“If you’d told me that earlier, ma’am, it would have helped.”
“I never thought anything of it until now. Natalie’s not comfortable in English, and though Russian isn’t her native tongue, she speaks it well. Phil said he’d done a Berlitz course when he married her. He used to laugh about it.”
“Well, he’s not laughing now.”
She twisted in her chair, upset and distracted. “Tony! I need Tony!” she cried. “Where is he? He should be here!”
“Knowing Mr. Bera, I predict he’s lurking outside waiting for the right moment.” Carmine got up and went to the corner of the house. “Mr. Bera!” he bellowed. “You’re needed!”
Bera appeared seconds later, took one look at Philomena, and glared at Carmine furiously. “What have you said to put her in such a state?” he demanded.
Carmine told him, which clearly astounded him as much as it had Philomena. The two of them huddled on a cast iron settee and stared at Carmine as if he bore their execution orders.
“Two places vacant on the Board!” Bera exclaimed.
Which gives me an idea of his priorities, Carmine thought. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about espionage or murder, all he cares about is a pliant Board to protect young Desmond’s—and his own—interests. Mr. Anthony Bera bears watching.
“If it’s any consolation, Mr. Smith’s last executive order was to appoint a new managing director for Cornucopia Central,” he said briskly. “He fills Erica Davenport’s non-Board shoes, though not her Board ones. His name is Mr. M. D. Sykes.”
This news item didn’t interest either of them, but Carmine hadn’t thought it would. He’d thrown it in to provoke a reaction, and had he got one, he would have had to dig into the past of Mr. M. D. Sykes. A relief to know there was no necessity.
When he left, it was with the rooted conviction that Tony Bera would skim as much cream off young Desmond’s milk pan as he could over the next eight years. But that was white-collar crime, not his concern.
“What an odd world it is,” he said to Desdemona as they headed for a lobster restaurant. “Some guy pinches ten grand from his firm, and he goes to prison. Whereas some other guy pinches millions from a company’s funds and doesn’t even get prosecuted.”
“Better to be at the top of the heap than the bottom,” Desdemona said. “Oh, Carmine, thank you for today! I rolled in the sand, paddled, let the wind blow through my hair, feasted my eyes on these gorgeous villages—absolute heaven!”
“I only wish I’d accomplished more,” he grumbled. “That pair may not be spies or killers, but they’re guilty of a lot of things. Bera’s got Philomena hooked, yet he’s also seduced her son. The bastard swings both ways.”
“Oh, that’s disgusting!” she cried. “To make love to a woman and her son! Surely she doesn’t know?”
“No, she doesn’t know, though she’s starting to suspect that young Desmond likes men too much. If you saw the kid, you’d know he’s behind the eight ball anyway. Too beautiful. It probably began at school, and that’s what she’s blaming.”
“You’re saying it’s inherent in the boy?”
“Definitely.”
“Is he effeminate?”
“No! Tough as old leather, hard as nails.”
At which moment the Fairlane entered the parking lot of the lobster restaurant.
Desdemona dismissed worries that were not her concern save as a mother. She was too happy to be cast down, she reflected, ordering a lobster roll. What had sent her in a hurry from London back to Holloman was the knowledge that the fertile segment of her monthly cycle was due, and that if she missed spending it with Carmine, she would have to wait another month to try again. Julian was about to turn six months old; if she conceived now, he would be fifteen or sixteen months old when the new baby arrived. That was long enough. If they were brothers, the younger stood a chance of physically catching up before Julian left home. And that, she thought in satisfaction, means that if they do detest each other, the older won’t always be able to wallop the tar out of the younger.
Tummy full of lobster roll, Desdemona fell asleep before they got to Providence.
And so much for Silvestri’s theory about companionship, Carmine thought, his right arm aching from the pressure of his wife’s head. Still, it’s been a great day, and with any luck I’ll never have to go back to Orleans.
On Monday, Carmine was allowed to see Philip Smith, who occupied a private room high in the Chubb-Holloman Hospital. At Carmine’s request it was the last room down a long corridor, and as far from the fire stairs as any room could be. The room opposite had been requisitioned by the County and served as a recreation area of sorts, enabling Smith’s round-the-clock guards to use its bathroom, have a coffee carafe on permanent tap, and sit in comfortable chairs on their breaks. How the Commissioner had wangled it Carmine didn’t want to know: the FBI was picking up the tab.