“He is. I can’t say he shares them. Roosevelt’s not an unqualified admirer of things European. He knows Europe too well for that. Though after our last three presidents …” Kingstone rolled his eyes and sighed. “Perhaps we should all be grateful. None of those guys could have found London, England, with a map, compass and the services of a Thames lighterman. You should, however, be aware that the president’s enthusiasm cools in measure as the British navy hots up. You exceed your tonnage or increase the diameter of your naval cannon by so much as an inch and you’ll have got yourselves a world-class enemy.” He stabbed at Joe with a mock-threatening forefinger. “Ships, sailing, the navy—it’s a passion with Roosevelt. He’s busy turning the oval study into the command room of a battle cruiser. And he’s got his eye on you.”

“Good Lord!” Joe said and his surprise was entirely unforced. “I had no idea. Is the president’s finger also on the firing pin?”

“You bet! Over here you have a Minister for War to deal with the grubby side of things. We have a hands-on president for that.”

“A man whom we should address with care, then. Thank goodness he at least speaks our language.”

The senator snorted. “That’s just the kind of complacent old-fashioned notion that will get you British into trouble. Confraternity? Huh! Where’s the guarantee in that? Some of the worst quarrels happen in families. I didn’t think I’d need to remind a Scotland Yarder of that. Someone dies—you go out and look for the nearest and dearest first. Right?” Kingstone’s expression hardened. “I’m trying to say, diplomatically, that you British are not universally loved. But—what the heck! Time’s short. Your Empire is feared. Even after that last battering, it’s armed and on the make. But it’s envied and loathed in equal measure. And, just in case you’re about to drag out all that oderint, dum metuant stuff, I’ll tell you something that will make your hair stand on end, Sandilands.”

A glance at Joe’s receptive features reassured him his audience was all ears and he continued. “Couple of years back, I was on the saluting platform watching a parade of the whole of the US navy in harbour. Staged for the benefit of a visiting bunch of British top navy brass. We were out to impress them and we sure did that. I was standing behind one of your admirals. He was complimentary about the display. He turned to his American opposite number standing at his side and said, ‘By Jove! What a fearsome crew! I do wonder who will be their next target, admiral.’ And the US guy replied—straight off—‘The British, of course.’ ”

Kingstone’s eyes were bleak as he delivered his message. “Sandilands, the man wasn’t joking.”

Joe could almost feel the floor lurch under him. He grasped the table with both hands and breathed deeply for a moment. He looked back at the decisive man busily laying out his cards with a flourish and was lost for words.

“So—better keep me alive, Sandilands. You need all the friends you can muster,” Kingstone advised. “Think of me as the poor guy who’s straddling the fulcrum. From where I am, struggling to keep a balance, I get a clear view of things and can adjust my weight to one side or the other before anyone knows what’s happening. There’s a drawback—being up there makes me visible. I can get shot at from all sides.” For a moment, the spark of good humour in his eyes was quenched and he stared, preoccupied by his thoughts, at the coffee pot. He took himself in hand and continued in a level tone: “But I take no chances. I want you to meet someone—the other man I’ve picked to watch my back while I’m over here. I’m hoping you can work together. He tells me you’ve met before.”

Joe kicked himself for missing the signal that must have passed between them. Suddenly the large American-suited, gun-toting, black pudding-eater he’d noticed earlier was standing at his elbow.

“This is William Armiger. FBI officer. Armiger is the best we have.”

“Oh, any skill I have, I learned from men at the Yard like Sandilands,” drawled a voice that, to Joe’s ear, seemed to have the same slight country inflections that the senator’s had. Tennessee, he remembered. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

Joe mastered his astonishment and reached with difficulty for a cheerful, welcoming tone. “Bill? Bill! Well, well! It must have been six … no, seven years since we waved you goodbye on the Mauretania. You should have stayed in touch! Glad to see you’re busy and happy doing what you do best … skulking about with a gun and taking people by surprise.” He grinned easily and added, “Though you return not a moment too soon. I do notice you’re ready for a field-craft refresher! If you’re determined to be taken for an American, you should resist the black pudding, feel free to hold your fork in your right hand and take care not to sit with your back to the door, especially when you’ve elected to wear your gun in such a visible position.”

“No need for all that malarky! I’ve done with blending in, Captain. And I don’t aim to be ‘taken for an American’—I am one. I became a US citizen six years ago. I have diplomatic immunity, a job to do and a country I can truly honour. Glad, though, to know we’re working toward the same end. Wouldn’t like to think we were at each other’s throats … bearing grudges …”

“Certainly not!” Joe said, picking up the message. “Both on the same side. Of course. For the duration of the conference at least. But don’t try to leave without saying goodbye this time, Bill,” he finished with a deceptively charming smile as he folded his napkin and rose to take his leave.

The thud of a gauntlet being hurled to the floor, although silent, was unmistakable and was picked up clearly by the quiet man in earphones in a room farther along the corridor.

CHAPTER 4

“Bacchus!” Joe greeted his Special Branch super as he slipped into the small office, stepping his way with care over snakes of wiring to a seat at the desk. “Hell’s bells! Did you get that?”

“Still getting it!” James Bacchus handed him a spare headset. “Oo, er! He doesn’t mince his words, your senator, does he?”

With a shake of the head, Joe turned down the offer. “What? Listen in to them tearing into the assistant commissioner as soon as his back’s turned? No thanks. I don’t want to ruin my day. It’s started so well … Leave ’em to it—I can imagine!”

“Clearly, you can’t.” Bacchus grinned, reluctantly taking off his own set and checking that his stenographer was working away. “You seem to have made a good impression. Those two blokes are the best of buddies and they’re doing a lot of agreeing. Kingstone’s decided you’re a good egg and his mate”—Bacchus looked at Joe in puzzlement—“seems to be telling him Sandilands walks on water. You sure he knows you?”

The Branchman frowned suddenly. “Perhaps it’s all a bit too sweet? Look—whoever this Armiger bloke is—I think he’s twigged. I think he’s aware of your little trick. That bit of jiggery-pokery with the screwdriver. By the way—don’t bash the bloody metal base again!” Bacchus grimaced. “Now—the senator—I’d say he was taken in. Disarmed by your gesture as intended. No idea you’d disconnected the light bulb and left the microphone linked. I can always tell. When you’ve listened in to as much of this garbage—heard as many lies over the wires as I have—well, you can tell. The body guard … mmm … not so sure. Play it back and judge for yourself. While you were coming over here, Armiger started filling his boss in on the Sandilands saga. Sickening gloop about how you saved each other’s lives in the war, ran the gauntlet of German snipers, shared your last drop of rum … you know the sort of thing.” Bacchus made his judgement: “He’s aware. And, I think, passing a message. Slippery as a shit-house rat, if you ask me. Who the hell is William Armiger?”