He looks concerned. ‘Was she hurt?’
‘Just her pride. It’s a Welsh Cob stallion, a giant white that really doesn’t want to be tamed.’
‘That is part of the Welsh character, is it not?’
‘It is.’ He looks amused. ‘I feel for the horse. Eventually, Jenny will win. She always does.’
‘This is why I never married.’ He laughs.
‘I hope one day you’ll feel differently.’
The waiter returns with breakfast on a large silver tray. He holds it while a young waitress in a dark uniform pours the tea and coffee and serves the food.
Owain waits until they’ve walked away before he strikes up a new conversation. ‘Has the Knight’s Cross been returned to the burial ground?’
‘It has. Gawain and Danforth did it last night.’
‘Good. I am still shocked and sickened that Angelo would commit such sacrilege. Robbing the grave of a fallen brother; it turns my stomach.’
‘Grave-s. Remember he took three crosses.’
‘Indeed. We have three fallen brothers who’ve been foully stripped of their honour. Is security now what it should be?’
‘It is. And we are reviewing procedures in other countries as well.’ Lance hesitates before voicing a more delicate question. ‘Would you like me to ask George to review the British resting grounds, or would you rather tell him yourself? They and the French ones are after all the oldest and most significant.’
‘You tell him.’ He’s pleased that Lance is pushing the boundaries of his authority, developing into a natural leader. ‘I’m done here; I need to get to work.’ He wipes his hands on his napkin and gets to his feet.
Lance follows suit. ‘I will join you. If I stay here I will only fall asleep or drink too much coffee.’
They leave the conservatory and head into the main part of the house. A long corridor takes them to a set of stairs that drop another landing.
The two men use retinal and fingertip identification to pass into a short, wood-panelled cul-de-sac of three doors. The one to the left is filled by members of the Watch Team. To the right, Sir Owain’s private office.
Straight ahead is the SSOA command centre. The heartbeat of their Order.
33
After security checks have been completed, Mitzi and Irish are left in a high-ceilinged, dusty waiting room full of echoes and framed photographs of generations of British monarchs.
Half an hour ticks by.
Mitzi’s gossamer-thin patience is starting to shred when a blue-suited blond man strides in.
‘Hello, I’m Richard Stevens — how might I help you?’
Irish badges him and spills several balled up tissues in the process. ‘Lieutenant Fitzgerald from DC Police and this is Mitzi Fallon, from the FBI.’ He pauses while she produces her credentials.
Stevens takes both IDs and examines them carefully before returning them. ‘And you’re here, why?’
‘We’re running a homicide investigation and need your help.’ Irish gives a friendly shrug. ‘Hell, I know there are all those procedural channels and policies, but I could sure do with cutting through the red tape and getting a jump on our killer. Can I ask you something?’
The young attaché says nothing.
‘Take a look at these for me.’ Irish opens a brown envelope and shows blow-up photos the lab rushed for him late last night. ‘This Lincoln is registered to the British Embassy; we checked the plates.’ He hands a print to Stevens. ‘We need to know who was driving it last Friday night and where it is now?’
‘Do you have a record book of that kind of thing?’ asks Mitzi. ‘A driver we can talk to?’
Stevens hands the photograph back to Irish. ‘I’m sorry; you’re going to have to go through those dreadful channels. Probably best to have your Chief of Police contact the State Department and let them deal with it appropriately.’ He taps the face of his wristwatch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to.’
Mitzi presses. ‘If you don’t have time, maybe your boss does?’
‘That’s not possible.’ He looks amused. ‘If you were better informed you would know that Sir Owain Gwyn’s tenure is up. He returned to Britain yesterday along with his staff.’ He pre-empts her next question. ‘I have stayed on merely to help the new ambassador settle in. And he won’t be here today, or the rest of this week for that matter.’
She steps into the attaché’s personal space. ‘Do I look like a barn wall?’
The consular agent looks confused. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I just wondered — what with all that whitewash you just slopped over me.’
His tone alters. ‘I’m officially asking you to leave. If you don’t, I will call security and have you forcibly removed.’
‘We’re going.’ Mitzi pats him playfully on the cheek as she walks past. ‘Love your accent, honey. God save the freakin’ queen.’
34
For the past three years, Halem Hussain has been a trusted member of Nabil Tabrizi’s terror cell. Not for one moment has anyone within the group suspected he might be Antun Bhatti, a devoted member of the SSOA, a secret organization known to only a few people in the world.
But today, things are different.
Given the raid by the Counter-Terrorist Unit, he knows Nabil must consider him, and everyone else left alive, as the possible source of a leak to the authorities.
He sits in a circle of hard chairs, in the damp basement of a safe house off Westchester Avenue, just a nervous spit from where the Cross Bronx Expressway hits Parkchester Metro and the Hugh J. Grant Circle. He’s a stranger to the place. Brought here by Nabil, they made five different changes of transport and went to extraordinary lengths to make sure they weren’t tailed.
He and Malek the bomber have been searched and electronically ‘brushed’ for bugs by a man Nabil simply introduced as Aasif.
The young cell commander looks strained and worried. He leans on his knees as he speaks. ‘One of our colleagues is dead. Others have been captured by the Americans. Yet, the two of you, Malek and Halem, escaped unhurt. No bullet wounds. No scratches. No arrests. Tell me why did Allah look so favourably upon you?’
The small grey-haired bomb-maker, answers first. ‘When the Americans blew open the door I was in the toilet. This saved me from the blast and the gunfire. I praise Allah and I pray for those who were not as lucky as me. My work will bring glory to the rest of our team, I swear it.’
Nabil studies the man by his side. ‘And you, Halem?’
Antun doesn’t rush his answer. He hangs his head in shame.
‘Brother! I am waiting for your explanation.’
Finally, he looks up. His eyes are moist. ‘I was frightened.’ He lets the admission sink in. ‘I was thrown to the floor when the Americans fired their explosives and I stayed there.’ He drops his head again, before continuing. ‘I was too scared to move and hoped they didn’t kill me. Then part of the roof collapsed and I took the chance to run rather than fight.’ He raises his eyes. ‘Then I called and told you what had happened.’
Nabil remembers his horror at learning of the raid. Halem had indeed been the first to alert him and, had he not, maybe he would have been arrested or killed by the Americans. ‘There is a traitor among us. Of that, I am sure. It may be one of you, or perhaps even Abbas or Samir. For the moment, I cannot be certain. But I will be.’ He puts a hand on the man at his side. ‘Aasif, show them how we will find out.’
The enforcer dips his hands into a black garbage bag that the imam has given him and lifts out a thick fold of light brown canvas. As he unrolls it, a tangle of coloured wires and deep pockets packed with explosives and shrapnel become visible.