The hostess’s eyes widened as Alex leaned back and said, loud enough for it to bounce off the dining room ceiling now, “We believe it was the lamb.”
Putting a hand to her mouth, the hostess said, “I’ll get him straight away.”
The couple stood, dropped their napkins on their menus, and left the restaurant.
“Alex,” Jack said, glancing at them as they exited.
She gave him a what? look and he rolled his eyes.
The hostess returned with Chef Extraordinaire two minutes later. An enormous man, tall and wide, the chef looked behind them, as if seeing if Jack and Alex were alone or the front line of a paparazzi crew.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked in a French accent.
Alex raised her eyebrows at Jack. See? Then she said, “Chef Martin, I’m Inspector Alex Winter and this is Chief Inspector Jack Pope. We’re with the Metropolitan Police and we’d appreciate a moment.”
“I thought you said you were with the health unit.” He turned to the hostess, who held up both palms. He continued, “I have already spoken with the police twice. Why again?”
“I assure you, it will take but a few minutes,” Alex said.
He glanced away and then back at them, wringing his hands as he said, “You are here about the accident, yes?”
“We work with Commander Lampard.” She loved the news media. They told you everything you needed to know to bullshit your way into a situation. Nothing like responsible reporting. To knock Guy off balance and seal the deal, Alex leaned forward and said in a low voice, “And yes, it’s about the bombing.”
He stiffened and his face flushed to the color of eggplant. “Follow me.”
Walking far ahead, he led them through the loud dining room and down a long hallway. Alex smiled at a nice older couple who caught her eyeing their plates. “That looks lovely.”
Leaning toward her, Jack whispered, “Chief Inspector?”
“You look a lot older than me.”
“Brilliant,” he said in a sullen voice.
Guy ushered them into a windowless office no larger than a telemarketer’s cubicle, with a thick wood desk and two chairs. The walls were draped with awards, plaques, and framed magazine articles, all starring the chef.
Impressive.
Alex and Jack each settled into a chair as the chef squeezed behind the desk. With his belly pressed against the edge of the wood and the chair pressed up and around his shoulders, he looked like a clove of garlic stuffed into a black olive.
Folding his hands before him and then unfolding them twice, he finally settled on letting them dangle to the sides. “Please. Call me Chef Guy.” Ghee.
Sure thing, for now, Alex thought. “Chef Guy, we just have a few more minor questions, mostly to fill in the blanks on reports. Okay?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. First…” Alex reached into the inside pocket of her overcoat and slipped out two pages with drawings she’d made at Hanna’s. She showed the chef the top page, on which she’d drawn a three-quarter profile of her father. The sketch was from memory of the moment he had stood over Alex in the street, and she’d adjusted the background to look out of focus, softened the shading of his features. She’d also added a sharp border to the frame, leaving a white edge and making it look like a grainy black and white photograph taken with a telephoto lens.
Alex turned the sketch toward the chef. “What can you tell me about this man?”
Chef Guy leaned forward, inspected the page. “Not a thing. I have never before seen this man in my life.”
“Are you sure? You may have seen him here or in Café Martin sometime in the last few weeks.” If she knew anything about her father, it was that he was thorough and would have cased the location of the drop and maybe the proprietor of the restaurant. That said, he would have been ultra circumspect.
Confirming this, the chef shook his head. “I am certain.” Not even a hint of reaction in his body language.
Alex eyed Jack and he nodded for her to show the next image.
She flipped to the second sketch. Smaller than the one of her father, this one had the look of a headshot taken for a passport photo. Again, not perfect in detail but she’d added some flat drapery behind him for effect. Close enough for the average eye. “How about this man? What can you tell me about him?”
The chef took the sketch and studied it. Then he slid it back to her. “Same. I have never seen him before. Who is he?”
Alex felt Jack peering over her shoulder as she said, “His name was Angus. He happened to be the guest of honor at your restaurant the other night.”
Guy shrugged. “So? I don’t always meet my guests.”
“But you are usually there, at Café Martin, yes? At least on the nights you aren’t working here.”
“Like I’ve already said, it was just good luck.”
“Right.” Alex glanced at Jack. Thinking about the moment of the blast, the pianist playing off-key, she flipped the sketchbook to a blank page, then took out her pencil as if she were about to take notes. “And what about the piano? Where did you get it?”
“Holworths. Again, you have already asked these things.” He kept looking at the door, as if he hoped they would soon exit or someone else would enter, saving him.
“Yes, it was not recorded. I apologize.”
“It is difficult to keep talking about, you understand.”
“I do, but there are some details we must confirm.”
“Go on.”
“Was the piano new or have you had it worked on recently?”
“It is the same one as always. Why? Shouldn’t you be focused on the piping, the gas lines, and things of this matter?”
“This was no gas explosion.”
He glanced away.
“You said the same as always.” Jack sat forward. “So, what, you rent the piano—is that it?”
“Of course we lease. It is too expensive to buy an entire grand piano for one performance a month.”
“Tell us about the piano shop.”
He shrugged. “Holworths is the old family shop on Oxford. It is quite reputable.”
“When was it delivered?”
“That afternoon.”
Jack said, “You weren’t present to oversee delivery?”
He glanced away for a second time. “My maître d’ takes care of these things.”
Alex had to admit, the French accent was pretty good. He must have worked on it for a while, and maybe even believed his own tale of being native.
“And by your account, she was there,” Jack said.
“But of course.” His bottom lip quivered. “She, too, died this night.”
Not wanting to miss the opportunity of weakness, Alex reached into the overcoat’s inside pocket and unfolded the articles she’d printed at Hanna’s. There wasn’t much information about the bombing itself, but there was plenty about Guy and his restaurants. “Chef Guy, I have reports that Café Martin was insured for over three million pounds. By you, the primary owner.”
His face flushed. “And what of it?”
“And according to public records, the restaurant has been losing over seven hundred thousand pounds per year. For the last three years.”
Guy stood and puffed out his chest. “What is it you are accusing me of?”
Alex just said, “The riverfront building was too expensive, you knew it going in, but you did it anyway. Anything to have a restaurant with your name on it, because The Wallard refuses to let you use it here. But then the business began to kill you, bleed you dry. You couldn’t charge enough per plate to make up the cost of rent, could you? People didn’t come in droves like you expected, did they? And soon you were dying, the business was dying.” Her English accent may have faded a bit at the end there, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“No. You are wrong. People love my restaurant!”
“But not enough. And so you killed them. You killed them all.” Alex threw the papers at his chest. “Who a
ssembled it for you? Who set the bomb?” She was provoking him, but that was OK. He needed to feel victory when she gave him an out in a few moments.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Leave! Leave this office right now! I want my lawyers.” Guy stumbled around the desk and stood over Alex.
“Alright, alright. Hold it.” Jack stepped forward between them and waved a hand to the seat behind her. “Please.”
Keeping her gaze on the chef, Alex sat back down.
Jack said, “Chef Guy, I do apologize for my colleague’s tactics. All of us are out of sorts here. Many people died last night. Please, have a seat.”
“I won’t answer any more questions. I won’t do it.”
Jack stared up at the man, who stood a good three inches taller than him. He said, “Mr. Martin, you are in grave trouble. I believe it to be in your best interests now to tell us what happened. What really happened that night.”
He stared down at Jack, huffing.
Jack continued, “If we can prove who did this to you, to your restaurant, then the pressure’s off. Do you understand?”
Guy glanced away. His eyes fogged over and he turned. Then, pacing between the desk and the wall, he started to babble—incoherent, nervous, almost twitching babble.
Jack raised his eyebrows to Alex.
“Come again?” he said to Guy.
Guy shook his head.
“No,” he said. “No!” Taking his head in both hands, he muttered, “I didn’t know. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!” He flung his hands outward.
“Didn’t know what?” Alex asked.
Guy glanced up at her with a look of dread.
Alex stood. “Chef, if you don’t speak up soon, the only thing I can guarantee is that the Metropolitan Police will soon charge you murder.”
Eyes widening, he pushed against the desk, making it slide back a few inches. “What are you—”
Calling him by his name was a good tactic that Jack had begun. Bring him down to size, so to speak. So Alex followed it. “This is bigger than you, Mr. Martin.”
The chef slumped deep into his chair. He had the look of a man caught soliciting an undercover John—a mix of horror and shame. “I, I…want a lawyer.”
Leaning forward, Alex squinted as she said, “If you hide behind a lawyer, it will only confirm guilt. You’ll enjoy a quick path to prison, but the only dish you’ll serve there is your own arse.”
The chef stared at Alex and his hands began to shake. “But if I tell you?”
“Then we leave,” Alex said. “And the police will have nothing to charge you with.” That was a lie, the man would get what he deserved either way. It wasn’t up to her to decide.
“It will be okay, then, yes? Will it?” He looked back and forth between Alex and Jack.
Jack nodded, sealing the deal with, “You have our word.”
Guy nodded fast and hard and began to sob, softly at first, then loudly. Finally, he managed, “I, I, I…he…he said it would happen after the event. And it would be just fine. Then everyone would be better off. It would all go away and I would stop losing. It would stop the bleeding.” He sobbed hard for a minute. He looked like a confused bull, snot stringing from his nose as he shook his head.
“Who said it?” Jack asked.
The chef wept into his hands.
“Chef.” Jack walked around the desk, and with his wide-eyed gaze at Alex, he asked, “Who said it?” He calmly placed a hand on the chef’s shoulder. “If you can tell us, we’ll be on our way. No further questions from the police.” He was good, damned good.
After a few moments, Guy nodded. “It was Aaron. Aaron Gebhart. He’s the one who set it up. I am sure of it.”
Alex had to time her question so he could answer between sobs. “And who is Aaron?”
The chef raised his face only high enough for her to see his eyes as he said, “The one who delivered the piano.”
Alex and Jack sat there in near silence for a moment, digesting what they’d just learned. They got what they wanted and the chef now needed a minute to sort out his situation by himself. Alex nodded, Jack stood, and she followed.
Then, as they reached the door, Alex stopped, turned back to the chef and said, “One last question, Chef Martin, a simple one.”
The chef looked up, and she said, “Was there anything on the menu last night that contained almonds?”
Moss hated Gatwick Airport. A mere ten miles farther from the city than Heathrow, yet the hired car had to wind its way through neighborhoods and backstreets to get to London, adding a good thirty minutes to the trip. Moss had traveled under his wealthy businessman identity and taken a privately chartered G550. It could only be tied to a third-party LLC, operated through a network of entities far removed from the CIA. A skilled forensic accountant might be able to trace the company’s ties back to the government, but even then it would take months of digging to get anywhere near the Company.
The bottom line: other than the director of MI6 himself, the UK would have no idea the CIA’s director of National Clandestine Service was in London.
Conveniently located in Grosvenor Square, five blocks from Victoria Station, the safe house was known to the two directors as Flat Six. The bottom two floors were occupied by CIA lamplighters, Company employees whose sole purpose was to keep house and act as a buffer zone for the workings on the third floor.
Moss crossed the flat’s great room and pulled back the thick linen drapes. The bulletproof glass was barely noticeable even up this close. Set into steel-reinforced, Victorian-style windows, the special glass couldn’t be detected from the street. He tapped his foot on the hardwood. The steel-cabled concrete floors and ceilings were bombproof, as were the walls, and a by-product of that treatment was the soundproofing of the entire flat. Twenty-seven million dollars had gone into this place, and this was only the third time it had ever been used. Extravagance? Maybe. Moss and his predecessors would argue it was necessity—Winston Churchill would have been lucky to have a safe house like this. The best he could do in World War II was the Dorchester Hotel.
Moss let the curtain drop and walked to the wet bar behind the blue-striped, French sofa. After fishing a few cubes from the small ice machine, he poured himself three fingers of scotch as he contemplated the impending events. The possibility of them had lain dormant for decades, and he thought it had disappeared for good. But life takes funny twists and turns sometimes, and this little problem had proven to be as winding as a man’s lower intestine.
Moss took a long draw of the scotch and savored the burn as he swallowed. Then he did it again. He was still standing in the same spot twenty minutes later and on his second glass when the door buzzed.
He walked to the panel at the entry and touched a small screen embedded in the wall. The retina display showed a man at least ten years Moss’s elder, wearing a long black overcoat, a bowler hat, and leaning on a cane. Of course, Moss and half the intelligence community would recognize Peter Grant in an instant. He’d been the head of MI6 for the last twelve years.
Moss pressed the button, unlocking the doors with a simple click.
Grant entered the short lobby, and the door automatically closed behind him.
After confirming Grant had come alone, Moss clicked him through the second set of doors, and waited for footsteps in the foyer before calling out, “Drink, Peter?” From the corner of his vision, he could see Grant hanging his overcoat and hat and leaning the cane—more of a prop than an aid—against the wall.
“That bad, is it?” Grant entered the den with a frown.
“Worse.”
“Then I’ll have what you’re having.”
Moss poured a double for Grant and a third helping for himself, then handed the other man the glass. “Not the occasion for a toast.”
“I picked up on that.”
“Who knows you’re here?”
Standing before the huge stone fireplace, a pair of swords on the wall framing him in an ominous snapshot, Gra
nt frowned. “Not a soul.”
“What about Anne?” Moss said, referring to Grant’s secretary.
“She thinks I’m Christmas shopping.” Grant took a healthy sip.
“And your detail?” Like the CIA, MI6 security kept tight eyes on their chief.
Grant winked. “They think I’m with Anne.”
“Clever.”
“I thought so.”
“You need to know, Peter.” Moss swirled his drink, careful not to let it spill over the lip. “I’m on my own on this one, off the reservation for a few days.”
“And on your side of the pond? Who knows about it?”
Moss tipped the glass up to the lights gleaming from a chandelier. “You and me, and the President makes three.”
A pause, and then Grant said, “Well, the irony of the situation would no doubt be lost on that man. What can I do to help?”
“For starters, I need copies of every aspect of the café bombing. And I’ll need the same on today’s shooting in Piccadilly.”
“I was afraid those were linked. What else?”
“Serial numbers.” Moss drained his scotch and placed the empty glass on the bar. Then, without looking back, he exited the room and descended the tight spiral staircase into the basement. The strong room. Encased in three feet of the steel-cable-reinforced concrete, the vault could survive a bunker buster.
Grant began to descend the stairs, saying, “What on Earth does that mean?”
Moss placed his thumb on the biometric scanner and waited for the steel door to slide open. The lights blinked on and he entered the cool vault. A few seconds later, Grant followed Moss inside and stood there with his mouth open, like a teenage boy who’d just gotten his first peek at a centerfold’s bush.
Moss had to admit it was breathtaking.
On the face of it, the swollen shrink-wrapped package would have looked like any ordinary shipment, with maybe boxes underneath holding toasters or books. But the translucent blue cellophane on this shipment had been torn open to expose the contents, letting the package’s girth spill out.
Its obscenity.
There, stacked in dozens of tall, tight piles atop a standard wooden shipping pallet, three feet wide and four feet high, were not thousands, tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands of them. There were more.
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