Collateral Damage (15 page)

“When you were looking out the window,” Harry asked, “did you see any people walking about?”

“You must be joking. Anybody in the block was maimed and dead or dying, even those who had been running toward the blast when it occurred.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Meyers-Selby,” Harry said. “I don’t think we need trouble you any further.” He looked at Stone. “Unless you have something, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone reached into an inside coat pocket, removed a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to her. “Have you ever seen this person before?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Meyers-Selby said unhesitatingly. “She is the woman who was filling out the employment application and who left my office a minute or so before the first explosion.”

“What sort of accent did she have?” Stone asked.

“BBC English.”

“And what language did she wish to be hired to translate?”

“Arabic and Urdu.”

“Do you remember the name she used?”

“Khan,” Mrs. Meyers-Selby replied, and spelled it. “I don’t remember a first name.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Like a British office worker—dark skirt, Liberty print blouse, and gray cardigan. She had a Burberry raincoat, looked like a knockoff. She left it in my office when she went to the ladies’.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Meyers-Selby,” Stone said. “I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

“I could go back to work now, if anybody could stand to look at me,” she replied, sounding sad for the first time.

Harry thanked her again, and they made their exit. “I want that raincoat,” he said, taking out a cell phone.

—

Jasmine sat in the back of the van and waited while Habib took some packages from it and handed them to a uniformed pilot at the cargo door of a medium-sized jet airplane. When he had finished, he got a plastic shopping bag from his car and brought it to her. “Inside is a kind of money vest. I have removed your funds from the deposit box in the London bank, changed them into more convenient currency, and placed the notes in the vest which, worn under your clothes, will give you the appearance of having gained weight.

“You will be met at the airport and driven to a safe house, changing cars along the way. Our people there have already located some possible targets for you to consider in the city, and we would like an attack as soon as possible. Any questions?”

“Yes. Why am I being moved?”

“Jasmine, you are too hot to remain in Britain.
Everybody
is searching for you.”

“Oh, all right.”

He looked around, then waved her out of the van, up the aluminum ladder, and into the airplane, tossing in her roller suitcase behind her. Habib unhooked the ladder and tossed it into the airplane, then, with a wave, closed the door.

“This way,” said the pilot, who was a young, skinny East Asian in black trousers, white shirt with epaulets, and a black, gold-trimmed hat. He led her forward to the cockpit and settled her into a seat immediately behind and between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. Another young man in uniform was in the left seat, running through a checklist. Shortly, he started one engine, then the other. The copilot handed Jasmine a headset.

“You can listen if you want to. The chat with the controllers gets boring, but we’ll have some music later.” He handed her two folded newspapers. “Here’s the
Times
and the
Sun
, depending on your tastes. We already have our clearance, and if there’s no delay for takeoff we should be landing in Reykjavik in about two and a half hours.”

The airplane started to taxi, and Jasmine strapped herself in and opened the
Times
. Big headlines and photographs of the bombing scene. She involuntarily smiled.

The copilot looked at her curiously, then turned around.

She put on her headset. “Southampton Tower, AeroCargo 3 ready to taxi to the active runway.”

“AeroCargo 3, Southampton Tower, taxi to runway 18 without delay. We’ve got light aircraft traffic on a ten-mile final, so we can squeeze you in ahead of him.”

“Roger, Southampton Tower, taxiing to 18, no delay.”

Two minutes later they were over the English Channel, making a right turn to the north.

The copilot turned and looked at her. “You should have more than two hours to make your flight out of Reykjavik,” he said, “and the weather forecast is for a smooth flight.”

“Thank you,” Jasmine said, and returned to her newspaper. Later in the flight, she undressed and donned the money vest.

Harry Tate dropped Stone off at the embassy, then drove away. Stone flashed his new ID at the Marine guards, and, after carefully examining it, they escorted him to the elevator and pressed the floor button for him.

“Don’t get off at any other floor or you’ll be shot,” the young Marine said with a straight face.

Stone rode upstairs and was admitted to the sealed floor. He walked into the station chief’s office and found a strange man sitting behind the desk. He was disheveled, had a couple of days’ beard growth, and had the hollow eyes of the seriously jet-lagged. “Hello, Lance,” Stone said.

“Stone,” Lance replied. “Sit down. Holly will be back in a minute.”

“How was Tokyo?” Stone asked.

“Charming,” Lance replied. “The flight here was something else—an air force transport, two stops for refueling.”

Holly walked into the office. “Oh, you’re back. How was the witness?”

“Remarkable,” Stone said, tossing the photo of Jasmine on the desk. “She identified this woman as being in her office, applying for the job of a translator of Arabic and Urdu, who left to go to the ladies’ a minute before the first explosion.”

“Got her!” Holly said.

“Have you? Where?”

“I mean, you’ve pinned the bombing on her.”

“Well, yes, the witness confirmed your supposition. What are you going to do about it?”

“I assume Harry Tate was with you, so there’s no need to inform Special Branch. What else should I do?”

“How about circulating that photograph to the known world? Or are we worried about the tabloids?”

Holly turned to Lance. “Your thoughts?”

“Wire it to the FBI and let them notify all the other agencies,” Lance replied. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she has left the country. We’ll see where she pops up next.”

“Just follow the explosions,” Stone said.

“You seem a little off, Stone,” Holly said.

“I’ve just seen a formerly beautiful woman who has lost an eye and had her face permanently altered by flying glass. It didn’t improve my mood.”

“Did Harry show her this photo, or did you?” Lance asked.

“I did, after Harry had finished questioning her and was ready to leave.”

“Did Harry seem surprised that you showed it to her, or that she identified Jasmine?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Lance said.

“Throckmorton told us he hasn’t issued a general alarm for her, either—just distributed the photo to a whole lot of functionaries, including milkmen.”

“I wondered about that,” Holly said.

“A smart move,” Lance said. “Thousands of milkmen will be delivering to all sorts of obscure addresses in the UK. They might well spot her in a housedress, watching soap operas on the tube.”

“If you say so,” Stone said.

“At any rate,” Lance continued, “I think Throckmorton has indicated to us that he does not want the British public at large to know that the two most horrific bombings in London since the IRA attacks during the seventies have been carried out in his city by a mere slip of a girl.”

Ann Tinney came into the room. “Architect is here,” she said. She stepped back and allowed Felicity Devonshire to enter, dressed in a tailored suit of Scottish tweed, her red hair tucked up in a bun.

Stone and Lance stood up and shook her hand; Stone planted a kiss on her cheek.

Ann Tinney spoke up again. “By the way, I’ve just had a call from the State Department personnel office across the street. Harry Tate showed up there a couple of minutes ago and confiscated a woman’s Burberry raincoat found in the rubble of the office. I thought you’d like to know.” She closed the door.

“Raincoat?” Lance asked.

“Jasmine’s,” Stone replied. “The witness mentioned it.”

“Oh, let Special Branch paw the thing for a couple of days,” Felicity said. “Maybe they’ll come up with a strand of DNA or a receipt with Jasmine’s home address on it. If they do, the rest of us will hear about it in a week or two.”

“You’re in fine form, Felicity,” Stone said, smiling. “What have you been up to?”

“I’ve been stacking sandbags in front of my service’s building all day,” Felicity replied dryly.

“Personally?” Lance asked.

“Figuratively. I reckon we’re next. I’m traveling in the FO’s upholstered version of a Bentley armored personnel carrier. I don’t like hunkering down and waiting—I’d prefer to be combing the hedgerows for her myself.”

“I can just see that,” Stone said.

“What are you lot doing, then?” she asked. “And is it possible to obtain a cup of tea in this establishment that didn’t come in a bag?”

As if on cue, Ann Tinney opened the door and entered with a tray containing a china teapot and matching cups. “May I pour for everyone?”

“Almost everyone,” Lance said.

Ann poured.

Felicity tasted her tea cautiously. “Ah, Fortnum’s Earl Grey,” she said. “Thank you, Mummy.”

“To answer your first question,” Lance said, “we’re doing pretty much what you’re doing.”

“Stacking sandbags?”

“A little late for that, but we’re under the same investigative strictures your service is.”

“I dislike strictures,” Felicity said.

“Well, Architect, we’re flattered that you’ve ventured out onto the streets to come and see us,” Lance said. “Now, what may the government of the United States do for you?”

“Let your worldwide network of stations know that Jasmine Shazaz is in the wind. That’s what I’ve ordered done, and we could use the help.”

“You think she’s left the country?” Holly asked.

“It’s what I would do,” Felicity replied. “It’s better than living in a spider hole.”

“Any thoughts on where she might have gone?”

“Langley, Virginia, I expect.”

Holly and Lance looked at each other.

“She’s out for revenge, isn’t she?” Felicity asked, rhetorically. “And she’s made a start. She’s too hot to continue here. She’ll be looking for something to blow up where she’s not expected.”

“Thank you for that wisdom, Architect,” Lance said. “Now I’m going to curl up on that sofa over there and sleep for an hour, then I will start acting on Holly’s personnel recommendations. They were very good, Holly, I am in complete agreement. Now you and Stone go to a matinee, or something.”

“Good idea,” Holly said.

“The Gulfstream is arriving tonight with a couple of other people. The two of you can take it back to New York tomorrow morning.”

“I’m relieved, then?”

“No,
I’m
relieved that you’ve done a good job here, and I thank you. Felicity, you can curl up on the sofa with me, if you like,” Lance said by way of dismissal.

“Thank you, but there’s a tank waiting for me downstairs,” Felicity replied. “Holly, can I drop you and Stone anywhere?”

“Is there room in this vehicle?” Holly asked.

“Oh, dear, yes.”

“Then we’d be grateful for a lift to the Connaught.”

“Done.”

Lance hit the sofa, and the others left.

Stone and Holly got out of the armored Bentley at the Connaught and bade Felicity good-bye.

“Did Lance say we should go to a matinee?” Holly asked.

“Perhaps he meant that we should
have
a matinee,” Stone replied, ushering her quickly through the lobby.

“Good idea,” Holly replied.

Jasmine stood before an immigration officer at Kennedy Airport in New York and handed him her British passport, along with her most brilliant smile.

The young man’s eyes lingered on her face, then flicked to the passport and back. “The purpose of your visit, Ms. Avery?”

“Pure pleasure,” Jasmine replied, turning her smile into a laugh.

He stamped the passport and handed it back to her. “Welcome to New York, Ms. Avery. I hope you enjoy your visit.”