The man in the center was in his mid- to late thirties; he wore a short beard carefully manicured, a fade cut above both his ears and much longer hair on top, swept back and held in place with product that made his hair shine more than that of any passerby without an umbrella walking in the steady rain.
The man’s suit was Savile Row, mostly hidden under his Cucinelli raincoat, and his cherry shoes shone with the luster the sun itself had no chance of mustering on this cold and rainy day.
The three entered the little park with the intent of crossing it to the other side; they walked along the pathway there, and Campbell Coyle pushed off the low metal fence and began walking towards them.
No one noticed him till he was ten paces away, but then it became clear to the two security men that the man in the Irish cap was moving towards their charge and he would reach them before they made it through the small exit gate of the garden. The security man in blue, the closer of the two, switched his umbrella from his right hand to his left, as if he had a gun on his right and was readying himself to access it, and the man on the right held out his free hand, urging the stranger to stop.
Before either of the two bodyguards could speak, Coyle himself called out to the man in the center.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
The security officer with his hand up, his face every bit as assertive-looking as his bodybuilder physique, did the talking. “ ’S’all right, mate. Keep moving, yeah?”
Coyle realized they thought he was a beggar.
In some fashion, he told himself, they were not wrong.
Coyle halted his advance at five paces, then addressed the man in the middle of the three. “Mr. Maragos, sir. I wonder if I could trouble you for just a moment of your time.”
Marcus Maragos stopped, obviously surprised that the stranger knew his name, but one of his guards began ushering him on down the path, away from the man in the simple raincoat and the hood and the tweed cap.
Maragos gave an apologetic shrug towards Coyle, and with a smile, he said, “I’m afraid I’m quite late to lunch at my club. If you know who I am, you can make an appointment with my office.” His accent was Greek, but he spoke the King’s English with perfection.
“The Special Forces Club?” Coyle said. “Right up on the other side of the garden? Could I walk with you for a wee chat? Please, sir?”
The security officer with his right hand down, perhaps near a weapon, said, “You heard the man, make an appointment.”
They passed it through the gate, onto the street, and Campbell Coyle followed along. Just as one of the guards was about to turn around and tell him to fuck off, the Northern Irishman lowered his hood; the rain pelted his craggy face and his thick beard.
“Charlie Coyle, Mr. Maragos. He was my son, sir. God keep his soul.”
Maragos stopped suddenly, let out a little gasp, then put his hand over his heart. A car turned onto Sloane Street, and his two officers ushered him back onto the pavement, clearly aware that their boss wasn’t going to move on his own.
Coyle moved with them.
Softly, Maragos said, “My God. Poor Charlie. So bloody unfortunate, that. You have my deepest condolences.”
The Greek shrugged his security men away, and then he stepped forward to the older man, reached out his hand. Coyle took off his hat, a show of respect, and then he accepted Maragos’s handshake. Maragos said, “I amtrulyso sorry for your loss. For all our losses. He was a wonderful lad. He served under me in the Legion for four years, but of course you know this.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
Hastily, Maragos added, “I tried to go to the funeral, in that coastal village outside of Derry, I really did. But I wasn’t allowed. His wife blames me.” He looked into Coyle’s eyes now. “Maybe you do, as well.”
The older man with his hat in his hands shook his head earnestly. “Not at all, Mr. Maragos. Not at all.”
With this, the Greek’s hand went back to his heart. “That means everything. I was just devastated.” He looked to his two underlings. “We all were.”
Neither of the two security officers showed any evidence that they were, or ever had been, devastated.
Coyle fiddled with the Donegal cap a moment more. With a nervous tone in his voice, he said, “I’d…I’d just like to know what happened. Anything you could tell me. Maybe you could help me understand.”
“Certainly.” Maragos looked to his watch; Coyle recognized it as an Omega. “Of course. Look…I’ve got to run. But call my office. Tell Lucy I insisted that she fit you in atyourconvenience. She’ll make it happen. We can have tea and I’ll tell you all I know, which, I’ll warn you now, isn’t much.” He shook his head. “Not much at all…though I can assure you he died doing what he loved, protecting people.”
“Do you have children, Mr. Maragos?”
The question seemed to surprise the man. “Not yet. Someday, maybe. Look, again, I’m terribly sorry, but I must rush off for—”
“Certainly, sir. Just one more question.”
