The chief constable, followed by two of his officers, entered Perkins’s magnificent workspace. It was a glorious summer afternoon; the streets outside the local pubs were already filling with young people ready to drink away the summer’s night. Across Piccadilly at the Ritz, they were finishing up with afternoon tea, tidying up the scones and jam and cucumber sandwiches.
The policeman looked sheepish, like a doctor who was about to perform a procedure that wasn’t very dignified for the patient or himself.
“I must inform you that you are under arrest, Mr. Perkins. The Serious Fraud Office, in conjunction with my superiors in Scotland Yard and the crown prosecutors, have determined that there is a serious risk of flight in your case if you are allowed to remain at liberty. So I am afraid that we must take you into custody now.”
The two policemen stepped forward. They weren’t embarrassed in the slightest. They liked the idea of arresting a billionaire and frog-walking him down to the squad car.
“I object,” said Tarullo. “Mr. Perkins is a U.S. citizen. I demand that the U.S. Embassy be informed.”
Perkins laughed at this mention of the embassy, the first good laugh he’d had in three days. He put up his hand for Tarullo to be quiet.
“If you are prepared to come with us voluntarily, Mr. Perkins, I am willing to waive the usual formalities of handcuffs and the like. And we can take you down the freight elevator to the parking garage in the basement, where we have a car waiting. There won’t be any unpleasantness with the media that way.”
“I’ll come voluntarily,” Perkins said quickly.
“Wait a minute,” said Tarullo, repeating once more, “I object, goddamn it.”
“Shut up, Vince. A British jail is probably the safest place I could be right now. It will give me a chance to do some thinking.”
He walked toward the constable, his arms outstretched.
“Take me. I’m yours,” said Perkins with almost a laugh. There was something liberating about the act of surrender.
The two British cops were on either side of him now, grasping his arms. Perkins nodded to the constable, and they began walking out the door of the office, onto the trading floor. Most of the traders had gone home, but the ones that were left watched this little “perp walk” in astonished silence. What on earth had this brilliant man, seemingly impervious to bad fortune, done to bring about such a sudden and devastating reversal?
Perkins strode toward the back elevator, accompanied by his three escorts in their constabulary blue. As he passed the desks, he waved to several of his longtime employees. Though he had made them tens of millions of dollars over the years, they did not wave back.
35
Joseph Sabah’s dog, Emile, needed a walk. That was what got them out of the ivy-covered house in Waterloo in the first place. When the miniature poodle finally woke up from the drugs that had been shot into him, he did his business on the rug in the hallway. A security officer proposed to take Emile out for a quick walk, but his owner, Mr. Sabah, insisted on coming along, too, claiming that they would torture the dog if he wasn’t present. Soon a small delegation had emerged from the house into the backyard.
The poodle inevitably started barking. That attracted the attention of the neighbors, who weren’t used to a dog on the property. One of them, evidently a busybody, called the police to report that there were strange people in the house next door and that the quiet couple who usually lived there had disappeared several days before. The cops might have ignored the call, but for that.
A blue-striped Belgian police car arrived at the door. The CIA officer from Brussels station had to show his embassy ID and do some fast talking to convince the gendarme that a ring of kidnappers hadn’t taken over the house, which was, in fact, precisely what had happened.
Sabah was quickly bundled upstairs when the doorbell rang. Major Kirby stuck a towel in his mouth as a precautionary measure. That didn’t do much for rapport with the man who was the team’s only channel of contact with the Pakistani mastermind behind the killing of American intelligence officers. They would have to move from the house now to another secure location, bringing along an angry and perhaps uncooperative source.
Sophie Marx proposed that she sit down with Joseph Sabah after the barking-dog incident. During the twenty-four hours that the group had been working together, she had emerged as its leader. She argued now that the only way to regain Sabah’s confidence was to be honest with him, even at the risk of violating operational security. Otherwise, he would be useless to them. Nobody disagreed.
Sabah was in his room upstairs, still upset about how he had been manhandled, when the police arrived. Marx knocked, and when he didn’t answer, she gently pushed open the door. She was bringing a cup of tea and a plate of cookies as a peace offering.
“It’s me, Edith. I brought you a little something to eat, Mr. Sabah.” She brandished the tray. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Sabah was scowling, but she was already well into the room, and he didn’t turn her away. She set the tray down on the bedside table and pulled up a chair for herself.
“I’m very sorry for the way we have treated you,” she said. “I don’t blame you for being angry with us. I would be, too.”
“I am absolutely furious,” he answered. “Look at how you people behave. No wonder everyone hates America.”
“You’re right,” she said.
She looked over at the plate of cookies. There were some Bonne Maman gallettes and a stack of chocolate-covered Petit Ecolier biscuits. She took one of the dark chocolate biscuits from the plate.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“Of course not. They’re yours. You brought them. You can eat them all. I am not going to help you simply because you bring me sweet biscuits.”
She ate the rest of her cookie and handed him the plate.
“Take one, for goodness’ sake. They’re delicious.”
He took a Petit Ecolier and had a small bite, then a bigger one.
“You are correct. This is quite delicious. But you did not come to bring me sweets.”
“I came to explain something to you, Mr. Sabah. Maybe then you will understand why we have been treating you so strangely.”
“Go ahead. But I will not change my mind.”
“The man we were talking about before, the man who called himself George. There is something I didn’t tell you about him.”
“This is a surprise? Ha. You never tell the truth, any of you. Why should I believe you now? This is like Emile chasing his tail.”
Marx ignored his comment. She leaned toward Sabah.
“This man George tried to kill me a few days ago in Pakistan. He planted a bomb in my hotel room, which was meant for me. Instead, it killed a Pakistani soldier who was acting as my bodyguard and trying to protect me. They took him out on a gurney. One of his arms had been blown off. When I close my eyes, I can see his body.”
“I did not know that. I am sorry for you.”
“That’s not all. George killed four people I worked with. Two of them were my friends. They were good people, but they died bad deaths. That’s why this is personal for me.”
“I wish someone had said this before and treated me like a friend instead of an enemy.”
“We should have. That was our mistake. I hope it’s not too late.”
Sabah was still scrolling his catalogue of victimization.