Portland slid the bracelet into the pocket of his multi-pocketed vest with his free hand.
“Where, damn it?” Portland asked, again pricking the neck with the point of the knife.
A red, wet blot stained the neckline of the T-shirt.
The man snarled. “A card game,” he rasped. “Poker.”
“Where?”
“Where you think, man? In the delta, man! You don’t know where it is? Nigeria, man!”
He’d gained confidence despite the pain of his arm. Shock had sobered him; Portland knew that he could become dangerous. The others would look for him.
“Who?”
“My boss.… Frenchman, he didn’t have the money to see me … he put up the bracelet.… I won the hand.”
Trevor had to have been dead, or helpless, for this Frenchman to have removed it.
“Name? Not you, the Frenchman. Who was he?”
The Nigerian resisted the knife’s pressure with a regained confidence.
“Name?”
“Fournier. Alain Fournier.”
Christ!
Portland didn’t debate his next move. He banged the man’s head against the porcelain edge of the nearest urinal and let the unconscious body slump back onto the tiles. He quickly descended the stairs. The other two were still at their table. He threw money on the bar and said good night to the owner, who eyed him questioningly. He had to get out; he trembled. There hadn’t been time for more questions. Alain Fournier, working for SureSafe, a nasty company to be sure.
The noise of traffic replaced the chatter in the pub. Gerrard Street was busy. Drizzle in the air was moved by a frosty breeze. No one followed him. Headlights and lit shop signs glared as he walked blindly toward his flat.
SureSafe. Scum! That wasn’t just his opinion. Mercenaries in every place he’d been where SureSafe was employed to do the governments’ dirty work—freelance kills, oil security, and site protection—agreed. Don’t work for SureSafe, and if they’re operating near you give them wide berth. So went the mercenary mantra. London, Paris, and Washington, D.C., offices. They were big and effective. And brutal.
And Fournier still worked for them, in the Niger Delta.
His hand touched the bracelet in the pocket of his jacket.
Trevor!
He wouldn’t be put off any longer. The shop window against which he leaned was shuttered, protesting his weight with a jangle of its roll-down metal covering. The bracelet had ended up nothing but a trophy won in a goddamn card game. He should have stayed with the Nigerian longer to find out more no matter what the risk.
Pedestrians hurried past, careful to not get too close. Someone would call the police and he didn’t feel up to explaining. He walked unsteadily away from the shop. A young man avoided him and snickered to the girl he had his arm around; Portland heard the words “old sot.” Streetlights and headlights were a messy blur as if he were walking into a haunted castle ride at a fairground from his childhood.
A quiet glass of wine and some pedestrian food in his favorite pub had resulted in being recalled to his former messy life, a life he’d been determined to relegate to the past, to his own personal dustbin of history with its year of alcoholic confusion and another year of lying awake at night wondering what might have been. Trevor had been laid to rest in his mind, a sad memory.
But that memory had now come back to life in a very personal, volatile way.
CHAPTER
5
Brixton listened intensely to Portland’s story, interrupting only to clarify a point. When the Brit was finished, Brixton shook his head and said, “That’s one hell of a story, David.”
“I wish it were only that,” Portland said, “a story. But I’m afraid it represents painful reality. It’s the same bracelet that my father had handcrafted for my mum, the same one she willed to my son just before she died. He wore it constantly, never took it off.” His expression turned hard. “Christ!” he said. “To think that it was won in a bloody card game. My question at the moment is how the Frenchman Fournier came to own it.”
“Tell me about him,” Brixton said.
“Fournier? A smarmy lowlife, Robert. He’s been working for SureSafe for years, most recently protecting XCAL Oil’s employees from Nigerian rebels.”
“And your son Trevor worked for the same company?”
“No. Trevor worked for a survey company that has a contract with XCAL. After Elizabeth brought Trevor to the States for a proper bringing up—my lifestyle certainly didn’t provide that—he enrolled in one of your American colleges, West Virginia University, where he gained a degree in geographical surveying. That degree landed him a job in Nigeria with SealCom. I wasn’t happy with his decision, nor was Elizabeth, but Trevor has always been headstrong.” A smile crossed his face. “I wonder where he got that.”
“I’m sure your ex-wife can provide a quick answer to that question,” said Brixton, also grinning.
Portland fell silent, his glass clasped in both hands, his attention focused on it.
“What’s on your agenda now that you’re back in D.C.?” Brixton asked.
“I called Elizabeth to see what she knows about the possibility that XCAL played a role in Trevor’s murder.”
“Flo and I met your ex the other night,” Brixton said.
“She’s her firm’s lead attorney on the XCAL account.”
“Which puts her in a tough position,” Brixton said. “If she does know about some complicity on XCAL’s part she’d have a hard time going public with it without losing her job.”
“If it turns out that way she’ll just have to deal with it,” said Portland. “My timing is good or bad depending on how you view it. I’m having lunch with her tomorrow before she gets on a plane for London.”
“She travels a lot?” Brixton asked.
“Quite a bit. XCAL has a sizable presence in London. So does Elizabeth’s law firm, Cale, Watson or whatever.”
“Your son is buried in England?” Brixton asked.
“No, here in the States. I arranged for his body to be sent from Nigeria along with his belongings. I never even looked in the box that accompanied him. I assumed that the bracelet was among those belongings. I was obviously wrong.”
Portland spent the next half hour talking about Trevor, and Brixton lent a sympathetic ear. He remembered how much he needed to relive his daughter Janet’s life to those willing to listen, including a psychotherapist whom Flo had encouraged him to see. That need to speak aloud about her had waned, but he still talked to her when sitting alone with a drink on their small balcony, or driving by himself.
The discovery of the bracelet had jarred Portland into action from his painful, albeit peaceful, reverie about his son’s murder, just as Brixton had been forced to pursue his daughter’s killer, which led to his shooting a U.S. senator’s son who’d been complicit in the terrorist act.
“Well,” Brixton said, “I don’t envy your lunch with your ex. I’m sure it will be contentious.”
“Which is all right with me,” Portland said, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Let’s talk about something else. What have you been up to?”
“Things have been slow at the office, but Mac Smith, my attorney friend—friend? Hell, he’s my mentor and benefactor—he has some clients waiting in the wings. He’s also doing work for another client that might interest you.”
“Oh?”
“Ever hear of Borilli Industries?”
“Can’t say that I have. Should I?”
“No reason you would unless you follow the women’s clothing industry. Anthony Borilli owns—I should say owned—a string of ladies’ fashion outlets up and down the East Coast. Made a ton of money from his stores. He had a reputation of being a really nice guy, treated everyone who worked for him with respect, paid salaries that were higher than average. Anyway, according to his son, Anthony Jr., who runs the business today and is Mac’s client, his father started exhibiting signs of dementia.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
“You said that this client of Mac Smith’s would interest me. How?”
“The father got caught up in one of those Nigerian money scams.”
“He must have been demented to fall for something like that. Those Nigerian scams have been around for a long time. I thought everyone was wise to them.”
“Not everyone, David, at least not Anthony Borilli Sr. According to his son, his father started sending sizable sums to some con artist in Nigeria who claimed that he was sitting on millions of dollars that were being held by the corrupt government. You know how the pitch goes. If this guy in Nigeria has the money to pay to release his funds—a couple of hundred thousand bucks or even more—he’ll share the millions with whoever helps him out.”
“And Mr. Borilli bit.”
“Yeah, he took the bait. From what the son told Mac Smith the father damn near drained his personal checking and savings accounts dry. On top of that he siphoned off money from the business.”
“The son, no one else in the family knew what he was doing?” Portland asked.
“Evidently not.”
“How did it get resolved?”
Brixton hesitated before answering. “The father put a revolver in his mouth and blew his brains out.”
Portland sat back in his chair and exhaled.
“Nigeria sounds like a great place,” Brixton said.
“It’s a proud country, Robert, with a seemingly inexhaustible amount of oil and other earthly treasures. The Niger Delta is its oil center. According to what Trevor told me, the natives live in absolute squalor while the oil companies make billions. They pollute the land without even attempting to right the wrongs. Government officials are paid handsomely to look the other way and stuff their pockets with cash while their citizens go hungry.” He threw up his hands. “Enough maudlin talk! Do we have plans for dinner? My treat.”
“Your British pounds aren’t good here,” said Brixton. “We’ll swing by your apartment before picking up Flo at her shop and joining our friends Mac and Annabel at a restaurant. Work for you?”
“Splendid,” said Portland.
“It’s good to have you back, David.”
CHAPTER
6
While Brixton, Flo, the Smiths, and Portland enjoyed dinner together, Elizabeth Sims contented herself with Chinese food delivered to her D.C. condo. She’d canceled a dinner date after receiving a call from her ex-husband insisting that they meet.
“There’s something I have to discuss with you,” he told her.
“Discuss with me? About what?”
“About Trevor.”
“Trevor? Trevor is gone, David. He’s been gone for two years. Let it go.”
“I have let it go, Liz—until now. Look, I’ve come across something in London that raises a question that has to be answered.”
Liz sighed, sat back, and directed a stream of air at an errant lock of bronze-colored hair on her forehead. In the months immediately following Trevor’s murder in Nigeria, during which David had sunken into the depths of alcoholism, he’d called her with regularity, ranting about how Trevor had been killed and who had possibly been behind it. Elizabeth had practiced patience during those calls, which hadn’t been easy. With Portland’s blessing Trevor’s body had been sent to her for a proper burial, which she arranged with the help of her parents in Massachusetts. His personal belongings had also been shipped to Elizabeth, a sizable box wrapped in brown paper. Portland had urged her to open it; “You should have the bracelet my mother gave to Trevor,” he’d said. But the thought of wearing it was anathema to her and she’d left the package unopened, giving it to her parents, who’d placed it among other boxes in the attic of their Beacon Hill home.
“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon for London,” she said.
“Then we can have lunch before you go. This is important, Liz. Name a place and I’ll be there.”
She relented, but only after doing some quick mental calculations. She was certain that he would not be dressed appropriately for the high-end restaurants at which her law firm had accounts—the Occidental in the Willard Hotel or The Lafayette in the Hay-Adams—and where there were likely to be people who knew her. Instead, she chose a modest French bistro not far from her apartment. They agreed to meet at noon.
That evening, after some halfhearted nibbling at the Chinese food, she made last-minute preparations for her London trip. It took little for Elizabeth to get ready to travel. She had a suitcase with basics always packed, and consulted a checklist to be sure that nothing additional was forgotten. She reviewed files that she would take with her, sat at her desk, and reflected on David’s phone call and her life with him, as abbreviated and tumultuous as it had been.
CHAPTER
7
Elizabeth Sims had been a model daughter and student during her teen years, although she had exhibited an occasional youthful rebellious side, nothing for her parents to be concerned about. Following high school graduation she’d enrolled in Georgetown University, where she earned a degree in geopolitical science. She’d dated often while an undergraduate, and a relationship with a male classmate during her senior year threatened to become serious. But her father intervened and persuaded her to put off any marriage plans until she’d gone to law school and passed the bar. She broke off the relationship, which fulfilled her promise to her father. But she also elected to put off law school for a year, much to his chagrin.
“What do you intend to do with your year off?” her mother asked.
“Julie has invited me to stay with her in London,” Elizabeth replied. Julie was a Georgetown college chum from Great Britain who’d returned home following graduation and urged Elizabeth to come to the UK and spend time with her and her parents.
“What will you do in London?”
“Oh, I’ll find some sort of job. I need a break away from school, call it a well-earned sabbatical. The break will do me good and make me a better student when I start law school.”
She traveled to London despite her parents’ objections, moved in with her friend and family, worked odd jobs, and enjoyed London’s vibrant club scene, where she met many attractive young Brits—including the handsome, intriguing David Portland. She was taken with his good looks and self-assuredness and they quickly fell in love.
“Mom, David and I are getting married,” she excitedly told her mother when she called with the news.
“I’ll put your father on.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” her father said. “You’ve only known this man for a few months. This is nonsense.”
“But I love him,” Elizabeth said, “and he loves me.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s, ah—he works in security. He’s a widower and has an absolutely delightful young son, Trevor. He—”
“Look, sweetheart, don’t do anything rash until your mother and I get there.”
“Daddy, I—”
“This is nothing but a schoolgirl’s impetuous act! You’re only twenty-two years old. How old is he?”
“Twenty-six.”
“We’ll be there tomorrow!”
Her parents’ last-second trip to London failed in its mission. Mrs. Sims ended up being taken with Portland’s easy charm, and was impressed with his son’s demeanor and behavior. Elizabeth’s father, however, was not impressed by Portland, although he did find Trevor to be a bright and courteous young man. Her parents flew back to the States and did not return until the wedding of their only daughter, a trip made after Elizabeth’s pleas to her father were reluctantly heeded.
The marriage of David Portland and Elizabeth Sims was a low-key affair held in a small village church outside of London, and attended by only a few people, including Elizabeth’s paren
ts.
The newlyweds settled into married life in an apartment they leased in a working-class neighborhood in southwest London, and Elizabeth threw herself into her new role as stepmother to Trevor while David continued to travel the world as a journeyman security operative. At first his frequent absences were viewed by Elizabeth as part of the unfortunate but understandable nature of his work. It also gave her unfettered influence over Trevor, which she enjoyed, a relationship that Portland heartily approved. But after six months Elizabeth tired of the lonely existence she led during her husband’s travels and it became a topic of conversation whenever he returned from his latest assignment. She also felt very much an outsider in the close-knit village where everyone spoke English, of course, but were, well, different.
But it wasn’t only loneliness that plagued her. She’d promised her father that she would attend law school, and his dream had now become her own. After a number of serious conversations, Portland, who acknowledged that his lifestyle didn’t lend itself to being a hands-on father, agreed that Elizabeth should take Trevor to the United States, where she could begin her law school education, and where her parents would provide a semblance of routine and solidity in the boy’s life.
Her parents welcomed Elizabeth and Trevor into their Boston townhouse, and Trevor easily adapted to his new home. With her mother’s help Elizabeth was able to attend the Harvard University law school full-time, knowing that Trevor always had someone available to nurture and love him when he returned from a day of classes. She graduated with top honors and was hired by the large, prestigious law firm of Cale, Watson and Warnowski, a coup among that year’s graduates.
CHAPTER
8
Like Portland, Elizabeth had difficulty coming to grips with Trevor’s murder in Nigeria. Visions of him came to her in the dead of night, wakening her from what was already a fitful sleep, seeing his smile (he had his father’s smile) and hearing his laughter (also reminiscent of his father). On nights like this she would sit bolt upright in bed and gasp, call Trevor’s name into the darkened room. Earlier, not long after having severed the marriage, she’d found herself calling out for David, too, although that need abated as the months passed, as had her nocturnal cries for her deceased stepson.
Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 3
