Then why was he so scared? Ah, so that was it, the old idiot. “So you have damaging information at the mosque, then?”
Silence, then a strangled, “Yes, but they won’t be able to get a warrant to search a Muslim place of worship. It is the safest place I could think of.”
After the attempted bombing of their precious St. Paul’s, they would have no difficulty at all even getting a warrant to search beneath the imam’s precious prayer rug. “What records, exactly? The ledgers, our payments, receipts? Are there names mentioned? My name?”
“Yes! Some names, but not your own, not the name Samir Basara.”
You old fool, you have left them the keys to everything, in your own mosque.
“Hercule, they are ordering me to come out. I must hurry or they will break the door down.”
Hercule heard banging on the imam’s bathroom door. He yelled, “Smash the mobile! Now! Keep your mouth shut. All will be well.” Now, that was a lie of the first order. Hercule heard the door burst open, heard men’s voices. The mobile went dead.
The imam had had the time to destroy the mobile before the agents got hold of it. Not that it mattered. MI5 would find all the proof they needed at the mosque, probably right in the imam’s massive mahogany desk. He should have known. As discreet and smooth as the imam could be in public, he never guarded his speech at all on his home ground, at his beloved mosque. He thought he was invulnerable there. Now he would pay for his stupidity in prison. Good riddance, you old blighter.
Hercule let the thought go. He prided himself on his intelligence, and he was smart enough to know his life as Dr. Samir Basara was near its end as well. How long would it be before the imam’s paper trail led them directly back to him? A week? A month? Days?
He saw quicksand seething and surging everywhere ahead of him, knew if he didn’t act, it would suck him under. He had no intention of being tried as a traitor; he couldn’t imagine the humiliation, couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life rotting in prison. There would be no more television appearances for him, no more charismatic lectures at European universities, his views lauded and applauded. He could accept that—indeed, he’d planned for it. But what he couldn’t accept was that all of his meticulous planning, all the options he had weighed so carefully, had left his life falling apart. It enraged him. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, let that happen. The Strategist would have his last final victory, despite everything, and he would see to it himself. Then he would disappear where no one could find him.
He had his escape plan well in hand; he’d been preparing it for fifteen years. He would face what was coming head-on, not bury his head like the imam, who refused to see beyond his own veined nose. Most of his fortune was safely tucked away in Switzerland. He had several passports ready, plenty of cash, and a lovely small villa in Sorrento, Italy, owned by a Swiss corporation, waiting for him. He would at least continue to be the Strategist, even in hiding, as feared as before.
He turned off the television and dialed Lady Elizabeth. She would be expecting him to call to show his concern, at any rate, now that the news about St. Paul’s was everywhere. Perhaps she had seen why Bahar had failed. When she picked up over voice mail, he could hear her breathing, her fear making it fast, choppy. He schooled his voice. “Elizabeth? I saw on television they tried to blow up Saint Paul’s. Please tell me you are all right.”
“Yes, yes, well, now I am. Samir, it’s been a nightmare, unbelievable—” And she told him the ceremony was about to begin when a man ran up the aisle, waving a badge and ordering them out. “He said a man had been placing explosives inside the cathedral and we were all to leave as quickly as possible. Now they’ve brought me back inside one of the cathedral anterooms. An MI5 agent said he needed to speak with me, that it was urgent, and I was to wait. Before I could ask him why me in particular, he rushed off. Why would MI5 want to speak to me, Samir? I mean, what could I possibly know about any of this?”
He’d stopped listening, punched off his phone. Why indeed? They knew he was seeing Lady Elizabeth Palmer. But how was that possible? Mifsud—he must have known about Lady Elizabeth. Had the imam boasted of her in his hearing? But why had Mifsud betrayed him in that way? It didn’t matter any longer. He had, it was done. He knew then he had no time left to prepare his leaving. It was time to disappear.
Dr. Samir Basara didn’t pack a bag, only took time enough to empty his safe before he closed the door to his penthouse on Wyverly Place and walked to the private garage off Bond Street to fetch the nondescript beige Fiat he kept there under the name of a man who didn’t exist.
ALCOTT COMPOUND
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Late Monday morning
Savich’s Porsche purred to a stop directly in front of the Alcott main house. He sat a moment, marveling at the peaceful setting, the three houses set in the middle of nature, vibrant and green, the scents of grass and flowers everywhere. Hard to believe a monster lived in that house.
There was no sign of the Alcotts, but Savich knew they were inside, waiting for them. He’d called earlier, made it an order that they would meet while the children were still in school. He wondered what they were saying to one another, what they were thinking. One thing for sure, they had no idea what he had planned for them.
He turned to Griffin. “You ready?”
“Oh, yes. Let’s do it.”
They’d stepped onto the porch when the ornate front door opened and Deliah Alcott appeared. She was wearing her usual, a long flowing skirt and sandals on her long, narrow feet, a white blouse tucked into the skirt. She wore no makeup, and today she looked pale. Was she afraid? He hoped so.
She looked from him to Griffin, stepped back. “Everyone made the effort to be here, as you ordered. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish by disrupting our lives again.”
They stepped into a living room filled with Alcotts. Brakey stood in his favorite post near the fireplace, his head cocked to one side, looking at them with—was it hope?
Jonah was standing by the window, no doubt watching them as they drove up. He followed their every move, wary about what kind of ax would fall, but certain it would fall.
Liggert looked at them with frank loathing, his stance aggressive, and Savich couldn’t see a spark of fear in his eyes, only the threat of violence, barely leashed.
Savich turned at the sound of the clack-clack of knitting needles, loud in the stark silence. Ms. Louisa appeared to be humming softly as she knitted what looked like the same scarf Savich had seen when he’d first met her, paying them no attention. She clamped her false teeth together when she dropped a stitch and frowned over at them. “Our honored lawmen are here to protect us? Or are you two here to string someone up by his heels? Believe me, they’ve all been jabbering on about it. As for Morgana, I think she’s afraid to know. I don’t suppose you’ve found out who made our poor Brakey stick that Athame into Deputy Lewis’s chest?”
Brakey took in those words and looked like he was ready to faint.
Savich looked at each of them again. It was a face-off, all of them standing stiff and silent, looking back at him and Griffin. He said, “We’ve asked you here today because we know why Stefan Dalco wanted Sparky Carroll murdered and in such a spectacular way. Some of you already know Sparky’s murder was revenge because Sparky struck and killed Arthur Alcott six months ago.”
Brakey blinked, started forward. “Sparky killed Dad? But that’s crazy, Agent Savich! Sparky knew my dad all his life, spent lots of time here. Dad played football with him. He really liked my dad.”