Cal rose. “Mr. Shadid, I am here to advise you. If you wish to survive, if you wish that young girl, Kenza, to survive, you need to tell the FBI agents everything you know or suspect or have heard about the people who sent you here. Otherwise”—he shrugged—“I shall not be able to help you.”
Sherlock sat back in her chair, tapped her pen on the tabletop. “Did the Strategist force her to sleep with him, Mr. Shadid? And did she tell you? Did it make you angry?”
Kelly said, “If you tell us what you know, I will personally ensure that Kenza is kept protected. I will not allow her to be killed.”
Shadid was shaking his head, crying. He swiped a shackled hand over his eyes. “She said nothing to me because you are lying, it’s all lies. Listen to me, the Strategist would never shame Kenza, she is honest and loyal, a fighter. He would never shame any Muslim girl, no, he consorts with an Englishwoman, a Christian noblewoman, he flaunts her in everyone’s face.”
Jackpot.
In the next room, the agents turned to their laptops and started pulling up London society pages and online social event calendars, looking for an English noblewoman on the arm of a rich Algerian who would turn out to be a terrorist.
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monday morning
Savich reached out his hand to his phone, paused, drew it back. He wanted to speak to Sherlock, let her reassure him once again that she was all right, although he knew she’d downplay what had happened last night in Brooklyn. He’d let her get away with it, given that Cal was his pipeline. No way would he let Cal shade the truth when it came to Sherlock. He frowned. Could he trust even Cal to be totally up front? Or, like Sherlock, was he leaving out details, not wanting to worry him? Savich hated being apart from her, hated not knowing she was safe.
Was he being a hypocrite? He wasn’t about to tell her what he was going to do to try to expose Dalco. He believed his logic was sound. There was nothing she could do to help him, so there was no point in worrying her.
Interviews and physical evidence couldn’t tie Dalco more directly to the crime scenes, he hadn’t even been there. And that meant there was nothing else left to Savich but to destroy Dalco. Then he would have to convince the federal prosecutor not to prosecute Walter Givens and Brakey Alcott because they hadn’t been responsible for the cold-blooded murders they’d committed. A formidable challenge, but he was the only one who could save them. He had a plan, he was now ready to move, to face it head-on. He needed Griffin. He walked to where he was working on his computer, Ollie standing at his elbow.
Griffin looked up, met Savich’s eyes, and nodded. He said something to Ollie, turned off his computer, and followed Savich into his office. Savich waved him to a seat, said without pause, “I have a plan, Griffin, but before we drive to Plackett to the Alcott compound, I want to make sure you understand what you’re getting into. It could be dangerous.
“As you know, some of the Alcotts—or all of them—have been lying, covering up who Dalco is, probably because they’re afraid of him. There’s anger and conflict in that family, there has to be, because of Dalco using Brakey to commit murder, and they’ve been covering that up, too. It’s a front they’ve kept together, and it’s gone on long enough. I’m going to blow it all up if I can. It’s the only way forward, the only way to find out who Dalco is.
“I told you Dalco has already tried to kill me himself. If you come with me to the Alcotts’ today, you might provoke him into targeting you, too. It’s a risk you need to consider.”
“I’ve already been in Dalco’s sights, in McCutty’s woods with you. We’re in this together, Savich.” He gave Savich a wide grin. “Hey, danger is my business.”
Savich grinned back, but his voice remained serious. “Yes, but there’s physical danger we risk every day, but then there’s this. What did Anna have to say about the ambush on Saturday?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it. I didn’t want to frighten her, didn’t want to have to try to explain the inexplicable. She’d believe me, but it would scare her and I don’t want to do that. Maybe after we’re married and she knows me better—we’ll see. Right now, though, I don’t want her involved.”
Savich didn’t understood that, but it was Griffin’s decision. Anna was a DEA agent who could kick the crap out of a drug or gun dealer and whistle as she slapped on the cuffs. Savich thought she could deal with anything. She and Griffin had met when she was undercover in Maestro, Virginia, a couple months before, and had fallen for each other, a surprise to both of them.
“I ask because Sherlock woke me up when Dalco attacked me. She heard me moaning, thrashing around. I don’t know what would have happened if she wasn’t there.”
“Anna’s also a heavy sleeper. She’d be dead to the world even if I was lying there panting like a dog.” His face split into a big grin. “But she claims her dreams are light and sweet since she met me—” Griffin broke off, embarrassed. “Well, it wouldn’t be easy, telling her about a case like this.”
“For what it’s worth, my advice is to tell her, Griffin. She might have some good ideas, like Sherlock. Use her.”
Savich could tell Griffin wasn’t going to say a word to her. Nothing more he could say. “You in?”
“Oh, yes, I’m in. You know what, though? I’ll bet none of those agents out there have the slightest idea what we’re talking about in here.” He paused, looked straight at Savich. “Or maybe they could guess.”
Savich shook his head, rose. “Let’s do it.”
WYVERLY PLACE
LONDON
Monday afternoon
Hercule stood in the center of his penthouse flat on Wyverly Place, sipping his favorite Golden Slope chardonnay, staring at the television as the BBC reported the incident the night before in Brooklyn, New York, a video of the raging fire in the background. The same FBI agent who’d saved JFK had shot one of the attackers, and that was headline news across the world. The BBC’s report was, naturally, very different from Al Jazeera’s. It was from an informant at the news desk at Al Jazeera that the imam had gotten the call telling him of what had happened in Brooklyn, minutes before the news broke in the media. It was the imam who’d called Hercule on his burner. The old man was upset, but Hercule had also heard the trace of a gloat in his voice when he told him that his own handpicked killers had failed.
What had happened? His contact in New York, Salila, was a man who owed Hercule his very life. Salila had provided the incendiary device and the automatic weapons. He’d sent over some of his best people. Mohammad Hosni, not as fast with a knife as he’d once been, perhaps, but still a seasoned warrior, competent with an automatic, and a leader. Mifsud Shadid, his protégé, too young to entrust with the planning, but eager, and ruthless as a viper. And little Kenza, Hercule’s own prize, only seventeen. He’d seen her fight when she was fourteen, seen how she simply didn’t give up even when she fell to her knees, her face turning blue because she couldn’t breathe. Yet she’d kicked out with her foot and knocked her opponent to the ground, then leapt on him. He’d instructed the imam to give her over to his best trainer. With his guidance, she’d been fashioned into a guided missile, his guided missile.
Another big reason he’d selected the three was because none of them were on the watch lists, and they’d sailed through customs and security as he’d known they would, as British Muslims, an older man shepherding his two young friends. He didn’t know who had been killed, who was being held in FBI custody at Federal Plaza. The woman, his Kenza, was said to be severely wounded and under guard at a New York hospital. No casualties were reported among the FBI: not their target, Sherlock, none of them. How should he have planned differently to change the outcome? In hindsight, he could answer that easily enough. The FBI had set a trap, and that meant he’d acted too quickly. He should have given the FBI time to grow co
nfident and lax.
It was now in the past, over with. He’d lost that battle, but he would win the war. He always did.
At least he knew none of the three would talk with the FBI. Kenza would spit on anyone who asked her questions. He trusted them all implicitly, another reason he’d chosen them. But would Kenza live? He had no way to know, and none of his informants knew a thing. The FBI had put an immediate lid on her whereabouts. Not that it mattered how soon he found out. Still, it was disconcerting to him to feel helpless. Hercule hated it. Who was dead, Mifsud Shadid or Mohammad Hosni?
He put it aside when his mobile buzzed. He’d been waiting for the call, from his man Bahar, who was to check in with him well before he entered St. Paul’s. Hercule heard the London traffic in the background as he listened. It was understood they would always speak in English because Arabic coming out of a man’s mouth tended to make Westerners pay attention. You could be holding a bomb in your hand, but if you spoke the Queen’s English, Londoners would give you a smile and a nod. But today Bahar wouldn’t be anything like himself. Hercule had planned out his appearance to the last detail, known exactly how he should dress for his role. It would be risky because they’d have increased security at St. Paul’s since the bombing at St. Patrick’s. But if he could get Bahar through the door as a plausible wedding guest, it wouldn’t make any difference. No one knew who Bahar was, and even if they did, they wouldn’t recognize him dressed as he was today.
Bahar sounded calm and confident. “I am standing across the street from the main entrance to Saint Paul’s. Guests are starting to flow in, happy, chattering. I’ll wait until there are more of them and then I’ll enfold myself in amongst them, as you planned, Strategist. Security is thicker than usual. I can’t tell if they’re private, for the wedding, or added agents. But you were right again, they are not checking any of the guests’ bags. But they are checking wedding invitations.”
Hercule was pleased to hear Bahar call him the Strategist. The imam thought many years before that the name gave him a certain mystique. It had certainly added to his growing status. He thought it was one of the imam’s better ideas. “And your disguise? Did you take your time, dress exactly as I asked? No one has seen Lady Durbish in years, but the dress I picked would suit her perfectly. And your makeup? You copied the photo I sent you?”
Bahar laughed. “Shall I send you a selfie, as the Americans call it? Trust me, Strategist, I am the very image of that wealthy, reclusive old lady herself, believe me. A faded beauty, as the English say. I am dressed exactly as instructed, with your large diamonds on my fingers. The powder on my face even lightens my skin to match the whey-faced English. Lady Evelyn Durbish’s invitation is in my purse, ready to show security.”
Hercule said, “If by chance someone who knows Lady Durbish comes up to you, they won’t question you are. No one has seen her in the flesh for years. The old lady surely won’t be there. She’s very likely puttering about the family home, Durbish Abbey, an ancient pile of stones in Derbyshire.”
“I believe I see Lady Elizabeth Palmer at the entrance with a group of young women. This is surely strange. They are all dressed alike.”
“They are the bridesmaids, that is why,” Hercule said. “I wonder why they aren’t with the bride?”
Of course Bahar wouldn’t know. Hercule wondered how Bahar knew of Elizabeth. Well, he had eyes, he’d probably seen photos of him with her in the London Times or the tabloids.
A pause, then, “It is possible she will be killed, Strategist.”
“Death is but an instant away for all of us, Bahar. The C-4 is primed?”
“And carefully encased in our enriched plastic coating, flattened enough to slip into your selected spots for maximum destruction. It will not be noticed.”
“Good. In forty-five minutes I will expect to hear news of our message to the West. Do not fail us, Bahar.” Hercule slipped his mobile back into his pocket. All would go well this time, Hercule felt it to his bones. He thought of Elizabeth again. Could she possibly survive the blast where she would be standing?
Hercule had always been a fatalist, had never believed in the absurd rewards that supposedly awaited a devout Muslim upon his death. He wondered if Elizabeth was one of those who believed in an afterlife, wondered if that would comfort her in the instant before her heart stopped beating. It was doubtful, though, that she would even have that. The explosion itself was an instant in time. Then he thought of Lord Harlow, seated on the groom’s side, close to the front since the families were close, and of the eight million British pounds, half of which already resided safely in one of his Swiss accounts.
He poured himself another glass of chardonnay and walked to the wide window overlooking the Thames. He looked east, toward St. Paul’s. He wouldn’t see it explode from here, but he would hear the explosion, see the billowing clouds of black smoke rising about the buildings. And when St. Paul’s exploded, or a goodly part of it came crashing down, he would hear the beautiful sound echoing around the city, and the sirens that would follow.
He raised his glass to Elizabeth and to Lord Harlow.
ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL
LONDON, ENGLAND
Monday afternoon
Bahar walked slowly along St. Paul’s Church Yard, the wide busy street that formed the long south boundary of the rough triangle of land that enclosed St. Paul’s Cathedral. The façade of the church wasn’t set back from the incessant traffic or the encroaching buildings; it stood there right in the center of things, flanked on all sides by bicycles, big red tourist buses, and countless people scurrying about. Many small outdoor tables were filled with coffee and tea drinkers at the nearby London cafés.
He knew the real-time cameras of the state-of-the-art video surveillance system and people watching it from the on-site control room would pick him up when he entered the cathedral. They didn’t know who they were looking for, in any case, so it wouldn’t make any difference. No one would give the frail old lady a second glance.
They prided themselves on their Smartcards, given out to more than two hundred of their staff. Like most security ideas, the Smartcards sounded like a good idea, the most effective way to have a solid handle on the cathedral’s security, but it was so far from the truth, it was laughable. He hadn’t even risked stealing one. The truth was St. Paul’s allowed visitors to enter its sacred portals without even passing through an X-ray machine, and to an expert like himself, it was low-hanging fruit. The cathedral staff didn’t have the space to run such a system, not when more than two million tourists flocked here every year into an area no larger than a quarter of a square mile. The great Christopher Wren couldn’t have imagined what was going to happen to his grand creation.
Bahar felt blessed. He would achieve immortality today. He would forever be known as the man who destroyed one of the sacred shrines of the English, and of Londoners in particular. It would enrage them, they would yammer and yell, certainly, but even more, it would scare them stupid. Ultimately, what could they do but change their ways, and he couldn’t imagine that. The English mouthed every platitude of inclusion, praised diversity and tolerance, like the bloody Americans, but in the end they were certain of their own superiority, and that superiority made them objective and ethical. Hypocrites, the lot of them.
He smiled, thinking of what was to come. He wanted to whistle, but couldn’t, not as he presented himself today. Their lovely wedding would begin soon in St. Paul’s. The Strategist had expected as many as five hundred bejeweled and well-dressed nobs would be inside to witness the Christian union of these two old prestigious families. Bahar joined a crowd of sixty-odd wedding guests as they queued at the church entrance, past dark-suited men he thought now were added security. The Brits had moved fast since the attempted bombing of St. Patrick’s in New York less than a week before. He imagined they’d added other security measures he didn’t know about, and couldn’t see. He would if he we
re in their shoes. What had they done? Sadly for them, it wouldn’t matter. He held up his invitation to the security guard, who merely nodded at him as he passed into the church.
He walked slowly, regally, as he’d practiced it, into the vast nave and down the aisle toward the magnificent altar. The couple would be joined there with great pomp beneath the magnificent dome, guests on three sides. The lovely dome would come down; the Strategist had calculated where to place the explosive to ensure it. Bahar split from the herd of guests to pay a visit to the chapels of St. Michael and St. George, blending in easily with a dozen other guests. He moved to the Wellington Monument and stood for a respectful thirty seconds before walking as stately as the queen toward the south transept. He stepped into the stairwell that led to the Whispering Gallery, the library, and the two hundred and seventy steps to the Dome. There were half a dozen people coming down the steps, another three waiting to go up, speaking, admiring. He’d been inside several times before, knew where the cameras were positioned. He dropped his ancient Chanel bag, shook his head at the two helpful gentlemen, and leaned down slowly and carefully to retrieve his belongings. He slid a packet of C-4 and its detonator beneath the stairs with his foot as he rose. He made two other stops before he moved back into the nave and turned toward the south transept, stopping beside the Nelson Monument. He leaned against it, looking at the rows of chairs being filled by wedding guests. He chanced to catch the eye of a pretty young woman with a young child sleeping in her arms. She looked all milk-and-white English, stylish in her pale blue dress. He saw a slash of dark hair on the babe. She was smiling at him, beckoning him to sit in the empty chair beside her.
He found himself smiling back. He checked his watch, not wanting to draw attention to himself as the remaining seats filled, and he would join her. He would say little, perhaps compliment her child and wish her a fond farewell when he left her in a few minutes. When he was clear of St. Paul’s he would set off the detonators and enjoy the earsplitting explosions and the chaos and the screams that would follow. A pity the Strategist wouldn’t see the falling stone, the crumbling edifice, but he would see the flames and black smoke shooting above the skyline.