One item, though, caught his eye because of its rarity. It was a “restricted” notation next to one of the names. Tanner had called the analyst and inquired about it, and was told that “restricted means hands off.”
Tanner reported the anomaly to Melendez.
“One of the people in the Rolling Stone visitor surveillance videos was labeled ‘restricted’ and we were denied access.”
“I’ve seen it before. Contact the inter-bureau liaison at the CIA and ask them to run it down for you.”
Tanner sent the information across to the CIA. Their response was that the restriction was not domestic, but originated in the UK.
Tanner called Hammond in London.
“Right, then, let’s pull it up,” Hammond said, typing the name into SCU’s secure search engine. Tanner listened to the long-distance tapping.
“Okay, I get a restriction banner across the screen. This designates an intelligence community restriction.”
“Really? Can you get past that?”
“Yes, I just need a different access code,” he said, and typed in a fourteen-digit code.
“In,” he announced.
“Well, boy oh boy, we have a wild one here: British Special Forces. Highly skilled. A real bad one.”
London, UK
Early Morning
When Gantry and Dennis arrived in London early the next morning, a driver met them at baggage claim, escorted them to a large black Range Rover, and drove them to the Four Seasons near Hyde Park.
“Nothing but the best for my friend and me,” Dennis said, as he and Gantry stepped out of the car. “I got us rooms overlooking the park. I hope it meets with your approval.”
Gantry stared at him like he was crazy.
“Are you kidding? This is great. How the hell can you afford—”
“Forget it, mate! Now, after we check in, let’s freshen up a bit and meet down here in about an hour for breakfast. Sound okay?” Dennis asked.
“Sure, I’m starving,” Gantry replied, laughing. “This is too much, man.”
“In the meantime, I’ll call Chloe and get this party started,” Dennis said.
The bellboy took Gantry to his room. Bemused, Gantry went to the windows and took in the panoramic view of Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, and downtown London. He could have put his entire apartment in this room.
I could get used to this quickly.
After showering and changing, Gantry made his way to the restaurant, where Dennis was waiting for him.
“Couldn’t wait to eat, so I got started. Go get yourself something.”
Gantry returned with a plate piled high with eggs, pastries, French toast, sausage, and one strawberry.
“Need my fruit every day,” he laughed.
“I spoke to Chloe,” Dennis said, “and she asked that I come by at eleven. She doesn’t know yet that you’re with me.”
“You’re just going to surprise her?”
“Yep, just like she surprised me!” Dennis said. “Harder for her to lie if I have a witness, don’t you think?”
Back in his room, Gantry took the surveillance device from the bottom of his travel bag, turned it on, and clipped it to the inside of the lapel of his sport coat, just as they had shown him. The device and its micro camera activated.
In Quantico, an analyst called Melendez.
“Agent Melendez, Mr. Elliot has activated his monitor. He is in downtown London.”
“Please make our London office aware. Thank you.”
Gantry met Dennis in the lobby and they took a cab to Notting Hill, a residential area in West London. Dennis explained that when he was growing up, Notting Hill had been a poor neighborhood populated chiefly by Caribbean immigrants, which gave it a kind of carnival atmosphere. In fact, the largest street party in Europe, the Notting Hill Carnival, took place here every year, he explained.
“My mum used to bring me here to Portobello Road on Saturdays to shop at the street market. Now, it’s a very posh neighborhood and property values have skyrocketed.”
“And this is where Jimi Hendrix died?” Gantry asked.
“The very place.”
The cab pulled up to a colorfully painted townhouse on a tree-lined street.
“Chloe’s father owns this place. She has the bottom floor flat. He lives above, and rents out the rest.”
They walked down a few steps to the front door, Dennis knocked, glanced at Gantry, and they waited.
The door was opened by a gorgeous strawberry blonde, wearing a tight Chelsea soccer jersey, jeans, and high-heeled boots.
“Dennis!” she shouted as she flung her arms around him.
“Chloe! How great to see you…Chloe, this is my friend Gantry Elliot.”
“Well, come on in. We have a lot to catch up on.”
Dennis turned and quickly rolled his eyes at Gantry, as if to say, “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Dennis and Chloe reminisced for at least an hour. Chloe didn’t mention the little girl they presumably shared until they heard a cry coming from another room.
“Mindy is awake,” Chloe said, and went out to get her. A minute or two later she returned, holding a dark-haired little girl about two or three years old.
“Mindy, say hello to Mr. Briganty and Mr. Elliot.”
The little girl buried her face in her mother’s neck.
“She’s a little shy with people she doesn’t know.” She put Mindy in a chair and made her comfortable. “Dennis, can I speak to you privately?”
Without waiting for an answer, she escorted Dennis to another room. Gantry heard their voices, then louder raised voices, then silence. The child sat across from Gantry, staring at him. He made a face at her, and she laughed. He made another, and she laughed even more. She made a face at him, and he laughed.
“Looks like you made a friend, Mindy!” Chloe said as she walked back into the room. “Let me show you boys where the boxes are. I can’t guarantee that they are the ones you are looking for, though.” Chloe’s face was flushed. Dennis wore no expression.
As the three of them walked to the garage, she explained that after her mother died she had moved most of her things to her father’s and had used the garage as storage.
Dennis opened the garage door to a film still from an episode of Storage Wars: furniture, boxes, mirrors, rugs and all manner of junk jammed floor to ceiling in the small one-car garage. A single low-wattage light bulb spattered a bit of light over it all.
“If it’s still around, it’s in here,” she said. “Have at it, but put it all back when you finish.”
Put it back? Gantry thought.
Dennis and Gantry moved the furniture out along with lamps, pictures, and the rest, finally uncovering three cardboard boxes stacked in the back. They pulled them out into a better light and opened one. Inside were plates, cups and saucers.
The next box was filled with shirts, pants, nothing special. But then they uncovered a tie-dyed jacket and some scarves at the bottom of the box. They looked at each other and quickly pulled the last box out.
This one contained books, records, bank statements, loose papers, and what appeared to be contracts—and a weathered red leather journal. Gantry quickly grabbed it and began leafing through it. Dennis began examining the loose papers and pictures.
“Jackpot!” Dennis exclaimed. “This is the box. I remember the black-and-white photos.” He was so engrossed in the find that he didn’t see the expression on Gantry’s face.
“Come on, mate, let’s take this treasure back to the hotel. We’ll get a bottle of Bushmills sent up, light up a couple of Cubans, and rummage through it all carefully.”
Gantry didn’t answer immediately. He cleared his throat and said, “Great idea. Let’s put her stuff back and get out of here.”
The two men were startled as Chloe came up behind them.
“Did you get what you came for?” she asked.
“Yes,” Dennis said. “We’re kind of pushed for time, so we’ll be off
. I’ll call you tonight to discuss the other matter. Okay?”
“That will be fine,” she said, smiling. “Just don’t forget me and disappear like you did last time.”
Dennis smiled faintly.
On the way to the hotel, Gantry tried talk with Dennis, but his mind was elsewhere.
“C’mon, man. What did you decide? Going to marry her?” Gantry asked.
“Are you shitting me? No way. I am giving her a check to take care of the two of them,” he said in an unequivocal tone.
“And that’s it? Just give her a check and that’s the end of it?” Gantry said, with an edge in his voice.
“Fuck yes, mate. What else am I supposed to do? I’m not father material, and besides, I’m not movin’ back here, and she would never leave London. End of story. That’s best for both of us, though the amount of the check is certainly still up for discussion.”
When the taxi pulled up to the hotel, Dennis grabbed the boxes and climbed out. Looking over the roof to Gantry, he said, “Let’s take a break for an hour and meet up in my room. I have a couple of calls to make. Need to call my lawyer about Chloe.” He looked worried.
“Fine. See you in an hour,” Gantry said.
In his hotel room, Dennis went through the boxes, sorting the files, papers, and photos into separate piles. But where was the journal? Had they left it behind?
In his room down the hall, Gantry sat thinking about what he’d quickly read in Hendrix’s journal. Then it dawned on him that the camera on his lapel had been on the entire time. He needed to call Melendez and get some advice.
He grabbed two small bottles of whiskey from the room bar, unscrewed the caps, and poured himself a drink, then punched Melendez’s number into his cell. All he heard, though, was an irritating noise. The call would not go through. He tried again, with the same result.
He picked up the hotel phone and connected with the international operator
“Sir, I cannot get a connection. Are you positive this is the correct number?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Let me try one other thing for you…Please wait…Yes, I thought so. Sir, this is a restricted number and I am not able to connect you. So sorry.”
Gantry needed to think this through quickly.
Upstate New York
Two miles from Canadian Border
On a brisk early May morning just off a quiet stretch of Interstate 90 running through Buffalo to Toronto, a vehicle was spotted on a dirt road leading into dense forest.
The border was in sight to the New York state troopers, who caught a glimmer of reflection between the trees. They pulled over, thinking they might nab an out-of-season deer hunter. Their patrol car crawled back along the muddy path.
A silver Toyota Camry. So much for deer hunters.
But what was a Camry doing sitting in axle-deep mud off a state highway? Stolen, most likely, the troopers surmised.
As they approached the car, they saw the head slumped against the window.
“Agent Melendez?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lieutenant John DiMarco, New York State Police. I’m calling from Buffalo.”
“Yes, lieutenant. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve had an incident here near the border, about a half mile out on I-90.”
“Yes..?”
“We found a Camry in the woods a short while ago. There was a gunshot victim inside. He’d been shot through the back of the head.”
“We found your card. Not much else, not even a wallet, no ID. Oh, and there was a hundred grand in cash in a case in the trunk. Know anything about this?”
“No other luggage? Nothing else in the trunk?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you made a preliminary ID?”
“No, but the DMV has the car registered to a Maria Salazar of Westport, Connecticut. The address is a property owned by a Simon Jennings.”
“Describe the victim,” Melendez asked.
“Caucasian, faded reddish hair, about six-two, nice Burberry suit. Appears to be have been dead for a while. Looks like a professional hit to me. Whoever did this used a .22 caliber pistol, and those guys like the .22s. They don’t make a big mess, no exit wounds, nothing. I’m sending you a picture right now.”
“Where was my card found?” Melendez asked, thinking if the killer had stolen the man’s wallet, he certainly should have had the card. The killer would have known they would ID the man within minutes.
“That was an odd thing. He didn’t have it in his pocket. It was tucked into the spare-tire well. We found it there with the cash. Anything I need to know here, Agent Melendez?”
“Just got your picture. This appears to be Simon Jennings. He was working with us in an ongoing investigation. We last spoke to him a few days ago.”
“What kind of case?”
“Murder.”
“Not the usual thing for the FBI,”
“This one is.”
“Well, I guess we’re involved now. I’ll have to talk to you soon. Is this where you can usually be reached?”
“Yes. I’ll send a couple of agents up there immediately. Send us the crime scene photos, so we can make a positive match.”
Melendez pressed the speed-dial number for Gantry; it rang twice, then went to voice mail.
“Gantry, it’s Raphael. Very bad news. Just got a call from a New York state trooper. They believe they found Hislop dead in a car near the Canadian border. Be careful. Don’t take any chances.”
Melendez disconnected.
Not a cold case anymore. There’s someone out there protecting himself in a big way.
Obviously Hislop wasn’t just being paranoid. He knew. That’s why he ran. At least they’d gotten a line on Greely, but with the archives torched, they had nothing there for the time being. He desperately needed to get their hands on whatever Hislop had taken with him, or this would go nowhere.
Melendez picked up his phone again and dialed Tanner.
“The New York staties just called me. They found someone believed to be Hislop dead in the housekeeper’s car on I-90 near the Canadian border, shot in the back of the head.”
“Execution style.”
“Exactly.”
“As in Special Forces?”
“Yes, why?”
“Didn’t you get that file?”
“What file?”
“The one I left on your desk yesterday about that restricted-access guy that Agent Davis and I found in the background and commonality checks.”
“What the hell? I wasn’t in my office yesterday. Why didn’t you call me immediately? God damn it, Tanner!”
“Boss, I’m sorry. You said you were coming back after lunch. I got on the pharmacy thing you wanted last night. I forgot to check back with you.”
“What did it say?”
“I was able to get into it with Hammond’s help. He’s one bad dude. British Special Forces, biochemical specialist, assassin, the full Monty. And get this—affiliated with the Rolling Stones in the commonalities matrix. The name popped up a couple of times with St. Albans Pharmacy as well. I’m still waiting for the CIA liaison to get back to me.”
“What’s the name?
“Dullahan—an alias. No record.”
“Any prints, last knowns? Anything?”
“Not yet. Our liaison may have more.”
“What are you waiting for?” Melendez shouted. “And get someone to look at highway surveillance videos out of Westport to Buffalo on I-90.”
British Special Forces operative? Assassin? Proficient in bio chemical ops? Jesus, this just keeps getting more bizarre. Melendez’s mind was internalizing his thoughts as fast as a computer.
As Melendez sat trying to digest the news of a suddenly dead Hislop, his phone rang again.
“Melendez.”
“Hello, Agent Melendez. This is Alex Jaeger.”
“Yes, hello, Mr. Jaeger. I didn’t recognize the number. What can I help you with?”
&nb
sp; “I don’t think you can, but I think I can help you.”
“Really? With what?”
“The mail boy just dropped off all of Gantry’s mail. Mostly stuff he never reads anyway, but I told him to bring it to me until Gantry gets back.”
“Okay.”
“Well, there is a box marked personal to Gantry, handwritten with a Sharpie, a lot like those manila envelopes. It’s heavy. Should I open it?”
“No. Absolutely not. Leave it in your office and don’t touch it. I’ll have one of our agents from the Manhattan office pick it up immediately.”
“Can I know what’s in it when you get it?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Jaeger, let us do our job.”
In less than an hour, an agent picked up the box, took it to the South Street Heliport and put it on a chopper. It was in Melendez’s office before five o’clock. He, Tanner, and Moxie examined it closely before Melendez took out his penknife.
Slowly he cut through the tape and folded back the cardboard flaps. “Nothing but files,” Moxie said.
“What did you expect, a bomb?” Melendez said.
He put on surgical gloves and carefully removed each tabbed file. The contents seemed to be well organized. Each was clearly labeled, and as he put each one on his desk, he noted the tabs: Record companies, bank records, offshore accounts, onshore accounts, and one simply labeled, Joseph Clark. Melendez took a few minutes to spread the files out, open each one, and skim the basic information contained.
“Pretty comprehensive,” Moxie said. “From Hislop?”
“Yes, I’d say it was our recently deceased friend, Angus Hislop, but let’s be sure. Get on the phone and call Mr. Jaeger in New York. Find out when this box came into his mailroom and get any visuals they have. The trooper said he thought Hislop had been dead for a while.”
“I’m on it, boss.”
“Tanner, take this to the clean room and lock it up. Then meet me there in an hour. Get Jackson from financial forensics there and patch in Robert Bruce and Scotland Yard. We need to go over every word. This could be what we’ve been looking for. And get Gantry on the phone. I left him a message, but he hasn’t called back. I want to know what the fuck is going on over there.”
Bright Midnight Page 22