They both knew that there was no such thing as a “former” MI6 officer. No one gets out. “I think I met one of our people.”
Elizabeth said, “Fine, we’ll extract you Wednesday directly after the hearing, but you will settle this Wednesday without a breath of a suggestion about your involvement with any clandestine service or with any covert operations. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Crystal,” he said, “but I need you to do something for me.”
“We don’t negotiate. There is no quid pro quo. You do this for the Queen and the Empire, no matter what that little lawyer of yours thinks.”
He ignored her protest. “You need to extract and resettle my brother, Christopher, and his family.”
“Why on Earth?”
“He had the photographs. He published them. They’ll know who has embarrassed them in this manner.”
Elizabeth asked, “Is he a British citizen?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll call the counterparts.”
“He’ll take some convincing.”
“Of bloody course, he will. We could just drag him into a white van.”
Arthur considered the advantages of masked men shoving a black hood over his brother’s head and dragging him into a van. “It would scare the girls. Try to avoid it if you can.”
“Right.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything for my best boy. In return, settle this case. Don’t compromise yourself further. As matters stand, we can relocate you and protect you. If you’re truly blown, if it’s publicly known that you were working for us, St. George himself won’t be able to protect you.”
“I understand.” He understood that his whole life was over, and he was of no more use to his masters.
Or Gen.
Personal Day
A few hours later, Gen had her head down, working hard and writing briefs on her computer. Her feet were stuffed under Ruckus’s warm belly, who was snoring under her desk.
Octavia Hawkes walked past her open door.
Twenty lever arch files, the first tranche of evidence in a fraud lawsuit, were piled on her desk and the floor. The briefs were tied up with red ribbons—the origin of the term red tape—indicating that they had come from private citizens. Briefs from the Crown were tied with white ribbons.
As Octavia saw her, Octavia’s body walked two more steps while her head stayed in place, and she nearly fell backward. She looked down, saw Ruckus and raised her eyebrows as much as she was capable. She said, “I thought your email said that you had taken a personal day.”
“I did. I am currently taking a personal day,” Gen said, still pounding the keyboard of her laptop.
“So what are you doing here?”
“Hiding in my office and not talking to anyone. Working on the brief for the Thompsett case.”
“On a personal day?”
“I brought the dog to the office. I would have never brought the dog into the office on a working day.”
Octavia shrugged. “All right, then. Carry on.”
Gen lowered her head to work again.
Horace’s handwriting looped across the back of the manila folder containing some of the documents. Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day, ~Macbeth.
Yes, this terrible day would come to an end, eventually. She just had to survive it.
Gen wondered how many days Horace had simply endured, waiting to spend later days with Basil in a cottage by the sea, instead of living them.
Talking Sense
GEN worked hard in her shoebox-sized office that afternoon, getting ahead on anything she could without opening her damn door.
Outside the damn door, footsteps clomped and people talked.
She had flipped the shiny brass levers and locked it. Inside, she remained silent and didn’t turn on the light. With luck, no one would know that she was there at all.
Ruckus sighed, his warm breath rushing over her feet, and twitched while dreaming.
Gen worked, aggressively typing on her laptop that wobbled on the tiny desk.
Someone pounded on her door.
A woman’s Cockney-inflected voice yelled, “Genevieve fucking Ward! We know you’re in there! You can’t dodge our fucking phone calls all day! Open up!”
More pounding.
A more cultured British voice said, “Gen? Open the door. We must speak.”
Damn it, Rose and Lee had found her. “Okay, I’m coming.”
She stood up to open the door for them, but Ruckus beat her to it. He stood up, barked a string of cuss words at the door, and then ran at it, full tilt.
Gen stumbled around the desk. “Ruckus, stop!”
The little white dog launched himself into the air and flew.
“Jesus!” She couldn’t reach him in time.
He bounced off the door, but his hind legs jumped on the knob. His polished claws found crenellations in the brass lock and doorknob and twisted them.
The door slammed open.
Ruckus leapt back, still barking furious accusations that rang off the antique plaster on the walls of Lincoln’s Inn.
Lee jumped behind Rose, who held her purse in front of her like a shield. Lee shouted, “What in the bloody hell is that?”
Gen turned back to the dog. “No. Sit. Lay down.”
Ruckus shut his mouth and flopped on the floor, but that little dog glared at them.
“That’s a dog,” Gen said.
“Since when do you have a dog?” Lee asked, peeking around Rose.
“He’s Arthur’s dog.”
“Speaking of which,” Rose kicked the door shut. “We need to speak about your client and how this affects you.”
Gen sat down at her tiny desk. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Rose pursed her lips, pressing her smooth, red lipstick into a straight line. “That’s not an option, seeing as how there’s a video of you on the internet telling us the size of his knob.”
“I already sent a takedown notice. It should be gone soon if it isn’t already,” Gen said.
Lee muttered, “And the problem that your bloke is going to be at Her Majesty’s pleasure any minute now.”
Gen glared at Lee. “He’s not going to sleep with the Queen.”
Lee shouted, “Prison. He’s going to be in prison. ‘At Her Majesty’s pleasure’ means going to prison.”
Rose gasped. “Don’t tell me that you haven’t seen the newspapers!”
Gen sighed, “Oh, you mean Arthur’s little treason problem.”
“Yes!” they both shouted.
Rose continued, “Gen, you must distance yourself from him as quickly as possible. None of this sentimental tosh. If you want a position in chambers, you’ll do it immediately.”
Lee said, “She’s talking sense. Listen to her.”
Gen stood. “I won’t throw him over as a client. I’ve seen him this far, and I will fight this case to the bitter end.”
“And personally?” Rose continued. “We’re your friends. We don’t want to see you lose everything that you’ve been working toward for so many years over a bloke who’s just a glorified one-night stand, anyway.”
“I don’t know what will happen after that,” Gen said. “We haven’t had time to talk. We got the continuance until Wednesday, and then I came into the office to get some work done.”
Rose took her hand. “Gen, you need the money more than most people.”
She blinked back tears. “I know.”
Lee asked her, “Are you going to do the smart thing?”
“I don’t know,” Gen admitted.
“He’s a fucking traitor, Gen,” Lee said. “He’s Kim fucking Philby.”
Gen jumped in her chair at Lee’s reference to the notorious mole who had been discovered selling MI6’s secrets to the Russians, but she tucked her hands in her lap. It was a generic reference, she was sure. Surely no one had said that Arthur was working for MI6. “No, he’s not.”
“I asked him.”
“If he is a traitor, he wouldn’t hesitate to lie about it,” Rose said.
Gen said, “The most important thing is to get through the trial. After that, we’ll see what happens. I’m sorry, ladies. I have a very large trial to prepare for. We’ll catch up in a few days.”
No Spare Mercenaries
ARTHUR held his mobile phone to his ear and waited while the signal clicked through the overseas exchanges and then rang.
He was still sitting in his computer cave, all the monitors dark. Outside the wide windows, afternoon sunlight showered down on the street and sidewalks below.
A man’s voice answered the phone, “Ja?”
“This is Arthur Finch-Hatten,” he began.
“Yes, sir. This is Dieter Schwarz. I must apologize, but we are not going to be able to spare any personnel for your situation. An incident in Paris has tied up our resources.”
Arthur closed his eyes and let his head drop. “I understand.”
“Again, I deeply apologize. Have you considered British resources?”
“Unfortunately, that’s currently not an option.” Because his name might be on a kill list.
“Are you on the run?” Schwarz asked.
“Not exactly.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t offer you further support.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Schwarz.”
“Thank you for understanding, Lord Severn.”
Damn it, Arthur and Gen were on their own in a hostile world.
Settle It #2
GEN went back to her closet of an office after tea, and her office phone rang.
At her feet, Ruckus shifted, disturbed from his sleep, and muffed a bark.
She ignored the phone and kept typing on her computer. The Thompsett brief was due on Friday. The rest of the week might be tied up with arguing Arthur’s futile case.
Her cell phone buzzed, and Ruckus growled in his sleep, his throat rumbling on her toes.
Dammit.
She flipped the phone over.
Arthur Finch-Hatten.
She denied the call and kept typing.
He’d had his goddamn chance to talk. She was working.
Her knees tapped the underside of her tiny desk as her legs tensed. She dropped her legs, trying to relax and concentrate on the brief.
Her office phone rang again.
She snatched up the receiver. “What!”
“You need to settle the Finch-Hatten case,” Octavia Hawkes’s growling voice said.
Oops. Just her boss. Gen said, “Sorry about that.”
“Our other clients have heard about Finch-Hatten and are very concerned. Very concerned clients find new barristers.”
“Has anyone fired us yet?”
“Two.”
Gen looked at her laptop screen. “Tell me it’s not the Thompsett case.”
“That’s one of them.”
Gen closed the document on her screen and looked around at the arch lever folders stacked around her tiny office.
Octavia continued, “I want his case settled Wednesday.”
“We estimated that it will be at least a three-day argument.”
“That was before Finch-Hatten turned out to be a traitor. This is an open and shut case. The brother’s case hinges on Arthur’s unsuitability as the Earl of Severn and a peer of the realm. The committee agreed to hear it under those circumstances. He is likely to be arrested for treason when he appears at the Palace of Westminster on Wednesday. He will lose everything. If you can prevail upon him to settle, he might keep something.”
Arthur would never give up Spencer House willingly. That estate was sacred to him. The look on his face when he had been telling her the house’s history had been a combination of love and reverence. He would die before he parted with an inch of it.
A terrible thought gripped her.
She flipped over her phone. The last text from Arthur read, I need to talk to you. I don’t have much time.
God, no.
“Octavia, I have to go. I’ll confer with my client and present this option to him. I’ll argue everything I can with him, but I need to leave now.”
Gen hung up and slapped her laptop closed. “Come on, Ruckus. I’m worried about your daddy.”
She grabbed her phone and dialed him.
The phone went to voicemail, and she left a quick but incoherent message that meant don’t do anything desperate call me now.
Gen grabbed the handle to her filing cabinet and jerked it open. File folders spilled out. She swished her hands through them until she found one with Arthur’s name on it.
Inside, his data sheet with his emergency contacts on it was stapled to the left side of the folder. She dialed the top number, Casimir, and left a message slightly more coherent than the one she had left for Arthur.
She said, “Some pictures were published in the newspapers here that look like Arthur was committing treason. It’s pics of him with some enemies of Great Britain. He needs you to come now.”
She left a similar message on Maxence’s phone, begging him to come back to London.
Something warm tapped her foot.
When she looked down, Ruckus was staring at her and whimpering with his paw on her foot.
She looked at her phone.
The top text, a new one, was from Arthur, and it read, I’m waiting outside.
Gen ran. Ruckus galloped beside her.
Spencer House, Again
GEN found Arthur sitting in the driver’s seat of his Mercedes that was pulled over at the curb.
She hauled Ruckus up from the sidewalk and dumped his wiggling butt in the back seat with the suitcases as she crawled over the front and grabbed Arthur around the neck. “Are you all right? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” he said, reaching around where she was kneeling on the seat to hold her. “I’m fine.”
“Your text. Why would you not have time?”
Arthur set her back from himself and looked her in her eyes. “We need to talk.”
After she had called Casimir and Maxence, they had both texted back that there were flight plans and mandatory rests involved, and they wouldn’t be able to arrive until the next morning, Tuesday.
She said, “Please, we just have to wait until tomorrow. You can wait to do anything desperate until tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?” Arthur asked, frowning. “Tomorrow is Tuesday. The hearing is Wednesday.”
“Your text, and everything that’s been going on, and I thought—” Her breath caught in her throat. “I was afraid—” She started shaking. “You sounded so desperate, and I didn’t know what to do!”
And, horror of horrors, the big, bad lawyer started crying. Gen wasn’t British enough. Her eyes and nose burned and dripped. Her chest caved in, and she collapsed forward, falling against his shoulder.
Arthur gathered her to his chest, dragging her across the seats “No! No, Gen. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t ever.”
“I’m worried,” she sobbed. “If you lose Spencer House—” She held him more tightly. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said.
She wondered if he meant it.
He said, “I just want to go back to Spencer House tonight one more time, just in case.”
Gen sat back on her heels, wiping her hands over her face. “Then what did you mean when you texted that you were going away?”
Arthur pulled his hands back and looked down. “Let’s go talk to the deer.”
“Really? Even the car?”
“Even the car,” he said.
National Security Secrets
ARTHUR and Gen walked out into the deer park at Spencer House. His shoes crushed the late spring grass underfoot. The scent of sweet sap drifted into the late afternoon air. Summer wildflowers were beginning to bloom, scattering yellow and white over the pale green growth.
Arthur breathed in throug
h his nose and exhaled through his mouth, calming himself. Repress the adrenal glands. Circumvent the fight-or-flight response. Keep everything British and nonchalant.
His gamekeeper and right hand, Ifan, had trundled up to them at the garage and taken possession of the car while Gen had ducked inside to change out of her work clothes and into jeans. Arthur assured him that they would talk later.
Ifan needed to be told that Christopher would be taking possession of Spencer House, probably on Wednesday.
Ruckus followed them out into the fields. The dog had sprinted out ahead of them and was now chasing deer in the wide meadow. Arthur and Ifan had both taught the dog not to get too close, so he was perfectly safe out there.
Arthur had made this hike thousands of times over his life, he estimated. He and Ifan’s grandson George had walked out so many times on foot or ridden out on horseback as boys. Even as an adult, when he’d needed to be alone, he’d hiked out there to think, even called it “communing with the deer” in his head.
What rubbish.
Since then, he’d walked out here with Elizabeth, Bentley, and other intelligence officers and his agents. If anywhere in the world was free of spying eyes, his deer park was surely safe.
Gen walked ahead of him, her body swaying in her jeans and trainers as she moved. Her chestnut hair twitched and flowed in the wind. The afternoon sunshine picked out highlights of honey and auburn. Most of the time, those colors blended into the thick mass. Those glimmers of blond and red stood out most when her hair was wrapped in a smooth rope around his fist.
He hiked behind her, stepping over fallen logs and parting the high, drying grass that smelled like hay and clean earth.
Out in the meadow beyond the trees, the deer were running, crashing through the brush and grass. The males barked, and the herd grunted as they thundered.
For centuries, his ancestors had safeguarded generations of these deer.
Christopher was still a Finch-Hatten, Arthur supposed. The earldom would still be in the family, just not in Arthur’s line.
Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2 Page 15
