“What?”
“A rumor that Ryder was having a lesbian affair with the prime minister. And that she murdered her in a fit of jealous rage.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Mr. President, I agree. The British have to follow up every angle, though, and right now Ryder’s vanished.”
Danforth heard the president sigh. “So who takes over? That fat sack of shit Malcolm?”
“I’m afraid so. He’s acting PM. There’s a meeting to confirm him in the morning.”
“Damn it all. I’ll come over for the funeral, of course. Maybe I can knock some sense into him over this idiotic idea of his for English independence. Is he still pursuing it?”
“Our sources say he is.” One source in particular, although Danforth didn’t say so. The president didn’t need to know they had someone on the payroll inside Number 10 Downing Street. It was called plausible deniability for a reason.
“Fuck! We can’t have Britain out of NATO. And if they pull out of the EU it’s all up with Europe; not to mention the world economy.”
“It’d be a popular move over here.”
The president grunted. “Is there anyone we can work on to oppose Malcolm? Take over as PM?”
“The home secretary, Eldritch. I don’t think he wants the job, though. There’s also the foreign secretary, Philip Balfour. He’s got a lot of support.”
“Where does Balfour stand on Malcolm’s plan?”
“He’s a supporter. He’s a moderate, though. Much more reasonable than Malcolm.”
“You mean we could bribe him?”
“Not personally. But with the right breaks for the British in the upcoming trade talks, and a few other sweeteners, I think he’d be amenable.”
“Fine. Start working on Balfour. Keep me apprised.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” The call ended, Danforth leaned back in his chair and stretched. Pain stabbed at his gut. He rode it out, staring at the ceiling. Abruptly, he sat forward and pulled a yellow writing pad toward him. The page was soon covered in his large, looping scrawl. He studied what he’d written. It was a while since he’d planned a coup. This would be the first one he’d organized in the United Kingdom. He cursed softly as a thought struck him. If it didn’t work, there wouldn’t be a United Kingdom anymore.
Chapter 12
“Good evening, Dr. Ryder.” Tatiana, Lady Madrigal Carey’s live-in companion, opened wide the front door of her mistress’s Mayfair flat and ushered Ayesha and Joram inside. As always, and despite the hour, Tatiana looked as if she was ready to go out for the evening. Elegant, not a hair out of place, she was the epitome of a society hostess. No one would guess she’d once been a top field agent for the KGB.
“Tatiana.” Ayesha nodded toward Joram. “This is Mr. Tate.” She walked through to the sitting room, relaxing with every step she took into the familiar surroundings, the tension of their flight from St. Pancras falling away as if she’d taken off a heavy overcoat. She glanced back at Joram. The librarian seemed at ease, as if he’d just returned from a dinner engagement, and not a helter-skelter dash across half of London, carrying what they suspected was a priceless treasure. One step ahead of men who, apparently, were prepared to kill to possess it.
When their pursuers had come pounding up the steps to St. Pancras’s left-luggage office, Joram had closed up the carryall, hefted it onto the counter, and placed a ten-pound note in front of its pimply guardian. “Back way out?” he asked, as if he’d been inquiring after the washroom.
The note vanished into the youth’s hand as if by magic. He jerked his head toward an opening behind the counter. “Through there.”
“We weren’t here.”
“Right you are.”
A door behind the luggage lockers opened onto a stairwell. At the bottom was a loading bay. They traversed this at a run. Ascended a long ramp. Then they were back in the street, opposite the Fellow. Joram snared a taxi that had just disgorged a load of passengers. Ayesha spotted Longo through the rear window. He saw her at the same instant and lunged for a car—the black Range Rover she’d seen in Crutched Friars. After that it was an exercise in speed and navigation, with her detailed knowledge of London’s byways giving them the edge. Joram, she soon found, knew almost as much as she did. Their cabbie, who entered into the spirit of things, was in awe.
The black Range Rover tailing them was never more than fifty yards behind. Until Ayesha directed their cabbie into an almost invisible lane off Northumberland Avenue. She knew there was a sharp dogleg at the end, which would require even the best driver to slow down. They increased their lead to a hundred yards. Then, by dint of another turn, into an alley behind Charing Cross Station, they finally gave their pursuers the slip. Joram paid off the cabbie with a handsome tip and they dived into the Underground. They changed at Tottenham Court Road and again at Marble Arch—catching one of the last trains of the night—before taking another taxi from the Edgware Road, in the direction of Lady Madrigal’s building. They walked the last two blocks to check for anyone who might have managed to follow their circuitous route, then entered via the rear service lane and the underground parking garage.
By the time Tatiana let them in, Ayesha was as a certain as she could be that they’d eluded their pursuers. For now.
Lady Madrigal Carey reclined in an armchair in front of the fireplace, tablet computer open in her lap. She folded the cover but Ayesha caught sight of the screen. The vigil for Susannah Armstrong was continuing. She felt a tightening in her gut.
A near centenarian, Lady Madrigal bore a marked resemblance to the actress Lauren Bacall—in her seventies. Maddy attributed both her looks and longevity to a strict diet of vodka martinis and cigarettes. The former spy for Britain’s foreign intelligence service, MI6—and lover of Lawrence of Arabia—had befriended Ayesha when she was hunted and alone. Like now. She glanced at Joram. Perhaps not so alone.
“Hello, Maddy.” Ayesha sank into an armchair. “This is Joram Tate. Joram, Lady Madrigal Carey.”
“Good evening. Joram, it’s nice to see you again.” This was said with a certain archness, and a twinkle in Lady Madrigal’s eyes.
Ayesha rounded on the librarian. “What the fuck?” The librarian hadn’t said anything about knowing Lady Madrigal when Ayesha had suggested her friend’s flat as a sanctuary. “You never said…” Her eyes narrowed. Joram’s name and his total lack of visibility on the Internet. Put that together with his knowing Lady Madrigal. “MI5 or 6?” she asked him.
Joram had the grace to look embarrassed. Then he raised an eyebrow. It was a trait Ayesha was coming to know well. For some reason it irritated the hell out of her. “I’ve really no idea what you mean,” he said. “Hello, Maddy,” he said to their hostess, as he arranged himself in the remaining armchair. “It’s been too long.”
Lady Madrigal turned to Ayesha, smiling the broad smile she reserved for those rare occasions on which she managed to surprise her younger friend. “Joram has been most useful in tracking down some very odd books for me over the years. He’s quite the magician.” She blew a smoke ring toward the fireplace. “Drinks?”
“Please,” Joram said.
“Thanks,” Ayesha muttered, still pissed at the librarian.
Tatiana disappeared into the kitchen. The rattle of ice in a cocktail shaker was soon audible.
Lady Madrigal nodded toward the carryall Joram had placed beside his feet. “I’m assuming you haven’t come to stay. So whatever brings you to my door at this ungodly hour has to do with the contents of that bag.”
“It’s the Maltese Falcon,” Ayesha explained. “At least I hope it is.”
Lady Madrigal knew about the job Ayesha had taken on for Noel Malcolm. “Am I right in guessing that someone else is after it? Fascinated though I am to see this bird I hardly think you’d have brought it here now if you weren’t in trouble.”
“Correct, Maddy,” Joram said. “We’ve had a somewhat crowded hour or two, but we seem to be a few steps ahead of
the bad guys.”
Tatiana returned bearing a tray laden with cocktail glasses and a chrome shaker. The Russian poured their drinks, adding a twist of lemon to each. Ayesha sighed as the chill liquor slid down her throat. Then she leaned back into her armchair. Maddy’s sitting room was another of her favorite places, with its baby grand piano, packed bookshelves, and framed photographs. Add a low fire in the fireplace and a martini and it was near perfection. Add to that the excitement of finding the Maltese Falcon, and the knowledge that death had once again come knocking at her door, and she was as near contentment as she could ever be. Except. Her fingers whitened on the stem of her glass.
“Let’s have a look at it then,” Lady Madrigal demanded.
Joram unzipped the bag. He lifted out the brown-paper-wrapped parcel and set it on the coffee table. When Tatiana had fetched a knife, the librarian used it to cut the strings that bound the parcel. Carefully, he opened and folded back layers of brown paper. Then more layers, of a German newspaper.
When Joram stripped away the last layer of newspaper Ayesha didn’t even try to restrain a gasp.
The Maltese Falcon was a work of exquisite craftsmanship, wrought by a goldsmith of the first order. It gleamed under the low light cast by Lady Madrigal’s standard lamps. The same light caught the jewels that encrusted the head and neck of the Falcon, causing them to sparkle.
“It looks quite different from the movie.” Lady Madrigal broke the silence. “What are you going to do with it?”
Ayesha saw the gleam in their hostess’s eyes. Maddy was impressed, despite her affected ennui.
“It belongs in a museum,” Joram replied. “Unless of course someone still has a claim to ownership.”
Ayesha grasped the statuette in both hands. She lifted it, feeling its weight. Then she put it down. She prodded one of the brilliant gems that formed the bird’s eyes. Nothing happened. She tried the other, with the same result.
“There’s a legend,” Ayesha explained, catching the look in Lady Madrigal’s eyes.
“Of course there is.”
“It’s said the Falcon contains a clue to the whereabouts of a great treasure.”
Lady Madrigal snorted.
“My sentiments exactly,” Joram agreed.
“Perhaps there is something underneath?” Tatiana suggested. The Russian sounded more excited than her employer.
The base of the Falcon was flat and bare, devoid of any crack. Joram righted it once more. Now he and Ayesha took it in turns to prod at a particular feature while Lady Madrigal muttered about wild–goose chases.
“X-rays,” Lady Madrigal said, when they finally admitted defeat. “That’s what you need. That’ll show if there’s anything inside. I know someone at St. Bart’s who could help.”
“You’re probably right.” Joram’s face reflected the disappointment Ayesha felt.
“Tatiana.” Lady Madrigal carefully directed smoke away from the Falcon. “Put it on the piano for now, please.”
The Russian picked up the golden bird with both hands and carried it to the piano. She was putting it down, carefully nudging aside some of the framed photographs that covered the top of the piano, when a small cat streaked into the room and bounded onto the piano, knocking one of the photographs over. Startled, Tatiana let the Falcon slip from her grasp. She tried to catch it, but it knocked against the edge of the piano and fell to the floor. It landed on the parquetry with a loud crack, and broke in two.
“No!” Ayesha shot to her feet.
White-faced, the Russian bent over the broken statuette, but Joram was there first, kneeling beside the fragments.
The librarian picked up the jeweled head. Then he lifted the body and inspected it. With a grunt of satisfaction, he placed both pieces on top of the piano. “It’s not broken. The head and body fit together so closely there’s no sign of a join.” He slipped two fingers through the opening in the body section and probed the interior.
Ayesha held her breath as Joram, with an expression of intense concentration, gingerly withdrew something that looked like a tiny scroll of parchment. He placed it on the coffee table.
The librarian unrolled the parchment, which was only a thin strip, about six inches long. Tatiana handed him two heavy ivory chess pieces.
“Thank you.” He positioned one at the top and one at the bottom of the parchment, to hold it open. He bent over the scroll once more. “Latin, but my eyes can’t make it out.” He raised his eyebrows at Ayesha.
She squinted at the text. It was covered in a dense black script, apparently little faded from whatever time it had spent inside the Falcon. “Maddy, do you have a Latin dictionary?”
Ayesha accepted the bulky volume Tatiana produced. The first words on the scroll were clear; she knew what they meant without reference to the dictionary. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and a shiver ran the length of her spine. “Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Solomonici,” she read aloud. “The Poor-Fellow Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.”
“The full name of the order of knighthood more commonly known as the Knights Templar.” Joram smiled. “What else does it say?”
“Thesaurus.” She tried, but failed, to restrain a smirk.
Joram groaned softly.
“Latin for the word treasure,” Ayesha continued. “Or treasury. Or storehouse. An appropriate word for a book of words and alternative meanings. However, I think here it is being used in its original context.”
“Indeed. So? Does it give directions? A map? GPS coordinates?”
“No such luck. Looks like it’s a clue of some sort, though.” Ayesha opened the dictionary, flicked pages, checking entries. Finally she looked up. “As far as I can make out it says, ‘Seek first where lies the Unraed.’ I don’t know what Unraed means, although I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere. It’s not Latin.”
Joram stared at her with a curious expression.
“What?” She was annoyed. What had she’d missed?
“I know where you’ve seen it.” His eyes twinkled. “Unraed is Anglo-Saxon for ‘badly advised,’ although its more commonly translated as unready.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“There is only one figure in history who was ever known as ‘The Unready.’ ” Joram looked her full in the eyes. “King Ethelred. ‘Where lies’ must refer to his tomb. And ‘seek first’ sounds like we have to look there for a further clue to the location of the thesaurus. The treasury.”
“What happened to Ethelred?” Lady Madrigal asked. “Where is he buried, I mean? I assume you’ll have to go and dig him up. If it’s Westminster I’ve no idea how you’ll get away with it.”
“Not Westminster.” Ayesha’s eyes were riveted on Joram’s. She still found it hard to accept that he knew. “St. Paul’s.”
“That’s not going to be any easier.”
“Old St. Paul’s,” Joram amended, holding Ayesha’s gaze.
“The one destroyed in the Great Fire?” Lady Madrigal sounded disappointed. “That’s really too bad. It sounds like you’ve hit the end of the trail.”
The blood frothed in Ayesha’s veins. It had nothing to do with the fact that she could have sworn Joram was stripping her with his eyes. Well, almost nothing. They hadn’t hit the end of the trail. They’d just found its beginning.
Chapter 13
“That’s them.” Longo sat up straight in the front passenger seat of the black Range Rover parked a block from Lady Madrigal Carey’s building in Mayfair. He reached for his phone, glad to have something positive to report to Bebe Daniels. There’d been a long pause earlier, when he’d admitted having lost track of Ayesha Ryder in the vicinity of Charing Cross. He’d held his breath, waiting for the explosion.
“I see.” Longo waited, but that was all. Then “Hold,” Daniels ordered.
“Right.” Daniels came back on the line. “I’ll contact you when we have a location.” By virtue of her position as the prime minister’s private secretary, Daniels had access
to London’s network of CCTV cameras. It was how they’d known where to find Zilinsky, and, later, been able to locate Ryder and her companion at St. Pancras Station. Daniels would be arranging a fresh search for Ryder. “That may take time,” she continued, “which we don’t have. In the meantime I suggest you stake out Lady Madrigal Carey’s apartment. She’s a close friend of Ryder. Practically her only friend.”
That had been nearly two hours ago.
Now he watched Ryder and her male companion as they crossed the street and hailed a taxi. He’d no idea who the man was, but he still had the carryall he’d collected from St. Pancras’s left-luggage office. According to the pimply kid behind the counter, who’d needed no more than a raised fist in his face to divulge everything he knew.
“Follow them,” Longo growled to Zak, his driver, as the taxi drew away.
“Want me to take ’em?”
“Yeah. But not here. Somewhere quiet. I’ll tell you when.” They were in the heart of the West End. There was still too much traffic about for Longo’s liking. Police patrol cars. Private security, too, because of all the embassies located in the area—not to mention the numerous abodes of the rich and famous. The taxi headed east, leaving the entertainment district behind. The streets grew quieter.
“Okay,” Longo warned Zak, one hand gripping the dashboard. “In a sec.” They turned into Chandos Place, not far from the London Coliseum. The street ahead was empty of traffic and pedestrians. Several vehicles were parked on the right side of the street; traffic would have to squeeze past. “Now!” he snapped.
Zak floored the accelerator. The taxi in front pulled away. As if the driver had known exactly what they’d intended.
“Fuck!” Longo roared. “What the…Shit! Stop! Stop the fucking car!”
“Kuso kurae!” Zak wrestled with the wheel, cursing in Japanese. Narrowly avoiding the parked cars, he jerked the Range Rover to a stop in the middle of the street.
Longo flung out of the vehicle. He sprinted to where he’d seen the carryall come flying out of the taxi. It had landed in the gutter, beneath a lamppost. He grabbed it, ran back to the Range Rover, dumped the bag on the hood, and unzipped it. A brown paper parcel tied with string lay inside, loosely packed around with newspaper. He jerked a penknife from his pocket, cut the string, and tore the wrappings open. His fingers shaking, he lifted out the bottle that lay inside. He held it up to the light. Vodka. A bottle of vodka. A note was taped to it: With compliments of the Maltese Falcon.
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