The Two Georges

XIII

The sun was sinking in the west when the Union Lifeline, air brakes chuffing, pulled into Victoria Station. Several times during the eight-hour journey, Bushell thought about the yacht Britannia. When it sailed for Victoria, it would travel far more slowly than the train, and have to come much farther, but it would reach the capital all the same.

A captain in dress reds met them at the station. He introduced himself as John Martin. “Welcome to Victoria, Colonel, Captain,” he said to Bushell and Stanley. Then he seemed to notice Kathleen was not standing at Bushell’s side merely on the off chance a cab might materialize out of thin air somewhere nearby.

Bushell remembered he hadn’t told Sir Horace he’d included Kathleen in the investigation. He smiled to himself. The next few days were liable to be ... interesting. He thought of how she teased him for all the interesting - ways he used that word, and his smile got wider. He said, “Captain Martin, let me present you to Dr. Kathleen Flannery of the All-Union Art Museum.”

He waited for them to clasp hands and exchange polite phrases, then went on, “Dr. Flannery has greatly helped the investigation. Since she was curator of the traveling exhibition of The Two Georges, she has at least as great an interest as we do in safely recovering the painting.”

There. The cat was out of the bag. Captain Martin was three grades and fifteen years his junior, so he had to smile and make the best of it. When word got back to Sir Horace Bragg, though . . . Well, that could wait. His voice grew brisk: “I presume, Captain, you’ve made arrangements for us to stay somewhere besides this train-station corridor?”

“Uh, yes, sir,” Martin said. “It wasn’t easy, but I managed to book two rooms at the William and Mary.” That again reminded him of Kathleen. “If Dr. Flannery is with the All-Union Museum, I presume she’ll have digs of her own here in town? With the King-Emperor coming soon they’re - blasted hard to come by.”

“I do,” Kathleen said, “but I’ve worked so well with Colonel Bushell and Captain Stanley that I’d hate to be separated from them at this crucial stage of the case.” She batted her eyes at Captain Martin. “Do you think you could by any chance manage to arrange one more room at the William and Mary?”

The captain looked quite humanly harassed for a moment, then regained his professional impassivity. “I’ll see what I can do when we get there, Dr. Flannery,” he answered, his voice wooden. She set a hand on his arm. “Oh, thank you very much,” she purred. The good Captain Martin, as most males would have, thawed like an icicle on a warm spring day. He picked up her bags and led the way toward his motorcar. As soon as his back was turned, Kathleen winked at Bushell.

“Not cricket,” he murmured to her. She winked again. If I laugh out loud, he told himself, if I howl like a wolf or giggle like a loon, Martin will either decide I’ve lost my mind or figure out what’s funny. Neither choice looked good. He kept quiet. It wasn’t easy.

Victoria lay along the southern shore of the Potomac, on the other side of the Long Bridge from Georgestown, Maryland (local historians, Bushell had learned in his earlier stay at the capital, said Georgestown had formerly honored only one George, but pluralized itself after George III and George Washington reached their historic accord). In a way, it was an artificial city: it had gone up when the separate colonies fused into the North American Union, and would wither if ever government should leave it. Bushell peered out across the carpark at the scores of gleaming marble buildings dedicated to administering the broad expanse of the NAU. Victoria seemed in no danger of withering any time soon. It had some of the advantages of artifice. Its streets, for instance, were laid out in a sensible grid: none of the twisting ex-cowpaths that had grown into Boston boulevards. Along with trolleys and an efficient underground, they let you get around with ease in the capital.

Bushell knew where the William and Mary was: only a block and a half from RAM headquarters. He’d made the trip from Victoria Station to headquarters scores of times, either in a cab or in his own motorcar. Despite his years in New Liverpool, going uptown felt intimately familiar. Here came the North American Mint, the great Telephone Exchange Building, the “Hullo!” he said in surprise, pointing to a large new structure with a yellow brick facade. “What the devil’s that?” The reality of change had taken a swipe at his memories.

“The Imperial Asylum for the Insane and Feebleminded,” Captain Martin answered. “Opened only a few months ago. You may hear someone say, ‘Ahh, send him to the Yellow Brick,’ if he thinks a chap’s boiler hasn’t got all the steam pressure it might.”

“I did hear that when I was here last month,” Bushell said. “Didn’t know what it meant, but they’re always coming up with new slang.”

“I hadn’t heard it,” Kathleen said, “but I’ve spent a lot of time lately on the road, either with The Two Georges or searching for it - and we’re a fairly stolid lot at the Museum, too.”

“One day soon it’ll go out on a wireless broadcast, and then people will be saying it from one end of the NAU to the other,” Samuel Stanley said.

“Yes, and as soon as they are, Victoria will come up with something new,” Bushell said. “Wouldn’t do to have hoi polloi learn the insiders’ secret language, now would it?”

“Feeling cynical tonight, Tom?” Kathleen asked.

“No more than usual,” Bushell said. His eyes flicked to Captain Martin. The RAM’s ears didn’t flick to attention, but they might as well have. That casual use of his Christian name would get back to Sir Horace, too. Well, if it does, it bloody well does.

The William and Mary Hotel sprawled inside elegantly landscaped grounds. A light-skinned Negro clerk clucked in distress when Captain Martin tried to arrange a room for Kathleen Flannery. “That will be difficult, sir,” she said. “I’m surprised Mr. Bushell and Mr. Stanley were accommodated.”

“It has to do with the search for The Two Georges,” Bushell said.

“Sakes alive, why didn’t you say so?” The woman shuffled through a file box of registration cards like a professional vingt-et-un dealer at a casino in the south of France. By the time she was through, she’d gone from a frown to a smile so white and wide and dazzling that Bushell wondered whether her teeth were her own. “I’ve got you in room 527 now, Mr. Bushell, and you’re in 529, Mr. Stanley - and Dr. Flannery, I’ve put you in 525. We’ll worry about where the marchioness stays when she actually gets into town. I hope that’s all right?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Bushell said solemnly. He turned to Kathleen. “Well! The marchioness will be most vexed, I’m certain.”

Kathleen snorted at his languid, affected drawl. The desk clerk giggled. “You are a wicked man, Mr. Bushell,” she said severely, shaking a finger at him. He bowed in gratitude. She giggled harder. Captain Martin said, “I’m glad that’s worked out. Someone will be by tomorrow to take you and Captain Stanley - and Dr. Flannery - wherever you need to go. Don’t hesitate to ring me if there’s anything I can do.” He brushed a finger against the brim of his cap and hurried off.

“We’d better get up to our rooms right away,” Bushell said. “We’re only just around the corner from RAM headquarters. As soon as he gets back there, I expect my telephone to start ringing.” The registration clerk ran the little chime that sat on the front desk. The bellman who had been hovering in the background swooped down on the travelers’ bags.

Bushell unpacked with practiced ease and speed. His suitcases were not so full as they had been when he set out, either; he’d gone through a lot of clothes in chasing after The Two Georges. He’d have to do something about that - in his copious spare time. He laughed at the absurdity of the notion. After he’d moved things out of cases and into drawers and closet, he rang room service and ordered a couple of buttered scones, jam, and a pot of blackcurrant tea for an evening snack. Then he sat down on the bed and stared at the telephone. The watched pot stubbornly refused to boil. “If you’re going to be that way about it - “ he said, and, when it still didn’t ring, he stripped off his clothes and headed for the showerbath.

He thought the cheerful splash of hot water would be plenty to tempt the phone to life, but he got to finish bathing in peace. He was toweling his hair dry when the telephone finally rang. Wrapping the towel around his middle, he hurried over to the nightstand. “Hullo? Bushell here.”

“Hullo, Tom. Welcome back to the capital,” Sir Horace Bragg said. “You’ve taken a roundabout route getting here, haven’t you?”

“You might say so, sir, yes,” Bushell answered. “I’ve left so much behind along the way, too - I only hope none of that turns out to be crucial.”

“One of the things you’ve left behind you is a trail of blood,” Bragg said. “The papers are screaming their heads off. We’ve never had a case like this before, and I hope to heaven we never have another one like it again.”

“Amen to that,” Bushell said. “We weren’t the ones who blew off the back of Tricky Dick’s head, though. We weren’t the ones who fired first at Buckley Bay, either. And I promise you I didn’t throw the first grenade at the late, unlamented Mr. Venable. No, not unlamented: I take that back. I wish he were alive - or Kilbride, or Cavendish - so I could ask questions. Lots of questions.”

“Yes, and the papers are screaming about that, too.” Lieutenant General Sir Horace Bragg often sounded harassed, or at least dyspeptic, even when he wasn’t. When he was, his voice turned downright lugubrious. “One of the dailies here ran the story under the headline, ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales,’ which doesn’t make us look good.”

“To hell with the papers,” Bushell said, and was briefly glad Lieutenant Thirkettle couldn’t hear him committing such blasphemies. “I want The Two Georges. That Venable comes from Georgestown, just over the river from here. Are your people turning the place upside down yet, grilling everybody who ever met him?”

“They will be, as of tomorrow,” Bragg said. “I still don’t know as much about this business in Boston as I’d like.” His tone sharpened. “I would have expected, Tom, that you have rung me last night with a full report.”

“I tried to reach you this morning, sir, but you were already at the dentist’s.” Bushell felt guilty about not telephoning the RAM commandant, but less than he’d expected. And if Bragg wasn’t getting investigators into Georgestown till tomorrow, he wasn’t as energetic as he might have been, either.

“Well, let that go, then,” Sir Horace said, though by the sound of his voice it was far from forgotten. He paused, coughed, and then resumed: “What’s this I hear about your associating Dr. Flannery with the investigation?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I’m very glad I did that,” Bushell said brightly. “She was the one who identified Joseph Kilbride for us back in Doshoweh, and she was the one who spotted Venable in the cabinetmaker’s shop, too. Without her, we’d be much farther from The Two Georges than we are.” I have other reasons, too, but those are none of your business - sir.

“You can’t possibly trust her,” Bragg said. “I still find her involvement in the case suspicious, and to say that putting her on the investigatory team is irregular merely serves to weaken the power of language.”

“I worried about it, too,” Bushell said, which was true. “I had her join Sam and me not least to keep her from haring off on her own.” That was also true. “The help she’s given us, though, has justified the step I took.”

“Most irregular,” Bragg said, like a judge passing sentence. If we don’t come up with The Two Georges , you’ll be my scapegoat because of this. Bushell could hear the threat in his voice. He sighed. Had Sir Horace despaired of finding the painting? It sounded that way. Or maybe commanding the RAMs had finally made him come to think like a bureaucrat, not a soldier, with procedure ranking ahead of everything else, even results.

He’s old!. Bragg couldn’t have had more than a year or two on Bushell, but he sounded like a man ready for his cane and slippers. The thought saddened Bushell, who felt a long way from the boneyard himself. He said, “We’ll find it yet, sir. No new ransom demands, are there?”

“Eh? No.” Bragg hesitated, then said. “See here, Tom, are you involved with the Flannery woman?”

“I want to get a good night’s sleep tonight,” Bushell said, “and maybe you can tell me what’s on the agenda for tomorrow.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Bragg said. Bushell didn’t answer again. After a silence that stretched for more than a minute, Sir Horace sighed. “If you walk a tightrope long enough, Tom, sooner or later you fall off.” Bushell still didn’t say anything. Bragg sighed again. “First we meet with Sir Martin Luther King. He’s scheduled us for two hours, starting at ten. He’s been following your work with great attention, I assure you.”

“I believe that,” Bushell said. “He’s a politician, and he’s got the shadow of the King-Emperor’s visit hanging over him, too.”

“Right on both counts,” Sir Horace said. “I thought you’d spend the afternoon at headquarters - unless you plan on going out and shooting someone then.”

Bushell rubbed at his mustache, which was unruly from the showerbath. Sir Horace waxed sarcastic only under great strain. “It’s not on my calendar, so I guess I can let it go,” Bushell said, even as the image of Sir David Clarke appeared in his mind for a moment.

“Heh, heh,” Bragg said, just like that. “Well, keep tomorrow night open, too, if you’d be so kind. There’s a reception laid on at the Russian embassy.” He muttered something under his breath; Bushell thought he heard damn Russians. In an ordinary voice, Sir Horace went on, “We’ll go there, too, and to all the other receptions and parties and banquets the ambassadors and ministers and charges will be putting on before the King-Emperor’s visit. We’ll probably learn damn all at any of them, but we have to make the effort.”

“The Russians,” Bushell said dreamily. “Russian rifles, Russian roubles, Russian grenades. ... Do you know, sir, I’m almost tempted to be undiplomatic when I get inside the Russian embassy. But, of course, I’d never do anything like that.”

“Of course not,” Sir Horace Bragg said. He might have been trying to sound hearty, but uneasy better described his tone. “I’ll send a driver around for you and Captain Stanley - “

“-And Dr. Flannery,” Bushell reminded him.

This time, the silence was on Bragg’s end of the line. At last, Sir Horace said, “Very well, Tom. And Dr. Flannery. The driver will swing by a little before ten. On your head be it.” He hung up, which effectively kept Bushell from getting in the last word.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was mostly dry by now; to make it lie flat, he’d have to oil it more heavily than he liked. He got up off the bed and started back to the bathroom. He hadn’t taken more than two steps when someone knocked on the door.

“About time with the bloody scones,” he muttered, and turned toward the doorway. He’d have been astonished if the room-service waiter hadn’t seen patrons wearing nothing but a towel. He opened the door. For a moment, he and Kathleen Flannery stared at each other. In accusing tones, he said, “You’re not room service.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I could be,” she said. “It depends on what you ordered.” She stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, and undid the towel.

The governor-general’s residence, familiarly known as America’s Number Ten, lay across Victoria from the William and Mary Hotel. The RAM driver who took Bushell and his companions there, a stolid veteran named Kittridge, refrained from pointing out all the scenic wonders they passed en route. For that alone, Bushell would gladly have promoted the sergeant to any rank this side of brigadier. Maybe Kittridge remembered him and Sam from the days when they’d worked out of the capital and knew they knew the sights. He got the feeling, though, that Kittridge would have been as taciturn if he’d come from Mars rather than New Liverpool.

They purred down Union Avenue - otherwise known as Embassy Row - on the way to the residence. Far and away the two biggest buildings there housed the Franco-Spanish and Russian legations: the fleur-de-lis of the Holy Alliance and the Russian tricolor and two-headed eagle flew only a couple of blocks apart, separated, appropriately enough, by the smaller missions of several of the German states.

“Miserable Russians,” Bushell muttered, glancing toward the ornate brick pile they inhabited. Sam Stanley was thinking along with him. “What, just because they’d fit into a building half that size if they didn’t send so many spies over here?”

“Something like that,” Bushell answered. Sergeant Kittridge still didn’t say anything, but he did nod so vigorously that the waxed tips of his handlebar mustache quivered.

America’s Number Ten was a two-story structure of white marble, with long north and south wings and a colonnaded main entrance. Exchanging small talk outside that entrance as Kittridge stopped the steamer were Sir Horace and Sir David Clarke.

Clarke clasped Kathleen’s hand for what Bushell thought was an unduly long time when she got out of the motorcar. He wondered whether that was simple mistrust of Sir David, or whether what Kathleen had said of her experience with John Kennedy made him more alert to such things. “Ah, Dr. Flannery,” Sir David said. “Sir Horace was telling me how you and Colonel Bushell had joined forces. I wondered how he meant that.” His smile was broad and pleasant.

“Nastily, I suspect,” she answered, which froze that smile on his face and made Bragg look even glummer than usual.

“It’s just ten now. We shouldn’t keep His Excellency waiting,” Stanley said, doing his best to spread oil on troubled waters.

Bragg also seemed willing to make peace. “By all means,” he said. Bushell shrugged and nodded. Without a word, Sir David Clarke turned and led them into the residence.

“Some splendid paintings on the walls here,” Kathleen murmured.

“Yes, you can trace the history of the NAU as you walk down the halls,” Bushell agreed. Colonial days gave way to the emancipation of the southern Negroes, the expansion across the prairies and then to the Pacific, the rise of factories, all punctuated with portraits of governors-general past. There was Jackson, looking grim enough to enforce the freeing of the slaves prescribed in London; there was short, roly-poly Douglas, under whom the NAU had spilled west over the Rockies; and there was Martin Roosevelt, shown at the controls of his personal airship. Rumor said he’d sometimes taken pretty girls up into the sky with him, but rumor said lots of things.

“I was thinking of the art, not the history,” Kathleen said.

“I know,” Bushell replied. “There’s room for both.” Kathleen considered that, then nodded. Bushell smiled, pleased they’d found something over which they didn’t have to argue. Over his shoulder, Sir David Clarke said, “We’re meeting with Sir Martin in the Green Room. Don’t be surprised when you find it’s appointed in blue, because - “

“-Politicians have a habit of saying one thing and doing another,” Bushell put in. Clarke looked pained. “Because it was done deliberately, I was going to say, to show the mother country she hasn’t got a monopoly on eccentric institutions.”

“Why have I got the feeling our British cousins could figure that out for themselves?” Stanley said. Again, though, he spoke disarmingly.

A servant in black tie opened the door to the Green Room, which was, as Sir David had said, done in shades of blue. Sir Martin Luther King rose from his chair and walked over to the newcomers.

“Welcome, gentlemen, Dr. Flannery,” he said. He nodded to Sam. “You would be Captain Stanley. I don’t believe we actually met when I was in New Liverpool.”

“No, Your Excellency, we didn’t.” Stanley extended his hand. “I’m delighted to meet you now, though.”

“As all of us have said throughout this sorry affair, I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

Sir Martin’s deep, rich voice filled the Green Room. Even here, in a gathering altogether un-public, his every gesture seemed - not calculated, precisely, but a little stagier than it might have been, showing how conscious he was of eyes upon him. “Shall we get to work?” he said, indicating chairs with a smooth motion of his hand. “We haven’t much time, as I’m sure you know. His Majesty’s yacht sails tomorrow, and arrives - all too soon.”

“And still no further ransom demands from the Sons of Liberty?” Bushell asked.

“Only a silence as of the tomb,” Sir Martin answered. “They’re playing their cards very cagily indeed: calculating how best to force us to go along with their demands when they do finally make them.”

“When they do, we’ll have little choice but to comply if we want The Two Georges back again,” Sir David Clarke said. “Our own investigations seem better at strewing corpses over the landscape than finding the missing painting.”

Bushell contemplated one corpse not currently strewn over the landscape, and what a pity that was. He declined to rise to Clarke’s bait, though, saying, “We’ve made considerable progress tracking down the Sons involved in the theft, even if we don’t yet have the painting itself. The chap who tossed a grenade at me yesterday, for instance, came from Georgestown.” He turned a mild and thoughtful eye on Sir Martin’s chief of staff. “You live in Georgestown, don’t you, Sir David?”

That pierced Clarke’s armor of affability. “I resent the insinuation, Colonel,” he said coldly.

“Am I to take that as an affirmative?” Bushell asked.

Sir Horace Bragg said, “Disunion among us gives aid and comfort to our enemies. Russian rifles, Russian gold, now Russian grenades as well - and the Russians are masters of long, deep-seated plots. The Empire would do well to worry more about the Russians.”

“So you have said these past weeks - repeatedly,” Sir Martin Luther King observed.

“I don’t think we worry enough about the Russians, either, Your Excellency,” Bushell said. Bragg gave him the first warm look he’d had from his commandant and old friend since he got to Victoria. “Thank you, Tom,” he said. A moment later, he got to his feet and took a small bottle of paracetamol tablets from his trouser pocket. “Excuse me just for a second, if you please. This miserable tooth is killing me.” He left the room.

Sir Martin Luther King turned his narrow, clever eyes toward Bushell. “It may be that you and Sir Horace are perfectly correct about the Russians, Colonel,” he said. “Nevertheless, you must know the fable of the boy who cried wolf. I am sick to death of Sir Horace’s harping on the Russians. He is as tiresome about them as he used to be about his family’s past and vanished glories. I finally had to let him know that, since those glories were based on a plantation deriving its wealth from Negro slavery, his tales did not strike the chord with me for which he might have hoped.”

“Oh, dear,” Bushell said. He glanced at Sam Stanley, who nodded. “Oh, dear,” he said again. “He does want to restore the family’s former position, for which you can hardly blame him.” He’d never thought he’d feel awkward defending Sir Horace, but he did now. Bragg had been . . . gauche was the politest word that sprang to mind.

“His remarks were, shall we say, not the most effective way of having his name placed on the Honors List Sir Martin submits annually to His Majesty the King-Emperor,” Sir David Clarke observed. Bushell wanted to resent that, but found he couldn’t, not even coming from Clarke. If Sir Horace had in mind ending his days as Baron or even Baronet Bragg, offending the man who recommended names for such titles was not the way to go about it.

Bragg came back then, cutting the thread of conversation as with a knife. “I am sorry,” he said. “I think that dentist of mine should have been a butcher instead. He promised the pain would go away in a few hours, but my guess is that he was just trying to be rid of me.” He chuckled dolefully. “Of course, the procedure hurt him not a bit.”

“You should have bitten him, sir,” Samuel Stanley said. “That would have taken care of that.”

“If I ever submit to his ministrations again, Captain, I assure you I will keep the option in mind,” Bragg answered.

“We all sympathize with Lieutenant General Bragg, I am sure,” Sir Martin Luther King said, “but we have not come together here this morning to discuss dentistry. What I want to know is, what impact have recent events in Boston had upon the likelihood of recovering The Two Georges ? I tell you frankly, gentlemen and you, Dr. Flannery, if that chance seems to me unlikely and the Sons of Liberty make their ransom demand as His Majesty Charles III is approaching Victoria Harbor, I shall have little choice but to comply.”

Kathleen Flannery said, “Your Excellency, couldn’t you ask His Majesty to postpone his visit until we’ve recovered The Two Georges one way or another? After all, if the Sons killed to steal one symbol of the unity of the Empire, mightn’t they also think of making an attempt on the King-Emperor’s life?”

“As a matter of fact, Dr. Flannery, at Sir David’s urging I sent His Majesty a telegram of this purport the other day,” Sir Martin answered. “That information, by the way, is not to leave this room.” He waited for everyone to nod before continuing, “He replied most promptly, and declined most firmly: he said he should become an object of reproach rather than admiration throughout the Empire if he let concern for his personal safety deflect him from his chosen course.”

“Oh, good show,” Bushell said softly.

As usual, Sam Stanley had a more pragmatic turn of mind. “I wish he would have made an exception, just this once,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought any less of him for making my life easier.”

“Exactly what was in my mind,” Sir David Clarke said. “Sir Martin predicted he would refuse.” He glanced at his boss with bemused respect. He has no courage himself, so he marvels that Sir Martin recognized it in someone else, Bushell thought.

“We may take it as settled that His Majesty will depart London on the appointed day,” Sir Martin Luther King declared, “and that no one save the almighty God on high will delay him from reaching Victoria, also on the appointed day.” As he did every so often, he fell back into the cadences of the minister of the Gospel he had been.

“We may also take it as settled that we’d better have The Two Georges back by the appointed day or else we start falling on our swords,” Sir Horace Bragg said.

“That’s correct,” Sir David Clarke agreed. “We must obtain the return of the painting by the time the King-Emperor reaches us, and obtain it by whatever means prove necessary.” He talked like a bureaucrat, not a preacher, but here his meaning was perfectly clear even so. Sir Martin said, “Sub Rosa, I will tell you gentlemen - and you, of course, Dr. Flannery - that I have directed the minister of the exchequer to gather together the sum of specie the Sons of Liberty demanded in their note. If ransom becomes necessary for the return of The Two Georges , it shall be paid. I find this course odious but in the last resort unavoidable.”

“We’ll have to make sure we don’t come down to the last resort, then,” Bushell said.

“Unfortunately, while we’ve heard a great many promises to that effect, we’ve seen little that actually appears to lead toward the recovery of The Two Georges,” Clarke said.

“Did you hear that?” Bushell exclaimed. “It’s the last straw. Now he’s accusing me of talking like a politico!”

Samuel Stanley looked up at the ceiling. Sir Martin Luther King looked down at his hands. Lieutenant General Sir Horace Bragg rubbed the side of his jaw. Kathleen let out a tiny yip of laughter that might almost - have been a cough. And Sir David Clarke gaped like a netted bluegill, eyes wide and staring, mouth fallen open. Bushell had gone after him plenty of times before, but never with such genial absurdity. What was the world coming to?

Bushell didn’t quite wink at Kathleen. “Must be love,” he said.

Her expression was unreadable.

If Sir Martin had sounded like a preacher a few minutes before, Sir Horace seemed downright pontifical as he declared, “Given the new evidence Colonel Bushell and his colleagues have amassed - evidence suggesting that The Two Georges may well be somewhere here close by the capital - I firmly believe we shall yet regain it in time for it to grace His Majesty’s arrival, and that we shall do so without having to pay a single sovereign in ransom.”

“A sovereign indeed,” Bushell said. “Considering that the King-Emperor will soon be here in Victoria - “

“We have been considering that possibility,” Bragg reminded him. “I’m confident that, given our heightened concern, we shall be able to protect the person of Charles III adequately while he is on American soil.”

“We never have found out how the Sons - or even if the Sons - learned just when His Majesty was coming to Victoria,” Samuel Stanley observed.

Sir Horace spread his hands in manifest regret. “I’ve investigated vigorously, but the Sons are a tight-knit band, and difficult to penetrate. You and Tom - and, I gather, Dr. Flannery - -came up against three in Boston who must have been of high rank. Had any of them survived the encounter - “

“We probably wouldn’t have,” Bushell said. “But yes, that was unfortunate. We did get some leads to Georgestown that may prove profitable, though.” He wished Sir Horace had immediately sent RAMs out to probe the property and affairs of the late Eustace Venable instead of waiting a precious day. Bragg might be - no, no might be about it: he was - a good administrator, but he left something to be desired as a man to head up a field investigation.

Sir David Clarke caught Sir Martin’s eye. “Your Excellency, if I might speak with you for a moment - “

“Certainly,” the governor-general replied. As he rose, he said, “Excuse me,” to the RAMs and Kathleen. Clarke steered him out a side door in whatever chamber lay beyond it. Bragg sighed and looked even more like a kicked basset than usual. “That’s the way it goes here in Victoria,” he said in a low, furious voice. “They pretend to listen for a while, then they go off by themselves and tell us what we’re going to do and how we’re going to do it.”

“I wouldn’t have your job for all the gold in the Bank of England,” Bushell told his friend. “I’ve probably said that once or twice already, haven’t I?”

Before Sir Horace could answer, Clarke and Sir Martin Luther King came back into the Green Room.

“Here is what we have decided,” Sir Martin said. “You will of course continue the search for The Two Georges up to the very moment of the King-Emperor’s arrival. But if a ransom demand reaches us from this time forth, we shall - regretfully - comply with it in every particular, save only that we shall not require you to call off your search while payment is being arranged. In an ideal world, I would not proceed in this fashion. In an ideal world, though, The Two Georges would not have been stolen. Have you any questions, gentlemen? Dr. Flannery?”

No one spoke. Bushell glanced over to Sir David Clarke. The policy the governor-general had laid down was the one Clarke had espoused from the beginning. Was that triumph in Sir David’s eyes or something else, something more serious? For the life of him, Bushell couldn’t tell. Walking into the RAM headquarters for the NAU felt strange to Bushell, as it had every time he’d visited since going out to New Liverpool. The place of course remained familiar in broad outline, but his memory for which corridors led exactly where had faded. Even when his memory of what had been was accurate, it did not always gibe with what was now. Some faces were familiar; some he thought he should have known but could not match up with names; some, like the paint on the walls and the carpet underfoot, were new and strange.

The same sense of dislocation bedeviled Sam Stanley. “I wish they’d have moved to a new building,” he said, staring around. “Then I’d be honestly sure I was lost.”

Before Sir Horace Bragg got close to his offices, a worried-looking young major bearded him: “Sir, we’re having trouble getting the warrants we need to search this Eustace Venable’s home and business establishment. Something went wrong last night, and the friendliest judges got tied up in their morning casework before we got the chance to petition them.”

Bragg clapped a melodramatic hand to his forehead. “Good God, Manchester, more delay?” he groaned. “We can’t afford that.”

“We don’t have to, sir,” Bushell said. He opened his briefcase and drew forth the signed blank search warrants he’d been given in New Liverpool. “Fill out a couple of these and we’ll find out what we need to know.”

Sir Horace stared at the blank warrants with commingled awe and doubt. “You must have a judge out there on the West Coast who’s a lot more than just friendly to us, Tom.” Bushell nodded, pleased to have pulled a rabbit out of his hat right under his friend’s nose. Bragg went on, “I don’t know about trying to use them here, though. If we get challenged - “

“I’ll take the chance, sir,” Major Manchester said eagerly, peeling a couple of warrants off the top of the sheaf Bushell was holding. “The key thing is speed now, that and gathering the evidence. These will give us just the chance we need to do it.” He pumped Bushell’s hand. “Thank you, sir. You’re a lifesaver, that’s what you are.” He hurried down the corridor, waving the warrants and shouting for a typist to insert the relevant information on them.

“He looks promising,” Bushell said. “Give him the ball and he runs with it.”

“That he does.” Bragg still sounded slightly dazed. He gathered himself. “Tom, you and Captain Stanley haven’t got formal wear for tonight’s gathering at the Russian embassy, have you?”

Bushell shook his head. “No, sir. I thought I’d packed clothes for all occasions, but I didn’t figure I’d need a monkey suit.” Stanley nodded agreement to that.

“It’ll have to be dress uniforms for both of you, then,” Bragg said. “Those are always acceptable. Why don’t we go over to Accoutrements and get you fitted out?”

“Is that still Chalky Stimpson’s bailiwick?” Bushell asked in some concern.

“Yes, but there’s no help for it. Come along,” Sir Horace said inexorably.

“Chalky Stimpson?” Kathleen sounded as if she knew a joke was lurking there somewhere, but couldn’t find it.

“He’s our tailor,” Bushell answered. “He’s been the tailor here since the days of William the Conqueror, as best I can tell. He’s - how the devil do I say it politely? Chalky’s thorough, that’s what he is. You’ll need to amuse yourself for a while, because once he gets Sam and me in his clutches, he won’t let us out any time soon.”

“Isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Stanley agreed mournfully. “I had hoped to go over to Georgestown myself, but if I’m in Chalky’s web -“ He shook his head. “They’ll have to do without me.”

“And me,” Bushell said. He turned to Sir Horace Bragg. “Can’t we just snatch dress trousers and tunic that come close to fitting off their hangers for tonight? We’d look good enough - “

Sir Horace overrode him: “I’ve been to too many of these formal affairs. ‘Good enough’ isn’t. You don’t measure up at one, you don’t get invited to another. Remember, Tom, embassies are extraterritorial; we can’t make anyone let us in. They have to think we’re interesting, or we stay off their grounds and twiddle our thumbs out on the pavement. We have plenty of people who can investigate the late Mr. Venable. We don’t have plenty who can hobnob with the diplomats.”

“As if anyone ever accused me of being diplomatic.” But Bushell threw his hands in the air in surrender.

“All right - on to Chalky.”

Marcus Aurelius Stimpson - so the sign on his door proclaimed him to be - might not have been in Victoria since 1066, but he probably had been there longer than Bushell had been alive. He was a thin, pale man somewhere between sixty-five and eighty-five - Bushell wondered if anyone knew exactly how old he was. He had been tall; he was now somewhat stooped, but the gray eyes behind bifocals were still keen, and so were his wits, at least in his chosen field of endeavor.

“Ah, Bushell,” he said. “Been a while, hasn’t it? You were a forty regular. You’d be a forty-two now, I’d say. They feed you well out in New Liverpool, do they?”

“Hullo, Chalky,” Bushell said. “You haven’t changed, anyhow.”

“Haven’t the time for it,” the tailor answered. His gaze swung toward Sam. “And Stanley; I might have known the two of you would hang together. Yes, you’re still a forty-four long; don’t worry about it.”

Stanley smiled. “I wasn’t really losing sleep.”

“Chalky, they’ll both need dress uniforms for tonight,” Sir Horace Bragg said.

“It’s not enough time,” Stimpson grumbled. “Everything is rush, rush, rush these days; people don’t take pains to do things properly.” He heaved a long sigh. “Well, we’ll see what we can manage, so we shall.”

He started with trousers and tunic in the two RAM’s approximate sizes, then used measuring tape and pins and scissors and the tailor’s chalk that had given him his enduring nickname to make alterations. His sewing machine was an ancient model powered by a foot pedal; it would have taken a bolder man than Bushell to suggest that he trade it for one with an electric motor.

“Here.” The tailor thrust trousers at Samuel Stanley. “Try these.” Stanley dutifully donned them. “Turn around,” Stimpson snapped, sounding like a drill sergeant. After Sam turned, the tailor clicked his tongue between his teeth. “No, not quite right. Take ‘em off, take ‘em off. We’ll fix ‘em.” So Stanley stripped to his drawers once more, while Stimpson surveyed Bushell with a critical eye. He made several passes on each pair of pants and each tunic. Bushell tried to short-circuit the process halfway through by peering down at himself and exclaiming in tones of wonder, “This is perfect, Chalky! Couldn’t fit better!”

“Of course they could,” Stimpson said with messianic certainty in his voice. “Come on, strip off - don’t dawdle.” Clack, clack, clack went that antiquated pedal-powered sewing machine. The next time Bushell was suffered to try on the dress uniform, even he had to admit it did fit better . . . but still not well enough to suit Chalky Stimpson.

Lieutenant General Sir Horace Bragg, of course, had in his closet a uniform meeting Chalky’s exacting standards. That meant he could - and did - go off to do something useful with his afternoon. Every so often, Bushell pulled the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat, looked at it, sighed, and put it back. At last, though, even Stimpson pronounced himself satisfied. “Now I’ve one more thing to get for the both of you,” he said.

“Chalky, you’ve done too much already,” Samuel Stanley said in some alarm. Bushell was just getting a cigar lighted, or he would have beaten his adjutant to the punch.

Behind the bifocals, the tailor’s eyes twinkled. “But don’t you want the clubs you’ll need to beat back all the pretty ladies?”

Sans clubs, Bushell and Stanley made their way to Sir Horace’s office. Sally Reese greeted them there.

“Hullo, Colonel,” she bellowed at Bushell. She wore bifocals, too, along with too much rouge and hair dyed defiantly black. “That redheaded little hussy left this here for you.” She thrust an envelope his way, not caring in the least that half the floor now knew her opinion of Kathleen Flannery.

“Dear Tom,” the note inside the envelope read in a clear, flowing script, “I’ve begged a ride back to my place. Since your famous tailor can’t work his magic on me, I’ve gone in search of something for the night’s festivities that hasn’t seen the inside of a suitcase too many times over the past few weeks. I’ll be back at the hotel to go to the embassy with you.”

She’d signed it Kathleen. A word in front of the signature was too thoroughly scratched out for Bushell to decipher, try as he would.

“Thank you, Sally,” he said mildly.

“For what?” she blared. “I never throw anything away, you know that, but I wish I made exceptions, yes I do.”

“For being so sweet, of course,” Bushell replied, so persuasively that she took it for a compliment. Back at the William and Mary, Bushell knocked on the door to Kathleen Flannery’s room. No one answered. He waited a moment, then knocked again. Still no answer. “Uh-oh,” Samuel Stanley said.

“That means she’s already down in the lobby waiting for us, and we’ll never hear the last of it, either.”

“If I thought you were wrong, I would argue with you,” Bushell answered. Sure enough, Kathleen walked up to them when they came out of the lift. “Took you long enough,” she said, but then, relenting, amended it: “This afternoon, I mean, with Chalky What’s-his-name. Let’s see what he’s done to you.” She studied Bushell with the serious attention she might have given a Whistler or a Finlay. “Well. I suppose the wait might have been worth it.”

“Thanks,” Bushell said. “That’s the outfit you brought from home, eh?” He nodded in approval. “You’ll do. You’ll definitely do.” The dress was of maize-colored silk, with a V neck and a sheer organdy collar. It had a pleated skirt with horizontal plaits on the sides, and looked summery enough to be comfortable in Victoria’s humid heat. Kathleen set if off with topaz earrings and a pendant that drew the eye to the neckline.

She needed a moment to realize he used understatement in his compliments as elsewhere, then smiled broadly. “Shall we beard the Russian ambassador in his den?” she said.

“I’m given to understand he already has a beard suitable for all ordinary purposes and some extraordinary ones as well, but by all means.” Bushell glanced at the clock opposite the lifts. “We’re right on time.” Offering his arm, he strode toward the hotel’s street entrance. His confidence was justified. Less than a minute later, a steamer driven by Captain Martin pulled up in front of the William and Mary. He opened the door for Kathleen. Bushell and Samuel Stanley got in after her. They glided off toward the Russian embassy.

The guards at the door outside the embassy wore ceremonial uniforms patterned after those of the Life-Guard Dragoons of Tsar Alexander I. Surveying them standing there stiff and motionless, Bushell consoled himself with the thought that their dress uniforms were even more uncomfortable than his. They wore long, heavy coats of dark green wool, with matching trousers reinforced with leather. Over their green tunics they had red shirtfronts held not only with buttons but also with a white satin sash. Their shakos had both plumes and tassels. Sweat gleamed on their broad, ruddy faces. Their only concession to modernity was carrying bayoneted bolt-action rifles instead of sabers. Bushell glanced toward those rifles and then toward Sam Stanley, who nodded. They’d seen essentially identical Nagants in New Liverpool and up at Buckley Bay.

Inside the embassy, Sir Horace Bragg was talking with a Russian in tailcoat and knee breeches. Sir Horace looked up and saw Bushell and his companions. He waved, then turned back to the Russian.

“Here they are now, Mikhail Sergeyevich,” he said. “Colonel Bushell, Captain Stanley, Dr. Flannery.”

“Very well, Lieutenant General Bragg,” the Russian answered with a nod, checking off three names on a list - evidently he was chief of protocol or something of the sort. After he’d made his checks, he dabbed at his broad, bald forehead with a linen handkerchief: St. Petersburg did not prepare a man for the climate of Victoria.

“Come along, come along,” Bragg said to Bushell. “We’ll make our way through the reception line and then mingle and see what we can learn.” He sent Bushell a hooded glance. “Be circumspect, Tom.”

“What big words you use, sir,” Bushell said with a grin. Bragg’s demeanor did not significantly lighten. But for the fact that a large number of conversations were being carried on in French - and even a few in Russian - the rituals of the reception were remarkably similar to those at Governor Burnett’s residence in New Liverpool. Bushell made his way down the line of dignitaries, shaking hands and murmuring polite phrases as he did so. A small gap in the line developed behind him; the Russians had a way of lingering over Kathleen’s hand that surprised him not at all.

At the end of the reception line stood Duke Alexei Orlov, the Tsar’s ambassador to the North American Union. Orlov’s magnificent silver beard spilled halfway down his chest, concealing some of the decorations that he wore. Bushell sometimes thought that, if a Russian noble got out of bed on the same side three days running, the Tsar would pin a medal on his chest to celebrate the achievement.

“I am pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Orlov said in good English. “I have been following your exploits with great interest in the newspapers. I wish you the best of good fortune in recovering The Two Georges from the uncultured bandits who so wickedly stole it.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Bushell said. “Having met Russian guns, grenades, and gold during those exploits, making your acquaintance brings things full circle, in a manner of speaking.”

Sir Horace Bragg had already gone through the line, but was hovering not far away. He frowned. Duke Orlov laughed. The shining waves of his beard bobbed up and down. “It is a pleasure to complete your experience, Colonel,” he said. Bushell dipped his head, acknowledging the man’s unflappability. A servant came by with a tray of champagne flutes. Bushell took one and sipped. He made for the nearest table, to deposit the glass as unobtrusively as he could.

Behind him, a man spoke in French: “Ah, Colonel, I see you have a discriminating palate. That sweet Crimean swill the Russians lyingly call champagne is fit only for the fattening of hogs.”

Bushell turned, replying, also in French, “I think you have reason, monsieur,” as he did so. His eyes widened slightly. “Pardon me, but are you not - ?”

The Frenchman bowed. “I do indeed have the honor to be Comte Philippe Bonaparte, ambassador of His Majesty Francois IV Bourbon, King of France and Spain and their territories over the sea to your North American Union.”

Bushell bowed back. The count was a short, slim, swarthy man in his mid-fifties, with wavy hair dyed black as Sally Reese’s and a chin beard and mustaches whose points were waxed sharp enough to draw blood. He wore a white shirt with a stiff front, wing collar, and black butterfly cravat, and over it a jacket cut like an English tailcoat but, rather than being somber black, made of bright blue velvet embellished with gold thread. His flared trousers were also of blue velvet, his pointed-toed shoes of white patent leather.

As Duke Orlov had, Bonaparte said, “I tell you that I wish you a speedy recovery of your stolen treasure, Colonel.”

“That’s generous of you, monsieur, when your country would be better served if the Sons of Liberty managed to bring chaos to the British Empire.” Bushell stuck up a forefinger. “Wait. Because you tell me this does not mean it is true.”

Bonaparte bowed again, his eyes twinkling. “Few men discern subtleties even when their proper language is being spoken. It is the rare individual indeed who hears them in a tongue not his own. You are a gentlemen of considerable resource, Colonel.” He laughed in elegant, insincere self-deprecation. “And I, alas, am but a poor diplomat who has proved not diplomatic enough. I tell lies for politeness’ sake and I am found out.”

“Sometimes you may have to do things for reasons of state that you would not do in your own person,” Bushell said.

“If you understand this, Colonel, you understand a great deal,” Bonaparte said, more seriously than he had spoken till then.

Kathleen Flannery, having at last escaped the receiving line and the elephantine attentions of Duke Orlov, came over toward Bushell. Like him, she took a glass of sparkling wine from a passing servant; also like him, she found one sip more than sufficient. “That’s pretty bad,” she said in English, and then switched to French more fluent than Bushell’s: “Monsieur le Comte, I am pleased to see you again.”

‘‘Mademoiselle Docteur Flannery, I am always pleased to see you.” Bonaparte kissed her hand. He might have been a stock silly-ass Frenchman in a cinema farce, except he really did radiate the charm a comic Frenchman only thought he had. “I am given to understand you and Colonel Bushell have associated yourselves in the search for Les Deux Georges.”

“We have associated ourselves, yes,” Kathleen said.

Bonaparte glanced from her to Bushell and back again. “How am I to construe this, if I may make so bold as to inquire?”

“Why, however you like, of course,” Bushell said. “You will anyhow.”

“This is an excellent answer,” Bonaparte exclaimed, spreading his hands wide to show how fine it was.

“Excellent! How is it that you are a mere colonel of police, Monsieur Bushell, when you show wit in even your common utterances, when your commander - you will, I trust, forgive me - while he may be sound enough, cannot be described as anything but stodgy? Perhaps it is that in the British Empire wit is a hindrance rather than an advantage?”

“How is he supposed to answer that without getting into trouble?” Kathleen asked. The Franco-Spanish ambassador bared his teeth in what was not quite a light, amused grin. “I have not the slightest idea, Dr. Flannery. I leave it up to the colonel’s ingenuity.”

Bushell knew he was expecting a frivolous reply, and so answered seriously: “I think it is that we respect competence more than wit, monsieur. To us, wit seems dangerous, for it suggests solid abilities a man may in fact fail to possess.”

“Well said.” Kathleen nodded vigorous approval.

But Philippe Bonaparte shook his head. “I regret that I must disagree with you in particular and, if you are correct, with the British race as well. The competent man can be far more dangerous than the witty one. No one detects his malfeasance till too late, for nothing about him is worthy of notice. The wit, on the other hand, always draws attention to himself. Because he is under so many eyes, he has no choice but probity.”

Bushell rubbed at his mustache. “I’m going to have to think about that one before I decide whether I agree with it.”

“Colonel, I assure you that I have reason,” Bonaparte said. “Perhaps life has not demonstrated as much to you, but it shall, as it does to everyone.” He bowed. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must demonstrate to the wider world how charming and sociable I am. Do be certain I wish you my personal best in your efforts to recover your missing work of art.”

“Interesting fellow,” Bushell remarked thoughtfully. “More to him than you’d guess from that gaudy jacket. I wonder just how he meant that.” He chuckled. “You see? There I go again, putting substance ahead of sparkle.”

“You’d be a failure at the Court of Versailles,” Kathleen said.

“I do hope so,” Bushell said. “And speaking of failures -“ He glanced at the two abandoned glasses of sparkling wine. “They must have something better somewhere. Shall we investigate?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Kathleen answered.

The investigation was hardly one to go down in the annals of the Royal American Mounted Police. A red-faced Englishman came out of the next room holding a tall glass with whiskey in it. “I deduce the presence of a bar,” Bushell said happily.

“Astonishing!” Kathleen exclaimed. “A lesser mind would have been incapable of it.” They both laughed. Sure enough, in that next room three bartenders struggled mightily to hold thirst at bay tor a host of dignitaries. Bushell’s laughter dried up. There at the bar stood Sir David Clarke, talking animatedly with a Russian a head shorter than he was. As far as Bushell was concerned, Sir David was the triumph of surface over substance - he would have been a smashing success at Versailles or St. Petersburg or wherever flattery and fawning held the keys to advancement.

As a matter of fact, he was a smashing success here in Victoria - and what did that say about the NAU?

Rather than contemplating such an unpleasant question, Bushell made his way through the crowd toward the fortified position the bartenders held. Kathleen Flannery followed in his wake. He suspected that the soles of his shoes took the gleam off some patent leather, but he got stepped on himself a couple of times, too, so that game was even.

“Jameson over ice,” he said when at last he reached the bar, “and ... a gin and tonic?” He glanced back over his shoulder at Kathleen to make sure that was really what she wanted. She nodded. “A gin and tonic,” he repeated, more firmly.

“Da,” the bartender said, and built the two drinks with offhand skill. Bushell had heard that the Russian embassy brought its entire staff, right down to the lowliest sweeper, from the rodina, the motherland, the better to keep spies from gaining access to whatever secrets it held. The tale was evidently true. He knocked back his Irish whiskey and called for another one. Kathleen looked from the empty glass to him and back again. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to say anything. She’d barely tasted her own drink.

“It will be all right,” Bushell assured her. Maybe he was assuring himself, too. The bartender set the second glass of Jameson in front of him. Instead of disposing of it all at once, as he had the first one, he sipped sedately. Kathleen didn’t say anything. He liked her better for that. Had she made approving noises, the imp of perversity that dwelt in his breast might have made him get drunk for no better reason than to show her she couldn’t make him do everything she wanted. He took a step back from the bar. Someone else instantly usurped his place. He would have liked nothing better than finding someplace to sit and chat with Kathleen, but this was liable to be his only chance inside the Russian embassy, and he had to make as much of it as he could. When he turned to tell her that, he found her in earnest conversation with a heavyset fellow who spoke French with a Russian accent. They were both talking about Les Deux Georges. Bushell sipped at his drink. Evidently, he didn’t need to tell her anything.

“Good evening, Colonel.” Sir Devereaux Jones made his way through the crowd toward Bushell.

“Congratulations on your progress toward recovering The Two Georges.”

“I could wish I’d made more, but thanks all the same,” Bushell answered. As Tory Party chairman, Sir Devereaux naturally put the best possible face on things. That came with his job, just as running miscreants to earth came with Bushell’s.

“You’re too modest,” Jones said now, as much to the room as a whole as to Bushell. In less public tones, he went on, “Allow me to introduce you to my wife. Alexa, this is Colonel Thomas Bushell, of whom you’ve seen so much in the papers.”

Alexa Jones, a striking blond woman in her early forties, extended a slim hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Colonel,” she said. By her soft accent, Bushell guessed she was from Georgia, or perhaps one of the Carolinas. “You’ve certainly had an exciting time on the trail of The Two Georges.”

“Much more exciting than I wanted,” Bushell answered. “I greatly prefer cases where the villains do something stupid right at the start, so we can scoop them up without ever leaving our desks.”

She laughed more than the joke was worth, proving herself a politico’s wife. Sir Devereaux Jones laughed, too, but not for long. “Very important to the Union, very important to the Empire, that we get the painting back safe and sound, Colonel,” he said. He glanced over toward a couple of members of the Whig shadow cabinet, whom the Russians, in what Bushell thought at best questionable taste, had also invited to the reception. “Not that all the esteemed members of the, ah, loyal opposition would concur, their own interests being affected here, too.”

“I understand,” Bushell said, hearing what Jones wasn’t adding: very important to the Tory Party. To him, that was of small consequence. “If The Two Georges is destroyed, we lose something precious and unique.” He dropped his voice. “And if we pay ransom for it, we lose our peace of mind from now till I don’t know when. But then, I daresay you’ll have heard my views about that.”

“I have had them reported to me in detail, Colonel,” Jones replied, deadpan. His wife started to say something, then prudently held her tongue. The two people who would have told Sir Devereaux about Bushell’s opinions were Sir Martin Luther King and Sir David Clarke, neither of whom was likely to have been an objective witness.

Jones steered Bushell away from the thickest part of the crowd. Under a somber-faced icon in a frame encrusted with pearls, he said, “Do you think you’ve been led here as a ruse, or is The Two Georges somewhere nearby?”

“That is the question,” Bushell said, doing his best to sound like a melancholy Dane. “We’ve certainly suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune - “

“-And you’ve taken up arms against a sea of troubles,” Jones put in, not to be outdone. “But, the Bard aside - “

“The Bard aside, Sir Devereaux, my opinion is that The Two Georges is somewhere not far from here. Whatever the Sons of Liberty intend to do with it is tied to the King-Emperor’s arrival in Victoria. And if they were only playing for the fifty million pounds, wouldn’t we have heard more about arranging a ransom for the painting?”

Sir Devereaux Jones drew a snuffbox from the inner pocket of his tailcoat. The lid to the box was an enamelwork miniature of The Two Georges, brilliant as a jewel. He flipped it open, took a pinch of powdered tobacco, and placed it between his gum and cheek. Then he held out the snuffbox to Bushell, who shook his head. Jones flicked the lid with his thumb; it snapped shut. He put the box back into his pocket.

“That’s - a disturbing thought, Colonel,” he said at last, his broad face tired and worried. “Having the painting stolen was quite embarrassing enough - “

“More than embarrassing enough,” Bushell said.

“Indeed,” Sir Devereaux said. “I admit that paying ransom for its return strikes me as being equally unappetizing.”

“I hope to God you’ve told that to Sir Martin,” Bushell said. “All he’s been hearing is that paying is the only thing he can do.”

“And the reasons he’s been hearing that is that not paying and having The Two Georges destroyed is also a consummation devoutly not to be wished,” Jones replied. “I assure you, Colonel: weighing advantages is much more pleasant for a working politico than trying to decide which disadvantageous course has the fewest repugnant consequences. And now you’ve given me something more to worry about, which may prove even more unfortunate than either of the two previous unpleasant possibilities. I’ll remember you in my nightmares.” With great determination, he made his way toward the bar, using his wide shoulders to advantage in forcing his way through the crowd. A string quartet that had been playing arrangements of Russian folk melodies suddenly switched first to

“God Save the King” and then to “To Anacreon in Heaven,” the old tune to which the NAU’s national hymn was sung. Bushell strode back into the room that held Duke Orlov’s receiving line: if he could get a chance to speak to Sir Martin Luther King without Sir David Clarke there to whisper into the governor-general’s other ear, he would seize it.

Sir Martin and his wife were working their way down the receiving line. Bushell took a strategic position near the end of it. He saw Sir David Clarke appear in the doorway, drawn as he had been by the charge in the musicians’ tunes.

A waiter carrying a tray laden with flutes full of nasty Russian sparkling wine came by. “You, there!” Bushell said. The waiter paused but looked blank. Bushell thought fast. “Parlez-vous francais?” he asked.

Intelligence and comprehension filled the Russian’s face. “Certainement, monsieur.”

“Bon.” Bushell explained what he wanted, pointed discreetly toward Clarke, and pressed a folded red twenty-pound banknote into the fellow’s free hand. The way the waiter made it disappear was marvelous to behold. He made his way toward Sir David, who was beginning to approach the receiving line himself. At precisely the right moment, the waiter tripped over some prominent man’s foot - or so it seemed, at any rate. He stumbled. Crystal flutes flew off the tray. They made sweet, tinkling music as they shattered on the floor. The wine a good many of them had held drenched Sir David Clarke.

“Merde!” he exclaimed into sudden horrified silence: even under the most trying of circumstances, he didn’t quite lose his aplomb.

Servants converged on him as if drawn by a lodestone. Some dealt with the broken crystal; others dabbed at him with thick, thirsty cotton towels and, apologizing profusely, led him away for more comprehensive repairs. Conversation picked up again; someone close to Bushell said in English, “Pity we can’t send our help to Siberia when they blunder so spectacularly, what?” A woman laughed. Bushell sighed. Here and there, you could probably still find people who thought emancipating Negro slaves had been a bad idea, too.

Taking advantage of his stratagem, he approached Sir Martin as the governor-general finally succeeded in emancipating himself from Duke Orlov. King took a glass of sparkling wine from a servitor who hadn’t spilled his. He drank it all down, which bespoke either remarkable diplomacy or a lamentable palate.

“What is the latest word, Colonel Bushell?” the governor-general asked, perhaps seeking to forestall him.

It was a good ploy. “I regret I know little more than I did this morning, Your Excellency,” Bushell admitted, thinking unkind thoughts about Chalky Stimpson and the inordinate amount of time the RAM tailor had fussed over him.

“No?” Sir Martin’s narrow, almost Oriental eyes hooded over. “A pity. We have little time in which to learn. And now, Colonel, if you will excuse me -“ His wife on his arm, he swept away. Bushell had won the battle but lost the war. He consoled himself by remembering how Sir David Clarke had looked with Russian champagne dripping from him. That had been worth twenty quid, even if it hadn’t let him have the talk he’d wanted with Sir Martin Luther King. His shoulders moved in a tiny shrug. Sir Martin was prejudiced against him anyway.

He headed back toward the bar. One more drink wouldn’t hurt anything. Kathleen might not approve, but Kathleen, he saw, had gone someplace else. Sam Stanley wasn’t anywhere close by, either. Having watchdogs around wouldn’t have stopped him from doing anything he intended to do, but he was slightly miffed to find them falling down on the job.

He got himself another Jameson and then, as if to prove something to people who weren’t watching him as they should have, carried it away with him without sipping from it. He headed farther into the embassy, intent on seeing whatever the Russians were willing to let him see and whatever else he could get away with.

They’d set up a buffet, with delicacies ranging from mushrooms to caviar to pickled herring displayed on glittering ice. Sir Horace Bragg and Sir Martin Luther King both contemplated it. They stood only a few feet from each other, but each man resolutely pretended the other did not exist. Had it not been likely to hamper the investigation that might have been funny. Contemplating it, Bushell decided a knock of Jameson wouldn’t hurt him after all.

He held himself to that one sip, though. Holding his nearly full glass as if it were a talisman, he pressed on. One room down a hallway was fitted out as an Orthodox chapel. The icons there were displayed not as objets d’art bit as objects of reverence. Some of them, nonetheless, were very fine art indeed. He stepped into the chapel to admire an image of the Virgin and Child. The Virgin’s eyes did not meet his or the Christ child’s; they stared off to one side, as if at a holiness and certitude only she could perceive. With a tiny part of his mind, he heard someone - a woman, he thought - come down the hall and pause in the doorway. Absorbed in contemplation of the icon, he did not turn around.

“Tom?” she said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

With a quick, almost convulsive gesture, he raised the glass of Jameson to his mouth and gulped it down. By the time he’d finished swallowing, he had himself back under control. He turned, slowly and deliberately, “Hullo, Irene,” he said. “How are you tonight?”