They had found her.
7
C?dmon Aisquith opened the door to Starbucks, assailed by the inviting aroma of fresh-ground coffee and cinnamon scones.
Such scents made one forget, at least temporarily, that one inhabited a most uncivilized world. A world where brutal acts of violence took place with chilling regularity.
When he reached the head of the queue, C?dmon ordered a hazelnut coffee, wondering who the devil had thought it a clever idea to call the small size a Grande. It made him think of an insecure bloke describing the length of his appendage.
Cup in hand, he glanced about the interior jam-packed with small bistro tables, each customer an island unto him- or herself. Espying a favourable looking islet he strode in that direction, seating himself next to the window, his own porthole onto the world. His position would enable him to simultaneously keep an eye on the pedestrian traffic outside the window while monitoring each and every customer who entered the shop. Although he tried to shake off his earlier unease, he was still troubled by the anonymous phone call he had received at the bookshop.
Knowing the Irish to be a persistent bunch, he removed his mobile and placed it in clear view on the tabletop. If they made contact again, he would be ready for them.
The rules of polite behaviour not so rigidly adhered to in the Americas, he dunked his scone into his coffee. Purposefully nonchalant, he took a bite. Then, acting like a man totally absorbed in scone and coffee, he surreptitiously glanced out the window. From his vantage point, he had a view clear across all four lanes of Connecticut Avenue to the Church of Scientology nestled in the trees beyond. Idly, he wondered how long Tom Cruise’s marriage to Katie –
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, catching himself pondering the inane.
Although pondering the inane was better by far than pondering old memories.
The memory in question had been named Juliana Howe. A reporter for the BBC, Jules had been a media darling, having acquired a well-earned reputation for edgy reporting.
As fate would have it, their relationship began as a routine undercover operation. When MI5 caught wind of the fact that Juliana Howe was in contact with a North African terrorist cell, they sent him in to assess the situation and uncover her source. Playing the absent-minded but sincere Charing Cross book dealer, C?dmon worked the case for six months. Like a pastry chef applying layers of icing to a wedding cake, he slowly gained Juliana’s confidence over drinks at the Fox and Hounds, dinner dates at Le Caprice and evenings spent at Covent Garden. Thus the legend of Peter Willoughby-Jones was born, C?dmon becoming the man that an MI5 background check had indicated would most appeal to the gently bred and well-educated Juliana Howe.
He also became the intelligence officer who committed the unpardonable and tragic sin of falling in love with his target. Tragic because the object of his affection would always know him as Peter Willoughby-Jones. Because of the nature of her work, the background investigators at Thames House deemed Juliana Howe a high-level security risk. Meaning he could never reveal to her his true identity.
After the North African cell had been put under lock and key, C?dmon continued his relationship with Juliana, unable to give her up. He assured his superiors that there was still more intelligence to be gleaned, that being in daily contact with an investigative reporter at the BBC would pay dividends. When the Real Irish Republican Army detonated a bomb in front of the BBC, his section chief suddenly agreed. But the bloody bastards in the RIRA weren’t content to stop there. Bent on terrorizing London, they detonated several more bombs that summer, including another at the BBC.
This bomb took from him the woman he loved above all others. And because a man who has lost his heart becomes a heartless bastard, C?dmon took it upon himself to right that horrible wrong. After he hunted down Timothy O’Halloran, the RIRA leader responsible for the bombing campaign, he spent weeks in a pickled state, like an inebriate in a Hogarth engraving. The pain unbearable, he discovered that killing O’Halloran had not exorcised the demons of that fateful explosion. It had merely satisfied his need for revenge. But revenge did not bring solace. Nor redemption. It only taught him that he had the capacity to kill.
Not an easy revelation for any man.
When he finally came to his sober senses, he discovered that MI5 does not abandon its own, no matter the transgression. But it does punish them. Demoted to maintaining a safe house in Paris, it was five years before he was discharged from the service. Finally, a free man.
C?dmon glanced at the mobile on the table, recollecting the earlier call. Maybe he’d been too quick to cut the old ties.
‘Rather late, old boy, for that,’ he muttered, garnering a pointed glance from a horse-faced woman at the next table. He smiled apologetically. ‘Don’t mind me. I tend to ramble on when lost in thought.’
‘Glad to hear I’m not the only one who talks to themselves.’ She met his gaze and held it. An overture.
‘Yes, quite.’ His mobile softly chimed, notifying him of an incoming email. Relieved to have a graceful exit, he picked up the device. ‘I apologize, but I must attend to business.’
‘Oh, sure.’ Blushing all the way to her widow’s peak, his neighbour took a sudden interest in adjusting the plastic lid on her coffee cup.
C?dmon accessed his email file. Staring at the log, he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, having no recollection of giving his email address to anyone named Edie Miller. Although that didn’t mean his publicist hadn’t given it to someone at a book signing. Assuming that to be the case, he opened the email rather than delete it outright.
His eyes narrowed, the missive not what he expected.
‘Indeed,’ he murmured, reading the postscript.
8
Edie Miller replaced the wireless headset in her ear.
She wasn’t going to run. She wasn’t going to hide.
She was going to play dumb.
‘My safety and well-being? Um, gee, I have no idea what your t-talking about. I’m doing just fine.’ Her voice noticeably warbled, bravado slow in coming.
‘Come now, Ms Miller. Let’s not play games with one another,’ the caller replied, seeing right through her. ‘We both know that you were at the Hopkins Museum earlier today.’
Her hands began to shake, the Jeep straying out of its lane. A UPS truck to the left of her laid on the horn causing Edie to swerve back. Hitting the turn signal, she navigated the Jeep into the inner lane of Dupont Circle.
‘Of course I was at the museum,’ she replied, the best lies those fashioned from the truth. ‘I’m at the museum every Monday. It’s the only day of the week that I can take photos of the collection. But you already know that.’ She dramatically sighed, hoping she sounded like a whipped and defeated cog. ‘Linda in payroll has been threatening for weeks to tell on me for not clocking out when I leave the museum. I know. I know. Really bad habit. Guess you guys in audit finally caught up to me, huh?’
‘Is it also your habit to exit the museum via the fire escape?’
‘Oh, gosh…
‘And what of your satchel? You left it on your desk. Is that also another of your bad habits?’
