Читаем The prodigal spy полностью

She looked back and then laughed. “I guess so. I’m not making any sense, am I? Oh, this place,” she said, then looked up at him with a grin. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Want to do a joint?”

“Here?” he said.

“The Beatles did one at Buckingham Palace.”

“Are you serious?” he said, intrigued by the daring, as if she’d proposed having sex.

“Come on, we can go out there,” she said, gesturing toward the French windows.

“You’ll freeze.”

“Come on.”

He followed her out onto the shallow terrace, avoiding the look of a waiter who clearly thought they were ducking out to make love. At one end of the terrace two men smoking cigars near a giant potted plant looked up, then turned away discreetly. She fished an already rolled joint from her silver bag and handed him the box of matches. When he struck a match, her face glowed in the tiny flare.

“Light a cigarette just in case,” she said, drawing in deeply. “No one will know the difference.”

The sweet, pungent smoke, a smell of Vietnam, hung in the damp air.

“You like taking chances,” he said.

“It’s not much of a chance. I don’t think anybody in there even knows what it is.” She took another drag. “That’s nice. Clears the head.”

“Sometimes,” he said, exchanging the cigarette for the joint and drawing on it.

“Who are these people anyway? This man I was talking to-agricultural development in the Third World. What does that mean?”

“It means he’s a spook.”

“Really?”

“Guaranteed,” he said, smiling again. “The room’s full of them.”

“Can you always tell?”

“Agricultural development, for sure. Otherwise you have to look for signs. Journalist is usually pretty good.”

“Oh, really,” she said, playing. “You think I’m one?”

“Are you?”

She took the joint back. “We’re not supposed to tell. What made you suspect?”

“You keep popping up in unlikely places,” he said, spreading his hand toward the house.

“You know, I really didn’t expect to see you here. I don’t believe it now. I never thought-it’s funny, isn’t it?”

“What? You being here or my being here?”

“You. Maybe you’re the spook.” She glanced up at him quickly. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I’d recognize you, wouldn’t I? Here,” she said, handing him the joint, “finish it. I’m on duty.” She laughed to herself. “I interviewed a Hell’s Angel once. I asked him how they picked an Angel and he said, ”We don’t pick ‘em, we recognize ’em.“ So I guess I’d know.”

Nick smiled, feeling a buzz. “Where was this?”

“California. A while ago.”

“The summer of love,” Nick said idly.

“Well, it was for the guys.”

Nick flicked the roach out into the night and lit a cigarette, leaning against the building. The tall shrubs had taken on some definition in the misty air. In a few months it would be light all evening, England wide awake in the late northern light.

“What brought you over here?” he said.

“I don’t know. Last year, after the assassinations, I just thought, enough, you know? I mean, all you could do was watch the news. So I thought, well, Europe. I had a friend in Paris, and of course just as I get there they start tearing up the streets, so it was all the same anyway. Les evenements,” she said wryly, her accent deliberately broad. “So I just kept going.”

She turned so that her face came into the light from the windows. Nick watched her, unaware that he was staring until she raised her eyebrows. Then she reached over and took his cigarette. “Let me have one of these,” she said, putting it in her mouth with a casual intimacy. “What?”

“You’re a quicksilver girl,” Nick said, still watching her.

“Steve Miller Band,” she said, placing the phrase. “I actually met a guy in that band.” She handed back the cigarette, touching his fingers. “Like a chameleon, you mean.”

“No, like quicksilver. Whenever I look, you go somewhere else.”

She met his gaze and then, as if to demonstrate his point, looked away and leaned back against a potted plant. “Well, I’m here now. Where is here, anyway? I thought this would be at the embassy. Like this morning.”

“It’s the residence. Used to belong to Barbara Mutton.”

“Who?”

Nick smiled. Maybe Larry was right-nobody remembered anything. “Woolworth heiress. She was married to Gary Grant. This used to be her house.”

She looked up and down the terrace, then back through the windows at the party, a realtor’s gaze. “Do you think he used to come out here to smoke too?”

“I don’t think they were here together. Later. Maybe she bought it to get over him.”

“Instead of a good cry,” she said, looking at the house again. “What’s it like to be that rich?” Then she glanced back at him. “Are you rich? I mean, Warren-”

“No. It’s his money, not mine.” He nodded at the house. “Nobody’s this rich anymore.”

“Who owns it now?”

“You do. Taxpayers.”

“So that’s where it goes.” She giggled. “Makes me feel better about crashing.”

“Come to dinner. You paid for that too.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

She looked at him, not saying anything, reading his face.

“Who’s the friend?” Nick said.

“It’s not that. I just can’t.” She paused. “Maybe I can join you later,” she said, a polite dodge. “Where is it?”

“Here.”

“Here?”