wondrous mechanisms intact. Citizens were rooting through the rubble, taking souvenirs.
TWO
Training tells us a disaster is “anything that overwhelms you,” and this qualified. So many bodies in unknown states of bleeding and shock, the clock ticking for those whose breathing was falling off. No latex gloves, tourniquets, face masks, defibrillator.
“Anybody who can move, come to me!” I shouted.
Stunned residents who had left their flats lined up compliantly where directed, in front of a grocery store across the street, eager to obey anyone who seized authority. Once herded to safety, they raised their arms in unison to take pictures with their cell phones, staring at the tiny screens like invaders from another planet.
I began to triage the victims, tapping their heads and shouting, “Are you okay? I’m trained; I can help you,” pushing through the nausea and fear to focus on checking vital signs so I could direct the arriving paramedics. Marcos’s little brother was an “Immediate” but later tagged “Dead,” having succumbed to massive bleeding and a severed spine. I never found out what happened to the father, or to the man in the linen suit.
Despite Sterling’s command to disassociate myself from the incident, the first thing I did was to let them know I was FBI. This led to a clipped conversation with Inspector Ian Reilly from the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, a florid-faced dinosaur with a bad head cold, for whom I summarized my view of events: the taunting shout, the release of automatic weapon fire apparently aimed at the restaurant, the getaway north on Edgewater Crescent Road.
After making sure I was tended by a medic, Inspector Reilly sent me by squad car to Metropolitan Police headquarters at New Scotland Yard, a gray-windowed tower on Broadway, where I sat in a nondescript airless room with a female Pakistani sketch artist, collaborating on a composite drawing of the driver of the Ford. He ended up looking like every thug you’ve ever met — a long face, straight eyebrows, a prominent nose, dark curly hair, scowling eyes beneath a baseball cap.
When we sat down several hours later, Inspector Reilly wanted to know if I had ever met Clint Eastwood. I am based in Los Angeles, after all. I had to tell him that sadly, I had not, and asked what had been determined by the forensic team. Had they checked all the surveillance cameras in the area? Had they retrieved shell casings? Were there tire tracks? Who were the targets? What was the theory? A turf war? Random violence? Terrorists or organized crime?
Inspector Reilly was not eager to share. He did remark dryly that two witnesses reported that the driver had been wearing a turban. “No,” I assured him. “A baseball cap.” To his credit, he saw me not as a colleague but as a witness to the point-blank execution of seven people, who needed to be interviewed with sensitivity. Just as patiently, I went through the hoops.
When we were both satisfied that we had done our jobs, he said he would get me a ride back to South Kensington. It was seven in the morning and everyone in London seemed to be going in the opposite direction, toward the canyons of the financial center. My eyes burned with exhaustion as I stepped from the lobby of headquarters to find a glossy black Opel sedan waiting at the curb. It was too nice to be a Metropolitan Police car. A clean-cut driver hopped out, wearing a smartly tailored suit.
“Special Agent Ana Grey?”
He was American.
“I’m Ana Grey. Are you sure I’m the one you’re waiting for?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He opened the rear door. Sitting in the impeccably clean backseat was a big-boned woman in her fifties wearing a nubby black suit and something I can never manage to get right: cream-colored sling-back heels. Her short blond hair was styled in waves that curled around gold shell earrings. Her cheeks were veined from what I imagined to be decades of Midwest winters. On her lap was a red leather business tote. You knew that all the accessories inside matched.
“Ana,” she said warmly. “Good to meet you. I’m Audrey Kuser, the FBI legat in London. How are you doing?”
“Hanging in.”
She inspected my face. “Rough night?”
“Better for me than for a lot of other people.”
She saw that I was looking at the
“You won’t find your name in the paper. The Bureau isn’t publicizing the fact that an American FBI agent was present at the attack.”
“Not planning to write home about it.”
“I’m sorry for what you went through. How are you feeling?”
“Dog tired, and disgusted with human nature. But I’m okay. If I weren’t, I’d tell you.”
“I want you to check in with a counselor.”
“Sure thing.”
“Excuse me while I just finish this.” She was tapping the keys of a BlackBerry with the square corners of manicured nails. “Here we go. Your flight is confirmed. David?” she asked the driver. “Can we stop in South Kensington and make it to the airport by eight-thirty?”
“No worries.”
He accelerated into traffic.
“Am I being deported to L.A.?” I asked, half joking.
She pressed a button, causing the glass divider to slide up so the driver couldn’t hear our conversation. She was Bureau, all right.
“You’re going to Rome.”
“Rome,” I repeated. Not a question, but a statement of astounding fact.
She nodded and removed a folder from the red tote. “You are now on official business. A couple of weeks ago, a call came in to the Los Angeles field office from a woman named Cecilia Maria Nicosa. Ring a bell?”
“Negative.”
“She claims to be related to you. She says you two have never met.”
“That’s for sure. Where does she live?”
“Siena, Italy.”
“I don’t know anyone in Italy.”
The legat stayed patiently on point.
“She’s been trying to find you for a while. She hired a private investigator.”
“I’m flattered, but why?”
“She claims to be holding a small inheritance for you from a family member in El Salvador. Besides, she wants to meet you.”
“Why?” I repeated dumbly.
Ms. Kuser seemed amused. “That’s often what people in families do.”
“It’s strange to me. I have no close relatives left.”
“We know.”
“Of course you know.”
I stiffened in the seat, waking up to the hard-core nature of the inquiry. I would not be driving around London with the FBI legat if something weren’t seriously up.
“This woman is from
“I didn’t say she’s Italian,” Audrey Kuser said with an edge. “I said she
