Ghost Image (24 page)

18

I
slid off the embankment wall. It was still early, ten minutes to twelve, so perhaps whoever called the hotel pretending to be Victor's secretary hadn't arrived yet, or maybe he was waiting inside the pub. Either way, now I knew Victor wasn't coming, which gave me a tiny advantage if I could get out of here before anyone realized I was gone.

I didn't want to go back through the narrow streets of Bankside to the Underground station, or try to hail a cab. It would be too easy for someone to corner me. The obvious choice was to stay in the open, take my chances getting lost in the crowd. Up ahead, maybe half a mile or so, was the Millennium Footbridge, a pedestrian suspension bridge over the Thames that took you from the Tate Modern and the Globe on this side of the river and deposited you in front of St. Paul's Cathedral on the other side.

What I most wanted to do right now was make a dash for that bridge. Instead, I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and strolled out of the plaza down the Queen's Walk like I was
just another tourist. When I had nearly reached the Globe, I rotated the camera on my phone so the lens faced me and held it up high as though I were taking a souvenir picture of myself in front of the theater. I snapped a couple of photos, scanning the scenery and the people walking behind me. In a split second I knew the slight man in the baggy black tracksuit, head down, nondescript baseball cap with the visor pulled low was the one. About forty or fifty feet back, moving fast, something long like a pipe tucked under one arm.

To gain access to the footbridge, you follow a zigzag ramp that gradually rises until you reach the aluminum deck over the river. I sprinted to the ramp and knew without looking back that my pursuer had sped up as well. A bunched-up crowd stood around the entrance, funneling from the wider promenade onto the narrow ramp, and that meant I was in trouble. Forming an orderly queue to wait one's turn is a British national character trait. If I pushed through those people to get ahead, there'd be a commotion and I might as well have a big neon arrow pointing straight at me. If I waited, Baseball Cap would reach me in no time.

But chivalry and decency are also quintessentially English, so I sidled up to two large men who were standing next to the ramp entrance. “I'm terribly sorry,” I said to one of them in a low voice, “but there's a man back there who's been bothering me and I'm trying to get away from him. Do you think you could possibly let me pass?”

“What's 'e look like, love?” he asked, moving aside.

“Black tracksuit, baseball cap.”

“I see 'im,” his companion said. “Head down, coming toward us. We'll slow 'im down, my love, don't you worry. We'll turn into the Great Wall of China, we will.”

“Thank you so much.”

By the time I reached the deck of the bridge, I had slipped out of my jacket, shoving it in my camera bag, which I now cradled in my arms instead of letting it swing from my shoulder.
I'd also put on the dark green hat I'd bought the other day and twisted my hair in a knot, tucking it under the hat. Changing my attire and my profile wouldn't buy me much time, but if my two friends on the ramp slowed my pursuer down even a little, it would help.

The Millennium Footbridge is approximately a dozen feet wide and probably slightly more than a thousand feet long, give or take, with two-way traffic. Here it was easier to thread through the crowd because so many people stopped to take pictures or admire the spectacular views. Fortunately for me, the bridge slopes up until you are in the middle of the river, where it levels off, before gently sloping down as you approach the other bank. The result is that it is impossible to see very far ahead for much of the time you are crossing the river.

That was the good news. The bad news was that Baseball Cap and his pipe knew I had to be on the bridge because there was no place else to go.

At the halfway point, when I could see Tower Bridge on the horizon to my right, I ran. From here St. Paul's looked as though it was sitting on the riverbank, but in fact it was not. You have to cross two streets going uphill from the embankment to reach the churchyard. What's more, the main entrance, the west entrance, is around the corner. The view from the river is of the south side of the cathedral. Once I left the bridge, I wouldn't have much time to shake off Baseball Cap, but I had been to St. Paul's often enough that I knew my way around.

When Nick and I lived in London, one of our favorite traditions had been attending the annual Thanksgiving Day Service, a moving ceremony that always reduced me to tears as the Marine color guard marched down the aisle with our flag, and everyone—Americans and British—sang “America the Beautiful.” And at the end of many workdays, I often walked the few blocks from IPS on Fleet Street to listen to the ethereal beauty of the cathedral choir at evensong.

I ran down the zigzag ramp off the bridge and sprinted up the street. Two tour buses pulled up and stopped at St. Paul's Churchyard as I crossed Queen Victoria Street, opening their doors to let their passengers disembark. I slipped between the buses and joined the crowd, catching a quick glimpse of the street behind me just before everyone around me surged toward the cathedral. Baseball Cap was walking my way, head swiveling from side to side. He'd lost me, at least for now. But in another minute or two he'd be right here, and I had a feeling he wasn't going to give up searching until he found me.

The tour group seemed to consist mostly of senior citizens, the majority of whom were making their way to the handicapped entrance at the south door. I maneuvered into the middle of the group and offered to push a woman in a wheelchair so that her elderly husband could walk by her side.

If you wanted to worship at St. Paul's you didn't need to pay an entry fee, but to visit any part of the cathedral you needed an admission ticket. As soon as we were inside and I could leave the lady in the wheelchair with her husband, I stood in a mercifully short queue and bought a ticket. Then I headed for the staircase to the Whispering Gallery and Christopher Wren's magnificent cast-iron dome.

The dome had three visitor galleries, until you reached the topmost Golden Gallery, from which there were breathtaking views of London. I didn't intend to climb above the Whispering Gallery, the first gallery, because what I wanted was a panoramic view of the church below. St. Paul's was built in the shape of a cross with the dome in the middle, and I knew from past visits that I'd be able to see almost all of it except the high altar and the side chapels. If Baseball Cap was here, sooner or later I'd spot him when he came out into the open.

Though the climb got steeper the higher you went, the steps to the Whispering Gallery were wide and shallow so it didn't take me long. But although I walked around the entire inside
perimeter of the dome along the whispering wall that gave the gallery its name, I didn't see Baseball Cap. Either he hadn't entered the church, or he'd removed the hat so I could no longer pick him out.

I pulled out my camera to use the zoom on my telephoto, but a vigilant security guard told me in a polite but firm voice to put it away.

“I'm not taking pictures,” I said. “I'm just trying to find someone down below in the church.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to use these.” He pointed to his eyes with his two index fingers. “Positively no photography allowed in St. Paul's, miss.”

After twenty minutes, I gave up watching and waiting, hoping Baseball Cap had done the same, and went back downstairs in time to join a group from the tour bus making their way to the handicapped exit. Outside, a taxi with a lighted toplight pulled up to the curb next to the statue of Queen Anne and I ran toward it.

“Where to, love?” he asked.

“The Connaught.”

Though it was only a couple of miles across town and the driver kept detouring down side streets to speed up the trip, traffic was so congested it took the better part of half an hour to get to the hotel. I had plenty of time to stare out the window, searching for anyone wearing baseball caps or black tracksuits as we slowly drove down the Strand and past the elegant gentlemen's clubs on Pall Mall.

By the time the driver cut around Berkeley Square just before pulling up in front of the hotel, I knew what I was going to do next. When I worked for IPS, I'd made a few friends at Scotland Yard and they'd helped me over the years. I didn't believe Alastair's car had gone into some ravine by accident any more than I believed Kevin slipped on the stairs in the monastery garden.

Today someone had gone after me. Even if Nick's bodyguard showed up, it was time to get help. First I'd call Washington and get hold of Officer Carroll. My next call would be to Scotland Yard.

But when I walked into my room, the connecting door to Harry's room had been flung open and Harry was on the phone, wearing out a path in the carpet as he paced back and forth in front of the window. He saw me and shook his head, a weary look on his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger like he was trying to stave off a headache.

“Who is it?” I asked in a whisper. “What's wrong?”

He put his hand over the speaker and mouthed, “Your mother.”

I gave him a commiserating look, and he went back to his conversation.

“It's okay, Caroline, don't worry,” he said. “Just do whatever you need to do until I get there . . . he's not in any pain, is he . . . Darling, calm down, I'll be there tonight . . . yes, sure, if Tommy can meet my flight . . . okay, okay . . . right. See you then.”

He disconnected and said, “Your mother drove Chappy back to Middleburg today.”

“She did? Why?”

He blew out a long breath. “God only knows. Now she's in a real state, worried sick about him. Afraid he's going to do something crazy like wander off or harm himself.” He shook his head again. “She asked me to come home. I'm sorry, kitten. You can stay on if you want, but I've switched my ticket for the evening flight.”

“I want to see him,” I said. “I'll go with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can talk to him, Harry. Mom . . . she gets so worked up around Chap sometimes. They're probably driving each other nuts. He needs someone in his corner.”

Harry's eyes held mine, but I thought I saw a flicker of relief
in his. “All right, I'll have the concierge change your ticket, too. You'd better get packing. We need to leave in half an hour. I've already asked James to call a car and take care of the bill.” He paused and stared at me. “Are you all right, sweetheart? You look kind of . . . I don't know . . . not yourself.”

“I'm fine. You just caught me off guard, is all.”

I don't remember packing my bag, or much of anything, really, from that last rushed half hour at the Connaught. James brought tea for me, which I barely touched, and a Scotch for Harry, which he knocked back like it was water. When James came to take our tray, he gave me a sober look and said he was sorry to see us go and that we'd been a pleasure to have as guests. I told him the feeling was mutual.

Harry and I took the elevator down to the lobby for the last time, the little fire crackling in the fireplace, a faint fragrance from the masses of peonies in the vase next to the grand staircase scenting the air. We said our goodbyes and thank-yous to the staff as guests strolled past us into the Coburg Bar for evening cocktails.

Outside, the Bentley was waiting. I thought I recognized the driver who had taken Nick to Heathrow only this morning, though just now it seemed like days had passed since he'd left.

As the big car pulled out of Carlos Place, I looked out the window one final time for someone watching me, waiting for me. But the plaza was quiet and empty, except for the Connaught's two doormen in their camel coats and top hats. Even the fountain was still, no dreamy mist rising into the air like a genie escaping from a bottle and curling around us. As we drove through Mayfair, I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. Next to me, I heard the
rat-a-tat
of Harry drumming his fingers on his knees, a restless habit when he's thinking something through.

I reached over and squeezed one of his hands and he squeezed mine back.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I'm fine. Did you have a good time, kitten?”

I wasn't ready to tell him about Alastair and what had happened today. He had enough on his plate worrying about my mother and Chappy. Besides, I knew he was asking about my night with Nick.

“I did. You didn't have to stay in Lingfield so Nick and I could have the suite, Harry. And thanks for everything you did. I'm sure James told you I was completely bowled over.”

Harry smiled. “I'm glad. How's Nick doing, by the way?”

“Fine. Coming home soon.”

He kissed my hair. “That's good, honey,” he said, and then he was silent for the rest of the trip.

It seemed like no time at all before our driver put on his turn signal for the airport exit off the motorway as a jet glided above us, preparing to touch down on the runway up ahead. “We'll be arriving shortly, Mr. Wyatt,” he said over his shoulder. “And I've just confirmed that your flight is on time.”

It all went so smoothly after that, the porter taking our bags, Harry and me breezing through security, and then cocooned in the first-class lounge with another Scotch for him and a glass of wine for me until our flight was called. Seats in first class again and then we took off over the English countryside, the scattered lights of towns and villages winking like faraway stars in the darkness, before the plane turned north to the Atlantic Ocean.

I had two glasses of champagne and more wine with dinner. Harry didn't say anything, but he watched as the stewardess refilled my glass, and I felt his little prickle of curiosity since it was more than he usually saw me drink. The alcohol did its job, and dulled my sharp-edged nerves, so when I finally slept it was heavy and dreamless. Leaving London like this—vanishing into the night as though we were stealing away—had given me a hell of a head start on the guy who came after me today, but it wasn't a get-out-of-jail-free card.