I met Harry Powell for lunch at a restaurant right by Grosvenor Square in Mayfair. It wasn’t what I would call an intimate setting, but the tables were far enough apart that a conversation could be reasonably private.
“Leah!” he greeted, standing up to shake my hand.
“Harry,” I replied. “It’s great to see you. I’m glad that you could meet me for lunch on such short notice.”
“Of course, of course,” he replied as we sat down.
A waiter appeared immediately with a drink menu, but I didn’t bother looking at it. “Glenmorangie 18 on the rocks, please,” I requested and the waiter gave a nod.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared.
“I must admit I get a little bit of a thrill seeing a woman as young as you enjoying a good Scotch,” Harry said with a smile.
“Speaking of which, I finally finished off that bottle you sent me. I do think you’ve spoiled me for more pedestrian whiskies.”
His smile grew wider. “I can find you another bottle,” he offered.
“No, this time it’s my turn,” I said, reaching down into my bag and pulling out a much plainer bottle than the one he’d sent me. “Pappy twenty-three. Enjoy it with friends, or save it for yourself. In either case, this is just about as fine a bourbon as you’ll ever taste.”
“I will admit that my knowledge of bourbons is a bit lacking,” Harry said, accepting the bottle.
“This will spoil you for bourbons the way that Glen 1978 ruined me for lesser Scotches,” I warned him.
“Neat, rocks, water?” he asked, examining the bottle.
“Rocks would be my recommendation, but try it neat, too,” I suggested.
Just then the waiter brought my drink, so our conversation turned to what to have for lunch.
We talked about the new apartment, and how we’d just finally taken occupancy. I promised we’d have a house-warming party before too long, but I couldn’t see it happening this trip since we were only going to be in town a few more days.
“I expect you’ll want to establish residency, now that your apartment is finished,” Harry said, sparing me from having to bring it up.
“It would make sense to get that ball rolling,” I agreed. Dancing around the subject was never my forte, but it seemed to be the way things were done in this social circle.
“As I mentioned, I have some connections,” Harry said. “It should be simple enough to get you and Emmy Indefinite Leave To Remain status. You could get fast-tracked towards full citizenship if you wish. It would take a few years, but you’d have a British passport.”
“That’s tempting,” I admitted. “But I think just starting with the settlement status would be good enough for now.”
“Easily done,” Harry assured me. “I’ll talk to the right people and have them get in touch with you,” he said, and that was that.
The rest of our lunch was spent on any number of topics. Harry was an excellent conversationalist, and sensitive enough to steer away from any talk about Angela or the attack, for which I was grateful.
We also barely touched on the topic of the money I’d been making him with my investment trust- apparently that was too boorish a topic for the occasion.
I told him that I’d gotten myself a Lotus to drive when in town, and thought that maybe come springtime I might like to find my way to do some driving on the track.
“Fast cars never were my vice,” Harry said. “I think you should meet my younger brother- he fancies himself to be quite the driver. To hear him say it he’s a regular Alain Prost.”
Chuckling, I said, “Alain gave me driving lessons once.”
“I wouldn’t believe that from anyone else,” Harry said with his own little laugh. “But from you it seems to be expected.”
“Bring your brother to the housewarming party when we get around to having it,” I said. “Of course we’ll send invitations to your daughter and her family, since they’re our new neighbors.”
“Should I bring my nana as well? The better part of my family will be there, after all,” Harry teased.
“The more the merrier,” I said, raising my nearly empty glass in a toast.
“I think we’re being followed,” my cab driver said after leaving Mayfair.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “Can you lose them?”
“I should do,” the driver replied, looking in his rear-view mirror. “But if they’re real professionals it might be trouble.”
“If they were real professionals you wouldn’t have spotted them,” I said.
“Fair enough,” the driver admitted.
“So here’s what I want you to do. Try to lose them, but not too hard. When you think you’ve given them the slip, return to driving normally, and take me to the front door of the British Museum. Drop me off in front, then circle around and pick me up ten minutes later at the rear exit on… Montague,” I said, checking the map on my phone.
“Real cloak and dagger stuff, eh?” the driver said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I’ll look a bit different, but you’ll know it’s me because I’m six foot two,” I told him.
“Right you are,” he said, as he ran a cold yellow traffic light to drop any tails.
I paid in cash with a generous tip as he rolled to a stop in front of the museum, hopping out. “See you in ten,” I said, pointedly checking my watch.
“Ten it is,” he replied, before pulling back out into traffic.
Thankfully midweek mid-afternoon late fall attendance at the museum was sparse, so there was no line to get in. Once past the security check I hurried inside and to the first bathroom I saw.
The bathroom was empty, so I wasted no time removing my wig and turning my overcoat inside out, revealing the plum-colored side. I took a couple of minutes to hide my scar using the tricks they’d taught me in Houston, and I was done. I turned up my collar and made my way out the back of the museum with no time to spare. Spotting the classic black cab loitering at the curb, I jumped in, pleased to see it was the same driver.
“Where to?” he asked.
“I have a four o’clock meeting at the Old Spitalfields Market,” I said. “Drive around aimlessly until then, keeping an eye out for a tail.”
“What do I do if I see one, ma’am?”
“Nothing any different. Just let me know, and get me to the market by five to four,” I told him.
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“Seems a bit odd, doing all that and then nothing if somebody is following us,” the driver remarked.
“It’s a game, that’s all,” I said. “Either I won with the museum trick, or I haven’t. I’ll know at my meeting.”
Chuckling but shaking his head, the driver made a left turn at random, then a quick right.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” I said as Roger Bridger entered the boba tea shop right at four on the dot.
“Pleased to see you,” he said as we shook hands.
“You made my taxi driver’s day,” I told him after he’d ordered and we sat down.
“He did well, for an amateur. Ducking into the museum was an inspired touch, I must say. And changing your look- I hadn’t expected the short hair,” Roger said admiringly. “We spent far too long looking for you in the museum before we realized you’d slipped out again.”
“I have to admit, I had fun, too,” I admitted.
“I’m glad I could provide some amusement,” Roger said.
“So, why did you have me tailed, and why make it obvious?” I asked. “My cab driver never should have seen you if you didn’t want him to.”
“Let’s call it a test,” the colonel said with a wry smile. “You passed, by the way.”
“Was Harry part of it?”
“Harry Powell? No, he has nothing to do with any of this,” Roger answered. “He’s merely an old school mate.”
“Roger,” I said. “As I’ve admitted before, I’m not good at playing coy. Something about me interests you, and while you’ve hinted, you’ve never made it clear what it is exactly you want from me. But I have a favor to ask of you- one I think you can do without much trouble, but that I would have a difficult time without your resources.”
“I think I have mentioned that I admire your forthrightness,” Roger replied. “What is this favor?”
I handed him the printed composite photo from our video surveillance. “This man uses the name of Ahmet Asker. I think he’s probably a Turkish citizen. Any and all information you can give me would be appreciated.”
Roger took the printout, looking at it closely.
“Is he a Night Child?” Roger asked, surprising me only a little bit.
“Yes,” I replied. “He was the one behind the attack that killed Angela.”
Roger folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. “This is a transactional world we live in,” he said. “If I do this for you…”
“I’m pretty clear on that part,” I said. “I still have no real idea what it is you think I can provide, but I’m certainly open to possibilities.”
“Our understanding of Night Child society is… sadly limited,” Roger began. “Shall we start with filling in a few of the gaps in our understanding?”
“I can certainly do that,” I said with a bit of relief. “And here I was worried you were going to ask me to murder someone or something.”
“Is that on the table?” Roger asked wryly.
“Word seems to have gotten out that I might be good at that sort of thing,” I said with a shrug.
“Yes, I’ve seen the videos,” Roger admitted. “They’ve been quite the topic of discussion around the office.”
“What is the consensus?” I asked.
“The general feeling is that it would be extremely unwise to engage in an altercation with you. One of my colleagues- a man who has trained our elite for decades- said that you are, and I quote, ‘preternaturally gifted’. In fact, he expressed a strong desire to meet you,” the Colonel said.
“I’d be O.K. with meeting him.” I said. “Maybe I could pick up a few pointers.”
“How long will you be in London?” Roger asked. “I could introduce you.”
“A few more days. Through the weekend, I think, then it’s back to the US.”
“Harry Powell told me that you’re interested in UK settlement, perhaps with an eye to citizenship,” Roger said, changing the topic. “The process could be expedited…” he added.
“I’ve been told it’s a transactional world we live in,” I replied.
“Just so,” Roger agreed.
“Alright. I’ll throw you a crumb,” I said. “Night Children have lived among us for many thousands of years. You know your ancient history? Have you ever heard of the Bronze Age collapse? The group of people known as the Sea People were, in fact Night Children. They have texts written around the same time as the Epic of Gilgamesh. Best guess puts the number of Night Children worldwide at probably between fifty to seventy-five thousand-”
“That many?” Roger said in surprise.
“There are probably somewhere around fifteen hundred here in the UK alone,” I said. “Because they hide so well, it’s hard to get any accurate numbers.”
“Your wife has told you all this?” Roger asked, still processing the idea of thousands and thousands of Night Children.
“I personally know hundreds of Night Children,” I said. “I’ve spoken with the historians, and seen some of the ancient relics. I can’t say that I know all the details of the history, but…”
Roger opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. Finally, he said, “And you know this for certain? How have you gained all this access?”
“I am Night Child royalty,” I told him. “I’m the reigning queen of the Americas.”
Roger just stared at me for a very long moment, trying to wrap his brain around the whole idea. Finally he took a long sip of his tea. “This is not what I expected,” he finally said.
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” I replied with a laugh.
“And you’re also a lover of the classics, I see,” he responded with a wry grin.
“So, yes,” I said. “You can trust my expertise on the subject of Night Children. With a phone call I could have a dozen Night Children here in this shop before we finish our drinks.”
“You say that you’re the queen of the Night Children in the US-” Roger began, but I interrupted him.
“All of the Americas,” I said. “North, South, and in between.” While it may not have been true at that moment, I was a firm believer in the idea that it would be true soon enough.
“But you yourself are not a Night Child,” he continued.
“While the offspring of male day walkers and female Night Children will always be Night Children themselves, the offspring of male Night Children and female day walkers don’t manifest the traits,” I said. “Those of us who don’t manifest are generally thought of as part of the society even if we don’t have the blessing of the night.” Yeah, it was self-serving bullshit, but I’d been leaning into it for so long and it was a very useful fiction, so…
“James Farmer, your father, was a Night Child?” Roger asked, again taken by surprise.
“Like I said, Night Children are everywhere,” I replied. I certainly wasn’t directly lying, but I was leading him to incorrect inferences.
Roger took another long sip of his tea, making a face when he realized it had gone cold. “You’re the queen of the Night Children in the Americas, and you want information on the man you say is behind your wife’s killing, who is presumed to be a Turkish citizen. This would seem to indicate that it was a failure of international diplomacy.”
“Got it in one,” I said.
“What happens when I turn over to you whatever information I may find about this Asker character?”
“More breakdowns in international relations,” I said.
“I see… Will this have any ramifications outside the realm of the Night Children?” Roger asked.
“Probably not much. As you’ve discovered, Night Child politics are very opaque to outsiders,” I replied.
“Yes,” Roger agreed. “But here you are, freely sharing information that we’ve found impossible to otherwise acquire.”
“I’ll share another useful piece of information with you,” I told him. “And this one comes at a cost. I want that information about Ahmet Asker, and on a more personal level, I need a driving instructor. I’ve never driven on the left side of the road, and I’d like to avoid becoming a hazard to other drivers here.”
Roger laughed. “Getting you some driving lessons could well be seen as a public good, then.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
“I’ll have whatever information we have on this Asker fellow for you by Friday,” Roger said. “When we next meet I’ll have John Hoffman, my combatives instructor friend, with me. I think you two may just hit it off.”
“So to speak,” I said as we rose out of our seats.
Roger chuckled. “Indeed. I will also see what I can do about that driving instructor for you. Now, what was that last bit of information you teased?”
“The king of the Night Children in Western Europe is my father-in-law, Monsieur De Lascaux. As such, he rules the UK’s Night Children. If you approach him, tell him that I sent you.”
“We had assumed he was very important in their society,” Roger admitted. “But to hear that he’s the king…”
“If you want to talk to him- and you really should- keep in mind that he’s a reasonable man. If you can align your goals with his, he’s easy to work with,” I said.
We shook hands and parted, Roger with a whole lot to think about and me with a smile I was doing my best to hide. I exited the market from the north entrance, glancing around to see if I was being followed again. Of course I assumed I was and that I wouldn’t have the skills to spot any tails I might have, so looking around was mostly for show while I stood at the curb waiting for a cab.
At precisely that moment a motorcycle came whizzing up, stopping right in front of me. I took the offered helmet and climbed aboard, wrapping my overcoat tightly around myself as we pulled away into the afternoon’s rush hour traffic.
This was only my third time to ride on the back of a motorcycle and the way the driver veered and swooped through the chaos of cars, buses and trucks was terrifying, but there was no way anybody could possibly follow us as we sped away.
After a few minutes of seemingly random direction changes, the driver turned suddenly into a narrow alleyway. Away from any view from the street, he pulled over and let me off. I handed the helmet to a woman very nearly my height, and we swapped overcoats. She got on the bike and soon they were gone from sight.
“This way, Miss Farmer,” said a man with dark hair and unfamiliar features, but I would recognize that voice anywhere.
“It’s good to see you, Edouard,” I said, following him into the back kitchen entrance to a neighborhood pub.
“And you, too,” he replied. “Please let me say that I was terribly saddened to hear of Miss Angela’s murder. And to lose the babies!”
“Thank you. It was a terrible blow,” I said as we made our way up a narrow flight of stairs to what looked like a somewhat shabby living room.
“Leah,” Mr De Lascaux said, rising from the couch to shake my hand.
“I’ve never seen you in makeup before,” I said, looking him over. “I have to admit I never would have recognized you.”
Laughing, my father-in-law indicated an overstuffed seat. When we were seated, he asked, “How did things go?” as we found our seats.
“Perfectly,” I said as he poured us each a glass of wine. Laughing, we raised our glasses in a toast.
“To Queen Leah, master of subterfuge!” Emmy’s dad said, and we clinked our glasses together.