Five Scarpetta Novels (27 page)

“There is a doorman,” he said as he pulled in front of a tall building that looked relatively new. “Just go in and give him your identification. He will get you into your accommodations. Do you need help with your bags?”

Wesley opened his door. “Thanks. We can manage.”

We got out and went inside a small reception area, where an alert older man smiled warmly at us from behind a polished desk.

“Oh right. I've been expecting you,” he said.

He got up and took our bags. “If you'll just follow me to the lift here.”

We got on and rose to the fifth floor, where he showed us a three-bedroom flat with wide windows, bright fabrics and African art. My room was comfortably appointed, with the typical English tub large enough to drown in and toilet that flushed with a chain. Furniture was Victorian with hardwood floors covered in worn Turkish rugs, and I went over to the window and turned the radiator up high. I switched off lamps and gazed out at cars rushing past and dark trees in the park moving in the wind.

Wesley's room was down the hall at the far end, and I did not hear him walk in until he spoke.

“Kay?” He waited near my doorway, and I heard ice softly rattle. “Whoever lives here keeps very fine Scotch. I've been told we are to help ourselves.”

He walked in and set tumblers on the sill.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked.

“It's never been necessary in the past.”

He stood next to me, and we drank and leaned against each other as we looked out together. For a long time we spoke in small, quiet sentences, and then he touched my hair, and kissed my ear and jaw. I touched him, too, and our love for each other got deeper as kisses and caresses did.

“I've missed you so much,” he whispered as clothing became loosened and undone.

We made love because we could not help ourselves. That was our only excuse and would hold up in no court I knew. Separation had been very hard, so we were hungry with each other all night. Then at dawn I drifted off to sleep long enough to awaken and find him gone, as if it all had been a dream. I lay beneath a down-filled duvet, and images were slow and lyrical in my mind. Lights danced beneath my lids and I felt as if I were being rocked, as if I were a little girl again and my father were not dying of a disease I did not understand back then.

I had never gotten over him. I supposed my attachments to all men had sadly relived my being left by him. It was a dance I moved to without trying, and then found myself in silence in the empty room of my most private life. I realized how much Lucy and I were alike. We both loved in secret and would not speak of pain.

Getting dressed, I went out into the hall and found Wesley in the living room drinking coffee as he looked out at a cloudy day. He was dressed in suit and tie, and did not seem tired.

“There's coffee on,” he said. “Can I bring you some?”

“Thanks, I'll get it.” I stepped into the kitchen. “Have you been up long?”

“For a while.”

He made coffee very strong, and it struck me that there were so many domestic details about him I did not know. We did not cook together or go on vacations or do sports when I knew we both enjoyed so many of the same things. I walked into the living room and set my cup and saucer on a windowsill because I wanted to look out at the park.

“How are you?” His eyes lingered on mine.

“I'm fine. What about you?”

“You don't look fine.”

“You always know just the thing to say.”

“You look like you didn't get much sleep. That's what I meant.”

“I got virtually no sleep, and you're to blame.”

He smiled. “That and jet lag.”

“The lag you cause is worse, Special Agent Wesley.”

Already traffic was loud rushing past and punctuated periodically by the odd cacophony of British sirens. In the cold, early light, people were walking briskly along sidewalks, and some were jogging. Wesley got up from his chair.

“We should be going soon.” He rubbed the back of my neck and kissed it. “We should get a little something to eat. It's going to be a long day.”

“Benton, I don't like living this way,” I said as he shut the door.

We followed Park Lane past the Dorchester Hotel, where some Pakistanis were still taking their stand. Then we took Mount Street to South Audley where we found a small restaurant open called Richoux. Inside were exotic French pastries and boxes of chocolates beautiful enough to display as art. People were dressed for business and reading newspapers at small tables. I drank fresh orange juice and got hungry. Our Filipino waitress was puzzled because Wesley had only toast while I ordered bacon and eggs with mushrooms and tomatoes.

“You wish to share?” she asked.

“No, thank you.” I smiled.

At not quite ten
A
.
M
., we continued on South Audley to Grosvenor Square, where the American Embassy was an unfortunate granite block of 1950s architecture guarded by a bronze eagle rampant on the roof. Security was extremely tight, with somber guards everywhere. We produced
passports and credentials, and our photographs were taken. Finally, we were escorted to the second floor where we were to meet with the FBI's senior legal attaché, or legate, for Great Britain. Chuck Olson's corner office afforded a perfect view of people waiting in long lines for visas and green cards. He was a stocky man in a dark suit, his neatly trimmed hair almost as silver as Wesley's.

“A pleasure,” he said as he shook our hands. “Please have a seat. Would anybody like coffee?”

Wesley and I chose a couch across from a desk that was clear except for a notepad and file folders. On a cork board behind Olson's head were drawings that I assumed were done by his children, and above these hung a large Department of Justice seal. Other than shelves of books and various commendations, the office was the simple space of a busy person unimpressed with his job or self.

“Chuck,” Wesley began, “I'm sure you already know that Dr. Scarpetta is our consulting forensic pathologist, and though she does have her own situation in Virginia to handle, she could be called back here later.”

“God forbid,” Olson said, for if there was a nuclear disaster in England or anywhere in Europe, chances were I would be brought in to help handle the dead.

“So I wonder if you could give her a clearer picture of our concerns,” Wesley said.

“Well, there's the obvious,” Olson said to me. “About a third of England's electricity is generated by nuclear power. We're worried about a similar terrorist strike, and don't know, in fact, if one hasn't already been planned by these same people.”

“But the New Zionists are rooted in Virginia,” I said. “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 BenghÄzÄ«—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 a'tall,” 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.”

“Work?” I said.

“Oh yes, he always leaves right about this time. To avoid traffic, you know. Although I don't think that's really possible.” She hesitated, suddenly aware of the stranger before her. “Might I tell him who dropped by?”

“Dr. Kay Scarpetta,” I said. “And I really must find him.”

“Why of course.” She seemed as pleased as she was surprised. “I've heard him speak of you. He's enormously fond of you and will be absolutely delighted to hear you came by. What brings you to London?”

“I never miss an opportunity to visit here. Might you tell me where I could find him?” I asked again.

“Of course. The Westminster Public Mortuary on Horseferry Road.” She hesitated, uncertain. “I should have thought he would have told you.”

“Yes.” I smiled. “And I'm very pleased for him.”

I wasn't certain what I was talking about, but she seemed very pleased, too.

“Don't tell him I'm coming,” I went on. “I intend to surprise him.”

“Oh, that's brilliant. He will be absolutely thrilled.”

I caught another taxi as I thought about what I believed
she had just said. No matter Mant's reason for what he had done, I could not help but feel slightly furious.

“You going to the Coroner's Court, ma'am?” the driver asked me. “It's right there.” He pointed out the open window at a handsome brick building.

“No, I'm going to the actual mortuary,” I said.

“All right. Well that's right here. Better to walk in than be carried,” he said with a hoarse laugh.

I got out money as he parked in front of a building small by London standards. Brick with granite trim and a strange parapet along the roof, it was surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence painted the color of rust. According to the date on a plaque at the entrance, the mortuary was more than a hundred years old, and I thought about how grim it would have been to practice forensic medicine in those days. There would have been few witnesses to tell the story except for the human kind, and I wondered if people had lied less in earlier times.