Well, your friend Sali doesn’t anymore, Willow thought, without saying it. “I see. So last night he was completely normal?”
“Entirely. Not a single sign that anything was amiss.” She paused to work on her composure. Better to appear more regretful, lest he think her to be an uncaring robot. “This is terrible news. He was so generous, and always polite. How very sad for him.”
“And for you,” Willow said in sympathy. After all, she’d just lost a major source of income.
“Oh. Yes, oh yes, for me too, love,” she said, catching up with the news finally. But she didn’t even try to fool the detective with tears. Waste of time. He’d see right through it. Pity about Sali. She’d miss the presents. Well, surely she’d get some more referral business. Her world hadn’t ended. Just his. And that was his bad luck—with some thrown in for her, but nothing she couldn’t recover from.
“Miss Parker, did he ever give you any hints on his business activities?”
“Mostly, he talked about real estate, you know, buying and selling those posh houses. Once, he took me to a house he was buying in the West End, said he wanted my opinion on painting it, but I think he was just trying to show me how important he was.”
“Ever meet any of his friends?”
“Not too many—three, maybe four, I think. All were Arabs, most about his age, perhaps five years older, but not more than that. They all looked me over closely, but no business resulted from it. That surprised me. Arabs can be horny buggers, but they are good at paying a girl. You think he might have been involved in illegal activity?” she asked delicately.
“It’s a possibility,” Willow allowed.
“Never saw a hint of it, love. If he played with bad boys, it was out of my sight entirely. Love to help you, but there’s nothing to say.” She seemed sincere to the detective, but he reminded himself that when it came to dissimulation, a whore of this class could probably have shamed Dame Judith Anderson.
“Well, thank you for coming in. If anything—anything at all—comes to mind, do give me a call.”
“That I will, love.” She stood and smiled her way out the door. He was a nice chap, this Detective Willow. Pity he couldn’t afford her. Bert Willow was already back on his computer, typing up his contact report. Miss Parker actually seemed a nice girl, literate and very charming. Part of that had been learned for her business persona, but maybe part of it was genuine. If so, he hoped she’d find a new line of work before her character was completely destroyed. He was a romantic, Willow was, and someday it might be his downfall. And he knew it, but he had no desire to change himself for his job as she had probably done. Fifteen minutes later, he e-mailed the report to Thames House, and then printed it up for the Sali file, which would in due course go to the closed files in Central Records, probably never to be heard from again.
“TOLD YOU.” Jack said to his roomie.
“Well, then you can pat yourself on the back,” Wills responded. “So, what’s the story, or do I have to call up the documents?”
“Uda bin Sali dropped dead of an apparent heart attack. His Security Service tail didn’t see anything unusual, just the guy collapsing on the street. Zap, no more Uda to swap funds for the bad guys.”
“How do you feel about it?” Wills asked.
“It’s fine with me, Tony. He played with the wrong kids, on the wrong playground. End of story,” Ryan the younger said coldly. I wonder how they did it? he wondered more quietly. “Was it our guys helping him along, you think?”
“Not our department. We provide information to others. What they do with it out of our sight is not for us to speculate upon.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The remainder of the day looked as though it would be pretty dull after such a fast beginning.
MOHAMMED GOT the news over his computer—rather, he was told in code to call a cutout named Ayman Ghailani whose cell phone number he had committed to memory. For that purpose, he took a walk outside. You had to be careful using hotel phones. Once on the street, he walked to a park and sat down on a bench, with a pad and pen in his hand.
“Ayman, this is Mohammed. What is new?”
“Uda is dead,” the cutout reported somewhat breathlessly.
“What happened?” Mohammed asked.
“We’re not sure. He fell near his office and was taken to the nearest hospital. He died there,” was the reply.
“He was not arrested, not killed by the Jews?”
“No, there is no report of that.”
“So, it was a natural death?”
“So it appears at this time.”
I wonder if he did the funds transfer before he left this life? Mohammed thought. “I see . . .” He didn’t, of course, but he had to fill the silence with some words. “So, there is no reason to suspect foul play?”
“Not at this time, no. But when one of our people dies, one always—”
“Yes, I know, Ayman. One always suspects. Does his father know?”
“That is how I found out.”
His father will probably be glad to be rid of the wastrel, Mohammed thought. “Who do we have to make sure of the cause of death?”
“Ahmed Mohammed Hamed Ali lives in London. Perhaps through a solicitor . . . ?”
“Good idea. See that it is done.” A pause. “Has anyone told the Emir?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“See to it.” It was a minor matter, but, even so, he was supposed to know everything.
“I shall,” Ayman promised.
“Very well. That is all, then.” And Mohammed thumbed the kill button on his cell phone.
He was back in Vienna. He liked the city. For one thing, they’d handled the Jews here once, and many Viennese managed to control their regrets over it. For another, it was a good place to be a man with money. Fine restaurants staffed by people who knew the value of skilled service to their betters. The former imperial city had a lot of cultural history to appreciate when he was of a mind to be a tourist, which happened more often than one might imagine. Mohammed found that he often did his best thinking when looking at something of no importance to his work. Today, an art museum, perhaps. He’d let Ayman do the scut work for now. A London solicitor would root about for information surrounding Uda’s death, and, being a good mercenary, he’d let them know of anything untoward. But sometimes people simply died. It was the hand of Allah, which was not something easily understood, and never predicted.
OR MAYBE not so dull. NSA cross-decked some new message traffic after lunch. Jack did some mental arithmetic and decided it was evening on the other side of the pond. The electronic weenies of the Italian Carabinieri—their federal police, who walked about in rather spiffy uniforms—had made some intercepts, which they’d forwarded to the U.S. Embassy in Rome, and which had gone right up on the satellite to Fort Belvoir—the main East Coast downlink. Somebody named Mohammed had called somebody named Ayman—they knew this from the recorded conversation, which had also mentioned the death of Uda bin Sali, which had caused an electronic “Bingo” on various computers, flagging it for a signals-intelligence analyst, and causing the embassy puke to squirt the bird.
“‘Has anyone told the Emir?’ Who the hell is the Emir?” Jack asked.
“That’s a nobleman’s title, like a duke or something,” Wills answered. “What’s the context?”
“Here.” Jack handed a printed sheet across.
“That looks interesting.” Wills turned and queried his computer for EMIR, and got only one reference. “According to this, it’s a name or title that cropped up about a year ago in a tapped conversation, context uncertain, and nothing significant since. The Agency thinks it’s probably shorthand for a medium-sized hitter in their organization.”
“In this context, looks bigger than that to me,” Jack thought aloud.
“Maybe,” Tony conceded. “There’s a lot about these guys that we don’t know yet. Langley will probably write it off to somebody in a supervisory position. That’s what I would do,” he concluded, but not confidently.
“We have anybody on staff who knows Arabic?”
“Two guys who speak the language—from the Monterey school—but no experts on the culture, no.”
“I think it’s worth a look.”
“Then write it up and we’ll see what they think. Langley has a bunch of mind readers, and some of them are pretty good.”
“Mohammed is the most senior guy we know in this outfit. Here, he’s referring to somebody senior to himself. That is something we need to check out,” the younger Ryan pronounced with all the power he possessed.