“I see Mr. Watkins visited a rare book shop this afternoon,” Owens noted, reading over his own printout.
“Yes. He collects them. So do I,” Ashley said. “I’ve been in that shop once or twice myself. There was an estate sale recently. Perhaps Cooley bought a few things that Geoffrey wants for himself.” The security officer made a mental note to look at the shop for himself. “He was in there for ten minutes, spoke with Dennis –”
“You know him?” Owens looked up.
“One of the best men in the trade,” Ashley said. He smiled at his own choice of words: the Trade. “I bought a Bronte there for my wife, Christmas two years ago, I think. He’s a fat little poof, but he’s quite knowledgeable. So Geoffrey spoke with him for about ten minutes, made a purchase, and left. I wonder what he bought.” Ashley rubbed his eyes. He’d been on a strict regimen of fourteen-hour days for longer than he cared to remember.
“The first new person Watkins has seen in several weeks,” Owens noted. He thought about it for a moment. There were better leads than this to follow up on, and his manpower was limited.
“So can we deal on this immigration question?” the public defender asked.
“Not a chance,” Bill Shaw said from the other side of the table. You think we’re going to give him political asylum?
“You’re not offering us a thing,” the lawyer observed. “I bet I can beat the weapons charge, and there’s no way you can make the conspiracy stick.”
“That’s fine, counselor. If it will make you any happier we’ll cut him loose and give him a plane ticket, and even an escort, home.”
“To a maximum-security prison.” The public defender closed his file folder on the case of Eamon Clark. “You’re not giving me anything to deal with.”
“If he cops to the gun charge and conspiracy, and if he helps us, he gets to spend a few years in a much nicer prison. But if you think we’re going to let a convicted murderer just walk, mister, you are kidding yourself. What do you think you have to deal with?”
“You might be surprised,” the attorney said cryptically.
“Oh, yeah? I’m willing to bet that he hasn’t said anything to you either,” the agent challenged the young attorney, and watched closely for his reaction. Bill Shaw, too, had passed the bar exam, though he devoted his legal expertise to the safety of society rather than the freedom of criminals.
“Conversations between attorney and client are privileged.” The lawyer had been practicing for exactly two and a half years. His understanding of his job was limited largely to keeping the police away from his charges. At first he’d been gratified that Clark hadn’t said much of anything to the police and FBI, but he was surprised that Clark wouldn’t even talk to him. After all, maybe he could cut a deal, despite what this FBI fellow said. But he had nothing to deal with, as Shaw had just told him. He waited a few moments for a reaction from the agent and got nothing but a blank stare. The public defender admitted defeat to himself. Well, there hadn’t been much of a chance on this.
“That’s what I thought.” Shaw stood. “Tell your client that unless he opens up by the day after tomorrow, he’s flying home to finish out a life sentence. Make sure you tell him that. If he wants to talk after he gets back, we’ll send people to him. They say the beer’s pretty good over there, and I wouldn’t mind flying over myself to find out.” The only thing the Bureau could use over Clark was fear. The mission he’d been part of had hurt the Proves, and young, dumb Ned might not like the reception he got. He’d be safer in a U.S. penitentiary than he would be in a British one, but Shaw doubted that he understood this, or that he’d crack in any case. Maybe after he got back, something might be arranged.
The case was not going well; not that he’d expected otherwise. This sort of thing either cracked open immediately, or took months — or years. The people they were after were too clever to have left an immediate opening to be exploited. What remained to him and his men was the day-by-day grind. But that was the textbook definition of investigative police work. Shaw knew this well enough: he had written one of the standard texts.
Chapter 18
Lights
Ashley entered the bookshop at four in the afternoon. A true bibliophile, he paused on opening the door to appreciate the aroma.
“Is Mr. Cooley in today?” he asked the clerk.
“No, sir,” Beatrix replied. “He’s abroad on business. May I help you?”
“Yes. I understand that you’ve made some new acquisitions.”
“Ah, yes. Have you heard about the Marlowe first folio?” Beatrix looked remarkably like a mouse. Her hair was exactly the proper drab shade of brown and ill-kept. Her face was puffy, whether from too much food or too much drink, Ashley couldn’t say. Her eyes were hidden behind thick glasses. She dressed in a way that fitted the store exactly — everything she had on was old and out of date. Ashley remembered buying his wife the Bronte here, and wondered if those two sad, lonely sisters had looked like this girl. It was too bad, really. With a little effort she might actually have been attractive.
“A Marlowe?” the man from “Five” asked. “First folio, you said?”
“Yes, sir, from the collection of the late Earl of Crundale. As you know, Marlowe’s plays were not actually printed until forty years after his death.” She went on, displaying something that her appearance didn’t begin to hint at. Ashley listened with respect. The mouse knew her business as well as an Oxford don.
“How do you find such things?” Ashley asked when she’d finished her discourse.
She smiled. “Mr. Dennis can smell them. He is always traveling, working with other dealers and lawyers and such. He’s in Ireland today, for example. It’s amazing how many books he manages to obtain over there. Those horrid people have the most marvelous collections.” Beatrix did not approve of the Irish.
“Indeed,” David Ashley noted. He didn’t react to this bit of news at all. At least not physically, but a switch in the back of his head flipped on. “Well, that is one of the contributions our friends across the water have made. A few rather good writers, and whiskey.”
“And bombers,” Beatrix noted. “I shouldn’t want to travel there so much myself.”
“Oh, I take my holiday there quite often. The fishing is marvelous.”
“That’s what Lord Louis Mountbatten thought,” the clerk observed.
“How often does Dennis go over?”
“At least once a month.”
“Well, on this Marlowe you have — may I see it?” Ashley asked with an enthusiasm that was only partially feigned.
“By all means.” The girl took the volume from a shelf and opened it with great care. “As you see, though the cover is in poor condition, the pages are in a remarkable state of preservation.”
Ashley hovered over the book, his eyes running down the opened page. “Indeed they are. How much for this one?”
“Mr. Dennis hasn’t set a price yet. I believe another customer is already very interested in it, however.”
“Do you know who that is?”
“No, sir, I do not, and I would not be able to reveal his name in any case. We respect our customers’ confidentiality,” Beatrix said primly.
“Quite so. That is entirely proper,” Ashley agreed. “So when will Mr. Cooley be back? I want to talk to him about this myself.”
“He’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will you be here also?” Ashley asked with a charming smile.
“No, I’ll be at my other job.”
“Too bad. Well, thank you very much for showing me this.” Ashley made for the door.
“My pleasure, sir.”
The security officer walked out of the arcade and turned right. He waited for the afternoon traffic to clear before crossing the street. He decided to walk back to Scotland Yard instead of taking a cab, and went downhill along St. James’s Street, turning left to go around the Palace to the east, then down Marlborough Road to The Mall.
It happened right there, he thought. The getaway car turned here to make its escape. The ambush was a mere hundred yards west of where I’m standing now. He stood and looked for a few seconds, remembering.
The personality of a security officer is much the same all over the world. They do not believe in coincidences, though they do believe in accidents. They lack any semblance of a sense of humor where their work is concerned. This comes from the knowledge that only the most trusted of people have the ability to be traitors; before betraying their countries, they must first betray the people who trust them. Beneath all his charm, Ashley was a man who hated traitors beyond all things, who suspected everyone and trusted no one.