83
ZAID’S DEATH AND THE GUNFIRE at St. Pancras dominated the news the rest of the day. No one else had been seriously injured and the shooters had escaped. The police were already at Zaid’s London home, interviewing his family. I saw news footage of Zaid’s blond wife, walking into her London home in Belgravia, filmed at a distance. Yasmin, with no scarf on to mask her face, walked with her mother, a supportive arm around her shoulders. Mrs. Zaid had said that her husband had gone to meet their daughter, who was returning from a trip, and that Yasmin had phoned her to say she’d been running late and, when she arrived, her father was dead from an apparent heart attack.
She’d killed him, vanished in the panic, and then boldly returned, her face uncovered, for her “meeting.”
“She poisons her father and now pretends to be the doting daughter.” I felt sick. Yasmin would have to vanish before poison was identified in her father’s body. We did not have much time.
On the television, I watched Yasmin Zaid and her mother step away from the press of the reporters and go back into their perfect house. My daughter belongs to me, Zaid had said a million years ago, back in Amsterdam. He had been so, so wrong.
Early the next morning I drove past the Zaid country estate in Kent, not far from Canterbury. High stone walls rose and fell with the gentle sway of the rolling landscape. I followed the road, looking for signs of cameras or monitors hidden in the trees or the fence itself. I drove a few miles past the property and then drove back again. I wanted to get a feel for the terrain, based on the satellite map Mila had shown me, together with the plans of the house she had somehow obtained the night before. The complex lay under the Georgian mansion, stretching toward the western edge of the estate. Near the end of what would be the far side of the complex were stables. A private airstrip lay on the far western side, and stretching halfway across the ample property was a small river, which seemed to start in the grounds itself, and a number of small creeks. It looked like one tunnel ended close to the stables, which lay about two hundred yards from the wall. A private road fed from the wall past the stables. No guard, at least right now, but a heavy gate with a key-card reader.
I drove past again one more time, then wheeled back to the closest village.
I keyed in the phone number.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, crisp, undaunted, apparently, by the tragedy that had befallen her master.
“Stables, please.” I hoped this would work. Even with Zaid dead, his horses would have to be cared for. Someone should be on duty.
“One moment.” Then the phone rang again.
“Hello?” This time a crabby man’s voice.
“Hi,” I said. “I’d like to speak with whoever handles purchasing for Mr. Zaid’s stables, please.”
“This is a most inappropriate time, young man. We have had a death in the family,” the man scolded me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I am so sorry.” I could not have sounded sorrier.
“Good-bye, then—”
“Sir? Could you please tell me who I should ask for when I call back?”
“That would be Gerry and he’s not here today. Who’s calling, please?”
“I’m Mike Smith, with Service-First Equestrian. We’re a brand-new firm, and I think we could give Gerry great service at a very attractive price.”
The voice surprised him with a laugh. “You better give Gerry service, or he’ll yell your ears off. Just fair warning.”
I laughed a false salesman’s laugh. “Yes, sir, I appreciate the candor. Might I ask if you know who supplies Mr. Zaid’s horses now?”
“Um, yeah. Blue Lion Horse Supply. They’re close by.”
“Very fine company. But we have better deals with our suppliers we can pass on to you.”
“Save your pitch for Gerry. D’you want to leave a number?”
“No, sir, I’ll call back next week and make an appointment with Gerry. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“All right, then. Good luck. Bye.” The man hung up.
A search on my phone gave me a listing for Blue Lion Horse Supply, and I drove the two miles to the business; it was in a stand-alone building of old stone with a paved parking lot.
I walked inside. Horse feed and equestrian equipment lined the walls and the shelves. A young man stood at the counter, tapping on a keyboard and frowning at a computer.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m from the Zaid place. Gerry sent me.”
He gave me a nod.
“We were supposed to get a delivery of feed yesterday, and it didn’t come. Gerry sent me to pick it up.”
The guy frowned and said, “We delivered your supply two days ago.”
“Well, we don’t have it and Gerry’s out today and so I’m supposed to come get the stuff.”
“Hold on, my brother does the delivery to the Zaids. Alec?” he called and got an answering “What?” from the back office. “There’s a guy from Zaid’s out here and he—” The clerk turned around and I had the gun square in his face, an apologetic smile behind the Glock.
I tied the brothers up in the back office, tight, gagged them, hung the closed sign in the window and found the delivery pickup. A delivery for another client was already loaded; good, it would save me time. I pulled a knit cap marked with the words BLUE LION off Alec’s balding head.
“Guys.” I knelt close to them. Now I had to scare them a bit. “I went through your wallets. I know where you live. So you’re going to stay nice and calm, and if anyone finds you before I come back here you’re going to tell them someone who doesn’t look like me took your truck. You aren’t going to mention Bahjat Zaid. You aren’t going to describe me. Because I’ll vanish, and if it takes five days or five months or five years, if you piss me off, I’ll be back and you won’t see me coming. You boys understand me?”
The brothers nodded.
“Okay. I’ll be back with your truck real soon. Be good.”
I called Mila from the parking lot. I said, “I’m ready.”
She said, “I’m going inside now.”