“Sherlock here, John. You didn’t find anything to help us with a possible destination in the imam’s papers at the mosque?”
“Unfortunately, no. Basara isn’t mentioned directly, always by his moniker the Strategist, but there are a great number of financial reports to sort through. We found a set of books with enough illegal funding to put the imam in prison for a very long time. Once he stopped screaming about the sacrilege of our invading a holy place, he swore he knew nothing about anything. Not his fault. That bit will not fly, obviously.”
“Any idea where Basara went immediately after he left his penthouse?” Kelly asked.
“He left his Bentley, didn’t take a taxi, so we can’t be certain. He could have taken the Tube or a train to just about anywhere inside England.”
Sherlock said, “Or had another car. Didn’t you say, John, that he was obviously prepared to pick up and leave very quickly if his house of cards came down?”
“Yes, that’s probably what he did. No idea how we’d trace that.”
Cal said, “What about Lady Elizabeth Palmer? Was she helpful at all?”
John paused briefly. “She was horrified, at first simply refused to believe he could be an assassin or a terrorist. When I told her he’d set up to bomb Saint Paul’s, and wouldn’t you know she was standing right under the big dome as a bridesmaid, she very nearly fainted. Unfortunately, she wasn’t helpful with possible destinations. She knows a great deal about his personal habits, but knew nothing about his life as the Strategist. You know the last thing I heard her saying as I was leaving the room?”
“All right, John,” Sherlock said, “this better be good.”
“She should have listened to her father after all, should have known better than to take up with a man who liked to watch himself on the tele. Obviously he could have no sense of honor or fair play. And what would you expect from a commoner?”
Kelly said, “That wasn’t bad, John. Now, you spoke about Lady Elizabeth being surprised he was an assassin and a terrorist. We’ve been discussing this and believe, like you, that Basara was using terrorism as a cover to murder individuals, but we have no idea who he could have been after in Saint Patrick’s or the TGV or Saint Paul’s.”
John said, “If we don’t find him I’m afraid we’ll never know. But all three recent targets had highly placed government officials present.”
Sherlock said, “Okay, we know Basara hasn’t bought a commercial ticket, and you have his private Gulfstream and his pilot under wraps. If he took a boat, we may be out of luck. Private boat hires aren’t well monitored, and cameras at yacht harbors are few and far between. So we’ve been focusing our efforts the last few hours on contacting private jet charter companies to see if any male in our age range bought a ticket within the last twenty-four hours out of England to anywhere in the world. Many of them have been surprised to hear from the American FBI, until we mention Basara is a prime suspect in the attempted bombing of Saint Paul’s. That’s been getting their cooperation fast.”
John said, “Thanks for helping us cover those. What worries me is that if he managed to get to France, there are scores of European private jet outfits available to him—”
“I’ve got him!” It was Agent Gray Wharton, who’d burst into the room, waving his laptop. He was so excited he was nearly jumping up and down. “Twelfth on my list was Manchester Private Jet Hire—they had three international bookings in our time frame. They were pissy at first about warrants and customer privacy until I told them who we were looking for. They couldn’t move fast enough.
“They e-mailed the eight passport photos of their clients. I wasn’t sure any of them matched our guy until I ran them through facial recognition. Even with the beard, this one is a good match for Basara.” He put his laptop down on the conference table. “Take a look. His passport’s under the name of Bruce Condor, supposedly born in Caldicott, Maine, some thirty-five years ago. He told the woman at the counter he was an American businessman, returning home. Get this, no one with that name and birth date has ever filed a U.S. tax return and he has no Social Security number. It’s got to be him, I know it to my boots.”
John said, “Where did he book to, Gray? Timbuktu?”
“No.” He shot a look at Sherlock. “That’s what’s unbelievable. He arrived nine hours ago at Baltimore Washington International Airport.”
Zachery was almost out the door when he said over his shoulder, “I’ll call Mike at the Baltimore Field Office, tell him the situation, and he can marshal his troops. Kelly, Cal, Sherlock, you guys head down there right now. I’ll have the helicopter waiting for you at Thirty-fourth Street.”
John was shaking his head in disbelief. “Amazing. He could have flown to safety, but instead he’s flying right into the maw of the beast. Why would the Strategist do something so foolhardy? Has he gone entirely lunatic?”
Sherlock said aloud what everyone was thinking. “I can think of only one reason he’d come here. He wants to kill me.”
John was silent, remembering how close Mary Ann and Ceci had come to death in St. Paul’s. Was Sherlock in his sights now? “If that’s his plan, he’s gone crazy enough. You be careful, Sherlock.” Sherlock knew he’d be calling Dillon right away.
FOUR SEASONS HOTEL
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tuesday
The Baltimore Field Office called them before the helicopter landed with the news they’d found Samir Basara. Sherlock called Dillon. “I hope you can hear me over the rotor. He checked into the Four Seasons last night, Dillon. We’re nearly there. We’re landing on the Pier 7 Heliport on Clinton Street, not more than two miles from the Four Seasons. What are you up to?”
Savich said, “I’ll let you know if it works. This is all I need. Remember, Sherlock, you’re my wife and Sean’s mother. Take care of yourself.”
Four Baltimore Field Office agents were standing next to two large FBI SUVs at the helipad. Giusti assigned each of them an exit as soon as they arrived. “I called up the plans in the helicopter. This should cover all the ways out. Everyone okay with this?”
The agents were hyped, wanted to be in on a possible takedown of a major-league terrorist and assassin.
Cal, Kelly, and Sherlock walked through the resplendent lobby and presented themselves to the clerk at the registration desk. They showed the young man their creds and asked about one of their guests, Mr. Bruce Condor, businessman. The registration clerk hemmed and hawed and said he would try to find the manager.
“Take us to his office,” Kelly said. “Now.” The clerk looked at her and nodded. While Kelly and Sherlock went to the manager’s office, Cal made the rounds of the lobby, speaking to bellboys, parking attendants, and the concierge on duty. He showed each of them Basara’s photo. It was the day shift, and no one recognized him.
Kelly and Sherlock followed the clerk through the beautiful gold marble lobby with its three huge chandeliers and artfully arranged flowers, to the manager’s office, to the right, beyond the concierge’s desk.
He rose, eyed the two women behind the scared-looking registration clerk, and frowned. “What seems to be the problem, Jeb?”
Sherlock and Kelly simply stepped forward, introduced themselves. The man only stared at them, not pleased. Kelly raised her eyebrow.
“I’m Mr. Gibson,” he said at last, but he didn’t move around from behind his desk.
“FBI? Why are you two ladies here at the Four Seasons?”
Both of them heard the snark, knew what he would have liked to say was two bitches. What a joy, Sherlock thought, to be a female and have to have this idiot for a boss. A pity this was so urgent, there wasn’t time to dismember him.
“We need to know the room number of one of your guests, Bruce Condor.”
Up went the chin, his shoulders squared. “You will need a warrant for that, Agent. We value our guests’ privacy.”
Kelly told him this man was the prime suspect in the attempted bombing of St. Pat’s. Mr. Gibson was not moved. He thrummed with attitude.
“As I already said, you will need a warrant,” he said, and Sherlock would swear he smirked.
Kelly stepped around his desk and right into his face. “Mr. Gibson, this is a matter of national security. If you do not allow us immediate access, I’ll call my brothers at the Baltimore FBI Field Office back and tell them to arrive in full SWAT gear, ready to search the hotel. I can’t imagine that would make your guests very happy. Has it occurred to you that your company might find fault with you for trying to harbor a known terrorist?” She leaned in close. “I hope he was happy with your room service, by the way, otherwise, given who and what he is, he might come back and pay you a personal visit.” She held out her hand. “Give me the card key. Now.”
Mr. Gibson dropped the snark and called up the data on his laptop. He buzzed the front desk, and when another clerk arrived, he handed Sherlock the card key. “Suite 613,” Gibson said, attitude back in full force. “Mr. Condor is not here. And before you ask, he did not register a car in our parking garage, nor do we have any record of his destination today.”
Kelly asked, “How long ago did he check out?”
Gibson looked at the registration clerk. “Less than an hour ago.”
“Has the room been cleaned yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Probably not, Mr. Gibson,” the clerk said.
They left Mr. Gibson and headed across the lobby. Kelly saw all the agents were in place. Cal joined them as they headed toward the bank of elevators. He waved the photo. “Day shift, no luck.”
They rode to the top floor and walked to the end of the long corridor to a set of locked double doors, suite 613. They drew their Glocks, stuck in the key card without knocking, and pushed both doors open. A young woman who had folded clean towels draped over her arm let out a scream.
Luckily, she’d just arrived. They hustled her and her cart out of the suite and started searching.
“Even on the run, our guy likes his pleasures,” Kelly said, looking around at the luxury suite with a view of the Inner Harbor.
The three of them split up the big suite and went to work. They were about ready to hang it up when there was a knock on the door. It was Jeb from the registration desk. “Mr. Condor ordered room service after midnight last night. A bottle of Golden Slope chardonnay and some food. I checked with the kitchen, and the employee who delivered the order is still here.”
Sherlock wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t thought to ask about room service. She wondered if Mr. Gibson knew Jeb had brought them this information.
Elena Wisk was tall, thin, and pretty, and looked both tired and excited. She nearly bounced into the suite, then suddenly yawned right in front of them. She flushed with embarrassment, told them she was just going off duty from the night shift. Evidently, Jeb hadn’t told her Mr. Condor was a terrorist—yet, at least.
Yes, she’d brought Mr. Condor a tuna salad sandwich with potato chips and a bottle of chardonnay. He was good-looking, she said, but he looked tired. He told her the chardonnay would help him sleep, and he had a big day tomorrow—today, now—and he wanted to be ready. “I uncorked the chardonnay for him and told him I was from northern California. I said something about Golden Slope being a good choice. It’s from a Napa winery I’d visited some years ago. He said it was better than anything he’d ever tasted from his family’s vineyard. I asked him where that was, and he frowned and got me out of the suite real fast. I guess he didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know why. He gave me a big tip.”
Slipped up there, didn’t you, Hercule? Cal showed Elena his picture of Samir Basara. She nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”
They asked her more questions, but the well was dry. Then, on her way out of the suite, Elena turned in the doorway, “I guess I’m really tired. I forgot, Mr. Condor was talking on his cell phone when I arrived.”
All three of them went on red alert. Kelly asked, “Did you hear anything he said, Elena?”
Elena pursed her lips. “I wasn’t really listening, you know? But it was something about the person he was talking to doing a good job and he knew he could always count on him, something like that. That’s all I got. What’d he do? Something really bad?” She shivered.
Sherlock merely patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Ms. Wisk, we really appreciate all your help.” She called Dillon on speakerphone, told him about the call Basara had made.
“Yes, that checks out,” Savich said. “I pulled up the cell data from the cell tower that services the Four Seasons Baltimore, looking for outgoing calls after Basara arrived there last night. One single call was made from an unregistered phone, a burner phone, and it was activated yesterday. The number that cell phone called was right here in Washington, D.C., and it was also unregistered. We’ve either found ourselves a pair of drug dealers, or Basara called a henchman.”
“The room-service clerk said it was about midnight,” Sherlock said.
“Yes, that’s it. Good to have confirmation even though we thought he would be heading toward Washington.” He added, “You live here. Now I’m working with the carrier to try to locate both of those phones in real time.” He paused again. “Well, maybe I’ll use a shortcut.”
Cal took the phone. “Keep us in the loop, Savich. We’re finishing up here and we’ll be heading to Washington to join you. That call means someone arrived here ahead of Basara to see to his needs, like parking a car at the airfield, with that burner cell left in the glove compartment. It means he’s very probably got a gun.”
“I know,” Savich said, “I know. I’ll see you soon. Be careful, all of you.”
Sherlock took the cell back from Cal. “Dillon? Are Sean and Gabriella out of the house?”
“They’re at my mom’s already. No worries there, Sherlock.”
INTERSTATE 95, EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON, D.C.
Tuesday afternoon
Samir Basara pressed the gas to pass a beer truck that had slowed to thirty miles per hour for no reason he could understand, then slowed immediately back to exactly fifty-five and eased smooth and easy into the right-hand lane. He wasn’t going to let his excitement for what was coming affect his driving. He wanted no trouble from the state police. The car Salila had left him in the airfield parking lot was perfect, a three-year-old light tan Toyota Camry that would draw no attention. A Walther P99 semiautomatic was on the seat beside him, Salila’s own weapon, he’d told Samir when they’d spoken on the phone briefly late last night. Everything else they would need, his nephew had driven down to Washington. Everything was ready for him in the condo Salila had rented, and enough C-4 to blow the FBI woman’s house in Georgetown into a pile of rubble, her and her family with it. She would return to her home soon enough. Basara would simply wait. He couldn’t fault Salila for the debacle in Brooklyn. Salila had been so mournful about the failure of his “soldiers”—Salila called everyone he worked with his “soldiers,” no matter how young or how old—that Samir had felt moved to comfort him, but still he’d had to make it clear that his soldiers had mucked it up, gotten themselves wounded and caught, and the oldest comrade in arms, Mohammad Hosni, had gotten himself killed. Salila had told Basara he feared the two younger soldiers, Mifsud and Kenza, whom he thought of as his children, would never be released from the American prisons. He assured Basara neither of them had anything to fear from the young ones. They would never talk. His children were loyal to the cause, as he was loyal to Basara.
A pity the FBI agent hadn’t roasted to death in that house in Brooklyn. It was a royal cock-up, but it wasn’t Basara’s fault, he’d planned it well, given clear, concise instructions. Salila’s soldiers had somehow given themselves away, alerted the FBI. Best not to think of it now. It was no longer important.
It was time to move forward, to fo
cus on the woman, and Basara trusted Salila to handle the details, trusted him to do whatever it was Basara wished. He’d trusted Salila since he’d saved his life in Syria when a bomb exploded next to their car outside Damascus and Basara had pulled Salila to safety. Salila wouldn’t fail him in this, his final assassination, unlike Bahar, who’d failed him miserably. He planned to reward Salila handsomely for this day’s work.
Traffic thickened and he was forced to slow down. He wondered if MI5 had found the papers in the imam’s office yet that listed out the huge donations Mrs. Sabeen Conklin had made to the imam with funds she’d embezzled from her husband. That alone would be enough to send them both to prison. Nasim Conklin’s widow, Marie Claire, who had survived, would no doubt press charges. He felt rage build because he didn’t know how the American FBI had found her and her children, but he knew that damned woman Sherlock had taken part, and she would pay for that as well. Thinking of how he’d make her pay calmed him.
He wondered briefly if he would ever see his family again. His sisters could rot in hell for all he cared, but he admitted to himself he would like to see what his mother did to his father in the months and years to come, and how long his father would survive her endless tender care.
He laughed, wondering what Elizabeth thought of him now that she knew she’d defied her parents and shared her secrets and her quite lovely body with a terrorist. And not just any terrorist, but the mastermind who’d planned to blow up St. Paul’s and her along with it. What would her father have to say now? Poor Elizabeth, there would be no more jewels to pawn for her wastrel brother, but more than that, the London Times might print the whole sordid story and ruin both her and her noble family. He would watch from afar and enjoy the media free-for-all.