She drew a deep breath and jumped onto the closest branch thick enough to hold her. The rain was so heavy now it sheeted through the thick leaves, soaking her in an instant. She swiped her hair out of her face, slowly pulled herself along the branch until she was plastered against the trunk. She began a slow descent, one branch at a time. Even if they realized she’d gone out the window, she hoped the thick foliage would cover her enough that they wouldn’t see her. She hugged the last branch, nearly six feet from the ground, and waited. In the next minute, she heard a police siren and jumped to the ground. She slipped forward along the side of her house and saw three police officers already banging on her front door. She saw no sign of the men who’d shot and kicked at her door. They must have run when they heard the police siren.
She raced out toward them. A woman officer caught her, and Elizabeth clutched her, gulping in huge breaths. “Two men tried to break in and kill me.” She fell against the woman’s shoulder.
“It’s over now, you’re all right,” the woman said. “Let’s go inside out of this cursed rain. We need to search the house. Then you can tell us what happened.”
Elizabeth fetched her key from beneath an azalea bush and opened both locks on the battered door. The woman officer walked her to the kitchen and sat her at the table. Soon Elizabeth had a cup of hot tea in front of her. “I’m Officer Beresford.Come on now, Ms. Palmer, take a sip.” Elizabeth did, and it felt wonderful.
The two male officers came back into the kitchen, shook their heads at Officer Beresford.
Beresford, who was evidently in charge, said to Elizabeth, “Now, talk to me, Ms. Palmer. Do you know who these men are who came to your house? Why do you think they wanted to kill you?”
Over her second cup of tea, Elizabeth finished telling them what had happened yesterday. She told them about Basara and St. Paul’s.
Officer Beresford said, “So you were at St. Paul’s last year?”
“Yes.”
Beresford looked thoughtful, then she said, “You’re cold. You need to change. Then we’re taking you to see our inspector at Scotland Yard.”
When Officer Beresford mentioned Basara’s name to Inspector Dobbs, the game changed.
Chapter Three
London
MI5 Headquarters
Thames House
12 Millbank
Tuesday afternoon
Deputy Director John Eiserly of the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre pushed a thumb drive into his computer and read through his embedded officer’s encrypted reports on the new imam at the South London Mosque, Ali Ahmad Said. His officer, Khaled Aziz, was a perfect choice to go undercover. He and the new imam were both young, both Syrian, Khaled from Aleppo and Ali Ahmad Said from Ar Raqqah. While Khaled’s family were traditional middle-class Muslims living in York, the young imam’s family were wealthy and Westernized, and lived in Knightsbridge. The differences in their backgrounds fed nicely into Khaled’s legend. John read:The new imam, Ali Ahmad Said, is twenty-eight, educated at Cambridge. Father owns Closys International Bank, two high-end car dealerships in Berkeley Square and Piccadilly, and two successful restaurants, one in Notting Hill, the other near Covent Garden. His sister, Adara, is twenty-four, a graduate of Oxford, reading Middle Eastern Studies. All are English citizens. The young imamis vastly different from the former imam, Hädi ibn Mirza, both in temperament and background.
John paused a moment, thought about the old firebrand imam who’d actively recruited young men to radical Islam and worked hand in glove with Samir Basara, the man who’d tried to bomb St. Paul’s. The old imam was jailed in Belmarsh, or Hellmarsh as it was called by its inmates, the high-security prison in southeast London. John had arranged for him to spend the rest of his life there. He wanted to keep the old imam close enough to monitor his visitors.
He continued reading Khaled’s report:I have attended the imam’s services, met with him privately on two occasions. He presents himself as devout and kind, quotes the Koran fluently to make a point. He is soft spoken, logical and pragmatic, his Arabic as fluent as his English. I have heard no hate speech from him, no calls to jihad. I’ve heard rumblings of terrorist sympathizers but seen no such activity within the mosque since the old imam went to prison. But I would not trust this polished hypocrite to buy me a cinema ticket.
John sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and reflected. Khaled had great instincts, a sharp mind. John had already known the background of the new imam and knew it was rumored the old imam had had a hand in picking him.
John read his encrypted reply to him and their exchanges:No sightings of any of the jihadists who worked with the old imam or with Samir Basara?
None yet. Getting closer to the inner circle, waiting for the imam to ask me in.
Do not take unnecessary risks.
John ejected the thumb drive and slid it into a folder on his desk. He looked at the photos of his wife, Mary Ann, and of his daughter, Cici, who was walking now and banging her tiny fists if her spaghetti didn’t magically appear. He’d studiedKhaled’s reports again because Lady Elizabeth Palmer was due to see him any minute, sent to him by Superintendent Hillary Morgan of Scotland Yard. He remembered that day at St. Paul’s with perfect clarity, knew he’d never forget it, imagined occasionally picturing it on his deathbed. It was only by chance he’d seen his wife and baby at St. Paul’s on a security camera, sitting next to a man disguised as an old woman, the man who’d planted the bombs, Samir Basara’s henchman, Bahar Zain. He shuddered, thanked God. He’d almost lost them both that day.
His junior associate, Jenny Snow, knocked lightly on his open door. “Deputy Director, Lady Elizabeth Palmer is here.” She paused a moment, then, “She looks wrung out.”
John had been waiting for her after the phone call from Superintendent Morgan. Morgan had told him only that Lady Elizabeth had nearly been killed by two unknown men. He wanted John to hear Lady Elizabeth out without any preconceived ideas. Of course, the new imam sprang immediately to mind, but why would he want her killed? She’d nearly been a victim herself, hadn’t done anything against them. He’d hardly spoken with Lady Elizabeth since the day he’d told her himself it was her lover, Basara, who’d orchestrated the near destruction of St. Paul’s. He’d liked her, found her intelligent and helpful once she’d calmed. She’d helped him and his team dissect Samir Basara’s life.
“Mrs. Snow, please ask her to come in.”
John rose as Lady Elizabeth walked into his office. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Tall and slender, her blond hair worn down and longer now, held off her face with two gold clips, all curls and waves. Small diamond studs gleamed in her ears. Her eyes were a sort of hazel and framed by lashes darker than her hair. She was dressed in black pants, low-heeled black boots, a white silk blouse, and a boxy dark green jacket. She looked, to his mind, like the aristocrat she was. He studied her face. Jenny was right, she looked wrung out.
He came around his desk, shook her hand. “Lady Elizabeth, I am pleased to see you.”
