couldn’t help looking a little triumphant when he had finished.
‘OK, so you got my phone number, but you wouldn’t be the first to have it.’ She sounded a little sharp with him. ‘And what is it you have to show me? The reason you made me come here?’
Marcus put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He passed them over to Susan.
‘Recognise this man?’ he asked, pointing at the picture.
Susan looked through the photographs, then back up at Marcus. ‘This is Cavendish.’ There was surprise in her voice. ‘How did you?’ She stopped in mid sentence, then her shoulders drooped a little. ‘Of course, you went to the Foreign Office, right?’
Marcus shook his head and had a tight little smile on his face. ‘He doesn’t work at the Foreign Office. They’ve never heard of him.’
This brought Susan up straight. ‘Then how did you?’ She waved the photos at him. ‘How did you find him? Why did you find him?’
Marcus reached across the table and took the photographs from her.
‘Cavendish works in Intelligence. He is highly placed in MI6 and his name is Sir Giles Cavendish.’
Susan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Just then the waiter appeared with the first course of their order. Susan had chosen pâté. Marcus had plumped for soup.
‘When you told me how Cavendish had contacted you, how he had met you and all that,’ Marcus said between mouthfuls, ‘it struck me as most odd. You couldn’t call him back because his number was withheld; he knew you as soon as you went into Starbucks, didn’t give you his phone number but gave you a long story about the diplomatic bag.’
Susan took a bite of toast. ‘You thought of all this while I was talking to you?’
‘I wrote it down.’
‘You were doodling.’
‘Sez you!’
‘Well,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs, ‘you’re crafty.’
He finished his soup, pushed his plate away and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
‘The question is, Susan; why did he do it?’
Susan just looked absently across the table and shook her head gently. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘He gave you nothing but a little hope, and then disappeared.’ He leaned into the table. ‘Susan, men like that do not do this kind of thing unless it’s for a reason.’
Susan shook her head. ‘Perhaps he wanted me to stir up something. Go to the Press or the television people.’
‘And did you?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Didn’t do any good, though; I don’t think me and my brother are newsworthy enough. And I certainly couldn’t afford the agencies, not even you.’ She said pointedly. Marcus ignored the remark.
He watched her finish her pâté and toast. ‘What are we going to do about it?’ he asked.
‘We?’ She nearly choked on a piece of toast and had to take a drink of water to clear it. ‘What do you mean, we? You know I can’t afford to hire you.’
Marcus could see she was getting a little upset. He reached across the table and put his hand over hers.
‘Let’s see how far we can go with this, Susan,’ he suggested. ‘And don’t worry about the fee; I’ll cover it.’
An expression of unbelief came over Susan’s face. ‘Really?’ she said softly.
He squeezed her hand. ‘It’s no big deal at the moment. Like I said, let’s see how far we can go with this. Perhaps we can ginger up the newspapers; get them interested.’
‘Do you think we can?’ she asked him hopefully.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but we can try. First things first though; let’s eat, get to know each other and tomorrow we’ll confront Cavendish. How does that sound?’
Susan’s eyes began to fill with tears. Marcus lifted her napkin off the table and handed it to her.
‘Don’t cry, Susan. Somehow, someway we will learn the truth about your brother, and something tells me that Cavendish will have the answers.’
***
It was shortly after eight o’clock in the evening
‘OK, so you got my phone number, but you wouldn’t be the first to have it.’ She sounded a little sharp with him. ‘And what is it you have to show me? The reason you made me come here?’
Marcus put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He passed them over to Susan.
‘Recognise this man?’ he asked, pointing at the picture.
Susan looked through the photographs, then back up at Marcus. ‘This is Cavendish.’ There was surprise in her voice. ‘How did you?’ She stopped in mid sentence, then her shoulders drooped a little. ‘Of course, you went to the Foreign Office, right?’
Marcus shook his head and had a tight little smile on his face. ‘He doesn’t work at the Foreign Office. They’ve never heard of him.’
This brought Susan up straight. ‘Then how did you?’ She waved the photos at him. ‘How did you find him? Why did you find him?’
Marcus reached across the table and took the photographs from her.
‘Cavendish works in Intelligence. He is highly placed in MI6 and his name is Sir Giles Cavendish.’
Susan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Just then the waiter appeared with the first course of their order. Susan had chosen pâté. Marcus had plumped for soup.
‘When you told me how Cavendish had contacted you, how he had met you and all that,’ Marcus said between mouthfuls, ‘it struck me as most odd. You couldn’t call him back because his number was withheld; he knew you as soon as you went into Starbucks, didn’t give you his phone number but gave you a long story about the diplomatic bag.’
Susan took a bite of toast. ‘You thought of all this while I was talking to you?’
‘I wrote it down.’
‘You were doodling.’
‘Sez you!’
‘Well,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs, ‘you’re crafty.’
He finished his soup, pushed his plate away and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
‘The question is, Susan; why did he do it?’
Susan just looked absently across the table and shook her head gently. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘He gave you nothing but a little hope, and then disappeared.’ He leaned into the table. ‘Susan, men like that do not do this kind of thing unless it’s for a reason.’
Susan shook her head. ‘Perhaps he wanted me to stir up something. Go to the Press or the television people.’
‘And did you?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Didn’t do any good, though; I don’t think me and my brother are newsworthy enough. And I certainly couldn’t afford the agencies, not even you.’ She said pointedly. Marcus ignored the remark.
He watched her finish her pâté and toast. ‘What are we going to do about it?’ he asked.
‘We?’ She nearly choked on a piece of toast and had to take a drink of water to clear it. ‘What do you mean, we? You know I can’t afford to hire you.’
Marcus could see she was getting a little upset. He reached across the table and put his hand over hers.
‘Let’s see how far we can go with this, Susan,’ he suggested. ‘And don’t worry about the fee; I’ll cover it.’
An expression of unbelief came over Susan’s face. ‘Really?’ she said softly.
He squeezed her hand. ‘It’s no big deal at the moment. Like I said, let’s see how far we can go with this. Perhaps we can ginger up the newspapers; get them interested.’
‘Do you think we can?’ she asked him hopefully.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but we can try. First things first though; let’s eat, get to know each other and tomorrow we’ll confront Cavendish. How does that sound?’
Susan’s eyes began to fill with tears. Marcus lifted her napkin off the table and handed it to her.
‘Don’t cry, Susan. Somehow, someway we will learn the truth about your brother, and something tells me that Cavendish will have the answers.’
***
It was shortly after eight o’clock in the evening
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