Ten meters away, Sali’s tail had his cell phone out and was dialing 999 for emergency services. There was a fire station only blocks away, and Guy’s Hospital was just across Tower Bridge. Like many spooks, he had started to identify with his subject, even though detesting him, and the sight of the man crumpled on the sidewalk had shaken him deeply. What had happened? Heart attack? But he was a young man . . .
BRIAN AND Dominic rendezvoused at a pub, just uphill from the Tower of London. They picked a booth, and scarcely had they sat down when a waitress came to them and asked what they wanted.
“Two pints,” Enzo told her.
“We have Tetley’s Smooth and John Smith’s, love.”
“Which one do you drink?” Brian shot back.
“John Smith’s, of course.”
“Two of those,” Dominic ordered. He took the lunch menu from her,
“Not sure I want anything to eat, but the beer’s a good idea,” Brian said, taking the menu, his hands shaking ever so slightly.
“And a cigarette, maybe.” Dominic chuckled. Like most kids, they’d experimented with smoking in high school, but both had sworn off it before getting hooked. Besides, the cigarette machine in the corner was made of wood, and was probably too complex for a foreigner to operate.
“Yeah, right,” Brian dismissed the thought.
Just as the beers arrived, they heard the dissonant note of a local ambulance three blocks away.
“How you feel?” Enzo asked his brother.
“Little shaky.”
“Think about last Friday,” the FBI agent suggested to the Marine.
“I didn’t say I regretted it, dumbass. You just get a little worked up. You distract the tail?”
“Yeah, he was looking right into my eyes when you made the stick. Your subject walked maybe twenty feet before he collapsed. I didn’t see any reaction from the stick. You?”
Brian shook his head. “Not even an ‘ouch,’ bro.” He took a sip. “This is pretty good beer.”
“Yeah, shaken, not stirred, Double-Oh-Seven.”
In spite of himself, Brian laughed aloud. “You asshole!” he said.
“Well, that’s the business we’ve fallen into, right?”
CHAPTER 18
AND THE
DEPARTING
FOXHOUNDS
JACK JR. found out first. He was just starting his coffee and doughnuts, and had lit up his computer, navigating his way first to the message traffic from CIA to NSA, and at the very top of the electronic pile was a FLASH-priority alert for NSA to pay special attention to “known associates” of Uda bin Sali, who had, CIA said the Brits had reported, evidently dropped dead of a heart attack in central London. The Security Service FLASH traffic, included in the CIA-gram, said in terse English prose that he’d collapsed on the street before the eyes of their surveillance officer, and had been rushed by ambulance to Guy’s Hospital, where he “had failed to revive.” The body was now being posted, MI5 said.
IN LONDON, Special Branch Detective Bert Willow called Rosalie Parker’s apartment.
“Hello.” She had a charming, musical voice.
“Rosalie, this is Detective Willow. We need to see you as soon as possible here at the Yard.”
“I’m afraid I am busy, Bert. I have a client coming any minute. It will take two hours or so. I can come directly after that. Will that be okay?”
At the other end of the line, the detective took a deep breath, but, no, it really wasn’t that urgent. If Sali had died of drugs—the most likely cause that had occurred to him and his colleagues—he hadn’t gotten them from Rosalie, who was neither an addict nor a supplier. She wasn’t stupid for a girl whose entire education had been in state schools. Her work was too lucrative to take that risk. The girl even attended church occasionally, her file read. “Very well,” Bert told her. He was curious about how she’d take the news, but didn’t expect anything important to develop there.
“Excellent. Bye-ee,” she said before hanging up.
AT GUY’S Hospital, the body was already in the postmortem lab. It had been undressed and laid faceup on a stainless steel table by the time the senior duty pathologist came in. He was Sir Percival Nutter, a distinguished academic physician, and chairman of the hospital’s Department of Pathology, sixty years of age. His technicians had already drawn 0.1 liter of blood for the lab to work on. It was quite a lot, but they’d be running every test known to man.
“Very well, he has the body of a male subject approximately twenty-five years of age—get his identification to get the proper dates, Maria,” he told the microphone that hung down from the ceiling, which led to a tape recorder. “Weight?” This question was directed to a junior resident.
“Seventy-three point six kilograms. One hundred eighty-one centimeters in length,” the brand-new physician responded.
“There are no distinguishing marks on the body, on visual inspection, suggesting a cardiovascular or neurological incident. What’s the hurry on this, Richard? The body is still warm.” No tattoos and so on. Lips were somewhat bluish. His nonofficial comments would be edited from the tape, of course, but a body still warm was quite unusual.
“Police request, sir. Seems he dropped dead on the street while being observed by a constable.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was close enough.
“Did you see any needle marks?” Sir Percy asked.
“No, sir, not a hint of that.”
“So, lad, what do you think?”
Richard Gregory, the new M.D. doing his first pathology rotation, shrugged in his surgical greens. “From what the police say, the way he went down, sounds like a possible massive heart attack or a seizure of some sort—unless it’s drug-related. He looks healthy for that, and there are no needle-mark clusters to suggest drugs.”
“Rather young for a fatal infarction,” the senior man said. To him, the body might as easily have been a piece of meat in the market, or a dead deer in Scotland, not the remaining shell of a human being who’d been alive—what?—as little as two or three hours earlier. Bad bloody luck for the poor bastard. Looked vaguely Middle Eastern. The smooth, unmarked skin on the hands did not suggest manual labor, though he did appear reasonably fit. He lifted the eyelids. Eyes were brown enough to appear black at a distance. Good teeth, not much dental work. On the whole, a young man who appeared to have taken decent care of himself. This was odd. Congenital heart defect, perhaps? They’d have to crack his chest for that. Nutter didn’t mind doing it—it was just a routine part of the job, and he’d long since learned to forget about the immense sadness associated with it—but on such a young body, it struck him as a waste of time, even though the cause of death was mysterious enough to be of intellectual interest, perhaps even something for an article in The Lancet, something he’d done many times in the preceding thirty-six years. Along the way, his dissection of the dead had saved hundreds, even thousands, of living people, which was why he’d chosen pathology. You also didn’t have to talk to your patients much.
For the moment, they’d wait for the blood-toxicology readings to come out of the serology lab. It would at least give him a direction for his investigation.
BRIAN AND Dominic took a cab back to their hotel. Once there, Brian lit up his laptop and logged on. The brief e-mail he sent was automatically encrypted and dispatched in a matter of four minutes. He figured an hour or so for The Campus to react, assuming nobody wet his pants, which was unlikely. Granger looked like a guy who could have done this job himself, fairly tough for an old guy. His time in the Corps had taught him that you read the tough ones from the eyes. John Wayne had played football for USC. Audie Murphy, rejected by a Marine recruiter—to the everlasting shame of the Corps—had looked like a street waif, but he’d killed more than three hundred men all by himself. He’d also had cold eyes when provoked.
It was suddenly and surprisingly lonely for both Carusos.
They’d just murdered a man they didn’t know and to whom neither had spoken a single word. It had all seemed logical and sensible at The Campus, but that was now a place far away in both linear distance and spiritual vastness. But the man they’d killed had funded the creatures who’d shot up Charlottesville, killing women and children without mercy, and, in facilitating that act of barbarism, he’d made himself guilty as a matter of law and common morality. So, it wasn’t as though they’d wasted Mother Teresa’s little brother on his way to Mass.
Again, it was harder on Brian than on Dominic, who walked over to the minibar and took out a can of beer. This he threw to his brother.
“I know,” Brian responded. “He had it coming. It’s just that—well, it’s not like Afghanistan, y’know?”