Authors: Dorian Paul
Bobby didn't answer straight away and David glanced at James, who fiddled with the pipe on his desk. Bloody hell. Another attack? They'd figured out and thwarted three plots in the last 36 hours. One in his own back yard, one in the U.S., and a third in Riyadh.
David knew Varat's London calling card was meant expressly for him. The other two were designed to showcase how simply Iran could thumb its nose at the U.S. and its erstwhile Mideast ally, Saudi Arabia. He had to give his enemy his due. The U.S. tactic was truly inspired . . . a charter plane ferrying sick children to Disney World. If that release had succeeded, the combination of airplanes, given 9/11, and dying kids, would have ripped America apart. The Riyadh attack was equally inventive, targeting the burn wing of a newly opened hospital. A joint venture between the U.S. and Saudi Arabia, many of the patients were local victims of industrial oil accidents. Your petro-dollars at work. The media would've had a field day.
"Afraid I've got bad news, pal."
"Tell me, Bobby."
"Just got a call from Aziz Bouchta."
Bouchta? "More canisters than we believed?" David asked.
"Worse. No easy way to break it to ya. The Moroccan vaccine plant's gone up in flames. Explosion, fire, nobody's sure yet."
The news shattered him like a semi-automatic. "Claire?"
"Release of hazardous chemicals. Specifics unknown. Survivors thought unlikely," Bobby said.
"But they don't know for sure. They cannot know for absolute certain."
"Yep, you're right. Can't know for sure," Bobby responded with uncommon gentleness.
In that moment he knew she was dead. He struggled to breathe.
"Nobody can get near the plant. Hazmat people've been sent for. Place is in the middle of nowhere."
"She might've been elsewhere," he asserted, unwilling to accept the last words she heard from his lips were unbearably cruel.
"Yep, too soon to tell."
He slumped. He could tell. Bobby offered no hope and James had come round the desk and put a firm hand on his shoulder. The tightness in his throat made it hard to swallow. "Varat," he hissed. "That bastard." He'd been so elated to unearth the link between the dagger, Varat's grandfather, and Lycée Rue Barthel. He never dreamed Varat would best him by reaching into his soul and taking the only thing that mattered more than revenge against his enemy.
Bobby did not speak. James said nary a word.
But he'd already made up his mind. "I'm going to Morocco . . . to bring her body back. I'm going to bring Claire home." Sherborne House. It had only become his home because it was hers. Memories of holding her the night Sandra died, her inviting him into the shower, asking him to make love to her, making him a pecan pie, those too brief hours in her bed before and after Thanksgiving.
"Next of kin is an aunt in a nursing home in Boston," Bobby said flatly.
"I'll contact her after I bring Claire home." Nothing mattered more than bringing her home. Not Varat, not the canisters, nothing. He had to find her body and bring it home, and if there were a God in heaven perhaps Claire would know by his actions how much he loved her. And she would not hold against him those last awful words about Red he'd spit out in a pique of jealousy.
"I'll handle things here going forward, Bobby," James stated.
"Got it. But David, I need you too, pal. Just keep in touch, okay?"
He had to unclench his jaw to speak, but he made the effort. "I will, Bobby. Your friendship means a great deal to me." With Claire gone, Bobby became more important than ever.
"Ditto, pal, ditto."
He left immediately for Sherborne House to pack. Maggie had scrawled a note and left it on the bannister to say there was an important message for him upstairs. Had Claire called? Was she okay?
He took the stairs three at a time. A thick vellum note card lay in the center of his desk.
Reminder: Tomorrow is the tournament final. Penalty for absence is forfeit.
He tore the card to shreds and dashed into the Duchess suite, where her scent assailed him. He ransacked the rooms in pursuit of her Lily of the Valley lotion, and his hands shook as he rubbed the cream between his palms and lifted them to his nose. But the delicate fragrance, which once defended her velvet skin from dry air, singed his nostrils. He wiped his hands on his slacks, and strode toward the shared door leading to his own rooms until her dressing table – with its ordered stacks of elastic bands, small silk scarves, hair clips, and tortoise combs – arrested him. He lifted her hairbrush, gently pulled out some strands of auburn silk snared by its bristles, and sank onto her stool. But gaze as he might into her mirror, never again would it return a vision of Claire brushing out her long, silky hair. It served only to reflect his wet cheeks, and he howled to heaven what he might have whispered in her ear here on earth. Over and over he shouted, 'I love you,' until his throat shrieked in silent anguish.
***
He purchased two First Class seats for himself on the London to Casablanca flight. Some things money could buy. He settled into the window seat and kept his suit jacket on to conceal his gun from the other passengers. Over the years weapons had become his closest friends, and he did not want to be alone tonight. The rest of his work paraphernalia – satellite phone, secure laptop, and mobile phone – he dumped under the aisle seat beside him. He owed it to Bobby and James to be reachable but the public crisis was theirs now, no longer his mission. Bringing Claire's body home was all that signified.
He snatched her tortoise comb from his pocket, the one she used to capture the riot of her wavy mane, and fingered the strands trapped in it. It was a relief to do something openly that showed his love for her. But her hair, which in life he sometimes felt she bound up to deny him access, taunted him now by being everywhere in his grasp. What a bloody fool he'd been never to tell her he loved her. Now he never could. And neither could Claire give him the life he realized too late he wanted. A life with her by his side.
He dozed off and slept fitfully. Before the plane landed after midnight, the flight attendant told him a message had come through airline channels and he should contact his office upon arrival. He wouldn't get his hopes up this time. And he didn't give a damn about another canister or attack. He exited with grim resolve, only to be met by a subdued Aziz Bouchta in the wee hours of Wednesday morning.
"Mr. Tiger. Mr. Keane has asked me to take you to the vaccine plant. It is somewhat distant over rough terrain. I have organized a driver who knows the best route."
"I wish to leave immediately."
"I understand." Bouchta bowed deeply. "My condolences for the loss of your colleague."
If Claire were alive, Bouchta would have been informed, so he waited until they were underway in the Embassy's four-wheel drive vehicle before ringing his office. Beyond caring about what he might learn, he requested his message of the London night deskman.
"You're to ring your mother as soon as possible."
He straightened. "Is there more?"
"Your father's in hospital, Mr. Ruskin. Heart Hospital, Westmoreland Street. Here's the number."
His father in London's Heart Hospital? The man was barely in his 70s, fit, and active. The back seat of the SUV, though it held only himself and his gear, felt confining as he punched in the number.
"Mother, what has happened to him?"
"He had chest pain earlier today. We thought it best to get to the city."
"You should have rung me."
But why would she? I'm never available when anyone needs me.
"The doctors have performed a battery of tests."
"Was it a heart attack? "
"David, where are you? Your office said you were out of the country."
"Casablanca. But what about Father? May I speak to him?"
"I'm afraid not."
He gripped the phone. This cannot be occurring. It cannot. But it was.
"David, are you on the line?"
"Mother, I must speak with him," he insisted, unable to bear the thought he might lose two loved ones in a single day without putting things right with either.
"I'm sorry, dear. It is not possible. He's in surgery for placement of a stent. I'm told a heart attack has been prevented."
Thank God.
"When will you return to London?"
"I'm not certain." How many more times would he let his father down? If only he'd done the one thing that might have brought his father peace of mind, signed the papers setting out the inheritance in the manner his sire had so meticulously intended.
"He should be out of surgery and recovery in a few hours," his mother said.
"When he comes out, please tell him he can depend on me to take up the reins as planned. I will not let him down. Will you tell him that?"
"You should tell him yourself, David."
"I will. I'll ring back in a few hours. And be home as soon as is possible."
"When?"
"In the next day or two." His mother's sigh wrenched him. "I'm sorry, Mother. You'll understand when I return. Is Anne with you?"
"She's due here soon."
His sister could be relied upon to support his mother. Not for the first time he thought she should inherit the family responsibilities. In every way that counted she already had. And he'd never thanked her, like he'd never thanked Bobby for saving his life on and off the field. So many things to tell so many people. But he would. He'd spend the remainder of his days taking to heart the lesson he learned from never telling Claire he loved her.
For the first time he could remember he looked forward to talking to his father.
***
The rising sun's horizontal rays burned through morning mist, and David recognized the barren terrain from the night he and Claire fled Tivaz. What gruesome symmetry, to travel the same God-forsaken road on his way to reclaim her body.
Ahead of them, a donkey cart hauling a miraculously balanced pile of sticks laid claim to the center of the road. Its owner clearly didn't intend to scoot aside so they could overtake. Bouchta and the driver chattered upfront, and as the SUV slowed to a crawl David leaned forward from the back seat for a better look.
Bloody hell. The cart was no longer moving and the donkey lay in the road.
"An accident," Bouchta exclaimed.
"Do not stop!" he shouted.
But it was too late. The driver had already braked and shifted into neutral.
Glass shattered. The first shots tore through the driver's neck. A second volley all but removed Bouchta's head. David held stationary as flesh showered him from the front seat. He leaned neither left nor right, and made no motion to draw his weapon.
If Varat wished to kill him in this manner, the first bullet would have been his.
Chapter 44
The SUV continued to vibrate after the shooting ceased. Only when it was still and he had calmed his breathing did David shout, "I'm coming out." He knew Varat would wait.
"Open the door. Throw your weapons and communication kit on the ground. Then come out slowly."
He followed Varat's instructions to the letter. His gear couldn't help him now, but if he could draw the battle out he'd give himself the best chance to turn the tables. He stepped around the heap of twenty-first century gadgetry and arms, and squinted into the dawning day.
"Yes, my friend, I have the sun behind me." Varat's backlit figure, casting a long shadow, came into view. "And now we stand face-to-face."
Gone was the amethyst ring on the hand holding Varat's assault rifle, and his open-necked shirt exposed no gold chain. French veneer yielded to stark brutality and Varat arrived here as he had, wearing only his weapons. In acknowledgement of this truth, Varat's free hand gestured to their nearly identical khaki shirts. "We're blood brothers. We both came dressed to hunt."
He would not deny Varat's insight. Staring at his rival in the empty desert, he accepted that a part of his motivation for coming to Morocco was to seek revenge on Varat for killing Jeremy and Claire. Reclaiming her body was an act of love, but vengeance simmered barely below the surface.
"If you held this gun instead of me, Tiger, already I would be slaughtered, my body drenched in blood from the many rounds you would've unleashed."
True. But likewise untrue. When he pursued Varat solely to avenge Jeremy, he believed his enemy's death would bring peace. But if he killed Varat now, what meaning would life hold for him absent Claire?
"But I'm the one who owns the gun." It was a short-barreled Kalashnikov with a collapsible stock. "Now, move to the west side of the road, at least ten paces back."
The rifle's snub nose was aimed at his chest, and he judged it too risky to make a rush whilst Varat extracted weapons and phones from the two bodies slumped in the front seat of the SUV and tossed them atop David's own paraphernalia.
"These devices would bring either of us a good price on the open market. But you were never in the game for money, were you Tiger? And I have caught you, something worth more to me than the riches of the world."
Varat positioned a lump of C4 explosives on the mound of equipment and played out a detonation line. There were more than enough explosives and ammunition to blow anyone sky-high. Of the many ways he envisioned meeting his end, oddly, being blown to bits like this never figured in his imagination. He took a measure of comfort that he'd die like Claire, in an explosion.
"Back off Tiger." Varat wielded his rifle to direct him away from the mound. "Such a death would be too crude. Not worthy of you. Or me."
David's mind raced through every possibility that might allow him to beat Varat at his own game while a small electric charge set off the blasting cap and exploding plastique demolished the tools of their trade.
"Too bad. All firearms are up in smoke, except for mine."
Varat turned his rifle barrel directly at him once again. But he didn't fire, just as David had predicted. Instead he slipped a leather pouch off his shoulder and tossed it. By sheer instinct David snared the pouch before it struck the sandy dirt.