* * *
When she left Jean’s flat, Marie called Callahan and told him he had a date for the next day. It wasn’t official yet, but she could tell Jean was interested.
Since it was still early she stopped at a bookstore in the neighborhood, selected two paperbacks and three magazines, and put them on the counter. She opened her purse. No wallet. No money. Nothing. She had taken it out at Jean’s house to show her a picture of her fictional boyfriend, and it was probably still there. She apologized to the smirking, pimply kid behind the counter and headed back to Jean’s flat. Running around London without cash or credit cards was just impossible.
* * *
Jean had fully recovered consciousness and was bucking against the tape holding her to the chair. Jamilah stayed calm and silent; she would give Jean five more minutes of struggling before she administered the next drug. Exercise helped clear the knock-out drug from the body.
She had put a Band-Aid from Jean’s medicine cabinet on her nose, but it was definitely swelling. But calm and professionalism had returned to her. I can’t lose control. Finish the mission. Get the information Hammid wants. The emotion she showed hitting Jean with the book was a luxury that could get her killed. Patience returned.
She thought Jean might actually break the chair when she stuck her with the second drug. She heaved and bucked so violently the chair tipped over on the floor, and Jamilah left her there until the drug calmed her down. When Jean began to hum “Yellow Submarine,” Jamilah lifted the chair up on its legs, removed the duct tape from her mouth, and began the questioning.
Jean told the whole story, and Jamilah couldn’t resist adding questions of her own to get the full story. Hammid had paid Jean one million euros to get that treaty? My God, she would be asking for more money the next time he wanted something done. He was cheating her. Bastard.
Jamilah was amazed Jean had created this mess just to get a piece of blank Twelfth Century paper. All so she could forge some nonsense? What a bitch. She was going to die for a blank piece of paper. Jean told her it was in a drawer in the workroom. Hmm, how much it would be worth to Hammid?
* * *
It was only 8:00 pm when Marie turned up Jean’s walkway, so Jean should still be up. She ran up the stairs and pushed Jean’s bell. “Jean, it’s me. Marie. I forgot my wallet.”
* * *
Jamilah’s head snapped around and she grabbed the sheath knife from the table in one motion. What the hell is she doing here?
The bell chimed again. “Jean, sorry to bother you, but I’m stuck without my wallet, honey. It’s just me. Marie. Sorry.”
She’s not going away without her wallet, Jamilah thought. Think. She put the tape back across Jean’s mouth to muffle her singing and waited silently.
* * *
Strange, thought Marie. She didn’t say she was going out, and I doubt she would sleep through the bell. I wonder… She hopped up on the brick railing, held onto a drainpipe, and leaned over so she could look between the edge of the window and the curtain. Jean was right in the middle of the room, blindfolded, gagged, and duct taped to a chair, and a woman crouched next to her with a knife in her hand. What’s going on here?
She silently got off the railing and rang the bell again. “Jean, come on, honey. I can’t get home without my wallet.” She leaned hard on the bell and let it chime over and over while she pushed Callahan’s speed dial on her phone.
“Hello?”
“Jean’s house. Emergency. Red alert. Going in.”
* * *
“Damn,” Callahan blurted. She’s nuts. It’s Costa Rica all over again. What’s wrong with her? He grabbed the small Walther pistol the Watcher had provided and ran from his hotel room. Downstairs he dialed the Watcher. “Jean’s house. Red alert. Weapons free. Go.” He grabbed a taxi, gave an address around the corner from Jean’s flat, shoved a hundred-pound note at the driver, and said, “Now. I want to be there now!”
* * *
Jamilah hauled Jean and the chair into the back workroom, straightened her hair in the bathroom mirror, rolled up her sleeves and smeared some face cream on her arms and the back of her hands. She carefully slid the second syringe into her pocket and took several deep breaths. The damn bell kept ringing, and that stupid woman kept yelling about her wallet.
“Ok. Ok, I’m coming,” yelled Jamilah. “Just give me a sec.” She clicked the lock back and forth and rattled the door chain unnecessarily when she opened the door and smiled at Marie. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She giggled. “I was giving Jean her aromatherapy massage. I’m Katherine.” She held up her smeared hands and arms. “Do come in. Please. I’m really sorry.”
Marie went with it. Think I’m stupid? Ok. “Oh, it’s me who should be sorry. I’m so stupid leaving my wallet here. Just let me grab it and I’ll be off.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, do come in,” she said, turning and leading Marie into the living room.
When Marie bent and stretched for the poker by the fireplace, Jamilah spun and lunged with the syringe where Marie had been an instant before. Marie’s swing missed Jamilah’s head, but the poker never stopped, whipping in a circle above her head and smashing the syringe on Jamilah’s next sweep.
Jamilah drew her knife and crouched like a dancer, making some quick jabs and feints. Marie kept the poker whirling in a figure-eight motion in front of her, changing the rhythm so Jamilah couldn’t anticipate its moves. Keep it moving, loose and relaxed means speed, don’t focus on the knife. Let your body fight, let your training fight.
Marie spun around and jabbed the poker straight at Jamilah’s eyes. It brushed her ear, but Jamilah recovered and her knife came under the poker in a lightning arc that nearly gutted Marie.
Marie backed off and held the poker Kali style, right hand holding the poker over her shoulder and down her back, and left hand gripping it under her right arm pit. That allowed a down strike with the right hand, or a sideways strike with the left. Both were cocked.
Jamilah lunged with her right hand and Marie swung the poker sideways with her left, aiming at Jamilah’s arm, but giving enough reach to hit her ribs. Either would be good. Jamilah gasped as the poker raked across her ribs, and she felt something rip. She slashed the knife back and forth, but couldn’t get the reach she needed because of her collapsed left side. Marie danced sideways. Jamilah couldn’t breathe. All she could manage were short breaths and she had to keep her left arm crooked tightly against her side to even stand up.
Marie sensed victory, but kept a distance. Jamilah could be faking her injury to lure her in close enough for the knife. She gripped the poker in the Kali stance again, and this time came over the top, knocking the knife to the floor, and continuing around in the same motion to hit the injured left side again. The stick moves by itself. Let it find its targets. The twirling poker never stopped, took the knee and side again. This time Jamilah went down.
Marie slipped behind her, whipped the poker around Jamilah’s front, and caught her throat in the vee formed by the poker and her wrist. Seven seconds of pressure on the carotid arteries were enough for Jamilah to lose consciousness. Marie grabbed he duct tape and taped the poker across the back of Jamilah’s neck so she could twist it and cut off the blood flow to the brain. She wanted her alive, and didn’t want to risk permanently damaging her. They needed information. So, she pushed her face into the floor, sat on her back, and controlled her by twisting the poker when she started to struggle.
Ok, Callahan, now’s a good time to show up. But, the Watcher arrived first, and came in the open door with a gun in hand. He said nothing, just grabbed the roll of duct tape and taped Jamilah’s hands and feet.
“You alright?” he asked Marie when she stood up.
“Yeah, thanks for the help. Jean’s tied up somewhere around here. You watch her,” she pointed at Jamilah, “and I’ll go find her.”
Callahan ran up the front steps, took a glance around, closed the front door, and looked at the Watcher.
“All
secure here, but I don’t know what’s up back there. Marie says Jean is back there somewhere.”
Callahan quickly moved through each room, gun out, checking closets and behind doors. When he reached the back, Marie was cutting Jean loose from the chair while Jean hummed “Yellow Submarine.” The room stank of gasoline or alcohol.
“Look at this,” said Marie, pointing to the solvent, rags, and propane torch. “I’d say she plans to burn the place down.” Callahan went to the kitchen, lifted the top of the stove, and blew out the pilot lights.
After Marie filled Callahan in on the details, he gave the Watcher Marie’s hotel keycard and sent him back for her drug kit. They taped a snarling Jamilah to the wooden chair, and laid Jean down on the couch, with ankles taped, to recover from the drug.
“And this is all because you forgot your wallet?” Callahan asked.
“It’s my lucky wallet. If I hadn’t left it, I’d have a few magazines, this one,” she nodded at Jamilah, “would have whatever info she wanted, and that one,” she nodded at Jean, “would be a crispy critter by now. Remember what the Marshall keeps saying? Pray for luck and everything else will work out? Guess he has a point.”
Callahan picked up the poker. “Where’d you learn stick fighting?”
“The Chief Archivist. Knives, sticks, bottles, rolled up magazines. He does them all. We train at lunch every day.”
When the Watcher came back with the drugs, they gave Jean another dose of the knockout drug, dressed her, and spilled some wine on her clothes. Then the Watcher bundled her into the back of his taxi like any other drunken fare and drove off. They would decide what to do with her later. Now they had to deal with Jamilah.
Under the drugs, she answered only in Arabic. She knew Hammid had the treaty, and she knew where it was. She knew a lot, and she told them a lot. And she cheerfully told them of her plans for Jean Randolph.
Before they left, Marie carefully placed the blank piece of Twelfth Century paper in a sealed envelope, and put Jamilah’s cell phone in her pocket. They dressed Jamilah in the long T-shirt Jean wore to bed, cut her hair to Jean’s length, placed her in the bed, and gave her a lethal overdose of the knockout drug.
* * *
“Fire, fire, fire!” Callahan stomped in the door of flat on the top floor of Jean’s building, grabbed the old woman in his arms while she grabbed her cat, ran down the stairs and put them both on the curb across the street. The couple in the second floor was already out, roused by his shouts and banging. The flames could now be seen flickering behind the windows of Jean’s first-floor flat.
He was wearing his Fine WoodWorking clothes, checked shirt, work boots, porkpie hat, and heavy pants, and he had a large crow bar in his hand. He raced up the steps to Jean’s door, wrenched it off the frame with the crowbar, and ran into the flat. The fire was spreading nicely, fed by the paint, art solvent, and loose papers littering the flat. He kept an eye on his escape route, checked that the bedroom was engulfed in flames, scattered books and papers, rubbed ashes on his face, hands, and clothes, and waited until the last minute to dash out the front, coughing and choking.
By now, the whole flat was belching flames, and the fire had spread to the second floor. “There’s a woman in there!” he shouted to the firemen who had just arrived. “Couldn’t get her.” He coughed and stumbled. “In a room half-way back… couldn’t get her… too hot… the smoke…”
The fire brigade ran their hoses and sent blasts of water straight into Jean’s flat, but the flames only strengthened. Others concentrated on the buildings on either side, making sure the fire didn’t spread. The fire had moved to the third floor and the entire building was a loss. Callahan eased back through the crowd, down the block, and around the corner. Marie was waiting in the Fine WoodWorking van. He threw his crowbar in the back and she started the engine.
“Everybody get out?” she asked.
“Yeah, everybody except that unfortunate woman who lived in the first floor flat.”
Marie handed him Jamilah’s cell phone and Callahan scanned the message she had composed. He shrugged. “Looks good to me. She said she would send a message when she finished, and I guess she’s finished.” He handed the phone back.
“Poor Jamilah’s last words…” Marie pushed the send button, started the van, and moved into traffic.
“How about Elliot?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Elliot. Did you get Elliot out?”
“Elliot?” Did he miss someone? “Who’s he?”
“Elliot… Jean said he was the cat who lived upstairs with the old lady… used to come down for snacks… cocktail shrimp.”
“I got the old lady from the third floor, and the couple from the second floor, and yeah, I guess that orange cat with the old lady must have been Elliot.”
“Good. Think we can get the Marshall to pay for those folks on the second and third floor?”
“I don’t think there’s any question about it. It’s an old Templar tradition, superstition maybe. We need to let him know. Gotta take care of the civilians, especially our own. I suspect some obscure foundation will step up and buy a cottage for the old woman and her cat. Maybe a fashionable flat for the couple? You know how it goes.”
Chapter Nine
London - Sunday, April 5
The Watcher transferred Jean to two men behind a warehouse. They loaded her into a van, handcuffed one leg and one wrist to “D” rings on the side of the van, and taped a cloth over both eyes. She could lie comfortably on the mattress, but was stretched out full-length with no chance to move away from the side of the van. One man climbed in the back, while the other drove.
She began to stir, and when the grogginess passed, the violent struggle with the woman in her bedroom came back, then being tied to the chair and receiving another injection of some sort. And now she was in the back of a truck? Kidnapped? By whom? Why? The woman? Hammid? A Beatles tune played in her head. Where did that come from?
She tried to move, but her hands and feet were tightly secured. Her mouth was dry, but she managed, “Hello, is anybody there?”
The man in the back had been watching her since she began to regain her wits. “Yes. Would you like some water?”
She nodded and he helped her raise her head and tipped a water bottle to her lips.
“Where am I? Where are we going? What’s going on?”
“If you remain quiet, I’ll leave the gag off your mouth. If you say another word, just one single word, I’ll tape your mouth. Nod if you understand.” The voice was even, not angry, not threatening. She shuddered. Worse. It sounded professional.
She nodded. This had to be those damn Arabs, she thought, but the voice was pure London.
“We have about fifteen minutes left, then you will have access to toilet facilities, food, and drink.”
“Where are we? I…” she blurted before catching herself.
The strip of duct tape cut off any more conversation. That was stupid, she thought. How long had they been driving? She didn’t hear any traffic or city noise, no horns or music, and the vehicle wasn’t making any turns, so they were probably on a highway somewhere.
A woman had attacked her in bed, but a man spoke to her now. How many were in on this? Had the woman been an Arab? She remembered grabbing thick black hair, but that’s where memory began to blur. Damn.
* * *
The door closed gently, but firmly behind her, and she heard a lock clicking into place. They had silently placed her sitting on the floor and had cut the tape binding her hands.
She carefully pulled the duct tape off her eyes, mouth, and ankles, and looked around the room. A single light fixture hung from the ceiling, a futon with clean linen was on the floor, and a heavy table with an equally heavy bench was opposite the futon. She wouldn’t be lifting either table or bench to use as a weapon. She saw a toilet, washbowl, and shower stall in an alcove, but no door for privacy. Worst of all, there were no windows.
She slowly stretched the
painful joints. What time was it? Where was she? How long had they had her? She listened intently for the slightest sound or vibration. Nothing. Cameras blinked from the ceiling in two corners, and she refused to look in the alcove with the shower and toilet.
It was a cell, more comfortable than most, but still a cell, and she was the prisoner. A familiar suitcase and purse were on the table, familiar because they were hers. She opened the suitcase and found her own casual clothes, hair dryer, brushes, makeup, and lotions. A woman must have packed this. The book she had been reading when the woman attacked her in bed was next to the suitcase.
She rooted through the purse and found everything but her cell phone, and the cash and credit cards from her wallet, and her keys were gone. That made sense since she had a small knife and teargas spray on the key ring. Was this her captors’ attempt at some psychological play? What did they call it? The Helsinki effect? Or Stockholm syndrome? It was something like that.
A knock on the door, a door with no knob on the inside, interrupted her inspection. A male voice told her to move to the far corner of the room. When she did, the door opened and a hand placed a tray of food on the floor. The door closed and locked again.
The food was good, two excellent roast-beef sandwiches and two flimsy bottles of water, but there were no utensils. No knife, no fork, no spoon. She wondered if they would ever be serving Jello.
Well, there wasn’t much to do. And to hell with the cameras. She showered and got ready for bed, walking around naked more than necessary. Was she playing the game, too? What if they were pointing and laughing?
She felt surprisingly tired. Maybe an after effect of the drugs? She fell asleep with an old Patrick McGoohan TV show playing in her head. What was it? The Prisoner…
The Templar Concordat Page 21
