Collateral Damage (12 page)

“It’s all I know,” Herbie said. “I don’t think Stone would like it if you asked him about it.”

“Okay, next time I have a couple too many, I’ll try not to ask him. What I want to know is why he wouldn’t want me to sweep Rutledge’s apartment.”

“Like I said, I trust Stone, and he asked me.”

“Maybe he—or Holly Barker—didn’t want me to find any bugs.”

“And why would they want that?”

“Maybe because the Agency planted them?”

“Jim Rutledge is an architect and interior designer, who used to be the executive art director for
Architectural Digest
. Why would the Agency want to bug his apartment?”

“Maybe because he lives with that Kelli Keane person, who is a journalist? We met her in L.A., too.”

“That’s right, we did. But the CIA isn’t allowed to operate domestically—that’s FBI territory.”

“And you believe the Agency sticks to that? Come on, Herb.”

“I don’t have any personal knowledge that they don’t stick to it.”

“Did something happen when we were at The Arrington that I don’t know about?”

“If you don’t know about it, it’s because I don’t know about it either.”

“So we’re both in the dark?”

“I don’t even know if there’s any dark,” Herbie said.

“In my experience, which is extensive for a woman who is as young as I am, there’s always dark.”

“You, young lady, are a cynic.”

“There’s a lot to be cynical about,” Harp replied. “Is Jim Rutledge your client?”

“Yes. I set up his business structure for him.”

“So you have attorney-client privilege with him?”

“Yes, but so far, you haven’t intruded on that.”

“Are you friends?”

“We have a cordial personal relationship.”

“Could you set up a dinner with us and him and Ms. Keane?”

“Funny you should mention that, we discussed getting together.”

“Well, let’s do it,” Harp said. “I’d like to get a closer look at Ms. Keane.”

“Okay, I’ll call him.” Herbie waved at a waiter for the check. “Maybe I’ll invite Stone, too.”

“That would be good. I’d like to get to know him better. Is he seeing somebody?”

“Always,” Herbie said.

Jasmine Shazaz sat at a desk by the window in a small waiting room at the personnel office of the United States State Department, across the street from the United States Embassy. She could see down into Upper Grosvenor Street, which ran off the south side of Grosvenor Square, where the embassy, a massive building of reinforced concrete with a giant eagle out front, sat facing the square.

From where she sat, slowly filling out a job application for a position as an interpreter, she could see down into the intersection of Upper Grosvenor Street with Burnes Street, which ran behind the embassy, crossing Culross Street, ending at Upper Brook Street.

“How are you coming with the application?” the receptionist asked.

“I want to get everything just right,” Jasmine said.

“Please be as quick as you can,” the woman said. “We close in an hour, at five, and if you don’t have your first interview before then, you’ll have to come back another day.”

“I won’t be much longer,” Jasmine replied, watching the DSL delivery van pull to a stop at Burnes Street, which was blocked by a steel security barrier.

—

The driver leaned out his window and shouted at the armed police constable at the barrier. “Hey, mate, I’ve got a delivery at the embassy, rear door. How do you want to handle this?”

“I’ll take it,” the cop said.

“It weighs over a hundred pounds,” the driver replied. “I’ll need to hand-truck it in there.”

“Who is the addressee?” the policeman asked.

The driver picked up a clipboard and flipped a page. “Bloke name of Thomas Riley, cultural attaché, from an address in Langley, Virginia, U S of A. And he has to sign for it personally.”

“Hang about,” the policeman replied. He pressed the push-to-talk button on the microphone under the epaulet on his left shoulder. “Security, this is PC Bartlett at the Burnes Street barrier. I’ve got a DSL delivery of a heavy parcel for Mr. Thomas Riley, Cultural Affairs. Needs to come in on a hand truck, and he has to have Riley’s signature.”

“Where’s it shipped from?” a voice came back.

“A place called Langley, in Virginia, USA.”

“Stand by.”

“I’ve called it in,” he said to the driver. “They’ll get back to me.”

“I can’t block this street all day,” the driver said.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

His radio came alive. “Okay, have the man hand-truck it to the rear entrance. Mr. Riley will meet him there and sign for it.”

“Roger.” The cop turned back to the driver. “Unload it here and follow me with the hand truck,” he said. “The bomb squad will want a good look at you. Just leave the van there.”

“Whatever you say, mate.” The driver got out of the van and went to the rear. He unlocked the door and operated the power tailgate that lowered the crate to the street. He got the lip of the hand truck under an edge and rocked it back onto the wheels. By the time he got it to the barrier, the copper had slid it back enough for him to wheel it through. The officer slid it shut behind him.

“All right, follow me,” he said to the deliveryman. The copper led the way to a steel door, where he rang a bell. A long moment later the door slid open, and the deliveryman could see another barrier a few feet inside. “Bring it right in and set it down,” the copper said.

The deliveryman did as he was told, and the door slid closed behind him. “Oy,” he said. “How’m I gonna get out?”

“Wait till it’s signed for, and we’ll let you out.”

Two U.S. Marines in fatigues came toward them, preceded by an eager black Labrador retriever.

Another Marine at the next barrier picked up a phone and spoke into it, then hung up. “Riley will be right down.”

“Are you gonna need me to roll it somewhere?” the deliveryman asked.

“No, you can just leave it there,” the copper replied. “I’ll get our hand truck.”

—

Jasmine got up from the table, taking the application with her. “Excuse me,” she said to the receptionist. “Where is the ladies’ room?”

“Just around the corner to your left,” the woman said.

“I’ll be right back.” Jasmine stepped out the door and walked toward the emergency staircase, which had a large exit sign above it, well lit. As she did, her cell phone began to vibrate in her jacket pocket, the signal that all was ready. She checked to be sure she had enough bars, then pressed a speed dial button on her phone, put it back into her pocket, opened the door to the stairs, and started to run down them. She descended two floors, stepped outside into South Audley Street, where a black taxi waited for her, its engine running. She got into the vehicle, and as it rolled away the bomb inside the rear door of the embassy detonated with a huge roar.

Protected by the buildings on the west side of the street, the taxi drove down to Mount Street and took a right. Now sirens could be heard. The taxi got to Park Lane and made a left turn, filtering into traffic. The driver edged into the right lane and turned into Hyde Park behind the Duke of Wellington’s house, now a museum. They were all the way to South Kensington before the first emergency vehicles made it into Grosvenor Square.

The taxi stopped, Jasmine got out, removed a roller suitcase from the cab, and looked at her watch as she headed for the London Underground entrance. The second bomb, the one on a timer in the DHL van, would be going off at this moment.

Ten minutes later she was speeding west, toward Heathrow Airport. Once there, she would take a taxi back to her new home on the Thames, along with the rolling suitcase, looking like any other Heathrow arrival.

—

Holly Barker got out of the chopper at the East Side Heliport and into the black SUV waiting for her. As she did, her cell phone went off, and she dug it out of her pocket. “Holly Barker.”

“It’s Scotty,” her secretary said. “Where are you?”

“I just arrived in New York.”

“Can you get in touch with the director? Her cell phone didn’t answer. I know she got back last night, but she’s not in the office yet.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Tell her this: a large bomb has detonated at the rear door of the London embassy, and there are many casualties. Hang on,” she said, “other line.” She came back after a moment. “A second bomb has gone off in a delivery van parked in North Grosvenor Street, probably on a timer. That’s all I’ve got. I’ll call you when there’s more.”

“I’m headed for the East Side station. Call me on a secure line there.” Holly hung up and pressed the speed dial button for Kate Lee’s cell phone. It rang five times before it was answered.

“Yes?”

“It’s Holly. Where are you, Director?”

“In my car, on the way to Langley.”

“Tell your driver to take an alternate route on surface roads and to proceed with caution,” Holly said. “There’s bad news from London.”

The phone was ringing in the office as Holly hurried into the room, and she grabbed it. “Holly Barker.”

“It’s very bad,” the director said. “There are at least thirty casualties, including Tom Riley.”

“How did they get to Tom?” Holly asked, knowing that his office was several floors up.

“For some reason, he went down to sign for a package, which was the bomb. A second bomb went off in the delivery van, which was sitting in Upper Grosvenor Street, doing a lot of damage to the offices across the way.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Ed Marvin, the deputy London station chief, had coronary bypass surgery yesterday and won’t be back at work for at least six weeks, and Lance is in Hawaii at a Pacific Rim security conference, so you’re now acting London station chief, until we can sort things out. An airplane will be waiting for you at Teterboro at eight
P.M.
, and the chopper will take you out there at seven-thirty. You’ll be met at London City Airport, and the Connaught will have a suite for you. Call me from the embassy on my cell as soon as you’ve assessed the situation. Don’t worry about the time difference.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Holly, I’m sorry about your New York visit. Since Stone is a consultant to us, you can take him along, if you can talk him into it.”

“I’ll order him to come,” Holly said.

“Good luck.” The director hung up.

Holly dialed Stone’s number, and Joan put her through to her boss.

“Have you heard about London?” Holly asked.

“I’m watching it on CNN right now,” Stone replied.

“The director has ordered me to London, and she said I could take you along. Meet me at the East Side Heliport at seven-thirty.”

Stone hesitated for only a moment. “I’ll be there,” he said.

Holly hung up and dialed the direct line to the London station chief’s office.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice.

“This is Assistant Director Holly Barker. Who is this?”

“I’m Ann Tinney, Tom Riley’s assistant.”

“I was very sorry to hear of Tom’s death,” Holly said.

“Thank you, Ms. Barker.”

“Since Ed Marvin is in the hospital, and Lance Cabot is at a conference in Hawaii, the director has asked me to act as station chief until the situation is stabilized.”

“I understand. When will you arrive?”

“Tomorrow morning. Please have key staff standing by for a meeting. I’ll want an update on the casualty list and the damage, and then I’ll want individual briefings from each desk chief.”

“Of course.”

“I’m at the New York station now, but I’ll leave here in two hours. You can reach me on the airplane through the switchboard at Langley, if there’s anything further to report.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Ann. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Holly hung up and logged into the Agency’s mainframe computer from the station at her desk. She entered her password, then went into the personnel database and called up the list of London’s station key staff and began reading their files. Twice during the next two hours Ann Tinney called from London and gave her updates. It was getting worse.

—

Holly and Stone had dinner on the Gulfstream G-450, and she managed to get a few hours of sleep before the flight attendant woke her in time to shower and change before landing.