It was sweet of him to say that. It was a lie, but it was sweet. And she had gotten better. More at ease. Less inhibited. And Martin was so very patient with her. It seemed to her that he gave a lot better than he got. He would even kiss her scars. She’d wished he wouldn’t, but he did. Even now, though, at night, she would lie in bed alone, remembering how gently he would touch them.
He’d once told her, “They are part of you. I love you; I love them. They are also a badge of your courage and your strength. You should wear bikinis more. You shouldn’t hide them.”
“Now you’re asking me to put my scars on display?”
“Among certain other assets. Your breasts come to mind. Even with me, you want the lights out all the time. You have a glorious body. Be a show-off.”
She couldn’t recall how she’d responded to that. She had probably pretended to be angry with him. She did that a lot. She wasn’t always pretending. She had probably made some remark about show-offs. Showing off was an art form with Martin.
Even so. Poor Martin.
She could be such a bitch.
She and Martin never did make love with the lights on. By starlight once or twice, but that was it. How she wished that she could see him. One more time. For one more night. She would let herself go as she never had before. Lights? You want lights? You want to see me displayed? How about Yankee Stadium? In the middle of a night game. We’ll run down to center field, strip naked, screw our brains out. Maybe then you’ll shut up about my modesty.
Except Jasmine was right. She was way out of practice. If Jasmine had in fact been a hooker, pre-Islam, maybe Jasmine would be game to do some tutoring.
The telephone rang. Who’d be calling this late? Gary, most likely. He’d know she’s still up.
She put her book down and got up to answer. Her machine had already clicked on to record. Her machine said, “Hi. Leave a message.”
A woman’s voice said, “Pick up if you’re there.”
She recognized the voice. Molly Farrell.
Instantly, Martin Kessler popped back into her mind. Molly had said that she’d look into those sightings. She and Waldo had also promised Aisha. She didn’t want to hear about more rumors, more sightings. She had just been with Martin. She’d been with him in her mind. She felt her eyes starting to moisten.
She picked up. “Listen, Molly…”
“Don’t talk. Get out now. Go just as you are. Go to where you last saw me. Adam’s place. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Adam’s yacht. It must still be docked there.
“Let yourself in. We’ll be there in two hours.”
Elizabeth knew better than to stay on the phone. She almost expected to hear distant sirens. She said, “I understand.” She broke the connection. She walked quickly from her kitchen into her bedroom where she pulled her blue duffel from its place of concealment.
She was out of her house in thirty seconds.
TWENTY TWO
Henderson Quigley of the African Desk was attending a conference when he learned of the attack. The conference was held at the Watergate Hotel. Its subject had to do with further oil exploration off the coast of Namibia, Angola’s neighbor to the south.
Word of that evening’s awful event had spread among those in attendance. It had happened only a few blocks away. All were in shocked disbelief.
Details were sparse. Much was being withheld. The police were still trying to make sense of the scene. Roger Clew. Robbed and beaten. Half to death, by all accounts. Someone heard that he was on life support. His driver shot and killed while coming to his aid. My God, thought Quigley. That’s our Alex Rakowsky. He had spoken to Rakowsky that same morning.
Rakowsky had seemed to have much on his mind. He’d been helpful in the search for this Elizabeth Stride. Reluctant and perhaps not entirely forthcoming, but helpful nonetheless in that matter.
A woman also dead, but her role wasn’t clear. The police are being closed-mouthed about her. Had she been with Clew? Some illicit relationship? Or perhaps she was simply a resident of the building. Did she stumble on the scene and, being armed, try to help? Several residents of that building very likely carry weapons. All that street crime. Now the terrorists. Who can blame them?
Oil exploration was no longer the subject. The room was abuzz with speculation. Several were on cell phones making calls to…whomever… in search of more complete information. Quigley, himself, had a troubling thought. It was far-fetched. Unlikely. Preposterous, really. Might Artemus Bourne have been behind this?
He knew that Clew and Rakowsky had driven down to see Bourne. He knew that Clew intended to confront Bourne on some matter. He himself had warned Bourne that Clew was coming. But, no, he thought. It could not have been serious.
He had spoken to Bourne again after that meeting. He’d told Bourne that he’d failed to find much in Clew’s computer. According to Rakowsky, Clew downloaded some files and then had erased the originals. He’d told Bourne that Clew might then transfer those files to Paul Bannerman’s system for safekeeping. He’d been thought to be doing that for years. And to be doubly safe, another set to Geneva. A second set to Harry Whistler’s system.
Might Bourne have decided to prevent that transference?
No, thought Quigley. Out of the question. Bourne might, but not this way. Not a frontal attack. Bourne is ruthless, to be sure, but far from reckless, far from crude. Besides that, recalled Quigley, Bourne had said it himself. Bourne had said to him, concerning both Clew’s files and that woman, “It’s no longer a matter of interest to me.”
Quigley had no sooner taken comfort in that thought when one of the oil executives approached him. He was pocketing the cell phone he’d been using. It was a man who had often attended Bourne’s brunches. A man whose firm had made billions on Angola’s off-shore oil and was himself extremely wealthy thanks to Bourne.
He said to Quigley, “No one’s saying very much. They have a name for the woman. Elizabeth something. No bystander, that one. She’s the one who killed Clew’s driver. And they know that at least two other men were involved. Not your ordinary muggers. One was wearing a business suit. Both of them are believed to have been wounded.”
Quigley felt himself go cold. He asked, “This Elizabeth. Do they have a last name?”
“They’re not sure,” said the oilman. “It’s all very confused.”
“I…think I’d better run over to State. Clew’s staff might be better informed.”
“Let me know, will you, if there’s anything I can do. Will I see you at Briarwood on Sunday, by the way?”
“I…expect so. I hope so. Please excuse me.”
Elizabeth, he wondered? Elizabeth Stride? Bourne had asked Clew to find her. He felt sure that Clew had done so. Is it possible that she so didn’t want to be found that she did this to silence Roger Clew? Is it possible that she, with the aid of two confederates, decided to kill Clew and his driver?
Or another scenario. She was with Clew. She was going back with him to his apartment. The attackers came in or were lying in wait. They meant to kill all three. But why? And who sent them?
Bourne, of course. That could be why he was looking for her. He wanted to find her and kill her.
He arrived at State and went directly to Intelligence. The section was abuzz, but sparsely staffed at this hour. Shocked faces, women weeping, others angrily questioning. The section didn’t seem to be functioning.
He asked one of the men, a communications officer, “Where are Roger’s deputies? Do they know?”
“Sir, they’re both abroad. They’ve been told. They’re returning.”
“Any word yet on who might have done this?”
“No, sir,” he replied. “But the FBI is on it. Don’t worry, they will get the sons of bitches.”
“If there’s…anything I can do…”
“Thank you, sir. We’re just waiting.”
Quigley had turned away when the man said, “Um…sir? A cryptogram from Liberia came in for Mr. Clew. I
t’s flagged ‘Urgent,’ but no one here tonight has clearance to read it. You’re here, you’ve got the clearance, and Africa’s your beat. Maybe you’ll want to see if needs action.”
Quigley almost said that it would keep until morning. But he remembered that earlier message from Liberia. From a General Tubbs. Very vague. It said some matter that he and Clew had discussed was being attended to on Tubbs’ end. It said that the “package was already wet.” Whatever that meant. Must be some sort of code. In fact, it was the message that he’d mentioned to Bourne. This Tubbs had promised to keep Clew advised, but if he had, Clew had buried those messages.
“Urgent, you say?” The other had not been. Quigley asked, “Can I take it on Mr. Clew’s console?”
“No, sir,” the man said. “I can’t allow that. But I can transfer a copy of just that one message. It’ll be on your machine when you get up there.”
Quigley found it on his screen. He hit some keys to decrypt it. As he read the words of General Abednego Tubbs, a cold feeling returned to his stomach.
“I have tried to get VaalChem to account for itself as to why they make weapons-grade Marburg. More than this, I wanted vaccines and an antidote. My virologist says that if they make such a virus, they must also make corresponding antivirals, if only for their own protection. But all I get is the run-around. They sound like men who have much on their minds and also they sound very frightened.
I demanded to speak to their head man, of course. He is an Englishman. His name is Cecil Winfield. I am told that Sir Cecil cannot come to the phone. He is indisposed. In no condition. I ask, does this mean that he, too, is infected? They don’t say. I get more run-around. They say maybe I should speak to a biologist named Shamsky. I try. He claims to speak only Russian. This place has many Russians. It has many South Africans. At the top is this Englishman, but he does not own it. An American owns it. How did you not know this? The American’s name is Artemus Bourne. Who is this Artemus Bourne?
“Mr. Clew, I give up. It is your turn to get answers. I give you one day. After that, my president calls the president of Angola and asks him to send soldiers to VaalChem. They are lucky that I can’t send Major Scar.”
The message went on.
“What VaalChem is making is no longer a secret. I’ve told my president everything and the Red Cross now knows. They know because I let Major Scar call his wife. She works with the Red Cross herself. He did not tell her Marburg, but he told her enough. Now she intends to join him and help care for the sick. She asked me not to tell him that she is coming because he would surely say no. Nor could I refuse her. This is a good woman. Soon she will be there with a medical team. Get me some vaccines and antivirals.”
“One piece of good news. Nobody is sick yet. Major Scar might have fed the only sick ones to the sharks. Oh, the sharks. This reminds me. One more piece of good news. Or perhaps I should say one more pieces. Fishing boats netted what was left of the criminals who came to get Bobik’s arms shipment. One of them netted the torso and head of Colonel Mobote himself. He must have come because he knew that his soldiers would steal from him. Identity almost positive, based on description. The tattoo on his forehead is unique. His remains are packed in ice so that we can confirm. Death by sharks, however, was too quick for this maniac. I would rather have given him Marburg.”
Henderson Quigley felt his dinner coming up. This was almost too much to absorb. A disaster. Marburg traced to VaalChem? Now to Bourne? No one was to know what VaalChem was making. Marburg is the worst, but one of many.
No, it isn’t, thought Quigley. Marburg spliced is the worst. My, God, what if they have Marburg/smallpox?
Savran Bobik. An arms shipment. So Bobik’s in this as well. Quigley brushed the thought aside. That was the least of it.
And where? Where was this happening? Liberia, clearly. But fishing boats and sharks? It must be somewhere offshore. If so, it’s containable. Tubbs seemed to be saying that it’s been quarantined. But the fact of it, thought Quigley, can’t be contained. If it were only Liberia, there might be a chance. A bribe here and there for their silence. But now the Red Cross knows? The Red Cross must advise the World Health Organization. Today, Liberia. Tomorrow, the world. And while all this is happening, where the hell is Cecil Winfield? Why isn’t he dealing with this?
Clew, thought Quigley. Clew knows all about this. It must be why he was attacked and left for dead. But it wouldn’t end with Clew. That wouldn’t make it go away. As he had told Bourne, Clew might well have passed this on.
So Paul Bannerman would know. He’ll know at least of the attack. Wouldn’t Bannerman, at the least, employ his long and lethal reach to avenge what has been done to his friend?
Quigley’s fingers were trembling as he placed them on the keyboard. The first words he typed were, “I’m on it. Never fear.”
He paused to wonder, would Clew say “Never fear?”
He struck the line out and wrote. “I’m on it; I’m handling it.” He wrote, “In the meantime, I need you to resend all cryptograms preceding your most recent on this subject. My computer has crashed and I lost them. I’m using a new computer. Note new address. Will get back to you quickly re next action.”
Quigley signed it, “Roger Clew” and he sent it.
He sat back. He would wait. He’d wait all night if need be. He needed to know what was happening over there if he was to distance himself from it.
He had half a mind to call Artemus Bourne and ask, “What the devil have you gotten me into?” But he knew what Bourne would say. He would say what he always says. “It’s under control.”
He would say, “You’re being an old woman, Quigley. Go home; pop a Xanax; wash it down with some vodka. And keep your mouth shut about this.”
Quigley touched a group of keys. A long list appeared. It dropped down from the top of his screen. The list held some sixty e-mail addresses. All were powerful men and women in business and government. Each had been to Bourne’s home for his brunches many times. A dozen or more owed their positions to Bourne. The rest owed a large part of their fortunes to Bourne. His own name appeared on that list.
Keep your mouth shut, indeed, thought Quigley. Yes, you’d like that. What you mean is keep it shut until I’ve settled with you in the same way I’ve settled with Clew.
Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Bourne.
Quigley’s still trembling fingers paused over the keyboard. A touch of two keys would send these messages, unencrypted, to every name on that list. They would be warned and the source would seem to be Clew if he remembered how to doctor the routing correctly. It would not be traced to Henderson Quigley.
But, no. He would wait for the full correspondence. He would read it first for himself. And then decide.
Mr. Bourne? It is over. Our relationship is ended. I have worked with you because…because I am a public servant. What I’ve done was purely in the interests of my country. Of our national security. In these frightening times. I have asked for no reward. No…specific reward. It’s not as if I’ve taken bags of unmarked bills from you. You’ve suggested; I’ve invested. That was all there was to it.
I have my family to consider. My reputation to protect. So it’s over unless…
unless you’re able to get past this. You’re a clever man. You might.
If you do, then we’ll see.
But I will not have this laid at my door.
TWENTY THREE
“Dumbest thing I ever heard of,” Chester Lilly said, grumbling, as their van approached I-95’s Exit 8. The signs pointed to Hilton Head Island. The three men had been traveling for almost nine hours. It was a quarter past eight in the morning.
“Must be thirty thousand people who live there full time. How the hell are we supposed to find Stride?”
As Lilly spoke, he was staring at the grainy old photo that he’d printed out from Clew’s files. Toomey, who was driving, said, “Not even a good picture. Crowd shot, no enlargement, no full face, only profile. On top of that, they only think it�
�s of Stride.”
Toomey drove with one hand. He kept his left hand elevated. It was too tightly bandaged; the anesthetic had worn off, and he’d already wacked it a couple of times. It was throbbing all the way to his shoulder. Kuntz was in the back seat. He’d slept most of the way. He’d said his hands were too sore to take a turn at the wheel.
“Well, Bourne wants a plan,” said Lilly. “So let’s plan. Any ideas on where we should start?”
Toomey shrugged. “Ordinarily, restaurants and shops. Show the picture, see if anyone knows her. I still have cop ID I can flash.”
“Say someone does know her. They could call her and warn her.”
“They won’t if I say suspected terrorist connections. All they’d have to see is who she’s with in that picture. Most of them look like Arabs. They won’t do her any favors.”
Lilly glanced at his watch. “Hardly any shops and restaurants will be open yet,” he said. “Maybe coffee shops and diners.”
“It’s a start. And we could all use some breakfast.”
Toomey turned off the Interstate onto Route 278. He said, “From here it’s a straight shot to the bridge. Twenty Minutes.”
“The other thing we should do,” came Kuntz’s groggy voice. “is call Information, see if they have a listing.”
“A listing for who? You mean Stride?”
“We could ask.”
Lilly said, “Hey, Einstein. Go back to sleep, will you?”
“What’s the matter with that?” asked Kuntz.
“It’s fucking mindless.”
“Hey, we covered for you after you got Claire killed. We don’t need your insults, okay?”
Lilly had often wondered whether he could take Kuntz. Not real likely, one on one. Not if Kuntz was ready for him. Cage fighters are the nearest thing to pit bulls. His one advantage would be that Kuntz’s hands are a mess. Not just from last night. Not just from pounding Clew’s face. It’s from pounding a few hundred other faces, heads and elbows. Those guys try to break each other’s hands that way. Catch their bare-knuckle shots on harder bone.
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