Nemesis (39 page)

Savich looked from Brakey, who was standing behind Ms. Louisa’s wheelchair, to Jonah, leaning against the windowsill next to an oversized pentagram, to Liggert. Savich smiled at him. “Are you Dalco, Liggert? Will you come to me again when I’m sleeping and try to kill me? Do you think you can?”

Griffin watched everyone’s faces as Savich goaded Liggert. Their expressions didn’t give anything away, but he smelled fear, ripe and dark, and a deep, smoldering rage that heated the very air. From Liggert? Probably.

“You don’t want to wait until I’m asleep, do you, Liggert? You want to have a try at me right now, but not here in your mom’s living room. You want to come outside? I’m not weak and small like your wife or your kids. I can fight back.

Liggert roared and lunged at Savich. His mother yelled.

Savich kicked out, no muss, no fuss, got Liggert square in the belly, sent him flying backward to fetch up against a table leg, gasping for breath.

Deliah ran to stand between them. “That’s enough, Agent Savich. Leave my house, and don’t come back without a warrant. Liggert is not Dalco!”

Savich said, “Dalco should know it’s over now. He should give himself up, for Brakey’s sake, or he should come try to get me. Those are his choices, and yours.”

He said nothing more. He and Griffin turned and left the Alcotts in their living room.

26 FEDERAL PLAZA

NEW YORK CITY

Tuesday morning

T
he speaker was blasting out John Eiserly’s voice when Special Agent in Charge Milo Zachery walked into the conference room that smelled of old bitter coffee and overripe pizza, but the agents focused on the MI5 agent’s voice didn’t seem to mind.

John was saying, “Kelly, as you know, we obtained a warrant to search Samir Basara’s flat—excuse me, the penthouse—on Wyverly Place within minutes after you called yesterday. He was gone, which means he was already prepared to make a fast getaway. The safe was open, and empty, probably missing his private papers, money, and another passport. He may have several passports, we don’t know, but he’ll have trouble accessing any accounts in his own name in England at least. We’re working on freezing any accounts he may have in Switzerland. Naturally he could have accounts in other names, in other places. Our forensic people are neck-deep finding that out. We’ve mobilized all our resources, alerted ports, airports, private airstrips. Still, it will be difficult to catch him if he’s intent on leaving England. He’s obviously spent a long time thinking it all through.”

“Sherlock here, John. You didn’t find anything to help us with a possible destination in the imam’s papers at the mosque?”

“Unfortunately, no. Basara isn’t mentioned directly, always by his moniker the Strategist, but there are a great number of financial reports to sort through. We found a set of books with enough illegal funding to put the imam in prison for a very long time. Once he stopped screaming about the sacrilege of our invading a holy place, he swore he knew nothing about anything. Not his fault. That bit will not fly, obviously.”

“Any idea where Basara went immediately after he left his penthouse?” Kelly asked.

“He left his Bentley, didn’t take a taxi, so we can’t be certain. He could have taken the Tube or a train to just about anywhere inside England.”

Sherlock said, “Or had another car. Didn’t you say, John, that he was obviously prepared to pick up and leave very quickly if his house of cards came down?”

“Yes, that’s probably what he did. No idea how we’d trace that.”

Cal said, “What about Lady Elizabeth Palmer? Was she helpful at all?”

John paused briefly. “She was horrified, at first simply refused to believe he could be an assassin or a terrorist. When I told her he’d set up to bomb Saint Paul’s, and wouldn’t you know she was standing right under the big dome as a bridesmaid, she very nearly fainted. Unfortunately, she wasn’t helpful with possible destinations. She knows a great deal about his personal habits, but knew nothing about his life as the Strategist. You know the last thing I heard her saying as I was leaving the room?”

“All right, John,” Sherlock said, “this better be good.”

“She should have listened to her father after all, should have known better than to take up with a man who liked to watch himself on the tele. Obviously he could have no sense of honor or fair play. And what would you expect from a commoner?”

Kelly said, “That wasn’t bad, John. Now, you spoke about Lady Elizabeth being surprised he was an assassin and a terrorist. We’ve been discussing this and believe, like you, that Basara was using terrorism as a cover to murder individuals, but we have no idea who he could have been after in Saint Patrick’s or the TGV or Saint Paul’s.”

John said, “If we don’t find him I’m afraid we’ll never know. But all three recent targets had highly placed government officials present.”

Sherlock said, “Okay, we know Basara hasn’t bought a commercial ticket, and you have his private Gulfstream and his pilot under wraps. If he took a boat, we may be out of luck. Private boat hires aren’t well monitored, and cameras at yacht harbors are few and far between. So we’ve been focusing our efforts the last few hours on contacting private jet charter companies to see if any male in our age range bought a ticket within the last twenty-four hours out of England to anywhere in the world. Many of them have been surprised to hear from the American FBI, until we mention Basara is a prime suspect in the attempted bombing of Saint Paul’s. That’s been getting their cooperation fast.”

John said, “Thanks for helping us cover those. What worries me is that if he managed to get to France, there are scores of European private jet outfits available to him—”

“I’ve got him!” It was Agent Gray Wharton, who’d burst into the room, waving his laptop. He was so excited he was nearly jumping up and down. “Twelfth on my list was Manchester Private Jet Hire—they had three international bookings in our time frame. They were pissy at first about warrants and customer privacy until I told them who we were looking for. They couldn’t move fast enough.

“They e-mailed the eight passport photos of their clients. I wasn’t sure any of them matched our guy until I ran them through facial recognition. Even with the beard, this one is a good match for Basara.” He put his laptop down on the conference table. “Take a look. His passport’s under the name of Bruce Condor, supposedly born in Caldicott, Maine, some thirty-five years ago. He told the woman at the counter he was an American businessman, returning home. Get this, no one with that name and birth date has ever filed a U.S. tax return and he has no Social Security number. It’s got to be him, I know it to my boots.”

John said, “Where did he book to, Gray? Timbuktu?”

“No.” He shot a look at Sherlock. “That’s what’s unbelievable. He arrived nine hours ago at Baltimore Washington International Airport.”

Zachery was almost out the door when he said over his shoulder, “I’ll call Mike at the Baltimore Field Office, tell him the situation, and he can marshal his troops. Kelly, Cal, Sherlock, you guys head down there right now. I’ll have the helicopter waiting for you at Thirty-fourth Street.”

John was shaking his head in disbelief. “Amazing. He could have flown to safety, but instead he’s flying right into the maw of the beast. Why would the Strategist do something so foolhardy? Has he gone entirely lunatic?”

Sherlock said aloud what everyone was thinking. “I can think of only one reason he’d come here. He wants to kill me.”

John was silent, remembering how close Mary Ann and Ceci had come to death in St. Paul’s. Was Sherlock in his sights now? “If that’s his plan, he’s gone crazy enough. You be careful, Sherlock.” Sherlock knew he’d be calling Dillon right away.

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

Tuesday

T
he Baltimore Field Office called them before the helicopter landed with the news they’d found Samir Basara. Sherlock called Dillon. “I hope you can hear me over the rotor. He checked into the Four Seasons last night, Dillon. We’re nearly there. We’re landing on the Pier 7 Heliport on Clinton Street, not more than two miles from the Four Seasons. What are you up to?”

Savich said, “I’ll let you know if it works. This is all I need. Remember, Sherlock, you’re my wife and Sean’s mother. Take care of yourself.”

Four Baltimore Field Office agents were standing next to two large FBI SUVs at the helipad. Giusti assigned each of them an exit as soon as they arrived. “I called up the plans in the helicopter. This should cover all the ways out. Everyone okay with this?”

The agents were hyped, wanted to be in on a possible takedown of a major-league terrorist and assassin.

Cal, Kelly, and Sherlock walked through the resplendent lobby and presented themselves to the clerk at the registration desk. They showed the young man their creds and asked about one of their guests, Mr. Bruce Condor, businessman. The registration clerk hemmed and hawed and said he would try to find the manager.

“Take us to his office,” Kelly said. “Now.” The clerk looked at her and nodded. While Kelly and Sherlock went to the manager’s office, Cal made the rounds of the lobby, speaking to bellboys, parking attendants, and the concierge on duty. He showed each of them Basara’s photo. It was the day shift, and no one recognized him.

Kelly and Sherlock followed the clerk through the beautiful gold marble lobby with its three huge chandeliers and artfully arranged flowers, to the manager’s office, to the right, beyond the concierge’s desk.

He rose, eyed the two women behind the scared-looking registration clerk, and frowned. “What seems to be the problem, Jeb?”

Sherlock and Kelly simply stepped forward, introduced themselves. The man only stared at them, not pleased. Kelly raised her eyebrow.

“I’m Mr. Gibson,” he said at last, but he didn’t move around from behind his desk.

“FBI? Why are you two
ladies
here at the Four Seasons?”

Both of them heard the snark, knew what he would have liked to say was
two bitches
. What a joy, Sherlock thought, to be a female and have to have this idiot for a boss. A pity this was so urgent, there wasn’t time to dismember him.

“We need to know the room number of one of your guests, Bruce Condor.”

Up went the chin, his shoulders squared. “You will need a warrant for that, Agent. We value our guests’ privacy.”

Kelly told him this man was the prime suspect in the attempted bombing of St. Pat’s. Mr. Gibson was not moved. He thrummed with attitude.

“As I already said, you will need a warrant,” he said, and Sherlock would swear he smirked.

Kelly stepped around his desk and right into his face. “Mr. Gibson, this is a matter of national security. If you do not allow us immediate access, I’ll call my brothers at the Baltimore FBI Field Office back and tell them to arrive in full SWAT gear, ready to search the hotel. I can’t imagine that would make your guests very happy. Has it occurred to you that your company might find fault with you for trying to harbor a known terrorist?” She leaned in close. “I hope he was happy with your room service, by the way, otherwise, given who and what he is, he might come back and pay you a personal visit.” She held out her hand. “Give me the card key. Now.”

Mr. Gibson dropped the snark and called up the data on his laptop. He buzzed the front desk, and when another clerk arrived, he handed Sherlock the card key. “Suite 613,” Gibson said, attitude back in full force. “Mr. Condor is not here. And before you ask, he did not register a car in our parking garage, nor do we have any record of his destination today.”

Kelly asked, “How long ago did he check out?”

Gibson looked at the registration clerk. “Less than an hour ago.”

“Has the room been cleaned yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably not, Mr. Gibson,” the clerk said.

They left Mr. Gibson and headed across the lobby. Kelly saw all the agents were in place. Cal joined them as they headed toward the bank of elevators. He waved the photo. “Day shift, no luck.”