Nemesis (33 page)

“Hey, it’s not a man, it’s a girl!”

Sherlock ran to the fallen girl, who was clutching her hand. She was dressed in black, even her face blackened. She was trying not to cry now, doubtless it was humiliating, but still, tears seeped from beneath her lashes and trailed through the black paint on her face, cutting knifelike tracks. Sherlock knelt down beside her, saw another agent had applied a pressure bandage to the wrist. “You’re going to be all right, lie still. An ambulance is on the way.”

The girl raised dark pain-filled eyes to her face. “It was a trap.”

“Yes, it was a trap,” Sherlock said. She felt Cal’s hand on her shoulder, heard Kelly speaking to the agents. Cal said, “You were sent in to set the bomb, right? Because you’re so small? How’d you get into the kitchen?”

The girl turned her face away and didn’t say anything.

Cal continued: “She didn’t break the kitchen window, we’d have heard her. That window is too small for either of the men to get in, so she was elected. She cut a hole in the kitchen window and wriggled in, set the bomb, right?”

The girl looked up at him, said nothing.

“Her job was to set off the bomb between the kitchen and the living room, say, and then run as fast as she could and climb back out. If the bomb or the fire didn’t kill us, we’d be forced out of the house and her two friends outside would be ready to mow us down.”

“Didn’t work out, did it?” Kelly said, standing over the girl with her legs spread, her arms crossed over her chest.

They heard fire engines and sirens in the distance. Soon, she knew, neighbors would venture out to see what had happened on their quiet street.

Sherlock sat back on her heels, looked at the raging fire. It didn’t matter, a house was just a house, after all.

Everyone had done their job. One terrorist was dead, but two of them were alive, and one of them was this slight girl lying at their feet, cradling her shattered wrist.

BELAMY CLUB

LONDON

Monday, late morning

D
r. Samir “Hercule” Basara entered the sacred portal of the Belamy Club of Piccadilly Circus, nodded to the doorman dressed in the two-hundred-year-old club colors, deep blue with gold trim. Hercule always thought it looked ridiculous, a pretension that was a waste of time and money, but the upper class liked to cling to their old traditional ways. How else could they continue to regard themselves as different and above the rest? One of the only changes he knew of in the last decades was that women were now allowed to dine here for breakfast and lunch, but after two in the afternoon, no female was allowed through the door. Compared to White’s and Boodle’s, the Belamy Club was an upstart, but he liked the eighteenth-century building with all its gilded moldings, its impossibly high ceilings, its mahogany antique-filled rooms.

There were a dozen ladies and gentlemen in the receiving room, talking in low voices, all looking at home there. The majordomo, Claude, who looked nearly as old as the building, glided forward to give him a stingy smile. Dr. Basara was foreign, after all. He followed it with a small bow, another formal ritual that meant nothing. Then ancient Claude, his back straight as a Horse Guard’s, his circle of gray hair hugging his skull, gave him yet another small bow, surprising Hercule.

“Sir, if you do not mind my saying so, I wish to compliment you on your superb commentary last evening with Mr. Atterley. Your discourse was spot-on. These are indeed difficult times.”

“Thank you, Claude.”

“Lady Elizabeth is in the Cloverly Alcove. If you would follow me, sir.” Claude led him through the dining room, refinement and pride dressed in a shiny black suit, a red carnation in his lapel. The room’s long, narrow windows rarely let in sunlight, since there was so little to begin with in England. The white-covered tables were elegant, glistened with silver, and were mostly filled, as usual, well-bred conversations low. They stopped at one of the dozen discreetly named alcoves, reserved for those diners who wished for privacy. Hercule wondered if Elizabeth was surprised to be in an alcove this gray Monday morning. He usually pandered to her wish to flaunt him to her friends, to her family’s friends as well when the opportunity presented itself. An earl’s daughter, after all, could allow even an Arab to court her and remain on the best guest lists.

He leaned down, kissed her cheek, and slid into the rich mahogany leather booth. “You are looking particularly fetching today, Elizabeth.” She was wearing a stylish black Dior suit, her streaked blond hair in a severe chignon, which, oddly, suited her fine-boned face. She looked straight out of the boardroom, aloof, in control, indeed the epitome of cool English control. He wanted to laugh. She’d lost all her vaunted control in bed with him last night. And she would present yet a different face at the wedding she would attend with her father at St. Paul’s this afternoon.

“Thank you.” She scanned his Armani, admired its fit on his aesthete’s body, wondered how much he’d paid for it, and thought of her brother, who’d texted her thirty minutes ago, begging for more money. After last night, she expected at least a diamond bracelet, which should keep her brother off the streets and in cocaine for a month.

To shock her, he said, “I also thought you looked particularly fetching last night with your hair tangled around your face, all your lovely white skin on display, your naked legs wrapped tightly around my flanks when you screamed my name.”
And who wouldn’t?
He didn’t mind at all visiting Cartier’s after lunch to buy her, say, a lovely emerald bracelet, perhaps even a diamond bracelet—they’d made love three times, after all. Perhaps she would wear it once or twice before discreetly pawning it and giving the proceeds to her brother. All in all, he’d made an excellent bargain, as he’d told the imam. She had no idea he knew about everything she did. Paying to have her followed, her conversations recorded, had kept him a step ahead. Hercule regarded the monthly outgo as protecting his investment. And today he would reap the rewards.

Elizabeth sucked in her breath at his crassness, saw his mocking smile. He did this to her every once in a while, spoke crudely to shock and embarrass her—she’d admit it, in public she would look around to see if anyone had heard what he’d said. But his being crass didn’t change who or what she was—an earl’s daughter—and so she said only, with a faint smile, “Thank you,” and sipped at her sparkling Bavarian water.

Hercule nodded to Henry, their black-coated waiter, a stiff-necked old geezer who was as much a fixture at the Belamy Club as Claude. Henry placed a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of him, and beside it a bottle of François Montand Sparkling Brut, the Belamy sommelier Pierre Montreux’s choice, Hercule knew, of the best champagne for a mimosa.

Henry himself mixed the mimosas, bowed, left their table to fulfill their order of croissants and espresso.

Elizabeth clicked her glass to his. “To an excellent performance last night. You controlled the interview, left Atterley looking rather like a landed trout expelling gas.”

It always amazed him how many euphemisms Lady Elizabeth and her kind could dish up. Never a basic Anglo-Saxon word that fit the bill for Elizabeth, far too common, except for her sex words when she hurtled into orgasm. He knew she was the product of weekends skiing in the Alps, vacations in Saint-Tropez, and a renowned Swiss finishing school. What she’d finished, she’d never said. But in this instance, about that ass Atterley, she was right. He smiled. “He is a smart man who has come to believe his own press. I saw your father this morning on my way here.”

“You saw my father?” No doubt she was anxious to hear what her old man had said to him. It was subtle, but he heard the whiff of alarm in her well-modulated voice.

“I was visiting my banker this morning when Lord Thomas happened to come down from his office to congratulate me on the Atterley interview. He informed me I’d been succinct and astute, that my sympathetic attitude toward Muslims had stirred your mother. Then, he gave me this look, and I knew he thought both your mother and I were fools.”

“That’s quite amazing,” Elizabeth said, and took another sip of her mimosa. “I can’t recall my mother ever being stirred by anything—well, maybe a bit for Tommy.”

Her younger brother, the earl’s heir, was last year, on his thirtieth birthday, cut off without a sou. It was proper of the old earl, Hercule thought. Tommy was a useless git with a cocaine habit his doting sister, Elizabeth, could barely keep up with. If he were Lord Thomas, he’d have long ago drowned the little wanker in the Thames.

“Have you ever thought about arranging for a job for your brother, at one of the big banks in Italy, say?”

“Yes, right, certainly. Tommy would insist on traveling first class all the way, he would expect his address to be a suite in the Hassler, and to eat his meals at Alfredo’s
.
And within the month he’d be back broke, and on his heels a dozen people extraordinarily upset with him, some of them, doubtless, with guns.”

Her occasional show of wit pleased him. He felt a tug of liking for her, a touch of pain for what was about to happen to her. He looked at his watch. “I have an hour, Elizabeth. I have meetings and a graduate seminar this afternoon.”

“There’s Henry bringing our croissants and espresso.”

While Henry meticulously laid out their light midmorning breakfast, Hercule took another sip of his mimosa. It really was excellent. “You and your father are attending one of your friend’s weddings this afternoon, aren’t you?”

She smiled at that. “Yes, I’m one of her bridesmaids, six in all. The bride’s family—you know the Colstraps, don’t you? Lord Palister? He runs the Rothschild banks in London?”

“I’ve met him.” Not really, but Hercule had seen him across the roulette wheel, surrounded by his drinking buddies, at one of London’s private casinos. Florid and pompous, that’s what Hercule had thought, looking at him.

“Ellie and I went to school together in Geneva. The man she’s marrying, Ryan Gray-Murcheson, I don’t think he deserves her. He gambles, you see, too much, like her father.” She leaned toward him, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard it said Ryan’s father is a criminal, but his family is old and respected and he’s rich as Croesus, so everyone talks about him behind their hands. Do you know anything about him?”

“I? How curious you’d ask me, a professor of economics. I’ve heard his name, is all.”

Obviously she didn’t care one way or the other. She spoke the moment he finished. “Ah, but trust Ellie’s father, Lord Palister, to provide her with a spectacular wedding; it will be the event of the season.” She shrugged. “We’ll see how the marriage turns out. Ellie wants kids.” She took a bite of her croissant. “Delicious, as usual. Will you accompany me to Lady Brecknell’s card party tomorrow evening, Samir?”

“I would be delighted. Didn’t you tell me Lord Harlow and Major Hornsby would be there?” His voice was light, only mildly interested. She couldn’t know that Lord Harlow, actually an associate of the groom’s father, was a kingpin in London’s criminal underworld, far removed from the daily grind, to be sure, but he had a number of very rich, very determined enemies. It was hard to get to him. He wasn’t stupid and was very well protected. But in two hours, when Elizabeth stood at the altar beside her friend and her parents were doubtlessly seated near Lord Harlow, it would all end.

It was a pity. He would mourn Elizabeth, sincerely. But the opportunity to once again combine a wonderfully paid assassination with a terrorist attack was too splendid to ignore.

FEDERAL PLAZA

NEW YORK CITY

Monday morning

T
he young man’s fingerprints identified him as Mifsud Shadid, age twenty, younger than any of the terrorists at the Lake Pleasant cabin. He sat in an uncomfortable chair on one side of the table in a small white-walled windowless interview room. He was sitting very still, trying to look arrogant and unconcerned, but too young and too scared to pull it off. He kept rubbing at the sling on his arm. He didn’t look to be in any pain. His lips were moving in repetitive Arabic phrases, probably repeating a prayer over and over.