It took Lang three tries to Alicia's personal office number before someone else answered.
No, Ms. Warner was not in her office. No, she had not called in. The anonymous coworker was certain Alicia had an appointment out of the office and had simply forgotten to tell anyone.
Lang was less sure.
FORTY-THREE
British Airways Flight 721
Somewhere over the Mediterranean
That Night
Lang usually enjoyed British comedy, with its understated humor and cleverly absurd situations. Tonight, though, he watched the Hugh Grant movie on the individual screen without really seeing it. Instead he saw the shadow in the mist, a figure now recognizable.
Maybe.
His rush from the Khan al-Khalil to the airport had gotten him there only twenty-five minutes before a departure for London's Heathrow. When he'd been told by an unconcerned ticket agent that the plane was full, a wad of bills provided enough baksheesh to purchase not only a ticket but also an avoidance of time-consuming if indifferent security. The ease with which he evaded supposed protection against bomb-toting candidates for Islamic martyrdom du jour did little to make him feel safe, but it did get him to the gate in time. A bored glance at his forged passport, a nod from the accompanying ticket agent, no doubt signaling a willingness to share the newfound wealth, and he eased himself into a first-class seat.
He tried not to think of the righteous indignation of whomever he had displaced.
Instead he utilized his flight-induced insomnia to review the few facts he knew about whoever it was that wanted him dead. He had concluded that the reason was the white powder, the manna, or whatever it was with such amazing chemical and physical properties. The stuff simply didn't answer all the questions, though. If two scientists working for the foundation an ocean apart had discovered it, it could not have been such an impossible secret. In his mind he replayed the morning's conversation with bin Hamish and the revelations of Dr. Shaffer in Vienna.
Perhaps it was not the powder; perhaps it was…
He shook his head to decline the offer of a beverage by a flight attendant, regulation smile in place. The noun drink apparently did not exist in the airlines' lexicon.
The scene at the marketplace had added another riddle: Why didn't Tweedledum and Tweedledee call for backup from the local police?
There was only one reason he could think of in retrospect.
Somewhere between that thought and the glare of the next morning's light, the weariness that was the dregs of the day's adrenaline surge took over.
FORTY-FOUR
New Scotland Yard
Broadway
London
The Next Afternoon
Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam scowled at the grainy photograph on his desk, the product of an airport security camera. The man tendering his passport might have been traveling under the name of Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia, but face-recognition technology revealed him to be Langford Reilly.
IRA terrorism of the seventies and eighties had spawned the know-how of storing facial features in data banks. With cameras all over Great Britain, the average Englishman had his picture taken almost daily, a Londoner three times a day. The Irish killers had long since swapped bombs and guns for pin-striped suits and negotiating sessions, but the cameras remained. Like any other government intrusion, once begun, the program was unlikely to end nor the technology to be scrapped.
Mr. Reilly had appeared on one of the cameras at Gatwick a week or so ago, and again the same day on another that scanned London's streets. Although Fitzwilliam had been alerted, there was nothing to be done. In spite of the suspected murder in the West End, the shooting of two unknown thugs on the streets of South Dock, and the surprising discovery in Portugal a few years ago, the American had been cleared of any wrongdoing. There had been no reason to detain him.
Innocence, of course, had no place in data banks.
That had been before the Yard had received notice from Interpol that Reilly was wanted for questioning in connection with a murder in Vienna.
Fitzwilliam exhaled wearily as he turned to the computer terminal on his desk. Some people simply could not shake off the violence that followed them any more than Patel, the inspector's immediate subordinate, could rid himself of the smell of curry.
A few taps on the keyboard and a list of names appeared. The inspector squinted over half-moon glasses at the screen. It seemed each year the font became harder to read, no doubt some space-saving economy by the Yard's accounting boffins. He refused to accept that age had anything to do with the matter.
There it was: Annueliwitz, Jacob, wife Rachel. A flat on Lambeth Road on South Dock. A barrister, unsurprisingly with offices at the Middle Temple Inn.
He printed out the addresses before summoning Patel.
The man appeared silently with the smile that perpetually lit his dark face. Even dressed in a suit and without a canteen, Patel reminded Fitzwilliam of a modern-day Gunga Din. The inspector mentally chastised himself. Let a word of that slip and it would be sensitivity training instead of police work for a fortnight at least.
The policeman handed both addresses and the picture across the desk. 'Send a couple of lads to watch both these places. If this Reilly chap shows up, I want him brought in. There's an international warrant on him.'
Patel, grin still intact, reached for the papers.
'No, on second thought, send four men to each.' He caught himself in another politically incorrect gaffe.
'Officers. Men or women. And make sure they're armed. The bloke has been implicated in some pretty rough activity.'
Patel nodded his understanding. 'Like the killings a few years back? Should I have vests and rifles issued?'
Fitzwilliam regarded his subaltern for a moment before deciding the man was serious. 'Hardly a way to avoid attracting attention, wouldn't you say?'
Grin undiminished and gentle reprimand ignored, Patel turned and left the inspector staring at his office's walls. Sodding rotten luck, having Reilly show up, unbidden as Banquo's ghost, on the night Shandon, his wife, had booked theater tickets.
FORTY-FIVE
Middle Temple Inn
Fleet Street
London
Minutes Later
Jacob listened patiently as Lang brought him up-to-date.
Removing the dead pipe from his mouth, he stared into the bowl as he reached for the nail-like tool. 'So, your
