Lucy cocked her head. “Is that right?”
Simon put his hands on Lucy’s shoulders, turned her around, and walked her back to the curtain. He wasn’t interested in sharing his losing battle against insomnia with Lucy or anyone else. “Tell Mr. Neill I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Simon returned to his flat. He showered, cleaning his hands and nails with a scrub brush and industrial soap, then dressed in his real work clothes. Navy suit, white open-collar shirt, and loafers shined within an inch of their lives. Exactly fifteen minutes later, he was at his desk. He spun in his chair to study the monitor that broadcast feeds from the security cameras. He quickly spotted his mechanics, but he couldn’t find the visitor. This disturbed him. He’d supervised the placement of the cameras to ensure that every square foot of the shop was covered. A look at the agenda showed no mention of an appointment for an American named “Neill.” It was rare to get walk-in visitors. A second look at the monitor failed once again to find him.
There was a knock at the door. “Come.”
Lucy opened the door. “Mr. Neill to see you.”
Simon rose and came around the desk as the impromptu visitor entered the room.
“Mr. Riske, my name’s Barnaby Neill. I’m a friend of Bill Shea’s.”
The handshake was firm and forthright.
“Ambassador Shea?”
“We go back a long way.”
Lucy remained at the door, studying Neill. At some point in the past few months she’d appointed herself his guardian.
“Thank you, Miss Brown,” said Simon. And when she lingered: “Off you go.”
The door closed. Simon appraised the visitor. Barnaby Neill was lanky, fifty or fifty-five, with receding hair and rings beneath his eyes as black as coal. A worn, reliable face with a nose that had been broken. Married. College ring. Blue blazer. Rep tie. Gray trousers. Scuffed penny loafers. Hamilton wristwatch on a leather strap.
Simon did the math.
East Coast establishment.
Old money.
Friend of the U.S. ambassador to Great Britain.
Spy.
“You’re with?” asked Simon.
“Same family as Ambassador Shea. Different branch.”
Simon nodded to show that he got the picture.
Neill motioned toward the door. “Mind if we take a walk?”
“It’s raining.”
“I prefer the outdoors.”
Of course he did, thought Simon. “Suit yourself. Give me a minute.”
“I’ll be outside.”
On the way to the front door, Simon grabbed an umbrella from the stand. Lucy was hovering nearby, eyes following Neill. “Who’s he, then?”
“Just a guy that wants to talk to me. Why?”
“Reminds me of the undertaker who took care of my brother.”
“You don’t like him?”
