After the events of the last two days, however, I wasn’t nearly as gullible as my father’s chief of staff seemed to be.
I kept my eyeballs peeled for trouble as we waltzed through the entrance to the glass and gray steel departure terminal. Barrett, I observed, took note of every man, woman, child, suitcase, and ficus tree, too. He stuck to Ikaat’s right side; I stuck to her left. Armand did his best to trundle alongside the three of us. No one got between us and the British Airways ticket counter, and that was a good thing. I wasn’t in the mood to play nice anymore.
“Good morning.” I stepped up to the contoured counter separating the public from the handsome attendant in charge of doling out boarding passes. “I’m Jamie Sinclair. I believe you have a reservation for me and my party.”
“Of course, Ms. Sinclair. Present your passports, please.”
Passports. That would present a problem. I turned and scanned the terminal, hoping to see Katie hustling up with the documents in hand.
And there she was, bolting from a discreet seat between a range of potted palms and a bank of ignored pay phones.
She captured me in a hug that felt more like a chokehold. “Jamie, I was so worried about you!”
“It’s all right.” I patted her back and she eased up. “We’re all right. Did you get the passports?”
“No.” Her response was teary. “I paid the manager, just like you suggested, but he swore a government official took them last night.”
Anger surged through me. And it wasn’t the only emotion eating at me. A sharp sense of betrayal sucked me toward despair.
Ikaat and Armand needed the passports to get on that plane, pure and simple. But a government official had taken them. So that left me with one thing to do.
I needed to confront that government official.
And I had a pretty good idea who that official was.
I grasped Katie’s shoulder, looked her straight in the eye. “Stay close to Ikaat. I’ll be back soon. Do you understand?”
She nodded until I thought her head would fly off.
If it did, she’d have to retrieve it herself because I’d already set my sights on the nearest exit.
Barrett caught up with me alongside a string of luggage carts. He snagged my broken arm, just above the cast. I resisted the urge to shrug him off.
“Jamie, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get those passports.”
Barrett shook his head. “We should stick together until we know how those drones found us.”
“Found us? They followed us.”
“No, they tracked us.”
But that would mean our borrowed car, or our clothes, or even one of us carried some kind of a tracer. High-tech laboratories the world over built such devices in a variety of forms. And so did hush-hush government labs.
As small as a grain of rice or as large as a pack of playing cards, tracers could be made of plastic, aluminum, or even titanium. All of them were loaded with microscopic transistors. Veterinarians used the most basic variety when micro-chipping house pets. Those tracers reacted only when hit with radio waves, like those emitted by metal detectors or the appliance built to read the things. Other kinds of tracers broadcasted a signal constantly. If those in the know were close enough—and if they had the equipment to read the feed—folks unwittingly carrying the tracer could be tracked anywhere.
So, if Barrett were right—and if a tracer had been attached, imbedded, or implanted in one of us—smart money said either Ikaat or Armand was the one giving our position away. After all, they’d both been out of our sight for some time. And they’d been in the custody of men who weren’t exactly into heeding the letter of the law. Especially when it came to activities like kidnapping and extortion. After that, how bad could a little technological tagging be?
My mind rushed to answer and my eye jumped to the father/daughter pair. Katie and Ikaat had steered Armand to a string of vinyl-and-chrome seats not far from the ticket counter. His face was waxy and his breathing short.
But that would be nothing compared to what would happen if the brutes we met in Fenimoor crashed in on us again.
No, I needed to get all of us out of Britain—pronto. To get on a plane, we needed passports. Therefore, I needed to go get them.
I told Barrett as much.
And asked him to stick with Ikaat and Armand.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promised him. “You be careful.”
But because those words didn’t measure up to what I felt, I clasped Barrett’s sure, steady hand. I gave it a squeeze. And then I took off.
I didn’t look back.
I hopped on the Underground, formulating a plan as I rode in from the ’burbs. I’d go to Philip’s flat—and hope he hadn’t yet left for work. Why? Because I figured I could manage an end run around any doorman in the city. But even the Queen’s bodyguard would be hard pressed to dodge security at the Foreign Office.
Philip’s building was a brick pile that, a century and a half ago, had probably hosted counting houses like Scrooge and Marley. Some real estate speculator had improved the place since those days, though. Now, the building gave off an aura of high-priced gentrification.
Just like Philip.
In the hushed hallway of an upper floor, I found his door.
I knocked on it, waited, and knocked again. The door opened. Philip stood on the threshold.
He looked like hell.
If he’d slept, it had been days ago. And if he’d showered, I couldn’t prove it. He wore a tatty, plaid bathrobe over a stained T-shirt and pj pants, and his riotous red hair stood out from his head in knots and spikes.
Most notably, however, he smelled like a distillery.
Even from the doorway, the scent was strong enough to make my eyes water.
“Jamie?”
“The one and only,” I said.
Philip grabbed me in a fierce hug, crushed me to his chest.
I pushed my way out of the circle of his arms. “You’re as drunk as a skunk.”
He reached for me again, but got smart before he could touch me. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”
Forever was a long time. And when Philip said he thought he’d lost me, fear, sharp and icy, ran the length of my spine. Had he known about the goons with machine guns? Or about the drone attack? I didn’t want to think so.
But then he said, “When I’d received that report regarding the incident in the Fen Country…”
“Yeah, you’ve got someone out there holed up in a country house with a secret research facility and his own private army. A team of men held Dr. Oujdad’s father there.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“Philip, you need to do a hell of a lot more than that.”
He nodded, drifted toward a highball glass making rings on an ebony end table halfway across his sitting room. A bottle of gin kept it company. The bottle was nearly empty, but the glass was nearly full.
Philip saluted me with it before knocking back its contents.
I came in, closed the door behind me.
Philip’s flat was like a studio apartment on steroids. It opened up into a vast living room with a wall of windows that overlooked central London. A pair of gray suede sofas made the most of the view. Some kind of chrome-and-leather lounge chair added the right kind of cool to a corner while flokati rugs warmed the floor. Off to the side, the kitchen was all Swedish lines and stainless steel. Across from this, a sliding door, suitable for a country squire’s barn or stable, marked the entrance to Philip’s bedroom.
“Look,” I told him. “I’m here for the passports. I know you’ve got them, and I need them back. They’re the only way I’ll legally be able to get Ikaat and Armand Oujdad on a plane and into the States—”
“Who says I have them?” Philip asked, suddenly sober.
I repeated Katie’s story about the hotel manager and The Elizabethan Rose’s safe. “Are you going to tell me Katie got it wrong?”
/> “Katie deMarco?” Philip smiled as if the name were a punch line to some inside joke. “I assure you, Jamie, the passports are not in my possession regardless of what Ms. deMarco may say.”
As he stood there, swaying in his shabby bathrobe and clutching an adult beverage in his hand, I wasn’t sure I believed him. But why would he lie to me? What reason would he have for keeping the Oujdads in England?
In a rush, Barrett’s point that some nations would prefer to hear Ikaat’s knowledge firsthand—rather than waiting for U.S. Intelligence to dole it out—came back to me.
And the truth of the situation came crashing down.
I said, “Be honest with me, Philip. Your government doesn’t want the Oujdads to leave Britain. And you’re going to make sure they don’t.”
Philip shuffled toward the kitchen. “Let’s discuss this over a cup of tea. Can I interest you in one?”
“No. And no wonder you didn’t arrest Barrett when you found him in my hotel room. You weren’t really looking for him. You were looking for Armand Oujdad so you could influence Ikaat. You wanted either Barrett or me to lead you to him.”
“Would you prefer Earl Grey or English Breakfast?”
I ignored the question. Instead, I made straight for the apartment’s door. Somehow, though, Philip beat me to it.
He blocked it with his body.
“Jamie, where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Please—” He scrubbed his hands through his hair as if the rough contact could clear his head. “I can’t give you passports I haven’t got. However, I can get the Oujdads on that plane.”
He could. I knew he could. Just as he could arrange for Barrett to enter Britain without a passport, he could get Ikaat and her father past airport security and onto our flight without travel documents, too.
But the Foreign Office wouldn’t be happy with him if he did it. And if that meant he’d lose out on his promised promotion within the Ministry; his father wouldn’t be happy with him, either. In fact, his father would be furious.
My conscience made me point this out.
“My father,” Philip said, “will get over it. If I lose your good opinion, I never will.”
I didn’t know what to say. But I was humbled Philip would risk his father’s approval in exchange for mine. I was sure I didn’t deserve such regard.
Ikaat and her father, though, deserved to get what they’d bargained for in good faith. They deserved to board that plane. So I stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across Philip’s cheek.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m grateful.”
Philip touched his face as if he couldn’t believe what I’d done.
Or as if he wanted to remember this moment long after I’d gone.
In any case, he mumbled something about getting dressed and going to the airport. He withdrew to the bedroom. I tried to be patient when he left.
But the moment I heard water running in the adjoining bath, the security specialist in me told me I’d better be prudent instead.
So I began to search his flat for the passports.
They weren’t in the lacquered wood entertainment center occupying the far wall in Philip’s sitting area. They weren’t stashed among the fancy Italian cookware in his kitchen, either. That left only one more place to search—Philip’s bedroom.
With nothing more than an armchair, a nightstand, and a bed built for two, the room was a mix of Spartan necessity and hedonistic textures.
Cautiously, I sat on the edge of the bed. Crisp, Swiss linen sheets of pearl gray met the deepest, darkest duvet of charcoal chenille. And because of their rich sheen, I gave in to temptation. I ran my good hand over one and onto the other. Unbidden images of intimate nights leapt to my inquiring mind.
But I hadn’t come here for that.
I scolded my imagination, ordered my brain to behave. I had to find those passports. I had to know if Philip was lying.
Through the connecting closet that served as a dressing room, I still heard water running in the bath. When the water stopped, the questions would start—if Philip found me in his bedroom. So, with nowhere else to look, I slipped open the drawer of the satinwood nightstand.
Inside, I found a tray of loose change, a collection of collar bones and cuff links—and a box of condoms. Half of the little square packets were missing. Although Philip had propositioned me, he clearly hadn’t been pining for me.
Of course, how he spent his evenings was none of my concern. Or so I told myself. After all, I’d refused his every offer.
No, Philip could do what he liked.
He could do whom he liked.
But the idea rankled.
I didn’t get to dwell on it very long. I didn’t hear water anymore. I heard Philip flipping through the hangers in his closet, though.
When he emerged from his dressing room, I made sure he found me in the living room, waiting by the door.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, and tried to smile.
Because, for a whole host of reasons, I was more than ready to leave Philip’s apartment.
I just wasn’t sure I was ready to leave him.
Chapter 23
In the back of Philip’s car, I wrapped up any feelings I had about leaving London and stuffed them so deep into my heart, it would’ve taken a pirate with a treasure map to dig them out. In the meantime, Philip made a million phone calls. At least, to me, riding beside him in the chauffeur-driven Mercedes, that’s what it felt like.
Blatantly, I listened to his conversations, but I couldn’t quite ferret out who was on the other end of them. At times, Philip seemed to be giving orders. At others, he seemed to be receiving them.
In any case, he said next to nothing to me.
And I said little to him.
We hit Heathrow just short of mid-morning. Business was brisk in the Departures terminal. Everyone—from business travelers to tourists—was in motion under the arching steel spine of the airport’s architecture. Everyone, that is, except Barrett, Katie, and the Oujdads. We found them exactly where I’d left them, glued to a set of seats not far from our ticket counter.
A slipstream of humanity rushed past them on both sides. And ran interference between us. I had to pause for a toddler who’d run away from his harried mother, and again for a little old lady pulling her knitting behind her in a wheeled carry-on.
When I paused for her, though, I noticed the only other person in the terminal who wasn’t in a hurry to get elsewhere. The man wore a black suit and a tan trench coat, and he would’ve been totally forgettable if not for the black-framed sunglasses he wore indoors.
He was taller than Helmet Head and leaner through the frame, so that was a comfort. But he was just as interested in my traveling companions. The flat, black lenses of his shades never left them as he hovered near the corner of a newsstand.
Philip’s eye swept over him. And Philip’s step slowed. With determination, he looked away—and at anything else.
Something about my old friend’s reaction made anxiety nibble the nape of my neck. But we’d reached the seating area by then. And that gave me other things to worry about.
Barrett stood to greet us. He didn’t appear happy to see me in Philip’s company. Armand was unnaturally pale, but at least he regarded us with shadowed eyes. Ikaat, on the other hand, had given herself a hug—and forgotten to let go. She didn’t acknowledge our arrival at all.
Katie clutched her ever-present cell phone in a death grip, slung her arms around me in a big, fat hug. “Boy, am I glad to see you! Lieutenant Colonel Barrett thinks we’re being watched.”
Lieutenant Colonel Barrett was right.
But I didn’t tell Katie that.
Instead, I said, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll be in the air soon. Mr. Spencer-Dean has agreed to arrange it.”
“Indeed,” my old friend said. “First, however, Ms. deMarco and I need to take a walk. Isn’t that right, Ms. deMarco?”
/> Katie hesitated, shot a questioning look at me.
And I couldn’t blame her.
I glanced toward the newsstand. The Anonymous Man hadn’t moved. His sunglasses still took in our little sideshow.
“Philip, I don’t think a walk is such a hot idea—”
But he’d already seized Katie’s upper arm, steered her toward the ticket counter.
Barrett seized mine when I started after them.
“Let them go,” Barrett advised.
Philip talked as they walked. Katie listened. When she replied, it dawned on me. As young as she was, and as inexperienced as she might be, Katie was the U.S. State Department representative in this sticky business. And Philip spoke for the Foreign Office.
So this wasn’t a social stroll.
It was an international negotiation.
Maybe Philip didn’t want to leave Heathrow empty-handed. Maybe he was demanding Barrett’s arrest in exchange for putting the rest of us on the plane. The idea made me queasy.
But then Philip and Katie reached the ticket counter.
Apparently, they’d reached some kind of agreement as well.
Philip spoke to the ticket agent. The ticket agent snatched up his phone. I tried to read his lips from where I stood, but I couldn’t quite manage it.
Philip and Katie returned to us. Their faces were as long as if they’d each lost their argument. But that couldn’t be.
Yet, Katie wouldn’t meet my eye. Philip seemed cold and remote. He swallowed hard, and I got the impression he was about to pass a death sentence.
“We must move quickly,” he told us. “Your flight is boarding.”
He crooked a finger and one of those overgrown airport golf carts zoomed over to us. Barrett wasted no time hustling Katie and the Oujdads into the first and second row of seats. But Philip snagged my arm before I could climb on.
As a result, he and I ended up in the rumble seat together.
“Jamie,” he began.
But whatever he was about to say was too close to personal. And I didn’t dare hear it. To make matters worse, at my back, I sensed Barrett listening with his entire being, even as he kept a lookout while we rode through the airport.
Our cart careened around a corner, pulled up to a Departures gate. Airline staff scurried from a computer terminal to the boarding pass scanner and back again with clipboards in hand. Men with laminated pass cards dangling from their necks prepared to close the door to the gangway—and although we’d left the Anonymous Man at the newsstand behind, his spittin’ image now stood with his back to the wide window overlooking our aircraft on the tarmac.
The Kill Shot Page 18