by Ray O'Hanlon
“Oh, and there is this. Not particularly important for us, I reckon, but it seems that the good Christians of Europe have been at it again. There are reports in an Italian paper that the cardinal prince of all the Catholics in England, God bless them, may have died from something other than celibacy.”
“File it under medieval mishaps,” Conway said sharply. “And come and see me in my office in fifteen minutes. Bring the others. I have a bone to pick with all of you.”
45
AS CLEO CONWAY WALKED quickly back to her office, three thousand miles to the east Nick Bailey was stepping gingerly through the almost soundproof door and into the Post newsroom.
Despite making it back to London later than they had planned, Samantha had decided that there was still time for shopping. She needed a few new work outfits with just a little extra room to conceal a firearm. They had parted with a kiss, a lame joke from Bailey about having to frisk her for more than guns, and a promise to call each other the following day.
The afternoon was well advanced and much of what was to fill the website and the following morning's hard copy edition had already been put to bed. Bailey was pleased with himself, but also wary. He was not listed for duty but Henderson could be like a press ganger in the old Royal Navy.
So Bailey walked quickly past the cluttered desks, most of them occupied by people either coming off day shifts or starting evening ones. He glanced at a monitor. The lead story seemed to have something to do with British warships moving closer to Taiwan.
“Wow, real news,” Bailey said, more or less sotto voce.
The Post, he reminded himself, was serious enough to pay due attention to a potential war on page one, and light enough to get quickly bored with the story if the shooting didn't start in a hurry. Bombings, boobs and bondage could be found cheek by jowl in most editions. It wasn't the first of these that had lately given the Post a modest circulation boost, but a real war's positive effect on street sales and web hits could never be denied.
Bailey, now at a faster clip, made for a door in a far corner of the newsroom. He reached it apparently unnoticed. On the far side was a dimly lit corridor with a partition wall on one side and a line of glass fronted cubicle offices on the other. One of them, he knew, was Roger Cheese's den.
Bailey slowly walked along the line, peering into each office. A couple were empty, and the others were occupied by people who were vaguely familiar. The man he was seeking was in the very last cubicle, at the edge of the newsroom's known world. As he reached the door, Bailey furrowed his brow trying to remember the man's face, even his byline. It was not Cheese of course but what, Chesby, Chesterton, Cheshire?
The scene that presented itself to Bailey was out of Dickens. The small office was piled high with books, magazines and papers. Astonishingly, there was no computer in sight, but there was a battered typewriter, a Remington. At least, Bailey laughed to himself, the phone wasn't a rotary dial.
The door was open, and Bailey knocked gently. Roger Cheese was home. He was sitting, or more precisely sprawling, in a swivel chair reading a magazine. On his desk was a beer glass filled with water and a paper towel with an enormous meat pie on it. Cheese did not look up but motioned with his hand, pointing to a creaky looking wooden chair.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Bailey?” he said, his accent carrying a faint hint of London's East End.
“Oh,” said, Bailey, taken aback by the fact that his name had been uttered by this man who, to the best of his memory, had never appeared in the newsroom while he himself had been working in it.
“Bloody London water,” said Cheese, picking up his glass and staring at its contents. “It's already been drunk and pissed out ten times, you know.”
“I try to stay off it,” Bailey responded. “Stick to the bottled stuff.”
“An outright ripoff,” said Cheese, now turning to fully face his visitor. “Though I wish I had thought of the idea thirty years ago. I suppose you're here about the dearly departed cardinal and those unfortunate fathers.”
“Well, yes, that would be it,” Bailey replied as he eased himself into the suspect chair.
“I've been reading your stuff,” said the man across the desk. Bailey estimated his age at anywhere between fifty and seventy. He defied a precise estimate.
“Good work, I have to say, but of course you've only been scratching the surface.”
“Really?”
“Really,” said Roger Cheese. “It's usually the case in church affairs, not just Roman Catholic, mind you. Simply put, the basis for events can run rather deep under the apparent surface. Obviously, I've been making a few calls. Henderson has asked be to do a backgrounder, dig up any dirt I can, connect some dots. I'm not competing with you of course, but you're in the general reporting pool and cover all sorts of stories, though I suspect this one has grabbed your interest a little more than most. I can see it in your, well, prose.”
“Thanks,” said Bailey. “It is a little more than run of the mill, and, well, it's been, ah, interesting. Yes, interesting.”
He was thinking of Samantha more than the story, but Cheese seemed pleased. He lifted the meat pie to his mouth, took an enormous bite and proceeded to speak with his mouth full. Bailey winced, but weathered the storm. After taking another slug of the objectionable water, Cheese leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“Okay,” he said, “I was curious about the line you had in one of your stories about the prime minister looking tense when he answered your question outside Number Ten. Are you sure of that, or were you just pumping things up a bit?”
Bailey shook his head.
“I was looking at him hard when I asked the question. I knew he would just kick for touch no matter what, so the only real answer I would get was in the look on his face. And he did tense up. Just for a moment. But I'm sure the question landed as much on his balls as in his ears. And that bugger Golding was in like a sweeper in extra time before Spencer could even get the words out. I reckon there's something dodgy about all this.”
“You're sure?”
Bailey shrugged. “Sure enough for another story.”
“Interesting,” said Cheese, as much to himself as Bailey.
Bailey's eyes were scanning the room for hints as to his host's mindset and interests. It was plainly evident by way of the books and publications that the man was seriously attached to religion and royalty. Bailey's browsing was interrupted as Cheese rose from his chair and stretched himself. He was a big man, probably twice the size that the tiny office could comfortably accommodate. Cheese sat down again, heavily, and stared straight at Bailey.
“Now here's the thing, Mr. Bailey,” he said. “Somebody, somewhere, tipped off the Italian fellow who has been throwing out the murder conspiracy stuff. That sort of thing is par for the course with the Italians, needless to say, but I know of this particular Italian chap and he's usually reliable.
“Obviously, once the story broke over there our embassy in Rome would have been on to the Foreign Office. From there it went to Downing Street. Spencer was likely aware of the story despite his huffing and puffing. The story, by the way, is now running in La Repubblica. Not a bad rag, sensible, if a bit of a snooze. Anyway, you don't mess around with stuff like this. I've been making a few calls, and I'm waiting for answers. I have no problems sharing what I lay my hands on but I also want to keep enough in reserve for a good Sunday piece. Is that all right with you, Mr. Bailey, Nick?”
“Sound as a pound, Roger,” Bailey replied, nodding for emphasis.
“Splendid,” said Cheese, reaching again for his meat pie. He hesitated and instead drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Nick, can you keep a secret?”
“Only when I have to,” Bailey responded, a tad too quickly perhaps.
“You will have to because if you don't Henderson will have your job and I'll have your life. I can't yet confirm it, but I believe the cardinal and all these dead priests had contact at one time or another with the
heir to the throne. I believe, and I have no confirmation, or right now even a way to confirm it, but I think the prince was in the process of flipping, that is if he hasn't done so already.”
Cheese paused, allowing his words to settle.
“I don't quite understand,” said Bailey. “Flipping, flipping what?”
“Flipping, flopping,” said Cheese. “From one faith to another, Church of England to Roman Catholicism. Our future king is an apostate, or is about to be, and if I can firm this up it will be the biggest royal story since Henry the Eighth said up yours to the pope.”
“Jesus Christ, that's a story all right,” said Bailey sitting upright in the wobbly chair so quickly that it indeed wobbled. “Does anybody else have a sniff of it?”
“Not that I can tell, but that isn't going to last so we're going to have to work very quickly and very carefully. We have to be absolutely certain or we will be go down in flames big time.”
“We?” said Bailey.
Cheese looked at Bailey, his eyes narrowing a little. “Me, you, Henderson, the Post,” he said.
Bailey began to say something but stopped. Bringing Samantha into it would only be a complication.
“So you reckon that all these dead holy men are connected with his highness kissing up with the Vatican? Sounds kind of medieval, dark ages stuff,” Bailey said.
Cheese laughed. It was sound that seemed to come from the bottom of a deep well.
“You might not believe it,” he said, “but history will judge us and our times very harshly, I suspect. We talk about medieval and automatically look backwards into history. Who's to say that a few hundred years from now that we won't be seen as the second medieval age, the age of high wattage but low light, the age of un-enlightenment? Look around, Mr. Bailey. Half the world thinks it's modern and progressive but is really fooling itself. The other half is in a new dark age and reveling in it.”
Cheese lowered his head slightly and glared across the desk. He seemed to be staring right through Bailey.
“Very little changes,” he said in a near whisper. “People still kill other people thinking they are carrying out God's will. We are up to our eyes in medieval shit, my friend. Plus ca bloody change.”
Bailey found himself nodding. “Yes, well,” he said glancing at his watch. “I have some catching up to do and should get out of here before Henderson sees me as a target of opportunity.”
Bailey rose and almost bounded for the door.
“I'll get back to you as soon as I dig up more,” he said as he reached it.
Cheese, however, was already reading his magazine.
“By the way,” said Bailey, half turning. “I have a question. How did you get the nickname Cheese?”
Roger Cheese turned and looked at Bailey for a few seconds.
“It's not a nickname,” he said. “It's my real name. My parents were Jews from Eastern Europe. My father was a cheesemaker. The name was not so much adopted by him as imposed by our English hosts.”
“Ah, silly me,” said Bailey. “That's your name, your byline indeed. I just thought the name was a little longer. In my mind's eye, know what I mean?”
“Mind how you go,” said Cheese. “Remember, it's still Anno Domini fifteen hundred out there.”
The warning trailed away to silence as Bailey beat his hasty retreat.
46
ALL HE TOUCHED was the space between the sheets. And it wasn't warm.
Manning sat up and covered his face with his cupped hands. He gave himself about twenty seconds before he dared look at the clock. 8.40. Not as bad as he had expected.
Rebecca had let him sleep late and had taken Jessica to school. He rubbed the palm of his hand over his chin. The stubble might have to stay.
He reached for the bedside phone and dialed the embassy. His call went through to the answering machine. “Good,” he said.
He swung his legs out of bed, grabbed his watch and gave himself two minutes for a body wash and to brush his teeth. He threw on a clean shirt, reckoned he could manage without a tie, pulled on a pair of khaki pants and matched them with a pair of his more sensible brown shoes. He grabbed a navy blazer that was draped over the back of a chair and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was illuminated by shafts of sunlight probing through trees in the back yard that were still some days away from full leaf. Ten minutes for a coffee and something to bite on and he would be in the car.
Rebecca had made a pot of coffee. She had left him a bran muffin on a plate. There was also a note: “Took Jessie to school. Call me on my cell later. Love R.” Throwing some coffee in a traveling mug, Manning grabbed the muffin and made his way through the rear kitchen door, into the fenced yard and out through the door in the wooden fence.
“The winner,” he said as he got into the car, this time without indulging himself in his old habit of checking under the vehicle first.
He smiled. He was feeling good. It was one of those spring mornings that made Washington worth the steamy summer and dreary winter.
“Good morning, D.C.” The disc jockey on the radio was suitably seasonable, too.
Yes, Manning thought, it was possible to leave a past behind, just like the alleyway behind the Georgetown row houses that made up his adopted American neighborhood, now vanishing in the rear view mirror. Yes, he could live here, maybe for keeps.
Not too many minutes later, Manning steered the car through the wrought iron gates. The wheels screeched as they dug into the gravel of the driveway. He parked beside the black SUV already pulled up outside the door of the house. He was on time, just about, but clearly the G-Man had gotten the jump on him.
Manning turned off his engine and got out of the car. He placed the palm of his hand on the SUV's hood. It was only warm. So, he thought, the G-Man had been here for a while.
Manning stepped back and gazed up at the house. It was a fine looking building, a Georgian style mansion with, as the ambassador had told him proudly, an original floor plan that included no fewer than eight bedrooms, though some had been converted into offices by the previous owners.
Manning smiled. The ambassador would probably turn them back into bedrooms, probably name one after Lincoln, or better still, Mata Hari.
He took a few steps towards the front door, remembering as he did so that he was the sole possessor of the house key. So where was Voles?
His question was immediately answered. The front door of the house opened, and the onetime FBI agent was standing just a few feet away. He caught sight of Manning and waved with his free hand. In his other hand he was carrying a bulky case. It looked like it might be a container for a large musical instrument.
“How did you get in?” Manning said, holding his hands out and raising his shoulders into a bodily question mark.
Voles smiled and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a key and held it aloft.
“The ambassador,” he said. “I'm sorry, Mr. Manning, but I like to do this work alone. Secrets of the trade. By the way the house is clean. No bugs, flying, crawling or installed.”
Manning stared at Voles and said nothing.
“I know what you're thinking,” said Voles. “Don't take it personally. I could have insisted that nobody from your embassy showed up at all, but in fact I wanted to have a word with you.”
Manning twisted his feet in the gravel and eyed Voles carefully.
“Mind if I have a look around the house?” he said.
“Well, actually, I do,” Voles replied.
Manning frowned.
“Again, Mr. Manning, Eamonn, please don't take this personally. When I check out a place I prefer that nobody but my direct employer is the next person to set foot in the door. Not that I don't trust you entirely, almost entirely, but for me it's just policy. This way I can guarantee a clean environment at the point of payment. After that, well…” Voles let the word trail away.
Manning well understood the man's professional caution but wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.
“Well. I have a key. What if I just walk into the place after you leave?”
“I won't leave until the ambassador arrives,” said Voles. He looked at his watch. “She should be here in about twenty minutes. Plenty of time for you and I to have a talk.”
“A talk? What have we got to discuss? No doubt you agreed a price with Evans.”
Voles ignored the note of disdain in Manning's words.
“Well, I'm a curious man,” he said. “In the course of my work I entertain many questions and rarely do I have a chance to, shall we say, tap into the answers. At least in the clear light of a fine spring morning.”
Neither man had moved since setting eyes on each other but Voles now walked towards the back of his car. He opened the rear door and heaved the case into the trunk. There were several blankets, and Voles made sure the case was well padded.
“There we go,” he said, not so much to Manning as himself. But when he closed the trunk he stared directly at the diplomat.
“Let's take a little walk.” The American's tone had changed. There was no mistaking an order, and though he was taken aback, Manning shrugged as if to say where.
“There's a rather fine yard out back, garden, you would say. Twenty minutes around the borders of the lawn will do nicely,” said Voles.
He was already walking in the direction of a gate in a stone wall that led to the rear of the building. Manning stared after him for a second before he began to follow.
“Nice yard. And big,” Voles said.
Manning's eyes scanned the space, a leafy island with plenty of privacy. It was indeed a big chunk of real estate. He would really have to find out the price of the place now.
“I think the ambassador saw this movie about Marie Antoinette and got ideas. Apart from that she wants to take on the Brits in cocktail diplomacy,” he said.
Voles looked at Manning, silently asking the question.
“It works like this,” said Manning, warming to the subject, if not his companion. “In years past anytime the shit hit the fan in the Northern Ireland peace process, Her Majesty's diplomats would turn on the gin spigot. By that I mean they would entertain important people in the administration and Congress, or at least people who felt they were important.
