Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “You’ve told me that she was a damn good stepmother to Trevor.”

  “The best. I was the one who let everyone down. Maybe that’s why I have to put it to rest, find closure, as people are fond of saying.”

  Brixton nodded. He’d never found that illusive thing called closure where Janet’s death was involved and wondered whether he ever would.

  “I need a nap,” Portland said. “The couch is yours. It’s quite comfortable, pulls out into a bed if that’s your preference. We’ll have an early dinner at a favorite pub of mine, the same one where I borrowed this bracelet from a Nigerian chap who had no business wearing it.”

  Portland went to the flat’s bedroom while Brixton continued to peruse the materials about Trevor, but eventually the long flight and restless attempts at sleep on the plane caught up with him. He closed the blinds, kicked off his shoes, sprawled on the couch, and was asleep in minutes.

  CHAPTER

  43

  Cameron Chambers sat in a London pocket park a block from where Portland and Brixton slept off their jet lag. His eyes, too, were closed, although he was awake, his head tilted back to catch the welcome warmth of the sun that had broken through the city’s grayness.

  He’d made a conscious decision to relax and enjoy the day until dark, when he would let himself into David Portland’s flat.

  Rufus Norris had called Chambers at the hotel soon after he had arisen that morning to see what he’d gathered from Portland’s flat.

  “I’m waiting for nighttime to go there,” Chambers replied.

  “Why wait?” Norris asked.

  “Because I’m not comfortable breaking into someone’s apartment in broad daylight,” Chambers replied curtly.

  “And what about Matthew Kelsey?” Norris asked. “Have you made contact with him?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll call again. If I can’t reach him by phone I’ll visit him unannounced.”

  Norris’s silence said that he wasn’t pleased with what he was hearing.

  “Anything else?” Chambers asked.

  “I’ll call again,” Norris said curtly, and hung up.

  Following that phone conversation Chambers left the hotel and found the park where he could enjoy solitude while deciding what to do next about Kelsey.

  He had to assume that Kelsey’s body had now been discovered and that a murder investigation was under way. Was there any chance that his visit to Kelsey’s flat could become known to investigators? Although he’d physically destroyed the cell phone, he knew that there would be a record of his call with the cell provider. But he rationalized that there was no reason for the authorities to check those records. Kelsey’s murder would be chalked up to some punk looking for cash or drugs, most likely the young man in the motorcycle jacket, whoever he might be.

  He continued with his what-if line of thought.

  What if they had identified the young man and arrested him for the murder? Would he be able to testify that he, Chambers, had arrived at the flat right after the murder had taken place? Impossible, he decided. The young man didn’t know who he was and had left the building in a hurry, certainly without having taken time to scrutinize Chambers’s face.

  No, he decided, it was highly unlikely that the police in Barrow-in-Furness could place him at the scene of Kelsey’s murder. Not that he would be accused of having taken part in the killing. It was just that he didn’t need the inconvenience of having to partake in the investigation. Kelsey’s death meant nothing to him.

  But as much as he convinced himself that this was the case, fear would occasionally wash over him and render his self-assurances as just that, wishful thinking. The key was to leave the UK on the first available flight to the United States, where he would resign and put this sordid adventure behind him. Walter Cale and Rufus Norris would be told that he had been unable to make contact with Kelsey, which, in an ironic sense, was true. They could learn of Kelsey’s demise on their own.

  He would go through with his instruction to break into Portland’s flat, not only because he’d been dispatched to do that; there was the possibility that he would come up with something that would serve to put Portland in his place.

  Portland!

  His thoughts went to Elizabeth Sims.

  As he strolled from the park and down a busy commercial street he fantasized that he was with her, enjoying a leisurely day in London, perhaps buying her something nice in one of the shops and then enjoying tea or a drink in the fancy hotel in which they were staying. With everything that was on his mind—stumbling upon Kelsey’s murder, the phone taps ordered by Walter Cale through the smarmy Marvin Baxter, his being shut out of the decision-making loop—it was she who provided his pleasant thoughts, the beautiful, brilliant, radiant Elizabeth Sims.

  CHAPTER

  44

  David Portland thought of Elizabeth, too, when he awoke in the bedroom of his London flat. Her smiling face was before him as he shook his head and rubbed his eyes to dispel the wispy remnants of his nap. He got out of bed and peered into the living room where Brixton, who’d awakened earlier, had resumed going through Trevor’s things.

  “You didn’t sleep?” Portland said.

  “Oh, yeah, I did, but not for long. Have a good nap?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “This desk chair is broken,” Brixton said. “It damn near tipped me over.”

  “I keep meaning to get it fixed,” Portland said as he went to the window. Darkness was setting in; he’d slept longer than intended.

  “Up for dinner?” Portland asked.

  Brixton checked his watch, did a calculation of what time it was in London. “A little early for dinner, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is but not too early for a drink at a favorite pub of mine. Run across anything of interest in Trevor’s diary?”

  “He talks about the Frenchman you always mention, this Fournier character. He sure as hell wasn’t a fan.”

  “He certainly wasn’t, and for good reason. Fournier is evil, Robert.”

  “And that’s who you want to confront.”

  Portland nodded grimly.

  “From what your son wrote, the oil companies are really ripping off the locals in the delta.”

  “It’s a tragedy,” Portland said. “The Niger Delta is a hellhole for Nigerians who work for the oil companies. They live in poverty while the companies pollute their land and drinking water and keep them in line with heavy-handed help supplied by security companies like SureSafe. That’s why rebel groups like MEND are at war with them.”

  Brixton hesitated before saying, “I get the feeling that Trevor not only sympathized with the rebels; he might have joined them.”

  Portland’s response was a growl. “That’s the official line, Robert. That’s what Fournier and his cronies wanted me and the rest of the world to believe. It’s garbage, pure garbage. It’s their way of shifting blame to others. No, it’s a lie. Sure, Trevor was sympathetic to the rebels’ cause, because he was a sensitive young man who responded to injustice when he saw it.”

  Brixton saw that Portland was becoming passionate and decided to drop the subject. Instead, he said, “So tell me about this favorite pub of yours.”

  “Nothing special,” Portland said, “straight-ahead pub fare. I like that it’s usually quiet.” He laughed. “I’m sure the owner isn’t happy about that, but it suits me fine. By the way, the food is better than in all the fancy pubs that have opened up for the tourist trade.”

  “David Portland, the purist,” Brixton quipped.

  “At least when it comes to pubs. Freshen up and we’ll head over. It’s a short walk.”

  CHAPTER

  45

  Chambers, too, decided to nap. While waiting for sleep to come he vacillated between going through with the illegal entry into Portland’s flat and calling it off, the hell with what Norris and Cale would say. As far as he was concerned, he no longer worked for Cale, Watson and Warnowski. But there was a nagging need to d
elve into Portland’s life, this man who had captured Elizabeth Sims’s heart and mind years ago.

  He eventually slept. When he awoke it had turned dark, and the fair weather of the day had become gloomy; occasional raindrops hit the windowpane. He showered, dressed in dark gray slacks, a blue button-down shirt, black sweater, black sneakers, and a forest green slicker, an outfit chosen specifically for becoming a second-story intruder. Satisfied with his reflection in the mirror, he went downstairs and had a drink in the bar.

  Have dinner before going to Portland’s flat?

  He decided it was a good idea. There was no rush. The later he arrived at the flat the better, less chance of people getting in the way.

  Fortified with a single-malt scotch, he ventured out onto the street and walked to the Chinese restaurant where he’d dined the previous night with Norris. He ordered another scotch and enjoyed a leisurely dinner, aware that he was putting off the inevitable.

  CHAPTER

  46

  Brixton and Portland sat at the pub’s bar, Portland’s usual spot, and indulged in drinks—martinis for Brixton, which he had to admit weren’t bad, and a glass of white wine for Portland. The owner had warmly welcomed the Brit and his American guest, insisting that an order of prawns was on the house to accompany their drinks. Brixton was relaxed. Although he hadn’t seen any of London aside from Portland’s flat and the pub, he felt as though he was part of the scene and felt surprisingly at home.

  Portland had been chatty earlier in the evening but had now fallen silent.

  “What are you thinking?” Brixton asked, hoping he wasn’t intruding on a private thought.

  “I was thinking about you, Robert.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  “Probably not. I was thinking—well, I was wondering whether you really want to come with me to Nigeria.”

  “Well, here I am, David. Are you having second thoughts about letting me tag along?”

  Portland’s response was a slight nod.

  “Why?”

  Portland drew himself up on the barstool. “It’s my fight, Robert,” he said.

  “I know that. I’ve always known that. But it’s a little late to question it now.”

  Portland faced him. “No, it’s not,” he said. “Look, I don’t have a lot of friends. That’s just the way I am. I’ve always been a bit of a loner. But every once in a while someone comes along who I like, really like, and you’re one of those chaps.”

  “Now I am flattered, David,” said Brixton, “but you’re not the only loner on this earth. There’s damn few people in this world who I care about, really care about. David Portland is one of them.”

  “I hope no one is listening,” Portland said. “It sounds like we’re lovers.”

  “A mutual admiration society, that’s all,” Brixton said, “but let’s get back to what you said. If you really don’t want me with you I’ll have to decide whether to continue the trip.”

  “I’m giving you an out, Robert; that’s all. Look, I don’t have any idea how things will fall when and if I get to face Fournier. It could be—well, it could get nasty.”

  “Nasty? You mean somebody’s liable to get killed?”

  Portland’s lack of response answered Brixton’s question.

  “Last chance,” Portland said.

  “Last chance for what?”

  “To bail on me. Our flight to Lagos leaves Heathrow in the morning. You can decide to go back to Washington, no questions asked, or get on the Nigerian flight with me. Either way, Robert, I appreciate your friendship.”

  Before Brixton could answer, the pub’s owner, who’d been chatting with other customers at the opposite end of the bar, came to them. “You blokes having dinner?” he asked.

  Brixton looked at Portland, grinned, and said to the owner, “David and I need a good meal before we head to Nigeria in the morning.”

  “You heard the man,” Portland said through a smile. “We’ll start with cockles and leeks and both have bangers and mash. Oh, and my American friend needs a drink refill.”

  CHAPTER

  47

  Cameron Chambers deliberately lingered at the restaurant until the owners hinted that they would like him to leave.

  He paid his bill, stepped out onto the street, and walked slowly in the direction of the small, nondescript building that housed Portland’s flat. He felt conspicuous, as though his every step was being observed. You’d think that as a former cop he would be able to set aside such thoughts and simply get on with the job, no matter what it entailed. But his years with the Washington MPD had been spent behind a desk, giving orders to others who did the heavy lifting.

  He paused across the street from the building and stood in shadows. He knew where Portland’s flat was located, second floor, front, left side. A faint light was burning in the room, which concerned him. Portland, as far as he knew, was still in Washington. Would he leave a lamp burning while away, perhaps to discourage thieves? Maybe he had a lamp on a timer; Chambers had three lamps in his apartment rigged to come on once darkness set in.

  He took in the street. There weren’t many people on it at that hour, an occasional couple, a man walking a shaggy dog, and a young woman whom Chambers thought might be a prostitute.

  Fortified by a few deep breaths, he stepped from the darkness, crossed the street, and stood in front of the building. Confident that he wasn’t being watched—as confident as his paranoia would allow—he tried the front door. It was locked. After another series of furtive glances he pulled his set of sixteen lock picks of various sizes from his pocket and tried a few until one worked. The door swung in, exposing a neat, dimly lit foyer. Chambers closed the door behind him and started up the stairs, slowly, quietly, his ears poised for any sound indicating that he was not alone. He heard a dog bark from one of the apartments; a TV set (owned by someone with a hearing problem?) blared from another. He reached the landing and went to Portland’s door. This time the first pick he chose worked and he was inside.

  He went to the lamp that was on. There was no timer attached to it. What a waste of electricity, he thought, leaving it on day and night. He debated turning on other lamps, or the overhead fixture, and opted for the overhead. But first he went to the windows that faced the front and looked down at the street. No one looked back up at him. He lowered the blinds, partially raised them, rechecked the street, and closed them again.

  Now that the room was more brightly lit he was better able to survey it. It looked as though someone had recently slept on the couch, which he chalked up to Portland’s lack of housekeeping skills. Chambers was an obsessive-compulsive when it came to neatness; his bed was made every morning, and a soiled dish or cup in the sink was inconceivable.

  His eyes went to Portland’s desk. Folders that Brixton had been perusing were there; one labeled “Diary” was open. Chambers sat in the tilting, swiveling chair and had to grab the desk’s edge to keep from falling backwards. He silently cursed and repositioned himself. Confident that he wouldn’t end up on the floor, he focused on the open file folder and began to read.

  Fifteen minutes later he closed it and processed what he had been led to believe about how Trevor Portland died.

  The official line, at least from XCAL’s British head, Manford Penny, was that Trevor had joined forces with the rebel group MEND and was killed during a raid on the oil company’s facilities by members of SureSafe. That explanation had obviously rung false to Trevor’s father, David Portland, and had fueled his campaign to prove otherwise. Entries in Trevor’s diary fed into that official scenario—the young man had expressed his agreement with MEND’s goals. He’d been disgusted by the way the oil companies violated the basic human rights of Nigerian citizens. The situation was deplorable. The oil companies raked in millions while the natives scrambled to survive. Chambers took from Trevor’s correspondence with his father that it was possible that the idealistic young man had joined forces with a rebel group such as MEND, a decision that led to his
untimely death.

  But had he actually joined MEND and attacked the XCAL oil facility? Espousing agreement with a cause was one thing; taking action on behalf of that cause was another.

  He pulled himself close to the desk and turned to the contents of a folder containing a series of handwritten notes that Portland had made following his meeting with Matthew Kelsey.

  From what he read, Kelsey had claimed to Portland that the French head of SureSafe in the Niger Delta, Alain Fournier, had shot Trevor point-blank after receiving an order from an unnamed person, most likely someone working for XCAL. Kelsey confirmed that Trevor had been with members of MEND when he was captured.

  But if Kelsey was right, Trevor hadn’t been killed during the raid. He’d been taken prisoner, and instead of being treated like one he’d been executed by Fournier.

  In terms of his professional allegiance, the theory that Trevor had joined forces with MEND and was killed by SureSafe played into the hands of XCAL, and by extension Chambers’s employer, Cale, Watson and Warnowski, whose major client was the giant oil company. He could return to Washington carrying with him that rationale for Trevor Portland’s death and be viewed as a hero, his efforts in London having substantiated XCAL and SureSafe’s claim.

  But what he read about Kelsey and his meeting with Portland cast a different light on the subject.

  If Kelsey was correct in his assertion that Trevor had not been killed during the raid but, in fact, had been murdered following it upon orders from someone at XCAL, the official line was just that, dishonest and self-serving.

  It was a lie.

  CHAPTER

  48

  Brixton and Portland were finishing their desserts, trifle for Brixton, plum crumble for Portland. It had been a relaxed evening, the two men enjoying each other’s company and their deepening friendship. The owner had offered free after-dinner drinks, but they passed. Despite their naps, they were still feeling the effects of the plane ride; the thought of a good night’s sleep before leaving in the morning for Nigeria was appealing.