“Are you saying they have international connections?”
“They aren’t the driving force in this,” he said. “They aren’t the ones who want plutonium.”
“Who specifically, then?” I said.
“Libya.”
“I think the world has known that for a while,” I replied.
“Well, now it’s happening,” Wesley said. “It’s happening at Old Point.”
“As you no doubt know,” Olson went on, “Qaddafi has wanted nuclear weapons for a very long time and has been thwarted in his every attempt. It appears he finally found a way. He found the New Zionists in Virginia, and certainly, there are extremist groups he could use over here. We also have many Arabs.”
“How do you know it’s Libya?” I asked.
It was Wesley who replied, “For one thing, we’ve been going through Joel Hand’s telephone records and they include numerous calls-mainly to Tripoli and Benghsli made over the past two years.”
“But you don’t know that Qaddafi is trying anything here in London,” I said.
“What we fear is how vulnerable we would be. London is the stepping-off point to Europe, the U.S. and the Middle East. It is a tremendous financial center. Just because Libya steals fire from the U.S. doesn’t mean the U.S. is the ultimate target.”
“Fire?” I asked.
“As in the myth about Prometheus. Fire is our code for plutonium.”
“I understand,” I said. “What you’re saying makes chilling sense. Tell me what I can do.”
“Well, we need to explore the mind-set of this thing, both for purposes of what’s happening now and what might happen later,” Olson said. “We need to get a better handle on how these terrorists think, and that, obviously, is Wesley’s department. Yours is to get information. I understand you have a colleague here who might prove useful.”
“We can only hope,” I said. “But I intend to speak to him.”
“What about security?” Wesley asked him. “Do we need to put someone with her?”
Olson looked at me oddly as if assessing my strength, as if I were not myself but an object or fighter about to step into the ring.
“No,” he said. “I think she’s absolutely safe here, unless you know otherwise.”
“I’m not sure,” Wesley said as he looked at me, too.
“Maybe we should send someone with her.”
“Absolutely not. No one knows I’m in London,” I said.
“And Dr. Mant already is reluctant, if not scared to death, so he’s certainly not going to open up to me if someone else is along. Then the point of this trip is defeated.”
“All right,” Wesley reluctantly said. “Just so long as we know where you are, and we need to meet back here no later than four if we’re going to catch our plane.”
“I’ll call you if I get hung up,” I said. “You’ll be here?”
“If we’re not, my secretary will know where to find us,” Olson said.
I went down to the lobby where water splashed loudly in a fountain and a bronze Lincoln was enthroned within walls lined with portraits of former U.S. representatives.
Guards were severe as they studied passports and visitors.
They let me pass with cool stares, and I felt their eyes follow me out the door. On the street in the cold, damp morning, I hailed a cab and gave the driver an address not very far away in Belgravia off Eaton Square.
The elderly Mrs. Mant had lived in Ebury Mews in a three-story town house that had been divided into flats. Her building was stucco with red chimney pots piled high on a variegated shingle roof, and window boxes were filled with daffodils, crocuses and ivy. I climbed stairs to the second floor and knocked on her door, but when it was answered, it was not by my deputy chief. The matronly woman peering out at me looked as confused as I did.
“Excuse me,” I said to her. “I guess this has already been sold.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s not for sale at all,” she firmly said.
“I’m looking for Philip Mant,” I went on. “Clearly I must have the wrong . . .”
“Oh,” she said. “Philip’s my brother.” She smiled pleasantly. “He just left for work. You just missed him.”