“Oh no,” Ahmed said. “They’re furious. It screwed up the gang’s plans for the hit on you. The gang doesn’t seem to know who’s responsible. They’re sure it was some private grudge.”
“We weren’t able to contact Ahmed for a few days,” Hugh interjected. “Thought we’d lost him.”
“I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised,” Paul said. “But I’m equally surprised, Hugh, that you would recruit a minor for undercover work. Is that even legal?”
Ahmed and Hugh chuckled.
“I’ll let Ahmed answer that one,” Hugh said.
“Paul, I’m actually twenty-two,” Ahmed said, smiling.
“What?” Paul said. “I don’t believe that! You don’t look that old.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Ahmed said. “I admit that I played on it a bit when I was first arrested. I had a younger brother,” he continued. His voice grew somber. “My little brother died three years ago. His name was M. A. Mousavi. ‘M’ was for Mohamed, and ‘A’ was for Aymenn. Mohamed was two years younger than me. I kept one of his school photo ID forms to remember him before my father burned all of Mohamed’s things. Mohamed was gay. He died of AIDS. Homosexuality is unacceptable in my father’s culture. I stashed Mohamed’s school ID with my stuff at the cafe after my father was sent to jail. I got a young kid from the area to drop it off at the Old Bailey with a note saying it was my ID. I look a lot like Mohamed. They saw the initials and the photo and no one questioned it, I guess.”
“All of this doesn’t answer why The Met went along?” Paul said.
“I’ll answer that,” Hugh said. “Ahmed has been helping us track the gang’s activities and connect it to that Turkish human and drug smuggling syndicate.”
Paul wondered how much Hugh knew about the book bomb that had targeted him.
“I’m Muslim, Paul,” Ahmed said. “I hate killing. That damned gang seems preoccupied with killing. My religion is against killing. What the media has been telling everyone about Islam is wrong... absolutely wrong.”
Hugh raised his hand to stop him. Ahmed ignored him.
“The media doesn’t tell you that the basis of my religion, the Quran, is strongly against senseless killing even more so than the Bible. I guess the media want to sensationalize things by calling terrorists ‘Islamic extremists’. Those bloody terrorists are extremists, all right. But Muslims they are not... not even close. They’re what they accuse others of being… heretics.”
“All right,” Hugh interrupted sternly. “We don’t need a lecture on Islam just now, Ahmed. I want you to tell Paul more about why you went back to the gang.”
“Sure, Hugh,” Ahmed said, smiling. “I overheard them talking about their human and drug smuggling operations. I needed more evidence. That’s why I want to go back again, to gather as much as I can to put those assholes away for a long time!”
“I’ll be damned,” Paul said, smiling at him.
“There’s something else,” Ahmed said. “The gang leader, Mehregan, has been romancing some older woman... calls her Angie or Agnes something. She’s part of a group he claims wants introductions to high power people in business and government. The truth is he’s been manipulating them to get them to do that for him. Mehregan wants to expand his markets for cocaine and other drugs into the ranks of the rich and famous.”
Paul wasn’t sure whether Hugh knew about Agnes Meriwether, or whether Ahmed knew; if he did he hadn’t made any connections.
Best to keep away from that for now, he thought.
Chapter Twenty
Joan Hamilton’s Office
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Joan said. “It may sound bizarre, but after our rather tumultuous beginning I must admit I’m beginning to like that little twerp... just a little.”
Paul and Malcolm exchanged smiles.
Paul had just finished briefing her and Malcolm on Ahmed’s arrest and his undercover work in the gang.
“If there’s nothing more to discuss about Ahmed, may I ask you about something else, Milord?” Joan said.
“Sure,” Paul replied. “What is it?”
“I’ve heard you mention someone named Kay Shelley recently,” Joan said. “Would you mind telling me who she is?”
Paul revealed that Kay’s first husband had not only robbed her but had also abused her physically and emotionally.
“Anne has done some research into Kay’s foundation,” Paul said. “Its purpose was to help battered and abused women, and single mothers and their children. Sounds like it was providing much needed services.”
“I can relate,” Joan said. “My mom was a single mother. My father abused us emotionally, physically and sexually. A neighbor helped Mom and me get away. I guess it’s payback time.”
Paul glanced at Malcolm. He nodded slightly.
“Mrs. Shelley will need legal counsel to help get her family’s money back from her first husband,” Paul said. “And she needs representation to deal with the authorities. They have her and her family in a safe house now but they want them to enter a witness protection program. With that and the stolen money I can’t imagine how she will be able to continue operating.”
“Done,” Joan said.
“Beg your pardon?” Paul said.
“She’s going to be my prime pro bono client, Milord. What more can you tell me about her work?”
“Without access to the money from the Shelley Foundation,” Paul said. “Her work is winding down; it’s running out of money. The donations to her foundation aren’t enough. Her legal representation will indeed need to be pro bono.”
Paul gave Joan a detailed outline of the challenges Kay was facing. As he spoke, he watched as her face acquired a look of fierce determination. That pleased him.
***
Peckham Borough
London
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Agnes asked. Her voice was brusk and aggressive.
“Hello, Agnes,” Paul replied calmly.
He’d accidently encountered his mother-in-law as she was emerging from a doorway on Peckham High Street, just a few blocks from Parliament. From the corner of his eye, Paul had caught sight through the door window of a man’s legs racing back up the stairs.
“Are you following me?” Agnes demanded.
Paul caught the defensive tone in her voice, remembering Ken Hagerman’s warning against bumping into her while in the company of gang leader Kazem Mehregan.
He chose to go on the offense as the best defense.
“I could ask you the same question, Agnes,” Paul countered. “You’re a long way from your usual haunts. Are you looking for ways to manufacture more false stories about me that you can tell your daughter and your friends? You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Agnes stepped back, glaring at Paul. No one had dared talk to her like that before... except Anne recently.
“Who do you think you are?” Agnes snarled. “You can’t talk to me like that!”
“Someone certainly needs to,” Paul said.
“You had better explain what you’re doing in this neighborhood,” Agnes demanded.
“I work here,” Paul shot back. “If you’d been the slightest bit interested, you’d know my office is just a few blocks from here, in a walkup, by the way, that your daughter and I own. What’s your excuse?”
“None of your business,” Agnes shot back. “I’ll be on my way. Stand aside.”
Paul stood back and watched as the overweight matron stomped down the narrow medieval-era roadway and disappeared around the corner.
He walked in the opposite direction, crossed the street, and slipped into another doorway he’d found ajar. Through the dirty window, he waited and watched until a man stepped cautiously from the same doorway as Agnes, looking both ways. The man matched the photo that Ken Hagerman had given him—it was Kazem Mehregan.
Paul flipped open his cellphone and dialed.
“Ken,” he said. “There’s something you should know. I just ran into Agnes Meriwether on Peckham Hig
h Street. A few moments later, Kazem Mehregan came out of the same door that she did.”
Paul looked through the cracked and dirty door window.
“Hold on,” he said.
Another woman emerged from the doorway, pulling the door closed behind her. Mehregan stepped around her and tried the door, opened a car door at the curb for the woman, got in the driver’s side and drove away.
Paul relayed the events to Ken as they were unfolding.
“Thanks, Paul,” Ken said. “That was propitious. Our guy on surveillance reported losing sight of Mehregan a couple of hours ago. Did you by any chance recognize the other woman?
“From this distance, I can’t be absolutely positive,” Paul replied. “But I’d have to say she resembles Marion Stapleton from the Lords Library.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Ken said. “Very interesting. I’ll pass that along. Thanks Paul.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Earnscliffe
“When will Catherine be old enough to travel?” Paul asked.
“She’s old enough now!” Anne laughed. “She’s six months old, my love. Babies much younger travel all over the world. Why do you ask?”
“Walter Stewart called today,” Paul said. “He wants me in Colorado Springs in a few weeks for a deposition in that paternity suit by Pamela Milliken. I was hoping you and the kids could come along.”
“Of course we’re coming!” Anne said. “We missed our annual spring visit to the ranch when Catherine was born. Doug will be pleased. He keeps pestering me about going. He misses the ranch. You’re turning him into a cowboy!”
“Could be worse!” Paul said, chuckling as he leaned over and kissed Anne while she nursed the baby, an act that left him in awe and more in love with her than ever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Heathrow Airport
“May I help you with that, sir?” Paul asked.
An elderly man ahead of him on the crowded skybridge was struggling as they boarded a British Airways flight. A jammed wheel on the frail man’s carry-on was making it difficult for him to manage.
“Why, thank you, young man,” the man said. “I should have got a new one. But they’re pretty expensive, you know.”
“Yes sir,” Paul said. “Do you have your seat number handy?”
The man dug into the pocket of a threadbare suit coat and gave Paul his boarding pass. Meanwhile, travellers were pushing past them and Paul’s family, a few casting annoyed looks for slowing other passengers on the skybridge.
“Hey, you’re in the same row as my family and I,” Paul said. “That’s a nice coincidence. Here we go.”
He lifted the man’s case and carried it with his own onto the plane and then down the right aisle of the Boeing 747. Anne insisted the elderly man follow Paul. Doug followed the elderly man, carrying Catherine’s diaper bag in one hand and his newest favorite book in the other. Anne brought up the rear with six-month-old Catherine clutched firmly in her arms.
At Row 41, Paul helped the elderly man into a middle seat, seat E. It was across the aisle from he and Anne. They were in A and C. Doug was in seat “D”, on the aisle beside the elderly man.
Anne was pleased to get a window seat. She loved watching takeoffs and landings, and enjoyed seeing the sky and the earth while airborne. Between them was seat B. Anne had reserved it for Catherine.
Right after the 747 reached cruising altitude a flight attendant stopped beside Paul’s seat. She squatted down and spoke quietly in his ear.
“On behalf of British Airways and the entire crew, I would like to thank you, Lord Winston, for flying with us today. British Airways would be proud to accommodate you and your family on the upper deck, sir. We happen to have a few vacancies up there. If you wish, My Lord, it would be an honor to arrange for an upgrade for your family... with the compliments of British Airways, of course.”
Paul signaled for her to come close.
“Thank you, miss,” he said quietly in her ear. “But we’re quite comfortable where we are. And please, I prefer not to draw attention to my family and myself. I hope you understand. We would be grateful if you would refer to us by the names on your passenger manifest, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, yes of course, sir,” the flight attendant whispered, visibly taken aback.
Paul suspected that many people with titles would insist upon being addressed by their honorific: doctor, honorable, bishop, lord, prince, etc.
“I’ll brief the other crew right away, sir. But I assume you know that a two-man security detail is flying with us. They felt it important that the crew and the sky marshals be made aware that you and your family were on board.”
“Yes,” Paul sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid that comes with the territory. Thank you for your understanding.”
***
“Dad?”
Doug’s voice drew Paul’s attention from his laptop. He’d been reviewing the terms of reference that Malcolm had drafted for the Secret Shepherd Foundation.
“Yes Doug,” he said. “What’s up?”
Doug undid his seatbelt, stood, and leaned over to Paul’s ear.
“I think that man is sick,” Doug said, gesturing behind him. “He’s been groaning a lot. And he keeps bending over like something’s hurting.”
“Why don’t we change seats, son?” Paul said, glancing over at the sleeping man. He unbuckled and stood.
Doug explained their move to his mother. The elderly black gentleman with a huge mane of unruly white-grey hair stirred slightly as Paul sat down, and then woke with a start. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a deep moan.
“Are you okay, sir?” Paul asked.
“Just my age,” the man said weakly. “I’m eighty-seven you know. Elijah Rucker,” he added extending his right hand.
“Paul Winston,” Paul said grasping the offered hand. The grip was much stronger than he expected. “May I ask what brings you on this flight, Mr. Rucker?”
“Elijah, please.”
“Sure, Elijah. Paul.”
“I’m heading for my hometown, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” he said. “And you, Paul?”
“We’re going to visit family and friends in Colorado,” Paul said. “Were you visiting someone in England?”
“No,” Elijah said. “Actually, I live in Sierra Leone... changed planes at Heathrow. Some very kind friends donated my flight... flights actually; got some great seat sales but they made my journey kinda circuitous. I’ll get there, eventually. My wife and I have a clinic in Sierra Leone. I’m going to Pittsburgh to try raising some money. Support for medical care from other countries has been dropping there since the civil war ended. And the relief agencies think they’re needed more elsewhere. Truth is, the war added enormous demands to our clinic, and those demands are not going away… they’re growing.”
“You run a medical clinic in Sierra Leone?” Paul asked.
“Yes. My wonderful wife Anthea and I, and a few wonderful people we’ve trained,” Elijah said. “The clinic sees a hundred and fifty to two hundred people a day. Sadly, we’ll have to start closing it down if we can’t get more funding. Despite lots of volunteer help, we’re almost out of medicines and other supplies, even food. Tragic. Been there for almost fifty years. That’s why I’m hoping to raise more money.”
“Are you a physician, Elijah?”
“Yes,” Elijah chuckled, “and a social worker and confidante and den father and parent.”
“Parent?” Paul asked.
“Anthea and I originally took in a few orphans from the war,” Elijah said. “Now the orphanage houses one hundred and twenty-seven children, from newborns to eighteen year olds, and they keep coming.
“We try to give our children a good home, and a basic education, and healthy food. The older ones help by working our vegetable farm and helping with the little ones. But when they reach eighteen, we have to let them go. It’s very sad, but we simply can’t support them and we need room for younger ones coming in all the time and unable to
fend for themselves. Sierra Leone is one of the poorest countries in the world, you know.”
“Do you live in England, Paul?” Elijah asked.
“Yes, we do,” Paul said.
“You don’t have an English accent,” Elijah observed. “You have an American accent. Do you mind my asking what you do there?”
“I have a government job,” Paul said. “And I do some investing.”
“That’s very good,” Elijah said. Paul could see Elijah was physically uncomfortable and struggling. “It’s good to have diverse interests, you know.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Elijah said. His voice was weak and barely audible. “I need to have a bit of a rest. I’m not feeling well just now. Must be the travelling and the altitude and the different food. Couldn’t be my age.”
Elijah laughed. Paul smiled.
Elijah reached for the button to recline his seat. He suddenly fell forward and groaned. Then he was silent, slumped over his seat belt.
“Elijah?” Paul asked. He reached over and touched the elderly man’s shoulder. No response. He felt his neck for a pulse. It was weak and irregular.
Paul eased Elijah back in the seat and held him while he reached for the call button.
The earlier flight attendant appeared beside his seat.
“This man needs immediate medical assistance,” Paul said. “Will you ask if there’s a doctor on board?”
“Yes Milord... ah, yes Mr. Winston!” she replied and rushed up the aisle.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please?” Paul heard over the speakers. “We have a medical emergency on board. If there are any physicians traveling with us today, will you please identify yourself by pressing the call button above you? Thank you.”
Paul estimated that they would be about halfway through their flight from London to Colorado. It was a polar flight over the high Arctic; no chance for an emergency landing en route. The nearest airports able to accommodate a 747 would take almost as long to reach as San Francisco, their initial destination en route to Colorado Springs.
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