Alex twisted in her seat, reached out her hand, and took firm, unremitting grip of Salt’s unmentionables, giving a salutary squeeze to make sure the good major got the message. “Because if you don’t,” she said, “I’m going to rip your balls off right here and now.”
Salt’s eyes widened. The car swerved wildly.
“Steady,” said Alex. “Eyes on the road. We’re going to have a full and frank discussion. All right?”
Salt nodded. His face was very red. He turned the vehicle into Hyde Park. Traffic was sparse.
“If you think you can hide behind a lawyer on this one, you’re wrong. Your ex-messmate Sergeant Lambert killed one of my dearest friends. I am here on his behalf, his wife’s, and his two baby daughters’. I don’t give a fuck about a warrant, a lawyer, or whether the Bureau sent me here or not. This is between you and me. Are we clear?”
“Just let go,” said Salt. “Please.”
Alex clenched her fingers viciously, then released her grip. Salt exhaled and slid lower in his seat. “Bloody hell. Let me pull over. Do that again and you’ll get us both killed.”
“Talk,” said Alex. “Who contracted you to find Lambert and the rest of them?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Salt. “I’ll tell you. Just let me get off the road.”
The car crossed Serpentine Bridge. Ahead and to the right was a small parking lot. Alex noted that there were only a few cars, probably due to the earlier rain.
Salt looked over his shoulder to signal. Reflexively, Alex looked, too. She realized her mistake a split second too late. She saw only a flash from the corner of her eye before Salt’s forearm clubbed her head, slamming her face against the window. She saw stars. Salt hit her again, this time with his fist, his curled knuckles crunching her cheekbone.
Vaguely, she observed Salt pounding his hand into the dashboard, the compartment falling open, Salt reaching for something black and bulky, and she knew it was a pistol, a Glock like the one she carried. He freed the weapon from the compartment, and she knew that he would use it, that no soldier draws a weapon for show. A bolt of adrenaline returned her faculties. As Salt swung his arm to her head and brought the pistol to bear, she grasped his shooting hand and forced it high and away. The gun fired inches from her face, and Alex felt the powder burn her cheek. The gun fired again. She was deaf and blind, her head clamoring with a terrific ringing, her sight a wall of blackness.
She was at Windermere, lying flat on her back, powerless to stop Lambert from shooting Jimmy Malloy.
Not again.
She blinked and her sight returned. Salt was driving on the wrong side of the road. A great grille of gleaming silver bore down on them.
“Watch out!” she cried.
The truck careened out of their path, the blare of its horn only barely audible over the ringing in her ears. Salt threw the wheel to the left and regained their lane. At that moment Alex rose in her seat, took hold of his upper arm with her left hand, and twisted her torso, wrenching the forearm down across her knee, snapping the arm.
Salt screamed. The pistol fell onto the floor. Alex scooped it up and pressed the snout to Salt’s temple. “Stop the car,” she said.
The Aston Martin turned into the parking lot, still traveling at high speed. Salt braked too hard, and the car fishtailed before shuddering to a halt.
“You bloody bitch. You broke my arm.”
“I want a name,” said Alex. “Or I promise you I’ll break the other one, too.”
“I don’t know his name,” said Salt, cradling his arm. “He contacted me three months ago. Something about assembling a team for a job overseas. A coup. Dangerous business. Promised to pay me a fortune. I’m broke. I needed the money. He never said anything about America.”
“How much did he pay?”
“A million. Pounds, not dollars.”
“Who were the others?”
“Chaps I’ve worked with before. Some from the regiment, some from the legion, like Lambert. There were others from all over. Belgium. Sweden. Women, too.”
“Women?”
“He insisted. Had to blend in.”
“Blend in where?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many?”
“A few. Ten. Maybe twelve.”
“Bullshit.” Alex tapped the fractured limb. “How many?”
“Thirty. Sent them all to Namibia. They had a ranch out there. A training facility or something. Six washed out.” Salt winced. “I’ve got to get to a hospital. Feels like a compound fracture.”
Alex felt the arm, and Salt shuddered. “No bleeding,” she said. “You can stand a little discomfort.”
“Discomfort? This is bloody agony.”
“What do you call him?”
“I don’t. He calls himself my old friend.”
Alex detected hesitation in his response. Salt was lying. No one went to that length to recruit thirty men and women without knowing the name of his employer. She tapped the pistol against Salt’s broken arm. “Don’t lie to me. I want a name.”
Salt gnashed his teeth. “Screw yourself.”
“I want a name!”
And in that instant his other arm rose from his side. Alex saw the flash of silver gleaming between his fingers. She fired the gun twice into Salt’s chest. He fell against the door, and she observed the thrusting knife in his hand, the stubby, razor-sharp blade protruding between his middle and ring fingers.
Salt regarded himself. “Shite.”
“Who paid you?” asked Alex. “Who’s your ‘old friend’?”
“You’re too late anyway,” he said.
“When is it happening? Today? Tomorrow?”
Salt grimaced as a tremor shook his body.
“Please,” said Alex. “Save your friends’ lives at least.”
“Sod off.”
Salt coughed. Blood flowed over his lips. He died.
68
Alex climbed out of the car, stumbling and unsteady. A few deep breaths restored her strength but did little to lessen the pounding in her skull. She had a concussion. Her cheek was tender to the touch, and she could feel her eye swelling. She needed distance, room to make sense of her predicament.
She took stock of her surroundings. Rain had given way to scattered clouds and sun. She counted three other cars in the lot. All were parked a ways away. For the time being, she saw no one nearby, but that would change soon. A truck rattled along the main road, and then she was alone, with only the whipping wind and her own labored breathing to keep her company.
Alex looked back at the car. Salt sat slumped at the wheel. He was very bloody, and she knew she must think fast in case a policeman drove past. There was no question of running. She’d killed a man. She was a law enforcement officer. On or off duty, she wouldn’t try to escape her actions.
Alex returned to the car.
There was no running, but there was still work to be done.
She slid into the passenger seat and searched Salt’s person. She found his wallet in his coat pocket. In three minutes she’d made a note of every credit card he possessed, as well as his driver’s license number and social insurance card. He carried £500 in cash. No pictures. Only a few old business cards listing him as founder/CEO of GRAIL.
Salt kept his phone in his trouser pocket. She scrolled through his recent calls, eager to learn who he’d contacted after receiving the tip-off from Chris Rees-Jones. Salt was nothing if not efficient. Each call was listed for her. The call from GRAIL was followed by a call to the U.S. embassy. The call lasted three minutes. Salt was canny. He was smart enough to use the main number and have the call forwarded to his contact. Still, it would be no problem to learn that person’s name.
Alex was more interested in finding out who Salt’s source at the embassy had phoned at the FBI at 5:15 a.m. New York time. She reasoned it had to be someone close to her, maybe even someone in CT.
The next call was to his solicitor. The third was to someone named Skinner. No last name attached. Duration, fourteen minutes. Some weighty matters to discuss, no doubt. It took her a moment to recognize the country code. South Africa.