34 - The Queen's Jewels (5 page)

“I maneuvered myself so that the terrorists and the rogue agent ended up firing at each other. They killed the agent, but not before he took down two of them. I handled the rest.”

“A fascinating story, Michael.”

“Do you think I should lead off my memoir with it? Is it strong enough to draw the reader in?”

“Definitely, although that’s between you and Tom Craig.”

“Nice fellow, isn’t he?”

“Very nice. Now, you said that you wanted to ask a favor. I’ve been waiting all evening to hear what it is.”

Dinner at the Ivy with Michael had been enjoyable. The food was excellent, the service good, and the ambience pleasant. Michael had pointed out a few celebrities, none of whose names rang a bell with me, nor were their faces ones I recognized, but I accepted his claim that they were stars in London’s entertainment industry. The only problem was that the tables were impossibly close together, ensuring that whatever you said was heard by a dozen others. Michael was apparently aware of that because he said in response to my question, “Let’s go to a place where what we say stays between us.”

That place was a quiet pub down the alley from the Ivy, where the loudest noise was the thud of darts hitting the board. We nestled in a deserted corner. Michael ordered a lager; I opted for nothing.

“I learned at dinner last night that you’re taking the
QM Two
back to the States on Saturday,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“When I heard the news, I thought back to those moments when we worked together to solve a murder. Those were exciting times, weren’t they, Jessica?”

“Yes, I suppose they were, although I think ‘unfortunate’ is a better choice of words.”

“Come on, now, my girl; you loved every minute of it.”

“We could debate that point, but speaking of points, please get to it. You said you wanted a favor from me.”

“Right. You’ll be on the ship with the gentleman who was also at dinner, Mr. Kim Chin-Hwa.”

“So I understand.”

“What I’d like you to do is stay close to him, get him to talk, take in everything, forget nothing, and report back to me.”

“You can’t be serious, Michael.”

“Oh, I am very serious, Jessica. Mr. Kim is—well, I suppose you could say that he’s a person of interest to MI6.”

“That may be so, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

“It has to do with the funding of terrorists.”

“If that’s true—if Mr. Kim is involved in something as terrible as that—then I hope he gets his just rewards. But again, it doesn’t concern me.”

“Doesn’t
concern
you, Jessica? How can you possibly say such a thing? Terrorism concerns every decent, peace-loving person.”

“For goodness’ sake, Michael, stop twisting my words. I’m not a spy, and not remotely qualified to act like one. It’s you and others like you who are trained to do battle with terrorists. Me? I’m just a former English teacher who writes murder mysteries. Besides, this is a working trip for me. I’m sailing on the
QM Two
as a lecturer. When I’m not lecturing, I intend to enjoy my first true vacation in years, my first holiday
without
intrigue. Sorry, but it’s out of the question to even think that I’d act as a spy for you.”

He fell into an exaggerated pout that I’d seen many times in the past.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Michael,” I said. “The Ivy was wonderful, and as always I enjoyed the stories of your most recent escapades. But I think it’s time for me to get back to the hotel.”

He downed what was left of his lager, stood, and held the back of my chair. “I am forever at your service, Jessica.”

My eyes rolled up to the ceiling, but I said nothing.

We found a taxi waiting outside the Ivy and climbed in the spacious rear compartment.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

“Dukes Hotel,” Michael instructed.

“I’m staying at the Grosvenor Square,” I said.

“I know that, Jessica. Trust me.”

We pulled into the cul-de-sac in front of Dukes, a small jewel of a hotel on St. James’s Place. Michael paid the driver and hustled me into the lobby.

“Michael!” I said loud enough for a desk clerk to turn to us. “What are we doing here?”

“Just a necessary precaution, Jessica.”

We stood in the lobby and looked out at the cul-de-sac where another taxi pulled in. A heavyset man with a long, bushy beard and wearing a long, black raincoat and yarmulke paid the driver, stepped away from the cab, and stood in the shadows, his attention fixed on the hotel entrance. I felt Michael tense.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s Uri.”

“Uri?”

“One of Israel’s undercover intelligence agents.”

“He seems very much on top of the covers,” I said.

“Come on,” Michael said, taking my hand and leading me to a service entrance at the rear of the hotel. We exited to an alley and hailed a passing taxi that took us to Grosvenor Square.

“I had a feeling we were being followed, Jessica,” Michael said, squinting at the view through the rear window. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Why is he following you?”

“Us.”

“Us? He can’t possibly even know me.”

“He does now,” he muttered.

Vintage Michael Haggerty.

“Sure you won’t change your mind?” he said as we neared the hotel. “About finding out what you can about Mr. Kim?”

“Positive!”

“You wouldn’t be alone, Jessica.”

The cab pulled up in front of the hotel, and a uniformed bellman held the cab’s door open for me.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. “About not being alone?”

“I’ll be there at your side,” he said with a wide smile.

“You’ll be—?”

“I’ve decided to join you on your voyage, Jessica. Of course, it will be Wendell Jones, Dublin antiques dealer, making the crossing, but we’ll have our little secret to share.”

The driver glanced back to see if either of us was interested in exiting.

“All I can say, Michael, is—”

He placed his index finger on my lips.

“It will be a joy sailing with you, Jessica Fletcher, like old times. Go get your beauty rest, and don’t forget to buy patches for seasickness. The Atlantic can get rough this time of year—v-e-r-y rough. See you in Southampton.”

M
y final day in London proved to be somewhat disappointing. I received a call from George Sutherland, who said that the lead he was following would necessitate his being out of town for at least another two days. That meant, of course, that we wouldn’t see each other again before I set sail from Southampton.

After exchanging regrets that getting together wasn’t in the cards, I asked whether there was anything new in the case.

“I’ll know more tomorrow,” he said, “although the ties the victim is suspected of having with terrorist groups are coming into focus. According to what I hear, your U.S. intelligence blokes are taking a more active role in the investigation. The Israelis, too.”

I immediately thought of the fellow who’d followed Michael and me the previous evening. Michael had said Uri was an Israeli spy. I was going to mention it, but George sounded rushed. I didn’t want to waste our call trying to make sense of that episode. Nor did I bring up Michael Haggerty’s sudden reemergence into my life, both at the dinner party and in his last-minute decision—was it last-minute? —to book passage on the
QM2
.

“I suppose all that’s left to say, Jessica, is bon voyage. I regret not getting back to see you off. Were I in London, I’d have driven you to Southampton.”

“I know you would have, George, but the good folks at Cunard offered a car service, a perk of my being a lecturer on the ship. That’ll work fine.”

“Have a pleasant crossing, lass, and be in touch when you arrive safely home.”

Faced with a day without plans, I tried to shake off my sadness at not seeing George again by setting out on another round of sightseeing. I don’t know how far I walked—it must have been miles—and happily headed back to my hotel in late afternoon, both well exercised and in a lighter mood. I was a block away when I stopped to admire an exquisite sterling silver tea set in a shop window. A reflection in the glass caught my eye; it was a figure across the street attempting to read the
Observer
.
Odd
, I thought,
to be standing on a breezy street with a broadsheet newspaper opened wide, trying to keep the wind from sending it sailing.
Then, a current of air tore the paper from his hands to reveal the Israeli intelligence agent Uri. I looked around for Michael Haggerty. Surely Uri wouldn’t be following me. But there was no sign of my old friend from MI6.

I considered crossing the street to introduce myself, but thought better of it. I’d once taken an FBI-sponsored course in surveillance techniques. If he was really following me, Uri would have flunked. But while I found his clumsy presence almost amusing, there was also an unsettling aspect to it.

I walked the rest of the way to the hotel and stopped to chat with the doorman, one of several whose top hat and tails, gentlemanly demeanor, and loud, shrill whistles when luring a taxi extended the hotel’s charm to the outdoors. I took advantage of standing with him and looked back to where I’d seen Uri, who was still trying to tame his newspaper.

“Do you know that gentleman?” I asked the doorman.

“No, ma’am, although he has been about today. He’s walked past quite a few times. Is he bothering you?”

“Bothering me? Oh, no, not at all—just curious. Thank you.”

My intention upon reaching my suite was to draw a hot bath and enjoy a luxurious soak. But there were two phone messages awaiting me, one from Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove, the other from Tom Craig. I called Seth and caught him as he was leaving his office for lunch. It was noon back home, five o’clock London time.

“Just wanted to wish you a pleasant and safe voyage, Jessica,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I assume you’ve spent some time with George. Hope you gave your Scotland Yard friend my regards.”

“A hurried breakfast was all the time we had, I’m afraid. He’s away working the diamond theft case.”

“From what I hear, he’ll be kept busy.”

“Oh? Was there more about it in the news?”

“According to the BBC, there’s been another robbery of precious gems, a lot of ’em as a matter of fact.” Seth is fond of tuning in to the BBC late at night on an elaborate shortwave radio he has in his bedroom. “Seems a jewelry store somewhere in London was robbed last evening.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Whoever did it walked away with a bagful of diamonds worth a million or more. That’s all I know.”

“I’m sure the newspapers here will have something about it, Seth.”

“I imagine so. You all right, Jessica?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s just that whenever you’re off somewhere and some sort a’ crimes are taking place, you too often end up in the middle of things.”

I laughed. “Seth,” I said, “in the first place, that sort of thing is past tense with me. Second, there is no earthly reason that I’d become involved with these robberies here in London. And third—”

“Just thinkin’ out loud,” he said, returning my laugh. “You take care, Jessica, and send a postcard.”

“Hard to do in the middle of the Atlantic,” I said.

“Have yourself a pleasant crossing.”

“If the captain were here, he’d be proud of you. Most people call it a cruise.”

“Whatever they call it, enjoy it, give a good lecture, and don’t stray too close to the railings. Don’t want to hear you fell overboard.”

That dire warning ended our conversation.

I reached my British publisher at his office.

“Do you know where Michael Haggerty is?” Tom asked.

“You mean Wendell Jones?” I said, mirth in my voice.

“Whatever he calls himself. I’ve been trying to locate him all day, a contractual matter having to do with his book.”

“I have no idea where he might be, Tom, although it’s possible he’s in Southampton.”

“Why would he be there?”

“To catch the
Queen Mary Two
.”

“He’s on your trip?”

“So he told me.”

“Well, that’s a bit of interesting news. Now, I don’t mean to pry, but are you and he—well, are you and he . . . ?”

“Are you suggesting that—?”

“No, no, just a thought. You said you’ve known him for years. Never mind me. If you see him, please tell him I need to speak with him as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll be happy to relay your message—if I see him,” I said stiffly. “With more than twenty-five hundred passengers aboard, there’s a good chance I may miss him.”

“Have a wonderful trip.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

Which had been my intention all along.

When I accepted Cunard’s invitation to lecture on the crossing, I viewed it as a chance to get away from the rigors of writing and the grind of everyday life—no telephones, no e-mails to answer (although I would check mine a few times during the trip), and no pressure to turn out pages for a book every day. I recalled with such fondness those trips on the now mothballed
QE2
, speaking to a theater filled with interested men and women, signing my books for them in the ship’s well-stocked bookstore, and interacting with them at meals and on the decks when I wasn’t at the podium. Mostly I remembered all the downtime I enjoyed during those six days at sea, the salt air tickling my nostrils, brisk walks around the ship on the exercise deck (five circuits equaled a mile on that ship), a quiet glass of wine on my stateroom balcony while watching the sun set on the horizon, sleeping as late as I wanted, and getting in plenty of reading for pleasure. In other words, six days of true relaxation despite my obligation to deliver three forty-five-minute lectures.