A week later Sanguineus was on an Air Charter Scotland flight to Edinburgh.
The Embracer Challenger 601 with its small and diverse compliment of business executives taxied up to the terminal on a grey drizzly day.
From there Sanguineus rented a Dodge Dart from Avis, loaded his luggage in the trunk, and drove leisurely into the city, to the Holyrood, near the ugly eyesore of the modern Parliament buildings. It was one of only three hotels in Edinburgh that was smoker friendly.
His room had a view of the expansive Holyrood Park. On this dreary day the green was as welcoming as a graveyard, misty and macabre in the intermittent shafts of a sodden sun. But the room service coffee, tea, sausage rolls, and cauliflower cheese and whiskey, cheered him away from the dark thoughts of Tanya that had accompanied him on the flight, lingering with him on the drive through Old Town toward the hideous bug-winged monstrosity of Parliament.
Now, with his shoes off, a bottle of Engine Oil beer, and a documentary on the telly about Machiavellian assassins of the Borgia era, he felt detached from everything outside the moment.
In the shower he had stared with an habitual malaise at the large black spot on his left palm, a legacy from the hit on DeGroot when Tanya had fired an air-propelled pistol full of a black sticky liquid at his face. The reflex action saved him from a worse mess, his hand blocking the unexpected assault.
The sight of the mark on his palm would bring a fleeting memory of her. But as time passed the memory evolved into a dream-like vignette that troubled him no more than a childhood nightmare. On the flight over, however, reading through the assignment analyses in his secluded seat with a bouquet of flowers breaking up the sunlight through the window, he couldn't stop reminiscing on the Hysterium 'throne room' incident.
He believed back then that she had gone rogue. Only later, after the debriefing, was it discovered that Tanya had been posturing in her attack on him. It was a ruse to keep her in good standing with the man she was using to assist her infiltration into a killer-for-hire organization calling itself Whitestone.
Tanya had taken the initiative herself to identify and expose it, with two results: the CIA and Interpol had Whitestone on the run, fragmented and apparently turning against itself; and her contact with Francois Benz that quickly went sour.
The thing about her double, and the imposter's subsequent death at the hands of Benz, was something that Tanya had refused to discuss. That had been part of the reason why she disappeared off Red Rum's radar, using the double's demise to her advantage. Even her harrowing experience with the mystery man was a subject she preferred to keep on ice. Now she was gone again, into the labyrinth of anonymity.
Sanguineus woke from a nap thinking about his talk with Bear Claus in the cafeteria.
"I'll tell you this much about the client," Claus had said over his plate of spaghetti and meatballs. "She designed the new Parliament complex in Edinburgh. She was helped along by a high-ranking member of Parliament who got her the contract and who was instrumental in getting her design approved. She is currently teaching architecture at the Presbyterian College where the target, Gerard MacGalt, teaches clinical and behavioral psychology. Does it bother you not to know the very peculiar reason for her wanting him dead?"
Sanguineus shook his head. "It's a dog-eat-dog world. One has to accept the risks when playing with the big boys and girls. MacGalt accepts the risks, I'll assume. Now he's on the short end of the stick and has to cash in his chips."
"As good a rationalization as any," Claus quipped. "Ordinarily I wouldn't be concerned. But the therapist thinks I should be. He thinks your mind is reeling a little from all the assignments that lesser mortals wouldn't touch with the proverbial ten-foot pole."
"I think the fellow is projecting himself into my affairs," Sanguineus said in a bored manner. "He would need a 'good' reason for bumping somebody off, and he assumes I'm the same way. Well, what's a good reason? What's good at all about our civilization and the barbarism it presents in fancy dress? If some guy doesnt want me around anymore, for whatever reason, let him try to pull the rug out from under me."
"Funny, but that's the good doc's observation, that you've come to trust no one. Everyone is an enemy waiting to happen."
"Present company excepted," Sanguineus remarked, pushing aside the remains of his roast beef club. "This hit is to be along the usual lines, I suppose, or does the client want a specific action taken?"
"Make it look like an accident," Claus said with a relieved expression. "The negotiator is in the area and he's in touch with the client. He reports to Estelle and she'll keep you informed on MacGalt's activities and whereabouts through her post called 'The Soothsayer and the Devil.' You'll find it on her blog site, a fable of sorts. It will start up when you get settled in Edinburgh."
Valentina shook her umbrella in the foyer of the Arts Center at the college and folded it neatly.
In her olive green trench coat and flat-heeled shoes she walked across the student lounge, through the sound waves of inane chatter, ringtones and footfalls, the PA system saying, "Will Mr Glassman please report to the Dean of Studies..."
Although the building was a renovated and expanded church, its exterior like a saintly castle, inside it was a mix of modernism and artificial antiquity. The staircase to the upper floor had seen clerics and Vatican nuncios, its appearance preserved to retain its historic past while offering a discreet touch of present day concerns, such as the handrail in the middle of the broad steps that mimicked the artistry of the original bannisters.
Valentina paid no attention to any of that.
A red and green carpet led her down the upper corridor to the art classrooms. She remembered the location of the architecture chambers, in the west wing, at the top of a curving stairway with a round roseate window at the landing.
A short walk past the facing doors of spruce, past a glassed-in bulletin board and a drinking fountain, brought her to the office door of Professor Maggie Donegal.
Thanks to Donegal's providential visit to her a week earlier, and the course their conversation took over the cups of black pekoe from India and China, Valentina knew that Donegal had the day off and was visiting a "dear friend" in Pitcox, miles away in the countryside.
Valentina inserted an auto-skeleton key device in the lock and, twisting the fat handle, listened to its wheezing bur and, within a second of time, the click that meant the tumblers were aligned.
She opened the door and stepped into the sharp musk smell and pervasive shadows, shutting and locking the door behind her.
She took off her trench coat and pushed up the sleeves of her fuzzy woollen sweater. Turning on the overhead light and the desk lamp, she saw that the office with its shelves and shelves of books was as she remembered it, fifteen years ago.
Valentina had an idea where to look for the information she desired. In less than half an hour she was taking photos with her cell phone of the pages and documents she had marked and collected.
She was tempted to hack through Donegal's computer, but she didn't think it was necessary to take the risk. People were so security conscious these days, she told herself, and there were so many tools for detecting an attempt at unauthorized access, that it was foolish to try it without a necessity behind it. No matter, though. She had found what she needed.
It wasn't everything, but it was enough.
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