A Wild and Lonely Place Read Online Free Page B

pain or the accusatory tone of Renshaw’s
     questioning was getting to her.
    Renshaw swiveled around to face a stocky young man who had come up behind him. “Well, Wilson,” he said, “where were you, that
     a kid opened the door?”
    Wilson shifted from foot to foot, his round face reddening. “I…don’t have any excuse for not being on the door, sir. But I
     didn’t realize Habiba’d escaped from her nanny. The kid’s a sly one—”
    “Jesus, if they can’t control a nine-year-old—” Renshaw broke off, his lips white with anger. After a moment he turned back
     to Holman, briefly touched her arm. “They’ll take you to S.F. General now. You’ve got some bad cuts and a few broken ribs,
     but nothing that can’t be fixed.”
    Holman nodded, her eyes still closed. Renshaw stood and stalked off toward the fountain, ignoring the puddles and splashing
     his trouser legs with water and mud. After a moment I followed. He stood with his arms folded, glaring down at the chunks
     of concrete. “Jesus, what a fiasco,” he said, more to himself than to me. “They’ll both have to go, of course.”
    “You’re firing them? I can understand about Wilson, but Holman risked her life to save the little girl.”
    “It’s the margin for error again. The guy who delivered that package should never’ve gotten as far as the door. We can’t tolerate
     slipups like that from any of our operatives.”
    I was silent, wondering how long I’d have lasted with RKI. Not very, I decided. Lucky for me I hadn’t taken them up on their
     offer of a job the year before.
    Now I heard Joslyn’s husky voice coming from the consulate’s entryway. I looked over there and saw her step outside, followed
     by a tall man who had the look of a federal agent, from his conservatively cut brown hair to his wing-tipped shoes. I started
     over there, but Adah saw me and shook her head slightly. They went down the walkway and got into the blue Buick.
    “Joslyn?” Renshaw asked softly.
    I nodded.
    “She wonders what you’re doing here.”
    “I’ll explain to her later.”
    “Maybe, maybe not.”
    “What does that mean?”
    He ignored my question. “We should talk with Mrs. Hamid now.” Taking my arm, he steered me to the door; the police officer
     stationed there examined his I.D., then told us we’d find Mrs. Hamid in the library.
    “Library” was a misnomer. True, there were bookcases on all four walls, but they contained few volumes and a great many art
     objects—enough porcelain and jade and ivory and crystal to stock a fair-sized gallery. The gleaming hardwood floor was partially
     covered by a deep blue Persian rug, and on a leather sofa in front of a leaded-glass window sat a heavyset woman in a plain
     black suit. She nodded and motioned for us to join her.
    Nothing about Malika Hamid’s demeanor suggested that she had nearly lost her granddaughter in a bombing attempt. She rose
     when Renshaw made the introductions, taking my hand in a steady grasp and meeting my eyes with an equally steady gaze. When
     she asked us to be seated, I was surprised to hear a cultivated British accent. Smiling faintly at my expression, she said,
     “I was educated in England, as are most members of my family.”
    As we sat down, Renshaw and I on chairs flanking the sofa, I took the opportunity to study the consul general. She was tall,
     with thick gray hair fashioned in a plain knot; the severe style emphasized the square shape of her face. Her eyes were so
     dark that it was difficult to tell where the pupils left off and the irises began, harder yet to read her expression. She
     wore no makeup, no jewelry, no polish on her blunt fingernails. Malika Hamid cared nothing at all for artifice, and I sensed
     a strong will and singularity of purpose beneath her gracious manner.
    She immediately confirmed my feeling by saying to Renshaw, “I assume you are about to offer excuses for this breach of security.
     None are welcome—or