busy."
"We're never going to be too busy for you," I answered.
Moore and I waited until they were in the elevator and heading down before we went back inside, returning to my office. We each poured ourselves a cup of coffee, and I got out the laptop and settled back on the couch, rather than at my desk. Moore took the same chair again and lit a cigarette, and we began going over what would be required. He's one of the most disciplined men I've ever met, partially as a result of serving in the Special Air Service, which is considered by many who know to be the best special forces unit in the world, and perhaps also because he's black and has had to deal with prejudice all his life. He's in his mid-forties, and his face shows the lines of over twenty-five years of hard soldiering. Even working in the public sector, he still kept his hair in a military crop.
"Going to be a five-day stay in Manhattan," Moore said. "We're arranging for the usual press and speaking engagements, though once the U.N. announces the appointment we'll be getting more requests, so I'm trying to keep some of her schedule free. We'll let you know as more dates get filled."
"Where will she be staying?"
"The Edmonton. You know it?"
"Off Central Park, yeah."
"We'll be taking a suite on the eighteenth floor."
"Can you get a room closer to the ground?"
Moore shook his head. "You know she likes the suites at the Edmonton, and there aren't any below twelve."
"How many people will you be bringing over?"
"It'll be her, her personal secretary -- young lass named Fiona Chester, you remember her -- and myself. That's it."
I looked at him over the laptop. "No one else?"
"Her Ladyship thinks that's ostentatious," Moore said.
I laughed. "You have no idea how refreshing that is to hear."
"No, I do. I saw the
Post
today."
"Are we going to need extra guards?"
Moore dragged on his cigarette, then jetted smoke from his nose with a slight grimace. "I don't know, honestly. My professional paranoia keeps getting in my way."
That got a nod, because I understood exactly what he meant. If money and time and appearance were no object, both Moore and I would have preferred that Lady Ainsley-Hunter travel wrapped in Kevlar, and with a rotating detail of twelve guards that included emergency medical personnel.
He tapped ash into his now-empty coffee cup. "Threat level against her has been very low of late, especially since the burgeoning peace in Northern Ireland. Used to be that the IRA was the major worry, but not any longer. She gets the occasional letter, that's about it."
"What are the letters like?"
"Oh, standard nutter, mostly sexual. Fantasies, scenarios, and even those are rarely violent. I forward them to Scotland Yard as a matter of course."
"I'll want to see all of them, and the list of names, if any of the authors have been identified."
"Not a problem."
I typed up some more notes, then showed Moore what I had. He read it over and made a couple of changes, and by four we had a solid plan. I told him we'd get started on the advance work the next morning, and he promised to keep us informed as things developed on his end, especially as more appearances were confirmed. Then we spent another five minutes going over the price, and he got pissy with me when I tried to give him a break on the rate.
"You're a bloody awful businessman, Atticus. You should charge us what you're worth."
"You get a discount for being the people who made us famous."
"Shouldn't make a damn bit of difference, you berk. Now give me the
real
rate and I'll wire you the retainer tomorrow."
"Six thousand for the week, plus expenses."
"What's the bloody matter with you? You should be asking at least ten, and you know it."
"I can't believe we're arguing about this. Eight thousand, and that's my final offer, take it or leave it."
He took it and I got out a blank of our standard contract, filled in the appropriate information, and we each signed it. I made a photocopy and handed it
"We're never going to be too busy for you," I answered.
Moore and I waited until they were in the elevator and heading down before we went back inside, returning to my office. We each poured ourselves a cup of coffee, and I got out the laptop and settled back on the couch, rather than at my desk. Moore took the same chair again and lit a cigarette, and we began going over what would be required. He's one of the most disciplined men I've ever met, partially as a result of serving in the Special Air Service, which is considered by many who know to be the best special forces unit in the world, and perhaps also because he's black and has had to deal with prejudice all his life. He's in his mid-forties, and his face shows the lines of over twenty-five years of hard soldiering. Even working in the public sector, he still kept his hair in a military crop.
"Going to be a five-day stay in Manhattan," Moore said. "We're arranging for the usual press and speaking engagements, though once the U.N. announces the appointment we'll be getting more requests, so I'm trying to keep some of her schedule free. We'll let you know as more dates get filled."
"Where will she be staying?"
"The Edmonton. You know it?"
"Off Central Park, yeah."
"We'll be taking a suite on the eighteenth floor."
"Can you get a room closer to the ground?"
Moore shook his head. "You know she likes the suites at the Edmonton, and there aren't any below twelve."
"How many people will you be bringing over?"
"It'll be her, her personal secretary -- young lass named Fiona Chester, you remember her -- and myself. That's it."
I looked at him over the laptop. "No one else?"
"Her Ladyship thinks that's ostentatious," Moore said.
I laughed. "You have no idea how refreshing that is to hear."
"No, I do. I saw the
Post
today."
"Are we going to need extra guards?"
Moore dragged on his cigarette, then jetted smoke from his nose with a slight grimace. "I don't know, honestly. My professional paranoia keeps getting in my way."
That got a nod, because I understood exactly what he meant. If money and time and appearance were no object, both Moore and I would have preferred that Lady Ainsley-Hunter travel wrapped in Kevlar, and with a rotating detail of twelve guards that included emergency medical personnel.
He tapped ash into his now-empty coffee cup. "Threat level against her has been very low of late, especially since the burgeoning peace in Northern Ireland. Used to be that the IRA was the major worry, but not any longer. She gets the occasional letter, that's about it."
"What are the letters like?"
"Oh, standard nutter, mostly sexual. Fantasies, scenarios, and even those are rarely violent. I forward them to Scotland Yard as a matter of course."
"I'll want to see all of them, and the list of names, if any of the authors have been identified."
"Not a problem."
I typed up some more notes, then showed Moore what I had. He read it over and made a couple of changes, and by four we had a solid plan. I told him we'd get started on the advance work the next morning, and he promised to keep us informed as things developed on his end, especially as more appearances were confirmed. Then we spent another five minutes going over the price, and he got pissy with me when I tried to give him a break on the rate.
"You're a bloody awful businessman, Atticus. You should charge us what you're worth."
"You get a discount for being the people who made us famous."
"Shouldn't make a damn bit of difference, you berk. Now give me the
real
rate and I'll wire you the retainer tomorrow."
"Six thousand for the week, plus expenses."
"What's the bloody matter with you? You should be asking at least ten, and you know it."
"I can't believe we're arguing about this. Eight thousand, and that's my final offer, take it or leave it."
He took it and I got out a blank of our standard contract, filled in the appropriate information, and we each signed it. I made a photocopy and handed it
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