Getting dressed, I went out into the hall and found Wesley in the living room drinking coffee as he looked out at a cloudy day. He was dressed in suit and tie, and did not seem tired.
“There’s coffee on,” he said. “Can I bring you some?”
“Thanks, I’ll get it.” I stepped into the kitchen. “Have you been up long?”
“For a while.”
He made coffee very strong, and it struck me that there were so many domestic details about him I did not know.
We did not cook together or go on vacations or do sports when I knew we both enjoyed so many of the same things.
I walked into the living room and set my cup and saucer on a windowsill because I wanted to look out at the park.
“How are you?” His eyes lingered on mine.
“I’m fine. What about you?”
“You don’t look fine.”
“You always know just the thing to say.”
“You look like you didn’t get much sleep. That’s what I meant.
“I got virtually no sleep, and you’re to blame.”
He smiled. “That and jet lag.”
“The lag you cause is worse, Special Agent Wesley.”
Already traffic was loud rushing past and punctuated periodically by the odd cacophony of British sirens. In the cold, early light, people were walking briskly along sidewalks, and some were jogging. Wesley got up from his chair.
“We should be going soon.” He rubbed the back of my neck and kissed it. “We should get a little something to eat. It’s going to be a long day.”
“Benton, I don’t like living this way,” I said as he shut the door.
We followed Park Lane past the Dorchester Hotel, where some Pakistanis were still taking their stand. Then we took Mount Street to South Audley where we found a small restaurant open called Richoux. Inside were exotic French pastries and boxes of chocolates beautiful enough to display as art. People were dressed for business and reading newspapers at small tables. I drank fresh orange juice and got hungry. Our Filipino waitress was puzzled because Wesley had only toast while I ordered bacon and eggs with mushrooms and tomatoes.
“You wish to share?” she asked, “No, thank you.” I smiled.
At not quite ten A.M., we continued on South Audley to Grosvenor Square, where the American Embassy was an unfortunate granite block of 1950s architecture guarded by a bronze eagle rampant on the roof. Security was extremely tight, with somber guards everywhere. We produced pass t, ports and credentials, and our photographs were taken. Finally, we were escorted to the second floor where we were to meet with the FBI’s senior legal attache, or legate, for Great Britain. Chuck Olson’s corner office afforded a perfect view of people waiting in long lines for visas and green cards. He was a stocky man in a dark suit, his neatly trimmed hair almost as silver as Wesley’s.
“A pleasure,” he said as he shook our hands. “Please have a seat. Would anybody like coffee?”
Wesley and I chose a couch across from a desk that was clear except for a notepad and file folders. On a cork board behind Olson’s head were drawings that I assumed were done by his children, and above these hung a large Department of Justice seal. Other than shelves of books and various commendations, the office was the simple space of a busy person unimpressed with his job or self.
“Chuck,” Wesley began, “I’m sure you already know that Dr. Scarpetta is our consulting forensic pathologist, and though she does have her own situation in Virginia to handle, she could be called back here later.”
“God forbid,” Olson said, for if there was a nuclear disaster in England or anywhere in Europe, chances were I would be brought in to help handle the dead.
“So I wonder if you could give her a clearer picture of our concerns,” Wesley said.
“Well, there’s the obvious,” Olson said to me. “About a third of England’s electricity is generated by nuclear power. We’re worried about a similar terrorist strike, and don’t know, in fact, if one hasn’t already been planned by these same people.”
“But the New Zionists are rooted in Virginia,” I said.