The Loo Sanction by Trevanian Page B

over a public house: vert, three blades of grass proper, a bend of the first. Obviously they were still in Wessex and had been weaving through back roads without making much linear progress. He glanced out the back window to make sure the car carrying Maggie was still following close behind.
    â€œNo sweat,” said Yank, “they know where they’re going. Everything’s real George.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful. Now, why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”
    â€œNo can do. The Guv will lay it on you when we get there. You’ll like the Guv. He’s old school and all that, but he’s no square from Delaware. He’s hip to the scene.”
    The Bentley turned in at a roadside inn called the Olde Worlde and crunched over a gravel drive to the back, where it stopped against a retaining log. The car carrying Maggie followed and parked twenty yards away. Two young men conducted her to the back door of the inn.
    â€œWell, what do you think of it?” Yank asked as Jonathan stepped out and was flanked by The Sergeant and Henry. “Nice pad, eh?”
    Jonathan scanned the sprawling warren. It was phony Tudor, built at the end of the last century by the look of it, and certainly not originally designed to be an inn. Dozens of details had that inorganic appliqué quality of a style imitated. But where taste and constraint had been lacking, funds had not, for the glass, the wood, the brick were of the best quality available in the 1880
s—that last moment before craftsmanship fell victim to the machine and the union.
    â€œThis way, sir.” Henry’s accent had the chewed diphthongs of the working class. They conducted Jonathan around to the front of the inn where, at the reception desk, they were greeted by a healthy, overly made-up young lady wearing a tight sweater and a mini so short that the double stitching of her panty hose showed. Her accent, clothes, and makeup clubbed her with Henry’s class, and by the looks they exchanged, it was evident that Henry and she had something going.
    â€œIs this the ‘special’ you’ve got with you?” she asked, giving Jonathan a head-to-toe look meant to be sultry.
    â€œThat’s right,” Yank said. “He’s to see the Guv straight off.”
    â€œThe Guv’s down to the church. Evening service. Will he be staying long?”
    Jonathan resented being spoken of in the third person. “No, I won’t be staying long, duck.”
    â€œA few days,” Yank said.
    â€œThen I’ll put him in 14,” the bird said. “You and The Sergeant can have the rooms on either side. How’s that?”
    Yank took the key and led the way as they climbed a narrow, ornately carved staircase to the second floor where, after passing through a maze of dark broken corridors with irregular floors that squeaked under carpeting, they stopped before a door. The Sergeant opened it and gestured Jonathan in with a flick of the thumb.
    The room was large, uncomfortable, and cold, as befitted its period. The first thing that caught Jonathan’s eye was the open wardrobe in which the clothes he had had brought to the hotel were hung.
    â€œWe were expecting you,” Yank said, openly proud of his organization’s efficiency.
    Jonathan crossed the room and looked out over the vista. Beneath his window was a neat garden, scruffy now with autumn brownness, in the center of which was a formal quatrefoil pond, the water green with algae and rippling in the brisk wind. Beyond the garden rolled the gentle hills of Wessex, sucked empty of color by the metallic overcast. The prospect was marred by the thick bars on the window.
    â€œThe bars help to keep out the draft,” The Sergeant said with a heavy chuckle.
    Jonathan glanced at him wearily, then spoke to Yank. “They’re all your people, I suppose. Hotel personnel and all?”
    â€œThat’s right. Loo owns the whole shooting