“Park up the block,” said Sarah as they passed Owen Glendenning’s home and noted the Ford Taurus parked in the driveway. “I want to have a look around before we enact the Chapel Doctrine.”
“When did it become a doctrine?” he asked. “A few minutes ago, you were calling it a ‘cheeky gambit.’ ”
The Chapel Doctrine was the equivalent of a frontal military assault. He had decided to confront Admiral Owen Glendenning with the chain of evidence linking him to Marc Gabriel, in hopes of making him reveal Gabriel’s plan. There was a corollary to the Doctrine, which he might call the Churchill Defense. While he was speaking with Glendenning, Sarah would gain entrance to his home through a back door or window and search the premises for concrete evidence of his complicity, and, Chapel hoped, be ready to lend a hand in case Glendenning was less than cooperative.
Chapel continued on a hundred yards, then pulled the Ford Explorer to the curb and killed the engine. Sarah climbed out and shook out her legs. “Let me have a quick look-see,” she said, and before he could protest, she jogged across a grassy knoll toward the thick beech forest that backed all the houses on Chain Bridge Road.
The suburb of McLean, Virginia, looked as if it hadn’t changed in fifty years, he thought, as he eyed the redbrick colonials set back from the road on leafy, rolling two-acre parcels. The phone lines had been laid underground, but otherwise, McLean had been spared the indignities of modernization. There were no corner 7-Elevens, no gas stations and minimarts, no stoplights within miles. The boys and girls madly pedaling their bicycles might have been hurrying home to eat their usual Saturday supper of fried chicken and okra before sitting down to watch Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody on their fifteen-inch black-and-white televisions.
Sarah arrived back at the car, her face flushed, but her breathing as calm as if she’d only gone for an evening stroll. “Didn’t see him,” she reported. “Lights are on and I can hear some music. There’s a second car parked up the driveway that might interest you.”
“A Beemer?”
“M3 Cabriolet. Very snazzy set of wheels for a man on a government salary.”
“All right then, let’s go have a chat with the good admiral.”
“Adam, be careful. You’re going to shock the hell out of him. There’s no telling what he’s capable of.”
“I’ll have you ‘watching my six,’ right? Isn’t that what they teach you to say in spy school?”
“I think we preferred ‘covering my ass.’ ” She took a breath. “Give me a minute to get round the back.”
As she started to leave, he clutched her hand and pulled her toward him. “Sarah,” he asked. “Mortier Caserne. I want to know how you got me out of there.” He had other questions, but if she answered the big one, she’d answer them all. How had she convinced Gadbois to free him and not keep his bosom buddy, Owen Glendenning, in the loop? How had she known about Leclerc’s private contacts?
“Later,” she said. “When we have more time.”
And then she was gone, running like a doe seeking the safer confines of the forest.
Chapel rang the doorbell and took a step back, clasping his hands over his stomach. The sound of light jazz tickled his ear. Waiting for Glendenning, he rehearsed his words. “Admiral, I believe we have a problem,” he would say calmly. The heat, the jet travel, the enduring lack of sleep had robbed him of his anger. He didn’t favor dramatics, just a straightforward recounting of the facts. Glendenning would realize that if Chapel knew this much, so would others. The past week’s stress had to have been playing on the man. “It’s time for this to stop,” Chapel would say. “Enough men had-”
Just then, Chapel heard a moan coming from inside the house.
Rushing forward, he put his ear to the door. Hearing nothing more, he trampled the flower beds in his haste to peer through the front window. Lace curtains obscured his view. He could see the outline of furniture, but no sign of a man or woman.
“Sarah!” he yelled, moving back to the walk.
Just then, the door opened. “Come in,” she said soberly.
Stepping into the foyer, Chapel was struck by the acrid scent of spent cordite, and then something else… something brash and metallic. He saw the bodies sprawled on the floor, the bamboo walking sticks lying askew, the pools of blood.
“No sign of forced entry,” said Sarah. “No struggle, either. He knew whoever it was who killed him.”
Chapel was too stunned to speak.
“Stay here,” she commanded. “Don’t touch a thing. I need to look around.”
She was back in three minutes, holding a crumpled plane ticket and a battered pink sheet of paper. “Claire Charisse signed for a pallet of expired pharmaceuticals this afternoon in Philadelphia. Here’s her plane ticket. Point of embarkation: Geneva. Return portion unused.” She looked at Chapel. “Taleel wasn’t planning on accompanying Gabriel to the States. He was planning on accompanying Claire Charisse.”
“How’s that?”
“Claire Charisse is Gabriel’s sister, Noor.”
Chapel examined the discarded airline ticket. “I don’t think she’s planning on going home.”
Sarah read over the shipping forms, mumbling the names of the different drugs. “Half these medicines contain radioactive isotopes. It’s here, Adam. The bomb is in the city. She got it in with the drugs.”
Chapel let his eyes fall to Glendenning’s corpse. It was hard not to stare at the shirt. Blood had dyed the entire chest a deep crimson and pooled on the carpet around him. Sarah knelt next to the other body. It belonged to a man with very little of his face remaining.
Sarah found his wallet and removed the identification. “FBI,” she said. “Spencer, Samuel A. Director, videotape unit.” She replaced the ID. “He’d come to tell Glendenning who he’d found on the digital tape.”
“Noor?”
Sarah looked for the tape on their bodies, but found nothing, “Maybe,” she said. “Doesn’t matter now. We know it’s her. Where’s he going, Adam? Where was Glendenning headed all dolled-up like this?”
From the corner of his eye, Chapel noticed a glimmer of gold. A flash from the coffee table. Carefully, he lifted the highball glass and picked up the invitation beneath it. The eagle of the presidential seal sparkled beneath beads of moisture. “The White House,” he said. “Eight o’clock.”
Sarah was on the phone three seconds later. Chapel watched as she dialed a Washington number, followed by four digits, and a moment after that, another two.
“Bonjour, Jean-Paul, c’est moi… oui, il est là… Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, il est à chez vous?… bien, écoutes… il me faut un smoking-?” She lowered the phone and asked Chapel, “What’s your jacket size?”
“Forty long.”
“Quarante long,” she continued. “T’as quelque chose pour moi… formidable… alors, trente minutes.”
Chapel stared at her as she put down the phone. “Who are you?” he asked.
Chapter 59
It took him five minutes to reach the crest of the highest dune near the camp. Looking north, Omar al-Utaybi surveyed the sweeping, undulant expanse of the Rub ‘al Khali. The Empty Quarter. Sand. Rock. Parched herbage. It was a landscape of despair. Yet, no other vista could thrill him as this one did.
In fewer than twelve hours, he would begin executing the plan to make it his own.
“Sheikh,” came a young boy’s cry. “The council is waiting.”
Utaybi waved to his second son from his second wife. “I shall come at once.”