No Way Out, page 9
“Same system, yes.”
“What if their movement didn’t trigger the sensors? Could someone who knew what they were doing defeat the sensor?”
Turner shifted his weight as he thought.
“Could they?”
“I—I don’t know. I’ve never thought of that.”
“Based on what I know of these things, I’m guessing the answer’s yes. But we’ll have to ask Carter what MI5’s doing with the recordings.”
“‘Enhancing’ them is what he said.”
“I want a look—an analog look, not a digital one.” Vail glanced at the high end merchants, as far as her eyes could see down Bond Street. Many competed with Vuitton for elaborately designed, sparkly storefronts. “Where’d you get this manuscript? Seems like it’d be the find of the century.”
Turner took a small, but noticeable, step backward. “Why’s that important?”
“Maybe whoever sold it to you didn’t realize what he had, and after you went public with it, the country went nuts, and he had seller’s remorse.”
“First of all, I didn’t go public with it. Something like this…I’d never announce it publicly. It’d bring out all the nuts and I’d be placing myself in danger—and it’d be a media circus. Exactly what happened is why I would keep it under wraps.”
“So who leaked it? Who else knew of it?”
“Just Gavin. And he’s been very bothered by all the media scrutiny. He hates the spotlight. He’d be the last person to tell. Me, I never paid much attention to TV and the paparazzi. Now I’ve got people following me. Trying to see where I go, who I’m meeting with. I don’t know if you noticed the black car that followed us when we went to the café.”
“Black car.” Uh oh. Is this guy a nutcase? “No, other than all the black taxis, I didn’t happen to notice anything unusual. But tell me more about Gavin.”
Turner shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m out of town a lot, Ms. Vail, scouring the world for art and rare artifacts. Gavin’s been a godsend, day after day, always here. Very dependable and trustworthy. I’ve never had an issue with missing money, embezzled funds, none of that. As you would imagine, that’s very important to me.” He chuckled. “If you’re thinking Gavin had anything whatsoever to do with this, you’re wasting your time.”
“Fair enough. I just want to make sure I don’t overlook something.”
“Mr. Reid already checked Gavin out. You can ask him, he’s been very thorough.”
“Then let’s get back to the source of the leak.”
Turner shook his head. “It’s been very upsetting. Two days ago, the tabloids were hounding me as if I were some sort of criminal.” He spread his arms. “And now, it’s like I’m the bad guy for buying this manuscript. Some kind of smear campaign.”
“So where’d you get it? We have to eliminate the seller as a suspect.”
“I don’t think so.”
Vail folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Turner looked away.
“Did you steal it?”
Turner swung his gaze back to Vail. “No! How could you suggest such a thing?”
“I read people. Your body language tells me something’s not Kosher.”
Turner sighed, then started walking again. “You’ve heard of the Curtain Theatre?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“What about the Globe?”
Vail checked traffic before crossing the side street. “The theater where Shakespeare’s plays were performed.”
“Right. The Curtain Theatre came before the Globe. It was the main theater for Shakespeare’s plays from 1597–1599.”
“Okay,” Vail said. “Thanks for the history lesson, but I don’t see—”
“It was recently discovered, totally by accident. The government excavated a good part of it. Including the theater itself, the manuscript was by far the most significant find.”
“What’s the saying? Something smells rotten in Denmark?”
Turner chuckled. “You’re quoting Shakespeare?”
“Seemed appropriate. This doesn’t add up—why would the British government sell you one of its most prized artifacts?”
“I could argue that they don’t want to acknowledge it, that it’s something they’d want to stay buried.”
“You could argue that, but that also makes no sense. They found it. If they didn’t want it known—and I’d hope the UK government would embrace its history, no matter where it led—they could’ve destroyed it or locked it away in a secret vault somewhere, never to be found.”
Turner stopped walking and took a long look around the street. He ground his molars, then stepped closer to Vail. “I bought it off one of the archeologists working the site for a tidy sum. He said no one else knows that he found it. He was in a secluded area and had a sense it was important because of the handwriting in the margins. But he didn’t realize how important it was. He set it in his lunch box and after work he showed up in my gallery.” Turner looked down at the ground. “I’m only telling you in case it’s relevant to the case. I’d appreciate you keeping it to yourself.”
Vail tilted her head, making no effort to hide her displeasure.
“Look, Agent Vail. The bloke approached me—I did nothing wrong.”
“If that’s true, why don’t you want anyone to know?”
“It’s in everyone’s best interest if this information remains between us.”
“Do you have any rivals? Would any of your fellow rare manuscript dealers be insanely jealous of your ‘find’?”
“It’s not like that. That said, I can’t remember the last time something of this magnitude has been made available.”
“So you don’t know of anyone in your circle who’d have a problem with missing out on the opportunity of having something so valuable made available to them?”
Turner held her gaze as he said, “No. If there was, I would’ve told Mr. Reid and Mr. Carter the second they stepped into my gallery.”
“And you say you don’t know who leaked it to the press?”
“Again. If I did, I’d tell you. Having the media on my arse is obviously the last thing I’d want. They ask questions, lots of questions. I’ve been able to avoid talking to them because of the police investigation, but I don’t know how long I can keep that up.”
“And other than the people we discussed—the ones who’d want the manuscript discredited—are there others who’d benefit from seeing it go away? I’m looking for motive here.”
“Other than what we talked about over coffee, no.”
“Does the Army of English Anarchists mean anything to you?
Turner’s eyes rotated up and about. “I’ve heard of them. But no, they don’t mean anything to me. Why, you think they’re involved?”
“So you haven’t heard anything from them. Haven’t had any contact with them.”
“Nothing,” he said firmly—with a bit too much volume. He held up a hand and tucked his chin as he composed himself. “Look, Agent Vail. I don’t want any trouble. Are you—are you going to tell anyone about where I got the manuscript?”
Vail looked at him a long moment, then said, “I only need the info for the threat assessment. I’m no expert on British law regarding archeological or historical preservation, but I have a feeling that what you did is not above board. I think you already know that. As would Inspector Reid. That said, if you did the right thing by selling it to a reputable party, Reid and I would have nothing to discuss.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. “Of course.”
“I’m thinking you should start by contacting the leading British museums and see if they’re interested.” She winked at him and gave him a hard, long look.
Turner frowned. “First of all, they’re going to want to know where I got it. Not to mention who knows what they’d do with it once they had it in their possession—”
“Given the timing of the Curtain excavation and the discovery of the manuscript in your gallery, a museum curator would be able to put the pieces together. You could simply say a man approached you—which is true. Any museum worth a shit would salivate over a find like this. And my sense is that they’d want to display it and boast that they’ve got one of the most significant pieces of literature in world history—and let the historians fight over its relevance to British society and culture.”
Turner looked away.
“Call them before close of business.”
Turner’s shoulders slumped. “They’ve already rung me up.”
“Then I suggest you call them back and make the offer. A very reasonable offer.” Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated. She fished it out and answered. “I’m a few blocks from the gallery, down New Bond, in front of—Okay. I’ll be here.” She shoved the handset back in her pocket and said, “I have to go. Make the call, Mr. Turner. Or I will most definitely have something for that journalist hanging around outside the gallery.”
Turner sighed in resignation, then turned and headed back the way they had come.
10
“Merlin Hughes is the guy we’ll be meeting with,” Reid said. “He’s the legislative aide to Leon McAllister.”
Carter was seated in front of Vail, who was sweating the tight quarters. She opened the car window, despite the drizzle coming down, and the cool, damp air helped her breathe. “What can you tell me about the British Heritage Party?”
“Essentially,” Carter said, “the past twenty or so years they’ve tried to go ‘mainstream’ and become ‘respectable’ to reel in a broader spectrum of the British public. They prey on the disaffected, exploiting the economic situation and particularly the ‘threats’ to employment.”
“What threats?” Vail asked.
“Immigrants taking ‘our’ jobs,” Reid said. “Remember what Grouze said about Croats and Slavs? Immigration rates over the past fifteen years or so from the poorer parts of southern and eastern Europe have gone through the roof.”
“Because of their history,” Carter said, “the Security Service used to keep a close eye on them.”
Maybe it’s time to start again. The rain picked up and Vail’s sleeve got wet. She rolled up the window a few inches.
“Leon McAllister,” Reid said, “is an elected Member of Parliament for an area of the UK that’s got a high concentration of immigrants. McAllister’s a sharp bloke, Oxford educated.”
Vail nodded. “We see that a lot in the US too, with our extreme right-wing groups. The leadership’s bright, the followers not so much.”
“They’re essentially a ‘Britain for the British’ party. They cater to white, lower-middle-class voters who are feeling increasingly marginalized—but are turned off by radicalism. So the party dialed back on the extremism to capture their votes. Even so, BHP policies still tend to be isolationist and xenophobic, and they’re still trying to extend their base using fear by exploiting deeply held and often buried prejudices.”
Reid pulled up to the curb across the street from the Nags Head Pub in South London.
Vail peered over the top of the partially open window and gazed up and down the street. “Where the hell are we?”
“Our meet with Merlin Hughes,” Carter said with a wink.
“All I see are bars and…more bars.”
“Right observant you are, Agent Vail.”
“I figured we’d meet him at Parliament or something. Don’t they have offices?”
“I thought this might be more conducive to an open chat. And on neutral territory, to boot.”
Vail rolled up the window. “What’s this Hughes guy like?”
“A party operative,” Carter said. “A disaffected Conservative, not as well educated as McAllister, but no pushover. Former worker bee for the Royal Mail, the postal service.”
“Shall we?” Reid asked, propping open his door.
Vail followed, dodging the driving rain and stepping in a puddle. “Carter, Turner said that MI5 had his surveillance footage at the lab.”
“They’re being reviewed and enhanced.”
“I’d like to see them.”
Carter glanced at her, a dubious look. “We do a thorough job, Agent Vail.”
“Of course. Can you arrange to get me a copy?”
With a frown, Carter said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Reid reached forward and grabbed the handle of the pub’s front door. “Word of advice. Probably best if you didn’t meddle in those affairs.”
Meddle? “Excuse me. Reviewing those recordings is a basic part of any investigation. Do you have a problem with me seeing them?”
“Not at all,” Reid said. “Just trying to head off a problem with my boss.”
“I can handle your boss.”
Carter chuckled. “No doubt.”
They pushed through the door and the low rumble of male conversation sat like fog over an old London street. In the dimly lit room, Carter wove his way past the tables to a rickety staircase that led downstairs. A large placard above the entry read, “No smoking. No exceptions.”
The steps were shallow, and Vail grabbed the handrail to make sure she didn’t take a header. The stairwell’s red and white wallpaper was peeling at the corners and rolling inward along its seams, as if it had fought years of dampness and lost.
They turned left at the landing, past a sign that posted the gastropub’s “recommended dishes”: lamb shoulder, braised ham hock and mash, smoked rabbit, and bread and butter pudding. She clamped a protective hand over her stomach. I think my appetite just went on vacation.
“What’s a gastropub?”
“Latest craze,” Reid said. “A restaurant within a pub.”
Food in a bar? Now there’s a new concept.
The moldiness of the damp room flared Vail’s nostrils. A patron occupied a table to her right, but in the back, against the wall, another man sat with his elbows leaning on the table, a Lambert & Butler cigarette burning in an ash tray by his left forearm.
So much for the “no smoking, no exceptions” rule.
By the man’s right elbow sat a glass inscribed “Aspall Est 1728,” filled with amber liquid topped by a half inch of white foam.
Reid and Carter greeted their contact, then parted and revealed Vail. The man’s face brightened when she stepped forward.
His eyes traced her body from feet to face, lingering a tad longer on her chest. “They don’t make cops like they used to, eh? Who’s the dishy one?”
“She’s visitin’ from the States,” Reid said as they took seats around the small circular table.
“So what can I do for the ’Yard today?” Hughes asked. “Always happy to help.”
Vail had to resist rolling her eyes. One of those.
“Must be serious if we’ve got this many coppers coming to have a beer with me.” He turned to Vail. “But you’re not a copper, are you?”
“FBI.”
Hughes tilted his head, then slowly found Reid’s face. “This is about the bombing. Your partner didn’t tell me—”
“Didn’t think it mattered. I mean, since you’re always happy to help. Doesn’t matter what we talk about, eh, mate?”
Hughes tightened his jaw and nodded slightly. “Not much I can tell you.”
“We have reason to believe that the Army of English Anarchists is involved,” Reid said.
A waitress walked up to the table, apparently oblivious to the nature of the conversation. “Can I get you anything?”
Being good law enforcement officers, the men demurred.
Vail was not so constrained. “I’ll have what Mr. Hughes is having.” It wasn’t so much that she liked beer, and with one exception in Napa awhile back, she did not drink on the job. But she wanted a way to connect with Hughes, and she’d given up smoking and did not want to tempt the pull of nicotine.
“From what little I know,” Vail said, “there’s some alignment of the Anarchists’ philosophy and yours. Yours being the BHP.”
Hughes leaned back and chewed on that a bit. “The British Heritage Party does not condone the bombing. And we don’t control these splinter groups. Nor can we. Just because someone came from the BHP doesn’t mean we endorse or even support their beliefs or that their beliefs mirror ours.”
“All due respect,” Carter said, “your group is intolerant of others. It’s not surprising that these Anarchist nut jobs have a tie to the BHP.”
Hughes studied Carter’s face a moment. “Why don’t we agree to say that it’s no secret that their leadership were once BHP members.”
Well, it’s news to me.
“But that doesn’t mean we had anything to do with the bombing.”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Reid said. “We just thought you might have some insight into the Anarchists. Let’s start with who they are.”
Hughes chuckled. He reached out and took a pull of his beer, then licked his lips and set it back down. “I don’t rightly know.”
“With all due respect,” Carter said, “you just stated that their leadership came from BHP.”
“Rumors.” Hughes locked gazes with Carter. “We’ve all heard them.”
The waitress brought Vail’s beer and set it in front of her.
Reid scooted his chair closer to the table. “You’ve had a number of people leave the Party the past few years. People who were frustrated with your shift in philosophy.”
“Sometimes you have to change your spots to blend in better in the wild,” Hughes said. “The party felt this was the best way to grow.”
“But you don’t agree,” Vail said.
He thought a moment, studying the table in front of him. “I think you stand by your principles. Plenty a people agree with us. But to those who don’t like what we stand for, I say, fuck ’em.”
Vail lifted her glass and held it out to Hughes. He squinted, then raised his own and tipped it against Vail’s. “I happen to agree with you, Mr. Hughes. We’ve got problems like that back in America. ’Course, I can’t say that shit when I’m in the States, because the Bureau has to be politically correct, but our country’s being overrun by Hispanics and Asians. The Hispanics take our blue collar jobs and the Asians take the high paying jobs in banking and engineering.” Jeez, am I laying it on too thick?
