London
The hospital lobby was a strange combination of institutional coldness and the grief of those forced to wait within it. Families clustered in tight enclaves of nervous expectancy and wailing. Amid the sanitized tiled walls and threadbare carpet paced by innumerable feet, Lady Millicent Gray cut a striking figure. Her long legs, mostly hidden beneath a loose-fitting linen dress, slid with an easy grace, the magnificent cinnamon mass of her hair flamed like a beacon. Her face, beautiful even at this early hour, with only subtle traces of makeup to mask the more obvious signs of the previous night’s sexual excesses, radiated the right trace of God-given confidence and royally appointed favor. Heads that until a moment before were bowed with grief came up and regarded her openly, their pain forgotten if only for the instant of her passage.
If asked later, none of the forty or so people who saw her stride through the lobby’s double glass doors would have remembered the figure who walked with her, an Arab woman fully covered and veiled as was proper for the more conservative sects of Islam.
At the hospital’s security desk, Millicent spoke to the figure at her elbow out of the corner of her mouth. “I hope you know, Trevor, that I want to wear that outfit when we’re finished here and I want you to ravage me like some Barbary pirate.”
“Are you kidding?” Trevor James-Price quipped quietly. “I may never give it up. I know why women wear skirts now. My God, the breeze blowing up to my bollocks feels wonderful. The old clappers have never known such freedom.”
“God, you’re incorrigible.” Millie Gray smiled.
The security guard at the duty nurses’ station didn’t question Millicent about her connection to Khalid Khuddari or why she was here. He could barely tear his eyes away from her breasts long enough to notice she wasn’t even alone. He tripped over his tongue telling her that Khalid had a private room on the fourth floor. Millicent Gray and the disguised Trevor James-Price veered toward the elevators, both of them suppressing the desire to hold hands. Lord Harold Gray would be back from his African hunt in fifteen days, and any second of their affair they squandered would never be recovered.
Five minutes after Trevor and Millie stepped onto the elevator, an intense young Kurd walked into the lobby. The lump bulging out the left breast pocket of his khaki overcoat was a folding cellular phone. The lump at the right was a silenced Sig Sauer P220.
Tariq had met him in the parking garage in front of the massive hospital and told him Khalid’s room number, having learned it last night after a lengthy reconnoiter. The Kurd had exactly twenty minutes to reach Khuddari, kill him, and make his way back to the parking garage where Tariq waited to drive them away. The young man paused in the lobby, squandering five of his minutes trying to steel his courage. Security was lax, but there were two burly guards at their station, talking easily with reporters who were waiting to get a statement from the unknown victim four floors above.
The gunman decided that now was his time to strike. If he was somehow caught, he knew he would take his own life, redeeming himself for the failure yesterday. His martyrdom would be secured. The silencer attached to the big automatic had never been used; it would work at optimum efficiency. The shot would be undetectable from more than a couple of yards from Khuddari’s room. The guards didn’t even glance in his direction as the gunman headed for the multiple banks of elevators.
Khalid Khuddari had been awake for nearly two hours, pain insidiously bringing him out of his drug-induced sleep. The scabs on his back felt hot even through the layers of gauze protecting them, and they itched fiercely. Every time he blinked, the delicate muscles around his eyes pulled against the raw wounds on his face, bringing fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. And when the tears stung the cuts, it was quite literally adding salt to a wound.
The thought made him chuckle painfully.
“You can’t be that hurt if you can manage to laugh at this ungodly hour.”
Khalid looked across the room. He barely remembered Millicent Gray, but he knew the voice from under the veils. He hadn’t heard them enter. Trevor James-Price pulled the black veil of the chador from around his head, his fine hair dancing with the motion before falling naturally over his boyish face. Despite his cocksure smile, there was true concern behind his bluer-than-blue eyes. “God, Khalid, you look terrible, even for a wog.”
“You have no idea.”
“I won’t be pedestrian and ask you how you feel. And since I talked to that obtuse doctor last night and read the papers this morning, I don’t need to ask what happened either. All I need to know is why you wanted me here and why this outrageous getup? By the way, do you know that security here is an absolute joke?”
“Not surprising. No one knows who I am, and I want to keep it that way until after I’m gone.” Slowly, like an old man near death, Khalid struggled into a sitting position, each movement deepening the grimace on his face. By the time he got his feet dangling over the edge of the high hospital bed, he was out of breath and sweating freely.
“Easy, old fruit.” Trevor crossed the room and laid a hand on Khalid’s shoulder. Khalid winced at the slight touch.
“I have to get out of here, Trev,” he panted, his face deathly pale, his lips appearing blue. “I need to get back to the UAE.”
“I don’t think you should be going anywhere,” Millicent offered, moving next to Trevor. Although she didn’t know Khalid, it was hard not to look at him and feel anything less than total sympathy.
“I am going, Lady Gray. Trevor can explain why, but right now I need your help, not your pity,” Khalid said with a dedication that chilled the room.
Trevor was already pulling the black robes over his head. Contrary to his earlier tease to Millicent, beneath them he wore the suit pants and white shirt he’d had on the night before. There was a lipstick smear on the right collar of the Turnbull and Asser shirt. “What do you need her to do?”
“She should have worn the chador. I told you that last night.” Khalid was bothered that they hadn’t listened to him.
“Doesn’t really matter, old boy,” Trevor said flippantly, trying to soothe his friend. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to try cross-dressing.”
Khalid didn’t say anything further as Trevor produced a bundled package of clothing pilfered from Lord Gray’s dressing room. Millicent Gray’s husband was a large man, with a waist size that could accommodate two of Khalid with a little room to spare. After helping Khalid to dress, Trevor slipped the robe over his head, pulling it down so that only his shoes were visible below the black cotton. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Khalid. You’re in no condition to leave this room, let alone fly back to the UAE.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Khalid rode another wave of pain, each crest being just a little easier than the last. It was hard to believe, but his body was becoming accustomed to his injuries.
Millicent stepped forward quickly and grasped the arm of the swaying Khalid. “Trevor, you shouldn’t be helping him. He’s half dead.”
“There are more lives at stake than just his, Millie,” James-Price said with quiet understanding. “I’m sorry to get you involved like this. I’ve no right, but I ask you to please help us. The men who came after him yesterday at the British Museum will most certainly have another go. He’s a target sitting in this room.”
“Why not inform your Embassy?” she asked.
“Because I don’t know whom there I can trust right now. This is the best way,” Khalid replied.
“But he won’t be able to get a flight without reservations.” Millie continued to talk to Trevor as if Khalid wasn’t there.