“Really? I broke my arm when I was fourteen, a really bad compound fracture. It took almost six months to heal. I thought the bullet really messed up your bone.”
Athena just shrugged. “I guess the damage wasn’t as bad as they thought. The bone healed quickly.”
He removed his hand while his gaze roved over her hair, face and upper torso. She was wearing a lavender-colored T-shirt with a deep V-neck. He paused for a split second there before lifting his gaze.
“Okay, it’s a date, then. When I get back in two weeks.”
“Sounds good.”
At least, he’s not gay. Thank God!
And he doesn’t live in California. And he’s not married.
For the first time since Alex’s funeral, she felt a weight lift off her chest and a bubble float up in her mind. A bubble of hope lessened the deep emotional pain of losing Kas and Alex. But Kas was the man she would never have but still yearned for. Ninny!
For now, that little bubble of hope was enough.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Athena hadn’t heard from Max since the meeting with the ambassador at Wharfside. She also hadn’t seen her father in days since he’d involved himself in the security end of the PM’s visit. The only thing she’d heard was that the Embassy was adhering to the PM’s planned schedule, known by at least one hundred people on the staff—including her father’s secretary, Winston Blake. But only the seven present at their dinner meeting that night were privy to the heightened security risk of Sunday evening’s dinner-dance in the mansion’s main ballroom.
At least, those who had believed her assessment of the situation were worried. Counting her parents and probably Max and John, that made four. She couldn’t blame the others, including Sir Peter Willcott, for discounting her apparent voodoo clairvoyant tricks. They were skeptical, and why wouldn’t they be? Why should they believe her? She’d proven her courage in being the bait for the Serbians’ ambush, but hadn’t proven her clairvoyant abilities to the ambassador. Max and her father had nixed the idea of “reading” the ambassador and possibly exposing secret thoughts or memories better kept private. Humiliating the man would not win him to their side.
Late Sunday afternoon, her mother was getting ready for the dinner-dance event, had laid out her beautiful royal blue chiffon gown, and was now singing in the shower. Chris was upstairs in his room on his computer, doing who-knew-what, while her father had taken his evening clothes to change into at the mansion. A car would pick her mother up and her father would meet Anna at the mansion entrance at seven sharp.
The relative peace and quiet was heaven-sent, it seemed, so she took advantage of it. For two hours, she sat on her stool in her corner of the living room, back to work on her Manet pastiche. When her cell phone jangled two bars of the latest popular dance tune, her stomach leapt—was it Kas? Had he told his father and Abe Theopoulis to shove it? That he loved Athena and wanted to be with her?
It was a letdown when she realized it was Max calling.
“I need you here as soon as you can possibly make it.” When she said nothing, he added urgently, “Athena, this is no joke. Winston called in sick, said he’s got the stomach flu. Like hell, the bugger. He’s getting ready to run, now that the attack’s all set up. We know it’s tonight but from who? From where? We’ve vetted everyone concerned a second time without his knowledge. The orchestra members, the caterers, the florist, the car valets, limo owners and drivers. The fireworks people. We haven’t overlooked anyone. If any of those people had so much as a parking ticket, we’ve checked him out. Weeks’ worth of background checks, and nothing!”
She immediately thought about her mother and father, the ambassador, the prime minister and his wife, the president and his wife. A chill ran through her. Suddenly, a picture of the Greeks’ Trojan horse sprang to mind, straight from the pages of her Western Civ tome.
“Athena, this is no joke! Blake’s got something up his sleeve, and we haven’t found it. We need your help!”
She blinked. A Trojan horse, where did that come from? She held up her paint-smeared hands and arms and groaned. “Max, I’ve got paint all over me.”
“Clean up as best you can. I’ll send John for you, and I’ll get Winston down here if I have to go there and grab him by his collar. On second thought, pick up some soup and bring it with you. We’ll pay him a visit. We’ve got eyes on him, and he’s still in the Residence, playing sick.”
“Okay, give me fifteen minutes.”
“You have ten. John’s on his way as we speak.”
She understood what Max was going to have her do, bring some soup to the man on behalf of her father. Winston Blake, like many of the single men and women amongst the approximately two hundred-odd diplomats and over one hundred additional staffers who worked at the Embassy, lived on the grounds in a five-story residence hall. Somehow, she knew Max wanted her to make physical contact with the traitor without alerting him to their suspicions.
After one long, lingering look at her pastiche, she wrapped up her brushes in foil—she’d clean them later. If she survived the evening, she’d return and finish it. She tore off her painting smock and ran upstairs. Her mother was still showering. Why bother her? Athena planned to be back before her mother, all dolled up for the evening, left in their rented limousine. She washed up as best she could, redid her ponytail and changed into a clean turtleneck top. Her jeans were smudged with paint, but there wasn’t time to find something else. On her way downstairs with her jacket, she peeked into Chris’s room.
“Chris, tell Mum I’ve gone to meet Max at the Embassy.”
His back to her, engrossed in his electronic game, he raised a hand and made an “O” with his right thumb and forefinger. “Gotcha.” In Chris’s lingo, that meant, “Roger that.”
Skipping down the stairs, she considered how lucky Chris was, not to have been burdened with a mental power like clairvoyance. He didn’t have a broken arm, did he? He wasn’t called away on a moment’s notice to help their father’s security team, was he? He didn’t have to worry about offending his dates by reading their minds, did he?
There were definite advantages to being normal!
Right on the dot, John screeched up to the curb in one of the black Range Rovers that Max’s security team seemed to live in. She was barely strapped into the passenger seat when he took off in a roar.
In all the rush, she’d forgotten the soup. When she said as much, John just shrugged. He’d stop and pick up something at a deli in Georgetown.
****
The Embassy of the United Kingdom nestled among groves of trees on a gargantuan estate of manicured lawns. The compound was situated at the northern end of Embassy Row, or Massachusetts Avenue—which the Americans called Mass Ave—northwest of Dupont Circle. It included the ambassador’s residence and the old and new chanceries, the old chancery having been converted into staff quarters and offices. In the forecourt of the mansion stood a statue of Winston Churchill, his right arm raised in his once famous speaking gesture. The flag of the European Union flew alongside the Union flag but flapped lower on the poles than the Union Jack. Its symbolism was not lost on anyone who visited. The British wanted the world to know which came first in their hearts and minds. This compound, for all intents and purposes, was Great Britain.
John showed his credentials at the gate, and Athena showed her ID. She noted the extra security at the heavy wrought iron gates. Royal Marines lined the front entrance, more than she’d ever seen before at the Embassy. Cleared, John steered the Range Rover onto the cobbled roundabout driveway that skirted the forecourt and Churchill’s statue. In one hour, the limos would begin to appear, taking their place in the long queue that would stretch all the way back to the massive entrance gate, always well-guarded by Royal Marines, but now a veritable fortress. Their task was to scrutinize each driver and passenger, each guest in turn, visually and manually, referring to the list of guests already vetted and approved.
Athena also noted the extra
security on the grounds, a mixture of Royal Marines and plainclothes agents like Max and John, all holding their positions and all armed to the teeth. Barring a rogue airplane aiming for the mansion, she didn’t see how an assailant could possibly break the security barrier.
By stealth, just like the Trojan horse.
The words kept running through her mind. Plain ol’ intuition was telling her that a plot was already in action. John gestured to the white panel trucks, already cleared by the guards at the gate. The florist and catering trucks had arrived and were winding their way to the rear of the Mansion, about to disgorge men and women in mostly black-and-white uniforms. She saw three trucks stop along the side entrance and, within seconds, an army of workers vanished into the Mansion, burdened with enormous displays of bouquets, candelabras, and other table accoutrements.
John took the side road that led to the Residence building behind the mansion. Athena had always found the mansion breathtakingly beautiful. The building reminded her of Chatsworth, the Duke of Devonshire’s country home, which she’d visited once with her family years ago. Almost hidden among the copses of tall, mature trees, the three-winged, five-story building held its own Edwardian-era charm. Constructed of pale yellow stone and brick, the Residence beckoned with an entrance framed with sculpted pediments.
If her father had been single, he most likely would’ve lived there. The building was finer than their modern brick-and-glass condo building, and his commute would’ve been five minutes instead of close to fifty. Reminders of her father were everywhere: The lawn where he’d played a friendly cricket game—the diplomats versus the staffers—at which she’d cheered him on as a fourteen-year-old, while ten-year-old Chris got to clean the balls and wickets.
She glanced over to the mansion, partially hidden by the trees, but lit up like a birthday cake. Her parents had brought her and Chris, all dressed up with shining faces, to several events there over the past six years of her father’s posting in Washington. She wondered if her parents would miss the States when the time came to move on. Talk at the dinner table had proven to her that Anna and Trevor Butler were ready to leave. Europe, preferably Italy or Switzerland, were high on their wish list. Her mother wanted to be closer to Nonna in her waning years, and Como, where Nonna and Zio Giancarlo lived, was one hour’s drive from Milan. Even Rome was just hours away. Her father had already applied for a new posting in Italy.
John had opened the door and was waiting for her while she’d been lost in a kind of nostalgic reverie. She shook herself and jumped out of the Range Rover. Tonight’s mission struck her to the heart. She had to uncover Winston Blake’s plot. He’d been clever and careful enough to keep it hidden these past five months. Obviously, an attack was to be waged against the mansion while he feigned an illness at the Residence.
But how?
“Third floor, room fourteen.” John patted his red windbreaker under which his shoulder holster and pistol rested. “I’ll be in the hallway out of sight. Here, wear this.” He fastened a large pin—in the shape of an American flag and the Union Jack crisscrossed at the bottom—to her jacket lapel. “It’s a micro transmitter. I’ll hear you and Blake. Any trouble, you let me know.” He gave her the plastic deli container filled with now lukewarm soup. She didn’t even know what kind of soup it was.
“How? What should I say if I’m in trouble? Some code word?”
“Just say, bloody hell.”
While not original, Athena figured it would probably do the trick. John looked more than ready to bust Winston Blake’s butt.
The Residence appeared half-deserted, since most of the staffers were helping with the arrangements in some way, some of them, according to her father, doubling as greeters, escorts and ushers. Outside of Winston Blake’s room, she stopped. John had slipped into the men’s restroom at the end of the hallway to wait. For a moment, she organized her thoughts, then rapped loudly on the door. It opened shortly, a hesitant Blake blocking the entrance.
“Hello, Mr. Blake, do you recognize me?” she said with false cheer.
He frowned. “Mr. Butler’s daughter. Yes, hello. I apologize, but I’m not feeling well, have a touch of stomach flu, I believe.” He was fully clothed in slacks, button-down shirt, and sweater vest. “May I help you?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you. My father said I should peek in on you and see how you were doing.” She held up the plastic container. “I brought you some soup. Or maybe I can bring you something from the mansion’s kitchen. How about some hot tea and biscuits?” She caught him staring at her casual attire. “I couldn’t find a gown so I decided not to attend the dinner-dance.” Maybe she was talking too much, in her nervousness.
“What a shame,” he stated flatly, not appearing the least bit interested in her problem. “That’s very kind of you, but I can quite manage on my own. I need to lie down and rest.”
“Yes, of course.” It looked like he wasn’t going to budge from his stance between the door frame and the half-open door. He certainly wasn’t going to invite her in for a cup of tea and a heartfelt chat. Her mind raced for another excuse. “I-I… Yes, lie down, rest… I think…”
She feigned a swoon, followed by an immediate lunge into his body. The container of soup went flying, the lid flipping off and chicken-and-noodle splattering on Blake’s sweater and slacks. He hollered and staggered back, the door to his room swinging widely open. She stumbled over his feet but managed to hold on to his right arm, like a poor swimmer hanging onto her lifeguard. The floor, filled with soup, made her slip and slide. She held onto his arm with her full weight and down they crashed onto the floor.
“What—” Blake cried out just as she began making loud, retching sounds as if she was about to vomit. She turned her head aside but continued to hang onto his arm. Visions came through, but none of them helpful. He was too focused on her and what she was doing that very moment.
With a shriek, she rose to her knees on the floor, then rolled to her back and moved her head from side to side like a woman in the throes of childbirth pains. She’d seen enough such scenes on television to fake her way through this. This time, like those women in childbirth, she clutched onto the nearest man’s arm. She wasn’t going to let go until some relevant vision came through.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Sharp annoyance laced his voice. He yanked his arm away and rose to his feet. No trace of compassion or concern apparent, he stood over her, his arms akimbo. “Look at this mess! Soup all over. My good sweater vest—”
Athena moaned and rolled her head on the floor. “H-help me into a chair. P-please.”
Yeah, please, you bloomin’ asshole.
Her eyes closed as she moaned again. A moment later, she heard him swear under his breath. Blake pulled on her arm to raise her to a sitting position.
“W-water,” she begged, as she bent over her splayed legs like a ragamuffin doll. She needed to keep touching him.
He extricated himself, went to the basin in his room, and drew a glass of water. “Miss Butler, are you quite all right now? You must leave.”
“N-no,” she moaned but shakily held the glass up to her mouth and drank a little. While she drank, she grasped his arm again as he remained crouched over her. Other visions flowed through. Troubling ones to her, but she bet that John and Max would find them interesting.
You dirty, rotten traitor.
After a few more sips, she got to her feet, still holding onto his arm. He shook her off and stepped back.
“Miss Butler, are you well enough to leave on your own? I’m quite ill, myself.”
She swayed a little on her feet and quickly scanned the room. There were two cell phones on his desk by the large window, where he had a partially obstructed view of the Mansion. One of them was his contact phone with the attacker. He was awaiting a call. The assassin was already inside the compound.
“Miss Butler? You must leave. I need to lie down.”
She stared directly at him and turned on her Brit speak. “Ye
s, I think I can make it downstairs. So sorry, ol’ chap. Don’t know what came over me. I might be getting the flu, too. Or something.” At the door, she looked back. She longed to pop him one in the jaw, for Queen and country. She repressed her violent urge and just said coldly, “Goodbye, Mr. Blake.”
Enjoy your prison cell, you fucking scumbag.
Halfway to the Range Rover, John relayed what Athena told him. By the time they climbed back in, two of Max’s security men passed them on their way to Blake’s room. There, he’d be handcuffed and guarded until one of the Embassy’s solicitors could file charges against him. The link between the attacker’s cell phone and Blake’s would solidify the case against him. Blake would never get to enjoy the ten million pounds stashed away on Grand Cayman, courtesy of the wealthy Arabs who’d financed the attack.
“We tracked the money wired to Blake’s Cayman account from several front organizations tied to Hamas and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Payback for helping the Americans in Iraq and Afghanistan, no doubt,” said John on their way back to the mansion after he’d explained to Athena the genesis of this atrocious plot.
He screeched to a halt beside one of the catering trucks. On the far side of the rear parking lot, the concert band members were rolling out their instruments from six gray vans. In small groups, the musicians filed into the rear of the mansion, ascending the back staircase to the large second floor dressing room, adjacent to the Grand Ballroom. In one hour, they would begin playing, but as they moved into the mansion, they appeared to be in no hurry.
She and John stood counting the musicians, John occasionally speaking into the miniature radio mic clipped to his sports jacket. Max and several security guards were upstairs, roaming the ballroom and its two large terraces. They would greet the musicians, in addition to the caterers and decorators, doing last-minute screening and searching.
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