She dreaded lunch with David the following day. He sounded obsessed with what he claimed to have discovered in London, and when David Portland became obsessed he could be intolerable. She wanted both David and Trevor to be past tense. She needed to move on. She was immersed in her legal career now and enjoying it. Too, she hadn’t been without male companionship. Tall, leggy, and with flawless bronze-colored skin, she’d turned plenty of admiring male eyes and invited a few to share her bed. But there was no one on the horizon who represented what might be termed a steady beau. The truth was—and she admitted it to herself only in her most introspective moments—none had the charisma that had attracted her to David Portland.
CHAPTER
9
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Elizabeth prepared to leave her apartment for her lunch date with her ex-husband. She loved where she lived, and its color palette and choice of furniture reflected her tastes. Although she’d been brought up by parents who’d decorated their home with antique American furniture and who leaned to muted, subdued colors, Elizabeth responded to more contemporary styles, including vivid hues on the walls and in floor coverings. Her furniture was sleek and modern, much of it white, with red and yellow throw pillows adding splashes of color. She was a foe of clutter; the apartment could almost be considered Spartan, its decorative touches kept to a minimum, her books artfully displayed in their white floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A second bedroom was configured as her home office and was as pristine as the rest of the apartment. She was rearranging items at her bedside when the phone rang.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” Cameron Chambers said. “Hope I’m not taking you from something important.”
“I’m getting ready to leave for London later this afternoon,” she said, “and I’m about to go to lunch with—with my former husband.”
“The infamous David Portland.” He forced a laugh to soften the comment. “How is he?”
“I wouldn’t know, Cameron. We don’t keep in touch.”
“Even though he’s now living here in D.C.? Is reconciliation on the horizon?”
“We—is there something I can do for you? I’m in a rush.”
“I just thought that while you’re at the London office you might check on inquiries Mr. Portland has made regarding the death of his son.”
“What kind of inquiries?”
“He contacted the London office of XCAL. Probably nothing to it, but I like to stay abreast of things.”
“I’ll ask about it,” she said.
“Can’t ask for more than that,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch. The Willard?”
“No.” She gave the name of the bistro before wondering why he cared where they were meeting. “Anything else, Cameron?”
“You owe me the pleasure of getting together when you return.”
“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.”
CHAPTER
10
Portland was standing in front of the French bistro when Elizabeth arrived. He watched her approach, tall and lithe with a certain awkward gait that for him was part of her charm.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. I’m on time.”
“Noon on the button,” he said.
“I thought you’d be inside at the bar.”
“I don’t hang out at bars anymore.”
She walked past him and entered the restaurant. He followed. She gave her name to the maître d’, who led them to a table. Portland went to hold out her chair, but she handled that action herself.
“I don’t have much time, David,” she said, glancing at her watch. “You look well.”
“So do you, but then again you always do.”
“How do you like working at the embassy?”
“I like it fine, dull but peaceful.”
A bottle of Perrier sparkling water served as their pre-lunch drinks.
“Congratulations on being made a full partner,” he said.
“Thank you. I’ve worked hard to earn it.”
The menus they were handed put an end to the opening chitchat. She ordered a salad; he opted for steak frites.
“So,” she said, “what is it that you found out in London that we have to discuss?”
He reached in the pocket of the tan safari jacket he wore over a black T-shirt and handed her the bracelet. She examined it, twisting it in her long fingers tipped with crimson nail polish before saying, “It’s the bracelet your mother gave Trevor before she died.”
“Right.”
“Why do you have it? You said that it was in Trevor’s belongings that you had sent to me. You urged me to take it from the package and wear it.”
“Right again, Elizabeth, but I was wrong. I assumed that it was in that package. It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. I’d like to know what else was in that package.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she said. “I’ll have my mother FedEx it to you.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said.
She handed the bracelet back to him quickly, as though to hold it longer would stain her fingers.
The waiter brought their meals, but neither lifted a fork.
“Where did you get this, David?” Elizabeth asked, nodding at the bracelet that now rested on the table between them.
“It’s too long a story, Elizabeth, but let me just say that it was on the wrist of a Nigerian who’d won it in a card game.”
“A card game? He gave it to you?”
Portland laughed. “Let’s just say that I convinced him that I deserved to have it.”
Elizabeth picked at her salad, and Portland chewed on a French fry.
“A card game?” she repeated.
“Yeah. According to my generous Nigerian friend, he won it in a card game with a guy named Alain Fournier. Know the name?”
“No. Why would I know him? Who is he?”
“He’s a Frenchman who heads up a security company in Nigeria called SureSafe. He and his buddies provide security there for your prized client, XCAL Oil.”
“I know nothing about that.”
“Why don’t you? From what I’m told you’re the lead attorney for XCAL. It seems to me that…”
Her lip curled, a signal he’d come to recognize that what he’d said had angered her. Her words confirmed it.
“I’m a lawyer, David,” she said. “I don’t get involved in how XCAL finds oil and pumps it into barrels to be sold to motorists. I deal with more esoteric aspects of the company. I have no interest in how the company uses security companies where it drills around the world. You say that this bracelet was won by this Nigerian from a Frenchman in a card game. So what?”
It was his turn to feel anger. He leaned closer across the table and said, “Doesn’t it pique your inquisitive legal mind, Liz, as to how this Frenchman happened to have possession of the bracelet? The official line was that Trevor was murdered by Nigerian rebels who’ve waged war on oil companies like XCAL because those same companies make their billions while the natives suffer. If that’s true then some Nigerian rebel would have taken the bracelet from Trevor, not a Frenchman who works for XCAL.”
She started to defend XCAL but thought better of it.
“So,” he continued, “this Frenchman Fournier, who’s in charge of keeping XCAL’s workers safe, has possession of Trevor’s bracelet instead of the rebels who allegedly killed him. How can that be unless…?”
“Maybe he came across the rebel who killed Trevor, killed him, and took the bracelet not knowing who it originally belonged to.”
“Interesting plot,” Portland said, “but I don’t buy it. Try this. Maybe the Frenchman killed Trevor and ripped the bracelet from his wrist as a souvenir to use as collateral in a card game.”
Elizabeth sipped water as Portland sliced a piece of steak. The restaurant had filled up and conversational buzz at adjacent tables made it necessary to speak louder. It was Elizabeth who finally said, “This is all very interesting, David, but what is it that you expect me to do?”
“Aside from having Trevor’s belongings sent to me, give me the name of someone at XCAL I can talk to about Fournier and the work his security company does for XCAL in Nigeria.”
Another glance at her watch, less furtive this time, preceded her saying, “I don’t work with people at XCAL who deal with security. I work with the company’s attorneys on legal issues.”
“If a security firm like SureSafe, the one Fournier works for, is killing innocent young men like my son and your stepson that sure as hell is a legal issue.”
She said nothing.
“Who’s in charge of XCAL’s overseas security? Is he at the company’s Maryland headquarters, or in the London office?”
She answered by pushing her barely touched salad away and extracting a credit card from her purse.
“No need to pay for my lunch,” Portland said.
“Happy to do it, David. It was good seeing you again. Thanks for showing me the bracelet. I’m sure that there’s a perfectly logical explanation why your Nigerian friend had it in his possession. I really have to run. I have things to do before my flight.”
David would have liked the lunch to continue. Sitting with Elizabeth reinforced why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place, although he recognized that the mature professional woman sitting across from him was no longer the star-struck young college grad whose views of the world, especially men, had been charmingly sophomoric. He’d loved her bubbly youth, and continued to love her in her maturity.
They shook hands in front of the restaurant; he wanted to kiss her.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said. “It wasn’t necessary for you to pay.”
“The firm will pick it up,” she said.
“Of course.”
“If you find out anything else about Trevor’s death you’ll let me know?” she said.
“Yes. Travel safe, Liz.”
His using her nickname brought a smile to her face.
“I will,” she said, and walked from his sight.
CHAPTER
11
LONDON
Elizabeth Sims’s promotion at Cale, Watson and Warnowski not only carried with it the coveted title of partner and a sizable salary increase but also provided perks available exclusively to partners—first class when traveling by air, small suites while out of town on business, and a hefty expense account. This trip to London was her first since her elevation in status and she looked forward to it. Her first-class seat in the British Airways Airbus 380-800 jumbo jet was spacious, and provided a fold-down feature should she decide to nap. The drinks were top-shelf, and a skillfully prepared dinner was served on a white linen tablecloth with silver flatware. The choice of entertainment features was impressive; she decided to watch a recently released motion picture after dinner.
But while the ambiance was relaxing, a welcome respite from her day-to-day legal duties, she was anything but relaxed.
The lunch with David had started her thinking, and hard as she tried she couldn’t switch off her thoughts. During their lunch she had come up with the possible scenario that the Frenchman had taken the bracelet from the rebel who had killed Trevor, not realizing to whom it had initially belonged. It was a reasonable explanation, she felt, as plausible as the one David had concocted—that Trevor had been killed by the Frenchman, or people working for him, and he had obtained the bracelet that way.
While her possible explanation made as much sense as his did, something told her that his story probably rang of greater truth. She had little to back up that belief, her own defensive what-if coupled with an appreciation of David’s instincts.
She struggled with those conflicting thoughts across the Atlantic, her attention to the movie constantly interrupted by recollections of the lunch conversation. Visions of the delicate, gem-encrusted bracelet kept replacing the image on the screen. Trevor wore it every day that he lived with her and her parents in Massachusetts. On occasion schoolmates chided him for wearing a woman’s bracelet, called him a sissy and worse. But he never allowed their jeers to keep him from putting it on in the morning as he prepared for school. There were times when he physically struck back at those who taunted him and had suffered a black eye and split lip from those encounters. He stood up for what he believed in—like his father—and took the blows that standing on principle sent his way.
Tears filled her eyes; she was glad that there was plenty of space between her and other first-class passengers. When the captain announced that they were cleared to land at Heathrow Airport she breathed a sigh of relief. What should have been six hours of comfortable escape from the rigors of her work—and an escape from her cell phone and other technological intrusions into her life—had ended up an unpleasant journey, and she was happy when the doors to the jumbo jet opened and she was free to leave.
The London cabdriver took her to The Dorchester Hotel in the center of the city, overlooking Hyde Park. It was the luxury hotel in which ranking members of the law firm always stayed, whose restaurant, Alain Ducasse’s, was the only restaurant in London to receive three Michelin stars, although Elizabeth preferred taking her meals in The Grill.
Her Park Suite, with its view of the fabled park in which speakers of every stripe and persuasion gave vent to their passions and beliefs each Sunday morning, was beautifully furnished and appointed, the fabrics specially commissioned, the furniture antique, and the white marble bath featuring the deepest baths in London, or so it was claimed. She unpacked and looked out over the park. It was less busy in winter, but there was still a sizable number of men, women, and children enjoying its lovely expanse. She checked her watch. Her dinner date with Sir Manford Penny, chairman of XCAL UK, was in forty-five minutes.
Penny was the only remaining descendent of a family mining dynasty that had become wealthy leasing valuable mineral rights to other companies, including the first XCAL sites in Nigeria. XCAL had its origins in the 1940s in California, where an enterprising pair of brothers had leveraged its potential—with substantial government aid—to form what had emerged as a major player in the oil industry, perhaps not on the scale of ExxonMobil, Shell, or Chevron but nipping at the heels of those giants in the never-ending quest for world domination as a provider of the precious black gold. It had drilling sites and refineries in a number of countries, but its major operation was in Nigeria’s Niger Delta.
A much-decorated British officer, Penny had traded in his military insignia for a civilian suit and tie with a start-up firm whose foray into the IT world had all the promise of becoming a success. Money he’d inherited from his family got the company off the ground, and there was a period when it appeared that the investment had been a wise one. His partners at the firm urged that they take the company public, but Penny had resisted those efforts and the firm remained private, which meant, of course, that its financial health was not available for public scrutiny. Anonymous insiders claimed that Penny had been “cooking the books” to cover up the precipitous decline in its fortunes, including his own sinking financial situation. Was he nearly broke when he bailed out of the firm to take the job as chairman of XCAL UK? He denied it, of course, and as far as Elizabeth knew the rumors of his financial demise were just that, barbs spread by his detractors. She found time spent with him to be pleasant and educational when it came to the inner workings of the oil industry.
But their dinner dates whenever she was in London had recently begun to turn too personal for her, and she learned that wags in the company had concluded that she and Penny were having an affair. It wasn’t true, but the mere floating of such scuttlebutt gave it substance in certain quarters.
She was about to leave the suite to meet him downstairs in Alain Ducasse’s restaurant when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to see a young man holding an elaborate bouquet of flowers from the hotel’s in-house florist.
“For you, Ms. Sims,” he said, “compliments of Mr. Penny.”
He refused a gratuity. She took the flowers from him, added water to the vase in the bath
room, and placed it on the desk. It wasn’t the first time that Penny had preceded meeting her with a delivery of flowers, and on one occasion he’d presented her with a lovely, and obviously expensive, sterling silver business card case with her initials etched on it. Her initial inclination was to not accept the gift, but at the same time she was aware that it might offend him, something to be avoided with an important client. Manford Penny wielded considerable clout in the XCAL hierarchy as chairman of its British subsidiary, someone whose opinions were highly valued. The XCAL account was the cornerstone of CW&W’s client base. It would have been bad politics, to say nothing of a foolhardy business decision, to alienate such a person. Her understanding of this did not extend, of course, into having to act upon his amorous advances. His marital status was murky. Although he was legally married, he and his wife lived distinctly separate lives, in different houses in the UK, and were free to pursue other romantic interests, a modern setup that was anathema to her. Penny’s overtures were subtle, of course—Penny was good at subtlety—but the signs were there and Elizabeth was quick to pick up on them.
Penny stood at the entrance to the acclaimed restaurant when Elizabeth came downstairs to join him. Reed-thin and over six feet tall, he struck a sophisticated pose as he leaned casually against a pillar. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer—Elizabeth had never seen him wear anything else—a white shirt and pale yellow tie, which matched the color of his lank hair with just the right touch of gray at the temples. He saw her crossing the lobby, smiled, and held out his hand. “Ah, Elizabeth,” he said, “how stunning you look tonight. You must bottle whatever it is that allows you to look so fresh after a long plane trip.”
“Thank you,” she said, “and thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely.”
“Nothing like fresh flowers to brighten a hotel room, especially when it’s occupied by your law firm’s newest partner.”
Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 4