Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

He crossed his legs, now on familiar turf and ready to launch into a lengthy exposé of life at the top. ‘That’s correct. Beautiful country, fantastic scenery and people. But not a nice posting, socially speaking. There are lots of… complications. Too many opposing factions and too many guns. It’s a very dangerous place.’

‘You mean drug traffickers,’ she interrupted him.

‘And others. But, essentially, yes.’ He looked mildly irritated at having the flow of his talk interrupted. ‘But there’s nothing to indicate this business is anything to do with them, I hope you realise that?’ He looked at them in turn, but they didn’t react.

Riley asked, ‘Didn’t your security people have some ideas?’

‘Some. But nothing concrete.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘You have to understand, Miss Gavin, that this job marks you down. Others before me were never quite sure they or their families would be entirely safe.’ He looked past her. ‘But that’s the price, I suppose, for doing one’s duty.’ He stared off manfully into the distance, the Marlborough Man of the diplomatic corps, thought Riley, and realised that this was probably his way of dealing with what had befallen him.

‘One thing puzzles me,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’ He fixed her with a dark look, as if he hadn’t expected this level of questioning. What on earth can you be puzzled about? the expression seemed to imply. You, a mere minion. That same facial expression, Riley guessed, had probably had embassy staff running for the hills whenever it appeared.

It reminded her of an old headmistress at high school, who had ceased to hold any fear for Riley after appearing in a pair of giant shorts in the annual teachers versus students hockey match. Somehow a pair of knobbly knees never rated too high in the terror stakes after that.

‘If you and your family are such a target, why did you let your son go to the States? He’s very young.’

For a moment Sir Kenneth looked as if he was about to levitate from his chair. His face coloured a deep red, and he swung his head towards Palmer as if asking why he’d brought this impertinent young female into his house.

Palmer simply stared back at him without expression. ‘Good point,’ he conceded.

‘He’s young,’ Sir Kenneth said finally, when he saw there would be no support from Palmer. ‘He wanted to see the world… do things — like any other young man. What are you saying?’ He looked at them both this time.

‘I’m saying,’ said Riley, ‘that if he was at risk, I’m surprised he was alone. If you were being watched, they’ll have been keeping an eye on Christian, too.’ What she wanted to say, bluntly, was that Sir Kenneth was being well protected, so why wasn’t his son and heir? It was shutting the stable door after the horse had cleared off, but as an example of parental idiocy masquerading as freedom, she thought this one beat them all.

He didn’t say anything, and she let it go. It wasn’t their place to berate him for letting his son go out into the world unprepared.

‘Why us?’ She indicated herself and Palmer. ‘If you’ve been threatened, surely a man in your position should have first call on some big guns to camp out here. A unit of Redcaps at least. Failing that, there are plenty of professional companies.’

She glanced at Palmer, but he was staring at the ceiling.

‘You’re quite correct, Miss Gavin.’ Myburghe gave her a permafrost smile that indicated he was fed up with the questions and wanted to call his butler and have them ejected. Except that he was far too well mannered. ‘I could call on considerable assistance if I wanted to. I could have my home turned into a fortress and my life become a hermetically-sealed unit for the next six months.’

‘In the face of threats, it sounds good to me.’

‘Except that after a time, if there were no further threats to my life, family or well-being, I’d be on my own, or at the very most with a couple of inexperienced men posted in the kitchen and armed with radios. I still wouldn’t have my son back.’

‘Your butler looks very capable.’

‘Yes, he is. He’s been with me for many years. But he’s still just one man.’

Riley knew he was right. None but a select few at the top of the tree ever got the protection they wanted, and then not even one hundred percent. Everyone else was left out in the cold with a three-point plan security manual and a mirror on a pole for checking under their cars each morning.

‘The package,’ said Palmer. ‘Where is it?’

Sir Kenneth paled and took another slug of whisky. Palmer the Tactful strikes again, thought Riley. He’d done better than her in fewer words. But it was a question she’d been straining not to ask. Where does one keep a spare finger? she wondered. In the fridge alongside the butter?

‘They took it away,’ he said at last, his voice cracking slightly. It was the first real sign of tension to show beneath the professional veneer. ‘Keagan took it.’

‘Was it your son’s?’ This time it was Riley’s turn to lead the charge of the blunt brigade.

He nodded. ‘I believe so, yes.’

‘How can you be sure? The bomb was a hoax; this might be, too.’

Myburghe pushed back from the desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew a gold signet ring and a framed photograph. He stared at them both for a moment, before sliding them across the desk to Riley.

The ring, which Palmer had mentioned, was heavy and solid and showed an indistinct crest carved into the dull metal.

Myburghe grunted, ‘It was covered in dried blood when it arrived. I cleaned it off.’

Riley passed the ring to Palmer and turned to the photograph. The frame was embossed silver. It held a snapshot of a teenager emerging into young adulthood. He was sitting on an upturned log and smiling easily into the camera, confident and relaxed, the epitome of good breeding. He wore the inevitable uniform of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers, and was the image of his father without the weight of the years behind him. A good-looking boy, thought Riley. Everything in the world to live for. His hands were clasped between his knees.

‘You can’t see it there,’ Myburghe said stiffly. ‘But Christian has a very fine two-inch scar on his thumb. He got it skinning a rabbit when he was fourteen.’ He watched as Riley passed the photo to Palmer, who glanced at it before passing it back to Myburghe with the ring. The drawer closed on the two objects with a muffled finality.

‘The significance being?’ said Palmer.

‘Practically nobody outside the family knows about the scar. It’s almost invisible. Yet they described it in detail. And the ring bears our family crest. It was designed by my great-grandfather. There’s no mistake: it belongs to Christian.’

Riley and Palmer exchanged a look. Whoever was making the threats had first-hand knowledge of the boy’s physical details, right down to little-known scars. It was about as conclusive as one could get that the kidnappers weren’t bluffing.

‘That leaves just one thing, then,’ Palmer said, with what almost amounted to cheerfulness. ‘What do they want?’

***********

Sir Kenneth’s eyebrows shot skyward and the silence seemed to reverberate around the room. ‘Want?’ He uttered the word as if he’d never heard it before.

‘It’s the usual thing, isn’t it, with death threats? Pay up or we kill your son. Send us a lot of money or next time it’ll be a real bomb. That sort of thing.’

Myburghe took another sip of his whisky. His movements were controlled, but in the way a bomb disposal expert might be controlled while sitting on a large amount of Semtex. He was white round the eyes with the effort, and Riley wasn’t sure if he was mad at Palmer for the question or at himself for being unable to respond.