earth lovelier than this castle and its gardens? Could he bear to be away, even for a short time? He looked at Congreve, remembering what a great team they'd made, each complementing the other's strengths, and weaknesses. Their failure to find and prosecute the 'third man' had been the one blemish on an otherwise sterling career of some forty years.
He looked at Ambrose and said, 'We find this bloody Smith, we solve both cases. For good. Forever.'
'That's correct. The murderer of the girls. And Lord Mountbatten.'
Drummond turned his eyes on Alex.
'You met our McMahon, Mr. Hawke, did ye trust him? I never did. A drunken, lyin' cur, my estimation.'
Hawke, startled out of his reverie, said, 'We don't need him anymore, Mr. Drummond. We've got physical evidence of murder. Serial murder, in fact.'
'Hmm. I do have a week's holiday coming up. But I've already told my employer I wouldn't be taking it.'
'We need a cover story. Tell me. Is your dear mother still alive?' Congreve asked.
'Ah, no, she's not. She passed in Dublin, just last year she did, bless her sainted soul. Ninety-seven years old. She's at her final resting place in St. Stephen's cemetery.'
'She's back, Bulldog.'
'She's back?'
'Yes, back. But, sad to say, she's not doing all that well, I'm afraid. Fading fast, in fact. We could lose her any day now.'
'You're talking about me blessed mother.'
'I am indeed.'
'You're a right bastard, aren't you?'
'In matters like this I am.'
'Life and death.'
'Precisely.'
'Unfinished business.'
'Quite.'
'I'm in, damn you,' Bulldog barked.
THIRTY
SO SHE'S GIVING THE FAT GUY a BJ while he's sitting in your favorite chair waiting for you to come waltzing through your own front door?' Harry Brock asked Stokely.
'Correct.'
'But you got inside locked sliding glass doors by swinging down from the roof on a rope?'
'You got it.'
'Same blond broad who whacked the two guys we were staking out on the beach?'
'Yep.'
'But she got away. From your apartment, I mean.'
'She did.'
'And the fat guy tried to whack you with a MAC-10?'
'He did.'
'Your leather couch looks like shit.'
'Tell me about it.'
'You think they can stitch that up? Patch it, maybe?'
'What do you think, Harry? Patch it up? All that rich Corinthian leather?'
'Sucks. Can you put in for something like that, I wonder?'
'That's a very good question, Harry.'
'You pissed at me about something? I went to the Bahamas for a couple of days, okay? I had some time coming. I met somebody. Jesus.'
'No, I am not pissed. I'm just trying to concentrate on this goddamn Dolphin game. Third and goal. We could score here. Okay? I told you most of this shit already.'
'It's only preseason.'
'That's the only kind we win.'
'They figure out who the fat guy is yet?'
'Bashi? Yeah. Bashir al Mahmoud. Pakistani. Formerly called Gitmo home, now a legal resident of the United States of America, courtesy of our all new and improved Homeland Security immigration policies.'
'Bashi. Shit. The guy we were trying to get to.'
'Right.'
'So, instead of us having to sit out in the blistering sun all day looking for this asshole, he just comes over to your apartment. Sits in your favorite chair.'
'That's about it. Shit! Interception.'
'So, now what?'
'We go for the fumble.'
'I mean the case, asswipe.'
'Oh, that. We take a room at the Fontainebleau.'
'Who does?'
'You and me.'
'Together?'
'Of course. We're partners, partner.'
'Listen, Stoke. You wanna come out of the fuckin' closet, do it with somebody else, okay, stud? I ain't interested.'
'Funny. Wait. Holy shit, another interception! D'you see that? Damn! We're still in it, baby. Stick their dicks in dirt, Dolphins. Let's see some bad sportsmanship out there for a change.'
'So, the Fontainebleau.'
Stoke spoke, his eyes never leaving the TV.
'Bashi had leased the presidential penthouse there on a long-term basis. We swept it clean. Computers full of incriminating shit. White slavery, pornography, possible terrorist activity, money laundering of massive cash coming in from Pakistan and Afghanistan poppy fields.'
'Cash used for what?'
'Services rendered here in the U S of A.'
'What kind of services?'
'That's what we need to find out, Harry.'
'Probably not out there rehabbing houses for Jimmy Carter's Habitat for Humanity, I don't guess.'
'Probably not. Now, shut up. Third and long. And…another pick. Can you believe this damn team?' Stoke pointed the remote at the TV and it went mute.
'You did good, Stoke. I got to hand it to you. Served this fat pig up on a sterling silver platter. They gotta be loving your ass up at Langley.'
'Made your white ass look good, anyway. For hiring me.'
'What about the b-i-m-b-o, b-i-m-b-o, and Bimbo was her name-o.'
'She's coming back to Bashi's penthouse. Sooner or later.'
'Why would she do that?'
'Because there's a wall safe there, behind a fake wall in the back of the closet that hides another fake wall. It's got twenty mil and change in small, unmarked bills inside it.'
'Twenty million fucking dollars?'
'Right around there, yeah.'
