Collateral Damage (9 page)

“I think you’ll like the place,” she said. “It’s spacious, and the light is good.”

Mason flashed a plastic ID at her. “Please sit down and be quiet. I’ll only keep you a few minutes.”

She looked surprised, but she sat down.

Mason pressed a speed dial number on his cell phone as he peeked through one side of the sheer curtains. “We got lucky,” he said. “We’re directly across the street, one floor up. The curtains are drawn in the flat. Is the team in place out back yet? Good. Now bring in the SWAT team van, and block both ends of the street. Call me when everything is in place.” He ended the connection, then turned to the estate agent.

“Is there a rear exit from this house?” he asked.

“Yes, it opens into a mews.”

“Please leave at once by that exit, and walk quickly to the street behind and find a taxi. This is a matter of national security, and you are not to mention it to anyone. Do you understand?”

“I suppose so,” she said.

His telephone rang. “Mason. Right. Go.” He turned to the woman, who had gotten to her feet. “Too late. Please sit down again. This will be over shortly, then you can leave.”

The woman sat down, and Mason watched through the curtains as a white van pulled up downstairs.

—

“Ring your shopkeeper,” Jasmine said to her contact.

He did so and listened. His face changed, and he hung up. “They’re in your street,” he said to Jasmine. “A SWAT team is getting out of a van.”

Jasmine dug a cell phone out of her tote bag and began to dial a number.

The assault squad ran up the steps of the house, six men in black uniforms with helmets, heavy armor vests, face protection, and automatic weapons. The front door was locked; a team member carrying a heavy horizontal sledge swung it at the lock, and the door came open. The six men crowded into the hallway.

“Flat door unlocked,” one man said, trying the knob. The team flooded into the flat, weapons raised, shouting.

Jasmine pressed the last number.

As Mason watched from across the street, the front of the building blew out. He flung himself into the corner behind him as the window blew in, filling the room with glass and debris.

The estate agent began to rise from her seat, then she was struck by something heavy and sat down again. When Mason looked at her, most of her head was gone.

He pressed a speed dial number. “Major explosion at subject house. Many dead or wounded. Full immediate response!”

From down the street he heard the Klaxons of backup vehicles coming.

Holly finished the last of her to-do list and looked at the clock: later than she thought, and she was hungry. She packed her briefcase and shut it, then reached for the phone to call Stone. It rang.

“Holly Barker.”

“It’s Felicity Devonshire,” she said, and she sounded weary and dejected.

“It’s very late there,” Holly said.

“We’ve had a major flap,” Felicity replied. Then she gave Holly a brief account of what had happened.

“I’m sorry,” Holly said. “Casualties?”

“Six of our people are dead, and one collateral.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Exactly. We’re not sure what went wrong yet. We circulated the photo I sent you to a wide intra-government list, and one of them spotted her. We had people there in twenty minutes, but apparently Jasmine had gone. And she left a very large surprise behind her.”

“Anything at the site that might help?”

“We’re still sifting through the rubble. We had to prop up the building. It’s listing alarmingly and will have to come down. Fortunately, in the early afternoon the other occupants were at work.”

“Why was your spotter there?”

“She and her husband had only recently moved in. They met there at lunch to look at some fabrics together, and it turned into a matinee, or she would have been back at work when Jasmine came home.”

“How on earth did Jasmine know she had been spotted?”

“We’re not sure, but when we interviewed the woman at the FO she had a ministry ID clipped to her collar. Jasmine might have spotted it.”

“This is just going to get harder now, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can our London people be of any help?”

“No, now we have Special Branch involved, and, of course, our colleagues at MI-5 are on the job, furious that they weren’t consulted before our raid. I’m putting out bureaucratic fires everywhere.”

“You have my sympathy,” Holly said. “I’ll see that the photo is circulated at the embassy. Who knows, somebody might spot her somewhere.”

“That can’t hurt, I suppose,” Felicity said wearily.

“Get some sleep, Felicity, you’ll have new ideas in the morning.”

“I’m sleeping here tonight,” Felicity said. “Talk to you later.” She hung up.

Holly called Stone. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, I’ve been at it all day. I hope you had dinner.”

“I’m still waiting for you. Dinner’s in the oven.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up and headed for the elevator.

—

“All right,” Stone said, when he had dinner on the table and had opened a bottle of wine. “Tell me. You’ll feel better.”

“Well, since you’re in the loop on this one I guess I’m on solid ground if you know more.” She began with her visits to Kelli Keane, then went on to her conversations with Felicity Devonshire.

“So Jasmine is in the wind?”

“Absolutely. She could be anywhere by now.”

—

Jasmine was, in fact, thirty miles up the Thames from London in a secluded and comfortable riverside house.

“How long do I have this place?” she asked her contact, as she tossed her bags on the bed.

“The family is in Pakistan, visiting relatives. They’re not due back for another month. They’ve called their housekeeper and told them that you are the doctor’s cousin, and you’re between flats and camping out here. She’ll do for you.”

“Thank God I don’t have to go out. That’s how the whole thing fell apart.”

“It was a fluke, that’s all. We’ve heard that the intelligence services circulated your passport photo widely in the ministries. No more headdresses. Dress fashionably.”

“As fashionably as I can with what’s in this bag,” Jasmine said, opening the case and starting to put things away in the guest room dressing area.

“I’ll get you some catalogues, if you want other things.”

“Thank you, Habib. I have to go to bed now.”

“Would you prefer to do so alone?”

“No, but I’m going to anyway.” She pulled back the covers and started to undress.

Habib left and closed the door behind him.

—

Kelli Keane was returning from a meeting with her editor at
Vanity Fair
when she stopped to pick up a bottle of wine for dinner. She left the wine shop and stepped into the street to do a bit of jaywalking, when a car she hadn’t noticed whizzed by so close that the side mirror took the wine bottle out of her hand, smashing it into the street. She jumped back, terrified, then ran the rest of the way home.

—

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked as she came through the door, tearing her coat off and flopping down in a chair.

“Somebody tried to run me down in the street,” she said. “Drink, please.”

Jim put some ice in a glass and poured her two ounces of bourbon. He put it into her hand and found it shaking. “What kind of car?”

“Dark—black, I think.”

“Sedan? SUV?”

“SUV. I don’t know what kind.”

“Did you get a look at the plate?”

She shook her head and tugged at the drink. “I was too busy cowering between two cars. The windows were darkened, I remember that. It took a very good bottle of wine right out of my hand, a Mondavi Reserve Cabernet.”

“That’s tragic,” Jim said, making her laugh. “Do you really think they were trying to hit you?”

“How could they come that close if they weren’t trying?”

“I’ve got my famous meat loaf in the oven. It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes or so.”

“I’ll just suck up bourbon until then,” she said. “Maybe even another one after this.”

“You won’t get an argument from me,” Jim said. “I know how much fun you are with a couple of drinks in you.”

She squeezed his hand. “You could join me.”

“I can do that,” Jim said, pouring himself one and sitting next to her on the sofa.

She leaned close to his ear. “You know that thing I told you about?” she whispered.

“I know that thing you
didn’t
tell me about,” he whispered back.

“I think someone heard me not telling you about it. There’s a tabloid that has a history of bugging
Vanity Fair
people to get inside info on what stories they’re working on.”

He leaned back and looked at her closely, but she pulled him back. “Do you know somebody who could come here and look for bugs?” she whispered.

He kissed her on the ear. “I know somebody who will know somebody who can do that.”

“Have them do it tomorrow, please.”

Herbie Fisher was at his desk when Jim Rutledge called. “Good morning, Jim. Thanks for taking care of that lighting problem so quickly.”

“All it took was twenty-seven desk lamps,” Jim replied. “Herb, I need some advice.”

“Sure. You want to come see me?”

“No, I just need a name.”

“What sort of a name?”

“The sort who can come to my apartment and sweep it thoroughly for bugs.”

“Do you have some reason to believe you’re being bugged?”

“My girlfriend told me about something— No, strike that, she didn’t tell me about something, but she intimated that she knew about something that happened in L.A. during the opening of The Arrington, that she couldn’t tell me about. Then, last night, she was on the way home with a bottle of very good Cabernet in her hand when she was almost hit by a black SUV, darkened windows, traveling very fast. Took the wine right out of her hand.”

“Who is your girlfriend?”

“Kelli Keane, magazine writer.”

“Yeah, I remember her being out there.”

“You were there, too?”

“Yes, my girl and I got there late, but we had a great time. Is Kelli talking about the three bombs that were intended for The Arrington?”

“No, that was reported in the press. There must have been something else.”

“That’s odd,” Herbie said. “I think I was in a position to know if there was some other incident.”

“Do you know somebody who can sweep the apartment?”

“As it happens, I do. She’s my girlfriend, name of Harp O’Connor. She’s a PI and does all sorts of security work.”

“Could she come over? I’ll be home all day, working on a project.”

“Hang on a minute,” Herbie said, and pressed the hold button. He speed-dialed Harp’s cell.

“Hey, Herb.”

“Hi, babe. A friend, architect by the name of James Rutledge, thinks his apartment may have been bugged. Can you do a sweep for him?”

“Where?”

Herbie gave her the address. “It’s a loft downtown.”

“I can be there about four this afternoon,” she said.

“I’ll tell him. Thanks, babe.” He ended the call and pushed the other button. “Jim?”

“I’m here.”

“Harp will be there around four o’clock.”

“I’ll look forward,” Jim said. “Let’s have dinner some night soon.”

“Good idea. See ya.” Herbie hung up, thought for a couple of minutes, then called Stone Barrington. Joan put him through.

“Morning, Herbert.”

“Hey, Stone. Tell me, did something happen when we were at The Arrington? I mean, apart from the three bombs.”

Stone was quiet for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“I just got a call from Jim Rutledge, the architect, who lives with Kelli Keane.” Herbie told him about her nearly being run down. “She thinks it’s because she told Jim about something that happened at The Arrington.”

“She told him about something that happened?”

“Well, no, she just intimated that something happened that she couldn’t talk about. Next day, a black SUV with darkened windows nearly takes her out. She’s scared.”

“Nothing happened that I know about,” Stone lied. “Will you let me know if you hear any further details about that?”

“Why?”

“I’d just like to know.”