Chapter Three: Rendezvous

He had never had much time for modern art. Piles of bricks or a glass of water on a shelf with an accompanying dissertation informing you it was actually an oak tree were not, in his opinion, art.

But this... this was something special.

He had walked through the cavernous hall, through galleries with their white painted walls and children cheerfully scribbling on supplied paper with crayons. Some of that juvenile output looked better than the exhibits.

And he finally arrived here: a smaller room off a main gallery. The lights were dimmer. The air seemed to hold a different quality, vibrating with something he couldn't quite place. The canvases were certainly imposing. Massive things ranged across the walls; blackish-purples off set by floating, vivid reds. Harry completed a circuit of the room. There were few others in there: most drifted in, gave a cursory inspection and drifted out again. Two people on the seats in the middle - a little apart and facing opposite directions, clearly not together. The young man had the black-rimmed glasses and intense expression of the mature art student. The woman had the air of the genuine art lover.

Harry sat down. Behind him, Mr Serious Art Student left.

'Unusual choice for a meeting.'

They both stared ahead. 'I thought they'd appeal to you.'

Harry tilted his head, examining the canvas before him. 'You were right.'

It had been almost two weeks since his first meeting with Mia Kenton. He didn't dare hope that she had news for him already, but something had prompted her to contact him.

She let out a small, contented sigh. 'They're meant to evoke Michelangelo's library in Florence.'

'Ah. They remind me of my office.'

Mia laughed. 'You old romantic you.'

His gaze kept being drawn back to the vibrant rectangle emerging from its darker background. The colour of blood, of danger - but this was undoubtedly the red of passion. It floated aimlessly before his eyes; passion on its own was in a vacuum, self-consuming and utterly pointless.

'What do you have for me, Mia?'

'It isn't so much having something for you, more by way of information. I'm not the only one looking for her.'

Neither of them moved.

'Ah.'

'You don't sound surprised,' she continued calmly. 'Is there something you want to tell me, Harry?'

He told her about the note. It had been sitting in the top drawer of his desk for over a fortnight, ever since its arrival.

'And you're certain it's from Mace?'

'There's no-one else it could be.'

'Bastard.'

'He is that,' Harry said feelingly.

'I meant you!' Her voice didn't rise but the tone was harsh, clipped. 'You lied to me.'

'Not technically. I merely refrained from informing you of certain details.'

'Fine. The sin of omission, then.' She turned to him slightly; the green of her eyes seemed more piercing than usual. 'Do it again and this is all over - right?'

'Right.'

Silence. The cry of a fretful child sounded from beyond the confines of their womblike enclosure.

'I suppose you could always stroll up to him and ask him exactly what it means,' Mia said.

'You suppose wrong. That isn't how this works.'

'What- the Great Game?' Awful sarcasm in her words.

'This is hardly a game, Mia.'

'No, Harry, it isn't. It never was.'

'Mace is a sadist,' Harry said after a time. 'They've dressed it up over the years in technical terminology because what he did suited their purposes; but the ugly, unvarnished fact is that the man enjoys inflicting pain, of any description. He used- He used Ruth once before to get to me and I cannot let him do it again. I can't, Mia.'

'And he knows she's alive?'

The colours were starting to blur into each other. 'He suspects, he can't know for certain. If you don't find her first-'

'Mace will. Yes. I know what he's capable of.' She let out a heavy breath. 'Is there anything else, anything, that you haven't told me?'

'No. Nothing.' For the first time they faced each other, only for a moment. 'Is there- Apart from berating me do you have anything else?'

Mia hesitated for a moment. 'There was a trace to Vienna. I'm working on it.'

'Vienna.' Had she ever mentioned Vienna? He had thought of New York, but it was probably too obvious, not to mention problematic. The Americans had always been more paranoid about their borders than the Russians – although, any hint at a similarity between the two nations was an anathema, even now. In his more romantic imaginings he pictured her in Paris. He had to admit that a romantic fantasy was all it was. Vienna meant nothing.

He left Mia in contemplation of her modern masterpieces.

The sky had turned overcast when he regained the outside. The air carried the scent of rain and the river was a dirty slate-grey. Harry leant against the railings of the bridge, staring down into the water. And then continued across. A cathedral of the new on one side and a bastion of the past on the other. He had never been a religious man. He had seen too many wars fought, too much destruction wrought under the banner of the will of God to have any faith in the manmade dogmas attributed to any deity.

And yet the comfort of old familiarity still remained. The twitch upon the thread.

He believed in God. Not a vengeful one: more a disinterested one who may have been responsible for Creation on a slow day in the celestial ether and had been letting mankind get on with it ever since, barring the occasional colourful interlude.

His mother had overseen regular attendance in his childhood. The last time he had been to church for something other than a funeral was a Christmas midnight mass with Catherine the year before.

But when he walked through the portico and caught the scent of cold air laden with incense and flowers and wax he automatically bowed his head.

Tourists were taking pictures, flashes going off in all directions and casting bizarre patterns across the worn old stone. Harry slipped into a quiet side chapel. There were few candles guttering in the racks there. He watched the flames for a moment and then walked across, digging into his pocket for loose change.

He set the candle apart from the others, holding the taper away from the wick before finally bringing them into contact. A foolish conceit that it burnt brighter than its fellows. What good it would do he didn't know. But if it could do something, anything. He had been willing to humble himself before the full weight of the judiciary to protect her. They had all been willing to do anything to protect her – except the one thing he had wanted them to.

He was more than willing to humble himself before an entity that may or may not be listening and probably didn't care even if it were.

ooOoo

The offices above a row of shops in Battersea still had the look of only recent tenancy. Brown boxes stuffed with files, electronic equipment in various states of repair and miscellaneous odds and ends took up most of the floor space. They had been there for the whole three years Zaf had been coming here. He had helped them move some of the boxes.

'Drink?' Selim proffered a bottle of something unspeakable and some paper cups.

'I'll pass, thanks, mate.'

He shrugged. 'Your loss.'

It was sweltering. A window had been jammed open in the fruitless attempt to counter the effect of the heating system that was permanently stuck on maximum. 'Can't you do something about that?' Zaf squirmed uncomfortably in his chair; a bead of sweat was working its way down his back.

'The landlord came in day before yesterday, had a look, turned some dials, kicked it and then said we were liable for payment.'

'Is that legal?'

Selim shrugged, took a pull of his drink and gagged slightly as it hit the back of his throat. His eyes watered. 'Where else are we going to find rent this cheap?'

Zaf snorted. 'You might want to think about why it's so cheap, mate. The whole place is probably going to cave in on your heads.'

'Then we'll die young and leave two beautiful corpses.' Mike slung a long leg over a chair, arms resting on the back. 'Well, one beautiful corpse - can't say much for Quasimodo over there.'

Selim threw a cup at his head.

Zaf grinned at them, leant back, hands linked behind his head. 'So, what have you been up to lately?'

'Mammoth games of "I Spy," ' Mike replied.

'Let me guess – everything started with G,' Zaf said. 'Girl in a short skirt, girl in a long skirt, girl in jeans...'

'Were you listening in?' Selim asked; and ducked as the paper cup travelled on a reverse trajectory.

'We've had tougher assignments,' Mike said. A slight edge to his voice now. Business talk. He pulled out a file from the desk drawer.

'You didn't get too close?' Zaf reached for the file; Mike pulled it back.

'Do I tell you how to do your job?'

'No. Sorry.'

Mike grinned at him. 'Don't worry about it, mate. Do you want this or not?'

Zaf opened the buff-coloured file, sifted through the surveillance logs and photos. 'Who's this?'

Grainy, a little blurred. The features were indistinct but would be recognisable to anyone who knew her.

Mike shrugged, poured himself some of that unidentified liquid. It was thick and dark. 'I don't know. Probably about the most interesting thing to happen – doesn't get out much, your friend.'

Zaf studied the photo. 'He's no friend of mine, trust me. Why did you snap her?'

'Got the feeling she was watching the same bloke we were. Haven't seen her since, though.'

'She made you?'

Mike shrugged. 'Maybe.'

He was the talker. When the pair were together Selim was always happy to stay in the background, observing. They were great believers in playing to their strengths.

The hot water pipes shuddered, letting out a series of unearthly whines.

'So - how's homelife?'

Zaf looked at him quizzically. 'It's fine. Thanks.'

'Doing all right with that tasty bird you're shacked up with?'

Where does he get his prose from? Zaf wondered. Mike's attempts to sound like a street-wise player were pitiable at best. Selim watched, grinning amiably. 'I'm not 'shacked up' with anyone. We're good friends.'

'Seriously, Zaf, mate,' Mike leant forward earnestly, 'if you're not going out with her, can I?'

Zaf glanced through the rest of the file, making mental notes of the photos of particular interest to be examined later. He looked up and smiled. 'Mike, she'd make mincemeat of you.'

TBC