ago.
The room where she waited was bare of any decoration, only the essential furnishings, a square table, big enough for two people on each side, but at this moment with only three chairs.
Sarah was seated on a small black sofa, uncomfortable, since it tipped back. Five clocks hung on the walls with plaques lower down identifying the place to which they referred. From left to right, it was three hours and three minutes in the morning in London, four and three in Paris, twenty-two and three in Washington, six and three in Moscow, and the same time in Baghdad. Time may be different, but it never stops.
Sarah’s sigh expressed fatigue and discomfort. The hours of waiting had already been long. She had no idea why. Now she wished she’d accepted the offer of food, but since Templar had left at six o’clock, no one else had bothered to offer any. Sarah spent the time sunk into the sofa or pacing. She tried to call Simon Lloyd and the paper, but the calls wouldn’t go through, in spite of a signal for the network on the cell phone. Luckily the room had a small bathroom, clean, thank God, that Sarah used twice. If the idea of all this was to break her down psychologically, it was working. She would have said anything they wanted and signed whatever they put in front of her. She had looked at the door several times without approaching it. The numerical key box next to the lock required a code to open it, but Sarah hadn’t wanted to see whether the lock was in fact activated. It was a way to avoid feeling like a captive. During the first hours she went over the possible questions they might ask her. There were many things. She couldn’t think of a reason why they might be concerned with the murder of Pope Luciani. No, that secret was well guarded, and it was not in JC’s interest that the British interfere in that subject. It had to be something else. But what? Six digits were pressed into the keypad outside the room. Finally, the answers were coming.
Two men entered. Sarah immediately recognized Simon Templar. Sarah jumped up, as if her body automatically knew how to react.
‘Sarah Monteiro,’ said the man she didn’t know. ‘Come and sit in this chair, please,’ he said, putting his hands on the back of the single chair across the table.
Sarah complied as if the request were an order. The agent pulled out the chair for her like a good waiter at a high-priced restaurant. She couldn’t help feeling nervous after so many hours of waiting, but she tried to hide it as much as possible. She couldn’t show weakness at a moment like this. Simon Templar had already sat down in one of the chairs across from Sarah and waited for his colleague. An atmosphere of cooperation had been created. A file was placed on the table. The letters on the label stuck on the cover were too small for Sarah to read.
‘Sarah Monteiro.’ The same man opening the dossier spoke again. ‘The lady is a very mysterious woman.’
‘I am?’ The only words that came to mind.
‘Yes, Sarah,’ he confirmed in a friendly tone. ‘A woman of many secrets.’
‘I don’t know why you say that,’ she dissembled.
‘Yes you do,’ the agent pressed her. ‘But before we debate the subject that has brought us here, I’d like you to take a look at this.’ The unnamed agent pulled some photographs out of the dossier and slid them over the table to Sarah. ‘You covered the city in dust a few hours ago.’
Sarah looked at the first photograph in A4 format that showed a London bus with its windows blown out and dents in the body. Other vehicles were in the same condition. Glass and debris were scattered across the street.
‘Do you recognize the place?’
The second photograph showed a house, completely destroyed, or at least it seemed so, missing doors and windows, only the skeleton of walls remaining and the street number over what had been the portico.
‘But… but… this is my…’ Words failed her.
‘It’s true,’ said the only agent speaking at the moment. ‘This is what’s left of your house.’
‘But how?’ She was unable to take her eyes from the photograph.
‘Really, you should thank Agent Templar for being so solicitous when he went to find you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Sarah continued, astonished, eyes wide, examining every inch of the photo.
‘As you can see, all this damage was done by an explosive device triggered by turning the key in the lock. It could have been you, Sarah.’
Sarah reflected on this for a few moments, completely devastated. Someone had tried to kill her and gone to enormous lengths to do it. It could have been her turning the key in the lock, as the agent pointed out. It could have been…
‘Oh, my God.’ She raised her voice nervously. Simon. She remembered her intern. He was the one who opened the door. She told him to. She hid her face in her arms, leaning her head on the table. This couldn’t be true.
‘He’s alive,’ was all the agent said.
‘He is?’
‘He suffered some scrapes, some broken bones, but he’ll survive. It could’ve been worse. He’s in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,’ he informed her.
A wave of relief passed over Sarah. Scrapes and broken bones could be dealt with. Death could not.
‘We have to go into this more deeply,’ the agent alerted her. ‘But, as you know, this isn’t the reason we’ve invited you here,’ he said as he took the photographs back from Sarah.
Invited me? He calls this inviting? He’s craz y, she thought.
‘My house has been destroyed. What else is there to talk about?’
‘I understand your reaction, but, believe me, right now there are more important things.’
‘Yes, Sarah.’ The first words Simon Templar had spoken since he picked her up nine hours ago. ‘Let Agent Fox ask the questions. Later we’ll talk about what happened to your house.’
‘It’s natural for the lady to be worried about what happened to her house, Simon,’ the recently baptized Agent Fox added.
‘Sure, but with all due respect to Miss Monteiro, we have more important things to talk about. You know that, John.’
‘More important than putting a bomb in my house, and wounding my assistant?’ Sarah was furious.
‘In fact… there are things much more important than that,’ Agent John Fox informed Sarah, while handing over three more photographs to her. ‘Recognize any of these people?’
This time there were three portraits in three-by-five format. The first, an older man with immaculate white hair. Sarah’s hand caused the glossy paper to tremble. Her nerves were on edge. Of course, they’d blown her house away without a thought, and she’d been the target. Almost a year later, her life was again hanging by a slender thread that could break at any moment. The photograph was taken when the man was getting into a green taxi with Arabic script indicating somewhere in the Middle East.
‘I don’t know him,’ she concluded.
‘Are you sure?’ Agent Fox pressed her.
‘Absolutely,’ Sarah insisted. ‘I’ve never seen that man.’ She looked again at the old man in the photograph. ‘Why? Should I know him?’
‘It depends on your relations with CIA operatives,’ Simon Templar cut in bluntly.
Sarah didn’t expect this. What would the old man in the photograph have to do with the CIA? In moments like this she doubted what she could say or not, what they knew or acted like they knew. It was difficult to handle these connections. What was certain was that she didn’t know the man in the photograph and they couldn’t accuse her of anything… until she knew different.
‘I have no relationship with the CIA, as you ought to know.’ She decided to protect herself. ‘I have as much as I have with you.’
If they suspected something, they’d continue following the same line of questioning; otherwise they’d move on. This was how they worked, and Sarah knew it. They throw out the bait and wait to see what they reel in.
‘That man was named Solomon Keys, and he was a longtime CIA agent,’ John informed her.
‘Was named?’ Now he’s not?
‘He was killed two days ago in Amsterdam.’
The men looked at Sarah as if expecting a confession or a comment.
‘If you think I had something to do with that, several people can confirm I was covering the G8 summit in Edinburgh.’ She hastened to clear herself.
