The Black List (35 page)

She nodded.

The doors opened and the crowd stepped off in a fairly orderly manner. He pushed Sheila into the exiting commuters, and she slipped off the train just in front of him. He glanced back, saw the men watching the tops of the heads. Carillo swiftly followed Sheila, grabbing her hand. “Run!”

They flew toward the exit, and he looked back, saw the men had waited a few seconds too long and were now trying to wade through the people who were pouring onto the train. The departing passengers crowded onto the escalator. He pushed past several, saying, “Excuse me. Wife needs a doctor. Excuse me.” They moved to one side as he and Sheila raced up the moving stairs, then out. As soon as they reached street level, Carillo looked around.

They needed transportation. He saw a taxi dropping off a couple at the curb up ahead, the driver reaching into the backseat to take out the suitcases.

“This way,” Carillo said. The driver was carrying the bags to the sidewalk as he and Sheila approached, and Carillo asked, “Can you take us to Shepherd’s Bush?”

“Hop in. Be right with you,” he said.

While he was accepting his fare, then advising his former passengers on where to find the best pub in the neighborhood, Carillo opened the back door for Sheila. He glanced at the Tube entrance, saw the two thugs scanning the street, then one of them pointed. They ran toward the taxi.

Carillo eyed the cabbie, who was waiting patiently while the passenger counted out coins. Carillo hurried around, opened the driver’s door, got in and took off.

“Hey!” the cabbie yelled. “Stop, you sodding tosser!”

“Buckle up, Sheila.”

“What are you doing?”

“Getting us the hell out of here.” He checked the rearview mirror, glimpsed the man in the black coat drawing a gun on the driver of a blue BMW just pulling up to the curb in front of the station.

Carillo hit the gas, thanking God it was a one-way street. He dug his cell phone out and tossed it back to Sheila. “Hit Send, ask for Tex, and tell him what’s going on.”

“You drove through a lighted zebra crossing!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The crosswalk!”

“It was either that or risk getting shot, now make the call and put it on speakerphone.”

“Oh my God . . . You could have hit that mother and her baby in the pram!”

“Do it, Sheila.”

“I am, for God’s sake. It’s ringing.”

Carillo honked his horn, then found himself forced to make a right turn by a sudden large
NO ENTRY
notice painted in the intersection.

Another one-way street. Luck was with them.

Tex came on the line. “Carillo?”

“Here. We, uh, borrowed a taxi.”

“Where are you?”

“Just got off the Tube at Bayswater. Heading for . . .” He looked up for a sign. “Hell. I don’t know where.”

“No GPS in the car?”

Carillo checked the dash. “No. And we’re being chased by a—looks like a blue BMW. Outcarred and outgunned.”

Sheila held up her phone. “I have GPS.”

“Turn it on,” Tex said.

“We’re on Inverness Terrace, headed toward Bayswater,” she said.

“Any chance you can lose your tail?” Tex asked.

“Damned road’s too narrow,” Carillo said. “But at least there’s not much traffic.” He floored the throttle. Just when he thought he was losing them, the street divided inexplicably with rows of cars parked down the center. As the BMW started gaining ground, a caterer’s van pulled out from one of the many small hotels lining the avenue.

When he reached Bayswater Road, Carillo had to remember not to cross over to make his left-hand turn. Driving on the wrong side of the road was unnerving enough
without
being chased.

“Update?” Tex asked.

And Sheila said, “We’re on Bayswater Road. Heading toward Marble Arch.”

“Still on you?” Tex asked.

“Working on it,” Carillo said, honking, then pulling around a red double-decker bus that was slowing in front of him. He slammed on his brakes as a small gold car darted out from in front of the bus. Cursing at the sudden diversion of traffic, Carillo turned into Lancaster Terrace and then found himself in a maze of small streets winding around central gardens. The BMW was still close behind them.

“Look!” Sheila cried. “The Victoria Pub! We’re close to our hotel. They wouldn’t follow us there, would they?”

Carillo glanced in his rearview mirror, the BMW getting closer. “Yes. What I wouldn’t give for good old-fashioned American cops with guns right now.”

“Too bad the prime minister’s security service isn’t for rent.”

Carillo braked hard, then made the first turn. “That, Sheila, is the most intelligent thing you’ve said all day.”

“It is?”

He slowed for another turn, hoping he’d remember the way they’d walked this morning. Connaught Street . . . Yes, definitely it. He hoped the armed officers were currently present, not just when the former P
.
M
.
was in residence, because right now he could use a break. He slowed at the alley, not seeing the officers beneath the archway, then drove past and turned into the garden square, hoping the two would be standing out front, hot on the job.

He drove around the park, slowed, saw the suspects still on his tail as he turned, followed the square around, drawing up in front of the former prime minister’s home. The two officers eyed him suspiciously. He pulled out his credentials, held them up as he opened the car door, saying, “FBI. I need help.”

The officer swung his submachine gun at Carillo as the suspect vehicle careened around the corner toward them.

A deafening crack of gunfire echoed through the square, followed by an eerie silence, then the sound of Sheila screaming.

60

Tex drove to Connaught
Square, his heart racing as fast as the car’s engine, while Eve tried to get an update on the shooting. “They’re checking,” she said, covering the receiver of her cell phone.

“Come on, come on,” he said as a bus slowed in the lane ahead of him.

“Yes. I’m here . . .” Eve listened, then, “Oh my God. Are you sure? Do
not
let him die. We need him.”

Tex whipped around the bus, too impatient to wait. “What happened?” he asked, glancing over at her, then back at the road.

“I’m still trying to figure it out. Just get us there.”

“I’m trying.” He turned off of the Edgeware Road, hoping to avoid the traffic, instead turning onto Kendal, a much quieter street, before making a left on Portsea Place. But when he reached Connaught, he saw that the police had the square cordoned off and were redirecting all traffic away from the area. When Tex reached the blockade, he rolled down his window as an ambulance, its siren blaring, came in from the other side. The officer waved it through, then turned to Tex. “You’ll have to turn back around, sir.”

“One of our agents was involved in the shooting.”

“Do you have some identification, then?”

He did not, and just when he wondered how they were going to get past the blockade, the officer answered to someone on the radio. “Apparently they know you,” he said, then waved Tex through.

He pulled up behind the ambulance, leaving plenty of space for them to work. When they got out, Eve saw the car riddled with bullet holes. “Jesus.”

He looked around, saw Sheila talking to an officer, clearly shaken.

“About time you two got here.”

Tex spun around, saw Carillo beside the ambulance. “You
stole
a taxi?”

“Stole is kinda a harsh word.”

“I’m sure everyone at Scotland Yard will agree. What happened?”

“The passenger pulled a gun as they came around the corner. I think the officers took offense.” Carillo looked back to where the medics were covering a body with a blanket to shield it from view.

“That him?”

“Yep. The driver got lucky. Took a couple in the arm.”

“He say anything?”

“Can’t shut him up. Almost like his life flashed before his eyes. The way I see it, when MI5, then MI6 gets done debriefing him, you two are going to be very, very busy.”

“That almost sounds like you’re not planning on sticking around.”

“Soon as we clear up the little misunderstanding about the taxi, we’re outta here. Maybe even a real vacation. The kind that consists of a six-pack of beer and my couch.”

“You sure? We could use you.”

Carillo nodded in Sheila’s direction. “I need to get her back before she completely loses it. But do me a favor? When you get that little weasel Trip in your clutches?”

“Done.”

Tex and Eve
walked into the conference room at New Scotland Yard to meet with Detective Inspector Whitmore of the City of London Police, who was assigned to the murder of Marty Blanford, and Detective Inspector Talbott of the Metropolitan Police, who was handling the shooting at Connaught Square. Because the cases were related, they were now combining forces, and the two DCIs had just returned from interviewing their suspect at the hospital, who confirmed that the weapon found at the scene of the shooting in front of the prime minister’s residence was the same weapon used to kill Marty out at Blackfriars Bridge.

“Actually the news gets even better,” Talbott informed them. “This Trip you’ve been searching for? According to our suspect—a man named Willis—Trip is sitting in some locked room trying to save his hide with this Barclay fellow, by sending him here and there for this missing book that is likely to shut down Barclay’s entire operation. They don’t seem to realize you’ve recovered it already.”

“Maybe,” Tex said, “we can use that to our advantage.”

“How so?” DCI Talbott asked.

“Somehow get word to Barclay about the location of that DVD. See if he takes the bait. Comes after it.”

“Brilliant,” Talbott said. “If we could come up with a workable plan.”

“Trip’s sister,” Tex said.

To which Eve replied, “Trip is slimy, but he’s not that slimy.”

“He did, however, throw Sheila out there as bait . . .” They exchanged glances, and Tex smiled as he took out his phone. “Gentlemen, I think we have a plan.”

Carillo’s emphatic no
echoed in Tex’s ear.

“C’mon. It’s not like she has to be here. You can even have her call from your hotel room.”

“You really think he’s going to believe anything Sheila tells him?”

“Yeah, I do. Because he’s desperate.”

“So what’s this great plan of yours?”

“She tells him that she’s going to have you find it for him. After all, you’ve saved the day for them how many times? Is there really anything you
can’t
do?”

“Regular Superman.”

“Exactly. All Sheila needs to do is play the concerned girlfriend, doing the thing she does best—”

“Getting me to do her dirty work.”

“Bingo.”

“And then she calls him to say you’ve figured out where it is. Only one problem with that, Sherlock. Sheila’s not that good an actress.”

“You telling me you can’t get her to believe that you’d actually do this for her?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not that good of a liar.”

“C’mon, Carillo . . .”

Tex heard him take a deep breath, then, “Where’s the setup going to take place?”

“I think the sister’s house.”

“Fine. I’ll figure a way. Let me know when you want her to make the call.”

“Trip? It’s Sheila.”

“Sheila, love, you’re okay?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Carillo, who nodded, and then she leaned over the cell phone, talking just above a whisper, something Carillo decided would be best to hide any inconsistencies that Trip might hear in her voice. “I—I needed to talk to you.”

“Is something wrong? You sound funny.”

“I don’t want Tony to hear. He’s in the other room. But I heard him talking about this . . . this book you’re looking for?”

“What about it?”

When she didn’t respond, Carillo slid the paper closer to her. He’d written a script of sorts, and she glanced at it, then shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Great. He reached over, ended the call.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I loved him. He loves me. Or he did.”

“The only person Trip loves is Trip.”

“I just think he’s confused—”

God help him, because the only one confused in this room was her, and when her cell rang and he saw Trip’s number there, he realized he had just a few seconds to straighten her out. “Sheila. He
never
loved you.” Her lower lip trembled as he said the words. “I may not like you at times, and God knows you don’t like me, but I’d
die
before I ever let Trip or any other bastard hurt you.
That
, Sheila, is love.”

He slid the ringing cell phone toward her.

She took a deep breath, sat up straight, and he saw a spark of anger, whether directed at him or not, he didn’t know. But she answered the call. “Hello?”

“Sheila? Why’d you hang up?”

“Tony walked into the room. I didn’t want him to hear.”

“Smart thinking. You said he was talking about the book?”

Carillo saw her hesitation, and he nudged the script closer, but she shook her head, saying into the phone, “Yeah. They were talking about what Marty said right before— Right before he was shot. He told them he’d hidden it in a Kipling story.”

“Kipling?”

“Yes. So they went back to the house, looking for books by Rudyard Kipling.”

“Did they find it?”

“No. But don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“He never said a
book.
He said
story.”

“I don’t get it, Sheila.”

“Kipling wrote
The Jungle Book.
”

“So?”

She leaned closer to the phone, then lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “There was a
Jungle Book
DVD case at your sister’s house. I saw it. What if he copied it to a DVD and
that’s
where he hid it?”

There was a stretch of silence on the other end, then, “My God, Sheila. That’s brilliant. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. I say, you haven’t told Tony about this, have you?”