by Ted Bell
“Progress, one only hopes?”
“Considerable. After viewing what seemed like countless hours of the casino’s CCTV security tapes, we finally saw a match for the photo we had of the Russian general among the living. He was at the chemin de fer table playing baccarat with the able assistance of a comely blonde who did not seem able to keep her own considerable mammary assets within the confines of her evening dress.”
“I know the type.”
“I bet you do. Nevertheless, the happy couple were drinking masses of champagne and looking very chummy. The relevant footage was time coded just after midnight. After they left the casino, we picked them up again on the exterior security cameras, weaving arm in arm through the car park, arriving finally at a white Roller convertible, Russian plates, probably belonging to your pal. The local constabulary provided further footage of them arriving at the Yacht Club de Monaco and going inside for a nightcap. We got them on camera at the bar, too, thank heavens. Good close-up shots of the woman, which we posted on Interpol’s worldwide alert site.”
“Good news?”
“Yes and no, Alex. While we were studying the morgue photos at the bureau, I received a bit of a shock. Bernard Ledoux, the Interpol chap I mentioned, got a call from his counterpart in Washington. He was informed that there had been an attempted murder last night. It took place in the suburb of McLean, Virginia, and—”
“McLean?”
“Afraid so.”
“Brick? Don’t tell me someone tried to assassinate Brick Kelly!”
“I’m afraid so, Alex. The good news is the female assassin did not succeed. In fact, she herself was fatally wounded during the ensuing struggle with Brick over a gun.”
“And Brick himself?”
“Unharmed.”
“Thank God.”
“But, as a ruse to gain entry to the Kelly homestead, the woman had deliberately run down Brick’s dog in the road. She killed him.”
“The bitch killed Captain?”
“Yes. Poor Brick is devastated of course. But he’s alive. And she is not.”
“How about Jane and the children?”
“A bit of good timing there. All were visiting the grandmother in North Carolina at the time of the incident. But, sadly, Brick’s housekeeper of many years was completely taken in by the woman. For her troubles, she was murdered sometime prior to Brick’s arrival back at the house.”
“Hildy.”
“I’m sorry, Alex. I know you’re very close to the whole family. But . . . had the children been home? Well, it could have been a whole lot worse. This was a ruthless assassin and anything was possible.”
“Does anyone have any idea who the hell this goddamn woman was?”
“No positive identification as yet. CIA and Interpol are all over it as you can imagine. But, thank God, there is some good news coming out of all this tragedy.”
“What, pray tell?” Hawke said.
“On a whim, I requested that Interpol in Washington e-mail us autopsy photos of Brick Kelly’s attacker, which we compared to the casino footage.”
“And?”
“We can now tell Putin we know with absolute certainty who killed his KGB general aboard the yacht Tsar that night at the Yacht Club de Monte Carlo harbor. Our work here, frankly, is done.”
“We can leave? Who the hell was it?”
“We don’t have the name yet, but we know now that the woman who tried to assassinate the CIA director and the woman who murdered the Russian general were one and the same. We’ll find out soon enough who she was.”
“Good work, Constable.”
“I’ve been cogitating. Don’t you find it extremely odd that a female American assassin murders a KGB general in Monte Carlo without leaving a clue and then flies all the way to Virginia to gun down the director of the CIA in cold blood?”
Hawke nodded. “Beyond odd. She’s not hanging out there all on her own. She’s working for someone. These were complicated operations logistically. She must have substantial infrastructure behind her. But where’s the motive? And, from a political perspective, who the hell out there wants both Russian and American intelligence officers dead?”
“China?” Congreve said, giving the only logical reply. “Russia?”
“I know you’re joking, Constable, but it’s not that far-fetched, I can assure you.”
“Possibly, it is the same group who killed your CIA friend Cam Hooker in Maine. And the CIA chief of station in Paris, Harding Torrance. And, finally, almost you yourself in Bermuda. She was also a blonde, as I recall? The one you invited aboard for dinner? Pelham told me he believed you dodged a bullet that night.”
“Crystal? She had something far less unpleasant on her mind. It was Spider who wanted me dead in Bermuda, remember.”
“Right. But I think this vixen and Spider were batting for the same team. We find out who Spider and Crystal were working for, we find out who’s responsible for the attack on Brick and the Russian general.”
“Ambrose, Spider was working solo. He had gone rogue. He was royally pissed off at the Americans. But, to my knowledge, he had no beef with the Russians. Moscow was never part of his caseload, at least to my knowledge.”
“Exactly my point. None that you know of.”
“Point taken, Constable.”
“So, all we need here, again, is motive. Figure out who had a reason to be royally pissed off at both the Americans and the Russians, right?”
Hawke said, “Now, you’re getting somewhere. I knew that brain of yours had to kick in sooner or later. Volodya and I had a very frank conversation at our farewell breakfast up on deck this morning. I can’t wait to tell you about it.”
“Tell me something. You said, ‘farewell breakfast.’ Does this mean we can go home now?”
“Home? You’d leave your prepaid palatial suite and all that free caviar and Cristal champagne behind? All the topless Bardot wannabes and sunburned German hausfraus strolling the beaches below your terrace?”
“Alex, you of all people know how I feel about the French.”
“So, it’s only the hausfraus you’ll miss?”
“I’d much prefer to go sit by my glorious window and eat my cold eggs Sardou. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll ring off now.”
“D’accord. Je m’excuse.”
“Alex, you swore you’d never attempt the French language again in my presence.”
“Ah, so I did, so I did. So sorry. Je m’excuse, mon ami!” Hawke said.
“What’s next?”
“I suppose our work here is done, isn’t it? I’ve taken the liberty of having my London office book first-class passage for you home to Bermuda through London. Is that all right?”
“Is that all right, did you say? Alex, you know I simply cannot abide the French for one more hour. I’m not too crazy about the Russians, either.”
CHAPTER 37
Bermuda
You look exhausted, darling,” Lady Mars said to Ambrose, taking shelter from the rain under the porte cochere of their Bermuda home, Shadowlands.
This upon the chief inspector’s late arrival in the midst of a raging tropical rainstorm. Sheets of rain and ragged lightning lit the sky as a very bedraggled Ambrose arrived on his doorstep soaked to the skin. He felt as if he were washing up ashore like some poor drowned mutt.
Diana opened wide her slender alabaster arms, and her husband dove down into their welcome like a man drowning. He was extraordinarily tired, actually. The interminable transoceanic flight from Nice, France, to JFK on British Airways, the bloody racing between terminals to make the last connection to Bermuda, plus all the indignities and myriad miseries of modern commercial jet travel had worn him down to the bare nubs. For dinner, United had served a small cardboard box full of stale crackers called “Tapas” in an attempt at humor.
Not to mention the intense hours he’d devoted to this latest mystery. The one he called, as he had now come to think of it, “Who’s Killing the Great Spies of Europe?” The
facts, skimpy as they were at this point, were straightforward enough.
The mysterious woman who’d killed the Russian KGB second-in-command, and the woman who’d killed the CIA director’s housekeeper during a botched plot to assassinate Brick Kelly shared the same DNA. So. What on earth was the joint motive? Whatever did those two victims possibly have in common? Didn’t make a scintilla of sense, as he’d told Hawke on their way to the Nice airport early that morning.
None at all. Absurd on the face of it. Still, Hawke was counting on him to solve this thing and by God he was going to do it.
His CIA informant within the hallowed halls of Langley had promised to keep him abreast of their ongoing investigation into the murder at the Kelly horse farm in Virginia. But, so far at least, he’d not heard peep one. Ah, well, he was too tired to dwell on anything anymore. Tomorrow he’d take his English newspapers down to his semipermanent chaise longue on the pink sands of his beach and—
“I missed you so, you old plodder,” Diana said, squeezing him around his waist.
“I do not plod, I streak.”
“Streak inside, will you, oh mighty Demon of Deduction? You look like you need a hot cuppa, boy.”
“Oh, I sorely do, Mother mine.”
He paused inside the door to gather her up into his arms. He nuzzled her warm cheeks, inhaling the clean sweetness of her neck and heavenly scent of her glorious mane of chestnut hair, and privately declared himself among the very luckiest of men.
“God, it’s good to be safe home to my favorite Martian,” he said, knowing how she delighted in his use of the old moniker he’d had for Lady Mars since the first days of their courtship many years ago.
Diana led him down the hall and into the library and there kissed him for a very long time on the lips, pushing him down into his cushy leather armchair by the fireside. A scotch magically appeared in his hand. His beloved meerschaum pipe and his leather tobacco pouch miraculously appeared, too, and—
His wife put her hand on his weary shoulder and said, “And how was our Mr. Putin behaving himself this time? Did he take his shirt off and strut about for you and his lordship? Full of the usual blood and thunder?”
“Ah, yes, indeed he did, metaphorically, at least. It was a sight to behold, I’ll tell you that much. He thinks he’s going to conquer the world, that one does. He’s got the bottle to think we won’t raise a hand to stop him. That no one will!”
“He’s a bad boy, isn’t he, darling?”
“A bad boy who certainly underestimates the resolve of Britain. The prime minister and Parliament can only be pushed so far. Putin just doesn’t seem to understand the fact that we will not put up with much more of this bellicosity and . . .”
Ambrose yawned mightily and let his eyes wander over to the crackling fire, trying to let go his old worries about Hawke’s sentimental belief in false friendships, something that might one day be the death of him.
His wife lowered herself onto his lap and began stroking his chestnut hair. Thinning a bit on the top but still there, by heaven, sixty years young and counting.
Half an hour later Ambrose and his wife were just finishing their supper in the dining room when someone pushed in from the kitchen and said to Diana, “Sorry to disturb you, Madame. There’s someone on the line who wants to speak with Mr. Congreve.”
“Who is it?”
“Would not say, sir. Said he was calling on a secure line. He said to tell him it was his friend from the farm in Virginia.” She did so.
“Please tell my friend I shall be right with him, won’t you? I’ll take it up in my office,” Congreve said, getting to his feet and placing his napkin upon the table.
“Who on earth is that?” Diana said.
“Business, darling. My new secret contact inside the CIA at Langley, Virginia. This shouldn’t take too long, dear. Shall I join you for coffee back in the library?”
“Of course, Ambrose. Take your time. These secure line chats do tend to stretch out a bit.”
“Congreve,” Ambrose said, picking up the phone in his office, the salt-smudged windows overlooking the waves crashing in the dark below.
“Sorry to call you so late.”
“Not at all, not at all. What have you got for me?”
“We’ve been working the suspect who killed Director Kelly’s housekeeper. We’ve come up with a name. Not a last name, unfortunately; she had a list of aliases as long as your arm. But we do have a first name she’s used in multiple assassinations for you. We got it both from the director himself and the bartender at the Bristol Hotel in Paris where the hit on Harding Torrance occurred. He was the station chief in Paris, remember?”
“Certainly do. He came up with the same first name, did he, this bartender of yours?”
“He did. Said she used the name ‘Crystal’ while she was chatting up Torrance at the bar. And Crystal’s the name the killer gave the director when he came home to find her at his farm. So, same name used on both occasions.”
“Crystal? I’ve heard that name before. Not the kind of name you forget. Where the hell was it? Let me think. I know—wait a second—yes, it was Pelham Grenville who used it. That’s right. Pelham.”
“And who is he?”
“Alex Hawke’s eighty-year-old butler. And one of my very closest friends, by the way.”
“What was the context, sir?”
“He was recounting a story about a woman Hawke had asked to dine aboard his yacht at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. A week or so ago, I believe. Pelham didn’t like her on sight. He said, ‘One of us smelled like a tart’s handkerchief. And it was not I.’”
“Don’t tell me her name was Crystal, too.”
“It certainly was. Hawke pooh-poohed any notion of villainy at the time, but Pelham was absolutely certain the woman meant to do him harm. And Pelham’s instincts are always reliable, even at his relatively advanced age.”
“This is good news, sir. We can now triangulate her movements. And we move closer to motive. She kills a KGB officer, she attempts to kill the head of CIA, and she takes a failed shot at an MI6 officer in Bermuda into the bargain. Who the hell wants to kill everybody? May I have permission to speak with Lord Hawke about the Bermuda incident?”
“Certainly. I’ll give him your name and tell him to expect your call.”
“Any woman who would deliberately run down a man’s dog in the street is capable of just about anything. I’d say your friend Lord Hawke dodged a rather high-caliber bullet that evening in Bermuda.”
“Funny. Those are almost the precise words my friend Pelham used.”
CHAPTER 38
The White House
Nell Spooner crept silently into the sun-filled nursery, knowing full well her young charge had been lying in his bed, wide awake, for hours. His big birthday was finally here, and she’d had an awful time of it getting him to sleep last night. But it was going to be a very long day for him, and she felt he should get all the rest he could before the big celebration.
She and Letitia Smoot, the White House social secretary, had put a tremendous amount of effort into planning the birthday party. Nell, despite the possibility of rain showers, wanted to have the celebration outside on the South Lawn. She had invited her many friends at the British Embassy and their children, and she had wanted it to be American and old-fashioned in every way. The children would get to enjoy hot dogs and hamburgers, cake, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, bobbing for apples . . . the kind of birthday that would be memorable for all the English children. And the kind Alexei had never known in the mansions of Mayfair and the Cotswolds.
Nell went to the nursery windows and peered down at the wide green lawn and surrounding gardens. Fluffy white clouds in the bluest of skies . . . a picture-perfect late summer’s day. Already balloons of every color were floating among the trees. A long white table festooned with flowers and more balloons was piled high with presents for the birthday boy.
During her recent tenure working diplomatic security at the Bri
tish Embassy, Nell had been exceedingly popular. Most of her friends were young mothers with two or three children roughly Alexei’s age, and now she had the very great honor of being able to invite them all to a White House lawn party.
When the pastry chef in the White House kitchen had asked Alexei what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday, he replied, “Every kind of cake, sir! All mixed up together!”
“I’ll do it!” the chef replied with enthusiasm (for he really did like the idea). “But I cannot guarantee what it will taste like, you know.”
“It will taste like everything!” Alexei beamed. “But better, sir!”
“So it will, so it will!” the pastry chef replied, grinning with delight. He loved a culinary challenge, and this young fellow’s birthday cake certainly fell into that category.
It hadn’t taken long for the little boy to win the hearts of everyone who lived and worked in the White House. The Secret Service had adopted him immediately, making him the official K-9 officer in charge of canine hydration, making sure the guard dogs’ water bowls were always full. He was a well-known figure down in the kitchen, usually helping out with the tasting of fresh-made brownies and licking the chocolate chip cookie dough from a wooden spoon before the cookies went into the oven.
Many mornings, when the president took his golden retriever, Fred, for his daily constitutional around the grounds, little Alexei was holding his hand. The child had been anointed the president’s honorary companion. Rosow was also deeply grateful to the child’s father for his help with the troublesome Russian leader; he felt taking Alex’s son under his wing for a while was the very least he could do.
The recent, and nearly successful, attempt on the life of his CIA director had the president and everyone else at 1600 on edge. Were the White House and its inhabitants soon to be on the ISIS terrorists’ hit list? Many of his Secret Service officers thought they already were. So did CIA, but the president kept that confidential to avoid a panic.