Ted Bell - Spy

It was pleasantly warm in the old Locomotive, and Conch was curled against the Bentley’s worn leather front seat, drowsy from her hectic schedule and the long-delayed flight from Houston. Hawke reached over and switched on the dashboard radio. The dial began to glow, and a song was playing, sweet and slow, faint in memory.

“It’s so lovely, Alex,” Conch sighed, her eyes half opened. “I’ve never seen the countryside like this.”

“England hasn’t had snow like this in decades.”

“So kind of Ambrose and Diana to invite me to their party. And of you to come pick me up at the plane.”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” Hawke said, smiling.

“How is he doing, Alex? Ambrose?”

“It’s been a painful recovery. But he’s walking again. He uses a cane now. Terribly embarrassed about it, but I keep telling him the swagger stick looks dashing.”

She smiled.

He looked over at her. “I’m glad to see you, kid.”

“Me, too. Thanks.”

“Do you want to sleep? We’ve got an hour or so before we arrive at Brixden House.”

“I want to talk, Alex. Shh—stop. Don’t worry, it’s not about us. I want to tell you about the funeral down in Texas.”

“Homer’s funeral.”

“Yes, I’m glad I went. It was small, just local people, and very…moving. Homer was a much-loved soul in that little town. Sheriff Dixon said a few words before I spoke. You remember-that wonderful man you met in Key West.”

“Kind of man who makes you believe in cowboys again.”

“That’s him. He talked about the law, mostly. How sacred it was in his life; how deeply he believed in it. How people have to respect it. He said Homer had given his life for something far more noble than a line drawn in the sand.”

“Yes. How is it down there now, on the border?”

“Better, I guess. Having the Guard so visible has helped a lot. The Mexican government is finally making an effort.”

“Arresting terrorists, so I hear.”

“It’s a start. The Texas Sheriff’s Association has asked Dixon to head up a new joint border security unit. He’ll be good at it.”

“I still find it absolutely terrifying, Conch, that somehow, in parts of America, borders have become politically incorrect.” Hawke said.

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

“I just don’t understand it, Conch. Without borders, we’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing but chaos.”

“Whatever happened to simply defending your homeland? Whatever happened to, ‘We shall fight on the beaches…we shall fight in the hills?’ ”

“It’s frightening. I feel like America’s on the verge of losing it, Alex.”

“I hope Jack McAtee doesn’t share that view.”

“No, he’s boundlessly optimistic. Full of confidence that we will ride out the storm. And so am I. Except when I spend time on that border…”

“What we just had was a close call. But I hope there was also a big wake-up call here, Conch. You had a chance to have an entire continent as your ally. But you either neglected them or meddled dangerously in their internal affairs. By not treating them as equals, you frittered away a lot of enormously valuable friendships and—”

Hawke glanced sideways at her. Her head resting against the seat, she was sound asleep.

So much for his speech-making ability.

HALF AN HOUR later, Hawke had his headlamps on as he turned off the Taplow Common Road and drove through the gates of Brixden House. He slowed, idling along the broad curving drive, while Conch did something to her make-up in the lighted vanity mirror.

There were untold acres of formal parkland, bare orchards, and evergreen gardens, all now covered with soft, wet snow. The house, when they finally caught sight of it in the distance, was imposing. The classic Italianate mansion stood atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a bend in the Thames below. It looked as if the entire house was alight, every room, and there was a hazy orange glow from every window.

As he pulled up to the porte cochere, he saw the government cars that had been following at a discreet distance pull into the car park. Agents hopped out and began talking into their sleeves the way they do. A valet took the Bentley at the covered entrance, and they made their way into the Great Hall. A fire was roaring at the far end of the room and to the left of the fireplace hung the famous John Singer Sargent painting of Lady Diana Mars’s great-grandmother.

There was a festive mood in the room and it continued throughout the house as they went in search of the host and hostess. Ambrose had been very excited about this soiree when he’d followed up Hawke’s engraved invitation with a telephone call. Hawke had a pretty good idea of what Ambrose Congreve was up to, but he didn’t share any of that with Conch. He didn’t want her disappointed in the event he was mistaken.

Hawke took two flutes of champagne from a liveried footman and asked where he could find Chief Inspector Congreve.

“He and Lady Mars are in the library, sir,” the man said, “I believe there’s going to be music in a few moments.”

“Yes, sorry. Our plane was late,” Hawke said.

Hawke and Conch made their way through the glittering crowd and saw Ambrose and Diana standing by the far windows overlooking the garden. A small string quartet was tuning up, and the host was beaming at all and sundry, now crowding round the happy couple. Alex caught Ambrose’s eye and and each man raised a glass to the other.

It was too crowded to get any closer to the hosts, so Alex took Conch’s arm and steered her toward a deserted nook, a bay window. Beyond the windows, snow had started falling again. Alex took Conch’s hand as Ambrose moved in front of the seated musicians.

“My dear friends,” Ambrose said, taking the microphone handed him by one of the orchestra, “Diana and I are so glad that you could all be with us tonight. Sorry about the dreadful weather, but isn’t it marvelous?”

There was laughter and much applause.

“I’ve asked our wonderful orchestra to play a very special song for you tonight, by the French composer, Hector Berlioz. It’s my favorite piece and, not surprisingly, it has an intriguing story behind it. A love story, in fact.”

“Our story takes place in Paris in 1832. Berlioz is despondent. He has fallen madly in love with Harriet Smithson, a beautiful English actress playing Ophelia in a local production of Hamlet. Berlioz has sent her dozens of love letters and countless proposals of marriage, but Harriet leaves Paris without responding.

“On the verge of madness, Berlioz composes a symphony inspired by his love for the actress. As it happens, on the night of the premiere, Harriet Smithson has just returned from London to Paris. Berlioz has a friend persuade her to attend. Just as the orchestra is about to play, the composer takes the stage and announces that his new symphony was written as a proposal of marriage. And, that his intended was seated in the first row center. The orchestra then played the Symphonie Fantastique. You will now hear the Berlioz symphony, played by our splendid quartet.” Gentlemen? If you please?

Congreve stepped aside, and the string quartet began to play the beautiful first movement of the symphony, the strings soaring with emotion toward the end. When they finished, everyone in the library fell silent, waiting for Ambrose Congreve to speak.

When he moved in front of the musicians again, his eyes were glistening. Hawke, too, was full of emotion, watching his oldest and dearest friend gathering himself, with some difficulty, to speak.

“Some of you may be curious about Miss Smithson’s response to Hector Berlioz’s symphonic proposal. Well, I am very happy to tell you all that Harriet Smithson said yes.”