“Do you have a warrant card?” Fields asked. Eastman held out his ID card to identify himself. Fields looked at Graham.
“He’s with me,” Eastman assured him.
Fields nodded then swallowed nervously. “I’m sure it’s them, Inspector. Especially the one called Mullen. I didn’t get a proper look at the one on the floor. Had I known they were terrorists I’d never have let them stay here.”
“You weren’t to know who they were,” Eastman said, trying to pacify him. “We’ll take it from here.”
“There won’t be any … shooting, will there?” Fields asked, glancing from Eastman to Graham.
“I hope not,” Eastman replied truthfully. “Thank you for calling us so promptly. We appreciate it.”
Fields wrung his hands nervously as he watched them cross to the stairs at the end of the corridor. Eastman waited until he reached the top of the stairs, out of sight of the reception area, then removed the Browning from his shoulder holster. He glanced at Graham then pivoted around, Browning extended, to fan the corridor. Marsh and Sabrina were already in position at the other end of the corridor and Marsh gave him a thumbs-up sign. Eastman beckoned Graham to follow him. He held up a hand when they reached the two doors.
“Sabrina and I’ll take one room,” Graham said softly. “You two take the other room.”
“Right,” Eastman agreed.
“Wait!” Sabrina hissed under her breath. “Which is her room?”
“This isn’t some vendetta–”
“Which one?” she cut across Marsh’s words. Eastman pointed to the door nearest her. “And no shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Graham glanced at Marsh and they both kicked open the doors simultaneously. Sabrina was first into the room, Beretta held at arm’s length. Graham switched on the light behind her then cursed angrily and let the Beretta drop to his side. The room was empty. She drew the curtains. The window was open.
“Come on,” she said quickly. “Eastman and Marsh may have something.”
They ran back into the corridor to see the policemen emerging from the other room. Eastman shook his head to answer Sabrina’s unspoken question.
“How could they have known?” Sabrina demanded.
“Someone tipped them off, that’s how,” Graham retorted bitterly. “What other explanation can there be?”
Eastman followed Graham and Sabrina back into the room they had searched. “We can only have missed them by minutes.”
“That’s twice in less than twelve hours that we’ve missed them by minutes,” Graham said, looking around at Eastman. “I suppose you’re going to put this down to coincidence as well.”
“I’m not putting it down to anything until I’ve had a chance to study the facts,” Eastman retorted. “And unless you have some irrefutable evidence of your own pointing to one of my men being an IRA stooge then I suggest you keep your insinuations to yourself.”
“You cops are always the same,” Graham said with thinly veiled disgust. “You’ll protect your own, no matter what the cost.”
Marsh entered the room before Eastman could reply. He was holding a copy of the Guardian delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “Guy, I found this under the bed in the other room. It’s today’s.”
Graham stared at the photographs of Mullen and Kerrigan on the front page then strode angrily from the room.
“What was all that about?” Eastman asked, turning to Sabrina.
She looked down into the deserted alleyway. “You know Mike’s family was murdered by terrorists, don’t you?”
“Yes, I read about it in his file. But what’s that got to do with this investigation?”
“The FBI received a tip-off from an informer minutes after the kidnapping telling them where Carrie and Mikey were being held. The FBI officer in charge of the case didn’t follow up the tip-off for more than an hour. By then. Carrie and Mikey had been moved. Had the FBI acted quicker they might still be alive today. Their blunder turned Mike against all law enforcement agencies. He doesn’t trust any of them. The anti-terrorist squad included. That’s why you’ll find he follows his own hunches and plays by his own rules. It’s just the way he is. And nothing you can say or do will change that.”
“So I’m just supposed to say nothing when he insinuates that someone in my team is working for the IRA?”
“Mike’s hunches are rarely wrong,” she said softly.
“Well, it looks like he’s got it wrong this time, doesn’t it?” Eastman said, gesturing to the newspaper lying on the unmade bed.
“I’d keep an open mind if I were you,” Sabrina said as she left the room. She found Graham sitting at the top of the stairs. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah,” he replied without looking around at her. “Eastman’s being a real pain in the ass, that’s all. Christ, it’s obvious someone’s tipped them off.”
“Perhaps,” she replied noncommittally.
“Come on, Sabrina–”
“It’s one of your hunches,” she cut in quickly. “And until you can prove it you’d better stop stepping on his toes. He’s well pissed off with you right now. And understandably so.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“Bite the bullet, Mike. UNACO’s got its back against the wall. Right now we need all the friends we can get. And that includes Eastman. He’s been assigned to this case because he’s the best. Remember that.”
“The voice of reason,” Graham said disdainfully. The sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. She smiled. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
“Sabrina?” he called out after her. “What do you think?”
“I’m keeping an open mind,” she replied as she disappeared back through the nearest doorway.
“You would,” Graham muttered, clambering to his feet and striding after her.
“Morning, C.W.,” Kolchinsky said, entering his office.
“Morning, Sergei,” Whitlock replied, getting up from behind Kolchinsky’s desk.
“I’m not staying,” Kolchinsky said, motioning Whitlock to sit down again. “I just stopped by to get the latest update from London so that I can brief the Secretary-General over breakfast.”
Whitlock handed Kolchinsky a folder. Inside was the text of Graham’s latest telephoned report. “Mike was saying you authorized the release of photographs of Kerrigan and Mullen to the Press.”
Kolchinsky nodded then sat down on one of the black leather sofas. “I got a phone call from Commander Palmer, the head of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad, in the early hours of the morning. It was obvious he’d already made up his mind to forward the photographs to the Press. I had no objections.”
“Mike’s a bit miffed that you didn’t tell him.”
“Palmer said Eastman would tell him,” Kolchinsky replied.
“He did, this morning.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Whitlock indicated the folder in Kolchinsky’s hand. “It seems there’s a bit of a personality clash between Mike and Eastman. Mike felt that you should have let him know instead of him having to rely on Eastman.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Kolchinsky shot back. “The next time he contacts you, tell him to get his act together. And if he can’t work with Eastman, I’ll have him replaced.”
“I’ve already had a quiet word with him,” Whitlock assured him. “But I thought you should know in case Palmer mentions it in passing.”
“Thanks,” Kolchinsky said, rubbing his face wearily. “How did Fabio get on?”
“His report’s in the folder.”
Kolchinsky opened the folder and leafed through Paluzzi’s four-page report. “Brief me. I won’t have time to digest all this before I see the Secretary-General.”
Whitlock explained what had happened in Milford the previous evening.