To The Death, page 39
The detective looked quizzical. “How long’s this character been here?” he asked.
“’Bout a week, I suppose,” replied Reggie. “Seemed a nice sort of bloke. I saw him yesterday lunchtime. He was in his tracksuit, said he was going jogging later. I expect in the park.”
“What did he look like?”
“Youngish. About thirty. Fair hair. Moustache and goatee beard. Spectacles. Not very tall—less than six feet. Spoke with a Finnish accent.”
“Do you know what a Finnish accent sounds like?” asked the policeman.
“’Course not,” said Reggie. “Never spoke to one of ’em, have I? ’Cept for Santa Claus—and Mr. Fretheim.”
“What I mean, Reggie, is, was that a Finnish accent, or could it have been French, or German, or Arabian?”
“Beats me, guv’nor. Could have been anything. I just assumed it was Finnish, because he said that’s where he was from.”
The detective smiled. “Anything else about him?”
“Not really. But I had the impression he was an athletic sort of bloke. I mean he was always dressed very casual, jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.”
The detective nodded. “Did he keep regular hours?”
“Well, I can’t rightly say about that. Our shifts change at 2 P.M., so we don’t really know if people are in or out when we come on afternoon duty.”
“Did he ever come in at unusual times, like evenings or anything?”
“I don’t think so. I never saw him here in the evening. Matter of fact I haven’t seen him since yesterday lunchtime.”
“And you never saw him leave?”
“No. But I wouldn’t, would I? Don did the afternoon shift and locked up last night.”
“Could Fretheim have been in the building overnight?”
“No. Don would have known that. You always know if someone’s here in the evening. Tell you the truth, we usually nip out for a pint around nine o’clock, and the first thing you’d notice would be a light on at the front of the building.”
“Perhaps Mr. Fretheim was sitting in the dark,” said the detective. “Thank you, Reggie. Tell Don we’d like a word this afternoon.”
“Righto, sir.”
At that moment, the two police marksmen were making their way down from the roof. When they reached the detective sergeant, one of them said, “We just heard, on the phone, sir. But neither of us saw a thing, and we never heard anything either. Me and Brian here were watching the area around the hotel all the time. Whoever fired must have done it from somewhere in here. But it was a damn quiet gun, I’ll say that.”
In the meantime, General Rashood had completed his walk up Dover Street and had turned left down Hay Hill and into Berkeley Street. He crossed and strolled into the narrow walkway of Lansdowne Row, where he was when the police began their search of his office building.
He knew Lansdowne Row mostly because it contained one of the best newspaper shops in London. Ravi used to go there with his father occasionally to pick up Middle Eastern publications.
He bought the London Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail and then walked into the café next door and ordered some coffee and buttered toast. He took off his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair, and put down his briefcase. He’d been here before, in another life, and it looked much the same, but better. It seemed bigger, and Ravi thought they must have purchased the flower shop next door.
Anyway, it felt like a haven right now, and happily he did not recognize the proprietor. Calmly he sipped his coffee and read the newspapers. It was a busy place, filled with shirtsleeved young advertising and financial executives. Ravi fitted right in, and outside, to the south, he heard the constant wail of police sirens. And the distant clatter of a helicopter swooping low over the city.
It was a little after 12:30 when he left. He put on his jacket and walked into Berkeley Square, which was lunchtime busy. He made his way up the west side of the square, past the distinctive awning of Annabel’s, the world’s most exclusive nightclub, and then turned left into Mount Street.
Up ahead he could see the Audi, Shakira at the wheel. He watched her step out and walk around to the front passenger seat. Casually, he made his way to the driver’s side, tossed his jacket and briefcase in the back, and positioned himself behind the wheel. Without a word, he drove down the north side of Berkeley Square and then swung left, heading up the one-way system in fast-moving traffic. He neither stopped nor spoke for fifteen minutes. Shakira knew everything had gone wrong, but at least he had not been shot, and in a sense she felt an overwhelming feeling of relief.
The helicopter he had heard was currently standing on the Horse Guards parade ground. Arnold and Kathy were aboard, along with two of the secret agents. They were just waiting for the luggage to arrive from the now-besieged Ritz Hotel, which currently contained more policemen than guests.
The body of Big George had been removed by ambulance to St. Mary’s Hospital. And before it left, the police pathologist had confirmed that the bullet had been fired from a height and had hit George at a shallow angle to the horizontal.
The westbound lanes of Piccadilly were still blocked, and the hotel staff car containing the Americans’ luggage was forced to take a circuitous route to Horse Guards. When it arrived, the loadmaster packed the suitcases into the hold, and the helicopter from the Queen’s Flight took off, heading west. Destination: classified.
The Royal Air Force pilot followed the River Thames all the way, flying at around ten thousand feet. Putney Bridge, Hammersmith Bridge, Barnes Bridge, and Chiswick all passed beneath them. They continued on to the Berkshire town of Maidenhead, then Henley-on-Thames, where Arnold could still see the famous blue-and-white tents at the end of the Royal Regatta course.
This had once been familiar territory for the Big Man. He’d rowed here in an Annapolis crew more than forty years before, got beat by the Harvard lightweights. “Bastards,” muttered Arnold.
“Sorry?” said Kathy.
“Bastards,” repeated Arnold wistfully. “They got a half length at the start, beat the umpire’s call. We never pegged ’em back. Finished only a canvas down.”
“Who did?”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I was just reliving one of my early disasters, when the Naval Academy got beat down there at the Henley Regatta. See those blue-and-white tents? Where the river runs straight? Right there.”
“Were you rowing?”
“Stroke. But I can’t talk about it. It’s too painful.”
“You mean you can talk about some lunatic almost blowing your head off, but you can’t speak about a boat race?”
“Correct. The lunatic missed, so it’s just a fantasy. But the boat race was real. Oh boy, was it ever real.”
Kathy shook her head, and the helicopter kept going west until it swung right just before the market town of Wallingford, with its thirteenth-century bridge over the Thames. And now the pilot began to lose height, dropping down and flying a hundred feet above the river, following it downstream.
To the left were the Chiltern Hills, to the right the Berkshire Downs, and along the lonely river valley, clattering noisily in the soft summer air, came the helo from the Queen’s Flight, bearing the admiral to a place of safety. You could search for a hundred years and never find him here.
The GPS numbers in the cockpit finally signaled their arrival, and the pilot slewed the helicopter in the air, making it almost stationary forty feet above the water. And there before them, on the banks of the river, was the picturesque Leather Bottle, except it was spelled differently—The Leatherne Bottel.
“Jesus,” said Arnold, staring at the lettering on the sign. “These guys can’t even spell, never mind cook!”
“Olde English,” yelled the loadmaster. “This place has been here for centuries.”
The pilot dropped down almost to water level and then edged forward, landing on the concrete parking lot, with the tail jutting out over the river. The admiral and Kathy disembarked with the two agents, who unloaded the baggage, and the four of them walked across the stone terrace and into the bright, low-ceilinged restaurant with its stunning views across the river to the Downs. Way along the summit, it was just possible to see one of the fabled Long Woods.
“Beautiful place,” said Admiral Morgan to James, the young man who was supervising the luggage.
“One of the best views in England,” he said. “Shall I take your bags up to your room? We’re not really a regular hotel, just two suites for VIPs, which I imagine you must be.”
“Not us,” said Arnold. “We’re just a couple of strays with no other hotel room, looking for a place to stay for two or three days.”
“Absolutely,” chuckled James. “Nearly everyone who comes here arrives in a Royal Air Force private helicopter from the Queen’s Flight.”
At this moment, a police car came swiftly down the steep, winding approach to the Leatherne Bottel to check that all was well. The sergeant asked to see the manager, to stress the importance of privacy and secrecy for the guests. He told her that a limousine from the U.S. embassy would be arriving shortly, with two more security men, and that the four agents would share the second suite.
James led the admiral and Kathy back out to the terrace and seated them at a table right on the riverbank beneath a pergola. It was just one o’clock and the sun was high. Only an hour and forty minutes had elapsed since the Hamas general had tried to assassinate Arnold Morgan.
“I’ll bring you some lunch, if you wish,” said James. “How about some fillets of plaice and spinach? Chef’s just cooking it now.”
“Perfect,” said Kathy.
“How about a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard?” asked the admiral.
“Shut up, darling,” said Kathy, and then, turning back to James, “Two plaice and spinach. Ignore him.”
Arnold chuckled. He was always amused at being bullied by the only person in the world who even interrupted him, never mind argued.
James hesitated, but Arnold confirmed, “She’s the boss. Well . . . mostly. And would you give the guys whatever they want? Everything’s on my tab.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” he replied. “We were told specifically that every last charge would be handled by the U.S. ambassador’s office in London.”
“Guess I’m more popular than I thought,” said Arnold.
Meanwhile, Ravi and Shakira were still driving north and had reached the Hertfordshire town of Baldock, where he pulled into the parking lot of the King’s Arms Hotel. Ravi took out his cell phone and tapped in the numbers for the Ritz Hotel.
“Would it be possible to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan?” he said.
The operator was silent for a few seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, sir. The admiral and Mrs. Morgan checked out more than an hour ago.”
“Did they leave a forwarding number or address?”
“I’m sorry, sir. We have no further information on that.”
Ravi, who had been timing the call on his watch, clicked off his phone. It had taken twenty-five seconds, and Ravi knew full well it would have taken the police around fifteen seconds to log into the call, and perhaps trace geographically the cell phone’s position.
He knew it had run too long, but he needed to know the admiral had left the hotel. The police, who he guessed correctly were already tapped into the Ritz switchboard, probably now knew someone had called the admiral from the Hertfordshire area.
This meant he had to get out of the area, and he backed out onto the main road, and headed up to Cambridge, to a city he knew slightly, and to an anonymous hotel. They had to go somewhere, and he had to find out the whereabouts of the admiral. Otherwise everything would have been for nothing.
The journey took around an hour, and they located the Sheraton out on the edge of the city, checked in for the night under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Barden. Ravi’s impeccable English accent eliminated the need for passports. They ordered coffee and biscuits in their room, and sat down to work out a plan to locate Admiral Morgan.
After a half hour, there was only one name that had not been discarded. It was that of Emily Gallagher, who a) obviously knew where the Morgans were going and b) might tell a friend of the admiral’s. She would most definitely not tell Carla Martin, who had let her down so badly over Charlie and Kipper and who might have murdered the owner of the Brockhurst garage.
So far as Ravi could tell, either he located the admiral and his wife, or the entire mission, with its vast expense and three murders, was on the verge of being aborted. Arnold Morgan could be anywhere. Maybe even at another hotel in London. But wherever he was, security would surround him. In Ravi’s opinion, there was not much difference from trying to take him out in England or in the USA. The risks were huge, there was an American security presence, and everyone involved was taking the matter extremely seriously. Especially the British police.
Ravi wrote off the possibility of using official channels. Anyone making any inquiries whatsoever would immediately come under suspicion by those hard-eyed London cops. The only chance was family, and that meant Emily Gallagher.
He told Shakira he would make one call only, since he was confident that Emily’s phone would now be tapped by the FBI. He had no idea how long he would have before they located his cell phone, and there was no point trying to make the call on a land line from the hotel. They’d pinpoint that in under ten minutes.
Somehow he had to make the call from out in the open and see if he could outfox the old lady. Shakira said she didn’t much like the idea of involving Emily again, of forcing her to play a part in the smashing of her own daughter’s happiness.
But Ravi was becoming fixated by the thought of Arnold Morgan. It was as if there was nothing beyond the American admiral. Shakira thought he was possessed by some kind of obsession about Arnold Morgan, and she was afraid that obsession would lead to his own death.
She noticed how withdrawn he had become, how reluctant he was to talk to her. And now, in the teeth of the gravest danger, he wanted to make a personal phone call to Emily. In Shakira’s opinion, they had both done their very best and should now retreat, back to Gaza where it was relatively safe. It was time to let someone else try their luck. This was becoming, in her opinion, ominously beyond the reasonable call of duty.
Ravi paced the room. He checked his watch. It was almost five o’clock, noon in Virginia. They were on the top floor of the Sheraton Hotel, and he had noticed a sign for the roof terrace. He told Shakira somewhat curtly to “wait here.” Then he left the room, walked along the corridor, and stepped out onto the deserted terrace.
He tapped in the numbers—zero-zero-one. Then area code 703, then the number. It rang three times, and then a voice said, “Hello, this is Emily Gallagher speaking.”
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Gallagher. This is Commander Toby Trenham, of the Royal Navy in London. I’m a very old friend of Admiral Morgan’s from our days in Holy Loch. And he gave me this number to call if I missed him while he was staying in the Ritz.”
“Well, I’m very sorry, Commander. I only know about the Ritz and I thought he was there today. If they aren’t, I really have no idea where they’ve gone.”
“Oh, gosh. How disappointing. I was going to give them dinner at Admiralty House. You have no clues where I might pick up their trail?”
“Commander, I really don’t. Except Arnold did say something about going to Scotland for a few days.”
“No idea where, I suppose?”
“Not really. It’s a very big place, you know, all those Highlands, and Lowlands, and Western Isles, and Loch Lomond, and Loch Ness where that frightful underwater creature lives.”
“It doesn’t sound promising, Mrs. Gallagher, I agree. I think I’d better abandon it. If you do hear from the admiral, you might just tell him I called. Trenham, Commander Toby Trenham.”
“I’ll be sure to. Good-bye, Commander.”
CHAPTER 12
Ravi walked back into the room and instructed Shakira to pack and be prepared to leave.
“But we only just arrived,” she said. “Aren’t you tired? You haven’t been to bed for two days.”
“I am tired. But we are both on a mission for our people.”
“I know that. But where are we going?”
“Scotland,” he replied.
“Where’s that?” asked Shakira.
“About four hundred miles north of here. It’s the top part of England.”
“Why are we going there?”
“Because Emily Gallagher just told me that’s where Admiral Morgan is headed, and we don’t have one single other clue about his whereabouts.”
“But Scotland’s a whole country, right? With towns and everything?”
“It sure is. And we don’t have any idea which part he’s visiting.”
“Well, where do we start?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is we either go there and try to find him, or go home—wherever that is.”
“But how do we get to Scotland?”
“Drive. Airports are out of bounds for us.”
“How about a train?”
“Same. And anyway we’ll need a car, and I don’t want to risk renting again. In case it slipped your mind, darling Shakira, I am wanted in the British Isles for two murders.”
1930 Tuesday 31 July Goring-on-Thames
Arnold and Kathy sat on the banks of the Thames in the warm embrace of the Leatherne Bottel and its staff. The admiral had ordered dinner for 8:30, and now he and Kathy were sipping a superb white Burgundy, a 2004 Corton-Charlemagne made by the maestro, Franck Grux, for Olivier Leflaive Frères. This bottle is widely regarded as one of the longest-lived, most delicious wines in the world.
Arnold considered it perfect for the first evening of their vacation, the best kind of soothing elixir to steady the nerves after someone has just made a bold attempt to blow your head off.
