John Abbott - Scimitar

“I’m happy to help you.”

“I just want to make sure everything is perfect for her.”

“Naturally.”

“What does the two hundred dollars include?”

“Well, let me tell you what it doesn’t include.”

“Please,” he said.

He would get back to his questions later. He had almost come too close there a minute ago, and he didn’t want to raise her suspicions. For now, he listened to all the bullshit. Flowers were not included in the basic price, but the hotel recommended a florist named Ernest, with whom they’d had excellent results. Music was also not included, but she could highly recommend the Jerry Carlyle Orchestra — “No relation to the competitive hotel,” she said, and smiled. And the photographer they recommended was a man named Allan Curtis, who...

“I think my sister has her own photographer in mind,” Sonny said. “But can you tell me a little about security? I know she’ll be concerned about crashers...”

“We provide a Plaza security guard.”

“Uniformed?”

“No, wearing a plain dark suit.”

“No ID tag?” he said, and again smiled.

“Yes, an ID tag,” she said, and returned the smile. “ And a little name plate. White lettering on black plastic, totally discreet.”

“And just that one guard is enough?”

“We usually find one sufficient. He’s equipped with a radio, of course, and is in constant touch with our security office. He’ll make certain no uninvited guests, or curiosity seekers...”

“How do you mean?”

“Well... people who hear music, and become curious, and try to poke their heads in, see what’s going on... he’ll make sure nothing like that happens.”

“And just the one guard can take care of that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Because... well... I didn’t want to disclose this... but...” He lowered his voice. “My sister is marrying a rather well-known performer...”

“Oh, I see.”

“And I wouldn’t want any uninvited photographers or...”

“I quite understand. We can provide beefed-up security, if you like... or, you know, you can hire your own security people, if that’s what you’d prefer. We’re flexible, either way.”

“I’m not comparing this to any sort of political function, mind you,” Sonny said, “he’s not that important. But what sort of security would you provide for a...?” He searched for an example, and then rolled his eyes and said, “A Democratic fund-raiser, say, where there’d be senators and governors... maybe a movie star or two... something like that.”

“We can supply whatever kind of security you’d like,” she said.

“But for something like that...”

“We handle all sorts of events,” she said. “You have no idea how many heads of state stay here at the hotel in total anonymity. When you feel free to let me know who the groom is, we can recommend the proper precautions, and see to it that your sister’s every wish is fulfilled.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he said.

“Would you like to take a look at the rooms now?”

“Just the Baroque, I think,” he said.

At twenty minutes past two that Friday afternoon, Geoffrey Turner was talking to the American girl when Lucy Phipps, the secretary shared by him and two other vice consuls, buzzed him from outside. He glanced up at the clock, an annoyed little frown furrowing his brow.

“Yes?” he said into the microphone on the phone console. He hadn’t yet quite caught the hang of the newly installed “communications system,” so he said the word again, not certain she’d heard him the first time. “Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman from Her Majesty’s Government here to see you,” Lucy said.

“Which branch?” he asked.

“Customs and Excise,” Lucy said. She always sounded as if she were shrieking. Her shrill irritating voice sounded like a cross between an air raid siren and a banshee. Come to think of it, she sounded a great deal like Peggy Armstrong, one of his co-vice-consuls. Two singularly unattractive women. Here in Passports and Visas, Geoffrey was sure there was a conspiracy afoot to surround him with the plainest women in all the whole crumbling empire.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “he’ll just have to wait. I’ve someone with me at the moment.”

“I know,” Lucy said, “but he said it was urgent.”

“Just ask him to wait, won’t you?” Geoffrey said as pleasantly as he could manage, and smiled forbearingly at the girl sitting on the other side of his desk. “I shan’t be much longer.”

“He looks terribly impatient,” Lucy whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said, and clicked her off. “Now then,” he said, “as I understand this, Miss Randolph...”

“Randall. Elita Randall.”

“Sorry, I thought I’d...” He glanced at his note pad. “Randall it is, terribly sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Elita said.

“As I understand it,” Geoffrey said, and was momentarily distracted by her legs. Frightfully good-looking woman, this one. Girl , he supposed. Couldn’t be a day over seventeen, could she? “This... ah... friend of yours,” he said.

“Acquaintance, actually,” Elita said, aware of his wandering eyes, lifting herself slightly off the seat of the chair, and tugging at her mini. “I met him on a train, actually.”

“Ah, yes,” Geoffrey said, aware that he’d made her uncomfortable, cursing himself for it, and looking away in contrition, busying himself with the pad on his desk and the pencil in his hand. “And you say he’s British?”

“Well, his mother is.”

“Would you know her name?”

“I’m sorry.”

“How about his father? Is he British as well?”

“He’s Indian.”

“And his name?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“I see. Well, what’s this fellow’s name? The one you met on the train.”

“Krishnan Hemkar,” she said.

“Ah, Indian indeed,” he said. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“May I ask your age, Miss Randall?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Well, I don’t, actually. I was merely curious.”

“I’ll be twenty in February,” she said, somewhat defiantly.

Which meant she was scarcely four months past her nineteenth birthday. But whereas seventeen would have put her completely out of range, nineteen wasn’t totally unacceptable. On the other hand, he had dated nineteen-year-old American girls who wanted to discuss nothing but movie stars.

“Krishnan Hemkar,” he said, looking at the name he’d written on his pad. “And, of course, you don’t have his address or his tele...”

“No, I don’t.”

“Of course not, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” he said, and smiled.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”

“Would you know what sort of passport he might be holding?”

“Well, I know he was born in India... someplace near the Pakistan border. He told me the name of the town, but I can’t remember it.”

“Mmm,” Geoffrey said. “Would you know if he’s a British subject?”

“Well, he said his mother’s Brit...”

“Yes, I know, but...”

“And he told me he was raised in England. He came here when he was eighteen.”

“Would you know if he’s now an American citizen?”

“No, I’m sorry. He’s a doctor.”

“I see.”

He looked across the desk at her. Wide blue eyes beseechingly returning his gaze. Please help me find my lost Indian friend. But how?

“You see,” he said, “without knowing...”

“I just... it’s important that I locate him.”

“I’m sure, or you wouldn’t be going through all this trouble, would you?”