Murder at the Opera (31 page)

A vision of the cottage in Dorset came and went.

“You’ve lost two of your so-called sources in Amman,” Thomas said. “Obviously the enemy knows only too well what’s going on within your operation.”

“Two?” Crowley said.

“You haven’t heard, Crowley?” Thomas said. He was showboating, performing for the others’ benefit. “Your man, Steamer—I believe that was what he was called—got it in the neck, in a manner of speaking.”

“I didn’t know,” Crowley said. “I’ve been here and…” His stomach churned at the thought of the big Brit with the code name “Steamer” no longer being alive.

Thomas’ sigh was loud and said much.

“If I might, I’d like to narrow down this conversation to some pertinent matters in these intercepts,” Jones said, removing his glasses and leaning toward Crowley. “Mr. Crowley, as you read, it seems that the terrorists—presumably led by al-Qaeda, although that’s not set in stone—intend to press forward with their plans to assassinate political leaders. It’s my understanding that you had said as much in briefings you’ve given Mr. Browning and Mr. Thomas.”

“It was only, as Mr. Thomas said, hinted at. Attempts were made to gather more specific information but—”

“You might be interested in this, Crowley,” Thomas said, handing his subordinate another piece of paper.

Crowley read it, quickly this time, and handed it back. “The same intent, a different target,” he said.

“The question is,” Jones said, “whether anything your sources in Amman told you might have forecast such a shift in their targeting.”

“No, nothing.”

“You can understand my government’s interest in this shift, which we’ve gotten through intercepts—the terrorists’ chatter, as it were,” said Jones.

“Of course,” Crowley agreed. The paper he’d just read indicated that rather than attempt the assassination of American political figures, the emphasis would now be on Canadian and British leaders.

“I might echo what my distinguished friend from Canada has just said,” Thomas intoned. “We’re now talking about terrorism on our home front, Crowley. The stakes have been raised considerably.”

Why?
Crowley wondered. Were Canadian and British leaders more important than Americans? They were, of course, to those charged with protecting them.
But in the larger scheme of things?

Besides, he thought, putting so much credence in the babble of Arab terrorists was misguided. If al-Qaeda knew that the Americans had been alerted to their plans to assassinate their top political figures, it would be easy to “chatter” about a change of targets, whether it represented the truth or not. The terrorists might be ruthless and bloodthirsty, but they weren’t stupid.

The security of the Western world was not, he decided on the spot, in especially competent hands.

“Is there anything else?” Crowley asked, anxious to bolt. “I think it best that I leave Washington immediately and return to Baghdad.”

His superior coughed politely into his closed fist.

“One other thing, Mr. Crowley,” Jones said. Browning handed Jones yet another communiqué, which was passed to Crowley. Again, he read quickly, but stopped midway and focused more attention on the words. When he was finished, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. “This means nothing to me,” he said.

“These names never came up in all the months you’ve been handling sources in Amman?” Thomas asked, forcing incredulity into his voice. “Never?”

“Never.”

“They’ve only recently captured the attention of our people,” the Canadian intelligence operative, Jones, said. “We’d been aware of the potential of their involvement with terrorist organizations, but it’s so damned difficult to trace these things, especially when the company does everything aboveboard, or appears to.”

“Who are they?” Crowley asked.

“Talent agents,” Browning answered. “They represent opera singers and such. Offices in Toronto.”

“They represent many foreign singers, mostly operatic,” Jones added. “Their reputation isn’t pristine, I might say, some shady dealings alleged, pocketing fees belonging to clients, bringing young performers to Canada from other countries on the pretense of finding them training and work, taking their money, and leaving them high and dry. Not unusual, I suppose, for people in that line of work.”

“They represented that young opera singer who was murdered at the Kennedy Center,” Browning said.

“They’ve had dealings with Middle Eastern groups, we’ve learned. It all seems kosher, if that’s an acceptable way to put it considering the circumstances, but the name did come up in one of our intercepts.”

Crowley again shook his head, and groaned.

“Problem, Crowley?” Thomas asked.

“My hip,” Crowley said. “Acts up now and then.”

“You sound like a candidate for a hip replacement,” Browning offered.

“Perhaps,” Crowley replied, finding it strange for this discussion of terrorism and planned assassinations of political leaders to morph into talk of his hip. “If that’s all,” he said, standing, “I’d best be going.”

Without anyone saying anything, Jones and Browning shook Crowley’s hand and walked from the room, leaving him alone with Thomas. Crowley started to leave, too, but Thomas said, “A word with you, Milton,” indicating with his hand for Crowley to again take his seat. When he had, Thomas said, “I’m quite sure it’s evident, Milton, that we’ve fallen behind our colleagues in the gathering and assimilating of useful intelligence on the ground in Iraq.”

Crowley didn’t respond; his jaw moved silently.

“Somewhat embarrassing, I’d say,” Thomas said, examining his fingernails. “Let me cut to the chase, Milton. Hunting down these bloody savages is a young man’s game, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought, Jillian.”

“Well,” Thomas said, forcing a smile, “I think it’s time you did. As a matter of fact, I’ve been giving it considerable thought for some time now.”

“And?”

“And, Milton, I believe it is time to relieve you of your duties in Baghdad. Collinsworth will take over for you there, effective immediately.”

“Collinsworth?”

Adrian Collinsworth, in his early forties, had been transferred to Baghdad from Cairo six months earlier as Crowley’s second in command. He was, as far as Crowley was concerned, a thoroughly dislikable man, skilled at boot-licking but lacking even rudimentary skill at intelligence analysis.

“I suppose I don’t have a say in this,” Crowley said, successfully masking a small smile behind his hand.

“Afraid not, old chap. It’s for the greater good, you understand. Nothing personal. Time marches on. A new guard is always waiting in the wings to pick up where we leave off. It’s the way of the world, Milton. Happens to the best of us. At any rate, my friend, your early retirement—I might say immediate retirement—has been arranged. No need to worry about your personal items. Your things will be shipped from Baghdad forthwith, to that cottage of yours, I assume. Where is it? The Cotswolds?”

“Wareham, Dorset.”

“Yes, Wareham. Lovely spot. I know, I know, you’ll find it an adjustment to be a gentleman of leisure after the excitement and intrigue to which you’ve been accustomed all these years. But think of it this way, Milton, you’ll now have a leg up on your golden years, enjoying the sort of civilized comfort that’s been lacking in that hellhole Baghdad. Good food, good drink, and perhaps even a good woman with whom to commune.” His laugh was annoyingly lascivious. “Well, my friend, no need to prolong this. Any questions?”

Crowley fought to keep his face from reflecting what he was thinking and feeling at that moment. He remained stoic as he said, “No, Jillian. As disappointing as this is, I must agree with you. There is a greater good to be considered. All I can say is that my years of service have been highly satisfactory, and I trust my contributions have not gone unappreciated.”

They stood. Thomas placed his arm over Crowley’s shoulder and smiled broadly, displaying a large set of dull teeth. “You’ve been a true patriot to the Crown, Milton. The nation is in your debt. Make your travel arrangements through the embassy.” His laugh was accompanied by a deep, rattling cough. “And for God’s sake, man, remember to book a flight to London, not Baghdad. Cheerio, Milton. See you back home.” A firm slap on the back ended the meeting.

Crowley left the embassy with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there in quite a while. His hip was pain-free. Had he dared, he would have attempted to leap into the air and click his heels the way Russian dancers do. He enjoyed a cigarette outside the building before hailing a passing taxi. “The National Gallery,” he told the driver. Once inside the museum, he went directly to the Italian gallery and stood before Leonardo’s
Ginevra de’ Benci,
a smile on his face.

“Good news, Cora, darling,” he said. “We’ll be back in Dorset before we know it.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

A
nnabel Lee-Smith met the Secret Service’s four-man advance team at the Brazilian Embassy at four that afternoon. They lived up to the image of Secret Service agents as depicted in motion pictures and on television—taciturn, steely-eyed, short haircuts, dressed in nondescript off-the-rack suits, and all business, but not without a smile when appropriate.

“This is where the event will take place?” one of them asked Annabel, referring to fact sheets that had been provided earlier that day.

“Yes. This is where all the guests will gather after their more intimate dinners at various embassies around the city.”

She followed as they slowly walked the interior perimeter of the huge tent that was in the process of being erected on the embassy’s grounds.

“There will be a band over there,” Annabel said, consulting a sketch she’d been provided by Nicki Frolich. “And over there, too. The bars will be in those corners, and the food services—desserts, really—will be where those tables are being set up.”

The agents said nothing as they continued their stroll, eyes taking in everything, including rooftops of nearby buildings, bushes and trees on the property, and other potential locations from which an attack could be launched.

“The president and first lady won’t be eating or drinking,” Annabel heard one say to the other.

An agent turned and asked Annabel, “What about the band? Who are they?”

“Actually, there are three bands,” she replied. “One is being booked through a talent agency here in Washington. That band will play American music. The other two are Brazilian bands.”

“Which talent agency?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“The Brazilian musicians. Where are they coming from?”

“Brazil,” said Annabel. “The embassy has made those arrangements.”

They proceeded to what would be the portal through which invited guests would arrive. “What do their invitations look like?” one of the agents asked Annabel.

She handed one to him.

“They’ll have to show ID besides this,” he said. “We need the guest list.”

“It’s on its way over,” another agent said.

“Will you have time to—?” Annabel started to ask.

“The boss tossed us this last-minute,” one of the agents said, flashing a grin. “He’s known for that. But we’ll manage.” Then, as though he might have told a tale out of school, he looked away from her and made a call on his radio.

Being summoned to meet with them was last-minute for Annabel, too. She’d called a number given her by Nicki Frolich and was connected to the person in the Secret Service responsible for the president’s forays outside the White House. She was also put in touch with an officer from the thousand-strong Capitol Hill police force, whose mission was to protect the foreign diplomatic corps in Washington. He made an appointment to meet her there at five that afternoon, along with the head of security for the Brazilian Embassy. According to Frolich, there were mixed emotions at the embassy about the president’s sudden decision to attend the festivities following the private dinners. The ambassador was delighted. His staff was not.

The agent with the fact sheet went over it with Annabel. They discussed the number of embassy staff that would be working the ball, as well as the outside catering services and their people.

“What about these opera performers?” he asked.

“The Washington National Opera will provide musical entertainment. Some of the students in the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program will perform.”

“We’ll need their names.”

“Of course.”

“These supernumeraries?” the agent said. “What’s their role?”

“They’ll be in costume and dress up the party, give it the right opera theme.”

“Costumes?”

“Yes. From famous operas.”

“That include masks?”

“For some, I’m sure.”

He noted that on the sheet.

“The president and first lady are due here at ten sharp,” the agent said.

“Yes,” Annabel said.

“They’ll stay a half hour.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“He’ll make a couple of remarks.”