Dave held his palm up for a second. “Hold on, Nick. We have a situation.” He turned back to O’Brien and asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me that Ike knew agent Paul Wilson. Why…what’s the connection? Was Ike somehow involved in this — the blackmailing of the prime minister and the Royal Family?”
O’Brien stood next to the salon’s open door, the breeze blowing his shirttail. “I don’t think Ike was involved. But I do think we have one very smart blackmailer and killer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe it was the killer who made the last call from Ike’s phone?”
“The killer…why?”
“Because he wants to double-cross the man he’s working with — the guy with the expertise, the means and the encryption savvy to open the gates to the prime minster and the Royal Family. And that guy is agent Paul Wilson.”
“Really? How so?”
“Because, whoever killed Ike and hit the send button to Wilson’s number, wanted to lay a trail to Wilson — to suggest that Wilson and Ike had a liaison. Is that Frank Sheldon or someone working for him…or someone from the British Consulate in Miami? And, remember, when I first met Wilson here at the marina — I asked him if the Koh-i-Noor in the Crown Jewels was the real diamond. He hesitated, thought a second too long about his answer. When he said it was real and had been there 170 years, I suggested that this key information could take the wind out of the blackmailer’s threats because it would mean the Civil War contract might be a fake, too. But he shrugged it off, saying even a replica diamond could have been used as collateral with the contract.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that he knows the diamond pulled out of the river is real because they’ve tested the one in the crown. And whomever made the fake call to Wilson’s phone is brilliant and very deadly.”
Dave inhaled a chest full of air, slowly releasing it. “I’ll call Alistair and let him know he has one hell of a mess on his hands.”
“We’re dealing with a very cunning and diabolical assassin. And, right now, he probably has Paul Wilson in his crosshairs.”
Nick folded his thick arms across his chest and said, “Sean, Dave…listen, you got more than one situation, there’s another one down by the river. Switch it to Channel Two News. They’ve been running live news bulletins on a body found in the river. I never wanted for anything bad to happen to Sarvarna or Malina — or whatever her name was.”
“Was?” Dave asked, changing channels.
Nick nodded. “Hell yes, was. It has to be her.”
Dave switched channels. The video showed police and emergency personnel in a remote and heavily wooded section of the St. Johns River. Blue and red lights flashing, two sheriff marine boats on the river, a news helicopter hovering in the hard blue sky. The caption in the lower portion of the screen read: Eyewitness News LIVE feed. The camera panned to the right where EMT’s lifted a gurney covered in a white sheet. They rolled the body into the back of a dark blue van.
The reporter’s voice-over said, “Police are calling this a brutal homicide. To recap: they were alerted to the location of a woman found dead in the river, the body wedged up against exposed cypress tree roots. The cause of death is under investigation. However, the fisherman, Harold Frost, who first spotted the body, is here on the scene with me.” The shot pulled out wide, revealing a sixtyish man wearing overalls, Detroit Tigers cap, and white T-shirt and orange rubber boots. His weathered face was dotted with gray whiskers, eyes nervous. The reporter asked, “Mr. Frost, please tell us what you saw.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I was fishin’ for bass in the shoals when I saw what I thought was some kind of trash caught in the cypress knees. I motored my John-boat in closer and could see it was the body of a woman. I could tell she was dead. Poor thing.” He exhaled and licked his cracked lips. “She seemed to be in her thirties. Dark brown hair. Wearing a business suit of some sort. I could see that…” He paused and shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the river. “It looked to me like some sorry S-O-B had tried to decapitate her.”
“Did you see anything else? Maybe signs of someone in the area?”
“No. It’s a very remote section of the river.”
“Thank you, Mr. Frost.” The camera shot zoomed in on the reporter. “Police say they don’t believe the woman was from the area, or the country, for that matter. They found a blue Ford Escape, a rental car on a secluded back road not far from where the body was recovered. One detective told us the car was rented six days ago at Miami International Airport. They say a passport, from India, was found in a small purse hidden under the front seat of the car. They haven’t released the name of the murder victim. From Marion County, Liz Phillips, Channel Two News.”
Nick hugged his upper arms, his face heavy, eyes darkened by the shock of the news. He walked behind the bar. “Dave, you mind if I have a shot of your Jameson. I normally don’t drink the whiskey, but this isn’t a normal damn time.”
“Help yourself.” Dave turned toward O’Brien and said, “Remember, too, I told Paul Wilson that the Civil War contract was most likely being examined by my old friend. Ike Kirby. At that point, I might as well have given Ike the death sentence.”
O’Brien shook his head. “But you didn’t know at the time. Regardless, the killer had broken into Laura Jordan’s home. From there, he was immediately on the trail of Ike. And he hasn’t stopped there. He’s, most likely, killed his pawn, Cory Nelson, then killed the Indian IB agent because she was tracking him.”
Dave grunted. “I wonder how the killer got on her radar so quickly.”
“Maybe she found Paul Wilson first.”
“Why would Wilson tell her anything? Maybe he didn’t unless he became aware that the killer, his assumed partner, was throwing him under the bus. Wilson could have used Malina to take out whoever double-crossed him.”
Nick shook his head. “And the shit hit the fan for me not long after I watched her suck an oyster clean outta his shell. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought I was eatin’ oysters and knockin’ back ouzo with a beautiful spy.” He glanced at the muted TV screen, the news video repeating the images of a white-draped gurney being loaded into a coroner’s van. Nick made the sign of the cross. “What a waste of a beautiful woman. I forgive her.”
Dave looked at his watch. “I’m calling Alistair Hornsby in London.” He placed the call and stepped onto the cockpit to speak. He gave Hornsby a complete assessment and said, “It looks to me like you’ve got one hell of a breach on your hands.”
Hornsby was silent for a few seconds. He exhaled a weary breath into the phone and said, “We never suspected Paul Wilson. But we did have initial suspicions about a man who once trained Wilson.”
“Who was that?”
“You met him, Dave, at Vauxhall in London a few years ago. His working alias at the time was Bradley Edwards. His real name is Johnathon Fairmont. He led counter-intelligence for M16 leading up to the 2012 Olympics in London.”
Dave closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the man’s face. “Why just leading up, why not through the games?”
“Duncan Hannes, that’s why. Hannes replaced him with an old college friend who worked mid-level as an SIS domestic officer. Fairmont took a reassignment to the British consulate in Miami. Sort of a place in the sun where aging intelligence officers go to spend their last years. Initially, Fairmont made his displeasure quite clear. He’s been silent for a few years. Now it all makes sense. Fairmont has to be the brains behind the blackmailing. He’s used Paul Wilson like a steer headed to the slaughterhouse.”