30
Irish briefs Mitzi over their airport breakfast.
He tells her in detail about the two deaths, the witnesses who’ve been interviewed, what few forensic clues they have and the footage of the Cadillac Escalade hybrid and its tag-team chum, the Lincoln.
When they’re done, he rolls her bag to the car and drops it in the Ford’s trunk.
She climbs in the passenger side and lets out a yell. ‘Holy Christ, what a mess!’
The footwell is filled with trash.
‘What you got down here, apart from dysentery and Ebola?’ She looks closer. ‘Old cans of soda. Screwed-up bags and wrappers from Subway and McDonald’s. A newspaper or ten.’
‘I like to read.’
‘I’ll buy you a book on hygiene.’
‘Not many people get in that side.’
‘I can see why. Where did you say we’re going first, embassy or to see the store girl?’
‘Embassy. It’s more important.’ He looks her way. ‘Outta interest, how did you end up in this weird FBI squad?’
‘I worked a case related to the Turin Shroud. You know what that is?’
‘Course. I was brought up Catholic. Used to be an altar boy. What d’ya reckon — is it fake or for real?’
Mitzi laughs. ‘That’s a long story. Anyway, after dealing with a lifetime’s worth of history, religion, politics and tricky Italians we got a result. I used it for a wage hike and a ticket out of town.’
‘You like the new job?’
‘Too early to say. So far, it beats the hell out of chasing gangs across Compton and Linwood.’ She checks her watch. ‘I’ve got a researcher showing a picture of your cross to history professors and theologians this morning. Give her another hour or so and I’ll call in.’
‘I pray she strikes lucky.’
‘You not picked up any more?’
‘Only that it was worth a lot of money. Amir, the old man I told you about, was scraping together every dime he had and borrowing more to buy it.’
‘Looks like your bosses made the smart move calling us in then.’
‘Ha.’ He shakes his head despondently.
‘Ha? What does “ha” mean?’
‘Means my bosses don’t really approve of you being here. I made the request without asking them.’
Mitzi raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you like having your ass kicked?’
‘It’s a tough old ass and it’s been kicked so much I don’t feel the pain no more.’
They pull up at the main entrance of the British Embassy. Both cops clock the plethora of surveillance cameras and heavy-duty guards with machine-guns and sniffer dogs.
Irish winds down the window and dangles his ID for a gate guard. ‘We’re investigating a major crime and need to speak to the ambassador, or one of his representatives.’
The security man lifts the road barrier. ‘Park over there and we’ll do some checks, then I’ll take you round to the rear entrance. One of the consular officials will come and speak to you.’
‘Thanks.’ Irish drives through and parks in a visitor space.
Mitzi gets out and takes in the red brick and ivy, the grand windows and pristine gardens. ‘Not bad. I guess at a push I could live here.’
31
Nabil Tabrizi has been a cell commander for only eighteen months. The bomb factory was his first big responsibility. One he screwed up.
He knows the CIA didn’t simply get lucky. His operation was taken out two days before they were ready to blow up Wall Street. Someone acted on top-quality information. Possibly from the inside.
Brought up in The Bronx, he is outwardly as much a New Yorker as most. But his heart has been with al-Qaeda ever since he was bullied at school for being Muslim. Long before his cousin was beaten to death by rednecks because he bore the same name as Khalid Sheik Mohammed, one of the masterminds of the World Trade Center attacks.
Nabil meets his contact in a back room of a lawyer’s office near Stan’s Sports bar, a ball’s throw from the Yankee Stadium. The thin, black-eyed man sits in the shadows.
‘You have been compromised from within, Nabil.’ The words hang in the musty air. ‘You do realize that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, Imam.’ He knows he must be both contrite and focused if he is to survive. ‘I am very sorry this has happened.’
‘Do you have any idea who it might be?’
‘Not Abbas or Samir. They were both taken by the authorities. And not Tamir; he was killed.’
‘Who does that leave?’
‘Halem and Malek are the only others. Malek was the bomb-maker, so I don’t think it was him.’
‘Then it may be Halem. But who is least known to you?’
He has to think for a moment. ‘Samir and Halem.’
‘This Halem, has he run?’
‘No. He is still around, which is why I think it may not be him.’
The Imam scratches at his beard. ‘It is not impossible that the Americans have arrested one of their own, in order to make him look guilty. They could always release him later and say they had to because of judicial problems.’
‘You think it might be one of them?’
‘I think nothing, Nabil. These are your men — it is you who must think. Think and act decisively. Does the holy book not tell us “fight the unbelievers around you, and let them find harshness in you?”’
‘Yes, Imam, it does.’
‘Then that is what you must do.’
Nabil feels relieved. He is going to be given a second chance. ‘When I look into their faces, I will know who betrayed me.’
The Iman raises his arm and knocks twice on the wall behind him. The shadowy space he’s sitting in is broken by yellow light from an opening door. A large, olive-skinned man enters, dressed in baggy white trousers and a white vest that showcases gym-pumped arms. His head has been shaved and his angular face is framed in a beard shadow as dark as his eyes.
‘This is Aasif,’ he explains. ‘My most trusted enforcer. For now, he is your new recruit. He will help protect you and get to the truth.’
‘Thank you.’ Nabil bows his head in gratitude.
Aasif steps out of the shadows and stands intimidatingly close to his new colleague.
‘I have a test for you and your men.’ He looks up to the giant at his side. ‘Take him in the back room, Aasif and show him our “lie detector”.’
Through the shadows, Nabil sees a glint of teeth, the hint of a rare smile.
‘Go. It will help you determine who your traitor is — and teach the Americans a lesson into the bargain.’
32
Breakfast is served in the Gwyns’ ornate Edwardian conservatory. The golden light of what is becoming a beautiful morning rests on white linen tables and sparkles on china plates and silver cutlery.
Owain is distracted. Myrddin’s prophecies and the long conversation of last night are playing on his mind. That and Mardrid’s mafia-like movements in the third world. Gradually, he becomes conscious of a white-coated waiter who’s appeared at the table. ‘Some Ceylon tea, fresh berries and a croissant, please.’
The young waiter looks to Lance Beaucoup, who is settling into a chair.
‘Just coffee and a croissant. Merci.’
The waiter drifts off to his duties.
Lance nods to the third place set at the table. ‘Is Lady Gwyn joining us?’
‘No, she’s already out. Apparently, while we were having our extra fencing session she decided to go and ride the new horse that threw her the other day.’