Misspent Youth

15. HIGH FINANCE

THE CHECKUP at Peterborough University hospital had gone well. Jeff was shown into the gene therapy department, where a couple of Norwegian technicians took tiny samples of blood and tissue. He also participated in a few simple physical calibrations, jogging on a treadmill while his heart and lungs and muscles were monitored. The department’s equipment was linked to the Brussels university, where the rejuvenation team studied the results as they came through. He even spent a couple of mildly awkward minutes chatting with Dr. Sperber over a teleconference channel.

Once he’d been given the all clear he drove his Merc EI8000 out of the city along the A47. Lieutenant Krober sat in the big car’s passenger seat, quiet and respectful as always. The rest of the Europol team followed in their dark BMW sedan.

“I wanted to say thank you for easing off Tim at the weekend,” Jeff said. Tim had done a lot of pleading about his Saturday evening date, which put plenty of pressure on Jeff. Negotiating with the Europol officers about clubbing in Peterborough actually made him feel as if he was doing a proper job as a father.

“It was good to avoid conflict with the boy,” Krober said.

“I don’t think he saw any of the surveillance team,” Jeff said. “At least he never said so to me. And I’m sure he would.” As far as Tim was concerned, he’d been given the whole night off, free and clear from the bodyguards. The actual deal Jeff worked out was slightly different.

“They are most adept at discretion; it is what they are trained for. Neither your son nor Ms. Goddard showed any awareness of our officers.”

Krober couldn’t have been there himself, Jeff thought. The idea of the eternally formal German trying to blend into some Peterborough lowlife dive was ludicrous. A brief image of Arnold Schwarzenegger walking into Tech Noir played across Jeff’s mind.

Though he hated the subterfuge, Jeff was quietly pleased about the arrangement. Judging by the way Tim had babbled on about the date after he got back on Sunday evening he’d had the time of his life. Yet with the Europol team there to watch over him he’d been perfectly safe the whole time. A perfect solution to the parent’s problem of how much slack to cut your kids.

So far Jeff had resisted asking Krober for details, like did Tim actually smoke joints, or were he and Annabelle sleeping together. He thought he knew the answer to that one, even though Tim swore he’d just stayed over at her house. It made him obscurely proud that his son had a girlfriend that attractive.

Jeff grinned as he turned off the A47 into Wansford. Now Dad was hoping for the same kind of lecherous encounter his son was getting.

The cocktail bar in the Wharf Inn possessed the kind of aspirant grandeur that was the province of four-star hotels everywhere. Its hidden lighting was gold-tinged, deepening the hue of the somber wood paneling. A waiter in a striped waistcoat and snazzy bow tie looked up and smiled from behind the small rosewood counter, then went back to adjusting the multitude of exotic foreign bottles lining the mirrored shelving. Thick, fluffy, claret-red carpet absorbed the sound of every footfall as Jeff walked in. He had to wrinkle his nose up against a sneeze; the conditioned air was chilly and clinically lifeless.

Nicole Marchant was waiting for him, sitting by herself at a table in the corner. With her locked-down hairstyle and Chanel business suit, the bar was her perfect milieu.

“I wasn’t entirely sure if you’d make it,” she said as he sat down opposite her.

“A no-show was not an option.”

Her gaze slipped over to Krober and two other Europol officers who shuffled around a table on the other side of the bar. The carpet even managed to soak up their noise.

“Are we going to have an audience?” she asked in an arch tone.

“They know this is a private meeting.”

“Our company keeps a suite on the first floor.”

“That sounds perfect.”

She stood up.

Jeff followed her out into the lobby. He was sure it had never been this easy before.