Tuesday, late afternoon
“Ah, Rome?” Elizabeth nearly grabbed the steering wheel when the Vauxhall came a hair width away from smashing a cab’s side mirror.
Rome wasn’t about to admit it was way too close, no self-respecting man would. He laughed. “Don’t have a stroke, you’re in safe hands. I think I’ve got this driving on the left down, except maybe at the intersections.”
“Okay, if you say so. Do you know Benbett taught me to drive?”
“The butler taught you to drive?”
“Benbett was a fan of the race car circuit when he was young. He was an amazing teacher. He taught Tommy too.”
“My mom taught me. She was a wild woman, still is.” With the windows down, the traffic noise was awesome. He said, “Only Manhattan beats this traffic. Much of the time it’s faster to walk than take a taxi. Few drive their own cars. But here—didn’t you tell me you have to pay to drive in central London? Can’t say it seems to have kept anybody away.”
“That was the hope way back when, but the government always needs more money, so any excuse will do. But it makesyou wonder what it would be like in London if it didn’t cost so much to drive here. We’re nearly there. See the white building on the corner of Parliament Street? That’s the Red Lion Pub. It’s the second-oldest pub in London, here for over three hundred years.” She gave him a sideways grin. “Older than the United States.”
He grinned. “And what’s the oldest?”
“Thought you’d fool me, but I’ve got a brain for trivia—the Seven Stars in Holborn, opened sometime in the seventeenth century. There’s a parking garage straight ahead, right down the block.”
When they walked out of the garage onto the street again, the sun had disappeared in a darkening sky. Rome knew that meant it would rain any second. “How can the weather change so quickly? We were ready to sunbathe ten minutes ago.”
She laughed. “Welcome to England, Rome.”
Given its age, Rome expected the Red Lion Pub would be a dark, low-ceilinged room with ancient age-scarred beams smelling of decades of ale, but instead another preconception bit the dust. He walked into a light, airy room with high ornate ceilings and only a discreet smell of Guinness, a light perfume in the air. Elizabeth waved to a man standing beneath a graceful chandelier beside a table for four along the wall.
“There he is, John Eiserly, the deputy director of JTAC. Believe me, he already knows who you are. We’ll finally find out why he called us in. I hope he has some news.”
To Rome, Eiserly looked very English indeed. He was in his mid-thirties, fair, slender and dapper in his muted dark blue suit and white shirt. They shook hands.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Agent Foxe. Please be seated. Elizabeth, you’re looking well.” He drew up, blinked. “And you look like you could take down any malcontent to come after you.”
“Thank you. I certainly hope so.”
As soon as they sat, a cheese plate and tea appeared. And a fourth plate and cup. Rome would have preferred coffee, black and strong, but after adding some lemon, it was quite good.
John said, “How is your mother coping?”
“She seems all right, given the shock and terror of it all. It will take time.”
John raised his cup. “Indeed, a trying experience for her. Agent Foxe, thank you for protecting Elizabeth. Savich told me you saved her life.”
Rome said easily, “Actually, Elizabeth helped save herself. She knows how to do that now, sir, as you already know.”
“I do want to hear more about your three months with Hurley Janklov.”
Elizabeth was tempted to show him her biceps to admire, but the waiter staring at her, for whatever reason, wouldn’t understand. “Please tell us you have news, John, news you wanted to deliver in person?”
“Indeed, I do. Ah, here he comes.” John gave a wave to a swarthy man about Rome’s age striding tall and straight as a sapling toward them. He was tall, good looking, and clean shaven, his black hair forming a near widow’s peak, his nose a sharp blade. He dressed like an upper-level businessman.
John said, “I decided we should all meet here rather than at Thames Hall on the off chance someone from the mosque might see Khaled. Elizabeth, Rome, meet a very brave man, our undercover officer at the South London Mosque, Khaled Aziz.”
Rome rose, shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Aziz.”
Elizabeth cocked her head. “Mr. Aziz.” There was a clear question in her voice. He offered his hand and she shook it.
John looked around and lowered his voice, though conversation in the pub was at crowd level. “Of course you’re wondering what Khaled has to do with your situation. As I said, he’s been undercover at the South London Mosque for the past six monthsworking to gain the trust of the new imam, Ali Ahmad Said, and more recently, the trust of his younger sister, Adara Said. I will let Khaled tell you why I brought you here, what it is Adara said to him at lunch today.” He nodded to Khaled.
Khaled said, “I suppose I should tell you first off that Adara Said and I have gotten very close quite quickly. I can do better than tell you.” Khaled pulled a small recorder from his pocket and pressed play.
