The Drowned Man

by David Whellams

  For a few more seconds he did not move, even though Alida saw him and stared back, making eye contact. Peter understood where he had seen her before: not just her passport, but her picture somewhere else. It occurred to him, irrationally, that this phantom could disappear into the air at will. She was beautiful even at this distance. Her smooth face showed anger and sadness in equal parts — and fascination with him, he fantasized.

  Peter could now see the full expanse of asphalt and parked cars, all seemingly fixed in place by the glaring sun. His trance shattered as Price Murdock came out of the hotel, huffing and straining as he burst from the delivery door. Price immediately saw Alida in the distance.

  Peter moved towards Price and almost collided with the special agent as she came out the back door, gun out. While all three understood that the woman in the chambermaid uniform was their target, no one shouted at her retreating figure, or said anything. They merely stared. Murdock, wheezing heavily, took out his Glock and slowly raised it at Alida, likely trying to intimidate her, Peter judged. Price would not risk injuring bystanders. The other special agent raised her Glock 17 in a parallel line and waited for the boss’s shot.

  Price Murdock delayed to see what the girl would do and that extra few seconds gave Dunning Malloway time to come out the back of the hotel. His gun was already in his right hand. He saw Alida and fell into position next to the other two shooters and Peter. The four mocked Wellington’s thin red line, or a ragged firing squad, Peter thought. Murdock threw Malloway a questioning frown and stared at the gun in his hand.

  Malloway stiffened and sighted along the pistol.

  “No,” Murdock said, and he and his fellow agent pulled their weapons back.

  Peter understood that Malloway would disobey; he wanted the woman dead. Instinctively, Peter reached out his hand and forced Malloway’s arm upward. It was a fast and simple gesture. The gun went off and the bullet disappeared into the sky.

  Alida looked back at Malloway and then at Peter. Peter could not make out her expression, but he knew that she somehow had taken in every detail, even at that distance.

  A few seconds later she was gone.

  This did not end the confrontation. Murdock, anger turning his face deep red, glared at Malloway, adding a sidelong glance at Peter. “Where the hell’d you get that weapon?”

  Before Malloway could respond, Murdock sat down on the pavement and fell onto his back. His faced puffed up and he turned a darker red as he fought for breath and clenched his arms against his side in an effort to quiet his heart.

  CHAPTER 35

  Murdock’s people, working with Jangler, later figured out that Alida scooted from the parking lot through two buildings, crossed the street to the Pharos and jumped into the first cab at the stand. She was out of the zone in three minutes. The driver took her to the Portage Road Transit Center, where, appearing to know precise schedules, she hopped a series of buses that eventually deposited her in Rochester, New York.

  At the scene, recrimination against the Scotland Yard detectives was delayed as the special agent beside Price Murdock used her cell to call for an ambulance. Peter knew that he himself was of no use in these circumstances. FBI agents are superbly trained to deal with emergencies such as heart attacks and he backed off and watched until he heard the ambulance siren grow loud. He noticed that Malloway had vanished. With Price attended to, Peter walked around to the front of the Gorman and over to the next intersection, seeking a line of sight up and down the urban streets. Peter was standing exposed in the intersection when Jangler ran up, out of breath. He explained that a search of room 402 had come up short on the Booth letters, leaving as evidence “only a pile of useless fingerprints.”

  Peter joined Dave Jangler, the two FBI agents and a squad of uniformed police officers in searching the streets and buildings around the Gorman. Noting that Malloway was gone, Peter guessed that he had taken off after the suspect and was unlikely to return. If and when he did, Peter was determined to let him tough it out with the FBI. While he might be able to explain away possession of the weapon, his firing the gun in a public area was unacceptable, and could lead both Henry Pastern and the Buffalo Police to register a formal complaint with London. The abruptness of Malloway’s vanishing act told Peter other things: Dunning must have fled before hearing confirmation that the letters weren’t to be found within the hotel; his immediate pursuit of Alida Nahvi reinforced Peter’s suspicion that it was the woman and not the documents he was after. Malloway must have known that the chances of finding the woman on his own were slim, yet he was making the attempt.

  After an hour of searching, Jangler took Peter aside. “You noticed, Chief Inspector, that I wasn’t at the planning session yesterday.”

  Peter, who was as tired and frustrated as any of the special agents and police officers scouring the area, said, “I wish you had been.”

  “You bet. But the reason I was absent was that my team and I were busy checking with cab drivers, restaurants, and shops in the city to see if anyone had encountered the woman. I can tell you, if we had found her that way, I would have arrested her on the spot. In retrospect, I wish we had. Water under the Niagara Bridge, as we say. But someone at the downtown tourist office, presented with Nahvi’s description, identified her and said she asked how to get to Grand Island.” Jangler described the island and its location. “I sent an officer out there yesterday to look around. He happened to check the Holiday Inn and he found a reservation in the name of Alice Nixon for one night, tonight.”

  “I don’t suppose she’s shown up,” Peter said.

  “Nope,” Jangler said. “I just called. But I could use some help checking it out. I can have a constable with a cruiser drive you.”

  Once there, it took Peter only a few minutes to ascertain that Alida had never arrived to claim her reservation at the Holiday Inn. He told his police chauffeur that he would stick around to watch for the fugitive. As soon as the cruiser departed, Peter flagged a cab at the front of the hotel, handed him a fifty dollar bill, and asked him to drive to the best spot for viewing the western arm of the Niagara River.

  Peter stared across the water to the Canadian shoreline. The current created an effective barrier to anyone thinking of swimming or paddling across the international line. He erased that scenario from his list. But would Alida find another way to sneak into Canada? He clung to the belief that she had unfinished business in Montreal. She was truly on the run now and Peter knew most of the reasons. Not only was she implicated in the Carpenter murder and the savage death of the Anacostia hooker, he now knew that the beautiful creature he had seen behind the Gorman Hotel was the girl in the photograph in the News of the World. He seldom read the News but that afternoon on the flight to England he had scanned its exposé of the cricket scandal, with its candid shots that included a party scene in a luxury hotel, booze spilling from raised glasses (even though the players were all Muslims), drunken faces in the camera lens, and party girls in the background.

  He hadn’t made the connection before, but that was Alida Nahvi in that London hotel.

  And now she was being hunted. Malloway was hunting her.

  His mobile vibrated. It was Jangler, who reported that Murdock had been taken to a hospital and was now stable. The woman had evaporated. Recalling that the old night clerk had been forced to extend his shift through the morning, Jangler had his men call on the day shift clerk, but it wasn’t until they thought to check every room on the fourth floor that he was discovered. Young Jeff could not yet be awakened because of an elephant-crippling amount of drugs in his bloodstream. Jangler wasn’t happy about anything.

  The river was mesmerizing and Peter gazed at two boats tossing in the channel, while the taxi driver smoked a cigarette back by the car. Peter worked to figure out what Alida Nahvi wanted. The beautiful young woman was searching for safety far from London hotel rooms and Pakistani cricket pitches. She retained no fealty to
Motihari, hometown of George Orwell, or to Orwell’s British childhood home in Henley; Alida loved her mother but she must know that her old life was irretrievable. On her jagged path to her El Dorado, wherever it might be, she had killed, probably twice, possibly more, and had spoiled all her chances. Peter would not, could not cut her any slack. He saw no equivocation in her decisions to murder. John Carpenter’s death had occurred within a few days of arriving in Canada; she must have swiftly improvised and carried out the plan to steal the letters. Then Alida had murdered the hooker, a blameless victim of her panic to get away. Alida Nahvi remained erratic and dangerous to the general public.

  Peter continued to stare at the channel. His phone’s ringtone made him jump. It was Maddy. He was sure she could hear the river and the bridge traffic in the background as he answered, but she refrained from asking where he was.

  “Dad, you said you’d call.” There was both apprehension and relief in her voice.

  Peter summed up the fiasco at the Gorman, knowing it was a scattered, unsatisfying narrative. He mentioned the guns levelled at Alida in the street and the way she looked back at him with . . . disappointment?

  Maddy replied blithely, “I don’t know. How would I like looking at three coppers pointing their guns at me?”

  The question made him realize that he owed his daughter-in-law a better report. For the next thirty minutes the saga poured out of him, a mix of facts and educated judgements, lacking an ending. She let him tell it without interruption. He stood close to the current as he related the story, while the cabbie smoked another three cigarettes and let the meter run.

  “At least she didn’t kill the desk clerk,” Maddy finally said.

  “My battery is running out, dear,” he replied.

  She rushed to tell him why she had called. “Three bridges cross to Canada from where you are. The Peace Bridge goes from Buffalo to Fort Erie in Ontario. The Rainbow runs from Niagara Falls, New York, to the equivalent town in Canada, and you can walk across that one. The Whirlpool Bridge is a smaller crossing but you need a special pass to use it. There’s also the Lewiston Bridge along the river from the Falls.”

  “Thank you, dear,” he replied. “That’s very useful. Could you do some more computer research for me?”

  She remained silent while he told her about the cricket scandal and its disturbing connections, and the kind of information he needed now.

  “I’ll get right on it.” She sounded more cheerful and enthusiastic. Peter worried about her pregnancy but he could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t patronize her.

  There was a further pause. “You’re looking at the bridges now, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Yes.” He was more certain than ever that Alida would head north. He promised to call Maddy within a day.

  Peter watched the river for a few more minutes. He could see two of the bridge spans from where he stood but he no longer cared which one Alida might have taken.

  CHAPTER 36

  Peter stayed one more night in Buffalo after the disaster at the Gorman and then shuttled up to Montreal. He would have abandoned the Nickel City faster but he felt an obligation to Henry Pastern. He would do what he could to paper over the crisis Dunning had caused with his smuggled gun. Henry took the brunt of the blowback from Jangler and from Price Murdock’s people, who argued that his vacillation had allowed the girl to escape, even if she had fled without the money. Murdock himself remained in hospital; his heart attack was judged a mild one. In those first hours, there was muttering from Washington about an official complaint to the commissioner of New Scotland Yard. Americans take guns seriously. And they take other people’s guns even more seriously, Peter thought.

  Peter made enigmatic promises to file a report on the incident with London but in truth he was in no hurry. Let Malloway and Frank Counter, his supervisor, wear this one. Peter called neither Bartleben nor Counter. For the time being, he informed no one of his itinerary other than Pascal Renaud, who invited him to stay at the townhouse once more.

  Pascal understood immediately. “Tell me, Peter, does anyone but me know you’re coming up here?” he said over the phone.

  “No,” Peter confessed. He would tell Maddy in a day or two, and then Joan and Michael. Joan would forgive him if he delayed calling.

  “Reminds you a bit, doesn’t it, of Sherman’s March, cutting off your supply train and disappearing into the thickets of Georgia? When do we lay siege to Savannah?” Pascal remarked.

  When Peter arrived at the condo early that evening, Pascal immediately opened two bottles of beer and they picked up the conversation where they had left off.

  Peter repeated, “I think Malloway is coming back here. I just don’t know when.”

  “Then why not call your chef?” Pascal remarked, nodding encouragement. He meant Bartleben.

  “For one thing, he’ll demand I come home but I’m staying, for reasons I see no point in explaining to him. Out of spite, I’m likely to announce my permanent retirement to a country cottage in the Laurentians.” Peter took a long swallow of his pint. He relaxed. “I hold at least a few cards, Pascal. My chef doesn’t understand yet what Malloway’s up to and I want to pick the right moment to tell him. Malloway may have returned to Britain for a bit. He has to explain his cock-up to management. But one way or another he’ll come back here.”

  “And it will be soon?”

  “It will be soon.”

  Renaud processed Peter’s train of thought. Still, he hesitated, not sure that his new friend was ready to disclose his ultimate deduction. He ventured, “Are you saying he’s coming back for the girl?”

  It was Peter’s turn to pause. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Pascal continued, “But why would she return? For the money?”

  “In a way,” Peter said. “Alida Nahvi tried for the big score but failed. Her plan was to take the money and run, literally.”

  Renaud fell into his Socratic rhythm. “But she is coming back to demand the money from . . . Greenwell? Malloway? Hilfgott?”

  “Her priorities have shifted. She’ll return because of Malloway and Buffalo.”

  “Ah, for revenge,” Pascal said.

  “Yes. Revenge for John Carpenter.”

  “Pretty risky, Alida going head-to-head with a Scotland Yard policeman.”

  “I don’t know, Pascal, which one do you think is deadlier?”

  About midnight, the two friends agreed that they should stop drinking — each with several beers under his belt — and Pascal went outside. As the professor opened the front door of the townhouse, already in a cloud of Gauloise fumes, Peter heard the chatter of the bar crowd over by the Atwater Market.

  “Where are you off to?” Peter called.

  “A last drink on the patio. Care to join me?” He winked.

  Alone, Peter took the empty bottles back to the kitchen, then settled in to read his email traffic at the computer in the living room.

  But first, he checked his phone and text messages. He had silenced his mobile, knowing that Frank Counter, Sir Stephen Bartleben, and Owen Rizeman likely had already phoned to hector him about the Buffalo incident. There they were: no message from Bartleben, but voicemails from Counter and Rizeman, and another from Henry Pastern; all were brief, Rizeman’s annoyed and Counter’s and Pastern’s plaintive. Tommy Verden had also left a “call me” message.

  There was only one item of urgent interest to him. Maddy’s text message read, “Oodles of stuff on Cricket shenanigans. Call Thursday a.m., no matter how early (and before I leave for work).”

  It occurred to Peter once more that Maddy, like Bartleben, never slept. She picked up on the first ring with a sprightly, “Hi, Peter.”

  He thought about her morning sickness but he was determined not to ask. “How are you?” he said.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “Just in Montreal.”
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  “Just?” She laughed. “So, did Alida cross that bridge when she came to it? You’re on her trail?”

  “I’ll explain later. Let’s talk about cricket.”

  Maddy responded in kind to Peter’s businesslike approach. “Do you want me to send the clippings? There’s a ton of them.”

  “Send everything.”

  He could sense her preparing her notes. “How long have you got now?” she said.

  “As much time as you need. Let’s go.”

  Peter had asked her to compile a chronological summary of the salient facts from any and all news sources. Without any interruption from her father-in-law, Maddy related the sorry tale of the Pakistani cricket stars and their fall from grace.

  The last week of August 2010, in its Sunday edition, the News of the World published an explosive exposé headlined “Caught!” claiming that members of Pakistan’s national cricket team had taken bribes on the order of £150,000 to throw a test match at Lord’s against the English team. This was the issue Peter had read on the airplane. Images from a surreptitious video and lurid still photos of the cricket stars bolstered the tabloid’s allegations. The pivotal figure in the grainy video was an evidently untrustworthy player’s agent from India, the Fake Sheikh, who agreed to participate in the newspaper’s sting by gaining the agreement of the team’s captain and six prominent players to what is known as “spot-fixing,” in this instance three intentional “no-balls,” whereby Pakistani bowlers would foul by deliberately stepping over the bowling crease. Pakistan lost the match to the English and the no-balls were recorded on film for all to see.

  In response, the International Cricket Council suspended the players, pledging a full investigation. The Pakistan Cricket Board promised its own quick inquiry, while the president of Pakistan and its ambassador to Britain assured the world that none of this conduct was typical of Pakistan’s cricket culture. The sting having occurred in London, New Scotland Yard announced an inquiry into the cricket scandal. As far as Maddy could tell, the Yard was proceeding gingerly, perhaps content to let the disciplinary processes of the ICC and Pakistan roll out before laying serious charges against the implicated players.