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Then he suddenly grabbed me. Before I knew what was happening, he had pulled me into a vice-tight embrace.
‘You’re mad!’ he growled, crushing me against him.
‘I know,’ I wheezed.
‘I love you.’
One corner of my mouth curled up in perfect bliss. ‘I know that, too. So…do we have a deal?’
His grip tightened until I couldn’t breathe, and didn’t mind a bit.
‘My little ifrit,’ he murmured. ‘Mine. Forever.’
That was answer enough for me.
*~*~**~*~*
The French Ministry of Foreign Affairs was located in a rather cramped, drab little building for such a lofty institution. Mr Ambrose, Karim and I—in my male persona, with my gun in easy reach, just in case—approached the door, and as soon as he spotted us, the uniformed man at the door saluted and indicated that we should follow him.
‘Be careful,’ Mr Ambrose warned in a low tone. ‘I do not believe Guizot considers us a threat, but he is a powerful man, and if he does…’
He didn’t finish the sentence. Probably because he realized he’d just committed the grievous sin of admitting out loud in the presence of witnesses that he cared. Inside, I was beaming. Outwardly, I simply squeezed his hand.
‘Don’t worry. I certainly don’t.’
And I didn’t. I didn’t care about Guizot. I didn’t care about Dalgliesh. I wouldn’t have cared if there were fifty powerful maniacs out to get us. Something had shifted. Something had changed. I was no longer alone. Alone, I’d taken on the world. Together, we’d take the world. Together, there was nothing we couldn’t accomplish.
Besides, I thought with a smile at the sound of familiar heavy footsteps behind me, I doubt anybody is really dangerous in comparison as long as a certain bearded someone is around.
‘Monsieur Ambrose? Suivez-moi, s’il vous plaît.’
The uniformed doorman handed us over to a servant in livery, who led us through a labyrinth of narrow corridors until we finally reached a dark wooden door with Guizot’s name on it. The servant knocked.
‘Venez!’
The door swung opened, revealing the foreign minister behind a desk on which high stacks of paper were arranged in meticulously precise order. Every other surface seemed to be filled as well, with documents and memorandums, pens and pencils, maps and notes, and any other weapon a bureaucrat and diplomat could think of. Careful not to nudge anything over, he rose and bowed in greeting.
‘Monsieur Ambrose. What a pleasure to see you again. Please excuse the clutter. I am trying to convince ‘is Majesty to provide us with new premises, but as yet ‘e ‘as not seen fit to agree.’[36]
Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod-shrug, a reply that at the same time signified ‘What a waste of money!’ and ‘Why the heck should I care?’
‘My secretary, Mr Victor Linton,’ he said, gesturing to yours truly. ‘You met his sister last night at the opera.’
Guizot’s aquiline eyebrows lifted for a moment. ‘Sister? Oh, yes, I remember. Good morning, Mister Linton. I hope you won’t take this amiss but I ‘ave to enquire: ‘ow much of Mr Ambrose’s dealings are you privy to? That goes for the bearded gentlemen as well.’
We both understood the true meaning of the question all too well.
‘Karim,’ Mr Ambrose said slowly and distinctly, icicles growing on his voice, ‘is completely trustworthy. I trust him with my life.’
‘And your secretary? You’d trust ‘im with your life as well?’
‘Better. I trust him with my money.’
Deep inside, I felt a surge of warmth at his words. We really were going to make it. This had to be true love, right?
Apparently, Monsieur Guizot had done his research on my dear employer. He understood the gravity of Mr Ambrose’s words and didn’t question my presence further. Instead, he reached for a folder on his desk and let it fall open.
‘The officer in charge of the investigation into last night’s incident has presented me with ‘is findings.’
