I give her a haughty look. “Now it’s your turn to call me by my rank. That’s more like it, sir.”
She laughs. “Sir! You’re just an ordinary member of the public. Why should I address you like you’re my superior?”
“Em, because I am?” I reply. “Intellectually, morally, physically…”
“Now you’re just being childish,” she says, opening a folder. “I’ve got work to do.” Her expression is severe, but I can see she’s suppressing laughter.
“Bullshit,” I say, my elbow extracting overdue retribution from her ribs. “You’ve read your case notes at least twice since we left London. You must know Gavin Burdett’s activities off by heart.”
She gives me a warning glare. “Keep your voice down,” she says, in a loud whisper. “You know how sensitive this is.”
And suddenly my memory supplies the relevant information. Gavin Burdett-British investment banker, Eton and Cambridge-he has extensive contacts with American business and specializes in burying funds in untraceable offshore accounts. And the woman next to me has found the evidence to nail him. Since she was promoted to run the corporate-crime team at the Met, high-profile business figures have been falling like ninepins. No one expected a violent-crime expert to be so effective in the most complex investigation branch, but in her first year she’s really shown her mettle.
She puts down the folder and sighs. “You’re right, Matt. But this is the big one. If we nail Burdett, the way will be open for us to nail corrupt companies all over the world.”
“If you nail Burdett,” I say. “What’s the name of the company you think he’s connected with in the States?”
“Woodbridge Holdings. If we can put the squeeze on it, that’ll really impress the politicians. Woodbridge has got international media interests, as well as subsidiary companies all over the place. They’re into everything from logging to high tech, radio stations and newspapers to pharmacological research and development.”
“Yeah, but lobbyists are already working on their behalf in Washington and London, aren’t they?”
She nods. “Which is why this trip’s so important. You know the hoops I had to jump through to get the commissioner to sign off on it.”
I smile. “Jumping hoops… Were you in full-dress uniform?”
Her eyes burn into mine. “Behave yourself,” she says primly. “You’re right, Matt. There are people in Congress under Woodbridge’s thumb. American jobs are at stake and you know how important they are, given the state of the global economy.”
“I don’t suppose it’s impossible that they’ve got friends in the Justice Department and the FBI, too.”
“True. But I think Levon Creamer is solid enough.”
“Crazy name,” I say, accepting a food tray from the stewardess.
“Yes, but he’s head of Financial Crime at the Bureau. He’s the one who got me the meeting with the politicians.”
I’m unable to stifle a yawn. That gets me another nudge.
“Sorry if I’m boring you.” She concentrates on unwrapping her scone. “Of course, your business in Washington is much more important.”
I spread clotted cream on the jam I’ve already smothered over my scone. “Oh, no, it’s just a minor project-international crime during the Cold War, illegalities at the highest levels of government, assassinations, regime change…”
“Quite,” she says. “Of course, there isn’t any hard evidence.”
I raise a finger. “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. Joe Greenbaum is an expert in the field.”
“And he’s going to open his files to you, free of charge?”
I shrug. “Well, I can offer him a small consideration. And some information of my own in exchange.”
Her gaze locks with mine. “I hope you haven’t sneaked a look at my Burdett files.”
I shake my head. “Certainly not. But I’d advise you against leaving them open in my flat. The cleaner might be an undercover agent.”
She stares at me. “You haven’t got a cleaner.”
“What do you mean? I clean every Tuesday afternoon-” I gasp. “Ow, that hurt.”
She laughs. “Serves you right.”
I’m laughing, too.
But I still can’t remember her name…
“Matt! Matt!”
I moved my head and almost threw up. Opening my eyes wasn’t any more enjoyable. My vision was blurred.
“Matt? Are you all right?”
Mary Upson’s face swam into view to my left, blood on her forehead.
“Yeah,” I said, pushing myself up from the steering wheel. “What happened?”
“Never mind that. Let’s get you out.” She put her arm round me and pulled me out of the pickup. I slumped down on the bumper in the vehicle’s headlights. “Let’s have a look.” Her fingers were on my face. “Your forehead’s bruised, but the skin isn’t broken.” She raised a hand to her temple. “Unlike mine.”
“We might both be concussed,” I mumbled.
She nodded. “Have you got pain anywhere else? Ribs? Chest?”
I touched myself gingerly. “No, I think I’m in one piece.”
Mary sat down beside me. “You were lucky. Do you remember anything?”
“Not much.” I was thinking about the blonde woman on the plane. Where was she now?
“It was like you had a fit,” Mary said. “You started shaking and your eyes were rolling. You’re not epileptic, are you?”
I shook my head, which was a bad idea. Then I had a vision of the camp. Had I really been tied to a stake to face a firing squad? The woman I’d remembered-Jesus, had she been imprisoned, too?
“Matt?”
I glanced at Mary, my mouth slack. They’d put me under a machine; they’d messed with my brain. Had anything I remembered really happened? Or was it just the tip of a very large iceberg?
“What is it, Matt?” Mary shook my arm.
They messed with my brain, I told myself again. They screwed up my mind. But I was fighting it. I wasn’t going to let them drag me down.
“Matt!”
I shuddered and then got a grip on myself. The blonde woman on the plane, my lover, the senior police officer-the one who’d disappeared in the Shenandoah Valley. She had meetings in Washington. The answers had to be there.
“Is the pickup okay?” I asked, getting to my feet unsteadily.
“The nearside front tire hit a rock. That was what made our heads whip forward. It’s flat. The spare’s in good shape. You stay here.”
By the time she’d finished, I already felt better.
“I’m driving,” Mary said, in a tone that didn’t invite contradiction.
I waited while she started the engine, then I gave the pickup a shove. The rear tires gripped on the gravel and we were back in business.
“There’s a small town about ten miles ahead,” Mary said.
As we drove on, a gray light began to spread from the east. The tips of the trees took on a brighter hue of green and birds flew across the road. The trees began to thin and we ran down toward a narrow lake. The road took a sharp turn to the right before the shoreline.
The state trooper had set his roadblock about thirty yards after the bend. By the time Mary braked, we were almost on top of it. I didn’t have any time to duck down, let alone slip out of the pickup.
All I could do was rack the slide of my Glock and prepare for action.
Twenty-Four
“You boys want to tell me just what the hell is going on in this city?” Chief Rodney Owen said, looking around the top-floor room where early-morning sunlight was glinting through the windows and Abraham Singer’s body lay still.
Detective Simmons glanced at his partner. Gerard Pinker wasn’t showing much interest in replying. Two CSIs were working on different parts of the room, doing their best to appear cloth-eared.
“Well, sir,” Simmons said, “the indications are that this murder is linked to the previous two.”
“The indications being the piece of paper with the boxes drawn on it,” Owen said.
Simmons nodded. “And the M.O.”
The three men looked at the paper that had been attached to the victim’s back with carpentry nails.