Savich said easily, “If she’s a little girl, what do you think of calling her Felicity? Felicity Sarah Savich?”
Sherlock cocked her head to one side, whispered the name a couple of times. “Felicity. That’s quite lovely. But Dillon, he’s a boy, I just feel it, even though we didn’t let the doctor tell us. Yep, he’s going to be Beau, you’ll see.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Home of the Said family
Knightsbridge, London
Friday evening
Khaled loved the insane energy of Knightsbridge, its unending snarled traffic and never-ending construction, its scores of people from every country imaginable on their way to shop or to work. He visited the Victoria and Albert Museum at least twice a year to see the changing exhibits, enjoyed buying a treat in the immense food hall at Harrods and strolling past the small businesses with Arabic signs and Arabic women, some dressed in Western clothes, others, usually the older women, in burkas.
He directed the taxi through the manic traffic to a street he’d walked before, to a dignified old red-brick house with magnificent grounds set behind a wrought-iron fence with ivy spilling over the scrollwork—Imam Ali Ahmad Said’s family home. A dark green Bentley Flying Spur and a white Mercedes 550 were parked in the driveway.
He knew the imam’s mother often used the Flying Spur, with a turbaned young man as her driver, and always carried a brolly even when the sun was high. Unlike her daughter, Adara, she dressed traditionally, wore a silk burka during Ramadan. Her husband, the imam’s father, Mr. Said, owned high-end car dealerships and a travel bureau. His family had long-standingties to the family of Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria since 2000, but he was known as something of a bon vivant in London, very unlike his son, who’d chosen to be an imam. Khaled imagined it was Mr. Said who’d allowed Ali’s younger sister, Adara, to fly free, adopt Western ways, and attend university. He knew from Eiserly and the imam that she’d flirted with a radical Islamic group while she was at Oxford and enjoyed her share of lovers both at Oxford and here in London. She also drank alcohol, forbidden in the Muslim faith, but not when she was dining with her parents. She’d lived at home since she’d come down from Oxford.
Khaled knocked on the large black front door.
The door opened immediately and there stood Adara, wearing a fitted soft gray knit dress, her rich curling black hair falling wild and sexy to her shoulders, wearing five-inch heels on her narrow feet that brought her to his height. He saw her toenails were painted vivid red. She was smiling at him, showing beautiful white teeth, satisfaction in her smile.
“Do come in, Mr. Aziz. I am Adara Said. You may call me Adara.”
“Thank you. Please, call me Khaled.”
She laid a soft hand on his arm and said in beautiful public-school English, “Come to the living room. We will have a vodka gimlet, it’s my favorite. I trust you are not so devout you will refuse. That would severely curtail my plans for you.”
Khaled shook his head.
“Good. We shall sin a bit, then, since my parents had to leave London today and my brother has been called away on an emergency. He sends his regrets. Come.”
Khaled walked across the beautiful black-and-white-tiled entrance hall, past paintings and vases of flowers, and into a large rectangular living room with high ceilings and a magnificent Carrara marble fireplace. The furnishings were mostly burgundy leather, oversized, comfortable. He pulled up short.There were three men seated on two sofas facing each other, all of them Arabs in Western dress, studying him.
Something is wrong. Khaled felt his bowels twist.
Adara said gaily, “You believe yourself clever, do you not, Khaled? My brother believes so, but he’s not stupid. He would never be so negligent as to accept you at face value. He’s made inquiries. You certainly don’t look like an accountant.” She shook her head at him, wagged a finger. “Let me introduce you to my comrades. They want very much to speak to you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Khaled looked at the set faces. He didn’t want to die at twenty-eight years old with a knife in his ribs. Like the other undercover officers at JTAC, he knew the risks, knew if his cover was blown he might be killed, but somehow he hadn’t really accepted it as a real possibility. He imagined most of the other undercover officers hadn’t either, believed being killed in the line of duty was no more than theoretically possible. When you’re young, you feel immortal. Until you aren’t.
He stood in the lovely Said living room and knew his death might very well be near. He looked from the imam’s beautiful sister, still smiling at him, to the three men lounging at their ease, two of them smoking, all of them still staring at him intently. Two of them were his age and wore slacks and dark sweaters. The older man was dressed like a successful businessman from the City, in a black suit, white shirt, and thin purple tie. He was clean-shaven, unlike the younger men, who wore clipped beards. They were looking at Khaled like they might cut off his head and post the video on the internet.
He got himself together as his training kicked in. He stared back at them with an expression he hoped appeared calm and a touch arrogant. He nodded at Adara, pressed the inside seam of his jacket pocket to turn on his recorder. He said, his voice amused, “Comrades? Is that the same as what the English would call her mates?”
The older man rose and stepped forward. He said in a polished public-school voice, “Yes, we are Adara’s mates, Mr. Aziz, but understand, we share much more than that. We share more than an allegiance to, say, a soccer team or to drinking pints together at a pub. We share a common cause, a cause to which we are loyal.” He shot a look at Adara. “We are brothers and sisters, and we do not tolerate anyone who betrays that cause.”
Khaled said slowly, his voice utterly serious, “I’ve never had the opportunity to be part of such a group. I’ve never been in the military or any group that faced danger, or shared a profound belief in a cause. I will admit I’ve felt that was a kind of lack in me. I suppose I started attending the South London Mosque because I was searching for something more meaningful than arranging the profits of rich Englishmen.” He paused, looked embarrassed. “Forgive me, my beliefs or lack of them cannot interest you.” He searched each of the three faces. “I do not understand why you wish to speak to me.”
One of the young men with eyes as dark as a starless night said, “Who are you, Mr. Aziz? Really?”
There’d been no introductions, but they knew his name. Khaled smiled. “I am Khaled Aziz from Aleppo, Syria. My parents moved here when I was very young. They have since returned to Syria.”
The older man said, “You said you’re searching for something meaningful.”
“It’s difficult for me to explain, but I will try. When Imam Ali Ahmad Said asked me to see to the books at the mosque after Rehan al-Albiri retires, I was pleased because it seemed Imam had come to trust me, was willing to bring me closer to him, perhaps allow me to be part of something more important than myself.”
The men were silent. Khaled turned to Adara. “You said the imam has found nothing damning in my life. But he doesn’tknow of my foray into gambling at the Balfour Club on Hanover Street?” He stopped, waited, a half-smile on his mouth. He hoped he hadn’t gone overboard.
