“Guys.” I knelt close to them. Now I had to scare them a bit. “I went through your wallets. I know where you live. So you’re going to stay nice and calm, and if anyone finds you before I come back here you’re going to tell them someone who doesn’t look like me took your truck. You aren’t going to mention Bahjat Zaid. You aren’t going to describe me. Because I’ll vanish, and if it takes five days or five months or five years, if you piss me off, I’ll be back and you won’t see me coming. You boys understand me?”
The brothers nodded.
“Okay. I’ll be back with your truck real soon. Be good.”
I called Mila from the parking lot. I said, “I’m ready.”
She said, “I’m going inside now.”
84
Mila had gained access to the mansion by flashing a false identification that stated she was with Scotland Yard. The news crews, which had been there the night before, were gone.
Mila stood in the foyer after she’d been admitted by the sallow-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Crosby, who stood with a stricken look on her face, a handkerchief in one hand.
She said, “Two police inspectors have just left…”
Mila gave a polite, slight bow. “I apologize for intruding upon your grief, but I work in computer forensics and I need to access Mr. Zaid’s computers. We need to see who he had been in contact with, if anyone might have threatened him.”
“Mr. Zaid was a fine man,” Mrs. Crosby said. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
“You were with him a long time?”
“Yes, me and my husband both. We’ve been in his employ here for almost thirty years.”
“Excuse me,” a voice came from beyond the foyer. Mrs. Crosby went instantly silent.
Mila turned to see Yasmin and Edward stepping out from the study. Mila gave no expression that she’d seen either of them before, but her stomach lurched.
“Hello,” Edward said. “I’m Edward Maxwell, a security consultant for Mr. Zaid. May I be of help?”
The housekeeper was strangling her silken handkerchief, twisting it into a tight rope.
She’s afraid, Mila thought. This woman is scared to death.
“Well, I hope so,” she said to Edward. “I’m Inspector Mila Smith, from Scotland Yard.”
“Forgive me, but I’ve never heard of a Scotland Yard inspector with a Russian accent.”
“I am a naturalized citizen and married to the world’s greatest Manchester United fan.” She offered a small, polite laugh as Edward shook her hand. He smiled.
“Mrs. Crosby,” Edward said to the housekeeper, “it’s all right. I’ll assist the inspector. I’m not sure why the police are taking such an interest in Mr. Zaid’s heart attack.”
“We’re not convinced it was a heart attack, sir,” Mila said mildly.
Edward gave no reaction; Mrs. Crosby let out a small gasp.
Edward said, “I think it would be best if you went home, Mrs. Crosby. Unless the inspector needs to speak to you.”
“No,” Mila said softly. “That won’t be necessary.” It was as if they were in agreement: no noncombatants on the field.
Edward took a step closer to Mila. She made herself not look at the question-mark scar.
Mrs. Crosby nodded and left.
Yasmin didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. She didn’t watch the woman leave.
Mila waited until she heard the soft jingling of the housekeeper getting her keys and a back door shutting. “So. Mr. Zaid’s computer.”
Edward’s tone chilled. “I’m afraid that I can’t let you have access to Mr. Zaid’s systems. There is confidential information on them regarding Militronics business.”
“I understand, sir, but I do have a warrant.” Mila reached inside her purse.
I pulled the cap over my head and turned into the gate. I waved the key card over the pass.
The gate didn’t open. Maybe because people up at the house were busy dealing with Mila, confirming her story. Or fighting with her.
A voice squawked from the speaker by the card reader. “Yeah, who are you?”
I put on my best English accent. “Alec at Blue Lion Horse sent me. He didn’t have some of the horse feed in this week’s delivery for Mr. Zaid and I’m bringing it now.” I didn’t look directly at the camera; I looked at a notepad, checking the details of the delivery. What I was delivering wasn’t horse feed but a story to a guard who was probably already nervous, given that his boss had just died. But it is the nature of underlings to trust their eyes and I wore the cap, I drove the truck bearing the Blue Lion logo and name on the door, I lobbed the right name.
Silence for ten seconds. “Someone will meet you at the stable. Wait there.”
“It won’t take long, will it? Because I’ve got other deliveries, mate.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Thanks.” I rolled up the window.
The gates opened and I drove through.
85
Mila’s hand closed over her pistol. But she sensed Edward take a step forward. She looked up and Edward held a gun on her.
“You,” he ordered Mila. “Drop the purse. You’re not Scotland Yard. Honestly, couldn’t they find a British bird to play a British bird?”
“No.”
“Edward…” Yasmin started.
“Just a moment, love,” he said to her. His gaze bore into Mila. “Who are you with? Sam Capra’s bunch?”
“Yes.” Very carefully, her fingers pressed a button on a small device next to the gun in her purse. In her head she started a slow, measured countdown.
“And who exactly are they?”
“We work for Mr. Zaid.”
“Ah. Clear your hands from the purse. Then drop it on the floor.”
Slowly, Mila made a show of sliding the purse off her shoulder. Her gaze locked on Edward’s and the only time her glance wandered was to evaluate where she would strike him: the throat, the eyes, the base of his nose where the bone would spear into the brain if you hit it just right.
“Yasmin, get the guards on the radio.”
Yasmin stumbled toward the hallway.
“I told you to drop the purse, bitch,” he said to Mila.
Her purse hit the floor. Edward leaned down, keeping the gun fixed on Mila, dragging the purse toward him, and five seconds later its zippered opening exploded in a blast of dazzling light.
No welcoming committee was waiting at the stable when I parked the truck. I didn’t see a soul.
I grabbed my bag and got out, then dropped the gate of the pickup, took a bag of feed and half dragged another bag off the edge of the pickup’s rear gate; I needed to look like either an eager-to-please deliveryman or a deliveryman hurrying to finish one job and get to the next. I stepped inside the stable, slung the bag over my shoulder and waited. Zaid’s beautiful horses nickered, perhaps anticipating a run or an exercise. I was sorry to disappoint them.
