At first, he took only a professional interest in Gabriel’s activities. Gabriel’s contacts with radical elements in Saudi Arabia left no doubt that he wished to see his brother’s plans to fruition. Gabriel was building a shadow government to be run by men from the armed forces, national guard, and foreign ministry. To finance their activities, he was playing the market, making equity investments and trading in currencies with extraordinary success. It soon became clear that Gabriel had a knack not only for fomenting a coup, but for value investing.
With careful planning and forethought, Glendenning began copying the Saudi’s trades. If Gabriel bought ten thousand shares of Coca-Cola, Glendenning bought a hundred. If Gabriel purchased call options on IBM, Glendenning did the same. “Piggybacking” it was called in the business. Profits were in the hundreds, not thousands. But over time, the sums added up. His investments increased and so did his profits. After a few years, Glendenning boasted a hefty account at one of the more discreet offshore banks that the Agency liked to patronize.
He had made the decision to retire from the Company when Marc Gabriel called him.
It was blackmail pure and simple, and Glendenning couldn’t say no. Gabriel had known for some time about Glendenning’s activities. He, too, had friends in corner offices, and he was able to present Glendenning with a catalogue of his misdeeds. The sheer lack of options made Glendenning’s complicity an easy matter for his conscience to swallow. Gabriel didn’t ask for anything much, just that Glendenning keep an eye on the intelligence community and make sure no one got too close. It was a domestic matter, he promised. Strictly an internal Saudi affair.
But the events of September 11, 2001, magnified the scope and intensity of the intelligence world’s interest in Middle Eastern affairs one-hundred-fold. When Sarah Churchill had phoned from London saying she’d identified a new group calling itself Hijira, Glendenning could do little to impede her investigations without provoking questions about his commitment to stamp out terrorism in all its forms. Warnings that he’d sent had been largely ignored by Gabriel’s field operatives. But Gabriel pressed for more. During the past week, he had been relentless, demanding information about the inner workings of Blood Money, threatening to expose him to Gadbois, to frame him for the deaths of the three Treasury agents, if he refused to comply.
Anyway, it was through between them. Glendenning had done the man his last favor. Gabriel had his bomb. He could blow up half of Saudi Arabia as far as the admiral was concerned.
Slipping on his dinner jacket, Glendenning grabbed his walking sticks and hobbled to the stairs. The first thing he’d do when he retired was build himself an elevator, he mused as he made his way to the bar and fixed himself a cocktail. He poured a liberal dose of Russian vodka into a highball glass, threw in a few ice cubes, and added a twist of lemon.
“Claire,” he called out. “Ready, love? It’s time we got moving. Can’t keep the President waiting.”
A whiff of perfume drifted from the bathroom, where she was changing, and he thought of the ways his life had changed since he’d met her. The decision to cast off a cloying wife and end a loveless marriage had been a vote for his future. He looked forward to helping Claire through her illness. After, they would marry. He would retire to an island in the Caribbean, where Gabriel would be just a bad dream and life a series of golden sunsets and passionate nights.
“Claire,” he called again. One thing was the same about all women. They took a helluva long time to get themselves pretty. Taking a long sip, he set the glass down on his coffee table, only to pick it right back up and search for a coaster. How many times had he heard about moisture rings on the antique Williamsburg table?
The doorbell rang.
Glendenning froze, caught between looking for a confounded coaster and answering the door. His eye fell on the invitation to the state dinner. Snatching it in his fingers, he laid it on the table and put his drink down on it. “There now, you happy?” he called to the shadow of his soon-to-be ex-wife. Walking to the door, he checked his watch. It was nearly seven. He wasn’t expecting a visitor.
“Yes,” said Owen Glendenning, opening the door. It was Sam Spencer, the eternally youthful technician who ran the FBI’s videotape enhancement unit.
“I’ve got it, Admiral,” the man blurted, waving a small cassette in his hand. “The woman in the videotape. I’ve identified her.”
“Have you? That’s wonderful news. Come in.”
“She’s a Saudi,” said Spencer. “From one of the ruling families.”
“That much I could have told you myself. Marc Gabriel, er… Omar al-Utaybi, the man we’re looking for in Paris, is also a Saudi. Get you a drink, Spencer? A thank-you for all your hard work.”
“A beer would be great, sir.”
“Sure thing.” Glendenning took a step toward the hall. “Claire, let’s go, sweetheart!” He smiled at Spencer. “State dinner at the White House. You couldn’t get me into this monkey suit for anything less. Come on in, then. Don’t be shy.”
As Spencer advanced into the foyer, there came the sound of a faucet being shut off. A door opened beneath the staircase, and a slim woman with thick black hair and fine features stepped from the bathroom. She was dressed in a black taffeta ball gown and white brocade evening jacket. At her neck she wore a stunning set of black pearls, but it was the bejeweled belt that captured Spencer’s attention. A rectangular buckle the size of two packs of cigarettes laid end to end and dusted with sparkling pavé diamonds.
“Here I am, Glen,” she said, then seeing Spencer: “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.”
Spencer froze, his gaze jumping between Glendenning and the woman. “Admiral…” he said haltingly.
Glendenning turned, the open beer in his hand. “What is it, Spencer?”
The FBI agent stood as if nailed to the spot, his eyes unblinking. “Admiral, that’s her. That woman is Noor al-Utaybi. She’s the lady on the tape.”
Glendenning glanced at Claire. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is Miss Charisse from the World Health Organization. Miss Charisse is my date for this evening. Claire, say hello to Sam Spencer.”
“No, sir,” said Spencer, shaking his head, and it was clear that he would not be convinced otherwise. Stepping forward, he handed Glendenning the minicassette. “You’ll want to look at the tape.”
“Claire?” said Glendenning unsurely. Why wasn’t she denying it? Why wasn’t she smiling and telling Spencer in her lovely singsong voice that he was mistaken. Why was she just standing there looking every bit as scared as he felt? “Claire,” he said again, less certainly. “Is this true?” His throat tightened as the realization took hold. Spencer was right. Claire was Marc Gabriel’s sister.
Yet, even as Glendenning began to have the first inkling of why, the bottle of beer shattered in his hand. Struck in the chest by a blunt, immensely powerful force, he staggered backward and collapsed to the floor.
Noor al-Utaybi turned and fired a single shot into Sam Spencer’s uncomprehending face.
She would be certain to express the admiral’s apologies to the President of the United States herself.
Chapter 58
Adam Chapel had been gone barely a week, but already he’d forgotten the oppressive, richly scented cloak that was a Virginia’s summer eve. At six-forty, the sky blushed with the first hint of night. Crickets sawed frantically. Farther off, a lawn mower coughed sporadically. The thermometer attached to the rearview mirror read ninety-seven degrees.