“Let me see….” She read silently a few seconds. “He was executed. Says he died by hanging. Not the kind where the condemned prisoner drops and his fall results in a broken neck. This is the type where the executioner kicks the apple box out from under the guy at the end of the rope and the victim dies slowly.”
“You said that Jonathon Carlson’s grandfather was Andrew Chaloner whose firm invested in Thyssen Steel before World War II. Can you find any connection between Carlson and the William Chaloner in Newton’s time?”
Alicia looked from Marcus to her computer screen. “Give me a minute.” She pulled strands of hair behind her ears and began punching the keyboard. Her eyes were transfixed on the screen, plowing deeper into her analysis. She paused briefly to write something on a notepad then continued tapping the keys. In less than a minute, Alicia looked up. “I have news for you.”
“What?”
“Jonathon Carlson, on his mother’s side, is a direct blood descendant to William Chaloner, the criminal mastermind who, as we discussed, fought Sir Isaac Newton 300 years ago…and lost.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Marcus’s phone rang. Alicia looked at him. Marcus glanced down at his watch. 1:07 a.m. He stood and walked to the chest-of-drawers where the phone sat, its tiny, red light flashing with each ring. Marcus looked at the caller ID. UNKNOWN. He answered, and Bill Gray said, “Paul, intel tells us Taheera Khalili is dead.”
“I could have told you that if you’d asked.”
“Did you kill her?”
“Your same intel should have told you she committed suicide. Before that, she had a pistol pointed at my head. She told me Jennifer and Tiffany were killed by an Iranian operative. Why’d you lie to me, Bill? Local suspect! Bullshit!”
“We, rather the CIA, had reason to believe you’d been recruited by Iran.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No, but I’m a cog in the wheel. Come home, Paul. If you don’t, they’ll find you.”
“Listen to me! Tell them to try finding the assassin who killed Jennifer and Tiffany. One of his aliases is the Lion. Find this guy.”
“The Lion. If it were the same assassin, you wouldn’t have survived the hit either. He doesn’t miss.”
“But he did. What do you know about the Lion…do you know his name?”
“Tell Alicia to report back to work. You continue as you are and you’ll put her in the cross-hairs, too. You don’t want her blood on your hands.”
“What do you know about the Lion you’re not telling me?” He looked up at Alicia, the light from a lamp falling softy on one side of her face.
“Look, Paul, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I have some bad news. It’s your grandmother…she had a brain hemorrhage — a massive stroke and she has slipped into a coma. I’m sorry.”
Marcus said nothing. His heart pounded. A sharp pain flowed through his stomach and guts as if he’s swallowed broken glass. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“I would never stoop that low.”
“You stooped lower when you told me police made an arrest for the murders.”
“I hope one day you’ll forgive me. I thought it was the best, safest, and easiest way to get you back home.”
“Home? What does that mean anymore, Paul? The killer of my wife and little girl is out there. Obviously, you know something about the Lion that you won’t tell me. Well, let me tell you something, if the CIA won’t make an effort to find him, I will.” Marcus disconnected, his heart hammering in his chest.
Alicia waited a moment, then asked, “What is it, Paul? What happened?”
“If Bill’s honest, my grandmother is in a coma. She had a stroke.”
“I’m so sorry.” She touched his arm, her eyes searching his face.
“She’s all I have left.”
“It’s obvious how much she loves you — her eyes lit up each time your name was mentioned. I feel fortunate that I had a chance to sit and talk with her.”
Marcus looked at Alicia and nodded. “I’m glad you did, too.” He walked over to the window and looked to the street below at the falling rain and the blurred movement of the taxis strolling through the neon lights reflecting off the wet streets.
Alicia closed her laptop and walked over to Marcus, but said nothing. She looked up into his eyes, which were filled with pain. She touched his cheek and hugged him. They stood there, holding each other, the rain rolling down the outside windowpane, rainbows of light reflecting from pools of water across the streets of Paris.
Alicia reached for Marcus’s hand, looked up into his eyes and kissed the inside of his hand. “Come to bed. Let’s get some rest.”
He nodded. She glanced at the two queen-sized beds. “Which one do you want, the bed closer to the TV or closer to the wall?”
Marcus smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, I’ll take the one closest to the TV.” She climbed in the bed and crawled underneath the sheet and blanket.
Marcus shut off the light and got in the other bed. He rested his head on the pillows and closed his burning eyes, his grandmother in his thoughts.
Alicia said, “Do you mind if I watch a little TV? Maybe I’ll find a movie to lull me into sleep.”
“I don’t mind.”
Alicia turned on the plasma screen and flipped through the channels, stopping to watch a French talk show. Through an interpreter, the host was interviewing actress Angelina Jolie on the set of the movie she was filming in the south of France. Alicia changed channels and stopped as images of Adam Spencer came on the screen. The video showed him being greeted at Reagan International Airport in Washington. He was met by a mob of reporters. A CNN reporter said, “Adam Spencer will be taken to Georgetown University Hospital for observation and a checkup. He appears thin but in good health. He wouldn’t comment on specific questions pertaining to what he’s been through the last six months at the hands of the Iranians. However, he said the release of his fiancée, Brandi Hirsh, is all he’s thinking about.”
The image was a close-up of Adam, his face pained, hair unkempt, and clothes that looked like he’d slept in them for weeks. He said, “We’ve been treated humanely. I’m convinced that they’ll soon discover the detainment of Brandi and I was a simple mistake. The borders between that stretch of Turkey and Iran are not visible. My concern is making sure that Brandi will be home soon, and it’s my prayer that she’ll be reunited with her family before Christmas.”
The screen filled with a picture of Brandi smiling and sitting on the Santa Monica Pier, blue water visible in the background. The image faded to her after she’d been in prison for a few weeks, her face empty, eyes dark. The reporter said, “The Iranians aren’t saying exactly why they only released Adam Spencer. His fiancée, Brandi Hirsh, who has had diabetes since she was thirteen, sits in a cell at Evin Prison north of Tehran at the base of the Alborz Mountains. Secretary of State, Merriam Hanover, wouldn’t comment as to whether negotiations are underway to secure the release of the young American. Robert Simpson, CNN News, Washington.”
Alicia sat on the edge of the bed, legs drawn up, staring at the screen. “I took that picture of Brandi on the Santa Monica Pier last year. I don’t even know how the news media got it. Brandi was so full of life there. Look at the photo of her in that prison. She has dark circles under her eyes.” Alicia turned to Marcus. “Paul, I’m so cold all of a sudden. Can I lie next to you for a moment? I am so frightened for her.”
Marcus nodded. “Sure.”
Alicia climbed in bed and turned her back to Marcus. She said, “If you’d hold me a minute, maybe I’ll stop shaking. Just seeing Brandi on television, the sad and helpless look in her eyes, is tearing my heart apart.”