“Deputy Director Eiserly,” she said in her marvelous clipped accent, worthy of the BBC. “Believe me, I’m pleased to see you as well. I believe Superintendent Morgan was relieved he could foist me off on you.”
John smiled because it was quite true and pulled out a chair for her. “Please sit down and tell me what has happened.”
Haunted eyes stared at him as she sat down in front of his desk. She said simply, “Two men tried to run me down yesterday and tried to kill me again this morning at my house.” Elizabeth had repeated what happened so many times she was able to keep her voice calm, her recounting fluid. “A young couple walking in the park at Eaton Square saw it all.” She paused, dug deep. “I really wanted to convince myself the driver was drunk or on drugs, but then last night someone knocked on my door, but I didn’t open it. Then this morning, two men came to my house and tried again to get me to open my front door.” She told him about the gunshots, the second man trying to break into her kitchen, swallowed. “I grabbed a butcher knife and stabbed it into his hand. Then I ran upstairs to my bedroom, jumped into the live oak near the window, and made my way down through the branches. It was raining really hard.”
John marveled at her ingenuity. “Stabbed him through the back of his hand. That’s good to know. He’ll need attention.” He made a note. “Continue.”
“The man at the front door spoke English well but with a nearly undetectable accent most people wouldn’t notice, or would ignore since we have so many nationalities represented now here in London. But his accent was close to Samir Basara’s, so I picked up on it immediately. Samir liked to brag that he had no accent, but of course he did. He also believed himself more intelligent than the rest of us, but you already know that from our conversations after St. Paul’s.”
John sat back and tapped his Tibaldi pen on the desktop, supposedly a birthday present from his year-old daughter. “Superintendent Morgan sent you to me because it’s obvious the two attacks on you may be related to Samir Basara and his plot to blow up St. Paul’s and murder the hundreds of people there at your friend’s wedding. Let’s consider someone holds you responsible for Basara’s death. Why would they have waited so long? Were they out of the country and only just returned? If this is to make any sense, these people must believe that since you knew Basara intimately, knew details of his life, you must have betrayed him to us.”
Elizabeth said, “That sounds possible if you were speaking of someone other than Samir. The fact is anyone who knew him well would never believe he’d tell his English lover, namely me, much of anything if it could possibly be dangerous to him, and certainly not that he was a jihadist and assassin for hire. I myself wouldn’t have believed it until you told me exactly who and what he was that day at St. Paul’s.
“I honestly believed he was only a professor at the London School of Economics and, of course, a popular public speaker and frequent guest on Al Jazeera.” She sat forward. “But maybe it’s not about Samir. Maybe someone believes I’m responsible for your arresting that dreadful old imam, even though I never met him.”
John said, “I strongly doubt that. Hädi ibn Mirza will reside in Belmarsh prison for the rest of his life. One of my officers reviews the list of his visitors and their photos each week, looks into them if their names are unknown. I have reports on his activities every week. He suffers from toothaches, but he won’t allow the dentist to see to him.” John grinned. “He’s afraid.”
Elizabeth said, “Alas, many Brits would agree with him.” She sighed. “So there have been no visitors who concern you?”
“Lady Elizabeth, this may be unpleasant for you to consider, but could these attacks be related to your brother, the Honorable Thomas Broderick Palmer? We’re quite aware of his financial situation and cocaine addiction. Does he owe enough money to his cocaine dealer to make it worthwhile for them to come after you, take you perhaps, to frighten your father enough to pay his debts?”
Elizabeth wasn’t surprised he knew about Tommy’s life choices. Tommy the Earl’s Son had starred in the tabloids often enough. “Here’s the truth. Tommy’s cocaine dealer would never consider hurting me because I’m always spot-on with his payments when Tommy’s allowance runs short, which it always does. If you didn’t know, Tommy also gambles, but he’s sworn to me he’d cut back and owed his bookmaker only a couple of quid, which to me translates into no more than a hundred pounds or so. He left it unsaid, but he prefers to spend what money I give him on cocaine.” She paused. “All right, he was high when I called him, so I can’t be certain of anything that came out of his mouth, but I do believe him.”
Elizabeth stared down at her clasped hands. She had a ragged thumbnail. She tucked it into a fist. “Deputy Director, I’ve wracked my brain for other explanations, but I’ve had no murderous ex-boyfriends, no boyfriends at all, really.” She forced a laugh. “To be honest, I suppose I’ve rather shut down since St. Paul’s, kept to myself and worked, and frankly, all my friends are too busy with their lives to be concerned with my problems.” She drew a deep breath. “I personally don’t understand why anyone might blame me for Samir’s death, since Samir died a continent away, killed by that FBI agent. As I told you, no one who knew him or did his dirty work for him would ever believe he’d trust me with his secrets. But these two men with their accents must have some connection to Samir—can you think of another explanation?” Elizabeth heard her voice rise, pulledback, breathed slowly, and tried to relax, but it was hard. Fear crawled through her, making her heart pound, her knuckles whiten. She clearly saw herself scrambling through her bedroom window clutching the butcher knife, thinking she was going to die.
Chapter Four
John saw she was distressed and distracted her. He said easily, “My wife will be pleased to hear we’ve met again. She’s an admirer of your art, particularly enjoys your impressionist landscapes. As for myself, I prefer your portraits, like the one of the bent old man selling melons at Les Halles in Paris.”
She blinked, drew a deep breath. He saw her shoulders relax, watched her come back. Elizabeth searched his face, gave him a twisted smile. “Thank you, that was well done.” She paused a moment, smoothed out a crease in her black trousers, and met his gaze directly. “Do you know, I would have gladly killed Samir myself if I’d only had the opportunity. Then at least I’d have honestly earned getting attacked for it.”
I would have killed him too,in an instant, John thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. He said, “Think back, please, to yesterday afternoon. In the second you saw the Aston Martin swerve at you, what exactly did you see?”
“I saw two men in the car. I couldn’t tell how old they were, they both wore black watch caps and dark glasses. I do remember the driver wasn’t wearing gloves. I saw the flash of a ring of some sort on his hand—yes, it was a young hand, not as white as mine, darker, strong.”
“Excellent. Now close your eyes and picture the ring. Was it gold? Silver? Plain? A stone set in it?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and concentrated. “It was silver,heavy, with some sort of stone—that was the flash I saw. Yes it was definitely a stone—” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that’s it. It all happened so fast.”
“Did you see a watch on his wrist?”
“Yes, yes, it was a black watch, big, with a round face.” She opened her eyes. “But how can that help? A watch and a ring. That could be most every male Londoner.”
He said patiently, “Lady Elizabeth, when we find the driver you’ll recognize the ring and the watch.”
“Please, just Elizabeth.”
John smiled. There were endless formalities at MI5. Even after six years together, his assistant Jenny was always Mrs. Snow and she always called him Deputy Director. He said, “It would be my pleasure. Please call me John. Now, there are always leaks, from your neighbors if no one else, which means what happened to you is going to hit the tabloids and social media. You remember the media frenzy after St. Paul’s, and here you are again, the irresistible story—the beautiful aristocrat attacked in her own home. They will give no quarter. Warn your parents they’ll be hounded about their son, about St. Paul’s. Needless to say, you should all refuse interviews, answer only with no comment, no matter how brazen the questions. You cannot react, that would only encourage them. Your friends too will be harassed, just as they were after St. Paul’s.”
Elizabeth said, “Perhaps if I gave a statement saying I knew nothing about Basara’s hidden life?”
“Elizabeth, the people who want to kill you won’t believe a word out of your mouth. Once you’re recognized as an enemy, they’re like guided missiles.” He saw she realized he was right, saw the helplessness in her eyes. He rose. “Excuse me a moment.”
John left his office to tell Jenny—Mrs. Snow—to bring a pot of fresh tea. He also asked her to schedule an immediate appointment with Director Sir James Hanson regarding the two attempts on Lady Elizabeth Palmer’s life.
He walked back into his office and sat down, followed soon by Jenny carrying a tea tray. She poured them tea and left. John added lemon, Elizabeth a dollop of cream. She sipped the tea, felt her heart slow, felt her world settling back into place. “Thank you, John.”
He smiled. “I wanted the tea more than you. Did Samir Basara mention anything about his family that might help?”
