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“Great. Meet us there at 7:30 pm. If you get there earlier, just mention a reservation in the name of Ian Grant.”
“Going by a new moniker, Max?”
“My brother. He’s meeting us there, and a friend of Cress’ too.”
JL takes the pint glasses back to the bar and Yavuz leans over confidentially. “I heard that Nasim Faez is after you.”
I start in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I still have friends in Turkish security. And I may know where to find Faez, before he finds you.”
Curiosity burns into me. “Why do you want to risk it?”
“I’m doing this in memory of my sister,” he says.
“Thanks. I’m grateful.” And I am.
JL comes back to the table and we go out to wave down a taxi back to Mayfair.
* * *
Cress grumbles that I’m babying her when I show up to escort her to the restaurant.
I wish I wasn’t working while we’re in London, so I could spend all my time with her. If I didn’t have to work here, we wouldn’t have come. Last night’s jaunt to Clos Maggiore is still on my mind. There are more dangers than my elusive terrorist. And on these busy London streets, trying to spot a tail is difficult.
When we arrive, the tuxedoed maître d’ greets us. He remembers me from earlier visits.
“Welcome, Mr. Grant. Your brother is in the Winter Garden Bar. If you and your date would like to join him there, I will bring the other member of your party along when they arrive.”
Ensconced on a red settee, a cocktail on the glass table in front of him, Ian is as relaxed as if he is in his own lounge. He stands up and holds a hand out, moving past us. “Content de te revoir, JL.”
JL brushes past me.
“Content de te revoir, aussi.” JL moves around the table and claims part of the small sofa, nudging Ian over. You would think he and Ian hadn’t seen each other for months rather than yesterday.
Ian scratches his temple. “You look particularly lovely tonight, Cress.”
“How kind of you, Ian,” she says. For some reason, I want to sock him.
Yavuz has just arrived and hovers behind us, unsure of his welcome. His suit is off-the-peg but fits him well.
“Ian, this is Yavuz Arslan, an old friend from Istanbul. He happens to be in London on business so I invited him along for dinner.
“Enchanté,” Yavuz says.
“Enchanté,” Ian echoes.
We subside into chairs to wait for Cress’ friend Hillary. JL contemplates Ian’s greenish-tinged drink with suspicion. “Is that a witches’ brew or some sort of froufrou drink?”
Ian huffs. “It’s a Rules Royale. House drink, you know. Crémant, Chartreuse, Gin. Worth trying, old boy.”
I wonder if he’ll adjust an imaginary monocle. I answer him with a snort. “Poseur.” Ian smiles as if I’m complimenting him.
I take a breath.“Who do you think you are? Noel Coward? We aren’t in a 1920s stage play. Old boy, indeed. No one has said that in probably forever, except to refer to schoolmates.”
“Let me have my bit of fun.” Ian’s tone is deceptively mild and, damn, if he doesn’t adjust that imaginary monocle. “If I remember correctly, you and Cousin Guy went through a Brideshead phase at Oxford.” JL laughs, while I push away a sense of loss. Guy was my best friend until he died at thirty.
Ian seems determined to needle me. Pasting on a smile, I try out the first joke of the evening. “What’s the difference between a smart Englishman and a unicorn?”
