She ushered the four of them into a long narrow room beautifully furnished with early-American antiques, its walls painted a pale green and covered with American paintings.Elizabeth recognized several John Singer Sargent landscapes. Mrs. Maynard left them without another word.
Two minutes later, she was back. “Please come with me. Mr. Aboud will see you.”
They followed her down a long hallway with a glossy wide-oak-plank floor. The cream walls were lined with stylized American portraits of grim-faced bearded men and stoic tight-lipped women.
In front of the double doors at the end of the long hallway stood a tall man, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched their faces. He was well muscled and bald, a stereotypical bodyguard. Mrs. Maynard nodded at him and he moved to the side. She opened the doors, stepped inside. “Mr. Aboud, here are Agents Savich, Sherlock, Foxe, and a guest.”
They walked into a large square room strikingly different from the rest of the house. It was a study in stark minimalism—cold gray walls, ultramodern desk and sofa, all glass and chrome, four modern scoop chairs, and a thick, stark white rug. Was the rest of his house simply for show for his rich neighbors? To show them he was like them with his display of valuable American antiques? There was a saving grace—a very large framed picture of one of the pastures with a dozen horses grazing in thick summer grass.
The bodyguard followed them into the large office and stood in a corner, his back against the wall. Rome saw the outline of a pistol beneath his black jacket.
Savich said easily, “Mr. Aboud, I’m FBI Special Agent Savich.” He introduced Sherlock and Rome, pausing as Elizabeth stepped from behind Rome. “This is Lady Elizabeth Palmer.”
Time seemed to stop. Aboud stared at Elizabeth, finally said, “Ah, Lady Elizabeth. It is a pleasure to meet you, and I must admit, a surprise. I never would have expected you to be here in the U.S. and visiting me in the company of three FBI agents. Of course, I have heard of you.”
The photos of Aboud that Savich had brought up on his phone to show her didn’t begin to capture his aura of power. He was lean, clean shaven, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, his face long and thin. Despite his bespoke Western clothes and his air of elegant sophistication, he looked to Elizabeth like a modern-day Genghis Khan, with his flat dark eyes and thin knife of a mouth, a man used to getting exactly what he wanted and willing to do anything he needed to get it. She didn’t sense any limits in him. “How could you have heard of me, Mr. Aboud?”
He searched her face. “You were not aware your grandfather and mine were friends?”
She said slowly, “I was very young when my grandfather died, Mr. Aboud. My father never mentioned you or your grandfather to me.”
“Both your grandfather and mine were acquainted with Winston Churchill. It is a pity no one told you.”
Elizabeth wanted to know how this could be, but Savich said, “Mr. Aboud, do you know Lady Elizabeth’s father?”
“The Earl of Camden? No, I have not yet had the pleasure.”
Savich nodded toward the bodyguard. “I must say I find it unusual you have an armed bodyguard. I had no idea a horse farm in the hills of Virginia was such a dangerous place.”
Aboud came around his glass-and-chrome desk and held out a large square hand. “I am in the midst of sensitive negotiations with others who do not wish me to succeed. Please give me your credentials.”
After he’d closely studied each of their creds, he handed them back to Savich. He was silent, studying Savich, and Sherlock thought it looked like he was measuring Dillon for a coffin. She wanted to punch him.
Aboud’s voice was low and deep, betraying a bit of an Arabic accent with an overlay of British public school. “I recognize you,Agent Savich, and you as well, Agent Sherlock—ah, America’s heroine, are you not?” He gave her a winning smile, but Sherlock was well aware of the sneer underlying his words. Because she was pregnant? Because he thought she, a woman, shouldn’t be in a position of authority? Or because she’d killed Basara, a killer, but still a Muslim? She saw Aboud glance at Rome, size him up as he had Dillon.
Aboud’s voice became crisp, commanding. “My time is limited, Agents. Mrs. Maynard said you had news of my Sikorsky helicopter. You must know I reported it stolen to our local law enforcement last night. It is very valuable, as I’m sure you must also know. I hope you are here to tell me you’ve recovered it and caught the thieves responsible?”
Savich said easily, “Unfortunately, your Sikorsky crashed and burned today in southern Maryland. The passenger was killed. The pilot, however, survived. We haven’t identified him yet. If you would provide his name, it would be helpful.”
Aboud gave a credible start, closed his eyes a moment. He said, “That is very distressing, and yet you have the ill-breeding to insult me by insisting I know this pilot’s name, doubtless one of the men who stole my precious helicopter? If I knew who it was who stole my Sikorsky, I would have told the police. I will tell you I was very fond of the Sikorsky. It was my hope to keep it safe and pass it on to my eldest son. And you say it was destroyed? How? Tell me what happened.”
Rome said, “Your Sikorsky was shot down earlier today in southern Maryland, as Agent Savich said. The two men in the helicopter were trying to kill Lady Elizabeth Palmer, or possibly kidnap her. FBI special agents shot it down. We are hopeful the pilot recovers enough to tell us what he knows.”
Aboud stared at Elizabeth. “Someone tried to take you for ransom, Lady Elizabeth? Here in the United States? I find that perplexing and highly unlikely. I know your father is wealthy,but surely not wealthy enough to tempt someone to steal a valuable antique helicopter to try to kidnap his daughter. How can that be? And why are you even in the U.S. in the company of FBI agents? Why are they protecting you? I can make no sense of any of this.”
Sherlock said, “Needless to say, Mr. Aboud, the pilot is under close guard at Washington Memorial. We were informed he survived his surgery and soon will be able to tell us why this happened, and who paid them to do it. You are saying, Mr. Aboud, you don’t know why anyone would do this?”
“Of course I have no idea why anyone would try something so absurdly dangerous. Hearing my Sikorsky was used in an attempt to kidnap Lady Elizabeth astounds me. I cannot comprehend such a thing.” He looked briefly at Sherlock’s thickened waist, a flash of distaste on his thin face. “Why would you expect me to know? I have no animus toward Lady Elizabeth, why would I? I will say it again. My Sikorsky was stolen yesterday from the hangar here on my property. And before you ask, the county sheriff has examined the hangar and could find no evidence of who the thieves were. As you said, the pilot may be able to tell you.”
Savich said, “Mr. Aboud, you have a bodyguard here, in your house. Do you also have guards outside, on the grounds, at the hangar?”
“I do, but alas, last night when my helicopter was stolen, Musa was in bed, he’d taken ill.” Aboud’s eyes went to Elizabeth again.
She said, “I don’t understand why anyone would want to kidnap me either, Mr. Aboud. There have been other attempts as well.”
Aboud held up a graceful hand showing beautifully kept nails. “Ah, but I do understand why you might believe me responsible, since the Sikorsky belongs to me. Let me be very clear so that you may understand fully. If I wanted to kill you,Lady Elizabeth, you would already be dead. If I wanted you taken, you’d be bound and gagged and at my mercy. But I do not. Now, since you’ve made it obvious to me you are not here to assist local law enforcement, I ask that you leave. Musa will show you out.”
Musa moved toward them, his eyes on Savich.
