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foul cigar has trumped the cigarette smoke. I don’t even think my Turkish fags could compete.
    The bartender, who is bald with a sagging heavy belly and an array of tattoos on his wobbling upper arms, pulls me a pint of stout. Everyone in the pub is white. Not the easiest thing to find in London today. The big men hunched at small tables eye me as I cross the room, but relax into acceptance when I sit down with Bruckner. John is obviously the arbiter of social acceptance here. A modern-day and male version of the patronesses of Almack’s.
    “What the fuck are you grinning at?”
    “Nothing.” I reluctantly release the image of Bruckner in a poke bonnet and Empire dress. Still, I had better get control of my errant thoughts. I take a pull on my stout and savor the dark, peaty taste. I like a beer you can practically chew. “John, have you run any armaments down to Port Harcourt or in the Urhobo region?”
    “Yeah, that’s where we’re having a spot of trouble.”
    “And what is encompassed in the word . . . ‘trouble’?”
    “The bloody jigs in the Oil Rivers region have started mucking about with the pipelines.”
    “Why?”
    “Usual bloody whine.” He pitches his voice into a high squeaky plaint. “Oh, we’re being oppressed. We’re so poor. Those big mean corporations. The evil government is making us get off our lazy black asses and work.” He grunts, coughs, and takes an enormous swallow of lager.
    “Anybody dying?” I ask.
    “Good Christ, when aren’t they dying on that miserable continent?”
    “I’m just trying to find out if the Lagos government is doing something naughty. We don’t want our ambassador at the UN to plead innocence, and then find himself with his knickers down.”
    “As far as I know the bloody niggers in Lagos are no worse than the rest of the bloody wogs in any other crown colony. And why does it have to be Britain’s problem when they are shits?”
    I drain my mug. “White man’s burden?” I suggest sweetly and leave.
     

     
    The mattress sinks under my weight as I arrive in Lohengrin’s bed. The steady rhythm of the thunderous snores doesn’t alter. For some reason it infuriates me. I think about the long thin knives I carry stashed about my person, and contemplate letting the boy wake up to find a blade at his throat. I always get cranky when I’m tired, and right now I’m positively homicidal.
    I plaster on a smile, and lay a hand on his bare chest. He snorts, jerks, and comes up from beneath the sheets like a broaching whale.
    “Was? Was ist?”
He finally focuses on me. “Ah,
Liebling,
” and I’m crushed in a massive embrace. “When you called I thought I would be alone and lonely all night, but now here you are.” His lips find mine. I can taste the beer and sauerkraut in his sleep-clogged mouth, not pleasant, but I close my eyes and think of England while we fence with tongues. Eventually he comes up for air.
    “What did you do today?” I’ve settled back in the crook of his arm while he jams pillows behind his back.
    “Ah, we heard a report from China. Tinker is doing very fine work there building pumps for wells. We do
such
good things, my Lili.” Just listening to him maunder on about all the
wunderbar,
fabulous, brilliant things the Committee has done in the past twenty-two hours gives me
mal de tête.
    Even though he’s blond he’s got a pretty good mat of chest hair. I twine my fingers through it. “Tinker is quite a charmer, isn’t he?”
    “
Ja,
nice fellow.”
    “It seems that DB has abandoned us to be a rock and roll star.” I inject regret. “I understand why he did it, but it makes us so vulnerable.”
    Lohengrin’s arms tighten around me. “Are you afraid? Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
    “I know you’ll try, but we’re not always paired together and it just seems that the problems never stop and never get easier.”
    “We destroyed a much more formidable foe in Egypt.” He pokes me playfully in the side.