Critical Space (13 page)

Moore cleared his throat, then asked if we had any new information on Keith.

"Logan called from Philadelphia," I said. "Joseph Keith is turning into a very interesting guy. He is on record as saying that he and Her Ladyship were, once upon a time in ancient Sumer, husband and wife. And he was expelled from Philadelphia Community College for possession of a knife."

"He cut anyone?"

"No, but that may be for lack of trying. Details of the actual event are sketchy."

"The photograph is being distributed?"

Natalie reached into her blazer pocket, produced one of the flyers we'd run off, offering it to Moore. "We've run off a hundred and fifty copies to hand out at every location. They'll go to local security and the like, mostly."

Moore stared hard at Keith's portrait before flipping the paper over and reading the back. We'd done the original on a color inkjet printer and the reproduction had worked very well. On the back of the sheet we'd printed out the protocol we wanted followed in case Keith was spotted. It wasn't terribly elaborate, the instructions straightforward -- if Keith was seen, the protection team was to be notified in person immediately. We didn't want Keith engaged, simply monitored. We would take it from there.

The corner of Moore's mouth curled in a slight smile. "Very dolly, very nice."

"Glad you like it," Natalie said. "It'll be included in the bill."

Moore dropped the sheet into his equipment bag. "I gave Her Ladyship and Ms. Chester the standard briefing on the plane. Both of them had heard it before, but it never hurts to emphasize the particular bits. I made certain they understood that when we were mobile they were to take direction from us without argument or hesitation."

"Chester was good coming off the plane," Corry said. "She done this before?"

"Not like this, actually. But she's a quick study."

"How long's she been on Lady Ainsley-Hunter's staff?" Dale asked.

Moore grinned. "She's safe. I vetted her myself. She's been Lady Antonia's PA for almost a year, now. If she's working for one of The Ten, she's been waiting a long time for her opportunity."

Dale brought his hands up with a shrug, and then we moved on to the other topics at hand, beginning with Her Ladyship's plans for the evening. Lady Ainsley-Hunter had a dinner at eight-thirty with some of the U.N. folk that would be held at one of the consular residences. After that, the plan was to return her to the hotel and button her up for the night. The next day would be the big one, with the formal announcement and ensuing press brouhaha.

Everyone had finished eating, and I pushed the cart back into the hall, returning to find that Moore had already retired to his room for a quick nap. Dale and Corry left to check the cars, which left Nat and me alone in the sitting room.

It grew very quiet, the way silence spreads in a space where more people are asleep than awake, and it was infectious, and neither of us spoke. Natalie read the complimentary copy of
New York
magazine that had been put out with the phone book and the hotel directory, and I dug out my copy of the flyer and spent some time memorizing Keith's face.

He looked utterly normal. Black hair and brown eyes, and perhaps his nose was a tad sharp, but not so sharp that it was a distinguishing feature. His expression in the photograph was mild, as if he'd been about to laugh, and the photographer had jumped the smile by a fraction of a second.

I set the paper back down and sighed heavily, despite myself, and Natalie looked at me over the top of the magazine.

"Relax," she said.

"Two members of The Ten and one lone nut, and you tell me to relax? You
are
bossy."

"We're just getting started."

I nodded slightly, thinking that it wasn't the start that had me tense.

It was wondering how it was all going to end.

We were rotating the live-in duties at the hotel, and the night after the U.N. appointment my turn came up and I slept at the Edmonton, on the sofa bed in the suite's main room. The previous day had been exhausting, and the sofa bed comfortable enough, and I slept deep and well, but woke early all the same to hear Fiona Chester cursing softly.

She was working at the desk in the main room, dividing her attention between the laptop open in front of her, the fax machine positioned at her left elbow, and the telephone to her right. My understanding was that she always started work early, but all the same I was surprised to see her up. The light seeping through the windows was just beginning to hint dawn, and from the look of Chester, she'd been up for a while. She'd switched the desk lamp on, and the illumination was enough to see that she was already dressed for the day, skirt and blouse and makeup all perfect. I got my glasses on while she continued with the phone, and I could tell she'd been trying to keep her voice low, but her frustration was getting the better of her.

"She had their word," Chester was saying. "No, that's unacceptable... Her Ladyship -- I beg your pardon?"

I sat up and swung my legs out of the bed, and Chester noticed me moving. She shot me a quick and apologetic smile before turning her chair to avoid my near-nakedness. I'd slept in my undershorts, and while she continued her conversation I pulled on my pants from the previous night and got my shirt on and half buttoned. The conversation had turned, was growing heated, and now, with me awake, Chester no longer felt a need to maintain restraint.

"They bloody well
did
promise," she snapped into the phone. "Now... no, listen to me, please. I am
not
threatening you. But you would be well advised to tell Orin and his brother that I'm not the woman they have to worry about."

She slammed down the phone as if squashing a very large, very ugly bug.

"Who are Orin and his brother?" I asked.

"Musicians. Rock stars. Imbeciles."

"Is this something I should worry about?"

"I don't think so." Chester rose and smoothed her skirt, which was navy blue, then headed for Lady Ainsley-Hunter's room. As she passed me, she said, "Very sorry I disturbed you."

"I had to get up in another hour or two," I said.

She might've smirked, but I didn't see it, because by then she was tapping on Ainsley-Hunter's door. She waited a moment, then slipped inside, so I set about stowing the bed back into the sofa and replacing the cushions, then searched around for the room-service menu. I ordered up two pots of coffee, two of hot water for tea, and some orange juice. Then I took my overnight bag into the bathroom and got myself sorted for the day.

When I emerged again, Chester was back at the desk, working at the laptop, and Lady Ainsley-Hunter was standing beside her, speaking on the telephone. Unlike her personal assistant, Her Ladyship apparently hadn't been awake for very long; her hair was still mussed from her sleep, and she was wearing one of the terrycloth hotel robes. The emblem of the Edmonton was stitched in gold thread over her heart. She glanced over at me as I dropped my bag by the sofa, and her expression was different from any of the others I'd seen her wear.

She was pissed.

There was a knock at the door, and I answered it and wheeled in the room-service cart, then threw all the locks once more and fixed myself a cup of coffee. Lady Ainsley-Hunter got off the phone. Chester and I both looked at her, me for an explanation of what had them in a dither, Chester most likely awaiting orders.

Her Ladyship ignored both of us for most of a minute, staring at the edge of the desk, apparently deep in thought.

"What was scheduled for this evening?" she finally asked Chester. She sounded only mildly curious.

"You're lecturing at Sarah Lawrence," I said. Both of the women looked at me with mild surprise. "It's Natalie's
alma mater,
that's why I remember."

"Cancel," Lady Ainsley-Hunter told Chester. "Then find out where the party is and make damn sure we're invited."

Chester nodded and picked up the phone. Her Ladyship started back to her room.

"Wait a second," I said. "What's going on? Why the change in plans?"

She stopped and gave me a look that was as surprising as her earlier anger had been. For a moment I thought she was going to demand who I thought I was, asking her such questions. Then she seemed to remember that was what I'd been hired to do.

"You know Rorschach Test?" she asked. "The band, not the psychological exam."

"I've heard of them," I said. Erika had played me one of their albums, a synthesis of acoustic rock with electronic music, before moving out for school. She'd thought it was good. I'd thought it sounded confused and self-important.

"We're going to the launch party for their new album."

"You're canceling a lecture at a liberal arts college to attend a launch party?"

"They're one of Robert's favorite bands. He'll enjoy it."

I frowned and started to ask the logical next question, but she cut me off.

"You'll excuse me, I'm going to get dressed."

She returned to her room.

At the desk, Chester shot me a look that I couldn't begin to interpret.

The party was held at a club called Lot 61, in the meatpacking district, and not more than a stone's throw from the bondage club I'd bounced at a couple years back. Lot 61 is the kind of club I make a point of avoiding, and usually that's not a problem, because it's also the kind of club that never lets people like me inside. Whatever fame I and my colleagues have, it doesn't even begin to register on the management's radar.

Lady Ainsley-Hunter was another matter entirely.

The party started at eight, but we didn't arrive until almost eleven, because Her Ladyship said she wanted to wait until the press was all present. It made me wonder why she'd canceled the Sarah Lawrence expedition, but I didn't ask her, and the only explanation I could come up with was that she had, indeed, been pissed, and consequently not thinking very clearly. But whatever that anger was, it had passed early in the day; there'd been no sign of it since I'd caught her on the phone that morning.

Dale dropped us off in front of the club where a gaggle of poseurs and poseurs-in-fraining stood waiting behind the velvet ropes. Because he was driving the Benz, which wasn't a limo, nobody paid us much attention, at least not when Moore got out of the car, taking the lead. When Lady Ainsley-Hunter emerged a buzz started, and it continued as I followed her and Moore to the front door. The bouncer -- who was probably more of a male model than a security guard -- didn't even bother to check his clipboard before ushering us inside, and I barely had time to tell him that there were four more in our party before we got swamped by the wave of music that sprayed from the open doors.

Moore led us through the crush to a bar area, decorated with seventies furniture and an enormous fireplace. People were writhing against one another on the dance floor, and the noise was tremendous, and I spotted security -- both plainclothes and uniformed -- scattered around the main room.

Lady Ainsley-Hunter got herself a flute of champagne from a passing fray and turned on a radiant smile, scanning the crowd. I glanced at Moore and he just shrugged; if he had a better idea why we were there than I, he'd been doing a fine job hiding it. Certainly, he didn't seem displeased at the chance to meet the members of Rorschach Test.

It took less than a minute for the first reporter to find us, a young black man with dreadlocks who wrote for
Spin.
Her Ladyship greeted him like an old friend, made introductions, and then the two of them bent their heads together and shared a shouted conversation at the bar. While they were talking, I saw Natalie enter with Chester, Corry, and Dale following.

"Where the hell are you?"
she radioed.

I tabbed the button resting in my palm. "At the bar."

She and Chester were stopped twice before they reached us, each time by men wearing the latest styles, and though I couldn't hear a thing, it was clear they were being invited to dance. Nobody paid Corry and Dale any mind, except to sneer at their fashion sense as they went past.

Her Ladyship and the reporter from
Spin
talked for several minutes longer, and when they were finished she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He shot a couple grins back her way as he returned to his table closer to the fireplace.

"Lovely man." She was shouting in my ear, and it was still difficult to hear her. "James Rich, he did a piece on Together Now last year. The week after it came out, our membership in the U.S. bumped almost eight percent."

"Seems nice enough."

"What?"

"I said, he seems nice enough."

She nodded, waved at someone across the room who was standing under a Damien Hirsch painting of multicolored spots. The person waved back, began making his way over to us. With the crowd the way it was, I guessed he'd reach us sometime after we'd all gone home and gone to bed.

With Natalie, Corry, Dale, and Moore all present, I felt safe in putting my full attention on Lady Ainsley-Hunter for a moment, so I shouted, "I'm going to ask this again -- why are we here?"

She sipped her champagne for the first time, gave the glass a look of mild surprise, then set it on the bar and leaned over to where Moore was standing.

"Robert, would you like to meet the band?"

He grinned, shook his head. "That's a bit unprofessional, my lady."

"Not at all." She smiled at him. "I need to speak with Orin anyway, Robert."

"If Your Ladyship insists."

"She does," she said, and with that, we went to meet the band.

Rorschach Test was really only three members, the two McLaughlin brothers -- Orin and Judd -- and a drummer who went by the name Digger. If it was a first name, a last name, or a nickname, I never found out. Orin and Judd clearly had come from the same tree, though Orin, the elder, was also taller and heavier than his brother. All hailed from Sheffield, England. All three were dressed unpretentiously, and I wondered if they'd had any trouble getting into the club that night.

We found them in one of the VIP rooms at the back of the warehouse, seated on more of that seventies furniture, lit by lamps designed by Jorge Pardo. The room was awash in a haze of smoke, both tobacco and pot. A sideboard was laden with caviar, smoked salmon, fruit, bottles of champagne, and, frighteningly, Coors. Groupies or roadies or other support staff clung to the corners of the room.