His eyes remained wide and uncomprehending. “Blimey, you’d make the perfect spy. If this is real and not some elaborate trick, girl, you should join MI-6.”
Max appeared to calm himself down as he ran his hand over his face, scrubbing the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. “All right, Athena, let’s say I believe you. Tell me what you saw when you shook Winston’s hand yesterday.”
Two minutes later, she finished but added, “I saw the gym locker number and the combination on his lock, but the note that was left inside his locker, I couldn’t read. It could be something personal, but I don’t think so. I think it has to do with the plot to harm the Prime Minister when he goes to the United States.”
Max took a small notebook and pen out of his jacket’s breast pocket. “Run it by me again, Athena, but this time, slow it down.”
She did, pausing to replay in her mind slow-motion what had flashed into her brain in a couple of seconds. “The locker number is forty-seven, on the right-hand side as you face a large wall mirror. If you go to the end of the locker row and turn right, that’s the men’s bathroom. To the left are the showers. A hand put the note through one of the three slats at the top of the locker, then the man glanced at himself in the mirror, making sure all the locker rows were empty and no one saw him. It was in Winston Blake’s mind, I think, because he was imagining this man doing this. He knows this man and this is their—what do you call it?”
“Dead drop,” supplied Max.
“Yes. I think Mr. Blake has been checking his gym locker every day since coming home to London. He’s waiting for something important.”
“I know his gym. He told me yesterday he goes there whenever he’s back in country.” Max stood up abruptly. “C’mon, Athena, I want you to come with me.” He thrust the pen and notebook into her right hand. “On the way, sketch the man’s face. If you can.”
Surprised, she sputtered, “O-okay”, and followed him outside where he flagged down a taxi. In the back, she began the outline of a man’s face, filled in the head, with its receding hairline, the man’s mustache and beard, but was stymied by the details of the eyes and nose. When she looked up, the surrounding neighborhood startled her.
“You didn’t see this?” Max asked her.
“No, I just saw the inside of the gym.” Nervous all of a sudden, for the taxi was cruising down the main thoroughfare of a Middle Eastern neighborhood, an area called a “No-Go Zone” by local Brits, also known as a Sharia zone. Her father had told her that there were now over ninety local Sharia courts in Great Britain, where Islamic Sharia domestic and civil laws held almost as much legal weight as British national laws. A Muslim man could beat one of his wives, or all of them, and not suffer any consequences. Very few non-Muslims ventured into these neighborhoods.
Max told the driver to stop in front of a gym that catered only to men and from the look of it, mostly Middle Eastern men. He prodded her to the sidewalk.
“I’m going inside to check out Win’s locker. If this combination number checks out, I’ll take a quick look inside. Meanwhile, I want you to look over any security tapes they might have. If you see the man in your sketch, let me know.”
“But Max, I’m not authorized—“
“You’re with me, so you’re authorized.” He looked at her hair, tucked inside the collar of her parka, and unfurled the black scarf he wore around his neck. He wrapped it around her head and tied it under her chin. “So we don’t cause a riot. This is Little Kandahar.”
The gym was small, consisting of two rooms filled with machines. In one corner, a roped-off ring for kickboxing and other close quarters combat dominated. In the rear, a door led to the men’s locker room, bathroom and showers. To their immediate left was the manager’s office.
Max showed his gold badge to an older, gray-haired, swarthy-complexioned man who sat behind a desk, his eyes glued to a computer screen. At the man’s side, another monitor sat, its screen divided into quarters, indicating four separate security cameras on the premises. There were no cameras in the locker room or bathroom—for privacy’s sake, Athena surmised. When Max requested that the man show Athena, his “partner”, the security tapes for the past twenty-four hours, the man scowled, but reluctantly complied. The man, Mohammed something-or-other, turned off his computer and allowed her to sit at his desk while he rewound the security tape back to the day before, and then played it forward. He showed her how she could fast-forward it as needed. As she began to concentrate on her task, the manager closed the door behind him as he accompanied Max to the locker room. She heard him bark at someone, a young bearded man who then entered the office and stood by the door, occasionally sliding angry looks at her.
Obviously, these men did not approve of women invading their turf, no matter how official they appeared. The sooner they accomplished their mission, the better. Minutes passed…five…ten…. The manager’s watchdog kept glaring at her, trying to intimidate her. Not that his hostile stance didn’t make her a little nervous. It did, but she persisted in focusing on her task as well as she could.
She fast-forwarded the tape at several points, slowed down at others. At the tape’s time imprint of six o’clock p.m., a young man with a mustache and beard entered the gym. She punched the stop button. He looked like the man she’d seen, the man in Winston Blake’s mind. With her cell phone, she took a photo of the screen on pause, added details to her sketch and pressed fast-forward.
Just then, Max re-entered the office with the gray-haired manager in tow. The man looked livid, outrage clearly erupting from his expression. Although Max reminded the manager their visit should remain confidential, even Athena knew such a demand would be impossible to enforce. Still, she breathed a sigh of relief when they could leave this very inhospitable place.
Back in their waiting taxi, they exchanged information. Athena showed him her completed sketch and the photo she’d taken. The photo’s resolution was poor, but her sketch was as accurate as she could manage.
“I’ll have a tech run it through our database.” Which database it was, he wasn’t about to share with her. Her father had mentioned a terrorist watch list, a No-Fly list, and several more, but she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.
“What did you find?” She let out another deep breath as they left the No-Go Zone. When the cab turned down a street onto Euston Road, heading west toward Marylebone Road, she realized how tense she’d been.
“Your description of the locker room was spot-on. I found Win’s locker, used the combination you saw, unlocked it, and here’s what I found inside. I took a photo and left it there, of course. Good thing we came early, before Win showed up for his daily workout.”
The photo on his smartphone showed a note, with black calligraphy and hand-written block letters and numbers on white paper. She couldn’t decipher the Arabic, of course, but the letters and numbers were discernible. CNB, followed by ten numbers. Underneath were three sets of numbers beginning with the District of Columbia’s area code.
“What does it mean?” she wondered aloud, giving Max his notebook.
“You don’t know?” He stared at her for a moment.
“I don’t always know how to interpret what I see,” she said in explanation.
He nodded, seeming to understand.
“The Arabic, I’ve no clue. I’ll get it translated. The rest, my best guess, is, Cayman National Bank, a private account number, and a contact phone number in D.C. This may be harmless, and I hope to God it is. Win’s got some family money, so I don’t see him betraying his country for financial gain.”
To Athena’s mind, Max didn’t sound that certain. Yet, his first reaction was to suspend judgment in defense of his old schoolmate.
In counterpoint to his words, Max’s glum facial expression told it all. She said, “You really don’t think so, do you, Max?” He shook his head, a haunted look darkening his deep-set eyes.
The taxi pulled to a stop in front of the coffeehouse in Kensington. Max’s motorcycle wa
s parked a short distance away. He paid the driver, and they slid out. As rain began to steadily fall, Athena and Max stood huddled together. Despite the nerve-racking experience, she was glad she’d taken the plunge and revealed the truth to Max.
“For the time being, Athena, let’s keep this information to ourselves. I’ve got to check out some things first. Don’t even tell your father. I don’t want to cast aspersions on a pal without more evidence to support it.”
She smiled. “Okay. Promise me, you’ll keep my secret…a secret. Father doesn’t want anyone in the Foreign Office to know about me. Or about Mum, either.”
Max made a sound between a snort and a laugh. “Guess he’s afraid MI-6’ll try to recruit you both. Can’t blame him. It’s dangerous work. When you agreed to come along with me today, I knew you weren’t just fucking around. Athena, you’ve got my word. Your secret’s safe with me.” He took back his scarf and wrapped it around his neck.
Tucking her head under her parka’s hood, she watched him mount and ride off. Then she turned and walked down Portobello Road.
Max held his emotions close to his vest, she knew—it was probably part of his job description. She marveled how impassive he’d kept his countenance throughout the whole incident. But she knew what they’d uncovered—ugly truth or harmless note—had truly shaken him.
She wondered what he’d do next.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two hours later, as Athena was applying the last mauve-tinted shadows to Alex Skoros’ face and neck, her mother knocked and then abruptly entered the third story bedroom. Athena was standing by her dormer window, where there was at least some natural light, however weak, alternating between wishing she could do “plein air” studies in sunny California and thoughts of Kas Skoros bare-chested in animal-print briefs.
Her mother came over to have a look at the portrait. “I thought I heard you come back in. Ohh, va bene. Che bello, figlia mia!”
“Thanks, Mum.” Athena paused and took a step back. “Do you like his pose?” She’d painted Alex standing in front of the family’s carved wood mantelpiece, his left arm slung lazily back and resting on the wood, as if he were in the middle of regaling his family with a funny story. Alex, the born raconteur. Lorena and her family, she felt, would love this interpretation of their most charming male member. “I’m pleased with it. It’s turning out well, probably my best portrait so far. Using one hand is making it a little slow going but it’s coming along. What do you think, Mum?”
“Yes, by far, your best. You’ve captured Alex’s winning personality,” agreed Anna Butler. She stared at the bedroom door. “Where did you go so early this morning?”
Athena lowered her voice in case her father was nearby. “I met with Max, told him what I saw in Winston Blake’s mind. Don’t tell Father, please. Max wants to do some digging before anyone jumps to possibly wrong conclusions and we don’t want to jam up Father’s relationship with his new secretary, do we?”
Anna agreed with a curt nod and a frown.
“Listen, our plans for visiting Nonna in Como have changed somewhat. Your Uncle Terence is ill, we think with the flu, and your father wants to stay and watch over him. But I told him he needs a real vacation. Italy would do him a world of good. He hasn’t seen Nonna and Giancarlo in over a year, and so I insisted that he come with Chris and me. We need you to stay, to help with meals and cleaning.” She stopped as Athena opened her mouth to protest. “I know you’ll miss seeing Nonna and Zio Giancarlo but that can’t be helped. I need to see my mother, and Chris missed out on the last visit because of a soccer tournament, so he’ll be coming with us. We’re flying to Milano this afternoon.”
With extreme disappointment mixed with resignation, Athena nodded, then shrugged gallantly. “Oh well, it’ll give me a chance to finish this and mail it off.”
It appeared her mother was about to say something, but she stopped and nodded instead.
“You know how to make a stew, a pot roast, bangers and mash. The deli has pasties, and your uncle’s favorite herring salads. I know he likes the herring in mustard and dill sauce, so buy some of that, Athena. I think Uncle Terence would love some comfort food. He can barely hold down chicken broth for now, but he will bounce back. Mrs. Hughes will come over if you need an extra hand—“
Athena made a dismissive gesture. “No need. I can handle domestic duties, Mum. I’m not a child.” Another thought occurred to her. Mikayla was having a New Year’s Eve party back in D.C. She wondered what Kas would be doing for New Year’s.
Her mother stretched on her tiptoes and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I know you’re not, figlia mia, but you have only one working arm. If all goes well, we’ll be back in one week and then on to America.” She stopped at the doorway on her way out. “It’s important that you finish Alex’s portrait.”
A lump rose in Athena’s throat. She knew what her mother was trying to tell her. Yet, such a horrible premonition—if that’s indeed what it was and nothing more—was better left unspoken. She looked around and rapped her knuckles on the wooden window sill.
“Yes, I know.”
****
Lovely aromas wafted from the open crockpot, pleasing Athena, and apparently her uncle, as well, who sat at the dining alcove in the kitchen. Uncle Terence, who was sixty years old to her father’s fifty-four, huddled in his bathrobe across the table, a well-used handkerchief held to his mouth. Poor man, he looked like death warmed over, but he’d survived the worst of his flu and now was starved for real food.
“Ahh, smells divine! Serve it up, my darling girl!”
Pleased that one of her two favorite uncles was looking forward to her beef stew, she ladled out several scoops per bowl and took them to the table. A basket of sliced French bread already waited to sop up the thick brown gravy she’d added to the stew. Just the way her uncle liked it! She was just about to serve her own bowl when her cell phone buzzed. The screen warned her to keep it private.
“Sorry, it’s a call from D.C. Go ahead, Uncle, don’t wait for me.” She answered the phone as she walked into the living room across the central hallway. It was Detective Ochoa.
“Hope I’m not interrupting. It’s noon here, my lunch break.”
Athena’s heart pounded. Had they caught the serial killer? Did her and her mother’s clairvoyance really help to catch this man? “No, not a problem, Detective.”
“Palomino wanted me to give you an update, for courtesy’s sake. Is your mother there?” She told him no, but she’d be in touch with her that night. “Okay, that’s fine. What we’ve learned from the skipper of the Baltimore Bullworth is this: Our Person of Interest, whose real identity I can’t reveal to you, is still the target of a massive search. When the skipper learned of our subpoena to detain his crew member, he told the man. We learned two days later the target jumped ship in Johannesburg and is now in the wind. So, our only recourse was to put out a BOLO with Interpol and the South African state police. This guy’s too smart to pull this kind of disappearing act, which screams ‘guilty’. We’re completely baffled, didn’t expect this. If you and your mother have any dreams, visions, whatever, about this jerk, let us know, okay?”
Her hopes for a resolution to this case plummeted. “All right, Detective, will do. I’ll call you, if and when we get anything.”
When she joined her uncle at the table, he noticed her look.
“Bad news, Athena?” Terence Butler asked, his spoon pausing midair.
She remembered her father’s disapproval of her and her mother getting involved with police cases, so she just shrugged. If Uncle Terence knew, then within hours her father would know. “Just a friend at the Institute. Her boyfriend broke up with her, and she’s upset.”
Lying was not her forte but, apparently, she sounded convincing.
“Well, too bad, but everyone gets his or her heart broken at least once in a lifetime. Isn’t that true?”
Uncle Terence, a retired solicitor and widower, wiped his sweaty brow and scooped
up another helping of stew. “If I recall correctly, your father had his broken several times before he met Anna. He seemed to fall in love every month or so.”
That tidbit made Athena smile. “So Father was a softie at heart.”
Terence tore a thick slice of bread in two. “Ah, yes, indeed, you could say so. Chris recently informed me of his string of disappointments with the opposite sex. He, unfortunately, I might add, has taken after his old dad. Shameless romantics. Crocodile hides but marshmallow hearts.”
Athena smiled. “I like that. Marshmallow hearts and crocodile hides. I know someone else like that. A friend in California.”
“More’s the pity,” chimed in Uncle Terence. “You and Anna, the frail females of the Butler family, are proving to be anything but. Wouldn’t you agree, Athena? Our women—you and your mother—are as tough as nails. Your hearts are not so easily broken, are they?”
Her uncle’s piercing blue eyes—a trait of the Butlers—looked into hers. Her thoughts ran to Tony, her former co-worker, and how he’d tricked his way into their condo and probably a little into Athena’s heart. Maybe she wasn’t as tough as Uncle Terence thought. Immediately, her chest twisted and she thought of Kas Skoros. How could their brief meeting and fleeting sexual fling have affected her so much? She had a crush on him, that was true, but nothing more. Surely! And that nonsense of cousin Lorena’s, about their future together, was just that, nonsense. Bollocks, as Max would say. Outright bollocks.
“I’ve gotten tougher with each year, Uncle Terence. And I imagine by the time I’m thirty, I’ll be an iron maiden.”
Her reference to the medieval torture chamber, obliquely implying how she’d be treating the opposite sex, finally sank in, causing her uncle to burst out laughing.
“Iron maiden, indeed. Well done, Athena, a double entendre. However, I don’t believe it for a minute. You just haven’t met the man who deserves you. The man you’re meant to be with.”
Athena's Secrets Page 19
