Critical Space (6 page)

Scott let me out and told me he'd try to call in the next few days, and I crossed the street and got pelted by drops from the air conditioners working in the windows above me. A new coat of paint had been put down on the walls in the lobby since I'd left for El Paso, and the smell of it was still rich. I waited at the elevator with a small cluster of people, mostly students from the New York Restaurant School, which was located on the sixteenth floor. There seemed to be a lot of people about for midday, and then I looked at my watch and saw that it was six past one, and realized that this was the lunch crowd returning from their meal.

The car came and I rode up in a mass of students, mostly black and Latino, listening as they talked to one another about their "mad skills with the bearnaise." I left them at fifteen and made my way to the solid wooden door at the end of the hall. There was a plaque mounted on it, brass, that read, "KTMH Executive Protection." The door was unlocked, and no one was in the reception area, not even a receptionist, but that didn't surprise me. We'd been having bad luck finding someone who could master the intricacies of answering the phone, taking messages, handling light typing, and greeting visitors to our offices. More often than not the receptionist's desk was vacant.

For a moment I stood still, listening for voices from down the hall, and then I heard the front door click behind me. Corry Herrera came in, carrying a box of doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, one in his mouth.

"Why aren't you in L.A.?" I asked him.

His response was lost in the doughnut, and he gestured with his head to indicate that I should follow him as he went down the hall, so I did. We've got a lot of space, enough so that each of us has our own office with windows and nobody had to fight for a good one. We also have a coffee room, a file room, a conference room, an equipment and storage room, two bathrooms -- one with a shower -- and three more rooms that are empty until we decide what to do with them. The walls are off-white and most of the floor is a fake wood laminate from Sweden that looks like the real thing but doesn't get scratched. It's a pretty nice space, and I like to think that when you enter it for the first time, it's comfortable rather than officious.

Corry made for the coffee room, and after he'd set down the box and finished his doughnut, said, "We got back this morning."

"Obviously. But you were supposed to be in L.A. until next week." Both Corry and Dale had gone out on a consulting job shortly before I'd left for El Paso, contracted by one of the major studios to act as technical advisors on some sort of production. As they'd explained it to me, this meant teaching young actors how to hold fake guns in a realistic manner. "Did something happen?"

"No, they just finished with us early, said we could leave." Corry opened the cupboard and got down a plate and three mugs. The coffeemaker on the counter had a full pot, and it smelled freshly brewed. "Dale couldn't get out of there fast enough. He's at home now, but I thought I'd come in, just check things out around the office."

"And bring doughnuts and make coffee," I said.

"These aren't for me. Will you grab the pot? My hands are full."

I took the pot and followed him out of the coffee room and back down the hallway, which I thought meant we were heading for Natalie's office.

"What happened to your forehead?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"Nonsmoking incentive program."

"Natalie said you and Skye Van Brandt had a falling out."

"Skye Van Brandt and I never had a falling
in.
Where's Nat?"

"Your office. We're entertaining, in case you hadn't guessed."

"I guessed. Who is it this time? Some spoiled rock star who wants someone to help him trash a hotel room? Or maybe another movie celebrity who needs an extra pair of hands for stroking his ego?"

My door was on the opposite side of the hall from Natalie's, and Corry stopped in front of it, adjusting the balance of the plate on his hand. He's five inches shorter than I am, with a wrestler's body and black hair, and one of those smiles that makes you think he doesn't have an enemy in the world. He didn't show me the smile, though; he showed me his frown, looking up at me with his eyes rather than by moving his head.

"Get the door," Corry said.

I opened it, still looking at him. "Just tell me the principal isn't another totally insufferable brat."

"Not unless vomiting in the backseat of automobiles counts," Lady Antonia Ainsley-Hunter said.

"So how long are you in town?" I asked.

"Just the day," Moore said. "We're flying back tonight."

"Quick trip."

"Her Ladyship had an appointment at the UN."

Natalie, Corry, and I all looked at Lady Ainsley-Hunter, who was sitting in the chair beside Moore, and who had just put a rather large piece of an old-fashioned chocolate in her mouth. We caught her with her cheeks puffed out, and she raised one hand to hide her face while she hastily chewed and swallowed, and with the other gestured generally that we should find something else to look at for the time being.

"Clearly they didn't offer her any doughnuts," I said.

"No, just tea," Moore said.

"It's not anything to fuss over," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "It was just a
meeting,
that's all."

"Right, only a meeting at the UN.," Corry said. "I mean, I had an appointment there just last week."

"So did I, come to think of it," Natalie said. "The Secretary-General is in my book club. I had to drop off the reading list."

"They're mocking me, Robert," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "Make them stop."

"Listen, you lot, stop mocking Her Ladyship," Moore said.

"Hey, our ancestors fought a revolution for just that right," I pointed out. "She doesn't want to be mocked, she shouldn't take such greedy bites."

"Bloody colonials," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "Don't they know they're speaking to a member of the Royal Family, a hereditary peer of the United Kingdom?"

"They know," Moore said. "Problem is, they don't give a damn."

"Perhaps they might be more appropriately respectful if they knew I was soon to be named an Honorary Goodwill Ambassador of the United Nations."

"That might do it. Would that do it?"

I looked at Corry, who looked at Natalie, who looked at me, and we all nodded in agreement.

"Yes, that would do it," Natalie said.

Lady Ainsley-Hunter smiled her approval, and we offered our congratulations. It seemed she was a little embarrassed by the honor, and it took some coaxing before she explained that Together Now had been working with the U.N. Special Commission on the Rights of Children, and the appointment had come as a result of her involvement. Nothing had been released to the media yet, and the actual appointment wouldn't be made for another three weeks.

"Which is what brings us here," Moore told us. "I've tried talking her out of it, but Her Ladyship is insisting that you motley bunch give me a hand with the protection. Pretty much the same as last time."

"Though preferably without the paranoid schizophrenic," Lady Ainsley-Hunter added.

"What's our schedule like?" I asked Natalie.

"We can clear it for this."

"Then you've got us," I told Moore.

"Brilliant," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "I'll leave you and Robert to discuss the details, and the rest of us can head out for a late lunch."

We all rose when Lady Ainsley-Hunter did, and Natalie and Corry headed to the equipment room to draw radios and other gear. They came back with their jackets on, guns in place, and we all headed to the front door. Moore made arrangements to rendezvous with the three of them later that afternoon, and then Lady Ainsley-Hunter said goodbye to me with a peck on the cheek.

"I'm so glad you can do the job. I was worried you might be too busy."

"We're never going to be too busy for you," I answered.

Moore and I waited until they were in the elevator and heading down before we went back inside, returning to my office. We each poured ourselves a cup of coffee, and I got out the laptop and settled back on the couch, rather than at my desk. Moore took the same chair again and lit a cigarette, and we began going over what would be required. He's one of the most disciplined men I've ever met, partially as a result of serving in the Special Air Service, which is considered by many who know to be the best special forces unit in the world, and perhaps also because he's black and has had to deal with prejudice all his life. He's in his mid-forties, and his face shows the lines of over twenty-five years of hard soldiering. Even working in the public sector, he still kept his hair in a military crop.

"Going to be a five-day stay in Manhattan," Moore said. "We're arranging for the usual press and speaking engagements, though once the U.N. announces the appointment we'll be getting more requests, so I'm trying to keep some of her schedule free. We'll let you know as more dates get filled."

"Where will she be staying?"

"The Edmonton. You know it?"

"Off Central Park, yeah."

"We'll be taking a suite on the eighteenth floor."

"Can you get a room closer to the ground?"

Moore shook his head. "You know she likes the suites at the Edmonton, and there aren't any below twelve."

"How many people will you be bringing over?"

"It'll be her, her personal secretary -- young lass named Fiona Chester, you remember her -- and myself. That's it."

I looked at him over the laptop. "No one else?"

"Her Ladyship thinks that's ostentatious," Moore said.

I laughed. "You have no idea how refreshing that is to hear."

"No, I do. I saw the
Post
today."

"Are we going to need extra guards?"

Moore dragged on his cigarette, then jetted smoke from his nose with a slight grimace. "I don't know, honestly. My professional paranoia keeps getting in my way."

That got a nod, because I understood exactly what he meant. If money and time and appearance were no object, both Moore and I would have preferred that Lady Ainsley-Hunter travel wrapped in Kevlar, and with a rotating detail of twelve guards that included emergency medical personnel.

He tapped ash into his now-empty coffee cup. "Threat level against her has been very low of late, especially since the burgeoning peace in Northern Ireland. Used to be that the IRA was the major worry, but not any longer. She gets the occasional letter, that's about it."

"What are the letters like?"

"Oh, standard nutter, mostly sexual. Fantasies, scenarios, and even those are rarely violent. I forward them to Scotland Yard as a matter of course."

"I'll want to see all of them, and the list of names, if any of the authors have been identified."

"Not a problem."

I typed up some more notes, then showed Moore what I had. He read it over and made a couple of changes, and by four we had a solid plan. I told him we'd get started on the advance work the next morning, and he promised to keep us informed as things developed on his end, especially as more appearances were confirmed. Then we spent another five minutes going over the price, and he got pissy with me when I tried to give him a break on the rate.

"You're a bloody awful businessman, Atticus. You should charge us what you're worth."

"You get a discount for being the people who made us famous."

"Shouldn't make a damn bit of difference, you berk. Now give me the
real
rate and I'll wire you the retainer tomorrow."

"Six thousand for the week, plus expenses."

"What's the bloody matter with you? You should be asking at least ten, and you know it."

"I can't believe we're arguing about this. Eight thousand, and that's my final offer, take it or leave it."

He took it and I got out a blank of our standard contract, filled in the appropriate information, and we each signed it. I made a photocopy and handed it over, saving the original for our files, by which time Moore said he had to be going. I escorted him to the door, we shook hands, and then he left.

I went back to my desk and filed the contract, then cleaned up the empty plate and mugs, dumping Moore's cigarette butt down the toilet. I washed the dishes and put them away, wiped down the counter in the coffee room, and rinsed out the dregs in the pot. Then I went back to my desk and sat down behind it. The lights were off and the shadows were growing long. To my left, opposite the couch, hung the framed covers from
Time
and
New York
magazine, and a couple of the front-page photographs from different papers. In the dimness, the newspaper shots reminded me of the slides I'd seen earlier in the day, the way the details blurred and the grays ran together.

When the light grew too faint for me to see what was inside my office I spun my chair and looked out the window. Traffic down below was backing up as more and more cars tried to squeeze their way into the tunnel, their headlights and taillights reflecting white and red off glass and painted metal. Once in a while the sound of a horn or a siren seeped in from the city around me, but other than that it was quiet.

I thought about Antonia Ainsley-Hunter, about how much I genuinely liked her, about how impressed I was with the way she used her life. I was proud to have protected her.

I was proud that she trusted me to do it again.

Ten days later, Dale and I were working in the conference room when the temp at the front desk buzzed us on the intercom. We'd spent the morning on a risk analysis for the area around De Witt Clinton High School in the Bronx, where Lady Ainsley-Hunter would speak in the morning on the second day of her visit. She was going to address the students in the school auditorium, then do the meet-and-greet with members of the local Together Now chapter. Dale and I had driven the area, checking the approaches, then done a walk-through. We'd snapped three-dozen photographs and drawn maps, then dropped the film off at a one-hour place and grabbed lunch.

Now we were back in the office, trying to determine what the safest route to and from the school was, rather than the quickest. Dale was tacking the relevant pictures to the corkboard at the far end of the room and I was going through the Hagstrom atlas of the five boroughs, tracing out our route and transcribing it longhand onto a legal pad. Natalie and Corry were at the Edmonton, performing yet another walk-through of rooms.