“I am fully aware of that,” said Sir Derek. “Are you attempting to portray this new scientist as some sort of mystery man?”
“We don’t know enough about him to be certain of anything,” said Meade. “We are following your orders to keep you apprised of all developments on Trikon Station. We wanted you to be aware of O’Donnell.”
“Dr. Ramsanjawi should be advised and kept informed of anything you uncover about this man.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“Is there anything else?”
Meade shook his head, then realized that Sir Derek was not looking at him. He dropped the last pieces of bread into the water. “No.”
The bread caught the current and dipped quickly down the shallow steps of the weir. A young couple swaddled in yellow slickers walked past and stood at the dock for the sightseeing boat. They paid no attention to the two men.
Sir Derek watched the bread swirl into the distance. He watched it long after it disappeared from view, long after Meade’s presence faded into the misty evening air, long after the sightseeing boat appeared under the Parade Bridge, The Avon drained the lands where, more than eleven hundred years earlier, a young King Alfred rallied a band of Saxon warriors and defeated the Danes at Ethandune. Without that victory, there would never have been an England, and Sir Derek—if he had been born at all—would have been speaking Danish. The peril facing this last fragment of the Empire was no less great. Economic power had been squandered by a xenophobic government. But he, with a band smaller than Alfred’s, would restore England to its preeminent position. And make millions of pounds for himself in the process. Sir Derek left his place on the river and retraced his steps across Pulteney Bridge. A freshening breeze lifted the shops’ awnings and the lowering sun edged through a seam in the cloud cover. A pale yellow glow seeped into every corner of the city. Bath seemed alive.
Five years earlier, when it became apparent that Great Britain would separate from the European Community, Sir Derek had invited Chakra Ramsanjawi to his weekend estate in the Mendip Hills. The two men had not seen each other in several years, and Sir Derek was both surprised and gratified to see how paunchy Chakra had become. Chakra was dressed in a rumpled gray pinstripe suit that Sir Derek noted had been inexpertly pressed. The vest was stretched across his belly. His slick black hair was parted in the middle in a caricature of a style in vogue among the fashion trendsetters of Savile Row.
Sir Derek was barely able to keep his distaste of Ramsanjawi from showing on his patrician face. This Indian fakir, this would-be Englishman with his ash-gray skin and his pretenses of gentility. This would-be brother whom his misguided parents had foisted on him.
The two men had cocktails on an enclosed veranda in virtual silence, dined at opposite ends of the long table in the main dining room, then retired to the fire-lit parlor for brandy and cigars. They stood before the fireplace and stared at the flames licking the blackened mouth of the chimney—the true English aristocrat and the dumpy Indian hopeful. Chakra held his brandy snifter with his pinkie aloft. His other hand was half dipped into his jacket pocket, thumb exposed.
“How is it you are supporting yourself and Elaine now?” asked Sir Derek. His nose pinched at the cologne vapors swarming around his guest.
“Research.”
“I see,” Sir Derek said. “For whom are you conducting this research?”
Chakra mumbled something unintelligible. It did not matter. Sir Derek already knew the answer.
“I have a proposition for you,” said Sir Derek.
“I need none of your propositions.”
“Chakra, let us speak frankly. More than anything in the entire world, you want to return to Oxford.”
Ramsanjawi took a quick sip of his brandy. There was no need to respond. The truth of Sir Derek’s comment was obvious.
“My proposition is that you resign your present post, whatever it might be, and apply for the position of chief research coordinator at Ciba-Geigy’s laboratories outside of Basel.”
“They already refused to hire me after—”