He took a quick check of the rest of the basement, then he started up the stairs.
Adler backed up as Grant stepped into the kitchen. “What caused your ‘fuck’ remark?”
“Found a chair with a length of rope around the bottom.”
“Any blood?”
“Negative. Did you finish searching upstairs?”
“Not completely. On my way.”
As Adler went to the second floor, he wondered if after finding the rope and chair, Grant had any flashbacks of his own captivity in East Germany. Even though he himself had been held captive in Sicily that one time, it wasn’t violent like the one Grant experienced.
“Captain?” Townsend called softly from the entryway.
“Come on in, sir.” Grant holstered his weapon.
Townsend entered the kitchen with one of his detectives. “I left the other men to check the property.”
Grant nodded as he removed the earpiece, letting it dangle outside his jacket collar. “That’s fine, sir.” His mind was still on the chair in the basement, hoping Henley was okay.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Townsend asked stepping closer to Grant.
“What? Oh, yeah. Listen, there’s evidence someone was held prisoner in the basement. I’m guessing it was Jack, I mean, Commander Henley.”
“What did you find to make that assumption?”
“A wood chair and length of rope on the floor. You can take a look for yourself.”
Townsend motioned for his man to go to the basement. “What about the wife?”
“Nothing yet. Joe’s upstairs scoping it out.”
They both turned hearing Adler coming down the stairs. Grant asked, “Anything?”
“Nothing too specific,” he answered.
Grant recognized the expression on Adler’s face. “Come on. Tell me what you found.”
“Just this.” Adler handed Grant Victoria Henley’s ID card. “It was behind a lamp on the side table.”
“Why the hell did she even bring it? How could she think anybody would show up here, least of all us?” Grant questioned under his breath.
Adler added his own comment. “Unless the commander somehow managed a way to signal her when they were being taken from the house.”
“Possibly,” Grant said, “but she sure took one helluva chance.” He handed it to Townsend.
Grant refocused his mind on the dead detective. He turned and walked into the dining room. Three of the four wooden chairs were angled away from the table. He stood quietly and closed his eyes as he pictured the dead man. He tried zeroing in on the slash across the man’s throat.
“Am I interrupting?” Adler asked.
“Affirmative,” Grant replied, while continuing to keep his eyes closed. Adler sat on one of the chairs. Clasping his fingers behind his head, he watched Grant and waited.
“Joe, take a look on the carpet around the table.”
“Gonna give me a hint?” Adler got down on his knees and started crawling.
Grant got down on all fours. Sliding his hand across the carpet, trying to feel through the nap, he searched around the opposite side of the table. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Townsend came into the room, stopped, then just stared at the two men crawling on the floor. “Did you gentlemen lose something?”
“I’m hoping one of the visitors did, sir,” Grant answered.
Adler reached under one of the chairs and picked up something with his fingertips. “I win!” he announced.
As he stood, Grant and Townsend walked to him. “It’s some kind of red stone, skipper.” He dropped it in Grant’s outstretched hand.
Grant held his hand open, giving Townsend a chance to look. “It’s what I was afraid of, sir.”
Townsend picked the stone from Grant’s palm, holding it between two fingers. He held it up to the light. “What makes you say that?”
“The way your man was killed, sir. That slash was violent. It had to be made by someone who’s experienced in using a type of knife sharp enough to split a hair, sir… and I mean lengthwise.
“The type of knife I’m thinking of is called a ‘janbia.’ It’s carried in a scabbard. Some of the fancier scabbards have jewels set in them.”
“And you think this stone came from one of those?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Do you know who?”
“Right now I can’t give you a name, sir, but I’ll bet Joe’s ass at least one Arab was here, possibly Libyan.” Adler ignored the “ass” remark.
Grant lowered his head, knowing it was time to bring Townsend up to speed on the St. Mawgan situation, without releasing anything about nukes. He pulled a chair close. “Sir, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll fill you in on why Joe and I are here.”
When Grant finally finished, Townsend could only shake his head. “And you think the IRA and the Libyans are working together, by hiring this Labeaux character?”
“No, sir. I can’t see them doing that. Those two aren’t about to share.” Grant stood in front of Townsend. “Look, tomorrow there’s one plane coming into St. Mawgan, possibly with cargo.” Grant looked at Adler, who was nodding, as both of them thought the same thing. “So what if neither group knows about the other being involved? What if Labeaux has his own plan? What if he has no intention of turning anything over to either one?”
“Then what’s the point? I mean, aside from the money he’s probably been paid, what would be his reason?”
“We haven’t asked CIA to give us background information on Labeaux. It’s time we did. Maybe we can find something in his past that’ll help answer the question, sir.”
Townsend stood, handing the stone to Grant. Seeing his men waiting in the kitchen, he said, “I guess there’s no reason to monitor this place any more.”
Grant nodded in agreement, “Don’t think so. Whoever was here sure as hell won’t be coming back after finding one of your men spying on them, sir.
“Joe and I will call the States once we’re back at base.” Grant changed his thought process again, focusing on how the Arabs got to England. “Sir, how many old airfields are there within a twenty mile radius?”
“You think they came by plane?”
“With a small plane, they could’ve come in under radar, sir. And how many fuel stops depended on where they actually departed from. But I’m sure it could be done, sir.”
“We can check on those airfields back at the office.”
Grant started walking toward the kitchen. “One more request, sir. Can you check on a vehicle registration for Colin Webb?”
“I’ll take care of it personally.”
“Thanks. Look, I know you want to get Detective Sergeant Moore back to Newquay, sir. It’d be our privilege to drive him wherever you like.”
“I’d appreciate that, Captain.”
Chapter 19
Colin Webb sat on a sofa bed in his four hundred square foot studio flat, nervously puffing on a cigarette. Since he’d been home, he’d looked at the alarm clock on the side table at least ten times. One more time wouldn’t hurt.
Smashing the stub of his cigarette in an already full ashtray, he pushed himself off the sofa, and went to the kitchen area. He hadn’t been home in over three days. The flat smelled of rotting food from week old garbage. Dishes in the sink were encrusted with food he didn’t recognize, nor remembered eating.
Opening a small fridge tucked under a cabinet, he grabbed one of two remaining bottles of Beck’s. A bottle opener stuck out from under wadded up dirty napkins. He opened the beer, flipped the cap onto the counter then walked to the living room, sucking on the beer.