whole EuroGov! So Friedrich gets to go be all rural and productive in Africa, so what? Anyway, you were right what you said. Snakey would be pleased.”
“Yes, I think he would,” I said softly.
We were back in the embassy—Snail and Bee had whisked me off in a car without waiting for the others, clearly afraid of any retaliation from the EuroGov for their public humiliation. But Bane and Jon hadn’t been far behind.
Eduardo appeared at last. He marched over to a mirror and peered closely at his…forehead?…then turned to leave, without saying a word.
“Uh…what are you doing?” I asked.
“Checking for gray hairs!” he snapped, and marched out of the room again.
Sister Krayj and I caught each other’s eye—and dissolved into giggles. After only a moment, Eduardo stuck his head back into the room, and we tried to get hold of ourselves.
“By the way,” he said. “That was brilliant.”
1 month
"There can be no peace without justice, no justice without forgiveness.”
Pope St John Paul II—quoted on ‘The Impatient Gardener’
The impromptu breakfast was an event of some size by the time Eduardo had invited half the press in Brussels, and Pope Cornelius had rounded up various other ambassadors. I took a deep breath, tried not to clutch Bane’s arm too hard and prepared to be nice to Georg Friedrich all over again. In truth, I was very glad he was saved from execution, but it was hard to speak to him without thinking about Snakey.
Friedrich stood behind a serving table groaning under platters of quite delicious-looking food. He was handcuffed again, in the presence of so many august guests, but looked rather pleased with himself, if even paler and more wan than before. For a sick man, he’d certainly worked hard.
Trailed by Sister Krayj and Snail and Bee—felt like I was leading a parade—I got a plate and helped Bane fill his as discreetly as possible—he’d rather just pick things up and sniff them to identify them, but he couldn’t really do that at an event like this. I was about to escape into the crowd with my full plate, when Friedrich appeared in front of me, Spitfire and Croquet flanking him.
He clutched a small dish, which he held out to me. “I made this specially for you. It’s bauernfrühstück or farmer’s breakfast. A traditional German breakfast recipe.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the last few cameras swinging to cover us…
“Uh, thank you, that’s very kind.” I put my plate on the table so I could accept the dish. I thought I could see potatoes, eggs, leeks, and bacon. “It looks very tasty.” No need to worry whether it was safe, Eduardo had gone through the embassy kitchens and removed anything even remotely poisonous, and several people had been watching our felonious cook like a hawk the entire time.
Friedrich stepped slightly closer. “You know they’re going to kill me if they can, don’t you? To stop me talking,” he said urgently.
“We’ll do our very best to prevent them,” I said. No need to clarify who ‘they’ were. “We can’t do more than that.”
He seemed to find this more reassuring than I’d have done. “I could be your bodyguard, you know?” he offered abruptly, a worshipful glint in his eye that I had an uneasy suspicion wasn’t a put-on. “I’d be a good bodyguard. And you don’t have your usual two with you now.”
Spitfire’s and Croquet’s faces suddenly attained a whole new level of expressionless professionalism. I felt Bane tense beside me—I squeezed his arm slightly and somehow managed not to yell at Friedrich that the only reason I didn’t have them with me was because he had killed one of them and collapsed a stage on top of the other.
My expression must’ve given my thoughts away, though, because Friedrich looked like he was reviewing what he’d just said and—belatedly—thinking better of it. His face took on something of the look of a puppy that’s just made a puddle on the carpet.
I gritted my teeth together. “Once you’ve checked out of the rehabilitation center you’ll be free to apply for such a role, if that’s still what you wish.” The chances of Eduardo actually accepting him…well. Stranger things had happened. Very rarely. But having a dream might make all the difference in the world to his future, so who was I to stamp on it?
“You wait!” he said. “I’ll be your bodyguard one day, just wait and see!” He allowed Spitfire and Croquet to shepherd him back around to the other side of the table, thank goodness, freeing me to mingle. I made sure to add a big scoop of the German dish to my plate, first, leaving Friedrich glowing—and then looking alarmed as Pope Cornelius moved in his direction.
“I hope the adoration wears off,” I muttered to Bane, as we moved away. “But I’ve a feeling I’m going to be getting German delicacies made with African ingredients through the post from now on.”
Bane just sniggered, unmoved by my unsavory admirer. “If you don’t want people to think you’re the best thing since sliced bread, don’t go round saving them from certain death!”
There wasn’t much I could say to that.
Once it was all over, and I’d given one final talk to one final roomful of journalists, I went upstairs with Bane to pack. The train was leaving at midday. Jon, who’d packed already, went off to try and get a bit of work done: his Braille talk had been so well received he’d been busy preparing another one when this trip had come out of nowhere.
“I’d better do these ‘anger exercises,’ if that’s okay,” said Bane. “I mean, I can’t do them on the train.”
“No, of course not. That’s fine. I’ll pack.”
Bane settled himself on the luxurious carpet, slipped his earplugs in, pulled several faces to show how much he hated doing this sort of thing and finally settled into steady deep breathing. Karen had set him a number of types of mental exercise, as well as a physical exercise program. All designed to help him stay calm or to bleed off his anger through acceptable scenarios such as slaying dragons or leaping into stormy seas to rescue children. He’d been immensely skeptical about pretty much all the mental exercises to start with, but he now conceded they weren’t entirely useless—and he was working at them very conscientiously every day.
I’d just put my final things in the bag when— Knock knock.
Door. Who was that?
I drew my nonLee and went to answer it, looking through the peephole first, the way Eduardo had insisted, even in this highly secure embassy building. I blinked and peered again, my eyes trying to identify the person. Because it couldn’t be the person they were seeing. But who was it?
Cautiously, I opened the door. Stared at the man who stood there.
“Hi, Margaret. Sorry to startle you.”
It sounded like him too. Had I lost it? I clutched the nonLee with shaking fingers and finally managed to speak. Or squeak. “You’re…dead!”