“Some mighty interestin’ readin’ in there,” he continued, conversationally. “I’ll just look forward to chewin’ it over with you, when you’ve had a chance to clean up.”
Elizabeth noticed the adhesive strip had already been broken. She stared at him, outraged. Putting a finger in her pie without permission! “How dare you read my briefing before I do! I’ll tell you what I think is appropriate for you to know.”
“Ah.” Boudreau tipped his head back and half-lidded his eyes so they glinted with blue fire. He no longer looked like an innocent street lunatic. He looked like a fully aware and possibly dangerous street lunatic. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I thought we was supposed to be sharin’ information. I’ll just be sure to remember that for gettin’ you around the city and all, tellin’ you only what you need to know.”
Elizabeth was instantly contrite, and wary. She didn’t need to have his meaning spelled out for her. Cooperation. Hands across the water. Special relationship between Great Britain and the United States of America. She was in a strange city, and she needed this strange man to help her complete her mission. He knew it, and she knew it. She took a long breath. Time to start over.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I am not thinking. I’m exhausted, and it’s been a trying day. HQ threw me in at the deep end. I was assigned to this only just before the flight left.”
“And it’s wrong of me to be so inhospitable,” Boudreau said, bowing low so that the frayed end of his sleeve brushed her shoes. “We’ll get your bag up to your room. You have a chance to wash up, and then we’ll tell each other things.”
* * *
“This is Mr. Boudreau. Mr. Boudreau, Mr. Nigel Peters,” Elizabeth said, effecting introductions in the hotel bar an hour later. They had taken a very private table in the Mystic Den, and she had searched it carefully, using the bug detector from Q Division, her training from OOPSI, and native talent inherited from her grandmother.
“Call me Boo-Boo,” the American agent said, shaking hands with both of them. He had a grip like a bench vise, Elizabeth thought, carefully counting her fingers when she got her hand back. “I’m what you might call a free-lancer for the Bureau, Department BBB.”
Elizabeth felt her brows go up. “A free-lance agent?”
Boo-Boo leaned back in the elegant brocade-covered chair, looking like a bedraggled cat toy at a cotillion ball. “Works out good for all of us, ma’am. I got some trainin’ from the best people down here; an interest of mine, even a natural talent, you might say.” A meaningful glint from those very blue eyes, and Elizabeth thought she understood. “The Department can use that, and they don’t have to keep a permanent office. That’s good for their budget. They keep me on retainer, and that does me some good. I keep an eye on things for them down here, and they call me when they need me. I’m a sworn agent.”
“Yes, well,” Peters said, clearing his throat. He lit another cigarette off the end of the first and stubbed out the butt. Elizabeth could tell he didn’t have much confidence in the American’s professionalism. Neither did she, for that matter, but necessity ruled in this case.
“I think we oughta go over security arrangements,” Boo-Boo said. He pointed at the envelope at Elizabeth’s left hand. “We don’t need to discuss what’s in there. All of us already know.”
The British agent nodded. She had read the dossier while changing clothes in her charmingly elegant room, and then got immediately to work. Everything that she had guessed was confirmed by the confidential briefing. Lord Kendale was concerned for his daughter’s safety, based on Fionna/Phoebe’s complaints of magical attacks. He would not, could not dismiss them, and neither should the agency. The report had been updated while she was on the plane.
The one thing about the case that Mr. Ringwall had not mentioned that really worried Elizabeth was that there had been an MI-5 agent assigned to the Kenmare group before her. Twenty-four hours before, he had been found wandering half-naked up Dublin’s Grafton Street, babbling about little people—odd, but not inexplicable. The agent’s . . . indisposition was the reason Elizabeth had been sent on in such haste. There still was no explanation as to what had struck him mad in the middle of the Dublin shopping district. Tests so far had turned up no traces of drugs or physical trauma. Elizabeth gulped. The mission was already sounding more dangerous than she had feared. Was she up to a mission like this? Peters and Boudreau were both studying her, waiting for her input. She must continue to present a professional mien, no matter what.
“MI-5 has no conclusive information as to the source of the attacks on Ms. Kenmare,” Elizabeth said, “but we are prepared to protect her to the extent of our powers.”
“Us, too,” Boo-Boo said. “Even if it turns out to be a wild goose chase. Better that than real trouble, although my superiors won’t like it much.”
“Look,” the manager said tentatively, eyeing them, “I don’t know what I’m getting into now. I don’t want two governments angry at Fionna, but I don’t want her hurt, either. Do you think the things that are happening are real, or not?”
The two agents exchanged glances.
“Won’t know until they strike again,” Boo-Boo said. “We’ve got to keep an open mind about that until we see for ourselves.”
“Whether the attacks are of paranormal origin or not,” Elizabeth said, “if we are to believe her, and I am inclined to do so, someone or something has targeted Fionna Kenmare.”
“Right,” said Peters grimly. “Then, security’s the main concern.”
“Right,” Elizabeth echoed. She accepted a gin and tonic from the waiter, and paused until he was out of earshot. She turned to Boo-Boo. “You already know how many people are with the party. Three band members, twelve permanent roadies, Mr. Peters here, her personal bodyguard, publicist, special effects woman, technical director, the costumer, and the makeup artist. None of them appear to have any connections with the United States other than professional contacts in the business, particularly Michael Scott, who is known as the Guitarchangel. He had quite an independent career going earlier in the decade, two platinum albums, and all,” Elizabeth finished hastily, lowering her face so the others couldn’t see it. She had hardly had to refer to her notes for Michael. She’d been a big fan for years. Working in proximity to him was going to be distracting.
“The keyboard player, Eddie Vincent, was well known in the American group Skywatch, a Christian rock band. He began to play with Fee—Fionna around five years ago.” Better be careful about her old friend’s secret identity. There was no telling whether she had enraged someone by her masquerade as a starving Irish waif and what they might do if they found out she was no such thing. “Voe Lockney’s only been with her for two years. He replaced her last drummer . . .”
“Former boyfriend,” Nigel said, dismissively. “They broke up, and he couldn’t handle being around her. Too bad. He was stellar.”
“How many other newcomers?” Boo-Boo asked.
“Because of the labor laws, we’ve had to hire most of our backup staff here in the States,” Nigel said, taking a healthy gulp of his drink. “It’s all I’ve spent the last three weeks doing. Six musicians, three backup singers, a couple dozen grips and technicians. They’re really out of the picture. Most of them haven’t even met Fee yet. They’ve been working with our stage manager, who’s been here on site for a week with most of our techs. Only the key personnel flew in with us this evening.”
Elizabeth dismissed the newcomers from her calculations. If they’d had no contact with Fionna Kenmare in Dublin, they could not have been responsible for the previous attacks, or the mysterious indisposition of the other agent.
“The costumer,” Elizabeth read from her jottings, “Thomas Fitzgibbon, came to her from the West End theater scene. Did a lot of work for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Really Useful Company. Kenneth Lewis, lighting engineer. A New Yorker, he last worked in some off-Broadway theaters. Laura Manning, the makeup artist, is also from the West End. The special effects designer is a woman, too, Roberta Unterburger.”
“Call her Robbie. She hates Roberta,” the publicist advised.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, writing it down. “She’s from Marin County, California, three years ago. They’ve all been with her for at least two years, predating the first attack by at least fifteen months.”
“We didn’t hear anything from our end, either,” Boo-Boo said. “Any problems on your end, Nigel?”
“None,” the manager said. He leaned forward, placing his open hands palms up on the table in appeal. “They’re all good people. They like being part of the Fionna phenom. She’s got something special. People gravitate towards her. She’s been sort of protected by her fans.”