Richard, the butler, had set out a tray with her tea in the sitting room, returning to the basement to conduct his weekly inventory of the pantry. Lydia ]ohnson had just retrieved the novel from her bedside table and was looking forward to a nice cup of tea when the shrill cry of the front door bell burst her bubble.
"Oh, really!" she said aloud, exasperated. "Now, who could that be?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson," said the very distinguished man at the door. He was tall and impeccably dressed, a grey beard trimmed with military precision. 'I'm terribly sorry to impose upon your Sunday afternoon."
Lydia Johnson was taken aback. His face was familiar, but not sufficiently so to warrant an immediate recollection. Summoning all of the charm and dignity that only the finest upbringing provides for just such a socially awkward circumstance, Lydia gave a captivating smile, buying time as she trawled through her memory for an answer. Yes, there it was. But why the dickens was he here?
"General Davenport," she answered graciously. "Not at all. How delightful to see you again. Are we expecting you?"
'Tm afraid not. Is Abraham in?"
"Yes, of course. Do come in." Lydia Johnson eased the door effortlessly open to allow Davenport and his colleague to enter. She affected all the good grace and congeniality she could muster, while her heart leapt to her throat. What on earth? Davenport moved in with confidence and courtesy. But the man who emerged behind him was not introduced, and Lydia was happy not to push the poifl.t. He was solidly built and, like Davenport, well dressed. He was handsome, she noted, but the eyes suggested that a dangerous creature lurked beneath the surface. There was evidence of bruising around his left eye and cheek, and she could see surgical plaster below the cuff of his right sleeve. His silence and proximity were menacing, and Lydia felt her voice waver as she called for her husband. "Abe?"
When Abraham Johnson entered the hallway and saw Davenport and Alex Morgan standing in his foyer, his demeanour crumpled. Trouble had arrived. It would only be a matter of how long he could stave it off.
"Nobby? How nice!" But Johnson's face betrayed him. "Abraham," Davenport replied curtly. "Might we have a word?"
"Yes, of course. This way." Johnson reluctantly gestured towards his office. "Darling, perhaps you might ask Richard to rustle up some coffee."
"We shan't be staying, Mrs. Johnson. Coffee won't be necessary."
Lydia Johnson nodded obediently at the General, gave a troubled look to her husband, and vanished towards the back of the house.
Davenport and Morgan sliced through the intimate space of the residence like an invading armada sailing through the waters of a vanquished enemy. Johnson, drawn in their wake, was pulled into his own office, propelled by an inexplicable feeling of capitulation.
On reaching Johnson's private office, Davenport took a seat of his own selection on the luxurious claret leather sofa, and gestured Johnson to take a place directly opposite him. The direction nettled Johnson, but he took his place. Morgan closed the door and remained standing by it, his face impassive, cold.
"Now, what's this all about, Nobby?" Johnson asked, trying to remain composed. "I mean, surely we could have met at the office ..."
'TU not mince words," Davenport began. The civility had left his voice. It would not return. "Your boy made quite a mess in Australia, Johnson. I'm sure you know perfectly well why I'm here."
'I'm sure I do not," replied Johnson defiantly. "My boy? What on earth..."
General Davenport remained silent, but drew a number of items from a battered brown leather satchel, which he proceeded to lay out on the coffee table, and began a description of each in turn.
"Transcripts of intercepted telephone conversations between you and Messrs Cornell, Turner and, of course, Lunde. The recordings have been through the usual digital voice pattern recognition examination and confirmed to be you and your confederates. Mr. Turner was found murdered in South Africa, but had seen fit to leave a rather detailed epitaph with his lawyers, to be opened in the event of his death. A premonition of some sort. Copies of that document and various items of correspondence detailing your actions on behalf of the Renegade Group, notably interests in diamonds and rutile mining operations in Malfajiri. These were retrieved from a USB confiscated from Mr. Turner."
"Purely circumstantial, General," Johnson hissed. "You'll never be able to make any of it stick."
"Photographs of Doctor Siziba arriving and entering this very residence a week or so ago, including a very congenial photo of you both, snapped as he was leaving two hours later. They call him The Butcher in Malfajiri. Rather questionable company for the heir apparent to one of the Foreign Office's most senior appointments, wouldn't you say? And don't get me started on the statements of your financial affairs, which I also have, dating back 15 years."