by Tom Lowe
“So you’re saying whoever damn near sliced Nelson’s head off was after the diamond.”
“Most likely.”
“Maybe it’s Silas Jackson.”
“Possibly, but not likely.”
“Why?”
“Did a guy by the name of Paul Wilson contact you?”
“No, who is he and why would he contact me?”
“He works for the British government, and I told him you’re running the investigation into the murders.”
“Okay, O’Brien, I’m assuming he’s a field agent. Those guys play by no rules of engagement and jurisdiction. I doubt I’ll hear from him unless there’s something he needs and can’t find for himself. So the Brits want to get involved in this scavenger hunt. This must become real sticky across the pond.”
“A priceless diamond and a blood-stained Civil War contract with their name on it has a way of making things sticky.”
“Yes, so does four known deaths connected with what I’m calling the utter definition of a blood diamond—Professor Kirby, Don Roberts the hotel clerk, Jack Jordan, and now Cory Nelson. The slow-motion video damn sure indicates Nelson was the triggerman in Jordan’s murder…so who the hell slipped a wire around Nelson’s neck?”
O’Brien was silent.
“Gotta go, Sean. Looks like a fisherman found something near the river.”
O’Brien disconnected and turned toward Dave Collins. He was hunched over his laptop, punching the keyboard, white light bouncing off his bifocals. O’Brien said, “Detective Dan Grant said they just found the body of Cory Nelson, almost beheaded. The killer used a garrote.”
Dave said nothing for a moment. He looked up from his laptop. “If Nelson was complicit in the killing of Jack Jordan, and it looks like he was…maybe someone’s pawn…who’s the real mastermind behind the thefts, the killings, and presumably the blackmail of the Royal Family?”
“Did you locate that number Laura gave me?”
“Indeed.” He looked up over the top of his bifocals. “It’s a number connected to the British Consulate in Miami. Interesting. Did Jack Jordan dial it, or did he receive the call?”
“According to Laura, the call was made to his phone.”
“So who inside the British Consulate in Miami would be speaking with Jordan after the discovery of the diamond?”
“Someone who has access to Prime Minister Duncan Hannes.”
Dave eased back on the couch. He stared out the open doors to the cockpit, a forty-foot sports fishing boat was heading out of the marina into Ponce Inlet and the ocean. He said, “Looks like the proverbial excretion is about to hit the international fan. I’ll try Paul Wilson’s phone. He wrote his mobile number on the back of a charter captain’s brochure that Wilson picked up on the docks.” Dave pointed to a fishing brochure on the far end of the coffee table. “Sean, can you pass that to me? If I can’t reach Wilson, I’ll call Alistair Hornsby, my old colleague in London.” Dave glanced at his watch. “It’s about midnight London time.”
O’Brien picked up the card brochure, turned it over and looked at the hand-written number on the reverse side. He stared at it, concentrating.
Dave asked, “Something unusual?”
“Very. This is the number that was on Ike Kirby’s cell phone the night I found him.”
“What?”
“It was the last number Ike dialed before he died.”
O’Brien caught movement on the port side of the boat. Max turned her head, ears cocked. Within seconds, tanned legs and worn flip-flops marched by the open windows on Gibraltar. Nick Cronus jumped straight from the dock onto the cockpit. He wore an unbuttoned tropical print shirt and faded orange swim trunks. “I swear to God—”
Dave held his palm up for a second. “Hold on, Nick. We have a situation.” He turned back to O’Brien and asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me that Ike knew agent Paul Wilson. Why…what’s the connection? Was Ike somehow involved in this—the blackmailing of the prime minister and the Royal Family?”
O’Brien stood next to the salon’s open door, the breeze blowing his shirttail. “I don’t think Ike was involved. But I do think we have one very smart blackmailer and killer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe it was the killer who made the last call from Ike’s phone?”
“The killer…why?”
“Because he wants to double-cross the man he’s working with—the guy with the expertise, the means and the encryption savvy to open the gates to the prime minster and the Royal Family. And that guy is agent Paul Wilson.”
“Really? How so?”
“Because, whoever killed Ike and hit the send button to Wilson’s number, wanted to lay a trail to Wilson—to suggest that Wilson and Ike had a liaison. Is that Frank Sheldon or someone working for him…or someone from the British Consulate in Miami? And, remember, when I first met Wilson here at the marina—I asked him if the Koh-i-Noor in the Crown Jewels was the real diamond. He hesitated, thought a second too long about his answer. When he said it was real and had been there 170 years, I suggested that this key information could take the wind out of the blackmailer’s threats because it would mean the Civil War contract might be a fake, too. But he shrugged it off, saying even a replica diamond could have been used as collateral with the contract.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that he knows the diamond pulled out of the river is real because they’ve tested the one in the crown. And whomever made the fake call to Wilson’s phone is brilliant and very deadly.”
Dave inhaled a chest full of air, slowly releasing it. “I’ll call Alistair and let him know he has one hell of a mess on his hands.”
“We’re dealing with a very cunning and diabolical assassin. And, right now, he probably has Paul Wilson in his crosshairs.”
Nick folded his thick arms across his chest and said, “Sean, Dave…listen, you got more than one situation, there’s another one down by the river. Switch it to Channel Two News. They’ve been running live news bulletins on a body found in the river. I never wanted for anything bad to happen to Sarvarna or Malina—or whatever her name was.”
“Was?” Dave asked, changing channels.
Nick nodded. “Hell yes, was. It has to be her.”
Dave switched channels. The video showed police and emergency personnel in a remote and heavily wooded section of the St. Johns River. Blue and red lights flashing, two sheriff marine boats on the river, a news helicopter hovering in the hard blue sky. The caption in the lower portion of the screen read: Eyewitness News LIVE feed. The camera panned to the right where EMT’s lifted a gurney covered in a white sheet. They rolled the body into the back of a dark blue van.
The reporter’s voice-over said, “Police are calling this a brutal homicide. To recap: they were alerted to the location of a woman found dead in the river, the body wedged up against exposed cypress tree roots. The cause of death is under investigation. However, the fisherman, Harold Frost, who first spotted the body, is here on the scene with me.” The shot pulled out wide, revealing a sixtyish man wearing overalls, Detroit Tigers cap, and white T-shirt and orange rubber boots. His weathered face was dotted with gray whiskers, eyes nervous. The reporter asked, “Mr. Frost, please tell us what you saw.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I was fishin’ for bass in the shoals when I saw what I thought was some kind of trash caught in the cypress knees. I motored my John-boat in closer and could see it was the body of a woman. I could tell she was dead. Poor thing.” He exhaled and licked his cracked lips. “She seemed to be in her thirties. Dark brown hair. Wearing a business suit of some sort. I could see that…” He paused and shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the river. “It looked to me like some sorry S-O-B had tried to decapitate her.”
“Did you see anything else? Maybe signs of someone in the area?”
“No. It’s a very remote section of the river.”
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“Thank you, Mr. Frost.” The camera shot zoomed in on the reporter. “Police say they don’t believe the woman was from the area, or the country, for that matter. They found a blue Ford Escape, a rental car on a secluded back road not far from where the body was recovered. One detective told us the car was rented six days ago at Miami International Airport. They say a passport, from India, was found in a small purse hidden under the front seat of the car. They haven’t released the name of the murder victim. From Marion County, Liz Phillips, Channel Two News.”
Nick hugged his upper arms, his face heavy, eyes darkened by the shock of the news. He walked behind the bar. “Dave, you mind if I have a shot of your Jameson. I normally don’t drink the whiskey, but this isn’t a normal damn time.”
“Help yourself.” Dave turned toward O’Brien and said, “Remember, too, I told Paul Wilson that the Civil War contract was most likely being examined by my old friend. Ike Kirby. At that point, I might as well have given Ike the death sentence.”
O’Brien shook his head. “But you didn’t know at the time. Regardless, the killer had broken into Laura Jordan’s home. From there, he was immediately on the trail of Ike. And he hasn’t stopped there. He’s, most likely, killed his pawn, Cory Nelson, then killed the Indian IB agent because she was tracking him.”
Dave grunted. “I wonder how the killer got on her radar so quickly.”
“Maybe she found Paul Wilson first.”
“Why would Wilson tell her anything? Maybe he didn’t unless he became aware that the killer, his assumed partner, was throwing him under the bus. Wilson could have used Malina to take out whoever double-crossed him.”
Nick shook his head. “And the shit hit the fan for me not long after I watched her suck an oyster clean outta his shell. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought I was eatin’ oysters and knockin’ back ouzo with a beautiful spy.” He glanced at the muted TV screen, the news video repeating the images of a white-draped gurney being loaded into a coroner’s van. Nick made the sign of the cross. “What a waste of a beautiful woman. I forgive her.”
Dave looked at his watch. “I’m calling Alistair Hornsby in London.” He placed the call and stepped onto the cockpit to speak. He gave Hornsby a complete assessment and said, “It looks to me like you’ve got one hell of a breach on your hands.”
Hornsby was silent for a few seconds. He exhaled a weary breath into the phone and said, “We never suspected Paul Wilson. But we did have initial suspicions about a man who once trained Wilson.”
“Who was that?”
“You met him, Dave, at Vauxhall in London a few years ago. His working alias at the time was Bradley Edwards. His real name is Johnathon Fairmont. He led counter-intelligence for M16 leading up to the 2012 Olympics in London.”
Dave closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the man’s face. “Why just leading up, why not through the games?”
“Duncan Hannes, that’s why. Hannes replaced him with an old college friend who worked mid-level as an SIS domestic officer. Fairmont took a reassignment to the British consulate in Miami. Sort of a place in the sun where aging intelligence officers go to spend their last years. Initially, Fairmont made his displeasure quite clear. He’s been silent for a few years. Now it all makes sense. Fairmont has to be the brains behind the blackmailing. He’s used Paul Wilson like a steer headed to the slaughterhouse.”
“And Fairmont, no doubt, was the man who killed my dear friend, Ike Kirby. After he shot him in the head, Fairmont used Ike’s phone, making a dummy call to Wilson in an effort to divert suspicion to Wilson. You need to eliminate Fairmont immediately.”
“It’s not that easy. He was one of the very best in his prime. Almost wrote the SIS book on deception and leaving only trails you want the enemy to follow. When Fairmont was in the field, he had more than two-dozen known kills. Probably more. He’s very smart, deadly and absolutely ruthless. The prime minister has less than forty-eight hours before Fairmont releases the Civil War document and the results of what he alleges as an independent gemologist examination of the diamond.” Hornsby blew out a long breath. “Dave, you mentioned that your friend, Sean O’Brien first suspected Paul Wilson, correct?”
“Yes.”
“That was quite astute of him. Where can I find O’Brien?”
“Why, Alistair?”
“Maybe a man of his talents is for hire. Do you think he might be persuaded to help?”
“You can ask him. Here’s standing twenty feet from me.”
“Dave, please…whatever you do…don’t let him leave. I will ring you back in five minutes.” Hornsby disconnected.
Dave stood on the deck of the cockpit, a chop from the rising tide slapping the hull. He now knew who killed his dear friend, Ike Kirby. The assassin was an intelligence agent he’d briefly met years ago. Dave opened and closed his fists, his anger rising like the marina tide. He was hesitant to step back inside Gibraltar, now knowing that Alistair Hornsby was about to ask Sean O’Brien to face one of the most sinister rogue intelligence agents in British history.
Max stared at Dave standing at the open cockpit door. She sat up on Nick’s lap, cocked her head, her face inquisitive. Nick glanced at Max and looked up as Dave walked to his leather chair next to his reading lamp. He lowered his large frame into the chair as if his knees ached.
Nick said, “Dave, you see a ghost out on the deck? You look like I felt when I realized Malina had put an evil spell on my Johnson.”
O’Brien watched Dave and asked, “What’d Hornsby tell you?”
“The name of the man who killed Ike Kirby.”
“What?” Nick asked, sitting up. “How’d he know?”
“He didn’t, at least not originally. It became evident in the last part of our conversation.” Dave looked at O’Brien. “You knew, Sean. You just didn’t know his name. You were right about the killer making the call to Paul Wilson as a set-up ploy. What you didn’t know was the killer’s name. It’s James Fairmont. At one time, he was one of M16’s best field agents. Prime Minister Hannes reassigned Fairmont to the consulate in Miami, hence the displeasure on Fairmont’s part. Paul Wilson was trained by Fairmont and used by Fairmont. Alistair called it ‘leading a steer to the slaughterhouse.’
O’Brien shook his head. “That implies that Fairmont will take out Wilson. Why doesn’t M16 simply hunt them both down?”
“They can and will, but maybe not before the Royal Family blackmail goes down. Perhaps, for Fairmont, the international scandal, the embarrassment of Hannes and the Royals is worth more than the sale of the diamond.”
“What’s Hornsby going to do?”
Dave blew air out of his cheeks. “He’s going to call you?”
“Me? Why?”
“Because they know of your track record. Because you’re right here…deep in the middle of this defecation. You can always turn them down.”
O’Brien glanced out the port side window for a second. “But I can’t turn you down, Dave. I made a promise to you—I said I’d find Ike’s killer. Now, it looks like I’m a lot closer.”
Through his open shirt, Nick touched the bronze cross that hung from his neck. He scratched Max behind the ears and made a silent prayer.
O’Brien reached for his wallet. “Wait a minute…Frank Sheldon.”
“What?” Nick asked.
“It was something that Sheldon said on television.”
Dave folded his arms. “He did a lot of boasting.”
“Something he said just made me think back to the behind-the-scenes video I’d seen in the editing suite the day I watched the slow-motion playback of the musket-firing scene from the set of Black River.” O’Brien pulled a business card out of his wallet. The title read: Shelia Winters - Casting Agency
He placed the call to her. When he identified himself, she said, “I heard what happened when you visited my friend Oscar Roth in post-production. You almost got him fired. Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Shelia, listen to me, pleas
e. Jack Jordan was murdered on the set of Black River. The killing was caught on camera. That piece of evidence is helping police find the killer who left a widow and a little girl in his wake.”
“Are you a detective? If you are, why didn’t you just come out and tell me?”
“I’m not a detective. I’m a private investigator. I need to reach one of the production assistants, Katie Stuart. It’s urgent.”
“Hold on. Let me see if I have her number…here it is. I’ll text it to you.”
“Good. One last question…the day I met with you in your trailer, I saw one of your re-enactors riding a horse. Maybe he was preparing for a scene. He was about a quarter mile away from the plantation mansion and the movie set. In the area of a cemetery. Older man. Distinguished looking. Clean-shaven except for a white handlebar moustache. He was dressed as a Confederate officer.”
“Let me check the shooting schedule.”
O’Brien could hear her tapping on a keyboard. She said, “There were no scenes with horses that day. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any Confederate re-enactors with white handlebar moustaches. The scenes with Confederate officers were shot the day before you were here. Maybe you were mistaken. Sorry, but I have to go. The film’s almost wrapped and the first assistant director is having a coronary.” She disconnected.
O’Brien stepped over to the open port window facing the inlet. He watched a flock of sea gulls following a shrimp boat up Ponce Inlet from the Atlantic, the breeze delivering the scent of drying oyster bars and brackish water.
Nick said, “Sean, you look like your head hurts almost as much as mine. Maybe it’s catching.”
O’Brien turned toward Nick. “High body counts have a way of causing headaches. Nick, if you were having the ultimate fishing boat built, where would you have the work done.”
“Athens, Greece.”
“Here in the states.”
“Maybe Jacksonville. Place called Poseidon Shipyards. It’s named, of course, after the ancient Greek god of the sea, my man, Poseidon.”