Nemesis (37 page)

NEW YORK CITY

Monday

A
gent Gray Wharton brought up a photo on his computer screen from the
International Herald Tribune
. “This is Sheikh Tamin bin Rashid al Amoudi. He’s oil wealthy and is treated like royalty whenever he visits London, which is often, because he spends lavishly. From what I can find so far, he is what he appears: an aging playboy who’s so rich he has not one but three jets.” Gray flipped to another photo. “On his arm is Lady Pamela Sanderson, daughter of Baron Pembroke. They’re on their way to a tony bash following a movie premiere, the latest James Bond.”

Sherlock studied the sheikh’s self-indulgent face, his dark eyes that saw nothing beyond his own desires. “No, not him, too old, too visible, too—pleased with all his wealth and what it brings him. What does he do with three jets?”

“Doesn’t say, but he’s got a good-sized family. I suppose you have to keep your relatives traveling happy.” Gray brought up the next picture, pointed to the man. “Here’s a British Muslim, Dr. Abbas Ghanbari, a professor at the University of Saint Andrews. The lady with him is the daughter of Viscount Pleasance. Look at him—stoop-shouldered, glasses, thinning hair, old. He looks too settled and content, doesn’t really fit the bill.”

Gray brought up another photo. “I’m thinking the next one’s our best bet—Dr. Samir Basara, thirty-seven, English citizen, well-known international economics expert, a professor at the London School of Economics. He’s Algerian, his father owns a large vineyard there. Samir was raised with wealth, left Algeria when he was eighteen to study at the Sorbonne in Paris, then went to the U.S. to Berkeley for his doctorate in economics, with emphasis on the Middle East.”

Cal said, “That’s bizarre. Kelly, Sherlock, and I watched him talk on the BBC last night. Bottom line, he said we share the blame for the attacks on JFK, Saint Pat’s, and the TGV. Not so surprising a position, given where he was educated.”

Kelly studied Basara’s face. “Look at his eyes, guys, they’re almost opaque, they give no clue what he’s thinking, feeling. And that suit he’s wearing, it probably costs more than I make in a month. He presents himself as a rich Western intellectual. Where does his money come from? His family? Middle Eastern contributors? If it’s true he flies in a private jet, we’re talking a lot of money. And that gorgeous blonde with him—”

“Lady Elizabeth Margaret Palmer, daughter of the Eleventh Earl of Camden,” Gray said, looking up from his typing. “She’s a popular society fixture and her daddy is a respected banker in London. Lady Elizabeth graduated from Oxford after returning from finishing school in Switzerland, active on the social scene. The tabloids say her younger brother is a cocaine addict.”

“Lady Elizabeth Palmer,” Kelly repeated her name. “Would you look at that smile she’s beaming up at Basara? Yes, Gray, focus on him. I’ll bet my Pink Panther knee socks Dr. Samir Basara is our Strategist.”

Sherlock nodded. “Now our problem is to prove it. Gray, did you find the records of his commercial flights?”

Actually, Basara hasn’t flown commercial in years, at least by his given name, which means he’s flying private. Here we go, Dr. Samir Basara owns a two-year-old Gulfstream, keeps it in southern England near Folkestone.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve, ah, ventured into the Civil Aviation Authority, you know, the FAA equivalent in Britain, to see if the good Dr. Basara files flight plans?”

“I’m going to the ICAO, the International Civil Aviation Organization. Any flights over international space are filed through them.”

Kelly said, “Does Zachery want to know what you’re doing?”

“Probably. Like you, I always tell him everything,” Gray said, never looking up. “Okay, take a look. The jet has filed a number of flight plans—to Paris, Munich, Rome—most could be short vacations or business trips to other universities. No trips to anywhere questionable, like Syria or Iran.” They all looked over his shoulder as he scrolled down. “It appears he travels once a year back to Algeria, at Ramadan.” He looked at them. “Well, look at this. He flew to Boston last week, stayed two days, then back to London.”

Kelly said, “So he was here not only when the Conklin family was flown in, he was close by when Saint Patrick’s was supposed to be bombed. He’s looking better and better.”

Cal said, “You can bet he doesn’t file flight plans for all his trips. That would mean his pilot is complicit. Can we find out his name, Gray?”

“Wait a second. I’m looking at his family in Algeria.” He scanned, looked up. “Well, would you look at this. His grandfather’s name was Hercule.”

Sherlock pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”

Cal said, “Kelly, you need to call your counterpart at MI5. Another thing—Shadid and Kenza are going to need protection. I have a feeling once Basara finds out we’ve outed him, he might try to have them killed.”

Kelly picked up her cell and dialed. “John? Have I got something for you. What?
What did you say
? Wait, I’m going to put you on speaker.”

John Eiserly sounded higher than a kite, but with an odd slick of fear in his voice. “We nearly lost Saint Paul’s. It was close, too close, but we got him in time. He’s a wanted terrorist named Nasib Bahar. My wife and my daughter—they were in Saint Paul’s attending a society wedding along with hundreds of the upper crust. If I hadn’t been assigned there as extra security, if I hadn’t happened to zoom in on my wife as he placed a packet of C-4 at the Nelson Monument, we would never have stopped him. He was dressed as a posh old lady, an incredible disguise.”

“John, take Mary Ann out tonight, someplace really special, and celebrate. Congratulations.”

“It can’t be all that special, I mean, we’ll have our baby with us, and believe me, Ceci can yell a house down. Well, maybe a Wimpy or Spudulike.”

Laughter, then Kelly said, “And I’ve got some great news for you, too. We think we’ve identified the Strategist as Dr. Samir Basara, a British citizen. He’s been in your newspapers lately as Lady Elizabeth Margaret Palmer’s escort.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I know the guy, seen him on the BBC, Roland Atterley’s show. Lady Elizabeth Palmer? She was here at the wedding. She’s still inside waiting to be interviewed. Let me go get her. Thanks. I owe you.”

It never hurt, Kelly knew, to have a favor tucked in her pocket. She beamed at all of them. “Saint Paul’s survived and now we’re in business.”

WYVERLY PLACE

LONDON

Monday

H
ercule didn’t look away from the skyline toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Where was the billowing smoke? But he knew he could no longer deny that Bahar must have failed. St. Paul’s should have blown up at least twenty minutes ago. He had his television on and he turned when he heard the BBC break to a reporter standing near St. Paul’s with news of an attempted bombing, and then they switched to a video obviously shot on a bystander’s mobile, but clear enough. MI5 agents were hustling an old woman out of St. Paul’s. She was struggling, trying to jerk away, when her wig fell off. He stared at Bahar. He watched wedding guests pour out of St. Paul’s behind them, most trying to maintain their English dignity, but some yelling and pointing at Bahar, then the sharp voice of a man in a dark blue suit yelling at them to get the man into the waiting van. What had happened? They must have seen Bahar placing one of the C-4 packets at a site Hercule had chosen. Hard to believe because Bahar was a consummate professional. It was another failure. He found it hard to breathe, then forced himself to calm. He knew Bahar would never give him up. They’d worked together for nearly six years, brothers-in-arms in the jihad, or at least Bahar thought so. Hercule cared less about losing Bahar than the millions of pounds that would not be wired to his account in Zurich for the assassination of Lord Harlow.

His mobile buzzed. Was it Elizabeth? He grabbed it off the table and looked down at the name that filled the screen—it was the imam. Why was the old fool calling him on his private number and not on the burner? It was a long-standing agreement between them. Was the old man senile at last? He wouldn’t answer it, it would be the height of stupidity to answer it. Then he realized the damage was done, the imam had already placed the call. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “Why do you call me on my private line?”

The imam sounded old and afraid, his voice shaking. “MI5 agents have invaded my home. They have a warrant and are going through everything. They want to question me.
Me
, Hercule! They talked about Mifsud—your boy—they accused me of sending him to kill that FBI agent, and of sending Bahar to bomb Saint Paul’s. They were gloating. Do you hear me, Hercule? They were gloating!

“They are confiscating everything! I told them I felt ill. I am in the bathroom, agents outside the door. They didn’t realize I had my mobile to use because I destroyed my burner as they broke in on me and they didn’t think to look for another. Hercule, what am I to do?”

Basara’s heart was beating as wildly as the imam’s, but he kept his voice calm and cold. “Get hold of yourself, old man. We have always seen to it they will find no evidence against you. You keep no papers, no computer files that can incriminate you or anyone we know.” The old man stayed silent, and Hercule took it like a punch to the gut. “Do you have any incriminating evidence at the house?”

“No, no, I’ve always taken great care. I did not lie. All is safely hidden elsewhere.”

Then why was he so scared? Ah, so that was it, the old idiot. “So you have damaging information at the mosque, then?”

Silence, then a strangled, “Yes, but they won’t be able to get a warrant to search a Muslim place of worship. It is the safest place I could think of.”

After the attempted bombing of their precious St. Paul’s, they would have no difficulty at all even getting a warrant to search beneath the imam’s precious prayer rug. “What records, exactly? The ledgers, our payments, receipts? Are there names mentioned? My name?”

“Yes! Some names, but not your own, not the name Samir Basara.”

You old fool, you have left them the keys to everything, in your own mosque.

“Hercule, they are ordering me to come out. I must hurry or they will break the door down.”

Hercule heard banging on the imam’s bathroom door. He yelled, “Smash the mobile! Now! Keep your mouth shut. All will be well.” Now, that was a lie of the first order. Hercule heard the door burst open, heard men’s voices. The mobile went dead.

The imam had had the time to destroy the mobile before the agents got hold of it. Not that it mattered. MI5 would find all the proof they needed at the mosque, probably right in the imam’s massive mahogany desk. He should have known. As discreet and smooth as the imam could be in public, he never guarded his speech at all on his home ground, at his beloved mosque. He thought he was invulnerable there. Now he would pay for his stupidity in prison.
Good riddance, you old blighter.

Hercule let the thought go. He prided himself on his intelligence, and he was smart enough to know his life as Dr. Samir Basara was near its end as well. How long would it be before the imam’s paper trail led them directly back to him? A week? A month? Days?

He saw quicksand seething and surging everywhere ahead of him, knew if he didn’t act, it would suck him under. He had no intention of being tried as a traitor; he couldn’t imagine the humiliation, couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life rotting in prison. There would be no more television appearances for him, no more charismatic lectures at European universities, his views lauded and applauded. He could accept that—indeed, he’d planned for it. But what he couldn’t accept was that all of his meticulous planning, all the options he had weighed so carefully, had left his life falling apart. It enraged him. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, let that happen. The Strategist would have his last final victory, despite everything, and he would see to it himself. Then he would disappear where no one could find him.

He had his escape plan well in hand; he’d been preparing it for fifteen years. He would face what was coming head-on, not bury his head like the imam, who refused to see beyond his own veined nose. Most of his fortune was safely tucked away in Switzerland. He had several passports ready, plenty of cash, and a lovely small villa in Sorrento, Italy, owned by a Swiss corporation, waiting for him. He would at least continue to be the Strategist, even in hiding, as feared as before.

He turned off the television and dialed Lady Elizabeth. She would be expecting him to call to show his concern, at any rate, now that the news about St. Paul’s was everywhere. Perhaps she had seen why Bahar had failed. When she picked up over voice mail, he could hear her breathing, her fear making it fast, choppy. He schooled his voice. “Elizabeth? I saw on television they tried to blow up Saint Paul’s. Please tell me you are all right.”

“Yes, yes, well, now I am. Samir, it’s been a nightmare, unbelievable—” And she told him the ceremony was about to begin when a man ran up the aisle, waving a badge and ordering them out. “He said a man had been placing explosives inside the cathedral and we were all to leave as quickly as possible. Now they’ve brought me back inside one of the cathedral anterooms. An MI5 agent said he needed to speak with me, that it was urgent, and I was to wait. Before I could ask him why me in particular, he rushed off. Why would MI5 want to speak to me, Samir? I mean, what could I possibly know about any of this?”