by Phil Swann
“How?”
“We led him on, made him think Tom was supportive of his secret society, even a part of it. But we told him it had to stay classified, therefore he and Tom couldn’t be seen together. It worked, and he pretty much disappeared. Oh, from time to time he’d pop up, but Tom handled him perfectly. He’d talk to the old guy a bit, then he’d disappear again. After Tom won the election, the natural bubble of the presidency shielded him from the Timon Baroses of the world.”
And there it was. Everything explained. There was no conspiracy, no mysterious document, and most importantly, no one whose mission it was to set him and D.J. up. There was only the delusion of an old man and the pathetic sap who bought it all hook, line, and sinker. Ben set his empty glass on the books beside him. He wanted to punch something.
Donnellson went silent for moment. “What did he tell you, Ben?”
“It’s not important now,” Ben answered, trying to stay calm.
“Oh, God,” Donnellson said, standing up. “He told you Tom’s death was a conspiracy, didn’t he? He told you it was because of his Song of Eleusis bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Ben answered, not able to look Stephen Donnellson in the eye.
“Jesus, Ben. I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m an idiot. He just knew so much about Dad and Mom and Tommy. And when he started talking about the organization he and Dad started…I just—”
“Wanted to believe him,” Donnellson said.
“Yeah. I wanted to believe him.”
“Is that why you came by today, to see if the stories were true?”
Ben shrugged. “Partly. I also…you know what, it’s not important now.”
“No, what else?”
Ben sighed. “When Tom was shot, before he died, he said something to me.”
“Tom spoke to you? I didn’t know that. What did he say?”
“Just a series of numbers that didn’t make sense. I thought they might be a combination, so I came to ask if Tom kept a safe here in Nashville. Forget it. It’s just more stupid Timon Baros malarkey. He believes Tom found some secret important document that got him killed. Jesus, just saying it out loud makes me want to puke.”
“Tom didn’t have a safe, at least not one that I knew of. What are the numbers?”
“Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven.”
Donnellson thought for second. “They don’t mean anything to me.”
“Because they don’t mean anything. Baros just got in my head…I’m a world-class sucker.”
“No, you’re not, Ben, you’re human. You just needed there to be a conspiracy, that’s all.”
“What does that supposed to mean?”
“Ben, listen to me. I don’t blame you for Tom’s death, not one bit. But I suspect you blame yourself plenty. It’s not surprising you need there to be a reason why that madman killed your brother. Jackson was a friend, that’s got to be hard to live with. I know because I’m having a hard time living with it myself, and I didn’t even know Jackson. But Ben, the one thing I’m learning from the head shrink is that we have to face reality, no matter how much it sucks. And the reality is Dwayne Jackson was your friend, you introduced him to Tom, and he killed him. That’s what happened. It’s ugly, it stinks, and there’s not a goddamn thing either of us can do about it now. But that’s reality. That’s all there is. There’s no conspiracy, Ben. There’s just what is. And we both have to learn to live with that. Do you understand?”
Ben gave a short nod and stared off into space.
Chapter Seventeen
Grey looked up from his desk when Dr. Bhatti tapped on his open office door. “Doctor?” Grey said, standing as Bhatti entered. “I was just about to call you. Have you—”
“I felt it best to deliver this in person,” Bhatti said, cutting Grey off and handing him a brown envelope. “This is my report on the matter you requested. You should know, Agent Pryce, this is the only copy. Should you choose to destroy it, then as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed and shall never be spoken of again. However, if you wish to pursue my findings further, I am here to offer assistance any way I can. The decision is yours.” Bhatti turned and walked out before Grey could respond.
Grey looked at the envelope and for a brief moment considered heeding Dr. Bhatti’s not-so-subtle suggestion and just shredding the damn thing immediately. That would certainly make life easier for everybody. But even as he pondered the option, he already knew what he was going to do—what he had to do.
Grey opened the envelope, took out Bhatti’s single page report, and glanced at the top line. He only needed to see two words to confirm what he already knew: scopolamine detected. He fell into his chair, released a long breath, and rubbed his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled. Grey tapped his fingers on the desk and considered what to do next. He knew every move he’d make from here out needed to be carefully thought through, no mistakes, no lapses in judgment, and absolutely as few people as possible brought into the loop. This took the phrase need to know to a whole new level. He picked up the phone and dialed three numbers. The call was answered immediately. “Bob, it’s Grey. Dr. Bhatti just left. I’m afraid I won’t be taking that vacation anytime soon. Also, I need to go back to Nashville.”
»»•««
Ellie and Stewart spent the rest of the day in the lab going back over every detail of their findings, looking for any reasonable explanation to all the unreasonable and unexplainable things they’d found. Finally, completely spent and void of all ideas, Ellie suggested they call it a day. Stewart agreed and promised to return the next morning with fresh eyes, a clear head, and an absolute belief he would get to the bottom of the mystery of the Nigerian lyre. He’d given it that name early on, and by mid-afternoon it had stuck.
It was just after seven when Ellie got back to her flat, and even though the lyre was a conundrum, what really had her concerned was the whereabouts of Beatrice. No one had heard from her since early that morning. The museum had even sent someone to her home, but her housekeeper reported not seeing her all day either.
“Bea, it’s me again,” Ellie said, holding the phone with her shoulder while putting a frozen dinner in the microwave. “I’m properly cross with you. Is this payback for my little adventure in Nigeria? If it is, you win. Consider me sufficiently punished. Now, will you please call me? I’m really worried. Okay. Bye. I’m home, by the way.”
Ellie set the phone on the counter and stared at the pasta primavera circling in the microwave. She began playing out various scenarios in her head that would easily explain Bea’s silence. Maybe she lost her mobile, simple as that. Then why didn’t she just use another phone to check in? Maybe someone in the government got wind of the lyre. Yes, of course, maybe she’s locked in a room somewhere with high-level British and Nigerian officials getting raked over the coals. Maybe she can’t call because the PM is making her devise a story about the lyre that won’t insult the Nigerians. Yes, that sounds reasonable. No, it doesn’t! The PM doesn’t kidnap people. “Blimey, Scotes, get it together.”
The microwave dinged. Ellie removed the hot cardboard tray, grabbed a fork, and headed into the living room. She plopped cross-legged down on the couch and turned on the TV. As she ate and half watched the evening news report, she tried not to think about the darker possibilities, the ones too terrible to even consider. She failed. Beatrice could have had a heart attack, or a stroke, or an aneurism and could be lying unconscious in an alley right now. Or worse, she could have been assaulted, hit on the head, taken to a hospital with a brain injury and no identification. Maybe she doesn’t know who she is? Ellie couldn’t help but be transported back to her first year in college and one terrible phone call. “Ellie, there’s been an accident,” she remembered her grandfather saying, the tremble in his voice saying everything else. Her mother had been hit head-on by a drunk driver. She could still hear the doctor explaining how her mother died instantly, as if that somehow made it better. She remembered thinking at the
time, it’s official, I’m an orphan. She never knew her father, so it had always been just her and Mum. She remembered the feeling of complete emptiness and how utterly alone in the world she felt in that moment. “Please, God, not again,” Ellie muttered, tossing the frozen dinner on the table, suddenly having no appetite.
The shrill ring of the phone caused Ellie’s heart to skip. She jumped up and ran back into the kitchen where she’d left it laying on the counter. She glanced at the caller I.D. before answering. It was the lab. “Bea! Where have you—”
“It’s not Ms. Whitt, Dr. Scotes. It’s Stewart.”
“Stewart? What are you doing back in—”
“I left my glasses here and had to—that’s not important. Dr. Scotes, it’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“The lyre. The Nigerian lyre, it’s gone.”
»»•««
“Are you sure about this?” Greenfield asked, watching Grey toss papers from his desk into a briefcase.
“Bob, I’m not sure about anything.”
“Where are you going to start?”
“I’m going to retrace Jackson’s steps leading up to that day in the hotel room. I missed something. He was slipped the scopolamine somewhere, somehow, and if I can find out the where and the how, it might get us closer to finding out the who.”
“That could be quite a task,” Greenfield said.
“Not really. Remember, Jackson didn’t know until the night before he was going to meet the president. Whoever slipped him the stuff would have done it after that. We’re only talking about twelve hours.”
“I should contact Nashville PD and let them know you’re coming.”
“No, I don’t think we should do that, Bob. Right now there are only three people who know what we know: you, me, and Dr. Bhatti. Let’s keep it that way for a while.”
Greenfield thought for a moment and then nodded in agreement. “Okay, you’re officially off the books. I’ll tell everyone around here you’re taking some personal time. But Grey,” Greenfield added, lowering his voice, “it’s not only three people who know what we know.”
“Who else knows?” Grey asked, closing his briefcase.
“The person who slipped him the stuff. Listen to me, Agent Pryce, watch your six. Someone went to a lot of trouble to kill the leader of the free world. They’ll have no problem taking out a crazy, old broken-down FBI agent who’s asking too many questions. You got it?”
Grey smiled. “Who you callin’ old, Bob? Thanks, I’ll be careful.”
»»•««
Ellie and Stewart were frantically searching to see if anything else was missing when Inspector Chamberlain from Scotland Yard reentered the lab. Though professional and polite, the middle-aged detective was a somewhat humorless man who perpetually looked as if he’d been suddenly awoken from the middle of a nap. Chamberlain sat his small, stocky frame on the stool next to the coffee maker and took out his notepad. Ellie and Stewart came over to him.
“We’ve confirmed there was no forced entry,” Chamberlain said, flipping through pages. “Whoever got in here knew the pass code. Have you found anything else missing?”
“No, sir,” Ellie replied. “Just the lyre.”
“And you’re sure no one else knew about this lyre except you two and…” Chamberlain rifled through his notebook, “Ms. Whitt? Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Ellie replied again.
“And Ms. Whitt owns this lab, is that correct?”
“No, she doesn’t own it. Bea is the director of the Museum of Great Britain, this is the museum’s lab.”
“I see,” Chamberlain said, making a note in his pad. “Mr. MacDougall, we’ve learned you have a conviction on the books for theft. Would you like to explain that?”
“Stewart?” Ellie exclaimed, looking at the young Scotsman.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Scotes,” Stewart said. “It’s true.”
“What did you steal?” Chamberlain asked.
“The head of Fred the Red, sir.”
“Fred the Red,” replied the stone-faced inspector.
“Yes, the mascot for Manchester United, I took his head.”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s Manchester United, sir,” Stewart replied, confident that was explanation enough.
“I see. And what was your sentence?”
“Thirty days probation and fifty pounds. My lord's a Liverpool fan like me.”
“Well done,” Chamberlain said, nodding with approval as he scribbled. “Me too.”
The sliding glass doors opened, and a young man entered carrying an open laptop.
“You have something for me, Bobby?”
“Yes, Inspector,” the young detective replied, hitting some keys on the computer and holding it so everyone could see the screen. “This is from the CCTV camera down the block. The picture is a little dark, but I was able to lighten it a bit.”
The image showed a black taxi pulling up in front of the building. The rear door opened, and a figure stepped out with their back to the camera. The figure went to the building’s main door, entered a code on the outside keypad, inserted a key, opened the door, and walked in.
“The suspect goes into the building,” the young detective said, fast forwarding the video, “then three and half minutes later comes out.”
“He’s got the lyre!” Ellie shouted. “It’s in that bag.”
“Keep watching,” said the young detective.
The figure opened the rear door to the taxi, leaned in, and placed the bag in the backseat.
“Here it comes,” the detective interjected.
The figure lifted out of the car and looked down the street almost directly at the camera.
“Let me zoom in on the face,” he said, typing as he talked. “And there is your thief.”
“Oh my God,” Ellie whispered.
Stewart added, “I don’t understand.”
“Do you two know this person?” Inspector Chamberlain asked.
“Yes, but…it doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be.”
“Who is it?” Chamberlain ordered more than asked.
Ellie looked at Stewart and answered, “Bea. That’s Beatrice Whitt.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Thank you. I understand, sir.” Inspector Chamberlain ended his call and put the mobile back in the pocket of his wrinkled raincoat. “Bobby, tell the lads to pack it up, we’re done here.”
“What do you mean you’re done?” Ellie asked from across the lab.
“Dr. Scotes, there’s nothing for us to do.”
“But…Bea took the lyre.”
“Which she has every right to do,” Chamberlain replied. “That was the chairman of the board of the museum. He informed me Ms. Whitt, as director, can come and go in this building as she pleases. He’s quite certain Ms. Whitt must have had a very good reason for coming here tonight and retrieving the lyre. He believes it’s all just a misunderstanding. I agree.”
“But, Inspector, it doesn’t make sense. Why did she take the lyre without telling us? Why didn’t she call? Why haven’t we heard from her all day?”
“Dr. Scotes, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her those questions when you talk to her, of which I’m sure will happen in due course. What I do know, however, is it’s not a matter for Scotland Yard. We’re done.”
“But, Inspector—”
“Dr. Scotes,” the policeman snapped, “there’s no breaking and entering, no theft, and as you can plainly see from the video, Ms. Whitt is healthy, unharmed, and under no duress. Therefore, ma’am, what would you have me do? There’s no crime here.”
Stewart spoke up. “Unless she took the lyre to sell on the black market.”
“Stewart,” Ellie exclaimed.
“Young man, do you have any proof that’s what Ms. Whitt’s planning to do?”
“No, sir,” Stewart answered.
“Then I suggest you refrain from making such accusations. It’s that kind of talk that ca
n cause a great deal of trouble for someone—namely you. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Stewart replied, avoiding Ellie’s gaze.
“Inspector, if I may?” interrupted the detective named Bobby. “I took the liberty of tracking the taxi after it left here using an array of CCTV cameras in the vicinity.”
“And?”
The detective went to his computer and talked as he typed. “After the taxi pulled away from this building, I picked it up driving along Cranbrook Road before turning south onto Eastern Avenue. I located it again taking the entrance onto the A112. I lost it momentarily, but on a hunch I checked the cameras around the Connaught Bridge area. I was right, time-stamped twenty-two minutes after leaving here, the taxi crossed Hartmann Road going south.”
“She’s heading to City Airport,” Ellie said.
“Yes, that was my hunch,” the detective replied. “CCTV at the airport confirms the taxi exited the A112, turned left onto Airport Road, and immediately entered the gate reserved for private jet charters.”
“Where’s she going?” Ellie muttered, still loud enough for everyone else to hear.
“Bobby,” Chamberlain interjected, “can you access the—”
“Civil Aviation Authority? Yes, sir, I can, and have already done so.” The young detective tapped again on his laptop. “The CAA reports only three charter jets have departed City Airport in the last four hours. Two of them took off before our taxi arrived, so we can discount them. The last one, a Falcon 900EX, departed a little over two hours ago. I’d say with a reasonable degree of certainty that’s the flight Ms. Whitt boarded.”
“Do we know where the plane’s heading?” Chamberlain asked.
“Yes, sir. The flight plan filed for an international vector.”
“Oh, my God,” Ellie said. “Bea’s taking the lyre back to Nigeria.”
“No, ma’am,” the young detective corrected. “The flight plan declared the destination as America. Specifically, Nashville, Tennessee.”