Yesterday's Shadow by Jon Cleary Page A

idea.”
    II
    Ambassador Stephen Pavane had hardly slept for two nights. Love is debilitating, the cynics said; but they were the ones, almost invariably men, who had been unsuccessful in love. He was no cynic and he had been successful in love several times, but he agreed: love could be debilitating. He had loved Billie with a passion that continually surprised him. He had loved his first wife, but her slow death from cancer had been a preparation for grief and loss. It had brought a void in his life, but it had not been as deep as he had expected; it had been like the filling-in of a grave from the bottom. When the headstone had been placed above her it had somehow been a release. Not a joyous one, but a relief nonetheless. There had been empty years afterwards and then Billie had come along. It had not been love at first sight, not for him, though she had said it had been for her. She had been good at flattery because in most instances she had meant it. Then, abruptly and deeply, he had fallen in love with her. And now . . .
    â€œWhat?” He was in his office with Kortright, his Deputy Chief of Mission.
    â€œStephen—” Pavane had insisted that at their level there was no need for formality when they were alone. “You're not listening to me. Why don't you go back to the private quarters?”
    â€œWalter, if I go back there, what do I do? Sit and stare out the window?” He sat up straight, did look out the window for a moment. It was a cold Canberra day, the trees bare, a white haze that looked like a dusting of snow on the surrounding hills. One of the Marine guards crossed the lawn, bent over against the wind in a most un-Marine-like hunch. Last night's weather report had said there had been heavy falls at Perisher and Thredbo up in the mountains and he and Billie had been planning a weekend of skiing. He looked back at Kortright. “What were you saying?”
    Kortright had a bad habit of making his patience look obvious. He still had some way to go to achieve the bland hypocrisy of a true diplomat; he was aiming for the British or French models, but he had some years of learning ahead. “Roger Bodine thinks he should go up to Sydney.”
    â€œJoe Himes is there. The Sydney police don't want us interfering.”
    â€œRoger is aware of that. But he thinks this may be more than—than just an ordinary case of murder.” He had been fortunate so far in his postings, at embassies where Americans had not been in danger.
    Pavane gave him a hard eye. “It's not an ordinary case, Walter. It's my wife, the wife of an ambassador. You're a professional diplomat, but sometimes—” He gave up, realizing his grief was turning into random anger. “Go on.”
    Kortright had remained bland at the insult; he was enough of a diplomat to have progressed that far. “There are religious fanatics threatening to kill Americans wherever they are—”
    She slept with whoever killed her : but he couldn't tell Kortright that. Eventually it would come out, but he still hoped it would not be necessary. The hollowness in him deepened.
    Still he managed to say: “There are no religious fanatics in this country, Walter—their religion is sport, but they don't shoot the players the way South Americans do. Walter, she checked into that hotel alone—don't ask me why, I can't explain it. She booked the room. There's a much simpler explanation than some religious fanatic luring her there to kill her. But don't ask me what it is.”
    â€œSo we keep Roger out of the scene?”
    â€œFor the time being, yes.” He had no trouble sounding firm. He was protecting Billie. Or himself?
    â€œWell . . .” Kortright closed the folder he had brought in, though he had taken nothing from it. But it struck Pavane now that his DCM always carried a folder, almost like a talisman. He was still a bureaucrat at heart, though they can be liars like diplomats. “There