“’Course it would be fine. But what the hell are you two doing in the area?”
“Oh, Jane’s got some kind of art project down on the estuary, you know, teaming up with a few other students in the wetlands.”
“Yeah, right,” said Arnold, and hung up the phone.
Jimmy chuckled. “Cunning old bastard,” he muttered to himself. “But he’s being a bit bloody hasty on this one. I’m not done with it yet. Not by a good long way.”
Jimmy’s evening at the Australian embassy passed with its customary luxury, the white-jacketed butler serving dinner to Jane and her fiancé as if Jimmy were the ambassador himself. The following morning they set off at 8 A.M., down Interstate 95 to Fredericksburg, and then to Route 17, which followed the Rappahannock River all the way to its estuary and the little town of Brockhurst.
Jimmy and Jane parked his Jaguar behind the Estuary Hotel, not twenty-five yards from where someone had rammed an Arabian dagger into the heart of Matt Barker. Jimmy walked to the end of the parking lot. There was an obvious bloodstain on the wall and on the concrete surface of the area. They walked in through the rear door of the hotel and inquired if they were too late for breakfast. The manager smiled and said, “Go through to the dining room and we’ll fix you up.”
It was almost 11 A.M. when Jimmy ordered eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast. Jane settled for cereal, yogurt, and fresh fruit salad. They were sitting in companionable silence when Jimmy stood up and walked through to the hotel foyer and spoke to the manager.
“Sir, are you Mr. Jim Caborn?”
“That’s me.”
Jimmy offered his hand and said quietly, “I’m Lt. Commander Ramshawe, National Security Agency. Could you find time to join me in the dining room? There’s a couple of things I’d like to discuss.”
The hotel manager looked suitably impressed at the mention of America’s most secret intelligence agency. “Why, certainly, Commander. I’ll be right in.” Jimmy returned to Jane, and Caborn came in and pulled up a chair and sat with them. He was a naturally friendly man, and he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I’ll get some fresh if we need it,” he said, and offered his own right hand to Jane Peacock with the practiced aplomb of all hotel managers. “Glad to meet you, ma’am,” he said.
She shook his hand and replied, in the unmistakable style of a true Australian, “G’day, Jim. Nice little place you’ve got here.”
The hotel manager grinned and said: “Now what would a high-ranking young officer from the National Security Agency be doing down here — as if I didn’t know. It’s Carla, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is,” replied Jimmy. “And I want you to answer my questions with great care.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification pass, which allowed him to enter, every day and any night, the innermost sanctum of the front line of America’s military security.
Jim Caborn gave it a cursory glance and handed it back. “I don’t need to see that,” he said. “If the hotel business teaches you one thing, it’s to spot genuine. I knew you were on the level, first time I saw you.”
“Did you feel that way about Carla Martin?” asked the commander.
“Well, she had an American passport and all the right references. But there was something about her — she was kind of a mystery. I never felt I knew one thing about her background.”
“Did you ever think she might be foreign?”
“Not consciously. But now you mention it, she did sometimes say things kind of strangely. You know, like a French person — fluent in English, but sometimes saying things not quite the way we would.”
Jimmy nodded. “I guess you never knew where she lived?”
“No. I never did. No one did. Still don’t.”
“Do you think she murdered Matt Barker?”
“Jesus, I’ve always found that darned near impossible to grasp. She was a very nice girl, educated, polite, and very efficient. But I guess you have to consider, she covered her tracks and vanished the night of the murder. Never been seen since.”
“You have no documents or records of her?”
“Hell, no. Either she or someone else cleaned out her file. We have absolutely nothing to show that she ever existed.”
“Very professional,” murmured Jimmy.
The manager looked at him quizzically. “Professional?” he said. “I’d say more like cunning.”
“We’re in different trades, mate,” replied Ramshawe.
They finished their coffee, paid the bill, and said their good-byes; but as Jimmy and Jane walked across the parking lot, she turned and said, “Jesus, Jim, there were a whole lot more questions I could have asked him.”
“I’m not trying to solve this murder,” he replied. “I’m trying to identify Miss Carla Martin, nothing else. I don’t give a flying fuck about Matt Barker or his death.”
“Well, where are we going now?”
“We’re going to the police station, mostly because I want to have a look at that dagger.”
They’d driven past Detective Segel’s office on the way to the hotel, and now they strolled through the warm summer morning, leaving the car parked behind the hotel.
Both of them wore light blue jeans and loafers. Jane had on a crisp white shirt, and Jimmy a dark blue short-sleeved polo shirt. His shock of floppy dark hair, which so irritated the crewcut Admiral Morris, blew in the light wind. As did Jane’s spectacular blonde mane, bleached all through her teenage years by the hot sun that warmed Sydney’s Bondi Beach. They were, by any standard, a striking couple.
When they reached the police station, Jane said she’d rather wander down to the wide river, and Jimmy walked alone to the duty officer’s desk. He asked to see Detective Joe Segel, whose name he had read in the newspaper as the man leading the murder inquiry.
His NSA identification dispensed with any waiting. Within one minute, Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe was shown into the office of Brockhurst’s top investigator. They exchanged greetings, but Jimmy was aware of the natural reserve all local law officers display in the presence of officials from the FBI, the CIA, or, even more sinister, the National Security Agency.
Detective Segel smiled. “And to what do we owe this great honor?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” said Jimmy, cheerfully. “I was just trying to get a handle on this vanished Carla Martin. Tell the truth, we think she might be foreign, and we’d very much like to know precisely what she was up to, working here in this small Virginia town.”
“But what caused you to care so much, you drove personally all the way down here? Your card says you’re the assistant to the director.”
“Two things, Joe,” replied Jimmy, slipping easily into the naturally casual way of the Aussie. “One, Miss Martin apparently took a great amount of trouble removing every trace of identification at the hotel. I’m assuming the murder of Matt Barker was a sudden and bloody inconvenient occurrence, and merely hastened her departure. Like no one thinks she came down here just to murder Matt.
“Two, that dagger was Middle Eastern in origin, and America’s most important terrorist hunter, Admiral Arnold Morgan, just happens to have a mother-in-law who lives right here in this town. I guess a few hundred yards from where Carla Martin worked so anonymously. We don’t like the coincidence.”
“Stated like that, I’m not sure I do either,” replied Detective Segel. “I do, of course, know Emily Gallagher. And I have, of course, had a chat with her about Carla Martin. I’ve spoken to most people in the area, especially those who frequent the Estuary Hotel. But I’ll admit that it had not occurred to me that Mrs. Gallagher was the prime reason for Carla’s presence right here in Brockhurst.”
“Different mindset, old mate,” said Jimmy. “You’re trying to solve a murder. I’m looking at the possibility of a future attempt on the admiral’s life. Although I’ve kept that one to myself. And I sure as hell haven’t told the admiral!”
Detective Segel laughed. “Good idea,” he said. “Might
make him nervous.”
“Not him,” said Jimmy. “He’d just laugh and say he wasn’t sufficiently important for that. But even he’d know that was pure bullshit.”
Detective Segel frowned. “You mean Carla Martin was here as a kind of jihadist outrider, trying to find out the future movements of Admiral Morgan and his wife?”
“I think she might have been. But first, could you and I have a look at the murder weapon?”
“It’s right here. let me give you a pair of rubber gloves to handle it with. The forensic guys might want to look at it again.”
Jimmy pulled on the gloves and removed the dagger from the plastic evidence bag. He pulled a small folding printmaker’s glass from his pocket, and he stared hard at the area where the blade joined the handle. And there he saw what he had come for. A small mark, perhaps a hieroglyphic, possibly Arabic writing, no more than a half inch long. It began with a shape like a small letter “a” with two dots above and below, then two curves like a “j” and then a “9,” finally a “w.”
Jimmy pulled a small white card from his pocket. It contained an alphabetical list of fourteen Middle Eastern countries, from Bahrain through Egypt, Iran, Iraq, and Jordan to Yemen. Next to the name of each country was the Arab translation. The markings on the dagger fitted precisely the country listed eleventh from the top, Syria.
“Well, Joe,” said the commander, “at least we know where the murder weapon was made.”
“Does that help?”
“Not much. But it might. Especially if your Carla Martin made her way here from Damascus and tucked this little devil right here in her suitcase.”
“You think she might have?”
“If she did, I’m rapidly losing interest.”
“How come?”
“Joe, at the National Security Agency, we only look for very big fish. If this barmaid took a chance and stuffed that dagger into her luggage, running the risk of a U.S. airport security man finding it. well, that would not be the action of a professional. A true terrorist agent would never do that, because for them, discovery is unthinkable. If you find her, which I doubt, make sure you find out where she got that dagger.”
Detective Segel nodded thoughtfully. “If indeed it was hers,” he said. “You are not interested in the murder, are you?” he said.
“No, I just want to know who Carla Martin really is, where she came from, and what her purpose was here in Brockhurst.”
“A pretty tall order, right? Where’s your next stop? Mrs. Gallagher?”
“Correct,” said Jimmy. “We’re friends of the family, and I do not believe the sole reason for Carla coming here was to murder this somewhat insignificant garage owner. And I don’t need to tell you how important it is for you to keep us informed, the moment you find her.”
“If we find her.”
Jimmy stood up and handed the Brockhurst detective a card with his name and phone numbers written on it. “Any time of the day or night, Joe. This could be a whole lot more important than you think it is.”
“Give my regards to Mrs. Gallagher.”
The two men shook hands and Jimmy walked out into the sunlight, where Jane was peering through the window of the local sports shop. Three minutes later, they were approaching the front gate of Mrs. Gallagher’s house, where the golden retriever Charlie was prostrate on the front stoop of the tall white colonial.
The front door opened, and Emily Gallagher stepped outside and welcomed them warmly, telling them Kathy had called and that she was delighted they had come to see her. Without further ceremony, she asked them to come inside for some iced tea and for a conversation about the missing Carla Martin, which she was certain they had hoped for.
Jimmy and Jane sat through the preliminaries — the possibility that Carla might be foreign, her politeness, her reliability, and the utter unsuitability, as an escort, of the late Matt Barker. Finally, on his second glass of iced tea, Jimmy ventured to ask whether Emily had told Carla when Arnold and Kathy were leaving for vacation.
“Well, I suppose I must have,” replied Mrs. Gallagher. “I had to tell her when the two dogs needed walking, and I am sure I mentioned the precise day when Kipper was due to arrive. That’s about three weeks from now.”
“Mrs. Gallagher, did you tell her where Arnold and Kathy were going?”
“Not very accurately, because I don’t really know myself. But I think I told her Kathy was coming here first, and then driving back to Washington, for the evening flight to London with Arnold.”
“You didn’t mention the airline, did you?”
“Certainly not. I don’t know it. But I did suggest that Carla might like to come over around noon, to have lunch with Kathy and myself and acquaint herself with Kipper, who is very slightly crazier than Charlie.”
“Did you give her any further details of their stay in London?” asked Jimmy.
“I’m sure not.”
“Do you know where they’re staying?”
“I expect the Ritz in Piccadilly,” she replied. “Arnold always stays there; says he likes the tea they serve in the Palm Court.”
“Did you mention that to Carla.?”
“You know, I think I must have. I seem to remember her saying something about cucumber-and-marmite sandwiches, her favorite, that she and an English army officer she once knew always went there for tea, as a special treat.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Jimmy.
“I’m sorry?” replied Arnold’s mother-in-law.
“Oh, nothing, Mrs. Gallagher. I was just remembering I stayed there once myself, with my dad. I was only about fourteen years old, but I remember those sandwiches.”
Emily laughed and wished she could have been more helpful. Her parting words to Jimmy and Jane were “Quite frankly, I hope Carla turns up. She was such a very nice girl. And so good with Charlie.”
CHAPTER 7
Lieutenant Commander Jimmy Ramshawe gunned his beloved Jaguar north up Route 17 without uttering one word for twenty minutes. Jane Peacock would have mentioned his uncharacteristic silence, except she was asleep in the passenger seat. Finally, as they ran through the flat-lands of Essex County, three things happened. Jane awakened. Jimmy spoke, or rather cursed. And a Virginia state trooper pulled him over for speeding.
When he produced his driver’s license, he also handed over his National Security Agency identification. The officer looked at both.
“You going straight through to Fort Meade, sir?”
“Right now I’m headed for the Australian embassy.”
The policeman nodded, handed back the documents. “Trouble?”
“Big.”
“Okay, sir. You need an escort?”
“I guess not. I’ll keep it down on the highway.”
“I’ll track you up to Fredericksburg. No problem, and, hey, thanks for what you do for our country.”
The state trooper, who was in his late twenties, offered his hand and confided, “I tried out for the Navy SEALs a few years back, down at Virginia Beach. Too tough for me. But I still appreciate what all you guys do. So long, Commander.”
Jimmy pulled back onto the road and accelerated once more toward Washington. The police cruiser sped along fifty yards in the rear, its blue lights no longer flashing.
Jane shook her head. “It’s a bloody miracle what those three little words mean in this country,” she said. “National Security Agency. It really matters, doesn’t it? Sometimes I forget how much.”
Her fiancé was pensive. After a few seconds, he said, quietly, “Speaking of miracles, I’ll tell you about another one. ”
“You will?”
“Yeah. Because that’s what it will be, if that Brockhurst detective ever finds Carla Martin — you know what? He’s never going to find Carla Martin.”
“How do you know? Half the country’s looking out for her.”
“Half the country’s whistling Dixie. Because Carla Martin no longer exists. She died with Matt Barker.”
“Died!”
/> “Figuratively, I mean. Carla Martin was a professional agent, almost certainly operating on behalf of an Islamic terrorist group. She came here to Brockhurst to set up a field office, with the express purpose of finding out when Arnold and Kathy were leaving the country.”
“Well, where is she now?”
“Dunno, babe. But if I had to guess, I’d say Syria.”
“What do you mean, Syria? How could she get there?”
“No trouble. Air France to Paris, from either Washington or New York. Then on to Damascus. Same airline.”
“And how, Great Oracle, do you alone come to be in possession of these facts? You alone, out of the entire country?”
Jimmy took his right hand off the wheel and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Mostly because I alone do not give a rat’s ass about the murder. I’m looking for something else, and I just found it.”
“I don’t know why you have to be so dismissive about the life of Matt Barker.”
“Because he was just a big stupid accident who blundered into the path of a major Islamic terrorist operation. Of course she killed him, but it’s about as important as having a cup of coffee. And I’m the only person right now who is aware of that.”
“Well, the media don’t seem to agree with you. They are possessed by this murder.”
“If his bloody pecker hadn’t been sticking out, none of ’em would have given a damn. It just gave a salacious flavor to a routine country killing. And that’ll do it every time. They wouldn’t recognize the real truth behind the story if it bit ’em right in the ass.”
Jane chuckled. “Christ, Arnold Morgan has had an effect on you,” she said.
“I take that as a compliment,” he replied. “But just ask yourself. This murder has all the hallmarks of an international terrorist operation. And how many times has any newspaper, radio, or television outfit mentioned that obvious truth? I’ll tell you. None. And how often have they mentioned Matt Barker’s pecker? About eight zillion times.”
Again Jane laughed. “I guess his brains ended up in his pecker,” she said. “A darned expensive move — cost him his life.”
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