Old Enemies by Michael Dobbs Page B

would do. Escape.
    Trouble was, he hadn’t an idea in hell how to do it. Not yet, at least.

 
CHAPTER EIGHT
    ‘Meet me,’ she had said.
    ‘For God’s sake, why?’ Harry had muttered.
    ‘Ruari’s gone. Isn’t that enough?’
    ‘Meet . . . but where?’ he had replied, more cautiously.
    ‘Our usual place.’
    ‘Stop talking in riddles.’
    ‘Don’t you remember?’
    ‘Why all this bloody mystery?’
    ‘I can’t talk on the phone. I think it may be bugged.’
    ‘You’re kidding. Who the hell would—’
    But the phone had gone dead, leaving Harry fuming in frustration. He had no intention of moving, not an inch, least of all of seeing her again. Her husband had been right, it was none of his bloody business. He was going to stay here on his comfortable seat and continue enjoying the company of both his friend Sloppy and the bottle that stood between them. And yet he couldn’t help casting his mind back to the last time they had been together . . .
    Paris. Lapérouse, a restaurant that had stood on the Left Bank of the Seine since even before the Revolution, a place full of dark wood and discreet corners, of gilded mirrors and painted ceilings, of carved cherubs and dreams. How many lovers had met here, how many whispers had its walls soaked up and its waiters forgotten? That’s why Harry had chosen it for another of their stolen weekends, with excuses and lies left scattered in his wake. Yet it hadn’t turned out like the others. They had arrived separately, from different destinations. Harry had booked into the hotel on his own while she had come straight from the Gare du Nord. She’d arrived late, with a lame excuse about a delayed train, and no light in her face. It had been almost three weeks since they’d last seen each other and Harry thought she looked strained, was worried she was sickening for something. She had ordered distractedly and even before the first course had arrived she told him she wouldn’t, couldn’t, see him again. She wouldn’t explain why, wouldn’t look him in the eye, and he had started to protest but they had been interrupted by the waiter, and she had made an excuse to visit the ladies’ room. She had never returned.
    A man in the midst of an intense affair rarely has full control of either his thoughts or his emotions, and it had taken Harry many distracted months to recover, even with Julia’s forgiveness, yet despite that forgiveness, and perhaps even because of it, he had never been able to forgive Terri, and least of all himself. Now she was back, along with echoes of so much pain.
    Where the hell was he supposed to meet her anyway? Once more his mind dug into the old days, the memories came roaring back on a flood tide, and he knew.

    It was still there, beneath the railway arches on the South Bank, the cramped bar with the vaulted brick ceiling and the incessant rumble of trains passing overhead. It meant the patrons had to lean close to catch each other’s words. That had been an advantage, back then. Both the lease and decor seemed to have passed through several different sets of hands since Harry had last been here; he’d remembered dark wooden tables but now there was nothing but glass and brushed aluminium, while the prices were unrecognizable, yet the atmosphere was still much the same, close, intense, private. Harry sat at the bar, distractedly making patterns with the rings of condensation from his glass of over-chilled wine. A second glass waited beside him, empty, with the bottle dribbling dampness close at hand.
    ‘Hello, Harry.’
    He poured without asking.
    ‘Pinot Grigio. You remembered,’ she said with a catch in her voice.
    ‘I remember too much.’
    She could sense his hostility. She sipped silently for a while, trying to decide where to start. ‘They’ve taken over, Harry, those men who came out of the blue, the risk assessors. They don’t know me, they’ve never even met Ruari, yet somehow they’re now in charge. Of everything. My