“Paranoia,” said Rod.
Troy had found him waiting up in the hotel lobby, sitting surrounded by newspapers in half a dozen languages in a jungle of overstuffed armchairs and sofas, a whisky and soda to hand.
“Yours or mine?”
“Well, it’s not likely to be mine, is it? I’m not the one with the dodgy profession.”
“Hmm,” said Troy. “Are you sure you have the right frame of mind to become Home Secretary? I work for Scotland Yard. If you lot get lucky at the next election, I’ll end up working for you. Dodgy profession, my arse.”
“How can I put this without adding further insult? You are a dodgy individual in an otherwise respectable profession.”
“You failed. I’m insulted.”
“Freddie … I had no reason to think that chap was following me until you put the thought into my head. You’re the one who … dammit … dammit, Freddie, you sail close to the wind and you know it. It was more than likely that that chap was following you. He might have been CIA or the other lot, or who knows what. Any of the acronyms you seem to upset on a regular basis.”
“Instead, he was following our errant sister, in search of high jinks.”
“Quite. But he’ll stop now. Sasha scared the living daylights out of him.”
“Suppose Hugh just hires somebody else?”
“Then we ignore him. Whatever Sasha gets up to is her business, and now she knows that Hugh wants to know, I wouldn’t put it past her to deliver the goods.”
“Oh hell. She’ll be fucking taxi drivers and tour guides.”
“Altar boys and traffic cops.”
“The archbishop of Florence … the Doge of Venice … in the street, frightening the horses.”
“But at least we won’t feel paranoid anymore.”