Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  Chambers wasn’t sure how to respond. The contemplation of having to actually meet with this drunk almost caused him to thank Kelsey for his time, hang up, and falsify a report for Walter Cale about having seen him. But his pragmatism got the better of him. He said, “Will later today suit you, Mr. Kelsey?”

  “S’long as you don’t arrive empty-handed.”

  Prior to making the call Chambers had explored ways of traveling to Barrow-in-Furness. He ruled out renting a car. Driving on the “wrong” side of the road would be too nerve-wracking. He’d done it once before and hated the experience. He considered hiring a car and driver but shelved that notion; his inherent sense of financial propriety ruled. A check of train schedules indicated that there was frequent service between London’s Paddington Station and Barrow-in-Furness, with two changes of trains involved. The total travel time was four and a half hours.

  Armed with a book he’d brought with him from Washington and two British newspapers, and after changing dollars into pounds—he hoped enough to satisfy Kelsey—he boarded an eleven o’clock Northern Rail passenger train, ignoring Kelsey’s demand that he bring food and whiskey. He wasn’t about to arrive like some long-lost relative bearing gifts. All he wanted was to find out what he could about Portland’s visit and leave.

  He dozed during the trip, waking when it was time to change trains. He waited in line with other passengers at the Barrow-in-Furness station looking for taxis, settled in one, and gave the driver Kelsey’s address. It was a quick ride; before he knew it he had paid the driver and stood in front of the run-down four-story building in which Kelsey’s flat was located. He felt ill at ease. He wasn’t eager to linger there. The neighborhood reminded him of certain sections of Washington, D.C., that he assiduously avoided whenever possible. He checked himself in his reflection in a window and decided he looked official enough, possibly even authoritative. Seeing that he was alone on the street, he approached the building, paused at the entrance, drew a breath, and stepped inside. He found Kelsey’s name on the tenants’ list—flat number 2—and knocked. He heard sounds inside and cocked his head, leaning closer. The door suddenly opened and he was face-to-face with a young man with deeply pitted skin and wearing a black motorcycle jacket.

  “Mr. Kelsey?” Chambers said.

  “No, mate. Kelsey’s inside. Go on in. He’s expecting you.”

  The young man pushed past Chambers and quickly exited the building.

  Chambers stood by the open door, unsure of what to do.

  “Mr. Kelsey?” he called out. When there was no response he repeated it, louder this time.

  He stepped into the flat and paused in the small foyer, took in his surroundings, listened for sounds. Who was that young man? he wondered. A friend of Kelsey’s? But why would he just walk away? He seemed in a rush to leave.

  Chambers raised his nose and took in the odors. There was a sour smell, mixed with the aroma of burned food. In front of him was a doorway leading to the living room. He called Kelsey’s name again. Silence.

  Another few steps took him to the doorway. He leaned through it and was about to announce himself again when he saw a figure in a corner shrouded in darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and advanced farther. Now the figure was discernible. It was a man in a wheelchair, his head drooping to one side.

  “Kelsey?”

  Chambers closed the gap and stood over the figure. That was when he saw the wide red stain on the man’s shirtfront and the knife protruding from his chest.

  “Good God,” Chambers muttered, reaching to touch Kelsey’s cheek.

  He stepped back and forced rational thought. Had the young man in the motorcycle jacket stabbed Kelsey to death? If so, it had happened just moments before Chambers had arrived. Had it been a robbery gone awry?

  It then struck him that Kelsey might have been murdered because of their plan to meet. Was Kelsey’s phone bugged? It seemed that everyone’s telephone was tapped these days, Portland, Brixton, Elizabeth Sims, God knew who else. His own phone?

  His initial instinct was to call the police. He’d come upon a murder victim. Had it happened in the United States he wouldn’t have hesitated, but this was Great Britain. Would they suspect that he had something to do with it and hold him for questioning? He didn’t need that. He came to the conclusion that there was no reason for him to report the murder and become involved with the ensuing investigation. No one aside from the young man with the motorcycle jacket knew that he was there.

  He stepped back to put distance between himself and the lifeless Kelsey. During his tenure as a D.C. cop he’d never had to directly deal with the messy business of murder. His career had been spent behind a desk. His hands were clean, no bloodstains on them.

  As he prepared to leave, he noticed Kelsey’s cell phone resting on a small table next to him. Had he taken Chambers’s call on that phone? There was no landline telephone near the body, leading Chambers to assume that the dead man had used his cell. Chambers grabbed the phone, shoved it in his jacket pocket, and retraced his steps to the foyer, where he hesitated, looking through the smeared glass to the sidewalk. He saw no one. He opened the door to the building and peered up and down the street. Not a soul. Good. He left the building and walked briskly toward an intersection where there were other people, women with children, men minding their own business. A few blocks later he waved down a taxi and told the driver to take him to the train station. As he sat back he realized that his heart was beating rapidly and there was a film of perspiration on his face. He wanted no part of this, should never have agreed to come to London.

  His cell phone sounded.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Cameron. Rufus Norris here.”

  “Oh, yes, Rufus. Hello.”

  “Having a productive day?”

  “I, ah—I’ve been making plans to carry out my assignments.”

  “I like that, someone who plans before acting. But don’t spend too much time planning, Cameron.”

  “Of course. I—I called this Kelsey character. There was no answer. I’ll try him again, of course.”

  “Perhaps it would be best to simply pop in on him.”

  “I considered that but wanted to make contact first. If I’m still unsuccessful in reaching him I’ll do what you suggest.”

  “Good. And what about Mr. Portland’s flat?”

  “That’s on my agenda.”

  “Splendid. Get it done, Cameron, and keep me informed of your progress.”

  Chambers was aware during the brief conversation that he was tense, his shoulders hunched, his free hand drumming on his thigh. Electing to leave Kelsey’s flat and pretending that he hadn’t been there now seemed less prudent than it had while he was formulating it.

  Still …

  He forced himself to believe that he’d made the right decision. The hell with worrying about Matthew Kelsey and deciding not to report his death. Kelsey wouldn’t be mourned by anyone, just another drunk murdered by some punk. All he, Chambers, had to do now was gain access to Portland’s flat, gather up what he could in the way of information about Portland’s son’s murder, and wing back to Washington.

  It occurred to him as he went through his mental process that he’d reached a point at which he had decisions to make about continuing to work for the law firm. He’d had inquiries from other employers about the possibility of joining them. It was time for a change.

  The train ride back to London was consumed by these thoughts, and myriad others. Kelsey’s cell phone felt heavy in his pocket, and he debated what to do with it. He decided that he would destroy it and dump it in a public trash receptacle, which he did outside Paddington Station, using the heel of his shoe to smash it.

  The taxi deposited him at his hotel, where he went into the small bar and had a drink, and then another. He decided he needed a good night’s sleep before accomplishing his second and last mission, gaining access to David Portland’s flat and gathering up evidence to satisfy Walter Cale.


  As the alcohol took effect, the absurdity of having been dispatched to London took center stage. So what if David Portland was on the warpath about his son’s death? What was he, nothing but a crude soldier of fortune with a checkered background and a penchant for causing trouble? What had the beautiful and intelligent Elizabeth Sims ever been thinking to have gotten involved with such a distasteful character? She’d been young, too young to rein in her youthful sexual hormones, and Portland, swine that he was, had taken advantage of her. Chambers could forgive her for that. What bothered him more was that she’d maintained a relationship with Portland, dining with him at the candlelit, romantic Aquarelle and probably gazing at each other like long-lost lovers.

  That final vision disgusted him. He signed for his drinks, sought out a British pub for dinner, and spent much of the evening watching British television, much of which he found silly. His plan for the next day was to use the cover of darkness to break into Portland’s apartment. He’d carried with him a set of lock picks that he’d had since his cadet days at the Washington PD but had never used.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Robert Brixton and David Portland settled in their coach seats for the flight to London.

  Brixton was a cauldron of mixed emotions. Announcing to Flo at the last minute that he intended to accompany Portland to London and then Nigeria weighed heavily on him. She had every right to be angry, and he wondered what life would be like between them when they returned from their respective trips. Added to his angst was a fear of flying, which he didn’t verbalize but that kept his stomach churning.

  At the same time he felt energized, even exuberant to be off on an adventure. While he was grateful that Mac Smith had set him up in his own private detective agency and fed him a fair amount of business, he’d recently fallen into a funk; doing background checks on potential government employees didn’t get his blood flowing. He was also aware that he’d never found closure for the terrorist attack that took the life of his younger daughter. Not that the people whom Portland intended to confront had anything to do with that directly, but they were of the same ilk, at least as far as what Portland had told him about SureSafe’s Nigerian head, the Frenchman Alain Fournier, and others associated with that agency.

  “I still can’t believe that you’re with me,” Portland said after the flight had reached cruising altitude over the Atlantic and they’d purchased drinks from the flight attendant.

  “I have trouble believing it, too,” Brixton said, “but I’m glad I am.”

  “From what you’ve told me, your lady Flo doesn’t share your enthusiasm.”

  “It came as a surprise to her, my fault. I should have been up-front the minute I decided to make the trip. What about your ex, Elizabeth? Does she know you’re going to Nigeria?”

  “Yes. I told her when we had dinner together. I really don’t know how she feels about it.” He laughed. “I’d like to think that she fears for my life, but that might be wishful thinking on my part.”

  “Maybe she agrees with what you’re doing,” Brixton offered, “wants your son’s murder avenged, like Mrs. Dimka wants for her husband.”

  “Yes, women can be vengeful,” was Portland’s reply.

  It was Brixton’s turn to laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me. Flo can be one tough lady and I have the scars to prove it. As for Abiola Dimka, she’s made of steel.”

  They fiddled with their individual in-flight entertainment systems but found little of interest. Brixton turned to Portland. “So,” he said, “tell me about this guy who’ll be helping us once we get to Nigeria.”

  “Jeffrey Gomba? My friend at the embassy says that Gomba is a real hustler, has fingers into everything. He sells bunkered oil that’s siphoned off from the refineries, provides weapons to anyone with the money to buy them, and even pimps for prostitutes.”

  Brixton said, “He doesn’t sound like the sort of character you’d want to do business with.”

  “Yeah,” Portland said, “Gomba would be behind bars in the States or the UK, but in Nigeria he’s just a businessman. Besides, he hates SureSafe and the oil companies, which gives him a motive for helping me.”

  “Us.”

  “Right. Us. My friend assures me that Gomba can be trusted.”

  “For a price,” Brixton said.

  “Like most people,” Portland agreed.

  “So, what’s our agenda when we arrive in Lagos?”

  “We lay low for a few days, make contact with Gomba, and figure out our next move. Once we have we’ll fly down to Port Harcourt, where the action is.”

  “The action,” Brixton repeated. “What is the action once we get there?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. All I know is that I won’t rest until I come face-to-face with that French bastard Fournier and get him to admit that he shot Trevor.”

  “And then?”

  Portland shifted in his seat and shrugged. “I’ll know the answer to that when the time comes.”

  Brixton had many more questions for his British friend, including the role of the Nigerian warlord Agu Gwantam. “What do you know about him?” he asked.

  “Like everything else,” Portland said, “I only know what I’m told about Mr. Gwantam. You probably know more about him than I do from your meetings with Dimka. They say that Gwantam is bigger than life. He controls the money that flows through that so-called charity Bright Horizons and SureSafe provides security for him.”

  “That’s what Dimka claims in the material he left for me. Evidently, Gwantam doesn’t hesitate to get rid of anyone who challenges him and Bright Horizons is always on tap to carry out an order from him.”

  “I’ve heard the same, which is why one of the first things we arrange for through Gomba is some self-protection.”

  “You told me to leave my handgun home,” Brixton said.

  “I left mine back in D.C., too,” Portland said. “I have one at my London digs, but it’s too much of a hassle to check a weapon when flying. I’d rather pick up fresh ones once we’re on the ground. Besides, no one will be able to trace the weapons Gomba gives us.”

  “Sells us,” Brixton corrected.

  “Right you are, mate,” Portland said, stretching his arms and legs and grunting with pleasure. “I think I’ll watch a movie.”

  “You said you didn’t like what they were offering.”

  “Exactly. A bad movie always puts me to sleep, which is what I need.”

  Portland was asleep ten minutes into the film. Brixton closed his eyes, but sleep was elusive. His mind had gone into overdrive, and as he grappled with his whirlwind of thoughts he came to the conclusion that accompanying Portland to Nigeria might have been an impetuous mistake.

  It had all seemed so appealing, standing by his British pal’s side as he sought to avenge his son’s murder. Now, in the darkened cabin of the jet, its allure was fading fast.

  He nodded off after they’d been served their coach-seat meals, and awoke when the plane was nearing London’s Heathrow Airport.

  “Smooth flight,” Portland commented as they gathered up their belongings in preparation for deplaning.

  “Can never be too smooth for me,” Brixton said.

  “That’s right,” Portland said. “Flying’s not your favorite pastime.”

  “Let’s just say that I prefer the ground under my feet.”

  “Man wasn’t meant to fly?” Portland said as they joined other passengers in the aisle.

  “Man wasn’t meant to do a lot of things,” said Brixton, “but they do it all the time.”

  It was a long, slow taxi ride into London, where Portland’s flat was located. Brixton was impressed with the cab’s spaciousness and cleanliness, and the driver’s professional bearing, a far cry from taxis in New York and D.C. He mentioned it to Portland.

  “It takes cabbies here in the UK years of training before they’re licensed to carry paying passengers,” Portland told him. “They have to know every street in London and e
nvirons, and prove it to inspectors. Most fail on their first, even second attempts.”

  They pulled up in front of Portland’s apartment building. Portland paid in British pounds, dismissing Brixton’s attempt to split the fare, entered the building, and Portland opened the door to his flat.

  Brixton took it in. “Nice place you have here, David.”

  “Nothing fancy, but it suits me,” Portland said, opening the blinds to allow in some light. “Drink?”

  “Too early for me.”

  “Tea?”

  “When in Rome, huh?” Brixton said lightly. “Sure, some British tea sounds good.”

  As Portland disappeared into the kitchen Brixton took the opportunity to more closely explore his surroundings. He was looking at the pile of Trevor Portland’s material on a bookshelf when Portland reemerged. “That’s all that’s left of my son,” he said glumly.

  “I don’t even have this much of Janet to remember her by,” Brixton said.

  “Feel free to read what’s there,” Portland said.

  “Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. You’re part of what I’m about to do, so no secrets.”

  Brixton sat at the table, his tea next to him, and began to read what Trevor had written in his diary about Nigeria, especially the Niger Delta, where he’d lived and worked under contract to XCAL. Portland sat on a couch, a mug in his hand.

  “Your son didn’t mince any words about how bad things were there,” Brixton commented.

  “Yes, and I’m proud of him for the way he viewed the plight of the natives in the delta. It really saddened him.”

  “And made him angry,” Brixton said.

  “That, too,” said Portland.

  Portland raised his mug to his lips, allowing the bracelet on his wrist that had been Trevor’s gift from his grandmother to glisten in light from the window.

  “You always wear that bracelet,” Brixton said.

  “And I always will,” said Portland. “For me it symbolizes everything that was good and decent about Trevor.”

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  “What about her?”