I followed his billowing trench coat down the halls and into the wide-open bullpen where his desk was located. He hesitated as we walked in, and I caught him looking across the bullpen to one of the offices that ringed the room.
There was a woman standing in the doorway making a come-hither gesture with her finger and showing absolutely no emotion otherwise. Except sternness, if one could class that as an emotion. That was present.
“I think this is where I leave you for a bit,” Webster said, his expression a little contorted. He took one step and then halted as the woman with the stern face shook her head and altered her finger’s direction slightly to indicate me instead.
“Or maybe this is where I leave you,” I said, brushing past him. He stood between two desks in an aisle partially obstructed by a chair. Seemed like a fire hazard to me, but I did my best to get past him without knocking him over. I held him at a distance as I passed, my hand brushing around his back through the trench coat. I didn’t feel anything. Promise.
I made my way over to the waiting woman. She wore a fancy uniform, one with bars on the collar and everything. “You must be the commissioner,” I said as I approached.
“Mary Marshwin,” she said, not offering a hand. Whether it was because she knew what my touch could do or because she was simply uninterested in shaking my hand, I didn’t know. Her face made me lean toward the latter. “Come in.” There was a hint of a Scottish accent in her voice and no warmth whatsoever.
I breezed into her office behind her and halted just inside the door. We were not alone.
A well-dressed gentleman in a double-breasted suit stood as I walked in. A rich aroma of tobacco smoke wafted off of him, but not the kind that offended my sensitive nostrils. He had a perfectly groomed mustache, and his hand reached out to me in a gesture of friendliness, his smile already wide, though a little limited by a hesitancy I caught behind his eyes. “Alistair Wexford, Ms. Nealon. I am the Foreign Secretary. Welcome back to the United Kingdom.”
“Glad to be here,” I said as I took his hand. His handshake was warm and firm, and it broke after an appropriate interval. “Though not because of the circumstances, obviously.” I hesitated, wondering how that sounded. “I just mean it’s nice to be back to merry old England, which I enjoy—”
“Quite,” Wexford said with that tight smile. I was actually a little grateful to him for cutting me off before I started babbling. That was always a possibility in strange company. I’d done it once in front of Congress, which had been deeply embarrassing. “Perhaps you’re familiar with your ambassador from the United States?”
“Ryan Halstead,” the other man said. He was still seated in front of the desk. Mary Marshwin moved toward the chair across from him. Halstead exhibited about as much interest in greeting me as he might in greeting a mosquito. His tone was bored and perfunctory, and he turned his head to look away from me after announcing himself, as though I were worthy of no more notice than a bug.
“Please, have a seat,” Wexford said, offering me his chair. I smiled at him and shook my head.
By this time, Commissioner Marshwin was back in her seat. It looked like it could lean, but she was in it straight, her back as stiff as the drink I wished I had in my hand right at that moment. “Now that the introductions are made,” Marshwin said, “perhaps we can get down to brass tacks.”
Personally, I thought she looked like she was sitting on the brass tacks, but I kept that to myself. “Sure. I have to admit, I’m a little surprised to see everyone here—”
“It’s best to have these sorts of discussions prior to there being any misunderstandings,” Wexford said, apologetically. I liked his brand of diplomacy; for a guy so high up the ladder, he seemed genuinely decent, which, in my experience, was not usually the case.
“Or to
There was a woman standing in the doorway making a come-hither gesture with her finger and showing absolutely no emotion otherwise. Except sternness, if one could class that as an emotion. That was present.
“I think this is where I leave you for a bit,” Webster said, his expression a little contorted. He took one step and then halted as the woman with the stern face shook her head and altered her finger’s direction slightly to indicate me instead.
“Or maybe this is where I leave you,” I said, brushing past him. He stood between two desks in an aisle partially obstructed by a chair. Seemed like a fire hazard to me, but I did my best to get past him without knocking him over. I held him at a distance as I passed, my hand brushing around his back through the trench coat. I didn’t feel anything. Promise.
I made my way over to the waiting woman. She wore a fancy uniform, one with bars on the collar and everything. “You must be the commissioner,” I said as I approached.
“Mary Marshwin,” she said, not offering a hand. Whether it was because she knew what my touch could do or because she was simply uninterested in shaking my hand, I didn’t know. Her face made me lean toward the latter. “Come in.” There was a hint of a Scottish accent in her voice and no warmth whatsoever.
I breezed into her office behind her and halted just inside the door. We were not alone.
A well-dressed gentleman in a double-breasted suit stood as I walked in. A rich aroma of tobacco smoke wafted off of him, but not the kind that offended my sensitive nostrils. He had a perfectly groomed mustache, and his hand reached out to me in a gesture of friendliness, his smile already wide, though a little limited by a hesitancy I caught behind his eyes. “Alistair Wexford, Ms. Nealon. I am the Foreign Secretary. Welcome back to the United Kingdom.”
“Glad to be here,” I said as I took his hand. His handshake was warm and firm, and it broke after an appropriate interval. “Though not because of the circumstances, obviously.” I hesitated, wondering how that sounded. “I just mean it’s nice to be back to merry old England, which I enjoy—”
“Quite,” Wexford said with that tight smile. I was actually a little grateful to him for cutting me off before I started babbling. That was always a possibility in strange company. I’d done it once in front of Congress, which had been deeply embarrassing. “Perhaps you’re familiar with your ambassador from the United States?”
“Ryan Halstead,” the other man said. He was still seated in front of the desk. Mary Marshwin moved toward the chair across from him. Halstead exhibited about as much interest in greeting me as he might in greeting a mosquito. His tone was bored and perfunctory, and he turned his head to look away from me after announcing himself, as though I were worthy of no more notice than a bug.
“Please, have a seat,” Wexford said, offering me his chair. I smiled at him and shook my head.
By this time, Commissioner Marshwin was back in her seat. It looked like it could lean, but she was in it straight, her back as stiff as the drink I wished I had in my hand right at that moment. “Now that the introductions are made,” Marshwin said, “perhaps we can get down to brass tacks.”
Personally, I thought she looked like she was sitting on the brass tacks, but I kept that to myself. “Sure. I have to admit, I’m a little surprised to see everyone here—”
“It’s best to have these sorts of discussions prior to there being any misunderstandings,” Wexford said, apologetically. I liked his brand of diplomacy; for a guy so high up the ladder, he seemed genuinely decent, which, in my experience, was not usually the case.
“Or to
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