“What’s your point?”
“That Mary Borst probably knew the senator better than his own wife did. If there’s anyone who could tell us what the relationship was between Preston and Gish, it was her.”
“You seem to be forgetting the fact that she’s dead.”
“No. I’m making the reasonable assumption that she had a confidant. Someone she told about her fears and anxieties. That person might be her roommate, or it might be her mother, but we need to talk to them, see if they know anything.”
“And I suppose you’d like me to board the next plane back to Washington to do that?”
Carver held his hands up in surrender. “Whoa. This isn’t personal. We’re just talking strategy here.”
Ellis chuckled the way people sometimes do when they are trying hard to remain civil. “Isn’t it personal? Within 60 seconds of Speers assigning the two of us to this mission, you suggested I remain stateside while you go to London alone.”
“I was trying to be practical.”
“Were you being practical when you didn’t get back to me after the Baltimore Marathon?”
So that was it. “You’re right,” he said. “I owe you an apology. You contacted me four times, and it was inexcusable of me not to get back to you.”
“Four times?” Now you’re making me sound like some kind of stalker. I left you one voice message, maybe two.”
It had definitely been four, Carver knew. Her memory was average, but Carver’s was extraordinary. The Monday after the marathon, Ellis had texted him at 11:48 a.m., saying it had been great to see him. She had then called and left a voice message at 2:10 pm the following day. She had called and left no messages at 7:54 pm on Thursday and again at 8:14 pm on Friday.
But Carver had learned long ago not to quibble over details in social situations, or reveal the freakish accuracy with which he could recall dates and events. His condition helped his work, but did little to improve his interpersonal relations. He had learned over time that insisting on the correctness of his recollections only led to needless arguments. And disclosing his hyperthymesia inevitably generated countless questions, in the form of pop quizzes. What did you have for lunch on March 2? What is the fourth paragraph on page 27 of War and Peace?
Better not to go there. He could never change the fact that the entire world suffered from mild amnesia, nor did it do any good to rub people’s noses in it. It was easier just to change the subject.
“Haley,” he said, “I’m trying to apologize. The reason I didn’t call you was because of Hector. When we ran into each other, you’d just broken it off with him. He was crushed. I was trying to be sensitive.”
“How is not calling me being sensitive?”
“If I’d contacted you, it would have led to dinner, drinks, etcetera. I couldn’t do that to my friend.”
Ellis leaned forward, looking him dead in the eye. “Etcetera? I wasn’t calling you for a hook up, jerk. I was calling to ask about Hector.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, stood, and stomped off to the plane’s lavatory.
Well that was awkward, Carver thought. Had he really misread the situation that badly? Ellis hadn’t been interested in him at all, and the four contacts within five days — none of which had mentioned Hector at all — were really just out of compassion for the guy she’d unceremoniously dumped? He thought not.
The buzz of Carver’s phone broke his concentration. It was a message from Roth with a link to a live video feed. He clicked it.
The video showed FBI Director Chad Fordham standing at a podium. The ticket beneath the video read BREAKING NEWS: Senator Rand Preston confirmed dead after tragic home fire.
“We have very few details,” Fordham began. “The preliminary investigation into this tragedy indicates that the fire began within the senator’s D.C. residence. I repeat that we have no reason at this time to suspect that the fire was arson. I can tell you that the senator’s immediately family was safely in their home in Texas at the time of the fire. We are still investigating whether anyone else might have been home.”
Carver closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. It was only a matter of time before the conspiracy theorists were out in force on this one. The quicker he could find the killers, the better chance they would have of containing it. If they could solve this in a matter of days, there might even be time to set the record straight.
Their objective was clear. Discover who killed Senator Preston and Sir Gish. Find out why they killed him. And obliterate them before they can act again.
SIS Building
London
Their contact was waiting for them in the lobby of the building Carver knew as Legoland. MI6 headquarters had been built along the Thames River, and from afar, resembled something that had been constructed with toy-like building blocks. Others knew it as Babylon, due to its ziggurat-like shape.
Their man in London introduced himself as Sam Prichard. He wore a wrinkled blue suit that looked far too big for him. He quickly handed them visitor badges gestured toward the elevators. “Come on, then. You were expected upstairs a half-hour ago.”
Carver waited to speak until the elevator doors closed. “Has anyone claimed responsibility?”
“Ten bloody hours, and still nothing.”
When they reached the building’s top floor, Prichard was the first off the elevator. He breezed them past a reception area and through two enormous white doors. “These are the Americans,” he announced as he showed them into the next room. The office was a large cube constructed of white steel and glass, with an unusually high ceiling and an unobstructed view of the Thames. Despite the breathtaking grandeur of the architecture, Carver couldn’t help but feel let down. This was his first time in Legoland, and despite its modern exterior, he was hoping that the inside would be more in line with his lifelong fantasy of the place. Walnut paneling, Chesterfield sofas, decanters of good whiskey.
SIS Chief Brice Carlisle stepped out from behind a semi-transparent standing desk. Unlike Prichard’s frumpy attire, Carlisle’s suit was downright crisp. He wore a somber black tie as if he himself were in mourning over the high-profile murders. He held his hands behind his back as his eyes darted back and forth between the Americans.
“Mr. Carlisle,” Ellis said, holding out her hand. “It’s an honor.”
“I believe the proper salutation is Sir Brice,” Carver corrected.
Carlisle shook Ellis’ hand before turning to Carver. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Likewise,” Carver said, but in truth, he knew little about Carlisle other than what was in his official biography. He had attended Cambridge and served as a diplomat in both Jordan and Saudi Arabia. He had since changed jobs like clockwork every two to three years, mostly in government posts relating to foreign affairs, with his last role as an intelligence advisor to the prime minister. He was thought to be an extremely bright man, but one with no apparent field experience.
The double doors through which they had come opened again. The bare legs attached to the exotic-looking brunette with the boy-cut were the first Carver had seen in London. “This is Seven Mansfield,” Carlisle said. “She’s working the case under Prichard here.”
Carver held out his hand and tried not to stare at the legs underneath the houndstooth-patterned skirt-suit. “Ms. Mansfield.”
“Call me Seven,” she said. Her accent reminded Carver of the voices on the BBC World Service. Her look was decidedly sub-continental. The brown-skinned intelligence agent with the short-cropped hair was the first thing to bring a smile to Carver’s lips all day.