Chapter Eight
Dhahran - Thursday, April 2
Professor Zahid had told Hammid that he would have the final result of the laser spectrographic analysis today, but it was now 7:00 pm, 4:00 pm in London, and he had heard nothing yet. Everything hinged on that result. If it showed the treaty was indeed from the Twelfth Century, then he could call the Old Man and let him know they could proceed to the next stage of their plan. No. He caught himself. He would call the Old Man with the news, then let the Old Man tell him the next step. If Hammid wanted to remain alive, he could never forget who was in charge.
He couldn’t call Zahid and reveal how anxious he was. That would show weakness, and Zahid needed a strong hand guiding him. So he waited.
At 9:00 pm Zahid finally called. “Hammid, the result is the year 1180. That means the parchment was manufactured sometime between 1160 and 1200. A forty-year period. That’s right on target.”
Hammid wanted to leap up on the railing of the balcony overlooking the gulf and shout for joy. Hundreds of years of patient waiting, and now they had it. They had it. And he did it. He, Hammid Al Dossary did it. Hammid Al Dossary, whose name would be remembered for a thousand generations. But instead he replied in a calm and flat voice. “Excellent, Hosni. That’s very good news. Very good, indeed. Our people are indebted to you. When are you coming back?”
“There’s one more thing I’d like to pursue. It would actually augment the case for authenticity. Another researcher was running a sample at the same time I was. Nothing to do with the treaty. She’s a professor here in London. Her sample showed a chemical profile that exactly matched mine, and the only explanation for that is both parchments were manufactured in the same batch. If I can get with her, I can learn the particulars of her manuscript, and it might shed some more light on our own.”
Damn, thought Hammid, think. Jean Randolph? Who else? Think before you talk. Don’t show ignorance, and don’t give away what you want to keep hidden. You are the leader, and you are always in control. Zahid doesn’t know where the treaty came from, and he doesn’t know how it was obtained. He has no reason to suspect someone else might be running a sample of the same treaty. It is logical for him to accept the explanation of a common manufacturing batch. He has no other.
“That’s very interesting, Hosni. Who is this other researcher?”
“Her name is Jean Randolph. She’s a professor of medieval history, specializes in rare manuscripts. Quite well-known.”
It was her. Jean Randolph. What on Earth could she be up to? Parchment from the same batch eight hundred years ago? Nonsense. She had a sample of the treaty and she was putting it through the same laser analysis.
But why? From her perspective, why care if it was from 1189 or 1889? So what? What was her interest? Had she gone to the authorities? If she had, they would have buried her so deep under the British Official Secrets Act that she’d never see daylight again. If she had gone to MI6, and had a sample, they could easily have the British Museum run the sample day or night. What is wrong with her?
This didn’t feel right, and Zahid was no field operative. He wasn’t cut out for it. Hammid’s recent elation deflated a bit. He still had problems. Something was very wrong here.
“Listen, Zahid, I’d like to have you back here as soon as possible. We can always get with that professor. What’s her name? Randolph? But it sounds like you got what we needed. We have a lot of work to do, so I think it’s best if you get back here with the results as soon as you can.”
Politics always trumping scholarship, thought Zahid. It was pointless to argue. He’d be back in Dhahran as soon as he could.
* * *
So, what do we do with Professor Jean Randolph, Hammid asked himself. She obviously had a piece of the treaty, but how much? Did she take any of the text? It seemed unlikely since the treaty in his possession showed all the seals old Hashashin records indicated, two Popes and three kings. And the text matched their records word for word. Did they put footnotes on these things? Or did she just take a corner of the treaty for her own amusement? But to what end? Or did she just grab something else from the library for herself, something from the same collection that came from the same parchment batch? Nonsense again. That same batch idea was silly.
Kill her? He could kill her, but the Old Man had specifically forbidden that. If he went back to the Old Man for permission, he would have to admit there was a problem, and how long would he live after that? The Old Man would take the treaty and plant him in the desert.
Accidents? People died every day from unexpected accidents. Traffic? Falls? Mountain-climbing? Ski? Sky-dive? Scuba? He had no idea, and didn’t have to time to find out. A million euros wasn’t enough for the greedy bitch. The greedy Western mind again.
The more he considered the alternatives, the less he liked them. Every option was bad, with no clean way out of this, not with the Old Man’s peculiar habit of getting rid of people when the people or circumstances displeased him.
An accident was risky, but offered him the best chance of surviving the Old Man’s suspicions and succeeding in his mission. And there would have to be a clean-up so no trace of the treaty was found by family or authorities. He pulled a novel off the shelf, flipped through it until he found the number in the margin, and called Beirut.
“Marhaba, Jamilah, I have something that needs special attention.” Maybe she could solve his problems.
Dhahran – Thursday, April 2
Even telling the Old Man about a great success was something Hammid dreaded, but it had to be done.
“Sheik, the tests of parchment of the Treaty of Tuscany we have in our possession show it was manufactured between 1160 and 1200. The treaty is dated 1189.”
“Is there any further test the West could demand?”
“No, Sheik. The laser spectrographic analysis is the best that has been developed.”
“In that case, wait until the new Pope is elected and has been in office a bit longer. Wait until the news surrounding the bombing, his election, and the novelty of the new Pope falls off the news cycle. I want this to hit when there is no other news coming from the Vatican. The media hates the Church, and will be drooling at the chance to slam it after all the sympathy from the bombing and the interest in the papal election. Never forget, the news people are our strongest allies. They are so stupid they don’t even know it, but we aren’t that stupid.” He broke the connection.
Hammid’s hand shook with excitement and fear as he clicked his phone off. The exciting thing was the world would soon know the treacherous roots of the West’s core religion. It would learn who was the aggressor in the struggle between the East and West, and the West would see itself reflected back in that dark, oily mirror of the treaty. TV news and newspapers would do most of the work, but they had to be guided. Just give them some excuse to hate themselves and they would jump at the chance.
The fear was for his own life since he had just turned Jamilah loose on Jean Randolph. That was a risk, but what choice did he have? If he lost, it would be a sudden shot in the back of the head or a dagger to the brain stem. In either case, he’d never even know it. But, the Old Man wouldn’t be certain either, and would he upset an operation on the way to success? How did he know how the Old Man thought?
But now he had the order to proceed. He almost ran to Zahid’s workroom. But Zahid wasn’t back from London yet.
London - Saturday, April 4
London was a great big belly-laugh of a city, a round-the-clock whirlwind of life, love and good cheer. Jamilah had been to most of the world’s great cities, but none could match London. It wasn’t the biggest, tallest, richest, or most beautiful, and its weather was terrible, but it had a strength and vitality she found nowhere else. The grin spread across her face as soon as she glimpsed the shores of Britain and felt the Airbus bank for its gradual descent into Heathrow.
She had boarded at King Fahd near Dhahran after meeting with Hammid at his estate. His plan was unbelievable. Hammid was the new Saladin, riding a big white horse and uniting all the Arabs behind his banner? Stranger things had happened. But she had never seen him so nervous. It was nothing she could put her finger on, but he was always tightly controlled and operated behind a mask that hid the true man. But she sensed something was wrong, that he was worried.
He explained what she had to do, the information she had to get out of Jean, and even showed her the treaty. She didn’t think anyone would care much about what some old fools had written hundreds of years ago, but that was Hammid’s problem, not hers. What she did know was he was paying her very well.
When she boarded the British Airways plane in Dhahran, she was dressed just like the other forty Arab women traveling to London, wrapped in a head-to-toe black abaya with a headscarf concealing her long black hair and everything but her face.
When the seatbelt sign went off minutes out of Dhahran, she joined the line of stoop shouldered women trudging to the back of the plane to remove their abayas and revel in the freedom the rest of the race enjoyed every day. They returned to their seats in Western clothes, strutting, smiling, and holding their heads high. Jamilah had seen it every time she had flown out of the Kingdom, and she still felt satisfaction each time she joined in defying the silly custom.
* * *
She slept on the plane and had a quick breakfast at her hotel, the Dorchester, since the credit card she used went to Hammid’s account, then geared up for a day of power shopping. Harrods? Carnaby Street? God, she loved this. She wore tight jeans over black boots, a blue oxford shirt, and a black leather jacket. With her thick black hair held loosely by a red band, she returned pleasant smiles to both the admiring looks from the men and the daggers from the women.
Her light step, innocent smile, and quick giggle put her at about twenty-one, far younger than her real age. She attributed it to good genes, skin care, and exercise, and her targets never suspected her long record of successful kills. How could they? She looked like somebody’s daughter, not an assassin.
When she had two full shopping bags it was time for the boring shopping. She took a taxi to a pharmacy in Knightsbridge, and asked the Lebanese pharmacist about mint-flavored Egyptian cough medicine. He said nothing, just reached under the counter and gave her a package with two syringes, two bottles, and a small box of latex gloves.
She walked to a sporting goods shop in the same neighborhood and bought a coil of light-weight climbing rope and two knives, one four-inch folding knife with a thumb open, and one sheath knife with a double-edged three-inch blade.
Her last stop was an art supply house in Soho, where she purchased paints, canvases, turpentine, several bottles of solvent, silver wire, a small melting pot, jewelers’ tools, and an artist’s propane torch.
Now she was loaded down, but she did have a job to do, and the sooner she finished it, the sooner she could get back to shopping and London nightlife. She had a strict rule. No partying until the job was done. No exceptions. That kept her focused. She had to have a clear head for her work since her life really did depend on it.
Before she left Dhahran, she had ordered an Internet set of lock picks to be delivered to the hotel. When she got back to her room, she saw the package lying on the bed. Ok. Now she had everything she needed. Tomorrow would be the day. She couldn’t help giggling.
She traded the fashionable shopping clothes for a dark outfit that alternated between tight and loose fitting items, smeared on dark eye shadow and black lipstick, laced up black construction boots, hung silver lightning bolts from her ears, stuck seven rings on her fingers, wrapped a chain around her waist, and stuck her hair up under a black cap. She looked in the mirror and was genuinely pleased at the horrid transformation that stared back. People would be able to describe the outfit, but not the person. Great.
She took the elevator to the parking level of the hotel and walked out the driveway into the early evening. Time to go get a look at Professor Jean Reynolds house, and with luck, she might even get a glimpse of the target herself.
London - Sunday, April 5
“Do you think Zurich will ever make up its mind about this thing? They have the treaty pictures Jean took. They know exactly what the treaty says.” Callahan was leaning back in the corner of a booth in the Dorchester café, skimming the newspaper propped on the edge of the table.
“Oh, I’m sure they will, but I bet there is one hell of a fight in the Templar Council right about now.” Marie leaned over and took his last chocolate cookie.
“What are they fighting about?”
“Templars take a very long view of history. They don’t think this fight with the radical Muslims will be over in a few years, or a few decades. They expect it to go on for hundreds of years. It’s already been going on for a thousand years. You know that. So, they’re trying to figure out which alternative will give them the long-term advantage. Maybe it is best to let that treaty become public, or maybe now’s not the time.”
“So they can make it public sometime down the road? On their own timetable? When it’s more to their advantage?”
“Exactly.” She leaned both elbows on the table and searched his plate for any remaining cookie bits. “The Church probably has the longest view of history, and then come the Templars. And let’s not forget the Hashashin. It’s hard to put yourself in that frame of mind. We live to be what? Eighty or ninety if we’re lucky? You have to step out of that life span and pretend you’re going to live a thousand years. That’s what I figure the Council is doing right now.”
“Well, that means the probability is they will want to grab the treaty and keep it secret for now. And that means we’re going to have to take Jean Randolph pretty soon.”
“Why’s that?” She lifted her ice cream bowl and gestured to the waiter for another.
“Look at it like this. If we’re looking at the best time over, say, the next hundred years? It’s unlikely that this moment is the best. And if they get hold of the treaty, then they can plan some upcoming campaign and include it in that plan. If you take the long view, and you have the treaty locked up in the Templar Archives, then that would figure into how you operate in the future. It’s just very unlikely now is the best time to let it out of the bag.”
“My God, Callahan, now you’re starting to sound like the Chief Archivist.” She swirled her new ice cream around the bowl. “You know, we should probably plan a way to take her. We never know when Zurich will give the word.”
“How to take her? We let ourselves into her place when she’s out. Wait for her to come back. Stick her in the butt with a needle and take her to a safe house.” He gave her a quick look. “You said you have the drug kit, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I have it in a pocket of my suitcase. I suppose you’re right. Just go in and wait for her to come home. Surprise!”
“Yeah, and that brings us back to our present predicament.” He tapped the headlines in the Guardian and read from it. “Carnage Spreads Across Europe In Wake Of Vatican Bombing.” The story detailed the rash of killings across all of Western Europe, starting in Rome. All of the victims were Middle Eastern men, all of the killings were execution style, and none of the killers had been apprehended. “It says civil rights groups are strongly protesting this savage attack on peaceful immigrants from the Middle East, and demand the government protect these innocents and apprehend the perpetrators immediately. And this idiot in Parliament says it must be the CIA.”
He read down the column in the Guardian, and whispered, “Look at this. They even got five in London while we’ve been chasing paper. Right under our noses.”
He folded the paper and smacked it down on the table. “The Templars have gone to war, and we’re lunching in the café of the Dorchester having an extended dessert of cookies and ice cream. Doesn’t really bring ‘Death in Battle’ to mind, does it? It feels like I’m missing in action.”
“Speaking of missing in action, what’s the word on my good friend Professor Zahid?” she asked.
Callahan shook his head. “We’re being punished by God.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. He’s toying with us.”
Marie held a hand over her heart and said, “Oh, no. He’s not making fun of your whizbang computer gadgets, is he?”
“I’m afraid so. Remember that tracker the Zurich guys put in his laptop? The gizmo that called them each time he got on the Internet?”
“Yeah.”
“The same one that dialed the local cell phone system and gave them his GPS coordinates every hour?”
“Yeah, I’m not going to like this, am I? You’re going to tell me I set all this up for you and your gizmo doesn’t work? You geeks blew it?”
Callahan sat up. “No. Of course it works. It’s just that when he stopped for a day in Cairo to visit with his family, he left the laptop there, with his daughter, the twelve-year-old. But all isn’t lost. Now we get to follow her adventures in FaceBook, and read emails about the cute boy in math class, a kid named Akhom. And we even know her exact GPS location to within two meters all day. The Americans could drop a cruise missile right on top of her.” He shrugged. “If it matters, she’s been to school, a shopping mall, and a few friends’ houses in the past few days.”
She tapped her spoon lightly on the table top. “And Zahid? The guy who was going to lead us to the treaty? Where did he go?”
“Zahid got back on a plane from Cairo to Dhahran.”
“And?”
“And then?” Callahan flipped his palms up. “Who knows? That’s what the whizbang tracker in his laptop was going to tell us.”
She shook her head. “You people are hopeless.”
She stood up, slid a book bag over her shoulder, and looked at her watch. “Well, it may not be battle, but Professor Randolph and I are meeting in the bowels of the British Museum to look at some charters from Henry II. Nothing to do with our treaty. Just fun.”
She raised an eyebrow at Callahan. “Maybe you can arrange to romance her? You’re not that bad-looking. She’s a good-looking woman, and I don’t see a man anywhere in sight. I mean, we do what we have to do to complete the mission.”
“Not my type.”
“So what? You think that psycho in Costa Rica was my type? Think about it. You’re lucky he wasn’t gay. The longer Zurich takes, the harder it gets to keep tabs on her.” She gave Callahan an appraising look. “In fact, I’d say you and Jean would make a cute couple.”
He laughed. “Now I guess we really are talking ‘Death in Battle.’”
“Ok. Think about it. I have to go meet our gal now. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
* * *
Jamilah hauled a two-wheeled cart of cleaning supplies up Jean’s street, looked at a paper she pulled from a pocket, and turned up the walkway to Jean’s building. Nobody noticed her. Nobody ever noticed cleaning ladies.
She had just followed Jean to the Totenham Court Station, so she knew she would be gone at least thirty minutes. She had to wait for a train, get to another station, go somewhere, and then return. She’d probably take more than an hour. That would be more than enough time to get settled.
Much as Callahan had done, she picked the Schlage lock and let herself in, paused to listen, then carefully locked the door from the inside so Jean would suspect nothing when she returned.
She pulled on the latex gloves, unpacked her equipment from the cart, and carefully laid the items out on a side table. Duct tape, two syringes, drug kit, rope, and sheath knife. She loaded both syringes with a knockout drug since not everyone went down with one dose.
She practiced dragging a sturdy, straight-back wooden chair from the workroom into the living room. Now she went back to the workroom and laid out the melting pot, matches, butane mini-torch, silver wire and small vice she had purchased at the art supply store. At the other end of the table she put paints, brushes, art paper, turpentine, solvents, and a clean white towel.
When she determined where each item would go, she carefully repacked them in her cart and pushed the cart out of sight in a closet off the workroom. Since she knew where everything would go, when the time came, there would be no hesitation, no choices to be made, less risk, and no delay.
Next, she slowly walked through every room, listening for the telltale squeaks and creaks that could give her away. The main hallway was solid, and she could move along the route from the workroom to the bedroom without a sound. The living room, however, was a symphony of squeaky floor boards. That made her choice simple. Wait in the workroom and move on Jean when she entered the bedroom, since all women went to the bedroom soon after coming home.
This wasn’t that hard to do. She had learned that all it took was planning, surprise, and a willingness to employ extreme violence. Anyone can hit someone over the head with a hammer or stick them with a knife if they’re not expecting it. The talent lay in managing expectations. And she was a Grandmaster at that.
With that done, she passed the time going through closets trying on jackets and accessories that Jean wouldn’t need anymore. They took the same size, and the woman had good taste. Pity to let them go to waste.
* * *
Marie was genuinely disappointed when the curator at the British Museum gently hinted they would have to be closing soon. The charters Jean had shown her from Henry II were in excellent condition, showing the beginning of his effort to create a single common law from Roman law, Church law, Norman law, and Anglo-Saxon law. Too many systems were costing him money.
“You want to grab dinner?” asked Marie as they left the museum.
“What are you up for?”
“How about Chinese? Is there one around here?”
“I have a better idea,” said Jean. “There’s a great Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood. Let’s get some take-out and head back to my place.”
So I get to see the place, thought Marie. How much better can it get? “Lead on, ma’am. It’s Chinese at the House of Randolph.”
When the taxi left them off at the Chinese restaurant, Marie turned the subject to men, thinking of Callahan. No, said Jean sadly, there were none in her life at the time, not that she wouldn’t welcome a decent man. But, as Marie must know, the best were taken, and the available pool was running thin on attractive prospects. Maybe she’d just live out her years seducing graduate students and an occasional pool boy in Majorca. The common plight of the successful woman reaching her middle years, she laughed bitterly.
Callahan, your number’s up, Marie thought. It’s time for you to meet this charming professor, liar, thief, forger, and mass murderer. What more can a guy ask for?
* * *
Jamilah peeked through a crack in the curtains when she heard the laughter coming up the walkway. She was with another woman. Damn. Grab her cart and get out the back, or stay and wait for the visitor to leave? What if she didn’t leave? What if her guest stayed all night? Decide. Now. She decided and dashed into the workroom with her cart, and backed into a narrow closet. Why did she do that? It was the bags, bags of carry-out food. But that made no sense. No time to debate in her head. Instinct had committed her. Instinct kept her alive. Now she had to play the hand. Thank God she had loaded both syringes. She might need both. She placed them on a shelf next to her in the closet, flicked open the folding knife, and held it in her hand.
But, the other woman wouldn’t be staying, and she could tell from their conversation they weren’t good friends, nor were they pickups. Most of what they talked about was history and scholarly programs at different universities. Jamilah had passed through her own university years in something of a fog, never understanding what kept anyone tied to the academic life. But, right now, her job was to remain silent and wait for the visitor to leave.
She relaxed every muscle, starting from her feet and moving up her body, breathed deeply into her diaphragm, silenced her solar plexus, willing herself to be invisible, unnoticed, and balanced. She heard the words of her instructor. Calm, relaxed, let events come to you, never push an unfavorable situation, surprise is your friend, you are always safe when the enemy doesn’t know you are there. When it is time to strike, strike swiftly, strike silently. Maintain control at all times. Patience is an ally. Never hesitate. Hesitate and you die. Relax and let it happen.
The two women talked for two hours, and Jamilah waited for two hours, calm, relaxed, with the unfocused awareness that kept her aware of everything. She had been through this before, and she would get through it again.
At last the visitor was leaving, but first she had to go on and on about some guy Randolph just had to meet. Oh, she knew they would get on, and why not give it a whirl? She would jump him herself if he was in Zurich, but he was based in London. Yes, I know Americans are strange, but this one has been away from America for a long time. Hmm… this American sounded interesting. Then her instructor’s words came back. Don’t be defeated by your own thoughts. Control them. Think.
The visitor finally left, and Jamilah heard Jean turn the deadbolt and fasten the chain. She heard her in the bathroom running water, then the shower. Now she would be barefoot and harder to hear. Through a crack in the closet door, Jamilah watched Jean come into the workroom while she wound a towel around her hair. She dropped something on the table, then left for the kitchen.
A refrigerator door opened and closed. Then the lid on the garbage can closed? She heard the whistle of a teapot. When the kitchen light went out, creaks came from the living room and the glow from that light vanished. She left the closet, squatted and peeked above the door hinge. The only light came from the bedroom. The main bedroom light went out, then a dimmer light came on. Reading light? Was she going to bed this early, or just going to read for a few hours?
She left the workroom and hugged the wall, silently sliding toward the bedroom door. She heard the sound of blankets moving, then mattress and spring straining. Jamilah went to her knees and extended a small mirror rubber-banded to a pencil just beyond the door’s edge. Freeze, then look. Jean was lying on her back in bed with a book propped on her chest. Wait. Patience. Blankets rustled again, and the mirror showed her turned on her side, facing away from Jamilah, and balancing the book on the bed.
How long would she read? If she waited to attack until Jean fell asleep, she might waste half the night. And that time could be much better spent in a trendy club. The target is in bed, turned away, wrapped in blankets. She could do this. But her instructor’s words still ran through her mind. Patience, her instructor had said, patience is your ally. Patience? Patience, my ass…
Jamilah took a syringe from her pocket, checked that its spring was cocked, and stole a last look in the mirror. Jean was still turned away. Now. Her bare feet made no sound as she entered the bedroom, and patiently slid toward the bed. Grace. Patience. Feel every step. No hurry. No need for a fight now.
Jean closed the book with a thumb in the page, and cocked an ear. Just as she began to turn over, Jamilah struck, plunging the needle through the blanket and into Jean’s hip. Jean shot up and smashed Jamilah across the nose with the edge of the book and grabbed two fistfuls of hair and head-butted her in the nose.
Damn. Work the needle, work the needle, work the needle, Jamilah thought. Hold her. Empty the syringe into her. When Jean pulled away, the needle fell to the floor and Jamilah wrapped her arms around Jean’s legs, dragging both of them to the floor. Jean kicked and kneed hard, but her movements slowed, the struggling ceased, and her head lolled to one side.
God, that was terrible, thought Jamilah. What’s wrong with that woman? She whipped a looped length of rope from her pocket and wound it around Jean’s ankles, rolled her over and bound her hands behind her back. She ran to her cart in the workroom and grabbed the duct tape. Returning to Jean, she ran one strip over her mouth, and another over her eyes. That should keep her for a while.
She dragged her cart into the living room and laid out her things in their prearranged spots, then dashed into the workroom and did the same with the art equipment she had brought with her. She opened the solvent and tipped it over, making sure it soaked the papers on the table, sopped the rag with it, and positioned the propane torch so she could light it and leave. Back to Jean, and a few loops of duct tape around the ankles and wrists just for safety
In a few seconds she had dragged the straight-backed chair she had located earlier into the living room, pulled Jean by the ankles to the chair, and boosted her into a sitting position. One minute later an unconscious Jean was sitting in the chair, securely duct taped to the wooden arms and legs.
Now she would wait about ten minutes for the knockout drug to wear off, wait another ten minutes for the panic to subside, then administer the next drug and get the information Hammid wanted. If she did this right, she would have time to get back to the hotel, change clothes, and get to that new Soho club she had heard about.
When she rubbed her eyes there was blood on the back of her hand. Blood? Whose? She went to the bathroom mirror and saw an ugly cut on her nose where Jean hit her with the edge of the book. Was the bitch a martial arts type? But the cut needed attention immediately, or it might leave a scar. A scar? On her face? The bitch! She ran to the bedroom, grabbed the book, and smashed the unconscious Jean across the face as hard as she could. How do you like it, bitch?
* * *
When she left Jean’s flat, Marie called Callahan and told him he had a date for the next day. It wasn’t official yet, but she could tell Jean was interested.
Since it was still early she stopped at a bookstore in the neighborhood, selected two paperbacks and three magazines, and put them on the counter. She opened her purse. No wallet. No money. Nothing. She had taken it out at Jean’s house to show her a picture of her fictional boyfriend, and it was probably still there. She apologized to the smirking, pimply kid behind the counter and headed back to Jean’s flat. Running around London without cash or credit cards was just impossible.
* * *
Jean had fully recovered consciousness and was bucking against the tape holding her to the chair. Jamilah stayed calm and silent; she would give Jean five more minutes of struggling before she administered the next drug. Exercise helped clear the knock-out drug from the body.
She had put a Band-Aid from Jean’s medicine cabinet on her nose, but it was definitely swelling. But calm and professionalism had returned to her. I can’t lose control. Finish the mission. Get the information Hammid wants. The emotion she showed hitting Jean with the book was a luxury that could get her killed. Patience returned.
She thought Jean might actually break the chair when she stuck her with the second drug. She heaved and bucked so violently the chair tipped over on the floor, and Jamilah left her there until the drug calmed her down. When Jean began to hum “Yellow Submarine,” Jamilah lifted the chair up on its legs, removed the duct tape from her mouth, and began the questioning.
Jean told the whole story, and Jamilah couldn’t resist adding questions of her own to get the full story. Hammid had paid Jean one million euros to get that treaty? My God, she would be asking for more money the next time he wanted something done. He was cheating her. Bastard.
Jamilah was amazed Jean had created this mess just to get a piece of blank Twelfth Century paper. All so she could forge some nonsense? What a bitch. She was going to die for a blank piece of paper. Jean told her it was in a drawer in the workroom. Hmm, how much it would be worth to Hammid?
* * *
It was only 8:00 pm when Marie turned up Jean’s walkway, so Jean should still be up. She ran up the stairs and pushed Jean’s bell. “Jean, it’s me. Marie. I forgot my wallet.”
* * *
Jamilah’s head snapped around and she grabbed the sheath knife from the table in one motion. What the hell is she doing here?
The bell chimed again. “Jean, sorry to bother you, but I’m stuck without my wallet, honey. It’s just me. Marie. Sorry.”
She’s not going away without her wallet, Jamilah thought. Think. She put the tape back across Jean’s mouth to muffle her singing and waited silently.
* * *
Strange, thought Marie. She didn’t say she was going out, and I doubt she would sleep through the bell. I wonder… She hopped up on the brick railing, held onto a drainpipe, and leaned over so she could look between the edge of the window and the curtain. Jean was right in the middle of the room, blindfolded, gagged, and duct taped to a chair, and a woman crouched next to her with a knife in her hand. What’s going on here?
She silently got off the railing and rang the bell again. “Jean, come on, honey. I can’t get home without my wallet.” She leaned hard on the bell and let it chime over and over while she pushed Callahan’s speed dial on her phone.
“Hello?”
“Jean’s house. Emergency. Red alert. Going in.”
* * *
“Damn,” Callahan blurted. She’s nuts. It’s Costa Rica all over again. What’s wrong with her? He grabbed the small Walther pistol the Watcher had provided and ran from his hotel room. Downstairs he dialed the Watcher. “Jean’s house. Red alert. Weapons free. Go.” He grabbed a taxi, gave an address around the corner from Jean’s flat, shoved a hundred-pound note at the driver, and said, “Now. I want to be there now!”
* * *
Jamilah hauled Jean and the chair into the back workroom, straightened her hair in the bathroom mirror, rolled up her sleeves and smeared some face cream on her arms and the back of her hands. She carefully slid the second syringe into her pocket and took several deep breaths. The damn bell kept ringing, and that stupid woman kept yelling about her wallet.
“Ok. Ok, I’m coming,” yelled Jamilah. “Just give me a sec.” She clicked the lock back and forth and rattled the door chain unnecessarily when she opened the door and smiled at Marie. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She giggled. “I was giving Jean her aromatherapy massage. I’m Katherine.” She held up her smeared hands and arms. “Do come in. Please. I’m really sorry.”
Marie went with it. Think I’m stupid? Ok. “Oh, it’s me who should be sorry. I’m so stupid leaving my wallet here. Just let me grab it and I’ll be off.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, do come in,” she said, turning and leading Marie into the living room.
When Marie bent and stretched for the poker by the fireplace, Jamilah spun and lunged with the syringe where Marie had been an instant before. Marie’s swing missed Jamilah’s head, but the poker never stopped, whipping in a circle above her head and smashing the syringe on Jamilah’s next sweep.
Jamilah drew her knife and crouched like a dancer, making some quick jabs and feints. Marie kept the poker whirling in a figure-eight motion in front of her, changing the rhythm so Jamilah couldn’t anticipate its moves. Keep it moving, loose and relaxed means speed, don’t focus on the knife. Let your body fight, let your training fight.
Marie spun around and jabbed the poker straight at Jamilah’s eyes. It brushed her ear, but Jamilah recovered and her knife came under the poker in a lightning arc that nearly gutted Marie.
Marie backed off and held the poker Kali style, right hand holding the poker over her shoulder and down her back, and left hand gripping it under her right arm pit. That allowed a down strike with the right hand, or a sideways strike with the left. Both were cocked.
Jamilah lunged with her right hand and Marie swung the poker sideways with her left, aiming at Jamilah’s arm, but giving enough reach to hit her ribs. Either would be good. Jamilah gasped as the poker raked across her ribs, and she felt something rip. She slashed the knife back and forth, but couldn’t get the reach she needed because of her collapsed left side. Marie danced sideways. Jamilah couldn’t breathe. All she could manage were short breaths and she had to keep her left arm crooked tightly against her side to even stand up.
Marie sensed victory, but kept a distance. Jamilah could be faking her injury to lure her in close enough for the knife. She gripped the poker in the Kali stance again, and this time came over the top, knocking the knife to the floor, and continuing around in the same motion to hit the injured left side again. The stick moves by itself. Let it find its targets. The twirling poker never stopped, took the knee and side again. This time Jamilah went down.
Marie slipped behind her, whipped the poker around Jamilah’s front, and caught her throat in the vee formed by the poker and her wrist. Seven seconds of pressure on the carotid arteries were enough for Jamilah to lose consciousness. Marie grabbed he duct tape and taped the poker across the back of Jamilah’s neck so she could twist it and cut off the blood flow to the brain. She wanted her alive, and didn’t want to risk permanently damaging her. They needed information. So, she pushed her face into the floor, sat on her back, and controlled her by twisting the poker when she started to struggle.
Ok, Callahan, now’s a good time to show up. But, the Watcher arrived first, and came in the open door with a gun in hand. He said nothing, just grabbed the roll of duct tape and taped Jamilah’s hands and feet.
“You alright?” he asked Marie when she stood up.
“Yeah, thanks for the help. Jean’s tied up somewhere around here. You watch her,” she pointed at Jamilah, “and I’ll go find her.”
Callahan ran up the front steps, took a glance around, closed the front door, and looked at the Watcher.
“All secure here, but I don’t know what’s up back there. Marie says Jean is back there somewhere.”
Callahan quickly moved through each room, gun out, checking closets and behind doors. When he reached the back, Marie was cutting Jean loose from the chair while Jean hummed “Yellow Submarine.” The room stank of gasoline or alcohol.
“Look at this,” said Marie, pointing to the solvent, rags, and propane torch. “I’d say she plans to burn the place down.” Callahan went to the kitchen, lifted the top of the stove, and blew out the pilot lights.
After Marie filled Callahan in on the details, he gave the Watcher Marie’s hotel keycard and sent him back for her drug kit. They taped a snarling Jamilah to the wooden chair, and laid Jean down on the couch, with ankles taped, to recover from the drug.
“And this is all because you forgot your wallet?” Callahan asked.
“It’s my lucky wallet. If I hadn’t left it, I’d have a few magazines, this one,” she nodded at Jamilah, “would have whatever info she wanted, and that one,” she nodded at Jean, “would be a crispy critter by now. Remember what the Marshall keeps saying? Pray for luck and everything else will work out? Guess he has a point.”
Callahan picked up the poker. “Where’d you learn stick fighting?”
“The Chief Archivist. Knives, sticks, bottles, rolled up magazines. He does them all. We train at lunch every day.”
When the Watcher came back with the drugs, they gave Jean another dose of the knockout drug, dressed her, and spilled some wine on her clothes. Then the Watcher bundled her into the back of his taxi like any other drunken fare and drove off. They would decide what to do with her later. Now they had to deal with Jamilah.
Under the drugs, she answered only in Arabic. She knew Hammid had the treaty, and she knew where it was. She knew a lot, and she told them a lot. And she cheerfully told them of her plans for Jean Randolph.
Before they left, Marie carefully placed the blank piece of Twelfth Century paper in a sealed envelope, and put Jamilah’s cell phone in her pocket. They dressed Jamilah in the long T-shirt Jean wore to bed, cut her hair to Jean’s length, placed her in the bed, and gave her a lethal overdose of the knockout drug.
* * *
“Fire, fire, fire!” Callahan stomped in the door of flat on the top floor of Jean’s building, grabbed the old woman in his arms while she grabbed her cat, ran down the stairs and put them both on the curb across the street. The couple in the second floor was already out, roused by his shouts and banging. The flames could now be seen flickering behind the windows of Jean’s first-floor flat.
He was wearing his Fine WoodWorking clothes, checked shirt, work boots, porkpie hat, and heavy pants, and he had a large crow bar in his hand. He raced up the steps to Jean’s door, wrenched it off the frame with the crowbar, and ran into the flat. The fire was spreading nicely, fed by the paint, art solvent, and loose papers littering the flat. He kept an eye on his escape route, checked that the bedroom was engulfed in flames, scattered books and papers, rubbed ashes on his face, hands, and clothes, and waited until the last minute to dash out the front, coughing and choking.
By now, the whole flat was belching flames, and the fire had spread to the second floor. “There’s a woman in there!” he shouted to the firemen who had just arrived. “Couldn’t get her.” He coughed and stumbled. “In a room half-way back… couldn’t get her… too hot… the smoke…”
The fire brigade ran their hoses and sent blasts of water straight into Jean’s flat, but the flames only strengthened. Others concentrated on the buildings on either side, making sure the fire didn’t spread. The fire had moved to the third floor and the entire building was a loss. Callahan eased back through the crowd, down the block, and around the corner. Marie was waiting in the Fine WoodWorking van. He threw his crowbar in the back and she started the engine.
“Everybody get out?” she asked.
“Yeah, everybody except that unfortunate woman who lived in the first floor flat.”
Marie handed him Jamilah’s cell phone and Callahan scanned the message she had composed. He shrugged. “Looks good to me. She said she would send a message when she finished, and I guess she’s finished.” He handed the phone back.
“Poor Jamilah’s last words…” Marie pushed the send button, started the van, and moved into traffic.
“How about Elliot?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Elliot. Did you get Elliot out?”
“Elliot?” Did he miss someone? “Who’s he?”
“Elliot… Jean said he was the cat who lived upstairs with the old lady… used to come down for snacks… cocktail shrimp.”
“I got the old lady from the third floor, and the couple from the second floor, and yeah, I guess that orange cat with the old lady must have been Elliot.”
“Good. Think we can get the Marshall to pay for those folks on the second and third floor?”
“I don’t think there’s any question about it. It’s an old Templar tradition, superstition maybe. We need to let him know. Gotta take care of the civilians, especially our own. I suspect some obscure foundation will step up and buy a cottage for the old woman and her cat. Maybe a fashionable flat for the couple? You know how it goes.”