The burning wreckage of the limo came at last to rest on the edge of the pavement. There were no survivors.
Jake Grafton heard about the limo bombing an hour and a half later. “A bomb in his car,” the London station man said. “Probably set off by radio, perhaps a cell phone. They won’t know for sure for days.”
“You’re sure it’s Tchernychenko?”
“It was his car, and they’ve found a wallet they think is his. The bodies are in badly burned bits and pieces. Not much left for the coroner.” I see.
“I’m sorry, Admiral.”
“Damn it all to hell, so am I.”
The safe house that the agency’s London office wanted the Petrou women in was actually a guest cottage on an estate in Kent. I don’t know who owned or lived in the big house, but they avoided the cottage and anyone who stayed there.
It was dark when we arrived. The key was in the usual hiding place, so I didn’t have to pick the lock or do the Santa thing down the chimney. I aired out the place a bit and looked through the cupboards. Essentially bare, although there were containers of salt, pepper and baking soda. I left the women there and went looking for grub in a nearby village. Bought bread, milk, wine and cheese, cold cuts, some stuff in cans and tea — all the essentials.
When I got back to the cottage, the women were making beds and sweeping up. It was gratifying to see two aristocrats hard at the household chores. Maybe there is hope for mankind, after all.
I made a sandwich of meat and cheese and poured myself a glass of wine before either of the women had a shot at the groceries.
As I sipped vino, I reported to Grafton via cell phone. “Stay there tonight, Tommy,” he said. “Leave your telephone on. Call the office and let them know where to find you.”
“Got something going down?” I asked. “Something besides assassins with their hair on fire hunting Isolde and Marisa?”
“If the duty officer calls, someone will need you badly.”
“Yes, sir.”
I thought I knew who that someone might be. Grafton could have told me, of course, but he didn’t, which was par for this course. No need to burden ol’ Tommy with excess information.
I rendered a snappy salute as I put the phone in my pocket. When the wine was gone I went back into the kitchen, where Marisa was cutting cheese. I would have liked another glass of wine but didn’t want to open another bottle.
Just to be on the safe side, I went outside for a stroll around the house. The night was overcast, with a gentle cold breeze. Every now and then a spatter of rain dampened things down. I pulled my coat collar tight and shivered. Little squares of light shone from the cottage windows, dimly illuminating the yard. There was also a small light by the front door, one apparently activated by a light sensor. I tried to memorize where the bushes and trees and decorator rocks were, just in case.
The possibility that someone followed us from the Petrou chateau, or picked us up when we exited the ferry, worried me. I hadn’t seen anyone behind us for the last two miles, but that didn’t mean we weren’t followed. It meant I didn’t see anyone. These guys were killing people; certainly they were capable of setting up a rolling surveillance with three or four or five cars. With two-way radios and cell phones, anticipating my destination, the chore would not have been difficult. Even now they could be out there in the darkness, planning an assault.
How much paranoia can one man stand?
I wondered if I should stay inside or outside tonight. If I could sit against the house, under a bush, out of this wind … Then I yawned, which decided the issue. I was whipped. If an assassin showed up, he was going to have to wake me if he wanted a fight.
A button on the limo’s key fob locked the vehicle’s doors. I tried them just to be sure.
When I got back inside, I made sure the outside doors were locked and tried all the windows. They were locked, too. I made a pit stop, then flaked out on the couch and used my coat for a blanket. I could hear the murmur of women’s voices in the bedroom — there was only one — but I couldn’t make out the words. Nor was I curious. I must have lain there on the couch tossing and turning for a whole minute before I drifted off.
Eide Masmoudi was in the kitchen, fixing dinner, when the opportunity came. Suddenly he was alone. The water pitcher was on the counter beside him, full. He didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate. He pulled the bottle Grafton had given him from his trouser pocket, poured the clear liquid into the water pitcher, and put bottle and cap back in his pocket. Twenty seconds, max.
He was taking the lamb from the oven when he heard the door open and someone came in. He didn’t turn around.
The person paused. “Looks good,” he said. Eide turned. It was Sheikh al-Taji. He leaned toward the platter, took a deep breath and said again, “Good.” He actually smiled. He seemed to be in an excellent mood.
Then he was gone.
Eide got back to the task at hand. Radwan came in to help carry the food to the table in the dining room. The men filled their plates, then sat cross-legged on the floor to eat, as if they were in a tent somewhere in the great wastes of the desert.
Radwan served the water, then got a plate and joined them. Sheikh al-Taji was in a fine mood. He held forth on this and that, discussed obscure points of the Koran, mentioned the glories of jihad, shook his head over the tribulations of the believers in Iraq and Afghanistan. It wasn’t a conversation, it was a monologue.
Eide filled his glass and forced himself to drink the water. He watched in fascination as the sheikh sipped at his, and wondered how much he had to ingest to get a fatal dose. Well, he told himself, he would soon find out.
The dinner went well. The senior lieutenants remained behind with the sheikh as Radwan and Eide and several other young men carried the dishes and pans to the kitchen and began washing everything.
All the while Eide wondered if he and Radwan should leave.
Radwan knew nothing of the poison. Only he, Eide, knew.
Still, one second’s loss of control of his face, one second’s hesitation in answering a question … and Grafton had said that everyone would be under suspicion. Everyone.
He and Radwan were both spies, with huge secrets to hide. Could they do it?
That was the nub of it. All through training, all through the early days of this assignment, Eide had wondered. Could he do it? Radwan had once admitted that he also had secret doubts. A man would not be human if he didn’t.
Marisa lay in bed beside her sleeping mother-in-law staring into the darkness. She had often lain awake in the night as a little girl at the boarding school, looking at the darkness and wondering about her mother. And how she came to be the “daughter” of Georges and Grisella Lamoureux.
Grisella was a woman with a cold, brittle personality, a person who took every pothole in the road as a personal affront. A forgetful maid, a sloppy waiter, all the usual jolts and abrasions of life she regarded as personal insults; consequently she was never happy. Her face habitually wore a frown. Needless to say, she was never pleased with her “daughter,” Marisa, who was incapable of being the model of childhood perfection that Grisella envisioned; indeed, that she demanded.
Consequently Marisa often thought of her real mother when the other children were fast asleep, saw her in the glow of her imagination. Her real mother was a beautiful, kind, understanding, gentle woman who laughed a lot and loved her little Marisa. Although in fact Marisa had no memory of ever seeing her mother, over time she convinced herself that this woman she saw in her dream was indeed Mama.
Being a child, she finally told the dorm lady all about Mama, about how she looked, how she wore her hair, her smile and laugh and touch. The dorm lady told the headmistress, who mentioned it to Uncle when he came.
She remembered Abu Qasim staring down at her as the headmistress talked, the look in his eyes.
Years later she wondered about the hold Qasim had on Georges and Grisella, the hold that would make them pretend to be parents of someone else’s daughter. Was it money? Grisella certainly liked her jewelry and fashionable dresses… and after all, in the diplomatic service Georges undoubtedly had to keep up appearances. Or was it something else, a dark secret, blackmail? When she was a teenager Marisa loathed Grisella and favored the
