Marked Man

David Kessler

Copyright © David Kessler 2012

The right of David Kessler to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and other copyright laws.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

EPILOGUE

Afterword

Prologue

“Last man down’s a sissy!” said Ginger as he swung open the gate of the huge panoramic veranda that led onto the slope.

A puerile challenge – yet it was to have devastating consequences.

He stepped out onto the fresh powder of Devil’s Run and cast a backward glance at his lithe, olive-skinned friend. “Catch me if you can Hash!”

And with that, the supremely fit 26-year-old launched himself onto the steep slope, to the chagrin of his minders, who had just taken off their skis. On the other side of the veranda, the man known as “Hash” looked over at his minders, almost as if asking for their permission, or at least their tacit approval. They too had removed their skis, and the look on the face of his Chief of Security announced that he was filled with dread at the prospect of Hash going off unguarded. But Ginger’s minders were now frantically strapping on their skis and Hash realized that it would seem unmanly if he didn’t pick up the gauntlet that his British friend had thrown down.

So he stepped through the open gate and took off in hot pursuit.

Behind him, there was a flurry of activity at the luxurious ski-in, ski-out chalet. One of Hash’s minders was frantically saying something into a microphone clipped to his ski jacket. Others were struggling to put on their skis in haste. Meanwhile, the women – a 26-year-old Bulawayo-born blonde beauty and a Norwegian girl two years younger – were exchanging looks of mild frustration at this latest exercise in macho horseplay. They too had enjoyed spending a pleasant afternoon on the slopes. But the men had promised that the previous run would be the final one before après-ski tea. After that it was supposed to be a short rest – and possibly even a touch of “afternoon delight” – before a lively evening at the Interlaken Casino. However, now the men had not only taken off again, but on the mountain’s most dangerous ski run, with which Ginger was completely unfamiliar.

To be fair, Ginger and Hash were both experienced skiers and they moved with graceful precision, controlling their speed and navigating the dangerous ridges and trees with smoothly-carved rounded turns – none of that beginners’ awkwardness of wedge turns and stem christies. When these two turned, they kept their skis parallel and leaned their bodies into the curve like banking aircraft, while their outer leg bore the weight of their bodies on the downhill ski as the inside edges of the skis cut into the snow.

Devil’s Run was classified as a Black or “expert” slope. In North America they would probably have had to invent a triple black diamond category for it. “Suicidal” was how some local skiers had described it. But Hash had taken it many times before. His father owned the entire mountain and this was the only slope that he found even mildly challenging.

For Ginger it was another story. Experienced as he was, he had been unable to take up the challenge, because although he was up to the task, his minders were not. They were competent skiers, but not experts. He shouldn’t, in fact, have issued such a reckless schoolboy challenge. But now, after he had taken off at a moment’s notice, he presented those minders with a major dilemma: letting him face the danger of going out unprotected or risking their own lives on a slope that was well beyond their capacity.

In the end duty prevailed over self-preservation – and their duty was to protect Ginger, even at the risk of their own lives. They were mostly ex-army, rather than Royal Navy, but the spirit of Admiral Nelson hovered over them.

England expects that every man will do his duty.

As they hurtled down the slope, at death-defying velocity, Ginger looked back at Hash with a taunting smile, mocking him for his moment of indecision and gloating over the distance that had opened up between them. Hash shook his head, as if to warn his friend against hubris in the face of the hazardous trees that, together with the steep gradient, gave Devil’s Run both its ominous name and its awesome reputation.

He also took it as an opportunity to close the gap, as Ginger slowed down in recognition of his unfamiliarity with the terrain.

Well behind them, in the distance, the minders had lost sight of their charges and were skiing with a renewed sense of urgency, tempered only by the awareness of the dangers that awaited them. The broad-shouldered leader of the British minders looked over at his diminutive, swarthy counterpart as if to ask if they should go any faster. But the other man shook his head and raised his eyes forward, reminding the bull-shouldered man of the hazards that had kept them off this slope until now.

Meanwhile, Ginger again looked back tauntingly at Hash, but this time he saw that the gap between them had narrowed considerably. When he turned to face forwards again, he noticed a huge fir tree looming up ahead of him.

*     *

About half a mile away, a small, mousy man in his fifties, in a white ski suit, was standing next to a tripod. White wasn’t usually the most practical color for a ski suit. If one is injured and needs help, the white doesn’t show up well against the snow. But white ski suits were available commercially for the young and trendy and he had bought one for occasions such as this. In his line of work, not being spotted was the name of the game.

He wasn’t worried about accidents anyway – not because he was a good skier, but because he kept his skiing activity to the minimum and never tried to set any speed records. For this man, skiing wasn’t a hobby or even an occupation. It was merely a means to an end.

He had found out about Hash and Ginger coming here from an inside tip that a bottle blonde chalet girl had given him. She wasn’t your usual sort of chalet girl from a high-class finishing school. In fact, she was a bit of a “ladette” who was apparently appearing in some reality show on British television. Part of the show involved the girl and her fellow ladettes working for a week as chalet girls. And this particular ladette had a bit of a drinking problem, as well as something of a loose tongue to go with it.

So when he heard her parroting a piece of society gossip that she in turn had overheard from some one else, he realized that he was onto a good thing. His interest had principally been in Ginger not Hash. Ginger, and others of his family, usually spent their skiing holidays at Klosters. Consequently, the place was perpetually crawling with paparazzi.

But what this man had heard made him realize that Ginger would be in the Jungfrau region this year. So here he was at the foot of a mountain near Interlaken, looking out into the distance at the most dangerous slope on a privately owned alp that belonged to a wealthy oil Sheikh.

Unfortunately most of the day had been wasted.

The man in the white ski suit had initially assumed that they would be making full use of Devil’s Run. But instead they had stayed away from it, favoring the safer ski runs on the other sides of the mountain. He could have repositioned himself accordingly. But he knew that packing up his gear and moving to a new perch would take time and he was sure that sooner or later, the temptations of Devil’s Run would prove irresistible.

So he had stayed here, patiently biding his time, at first hopefully – but with increasing doubts that anything would come of it. As the afternoon rolled on, his mood changed from “anytime now” to “there’s always tomorrow.”  He was just about to call it a day when he detected activity on the slope and he knew that his big opportunity had materialized at last.

*     *

Ginger had been in some dangerous situations before, so it was no more than a mild stab of fear that he felt in his gut as his brain took in the giant fir tree directly ahead of him. Only years of skiing experience enabled him to execute the very tight, last-second turn necessary to avoid slamming into it at breakneck speed. And by the time he recovered his sense of balance, he noticed – out of the corner of his eye – the smug figure of Hash creeping up on him and then gliding smoothly into the lead, if only by a nose.

For a few seconds they were more or less neck-and-neck, like two brothers in friendly competition, the muscled but not over-muscular redhead and the lithe, olive-skinned figure who had caught up with him. Then, slowly but surely, Hash began to edge ahead, his knowledge of the optimum line telling, as it had when he had closed in on Ginger.

As the lead stretched, Ginger struggled frantically to stay in contention. And then – quite abruptly and unexpectedly – Hash turned round to see how far Ginger had fallen behind. Sensing an opportunity, Ginger redoubled his efforts to retake the lead.

Meanwhile the bodyguards were still languishing behind. It took them a frantic effort, and a modicum of courage, to pick up their speed. But finally as they rounded a row of trees, they regained visual contact – and what they saw horrified them. For at the foot of the slope, a man lay unmoving, as the other man knelt by him, as if hesitant to move him. And as they stared, the British guards, breathed a sigh of relief, whilst terror engulfed their foreign counterparts. Because, although they were too far away to see the faces, they could tell from the colors of the ski outfits that it was Hash who lay supine.

“What happened?” the head of the British minders called out as he skidded to a hockey stop a few yards away from Ginger and the fallen Hash.

“He hit a tree!” Ginger shouted back, almost crying. “He skied straight into a god-damn, fucking tree!”

Ginger was barely able to contain his emotions. But even that didn’t match the demeanor of Hash’s minders as they wailed out aloud in expression of the pain they felt in their hearts. For unlike Ginger’s minders who were strictly professional, dedicated to their jobs and mindful of their duties, Hash’s guards truly loved the man whose life they were sworn to protect – and would have given their own lives to save him. They were also well aware of the consequences of failure. It could cost them a lot more than their careers.

It took two frantic calls to summon the air ambulance and when it arrived – ten minutes later – the crew moved swiftly into action, clamping an oxygen mask over Hash’s face, while a doctor, put a stethoscope to his heart and tried to test his reflexes. For almost a minute, they all held their breath waiting for the doctor to speak, but even before he opened his mouth, the look on his face said it all. When he finally did stand up it was just to shake his head and say two words: “broken neck.”

For the next few seconds, the heads of the two groups of bodyguards stood eyeball to eyeball, their sense of hostility unvoiced, but clearly hanging in the air in a tense moment of silent recriminations.

*     *

Half a mile a way, the man who had been watching them was almost catatonic with shock. As the two men had come tearing down the mountain, with the bodyguards in hot pursuit, he had been busily snapping away with his Olympus E-520 camera. Taking full advantage of its Opteka 650-2600mm high definition telephoto lens, he felt as close as if he were within touching distance of his subjects.

But at a critical moment, when shifting his footing as he panned the camera round, he ended up knocking the tripod over, causing both tripod and camera to role a few feet down the slope from the spot where he had so carefully positioned them for optimal coverage.

He knew that he had to retrieve them quickly or lose this golden moment forever. But he also knew that even the act of going down the slope a few feet, dragging the camera and tripod back to the spot and setting them up again, would itself take precious time and cost him what could be some of the best shots on the market.

He hadn’t come this far, setting things up for a perfect scoop on his fellow paparazzi, only to lose it now because of a schoolboy error. So he grabbed his backup camera – a Canon EOS 30V film camera – and proceeded to snap off a series of pictures, taking advantage of the four frames per second mode.

Because he was using an optical zoom lens, rather than a high-power telephoto, the quality of these pictures wouldn’t be quite as good as the others. But as it dawned on him precisely what he was capturing with the camera, he realized that the overall quality of the pictures was not the issue – as long as the identities were recognizable.

Chapter 1

Kell’s Irish Restaurant and Bar had the feel of a traditional pub, complete with pictures of the old country adorning the walls. Nestling in a corner of San Francisco’s Jackson Street and a quiet, nameless little alley that led to a parking lot, it was normally bustling with life. But this was Tuesday night, the quietest night of the week for places of entertainment, and it was getting on for the midnight closing time.

So the quiet evening was pretty much winding down when the two intoxicated men staggered in at this late hour. It wasn’t clear to the bar tender if they were gay or not. Certainly they were in each other’s arms. But it looked to the young, wiry barman as if one of them was supporting the other – as if one was a little more sober than the other, or at least marginally less inebriated. It also wasn’t clear if they were homeless.

On the one hand they looked somewhat unkempt. But on the other hand they looked rather well-fed – not fat, just well-fed. Down-and-outs tended to look poorly nourished, whether it be too thin from too little food or fat from eating the wrong kinds of food and lack of exercise.

Of course they might not have got to that stage yet. They could be only recently homeless. But these two actually looked quite fit. Both about six feet tall and with well-defined musculature, they could have been unarmed combat experts or survivalists. The barman knew that some gay men go in for body-building and that men with well-defined muscles frequently became gay icons.

But he had also learned not to judge people by looks. In his line of work, one could expect to see a lot of people every day, and it was all too easy to play guessing games about their backgrounds. The problem was that however much you thought you knew about human nature, you could always be blindsided by the visual clues. All he could say for certain was that both men were aged about forty, one drunk and bald, the other, more sober, with close-cropped sandy hair.

Another man, at the corner table, looked up for a second, as if taking in the change to his environment. Now he was homeless. You could see it not just in his clothes and unsuccessful attempts at personal hygiene, but even in his demeanor. He was a man who had no home to go to, with no light of hope in his eyes. He was about the same age as the other two, but smaller and more frail-looking. His matted brown hair appeared to have traces of grey. But it was hard to tell with all the grease and flecks of food that permeated the strands.

“What’ll it be?” asked the barman as the less inebriate man propped up the other on a bar stool.

“A Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for me,” said the man, in what may have been a Boston accent, “and an Irn Bru for my friend.”

The barman poured the whisky and slammed a can of Irn Bru down on the bar for the semi-conscious man. The man who had spoken, paid up and the barman went back to cleaning the glasses in the almost empty bar.

The half-sober man tore the ring off the Irn Bru can and practically poured it down the other man’s throat. Only when he had finished, did he down his Jack Daniel’s in a single swig. Then he stood up and looked at his drunken friend.

“Sorry Corny, gotta go.”

And with that the half-sober man stood up abruptly and left, watched covertly by the homeless man in the corner.

Seated at the bar, the drunk, looked around for his friend nervously and failing to spot him, seemed somewhat disoriented, as if trying to get his bearings.

“Where am I?” asked the drunk. It was then that the barman finally placed the accents of both men. They were British.

“Kells,” replied the barman. The drunk looked at him blankly. “Irish Restaurant and Bar... San Francisco?”  The barman waved his hand in front of the drunk, hoping to verify that the man was still this side of reality.

“I have to go,” said the drunk, sliding off the stool and unexpectedly managing to stay on his feet.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked the barman.

“I’m fine,” said the drunk, apparently sobering up, possibly from the caffeine rush. “How much do I owe you?”

The drunk took out a sizeable wad of cash, bringing a look of amusement to the barman’s eyes. But the barman had learned four things from his father: never lie, never steal, never cheat on your wife and never fight with anyone who wasn’t up for it. And it was a code he lived by.

“That’s okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Your friend already paid.”

This seemed to confuse the drunk even more, but his hand went back into his shirt pocket with the wad of banknotes and when it came out again, the money was nowhere to be seen. But the pocket was bulging. He turned and staggered out into the dark night.

It was no more than a few seconds later that the down-and-out in the corner got up and left, walking with a surprising sense of purpose and pace for a man without a home to go to. He too stepped out into the night, his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness and focus on the drunk staggering away barely a yard ahead of him.

Even though the nocturnal atmosphere of this near-deserted street was quietly menacing, he was unafraid. This was his turf and he knew what dangers lurked in its lightless corners.

Focusing only on his quarry, he saw immediately that the drunk had turned right when he left the bar and was almost level with the alleyway that ran by the side of Kell’s.

Perfect!

*     *

“What took you so long?” asked the uniformed man in the driver’s seat.

“There’s always a queue at this time.”

The tall man slid into the passenger seat, handing a soda and one of the paper bags to his partner. As he sat, the height difference between the two became readily apparent. The crew at the precinct used to compare them to Abbott and Costello, although the analogy didn’t really work, because the tall one was barely twenty, while his short, squat partner was pushing forty and looked even older.

“You should’ve flashed your shield.”

“Unthinkable!”

“Why?”

“Abuse of power.”

He was smiling when he said it. The older cop snarled, but only partly in mockery.

“You got morals Kyle.”

“Why thank you Joe.”

“It wasn’t a complement.”

It was getting on for midnight and they were just settling down to their large quarterpounder meals when the radio crackled to life.

“Three-Adam-sixteen, we have a six-zero-three in Becke’s Alley, Code 2. Please respond.”

Needless to say, Joe was none too happy about it. He took the call, with his mouth still full.

“We’re in Pine Street. Haven’t you got anyone else to handle it?”

The female dispatcher for the Central and Southern stations laughed amiably.

“I know you’re in Pine Street Joe. And you’re the nearest we’ve got. You’ve been stationary for over ten minutes.”

She knew this from the SatNav transponder in the car that enabled her to keep tabs on a squad car’s position without the driver having to report in.

“We’re on a 10-7M”

“It won’t do you any harm to skip a meal Joe.”

Kyle stifled a laugh as he looked down at Joe’s beer gut. Joe scowled.

“Jesus, it’s just a fuckin’ prowler for Christ sake!”

“It’s a Code 2 Joe,” said the dispatcher, still in that same cheerful tone.

“All right, all right,” snarled Joe, putting his food back into the paper bag. “Ten-four!”

“Thanks Joe. And don’t get indigestion now, you hear.”

“Since when is a prowler a Code 2,” Joe muttered, reaching for the ignition key.

Code 2 meant “URGENT – Respond Immediately.

But Kyle was taken by surprise and spilled his soda as the car lurched forward. It was obvious that, despite the dispatcher’s cheerful tone, Joe didn’t share her upbeat approach to life – especially when it disrupted his mealtime self-indulgence. This was clear not only from the haste and aggression with which he started the car, but also the fact that he switched on the siren.

“She didn’t say Code 3.”

“Remind me which one of us is the rookie, Kyle.”

“It’ll scare the prowler off.”

“Oh ain’t that a shame! You mean we won’t be spending the next hour writing up reports?  You mean instead we’re gonna have to patrol these means streets and look out for the hoods, like the taxpayers expect us to?

No one could do sarcasm like Joe.

“If we chase him off here, he’ll just pop-up somewhere else.”

They hung a right at Kearny Street and then Joe stepped on the gas. But even in his haste and anger, he was careful to keep his eyes open for J-walkers who might step out into the road in a state of intoxication at this time of night.

“Five’ll get you ten he’s just a figment of some old biddy’s imagination.”

But Kyle wasn’t taking.

“And of course we want to serve the taxpayers by getting back to our burgers and fries.”

The rookie kept his smile as Joe scowled. Kyle could give his partner a run for his money in the sarcasm stakes when he wanted to.

*     *

Meanwhile in Jackson Street outside Kell’s, the homeless man had his eyes set firmly on the drunk. Losing not a second, he pounced, closing the gap with a couple of brisk, hobbling strides.

Sensing motion, the drunk reared up and turned, just in time to see the down-and-out’s advance. But the drunken man’s soporific reactions were not quick enough to respond to the knife as it plunged first into his liver and then his gut. He tried to let out a cry, but a hand clamped firmly over his mouth stifled it. He bit down hard, and it was the homeless man who let out the cry of pain that could all too easily have attracted the attention of others, if there had been any others about. Panicked by his own reaction, the down-and-out pushed the drunk hard into the alley, out of sight of any other people who might be walking down the street.

The drunk slumped into a seated posture, clutching his wounds and then lay back, almost as if resigned to his fate. With a stab wound to the liver, he had at most twenty minutes before life slipped away, unless help arrived. And he knew better than to expect any help. Even through his semi-comatose haze, his sense of realism kicked in and he knew that the next doctor to see him would be a pathologist.

Meanwhile, the homeless man made no further effort to approach the drunk. Instead he looked around for signs of danger or discovery. Nobody was about.

Now he had to make a quick choice. Jackson was one-way and turning right would take him in the same direction as the flow of traffic. This would mean his face wouldn’t be exposed to cars driving past, reducing the risk of being identified. But turning left would take him past the overhanging trees that reduced the light, thus making his face less visible to anyone on foot.

Right would take him to Montgomery, which was nearer. But precisely for that reason, some one might turn in from that street and see his face in close proximity to the crime scene. In contrast, he had a clear view all the way to Kearny Street, and no one was coming from that direction.

He decided to turn left and was quickly hobbling past the overhanging trees. When he reached the Columbus Avenue intersection, he again looked round left and right, this time to make sure there was no approaching traffic. Seeing a clear path, he limped across towards Kearny Street.

It was as he approached the East-West Bank on the corner, that he became aware of a police siren in the distance. But he was unsure of which direction it was coming from. By the time he realized that it was approaching him from further down Kearny Street, it was too late.

He turned sharply and tried to retreat back into Jackson. But his abrupt turn served merely to capture the attention of the cops in the squad car. When they came to a halt and ordered him to stop, through the car’s public address system, he kept right on hobbling. When they leapt out with guns drawn and again ordered him to stop, he ignored them, praying that they wouldn’t shoot.

They didn’t. But Kyle – who towered over Joe by at least a head – sprinted off after the limping suspect and brought him down with a flying tackle so hard that the homeless man’s leg came off.

Chapter 2

“Your Honor, my client has strong roots in the community.”

Alex Sedaka was addressing the judge in his customary tone of quiet persuasiveness, Although past fifty, he still had the same lean frame and defined musculature that he had in his youth, noticeable even under the solid, dark blue of his suit.

“He has a fixed address, where he has lived for six years and he has always answered to his bond.”

“On nineteen previous occasions,” the well-groomed, forty-something Assistant District Attorney muttered under her breath.

Alex ploughed on as if the ADA hadn’t spoken.

“As such he doesn’t constitute a flight risk. Accordingly I ask that he be released on his own recognizance.”

Lavinia Woo, the elderly judge, turned to the woman who stood before her in formal, demure dark grey.

“Ms. Carter?”

“Your Honor, the defendant has nineteen priors, not counting one that was dropped when the victim died in a car crash... in an unrelated incident. Mr. Kelly is a recidivist offender and a career criminal. If released back into the community there is a strong chance that he will re-offend and commit further burglaries.”

They were in Court 20 on the second floor of the Hall of Justice in Bryant Street, San Francisco. Liked many preliminary hearing and arraignment courts, this place was essentially a meat processing factory for people accused of crime, most of them guilty as hell. For something like ninety percent of them, this was both the first and last stop before a plea-bargain.

“Mr. Sedaka?”

“Your Honor, first of all the ADA shouldn’t be talking about re-offending. My client is innocent until proven guilty –”

“I was referring to the defendant’s priors, Your Honor.”

“Secondly,” Alex continued, gritting his teeth, “the only purpose of bail is to ensure that the defendant shows up for trial. The prevention of offending is the function of sentencing and can play no part in the court’s decision on bail.”

Justice Woo looked unimpressed.

“I think we can all do without American jurisprudence 101, Mr. Sedaka.”

“Aside from that, Your Honor, this should be dealt with as a misdemeanor. The premises were clearly commercial.”

Despite the hint of anger, Alex still enjoyed the cut-and-thrust of courtroom jousting. And this preliminary skirmish was like the early passes of a bullfighter, testing the bull for any lateral bias in its charge. But as in a real bullfight, it could backfire.

“That’s why the people are only going for second degree felony, Your Honor.”

Lee Kelly was an experienced burglar, but he had enough street-smarts to know never to burglarize domestic premises. The penalty for a first offence was six years. Also it counted as a strike under the three strikes and out rule – and Kelly had no desire to spend his golden years behind bars. The bail alone for Burglary One was $150,000 and there was no way Kelly would have been able to pay the bondsman’s premium on that.

“Even Felony Two is over the top, Your Honor. My client was arrested before he could steal anything –”

“That doesn’t protect him from a burglary rap, Your Honor.”

Diane Carter was an old hand at the District Attorney’s office and she liked to take defense lawyers out of their stride with well-timed interruptions and objections. But she usually reserved these tactics for juries, who were likely to be impressed by them. Here, before a judge sitting alone, it had less of an impact. But she was getting more aggressive as she got older, and Alex wondered, uncharitably, if that had something to do with failures in other areas of her life. Not that he would be so ungallant as to say so.

“Your Honor, in the absence of any stolen items in the defendant’s possession, there’s no way the prosecution can prove that he was going to steal items over the value of four hundred dollars.”

“Maybe counsel for the defense should wait until the trial to see what the prosecution is able to prove, Your Honor.”

The judge didn’t smile, impressed though she was that Diane Carter hadn’t allowed the now-famous Alex Sedaka to psyche her out.

“Is it going to come down to that?”

Most of the trial judges in the San Francisco Hall of Justice had crowded dockets and welcomed anything that would lead to a case being pled out. But Justice Woo had no authority to force either side to plea-bargain. Of course she could twist arms and ultimately take it out – in other cases – on whichever party she deemed to be the more intransigent. And some judges did just that. But such conduct would be unprofessional and she was a stickler for doing things the right way. She took an equally dim view of all abuses of power, whether it be misuse of bail by the prosecution and smart-ass shenanigans by the defense. It was her no-nonsense approach to criminal trials that had earned her the respect of her peers as well as the lawyers who appeared before her.

“That all depends on counsel for the defense,” said Diane, licking her lips as she cast a side-glance at Alex. She was staking her claim before the judge as the flexible one – whilst warning Alex that she wasn’t going to fold. “In the meantime, we would ask that if bail be set, it be at the unspecified burglary level.”

Over at the defense table, Alex Sedaka weighed up the situation in his mind. At 54, he was a veteran of these courts. Of average height and a keen tennis player as well as a rock climber, he had kept in shape without being fanatical about exercise. Fitness had to be about having fun in order to motivate himself. Telling himself it was exercise never worked and his motivation invariably flagged when he tried. That was why he was never one for jogging. His other form of exercise, was the Israeli martial art of Krav Maga.

In his youth it had been the same with studying. If he read a text book with his eyes set on the exams, where his knowledge was to be tested, his mind retained the information with about the same efficiency as a sieve. But when he put all thoughts of exams aside and simply read his law books for intellectual stimulation, he just soaked up the knowledge without effort.

It had served him in good stead in his sole practice. But in recent years he had become famous, because of the last-minute pyrotechnics in the Clayton Burrow execution and his sensational defense of Elias Claymore on rape charges.

As he cogitated on his client’s chances, he became aware of the judge’s eyes upon him and he realized that the time for legal jousting was over and the time to offer a truce had come upon him.

“Your Honor, we may be able to come to an agreement with the prosecution. However, in the meantime I see no reason to treat this as a felony or even an unspecified burglary. If the court is not prepared to release my client on his own recognizance, then we would ask that bail be set at no more than five thousand dollars.”

This was the level specified in the bail schedule for misdemeanor burglary. Unspecified or second degree felony was eight times that. It wasn’t the absolute amount itself that was the problem. Lee Kelly was a low flight risk and they could find a bail bondsman ready to put up $40,000 without blinking. But the unrecoverable premium was ten percent – set by law – and four thousand dollars was no small sum to a man of Kelly’s limited means. He was already 59 and like most burglars, he didn’t have a 401(k) or IRA for when he was too old to pick locks and climb drainpipes.

The judge thought for a moment. The ADA was playing hardball. But Kelly was a career criminal and he wouldn’t stop until age or infirmity caught up with him. Whether inside of jail or out, he would always be a parasite on society. On the outside he would support himself from his ill-gotten gains. On the inside he would get room and board – not to mention free medical care – at the expense of the taxpayer. Either way, he’d be getting a free ride off other people’s backs until the day he died. Did she really want to put pressure on him to accept a prison term?

“I think we’ll make that misdemeanor burglary, Ms Carter. The defendant is released on bail in the amount of five thousand dollars.”

Alex moved off with Lee Kelly, his perennial client, to do the paperwork with the bail bondsman. Meanwhile, in the well of the court, an unkempt-looking man with a limp was led out to stand before the judge.

*     *

Armani – grey pinstripe. That’s what the tall, thin man was wearing. Even without the brown cordovan leather attaché case, he would have been the quintessential picture of a lawyer. So it was somewhat strange that he was looking at the courtroom listings board in a state of utter bewilderment.

And yet that was what the young, black female court bailiff saw. He appeared to be in his early thirties: so evidently not quite fresh out of law school. Of course he could have been an out-of-state lawyer – or at least from another county. Anyway, she decided to intervene.

“Excuse me, can I help you sir,” she asked.

The man looked round. He had a youthful face and when she saw him in close-up, the bailiff thought she might have been wrong about him. Maybe he was a newbie.

“Oh, er yes. I was looking for the court that deals with arraignments.”

She picked up on his accent immediately.

“You’re British right.”

“Er, yes.”

He wasn’t just British, but posh. He reminded the bailiff of a young John Cleese.

“So you’re not a lawyer.”

She was looking him up and down ostentatiously, as if commenting on the suit.

“Oh, er no. I work for the British consulate. We were notified that a British citizen had been arrested and would be arraigned today.”

“In this court building?”

“So I was informed.”

The bailiff hadn’t heard anything about this – and she was the one who dealt with the arraignment listings. But it was none of her business. The listings didn’t mention nationality. And in any case he had the right to visit a courtroom even if he was just a plain member of the public.

“There are five preliminary hearing courts in the building: nine through twelve and twenty. Do you know the name of the defendant?”

“I’m afraid not. I received a rather garbled message. The only thing I know is that it was a murder charge.”

The bailiff frowned.

“The only murder arrest I heard about yesterday was a homeless than. The defendant, I mean. That’s in Court twenty – second floor.”

“Thank you.”

He scurried off in haste.

*     *

“The People versus George Stone, Felony 1-8-7 Murder in the First Degree, with Special Circumstances, one count. No priors.”

Justice Woo looked down at Stone, as he stood before her with bowed head and lowered eyes, a smallish, shabby man in his forties, with matted brown hair, tinged with gray, rubbing his hands together – Rasputin in appearance, Uriah Heap in his bearing.

“Mr. Stone, do you understand the charge against you?”

This was one of the questions that always had to be asked in cases like this. The man was obviously part of the large homeless community that developed countries and civilized societies have never quite managed to eliminate. And as such it was quite possible that he was mentally ill. Even an affirmative answer to this question was no guarantee that he was compos mentis. But it had to be asked for the record.

“Yes Your Honor. Do I have to enter a plea at this time?”

The judge’s ears pricked up. This was a remarkably sophisticated phraseology for a man who had let himself get to this state. Of course it might simply mean that he had been through “the system” before. But the clerk had said no priors – at least not in the State of California.

Justice Woo permitted herself a smile. It was intended as a compassionate reassurance, to the man who stood before her, that although he was accused of a serious crime, the world had not yet abandoned him.

“No Mr. Stone, you do not have to enter a plea at this time.” Stone nodded his polite response before the judge continued. “Are you represented by counsel?”

At the back of the courtroom, the British man in the grey pinstripe suit entered.

“No, Your Honor. I don’t have a lawyer. I’ve never been in any kind of –”

“That’s all right. These matters will all be covered later. In the meantime, you have a right to be represented by counsel at all stages of the preliminary and trial proceedings. If you can’t afford counsel, a lawyer will be paid for out of public funds. Can you afford counsel, Mr. Stone?”

The question was a formality. Stone shook his head. Justice Woo ordered that this be entered on record as a negative response.

“Do you wish the court to assign counsel on your behalf?”

Stone looked hesitant, as if lost in a world that he didn’t understand, despite his obvious intelligence.

“Do you want the court to appoint a lawyer for you?”

At this point, Alex was re-entering the courtroom to collect a file that he had forgotten to put back into his brief case. Stone watched him nervously, remembering how well he had handled himself in court. He didn’t really understand all that much about court procedure. All he knew was that this man had faced mild hostility from the judge and strong hostility from the prosecutor and yet had still managed to get his client out on what sounded like rather low bail, compared to some of the other cases he had heard that morning while waiting for his turn.

“Can I have him, Your Honor?” he asked, pointing to Alex.

There was laughter in the courtroom from some of the other defendants, awaiting their turn.

“Do you mean Mr. Sedaka?” asked the judge, looking over at the lawyer.

Alex froze at the sound of his name. He had heard Stone’s words, but hadn’t looked up to see where the defendant was pointing.

“Is that his name?” asked Stone, to more ripples of laughter from the old-timers. “I mean yes Your Honor.”

“Mr. Sedaka isn’t from the Public Defender’s office.”

“Does that mean he can’t represent me?”

“He can represent you. But it would be up to you to pay his fees.”

“But I thought you said… if I can’t afford a lawyer…”

The other prisoners were laughing again at Stone’s naivety. Justice Woo called for silence and looked at Stone with an almost heartbroken sympathy.

“The Court can assign counsel for you, but not necessarily counsel of your choice. San Francisco has a well-staffed Public Defender’s Office. And if for any reason they can’t take your case, the court will appoint counsel according to a roster of who is available, ensuring that all trial lawyers appearing before this court do their fair share of pro bono work.”

But Stone was not listening. He was looking at Alex, whose initial reaction had been to look away. However now Alex permitted his gaze to settle on the eyes of the accused man, remembering that same look in Nat’s eyes as his body was torn away from his grasp by the Pacific rip tide.

Looking at Stone for any sustained period was not easy. Alex’s initial reaction was revulsion at the man’s unkempt appearance. But when he looked into the man’s eyes, he saw in rapid succession a man who had lost all hope and then, as the seconds ticked by, that first glimmer of optimism and a feint belief that there was – after all – a future.

“Mr. Sedaka?”

This was Justice Woo. She was confused by Alex’s reaction and struggling to read him.

“I’m ready to take the case on a pro bono basis Your Honor.”

The stunned silence lasted only a moment.

“Then it’s settled. Mr. Sedaka is appointed counsel of record to Mr. Stone in this case. Do you have any arguments as to bail, Mr. Sedaka.”

The ADA helpfully handed him her copy of the file to peruse. Alex speed-read the key facts. Speed-reading was a skill that a trial lawyer had to be good at.

“I see from the case file that my client has no priors. I ask that he be released on recognizance.”

“Be serious Mr. Sedaka,” the judge replied sternly. “This is first degree murder.”

“In that case we request that bail be granted.”

“Miss Carter?”

“The People oppose bail, Your Honor. Aside from the special circumstances, the defendant has no roots in the community, no home and no job.”

Special circumstances?

So they were going for the death penalty. Alex had only handled one such case, and it had been a less than happy experience. But the immediate argument was over bail. In practice, the ADA was arguing over nothing. Even for non-capital murder, where bail was allowed, the starting point for the bond was at least a million dollars. There was no way a man like Stone could raise the $100,000 premium. But Alex had another card to play.

“Your Honor, we would ask that the prosecution specify at this time what these alleged special circumstances are.”

“They don’t have to specify anything just yet Mr. Sedaka. They’ve got fifteen days after the preliminary hearing to file the information.”

“But in the meantime they’re asking that my client be held without bail on a basis of unspecified special circumstances. I haven’t had time to read the notes properly, but as far as I can tell, the alleged victim was an adult male, there was no sexual motive, the killing was done with a knife not a gun and there is no accompanying charge of robbery or even attempted robbery.”

“Your Honor, the people contend that the defendant was lying in wait for the victim. That qualifies in law as special circumstances.”

“It’s a rather flimsy special circumstance, Ms Carter, unless you’ve got a whole lot more to go on. However, I think that in view of the severity of the charge and the defendant’s circumstances, I’m going to have to deny bail. The defendant is remanded to the custody of the Sheriff of the County of San Francisco, until the preliminary hearing which will be in…” The judge looked through her papers… “two weeks time. I suggest that the DA doesn’t wait that long to share what it’s got with the defense. You may be able to work something out.”

Translation for both parties: cut a deal!

At the back of the courtroom, the British man in the grey pinstripe suit was slipping out to make a phone call on his cell phone – or “mobile” as he would call it – to his superiors in London.

Chapter 3

A few miles away, the “drunk” who had staggered into Kell’s restaurant and bar with the other man, was waking up to the light that streamed into his motel cabin. It was unusual for him to wake up after sunrise. Usually he woke with the break of dawn if not earlier. But he also usually went to bed earlier than he had on this occation. He was no party hound and his routine normally involved an early night followed by early rising – unless, that is, operational necessity required him to stay up late. He had stayed up late last night, waiting for a call that never came.

Resisting the impulse to reach for the remote, he got out of bed and switched on the TV with the button on the front of the set.

“Remote control is an instrument of torture,” he had told his young daughter, before she was old enough to understand it. “The torture of making you go soft.”

He would have told his son. But he had no son to tell. And now it was looking increasingly unlikely that he ever would have.

Then he proceeded with stretches to be followed by his vigorous regime of early morning exercise. He would have liked to include an outdoor run in all that, but he felt that under the circumstances he would probably skip that. It took the old TV set almost as long to warm up as he took himself to get to the point when his muscles were warmed up enough to do the tougher exercises like one-handed, fingertip push-ups and sit-ups with improvised weights.

Somewhere along the line he became aware of the voices coming from the TV set. But he kept his eyes away from the screen, relying only on his auditory sense to take in the morning news as he carried on with his calisthenics.

“The governor has promised to make more resources available to the fire department to deal with the situation. Now, it’s not often that a down-and-out gets one of this country’s leading criminal attorneys to defend him. But that’s just what happened this morning to George Stone, a homeless man from San Francisco who was arrested last night for the murder of another – so far unidentified – homeless man.”

The man in the motel cabin froze.

“Angela Lopez has the details.”

“Well John it’s also unusual for man to lose a prosthetic limb while making his getaway from the police. But both of those things happened to a man called George Stone, and in the space of just a few hours.”

The man in the motel room rose from his squatting position and stood stock still in front of the TV set as pretty, dark-haired Angela Lopez delivered her report on the murder of the “John Doe,” the arrest of George Stone and the appointment of Alex Sedaka as his lawyer. The man knew that his exercise regime for today was over.

Before the report had even finished, he had thrown on some clothes and was loading up his beat-up old grey pickup truck, watched, more with curiosity than interest, by the motel owner. Seconds later, he was in the driver’s seat. As he gunned his engine, he used little more than a thumb to send a text message. It said:

“Corn cut. Scythe hand with Mr. Blue. Gone to ground UFN.”

*     *

After the arraignment, George Stone was given a few minutes with Alex before being taken back to jail. It was an awkward, uncomfortable meeting, as first meetings with new clients so often are. Stone looked at Alex with a kind of beseeching desperation, like a man without hope who yet insists on hoping. To reassure him, Alex spoke up quickly.

“Okay, look first of all, notwithstanding what the judge said in there, I don’t want you to think that I’m unwilling to represent you. I’m happy to do my share of pro bono work. I could tell that you felt lost in the system and I’m only too happy to represent you. But I won’t lie to you. The charge you’re facing is a very serious one and we need to see the prosecution’s hand before we decide whether to fight or cut a deal.”

“Do I have to make a deal?” asked Stone, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Alex was surprised by the question. From what little he had heard, he thought this man had a basic understanding of the system.

“Well no, you don’t have to – of course not. But it is something to consider. And I have a duty to tell you about all options and possibilities. In any case, we don’t even know at this stage if the DA is ready to make deal.”

Stone looked confused.

“Don’t you want to know if I did it?”

Now this was a question that Alex had heard many times before, invariably from people who had never been in trouble with the law. Sometimes they even blurted out that they were innocent or guilty before he had a chance to apprise them of their range of legal options and the scope of his. Sometimes – often in fact – they thought they could tell him that they were guilty and then ask him to prove them innocent. This was not the case, in the USA any more than in Britain. A lawyer acted according to instructions, and “I am guilty” was itself an instruction. It could not be reconciled with “prove me innocent,” except when there were extenuating circumstances that might form a valid defense such as insanity or guilty of a lesser charge.

“You don’t have to tell me at this stage,” Alex replied. “In fact I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll visit you after I’ve had a chance to talk to read the arrest report and talk to the DA. Then we’ll go over all of this, including whether or not you did it.”

What Alex didn’t say, was that even though he was sure that the DA would be ready to offer some sort of a deal, his initial impression was that it was unlikely to be a good one. Could they bargain it down to involuntary manslaughter? Almost certainly not – and probably not even voluntary manslaughter.

But how strong was the prosecution’s case? Could the defense disprove the charges or sow the seeds of doubt with a jury about the alleged lying in wait? This would at least negate the prosecution’s “special circumstances” and might even reduce the charge to second degree murder. Indeed were there any details that they could use to turn the tables on the prosecution?  Was the killing the result of a fight?  Had the victim been the first to use violence?  Did the victim have a record for violence?

Alex would look at everything and for anything, but what he expected to find was little or nothing. His gut told him that this was a case to be settled for whatever he could get. That probably meant a long stretch for the miserable soul who sat in front of him. But he’d seen it all so many, many times before.

“Okay,” said Stone nervously.

As the deputy was putting handcuffs on Stone, Alex remembered something important.

“One other thing, Mr. Stone. Don’t talk about the case to anyone… no matter who they are and no matter how friendly they seem to be.”

The deputy, smiled. He had no particular interest in the outcome of this or any other case. But he was amused by the zealous desperation of the experienced lawyer with his obviously newbie client. As Stone was led away, Alex looked around and noticed some one watching him. But only for a moment. As soon as he was spotted, the watcher turned and was gone in a flash, leaving Alex to wonder.

*     *

“Will the Prime Minister guarantee,” the hectoring voice rang out in strident tone, “that the sell-off of these bank assets, piecemeal, to the private sector, will not be done at a cut-price, thereby failing to recoup the taxpayer’s full investment?”

The leader of the opposition fired his volley across the dispatch box, to the cheers of his backbenchers. But the Prime Minister wasn’t going to let himself be kicked around by “junior” on the other side of the House  He puffed out his chest aggressively and projected his voice in a similarly stentorian fashion.

“As I have already told the Right Honorable Gentleman, we will be selling off the assets at their market value as determined by an independent auditor –”

Loud jeers went up from the opposition benches, drowning out any attempt by the Prime Minister to continue. Prime Minister’s question time in the British House of Commons lacked the quiet dignity of debate in the Senate or House of Representatives. It was more like the chimpanzees’ tea party at Regent’s Park Zoo.

“Order… Order,” the Speaker intoned in a loud, baritone drawl. “Prime Minister?”

A doorkeeper entered the chamber quietly with an envelope marked “PM, Immediate” as the Prime Minister heaved and puffed again before resuming his reply.

“And may I remind the honorable member that this problem wouldn’t even exist if the previous government had not made a catalogue of economic and regulatory errors.”

This time, the jeers from the opposition benches were drowned out by the hearty cheers and “hear hears” from the government benches. But the Leader of the Opposition wasn’t finished yet.

“In that case, can the Prime Minister at least assure this house, and the taxpayers, that he and his colleagues will not in the near future – upon their retirement from politics – be taking up any lucrative consultancies with those very private companies that have benefited from this sort of cut price sell-off?”

This prompted outraged cries of “point of order!” from the government benches and approving laughter from the ranks of the Opposition. The Prime Minister cast a quick glance at the Speaker, who gently shook his head, declining to intervene. The Speaker could have asked the “Honorable Member to withdraw that remark” or challenged him to say explicitly if he was accusing the Prime Minster of corruption.

The question certainly carried a modicum of innuendo with it. But it was borderline – and also the fact that it was in the form of a question, not a statement, cloaked it in a degree of protection. He had asked the Prime Minister if he could “assure the House.”  All the Prime Minister had to do was deny it… or evade it.

However, the PM was both angered and encouraged by the speaker’s refusal to intervene. That refusal gave him the green light for a devastating response. He could now smell blood and like a shark he closed in for the kill.

“I think the Right Honorable member is living in a bit of a glass house when it comes to taking up lucrative consultancies…”

Cheers and jeers.

“…given that his predecessor but one lost no time in taking up a two-and-a-half million pound consultancy with an investment bank that had very close ties to a certain, now-defunct, railway maintenance company whose owners took the taxpayers to the cleaners to the tune of 450 million pounds…”

More cheers and jeers.

“…when they pulled the plug on the company after being told that they weren’t going to be allowed to get their greasy paws on any more taxpayers money to bail out their underperforming company.”

By this stage, storms had erupted on both sides of the house at this hugely provocative statement. But the Prime Minister wasn’t finished yet. He was no longer a sleek, hydrodynamic shark hunting its prey in the waters. He was now a street fighter, crudely cutting up a member of a rival gang. He had sunk the shank into the torso; now he intended to twist it to cause maximum damage to the internal organs.

“And may I also remind the Right Honorable gentleman that one of the companies that owned the railway maintenance company in question, and that pocketed a large amount from this un-repaid, taxpayer-funded loan, was a certain energy company that just happened to employ, as its Head of Media Relations, the brother of the former Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer!”

By this time the storm had turned into a tempest. And long before it subsided, the Prime Minister received a note that had been passed along a row of ministers from the hand of the Doorkeeper. While the Speaker struggled to restore order to the House, the Prime Minister read the note with growing anxiety. And just as the Speaker was about to give the floor once again to the Leader of the Opposition, the Prime Minister rose to head him off.

“Mr. Speaker, I must apologize most profoundly to the house, but some urgent business involving matters of national security has arisen and I must beg leave of the house to address these matters immediately. This is not a matter that need give rise to any panic, but it is a matter that calls for prompt and immediate attention.”

The Speaker looked somewhat bewildered. If it was not urgent enough to cause panic, then it should not have been urgent enough to suspend Prime Minister’s Questions – especially given that PMQ lasts for only half an hour and only takes place once a week. But then again, the Speaker was also mindful of the fact that just because the PM said that it was no reason for panic did not mean that in fact there was no reason. As Prime Ministerial lies go, this would have been one of the more honorable kind.

Under the circumstances, he knew what his duty called for.

“The Prime Minister is excused. Question time is suspended. I presume that the Prime Minister will report the reasons to the house at the earliest opportunity.”

There were murmurings of confusion from the floor of the house as the Prime Minister edged his way past his colleagues. Less than a minute later, the PM was out of the chamber to be greeted by his Principal Private Secretary. Meanwhile, several journalists left the press gallery and were frantically running downstairs in the hope of a quick briefing about what was going on.

National Security?  Al Qaeda?  The Russians?  A terrorist attack in Britain?

But neither the PM nor his Principal Private Secretary, were sticking around long enough to face them.

“I need to get back to Downing Street ASAP,” the PM told his aide. “Tell the escort to use their blues-and-twos!”

Chapter 4

“So let me get this straight,” said the dark-haired Latina beauty in her smart beige business suit, “Two drunks walk into a bar and a one-legged down-and-out –”

“It’s not a joke, Juanita.”

Alex didn’t trouble to hide his irritation at Juanita’s levity.

“It sure sounds like one Boss.”

They were in Alex’s office in their new cherry wood paneled suite on the sixteenth floor of the Embarcadero Center, building Two. This one had three rooms, in addition to the reception area, unlike the two at their previous office, as well as a kitchen and a reception area. Two of the rooms were offices – for Juanita and Alex – and were quite small. Most of the space in the suite was taken up by the large conference room and the even larger reception area. There were reasons for this: there were going to be some changes in the near future at Alex Sedaka’s sole practice. It was soon going to become a partnership.

“Anyway I think I get it,” Juanita continued. “Two men come in. First one leaves. Then the other. Then the one-legged down-and-out follows the second man and kills him. Then he hobbles away. Meanwhile a pair of cops answering another call, looking for a prowler, get suspicious when the handicapped bum does a sudden one-eighty in the middle of the sidewalk. So they order him to stop and when he doesn’t, the younger cop does a Justin Smith on him, not realizing the perp has only got one leg. Then – as the perp goes down – he goes down one way and his prosthetic takes off in the other. Does that more or less sum it up?”

“Pretty much.”

“And they’ve got … what? The knife, the fingerprints, the blood-stained shirt, the DNA confirming the source of the blood –”

“Whoa!” said Alex holding up his hand. “Not yet. The DNA will take a few days, unless they expedite it. And I haven’t seen the fingerprint report yet. It was only yesterday night.”

“Then maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I doubt it. They caught him at the scene with blood on his shirt and the knife, which he tried to throw away. The rest is speculation at this stage.”

“Isn’t it speculation to assume that he stabbed the guy? Maybe he found him bleeding and tried to help him?”

“And then hobbled away, leaving him dying?”

“Maybe he panicked. A homeless bum found covered in blood over a man who’s just been stabbed? I think you’ve got room to maneuver there boss.”

“With the murder weapon in his hand?”

“Maybe he touched it? Maybe that’s what made him panic.”

“Except that when they do get the lab analysis of the blood pattern it’ll be able to tell us whether it’s a splatter pattern or soaked blood. And I think we can already guess the answer to that one.”

Juanita inclined her head in thought.

“You said the victim’s a John Doe.”

“Right. Probably another bum.”

“So maybe our man can cop a plea.”

“They’re claiming special circumstances.”

Juanita looked stunned at this. But she kept her cool.

“Sounds like a negotiating tactic.”

“Probably is. But Diane Carter seems to be getting a buzz out of playing hardball.”

“Must be the wrong time of the month.”

“Ouch! Put them claws away tigress.”

“Face it boss, a John Doe is a nobody as far as the DA’s concerned. No family to go running to the press. No angry public to placate. Why would they suddenly get all holier-than-thou over a down-and-out without a name?”

“How many times have you seen Predator?”

“Hey boss. In less than six month’s time I’ll have my law license. I may as well get into character.”

Alex was amused. Although she had started in the office as his legal secretary, Juanita had always held her own and wasn’t shy about speaking her mind. She was a text book example of self-improvement, in both body and mind. For physical wellbeing, she ate healthily and worked out every day, usually in the morning before coming in to the office. And when it came to mental development, she broke the bank for sheer tenacity, realizing that it was the key to her future. She had seen too many other people throw their lives away, by failure to make the necessary preparations early enough in life, and she had no intention of making the same mistake.

Growing up in the Mission, she had avoided the gang culture, despite – or perhaps because – of the fact that some of her extended family had got caught up in it. It was her cousin being caught in possession of the gun that killed Alex’s wife, that prompted her to meet the lawyer himself, culminating in a job offer. She had learned shorthand and typing precisely in order to hold down a decent job and then gone to night school to study law. Now, working for Alex as a paralegal for the last four years, she was living with the young-and-trendies in Valencia Street.

In that time she had acquired a law degree and now, at the age of twenty six, was all set to take the bar exams. Somewhere along the line, Alex knew, he’d have to offer her a partnership in the firm – or lose her to one of the big west coast law firms.

“The bottom line is we’re mostly clutching at straws,” Alex concluded. “They’re not likely to screw up and the DA doesn’t like to lose – especially to me. The best we’re looking at is voluntary manslaughter and eleven years.”

“Why not six? Or even just three?”

“It’s an election year. We’ll be lucky to get voluntary manslaughter – more likely second degree murder – and then the guy’s looking at fifteen to life.”

“Any eyewitnesses?”

“Not as far I could tell. But the cops’ll put feelers out. They may come up with one – either genuine or an opportunist looking for easy bucks.”

“Did you have a chance to talk to him?”

“Barely.”

“Did he tell you why he did it?”

“I told him not to tell me if he did.”

“With these bums it’s usually robbery.”

“Except it wasn’t. The victim had a wad of cash on him. It was untouched.”

“Maybe he couldn’t find it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well think about it. It was dark, there was a police siren getting nearer, he knew he couldn’t run fast… so he panicked.”

“The money was in the victim’s shirt pocket. It would have been easy enough to grab.”

“So why didn’t he grab it?”

Alex nodded slowly.

“That’s one of the things we need to find out.”

“Anything you want me to do at this stage?”

“Yes. I’m worried that they’re going to use a jailhouse snitch to set him up.”

“You didn’t tell him not to talk to anyone about it.”

“Of course I told him. But they can set him up by putting words into his mouth. All it takes is a few phone calls and they get all the information they need about the crime. Then they pass it off as a confession.”

Juanita was looking at him blankly.

“You said you wanted me to do something.”

“Yes. I want you to phone up the morgue, the police department, the coroner’s office and the jail – making up a false name and a job other than working for me – and find out everything you can about the murder, the suspect and the victim as if you hadn’t heard it from me. I want you to record it and make sure you’ve got a time-stamped recording of it. I want to establish what it’s possible to find out from those various sources, so we can discredit it if the DA tries any of that funny stuff with a jailhouse snitch. When you’ve finished give it to Laurie to make a transcript. We’ll have it date-time stamped and notarized.”

Laurie Mason was the new receptionist/typist now that Juanita was preparing to become a partner. She was blonde, nineteen and a student at Berkeley. From an impoverished middle-class family (victims of the recession), she was paying her way through college.

“You don’t trust my typing anymore.”

“There’s something else I want you to do after that.”

“What?”

She read people like no one else and her tone suggested that her radar was switched on. Alex realized that he had somehow aroused her suspicions before he had even spoken.

“I want you to go online and start spreading as much false information as you can about the case: both about the crime itself and about our client. It can be good or bad – preferably a mixture of the two – just as long as it’s false and not easy for the public to check out.”

“Isn’t that kind of unethical boss?”

“I’m not doing it to manipulate public opinion.”

“I know that boss. If you were, you’d hardly be telling me to spread bad stuff about him.”

“The idea is to set a trap for any con who tries to set up our client in the hope of cutting a deal with the DA.”

“They could call that suborning perjury.”

“I’m not telling anyone to come forward with a false story. I just want to make sure that if they do, they can be exposed. And if the DA chooses to use a jailhouse snitch and then gets his ass burned with his own witness’s perjury, that’s his problem! It’s like publishing a reference book with a copyright trap.”

“Copyright trap?” Juanita echoed, raising her eyebrows quizzically.

“A nugget of false data mixed in with all the true data to catch out the copycat who prefers to plagiarize than do his own original research.”

“It sounds like you want me to plant a whole lot more than a nugget, boss.”

“The internet’s a big place, Juanita. We want to make sure that if some con decides to use our client as a get-out-of-jail-free card, we can nail him.”

“Smart idea boss,” Juanita replied with a smile, warming to the idea.

She stood up to return to her office

“But do the other thing first. The sooner you get it, the earlier we can time-stamp it and prove how easy it is to get the info and how quickly.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

*     *

COBRA

That was what it said on the door. And this was a COBRA meeting. But it had nothing to do with either the venomous snake or the American attack helicopter. In this context, it stood for Cabinet Office Briefing Room A – the main briefing room of the Cabinet Office that stood back to back with the Prime Minister’s official residence at No. 10 Downing Street. It was also the name given to any ad hoc committee set up by the Prime Minister to meet here and handle whatever major crisis merited such action. That could mean anything from a terrorist attack to a financial meltdown on the international stock markets to a volcanic eruption in Iceland that paralyzed the European aviation network.

In this case the committee consisted of only four people: the Prime Minister himself, the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, the Chief of the Defense Staff and a man known as C. His real name was Sir Geraint Purdue and his title was Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service (also known as MI6). The designation C came from the fact that the first Chief of MI6 – Sir George Mansfield Smith-Cumming – used to initial his name in green ink with a big letter C on official documents that came his way to indicate that he had read them. Ever since then, this has been the unofficial designation for the head of the SIS, although now it was taken as a de facto abbreviation of Chief.

“It appears that Mitchell used an asset to do the actual killing. Unfortunately, the asset wasn’t up to the job and managed to get himself caught while hobbling away from the police on his artificial leg.”

There was muted laughter from General Sir Roger Carson, the Chief of the Defense Staff. He covered his mouth with his hand and faked a cough to camouflage this display of levity.

“Excuse me Sir Geraint,” said the Prime Minister, “But did you say ‘artificial leg’?”

“Yes Prime Minister. Apparently the man had an artificial leg, or at least an artificial lower leg.”

This was another little irony, as the original C had also lost his leg in accident. But the Prime Minister had something other than irony or historical curiosity on his mind.

“Do you mean to tell me that Mitchell hired a one-legged man to help him eliminate some one with O’Neil’s training?”

Again Sir Roger chuckled as Sir Geraint blushed with embarrassment. The PM gave the General a chiding look that seemed to have little effect. The Foreign Secretary just sat there in stony-faced silence.

“It would appear so, Prime Minister,” Sir Geraint grudgingly conceded.

The PM noticed that none of them were particularly talkative. In the case of the Foreign Secretary, this was understandable: he was there to listen. But the General was remaining tight-lipped, apart from his annoying puerile habit of finding grounds for amusement in other people’s embarrassment. C was volunteering nothing and answering the PM’s questions with almost monosyllabic minimalism.

“What do we know about this asset?  Apart from the fact that he has less than the usual number of limbs?”

“Well we know that his name is George Stone. He’s homeless. That is he was homeless. His current home is a San Francisco jail and is quite likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.”

The PM’s incredulity was growing by the minute.

“Is there any reason why a man with Mitchell’s background would feel the need to get a hired gun to do his dirty work for him? Let alone a homeless one-legged man?”

“It’s their honor code,” said General Carson.

“Honor code?”

“They won’t kill one of their own.”

“But that’s ridiculous! I mean if he set O’Neil up…”

“I mean they won’t actually do the deed with their own hand, Prime Minister. They’ll set him up for the hit – I believe they call it ‘planting the Judas kiss on the cheek’ – but they won’t deliver the coup de grace.”

“So what… they’ll just stand back and let some amateur do the job for them?”

“It isn’t usually an amateur, Prime Minister. It’s usually a man from another unit. But on this occasion, Mitchell didn’t have that luxury.”

The PM was struggling to take it all in.

“Do we know anything about his background? This proxy I mean?  How he lost his leg? How Mitchell came to know him?”

C shrugged helplessly.

“Not at this stage Prime Minister.”

“Well is there anything we can do to find out?”

“We can probably grease the palm of a prison guard to keep an eye on him. In fact it might be possible to get a fellow prisoner to do that. All we need do is find a wife or girlfriend of a prisoner who could do with the dosh and we can bribe her to get her man to be our eyes and eyes.”

“Which is better a prisoner or a guard?”

“Well a prisoner can probably get closer more of the time. Guards are inherently distrusted by the prisoners. On the other hand a guard can probably report back once a day, whereas with a prisoner it’s more likely to be once a week.”

“Okay well you do whatever you think best – just as long as you’re sure you can keep the lid on the situation.”

“I’ll get right on it Prime Minister.”

The PM turned to the General.

“What about Mitchell?”

“He’s gone to ground sir.”

“Yes I know that, but why?”

“Well I assume because his asset was arrested. Mitchell must have realized that there was a danger that his man would blab, so he went into hiding.”

“Do we know where? I mean do we have any safe houses in the area?”

“Why would we?” asked the General. “We don’t normally conduct covert operations on US soil – at least not since 1812,” he added with a wry smile.

“Er, we do Prime Minister,” said C, nervously. “But it’s unlikely that Mitchell would know about them. We use the safe houses for our officers and agents when we go civil.”

“Going civil” was a reference to covert intelligence operations in or against a country that was normally regarded as friendly. The term was derived from “civil war.”

“There is one thing that bothers me,” said the Prime Minister. They all waited in silence for him to continue. “I presume that, like anyone else in America, Stone has the right to meet with his lawyer in private. That means that he can tell his lawyer anything and neither a fellow prisoner nor the prison guards would be any the wiser.”

“Then maybe we should be keeping tabs on his lawyer,” said C.

“That’s what I was getting at,” said the PM. “The question is how?”

“Well we’ve got an officer in place: Wainwright. He was the one who told us about Stone’s arrest. He’s trained in B and E and he can plant devices for GCHQ to monitor.”

“And we’ll be able to monitor both his phone and internet communications?”

Sir Geraint smiled.

“Consider it done, Prime Minister.”

Chapter 5

“I haven’t yet had time to talk to the ADA but –”

“The ADA?”

“Oh sorry. The Assistant District Attorney. I mean the one who’s dealing with the case at the moment, Diane Carter. If it gets to trial, it’ll probably go to another ADA.”

George Stone had cleaned up somewhat, since he had been assigned to a housing jail – Jail 3 in the Hall of Justice Building. He had had a haircut, a shave and a shower, and looked more like an everyday, non-descript “Mr. Average” that the Rasputin lookalike that Alex remembered from the arraignment court.

Also, his prosthetic leg had been refitted. There had been some concern that it might be used as a weapon, but the prison doctor had advised that if they took it away, they would have to give him crutches – which would be a far more effective weapon – and would then have to keep him in solitary or at least in the Vulnerable Prisoners unit. In the event, they let him keep the prosthetic and did put him in the VPU. This didn’t surprise Alex: San Francisco actually led the way in the protection of vulnerable prisoners.

It was Alex’s first legal visit. He was anxious to meet with his client as quickly as possible to reassure him that he had not been forgotten and to make sure that he didn’t say anything to compromise his case.

“They sent over an evidence box – it’s not a full discovery, but it’s enough to give me some idea of their case. Anyway, I haven’t yet had a chance to speak to Diane Carter so I don’t know what, if anything, she’ll be ready to offer. But now I need to talk to you and we need to talk seriously. If you tell me that you did kill this man, then I can’t try to prove that you didn’t. I can argue that it was justified, that it was a lesser category of homicide and I can also plead in mitigation. If you tell me that you didn’t do it then I’m allowed to try and prove that, but I’ve got to tell you that from what I’ve seen so far, it looks like they’ve got a strong case.”

“How strong?”

“They’ve got the knife, your fingerprints and the blood on your clothes. They expedited the DNA at it shows that it was the victim’s blood. There were no injuries on you to suggest that he attacked you, so the most we could claim was that he was about to attack you or that you genuinely and reasonably believed that he was about to attack you. That’s if we decide to go for self-defense. He was clearly bigger than you – so I’ve got some room to maneuver – and we can try to sell that to a jury. We could even use the threat of such a defense to try and convince the DA to cut a deal. But my guess is that the DA won’t buy it.”

“So I’m screwed.”

“Well not necessarily. I mean like I said, we can give it a shot with the jury. It may be a tall order, but if you feared that a big, strong man was going to do some serious damage, then we could argue that you felt vulnerable, particularly because you only have one leg. And if the DA argues that you used excessive force, then we’ve still got the fallback position of involuntary manslaughter.”

“Would that work?”

“There are no guarantees. But if, say, you took out the knife and brandished it to frighten him into not attacking you and he went for you anyway, the judge would at least charge the jury to consider involuntary manslaughter as an alternative to murder.”

“Can’t I just remain silent?  Like they do in the movies?”

“You shouldn’t take your law from Hollywood. Every defendant has the right to remain silent – and it might not even be a good idea to put you on the stand. But there’s a big difference between not taking the stand and offering no defense.”

“What are my chances?”

“It’s hard to say at this stage. The DA is talking about murder one with special circumstances.”

“What special circumstances?”

“They said you were lying in wait for the John Doe.”

“But I didn’t! I followed –”

“Don’t tell me. Anything you tell me now can only limit the scope of the defense I can offer you.”

“Okay,” said Stone, nodding his head slowly and swallowing. It was obvious that he didn’t know the rules of the game. But he was learning fast. There was however one thing that Alex needed to establish that might clue him in on the motive, without forcing Stone to say something that would tie Alex’s hands. But he had to phrase it carefully.

“Is there likely to be any evidence that you knew him?”

“What? Who?”

“The dead man. The John Doe.”

“How d’you know I –”

“I didn’t ask if you knew him!”

Alex’s radar blipped and his attention stepped up a level. But it also emphasized just how careful he had to be with this inexperienced defendant.

“I asked if the prosecution might – not will, might – be able to come up with evidence that you already knew him. In other words, evidence that he wasn’t a stranger to you?”

Stone looked at him, puzzled.

“Why does that matter?”

Even allowing for the fact that Stone was a first-timer, Alex was amazed at his client’s legal naivety, especially as he seemed like an intelligent man in other respects.

“It goes to motive. We know there was no robbery, because he had money on him and you had very little on you. They might say it was a botched robbery and you chickened out when you heard the cops or they might stick with the lying in wait angle. Now I don’t see that they can prove lying in wait unless they’ve got witnesses. But I can tell you now, if they have got eye witnesses – or if they can prove you knew the victim – then they may be able to make the lying-in-wait accusation stick.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well at minimum it means the jury can find you guilty of first degree murder. But in theory, lying in wait can also be a special circumstance for the purposes of the death penalty.”

“Death?”

Stone had gone pale.

“Yes. Look I’m not trying to frighten you but you need to know the risks.”

“I don’t understand why they’re doing this. I didn’t lie in wait… not really.”

Alex was again holding up his hand, to silence Stone before he said too much.

“My guess is that she’s using it as a bargaining chip. She wants you to cop a plea, but on her terms.”

“So when will we know? I mean will they make us an offer or do we have to make them an offer.”

“It can be either. But before I can make an offer I need to know what they’ve got. I’m not asking you to tell me if you did it – unless it actually was self-defense. But I need you to tell me if they’re likely to have any surprises in store.”

Alex was watching Stone’s face when he said this, monitoring it for a reaction.

“Like what?”

“Like an eyewitnesses or evidence of a prior connection between you and the victim.”

“There were no eyewitnesses… and no evidence that I knew him.”

No evidence that I knew him.

Stone was learning fast how the game was to be played.

“There was something else that I wanted to ask you about that. The arrest report said that the dead man had about two thousand dollars in hundreds in his shirt pocket. How come you didn’t take it?”

Stone looked confused. More to the point, he looked away.

“Some one screwed up.”

“What do you mean?”

Stone was looking away, reluctant to meet Alex’s eyes.

“It was dark.”

Alex wasn’t sure if he believed that this what Stone meant. Why not “I screwed up” or something along those lines?  He noticed that Stone was no longer meeting his eyes.

“I’m just wondering if we can use that to our advantage. Is it possible that, he took the money from you?”

Stone shook his head.

“Or you both found it in the ally and started fighting over it?” Stone was about to answer, but Alex ploughed on. “Or maybe you found it and you wanted to hand it in to the cops, but he wanted to keep it and then, when you threatened to go to the cops he grabbed your shirt and threatened to silence you for good and you panicked and pulled the knife that you always carry for self-defense and stabbed him, not intending to kill him.”

Alex was now on the ethical borderline, suggesting possible scenarios for Stone to seize upon.

“And would that make it self defense?”

“In theory it could – but the fact that you were carrying a knife would count against you.”

“Couldn’t we say that it was his knife?”

“I don’t think any jury would believe that a big man like that would need a knife against you – or that you could have got it off him if he pulled it. But even if we say it was your knife, if we can spin out the whole self-defense scenario, that could still reduce it to involuntary manslaughter. And then we could be talking about as little as two years.”

Stone was shaking his head.

“What’s the problem?”

“The barman.”

“What about him?”

“He’ll testify that mmm… the victim… already had the money.”

Alex’s trial balloon burst, along with his enthusiasm.

“Then I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”

Stone shrugged his shoulders resignedly. But Alex wasn’t quite finished.

“There is something else I wanted to ask you. How did you lose the leg?”

“What?”

After the initial surprise, George Stone smiled.

“Oh, er… it has nothing to do with the case. I lost it a few years ago.”

“Look, it may not have anything to do with the case, but we might still be able to use it somehow. You know… play up your vulnerable side… evoke some sympathy from the jury.”

Alex didn’t want to say so, but his mind was already running in the direction of strong pain killers and their side-effects on mental functions.

“Well if you must know, I lost it in a mine explosion.”

“You were in the military?”

Alex was getting even more ideas, this time for a sympathy defense.

“Not exactly. I was a civilian aid worker in Iraq. I was young and inexperienced and I stepped out into an area where I shouldn’t have gone. Came home minus a leg. Pretty stupid huh?”

Stupid it may have been. But Alex’s mind was already working on ways that stupid could be reinvented as heroic.

“Okay I’ve got to get back to the office. When I get the rest of the evidence, I’ll be in a position to discuss possible deals with you. In the meantime, remember what I said. Don’t talk to anyone – not about the case and not about yourself in general.”

“Why are you so worried about that?”

“Look George, you don’t understand the prison system. It’s very easy for them to set up a cell-mate confession – real or imaginary. And one of the ways they make it stick with the jury is by fleshing it out with genuine background details about yourself and your life. But if you keep yourself to yourself, then they won’t have any background details to flesh it out with.”

*     *

It was later that afternoon that more discovery files arrived in Alex’s office – quite a few boxes in fact. Alex lost no time in reading through the files. The DA’s office was being surprisingly cooperative in pre-empting any discovery motion by giving him the files now before the preliminary hearing and the filing of the information – especially considering how they were playing hardball over the charges. Then again, it was really two sides of the same coin. The judge had hinted that they should deal and the DA was probably trying to underscore just how hopeless Stone’s position was.

And the more Alex read, the more he realized how good was the DA’s hand. Stone had called it right when he said the barman would say the John Doe had the money all along. It was there in black and white. The drunk had produced the mouthwatering fistful of dollars and the barman had told him that his friend had already paid. Very honest of the barman. And that tended to suggest that he was being honest about everything else.

His friend.

Now that was the hangnail. Who was this friend? A friend who brought him to the bar, bought him a drink and then left him?

Leaving him in the bar did not, in itself, detract from their friendship. He might have had any number of reasons to leave him at the time. But why hadn’t he come forward since – assuming that he hadn’t of course? Alex knew that he would have to go through the boxes and files very carefully. One of the most common tactics on discovery is to include even the most trivial information in the, but in random order, in the hope that the other side would miss the nugget. Of course, they seldom do. Lawyers know to go through the discovery material with a fine-tooth comb. But still…

Who was the friend?

He took the next item in the box and was pleased to see that it was the autopsy report. Now this should be interesting. The report was actually much shorter than he expected, identifying blood loss from the stab wound to the liver as the cause of death. But it was accompanied by various supporting documents such as toxicology reports as well as photographs.

Normally the photographs would be the least useful supplements to the report, because a lawyer would not be able to draw the kind of inferences from them that a pathologist could. But the fact that it was a John Doe, gave the pictures an added significance. In the absence of a name, having a face and body, could be the next best thing. He looked at each of the pictures in turn. They showed a physically fit male with a bald head, probably shaven.

But several of the pictures caught his attention: the pictures of the torso. He noticed a tattoo by the left shoulder. In fact it was three tattoos or at least a tattoo made up of three items: two in black and one in blue. The first was some sort of military or quasi-military symbol: a symmetric cross inside a wreath with a small crown on top. The cross itself actually reminded Alex of the German Iron Cross.

Beneath it, in the same shade of black was: “A2–.” But the one that fascinated Alex most was a line of text underneath that. It was in blue and at a slight angle to what was above it, suggesting that it was done at a different time. Alex had to peer close to the photograph to read it and even use a magnifying glass to get the full thing. It appeared to say: “the truth about hashem.”

Chapter 6

After-hours access to the offices in the Embarcadero buildings was card controlled. There were a variety of ways in which such technology could be countered and, given time, Wainwright could have had access to some pretty advanced state-of-the-art technology.

But time was of the essence and field intelligence officers like him were expected to use their initiative and not depend on the back-room boys for a job like this. Instead, he had relied on the low-tech solution of stealing a pocketbook from a distracted woman’s purse. He didn’t keep it though. There was no need. It took only a second to remove her access card and then he handed back the pocketbook.

She smiled with gratitude and didn’t even bother to check if her credit cards were intact, as this smartly dressed Englishman with a brown leather attaché case handed it back to her with a smile and a polite “I think you dropped this, Madam.”  Such was the trusting nature of most people. She would probably notice it was gone tomorrow morning. But it was unlikely that she would spot it before that. If she did become suspicious, her fears would be for her money not about access to the building where she worked – especially as the card only gave access to the building, not to any specific office.

Even if she did discover it now, she would think that it had fallen out and would probably not call in to notify the staff. Of course if he was challenged over the card it would be very hard for him to explain the change of gender. But in practice, if he used the machine and looked as if he belonged there, no one would challenge him. People very rarely challenged a man in a well-cut Armani suit.

So he got into the building with no trouble at all and made his way quickly to the sixteenth floor. Entering the building was one thing. Entering the specific suite of Alex Sedaka, Attorney-at-Law was another matter. Fortunately it was locked with a conventional pin and tumbler lock, a little bit harder to pick than a spring-loaded wafer-tumbler lock, but still one that fell well within the lock-picking skills that he had learned at the field school.

He selected a small tension wrench of appropriate size into the lock and turned it in the same direction as they key would turn to unlock the mechanism. This turned the plug very slightly, offsetting it from the surrounding housing. Maintaining the pressure of the tension wrench, he inserted the pick and carefully lifted each pair of pins whilst relying on sound and feel to tell him when the pins had fallen into position on the ledge inside the shaft. This was the key to lock-picking, because once a pin was wedged in the housing on the supporting ledge, it wouldn’t fall as long as the lock picker maintained the tension with the wrench.

When the last of the upper pins was pushed completely into the housing and the lower pins rested in the plug he could turn the plug with the tension wrench and open the lock. So experienced was the Englishman, that the whole operation took longer to describe than to accomplish. In seconds, he was inside Alex Sedaka’s office.

Moving swiftly, he located the broadband connection box on the wall in the reception area. He opened his attaché case where he kept his tools and proceeded to remove the housing. It took little more than two minutes to unscrew the box, disconnect the wires, install the device and reconnect the wires with the special tool required. Then he screwed the replacement box back into the wall and vacuumed up the dust and wire fragments with the higher power mini-vacuum-cleaner that was the largest single item in his attaché case.

That would take care of all the internet traffic from Alex Sedaka’s office as well as anything said in this room. The device contained a microphone capable of picking up anything spoken within a ten meter radius as well as an analogue to digital converter. All of this would be transmitted to his Internet Service Provider along with the standard “packet” addresses that would tell the ISP where to send it on to. And that address belonged to GCHQ – Britain’s equivalent of the National Security Agency – who would forward it to Wainwright’s paymasters at the Secret Intelligence Service in London.

This applied not only to the digitized audio traffic but also to a copy of anything that passed between the office’s computer network and the internet – eMail, websites viewed, etc. All of this was controlled from a special programmable chip inside the duplicate box.

He went into the two offices and the conference room and did likewise with the internet and phone connections there, carefully vacuuming up the dust each time. Satisfied with his work, he did a last-minute check for any tell-tale signs that might giveaway his presence, and then left.

*     *

“ ‘The truth about Hashem?’ ain’t that somethin’ Jewish?”

Alex was having an after-hours cup of coffee with Leary a black, six foot four, ex-Navy SEAL, who made his living now as a private investigator. They were in the Urban Blend Café, a late night café in Oakland’s Jack London Square, a popular venue with students because of its electrical outlets and free WiFi, as well as its midnight closing time.

“Hashem is what orthodox Jews call God when they aren’t praying.”

“You wanna run that by me again?”

“Jews have a number of different names for God, but orthodox Jews believe that they should only use those names when they’re actually praying. So when they’re not praying they call God ‘Hashem’ which literally means ‘the Name’.”

“I thought Jews don’t go around preaching or actively seeking converts.”

“They don’t.”

“So why would they use God’s name when they ain’t prayin’? Do they curse a lot?”

Alex grimaced.

“No but they might use his name when they’re studying, or teaching their children.”

“I know man,” said Leary smiling. “I was just kiddin’.”

Leary had the knack for being able to pretend that he was a whole lot less sharp than he actually was. But you don’t get to be a US Navy SEAL by being tough and dumb. To be a SEAL you have to be tough and smart. But what Leary had, to make up for the intimidating effect of his height, was a winsome smile and a disarming sense of humor. He was tough when tough was needed, but he had that very useful ability to make himself look otherwise.

“It’s probably Christian messianic,” said Alex.

“It’s kind of a strange formulation, don’t you think? I mean: ‘the truth about Hashem.’ Like only he and the select few know the truth and the rest of us don’t.”

Alex smiled.

“There’s no shortage of people like that.”

Alex thought about this for a minute.

“Or then again maybe it’s one of those anti-Semitic conspiracy groups.”

“You mean like… those crazies who think you guys are running the world?”

“There’s no shortage of them either. The web’s full of them.”

“Then maybe that’s where you should start looking.”

“That’s what I’m going to do.”

“No time like the present,” said Leary, tapping away at his iPad as it rested at a slight angle on its magnetic cover that doubled as a base. “Ah, now ain’t that interesting?”

“What?”

He spun the iPad round so Alex could see. It showed several pages listing websites of various Jewish organizations, most of them Hassidic or at least orthodox.

“This was without quotes?” asked Alex. “I mean separate words, not treating it as a single phrase.”

“Yep.”

Alex realized that he might be able to narrow the results down if he searched for the words as an exact phrase. A quick check refuted that hypothesis.

“There’s loads of them. I guess I’m going have to go through every one of them.”

“Why don’t you get Juanita to do it?”

“She won’t necessarily know what to look for.”

“Do you?”

“Not really. I’ll ask Stone on my next visit.”

“You think he’ll talk?”

“Not really.”

They both smiled at Alex repetitious reply, Leary with amusement, Alex with embarrassment.

“Anything I can be getting’ on with in the meantime?”

“Find out anything you can about the dead man. I guess the place to start would be the homeless community.”

“You’re such a liberal nice guy.”

“What?”

“Community?” Leary was smiling.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Ask about Stone too. See if anyone in the community… find out if anyone knows him. If my suspicion is right Stone knew the other guy from before.”

*     *

Charlie Jackson was off duty and that meant his time was his own and he could do what he liked with it. And what he liked to do was drink. When he was on-duty, he was a deputy in the San Francisco Sheriff’s Department at County Jail 3 on the sixth floor of the Hall of Justice.

Wainwright, the British man who had followed him, had come to the jail earlier that day to visit a prisoner and been told that he had the wrong jail. But he had noticed that this particular deputy held his hands in a certain way. You can often tell a lot about a man by the way he holds his hands. For example if he holds his thumb and index finger together and keeps raising them towards his mouth, that is often the sign that he is a smoker in circumstances that make it impossible for him to smoke.

In this case, the deputy’s hands showed curved fingers and thumb in opposition to one another. This was the sign of a man who was looking forward to his next drink. So Wainwright had singled him out and followed him to this bar. Now as the off-duty deputy sat drinking his first shot of the evening, Wainwright sat on the bar stool next to him.

Uncomfortable with the fact that a man had sat next to him when there were other places available, the prison guard half-turned and vaguely recognized the man. Wainwright reassured him with a smile.

“Ain’t you that British guy… at the jail today?”

“Yes,” said Wainwright. “I was looking for a British man, but I think I got the wrong jail. I had a word with the British embassy and we’re trying to get the right information. In the meantime, they’ve left me to cool my heels, so I figured I might as well go for a little R and R.”

He smiled again, putting the deputy at ease. The barman came over and Wainwright ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

“You have some really weird cases over here,” said Wainwright in the tone of idle chat.

“How d’you mean?”

“Well I saw something on the news about a one-legged vagrant who killed some one.”

The deputy smiled.

“Oh yeah!  George Stone.”

“Oh was that the victim’s name?”

“The victim?  No. That’s the name of the guy who killed him: the one-legged down-and-out. We’ve got him in our jail.”

“Oh. So who was the victim?”

“At the moment he’s a John Doe.”

“Probably another vagrant.”

“I guess.”

Wainwright waited, in case the deputy wanted to add anything.

“Listen, I know this might be a bit of an impertinence. But… well as you know I’m British.”

“I kind of figured that. Like I said.”

“Well anyway… I’m a journalist… for the London Times… and I’m always on the lookout for a good story… and I was –”

“Wait a minute, I thought you were from the British embassy?”

“Er no, I er… okay you’ve got me. I said was from the British embassy, ‘cause I figured they wouldn’t want to talk to a journalist. Anyway, look, my paper – the London Times – sent me out here. I’m actually a stringer for several other British papers. But anyway, I’m always on the lookout for human interest stories and I figured that this story about a one-legged vagrant might be interesting.”

Wainwright was careful not to offer a bribe. It was too early at this stage – although he would have been quite happy to offer money if the deputy had indicated that he wanted it.

“I don’t really know anything about it,” said the deputy, taking another swig.

“Has he talked?  I mean has he confessed or anything?”

“Not as far as I know. He’s got Alex Sedaka defending him.”

“Alex Sedaka?” Wainwright echoed.

“Some hotshot lawyer. He defended Elias Claymore on that rape charge last year.”

“Oh yes I remember that case.”

“It was all over the news. And before that there was that case with the guy on death row. I still think they haven’t told us everything about that case, you know. It’s kind of fishy.”

Wainwright scratched his head as if agreeing with the deputy, but also as a prelude to his next question.

“But if this George Stone is just a vagrant, how come he can afford a hotshot lawyer like Alex Sedaka?”

“It’s pro bono.”

“Pro bono?”

“Yeah. Pro bono… you know… no fee.”

“Oh pro bono,” Wainwright said as the penny dropped. Years of enforced Latin studies in his posh prep school flashed back through his memory as he remembered the phrase pro bono publico – for the public good – that quaint legal phrase used in America to describe legal work undertaken free of charge for those who cannot afford it, and usually shortened to pro bono. In Britain the full version of the phrase was used more broadly to describe not only professional public service without payment but also to summarize the raison d’etre for non-profit organizations such as the British Broadcasting Corporation and the National Health Service.

“With all those lawyer jokes,” Wainwright continued, “I forgot that in America lawyers are expected to do pro bono work.”

He was still trying to break the ice. The deputy smiled. Wainwright hesitated. Then he spoke again.

“Well look… I was wondering what you think of this Stone character.”

“What do you mean?”

There was little suspicion in the tone: just mild curiosity.

“Well I mean… do you think he’s innocent?”

“Are you kidding? The bastard is guilty as hell.”

“And the taxpayer has to pay to keep him in prison for the rest of his life?”

“If I had my way, they’d cut the trial and just fry the bastard.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Oh er no. I was just thinking. One hears so many stories these days about prisoners being killed by other prisoners.”

Chapter 7

“I got some one from the coroner’s office to admit that he died of massive blood loss from a stab wound to the liver but also had an auxiliary stab wound to the stomach. I also found out – now this is interesting – that the victim had some of Stone’s flesh between his teeth… as well as traces of Stone’s blood.”

“How the hell did that –”

Juanita held up her hand, stopping Alex mid-sentence.

“Apparently he bit him.”

“That seems like kind of a strange way for a man of his size and build to fight.”

“I agree,” said Juanita. “I mean I could understand a woman or a small man biting an opponent – especially a big strong opponent like the victim clearly was. But not the other way round.”

That was a bit of a conversation stopper as they both mulled it over. They were in the conference room. Juanita was briefing Alex on what she had found out through independent channels. This was all part of Alex’s defense strategy against a possible attempt by the DA to use a jailhouse snitch. The truth of the matter was that with such strong scientific evidence, they didn’t need to. But Alex wanted to make sure all the bases were covered.

“Do we know what part of… Stone’s anatomy… he bit?”

Juanita smiled at Alex’s awkwardness – almost as if he was expecting the “worst” of all possible answers.

“Not from the coroner’s office. But Stone was examined by a doctor after he was arrested. The doctor’s report said it was his hand.”

“Interesting.”

“I’ve just had a thought!” Juanita blurted out with excitement. “Maybe Stone tried to cover the victim’s mouth to stop him screaming. I mean he obviously didn’t want to be discovered. He wanted to make a quick getaway undetected.”

“Good point. Better put that in your statement for the public notary.”

“But isn’t that speculation?”

“Yes, but it’s still a possibility. We want to include anything that another person may have learned either directly or anything they could deduce. It’s the sort of thing stone might have said – if he had talked. So we put it in.”

“But they could say Stone told us that.”

Alex thought a moment.

“They could. But you can truthfully testify that you thought of it yourself based on what you learned from independent sources. So it isn’t even privileged. Anyway, put it in for now and we’ll make two statements, one with the speculation and one without it. In fact put it in a supplementary statement. We’ll get them both date-time stamped one after the other. The first we’ll call the raw facts statement, the second we’ll call the deductions and speculations statement. We’ll cover both bases.”

Juanita nodded approvingly at her boss’s thoroughness.

“Anything else?”

“I got a verbal description of the tattoos – including the cross. It’s a pretty good description.”

“And you got it on tape?”

“Er no?”

Alex was angry.

“You were suppose to –”

“We’re in the digital age boss! A digital recording. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

“Sorry.”

Alex shrugged sheepishly.

“I copied it over to my computer and burnt it onto a DVD along with the rest.”

“What about the other thing?”

“Other thing?” Alex raised his eyebrows. Juanita got it. “Oh yes, the disinformation campaign.”

“Perjurer trap,” Alex corrected.

Juanita smiled.

“I’m working on it. What about you?”

“Got a meeting with the dragon lady.”

“Good luck, Saint George.”

*     *

Blood!

It was the blood that was frightening, not the pain.

There was no pain. Looking down at the place where his lower leg had once been, there wasn’t just no pain, there was no feeling… just a certain numbness. He had heard that physical trauma usually starts with a few second of numbness followed by a searing, agonizing pain that takes seconds or even as much as a minute to set in. But even now, after that minute had elapsed, there was still no pain. It was as if his mind had closed off all physical sensation.

But what he could not close off was the blood.

It was the sight of the blood pouring out of the wound that filled him with terror.

Of course he could look away… avoid the sight of it. But that could not remove the knowledge of what was happening to him. His blood was gushing out of his body… and it was taking his life with it.

He had somehow managed to remove his belt and was trying to create a tourniquet from it. But it was a losing battle and he knew he had not much longer to live. Yet strangely the thing that he found most hurtful was the way the people he thought of as his friends were just watching from the sidelines.

Shouldn’t they be doing something? He thought.

Of course he knew why they were doing nothing. They were afraid to enter the minefield. They didn’t want to suffer the fate that he had just suffered, or worse. And this left them paralyzed with indecision, unable – or unwilling – to help him.

He could hear one of them frantically screaming something into the field radio, trying to summon help from the military. He wanted to scream too – to scream at them to disregard their fear and save him.

Couldn’t they just follow the line that he had taken? Wouldn’t that be enough to avoid setting off another landmine? But at the back of his mind he knew that if he were in their shoes, he would probably have acted no differently.

So instead he just watched them as they looked away – the cowards wouldn’t even meet his eyes – and contemplated his impending fate… as his lifeblood drained away.

*     *

“I’m ready to drop the special circumstances, if he’ll cop a plea to murder one.”

“You gotta be kidding!”

Alex was facing Diane Carter across a small conference table in the DA’s office. Dressed in a paisley print-pattern shirt and blue skirt, she seemed more relaxed now, away from the combative courtroom atmosphere.

“That’s the best I can do, Alex. And Hector won’t be too happy with that either.”

Hector Garcia was the DA.

“You’re talking life without parole.”

“I’m talking about getting your client off the streets. He isn’t just a homeless bum, you know: he’s a morphine addict.”

Alex looked at her surprised.

“He didn’t tell you that, did he? What’s the world coming to: you can’t even trust your own client to play it straight with you?”

“Morphine isn’t exactly a typical addiction,” Alex mused out loud, pretending it was to himself.

“I think it goes back to when he lost his leg? They gave him a huge dose to kill the pain – and he’s been hooked on Miss Emma ever since.”

“Wait a minute what’s going on here he’s talking to you in my absence and –”

“He told the prison doctor when he was being processed. He had to so he could get methodone for a detox and phased withdrawal.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be confidential?”

“It is. But these things have a way of getting out. The prison grapevine, you know.”

Alex was seething on the inside.

“I’ve a good mind to lodge a complaint.”

“You do that Alex. Just remember that if I hadn’t found out and told you, you wouldn’t have known about it.  You know I still can’t believe you never asked him how he lost the leg.”

“I asked him… and he told me! He just didn’t tell me about the morphine addiction.”

“I guess he was afraid that if you knew, you might give up on him.”

Alex was about to speak up for his client. But then he realized that it would be himself he was speaking up for. And the more he thought about it the more he realized that Diane was pretty shrewd. And she was right. Not about Alex but about Stone. Alex would never be judgmental about a client – and would certainly never give up on one – but Stone didn’t know that. Stone didn’t know much about Alex. And he was insecure. He was lost in a system that he didn’t really understand.

But Stone was wrong about Alex. And so was Diane, if she shared Stone’s view that Alex would give less than a hundred percent to a client who was less than perfect. Perfection was an ideal not a reality. How many men didn’t have feet of clay?

“I have no intention of giving up on my client. And I’m sure as hell not gonna try and convince him to accept life behind bars.

Diane was looking at Alex unmoved.

“You think it’s any great loss to society if he never sees the daylight again?”

“Jesus Diane! The guy he killed was a bum too!”

Diane Carter frowned.

“I didn’t know you cared.”

Alex was unperturbed by the sarcasm.

“Do you? You don’t even know the victim’s name!”

“You wanna make an issue of that with the jury? Bum kills bum, so we can just sweep it under the carpet like it doesn’t matter?”

“I’m just trying to figure out your angle.”

“You know my angle Alex. There’s an election coming up in November.”

“You don’t have a dog in that fight.”

“The hell I don’t! If Hector gets re-elected, I want to be in his good books.”

“Yeah but even if you get death, Stone’s not going down without a fight. He’ll be sitting on Death Row for years. Hector’s not going to be able to make much capital out of that.”

“That’s why I’m offering you a lifeline. Take the deal Alex. I get a feather in my cap, Hector gets his trophy, you get your fee and a worthless bum gets taken off the street for good. It’s not a zero-sum game, Alex. It’s win-win and we all go home happy.”

“I don’t think my client’ll see it that way.”

“He gets room and board for the rest of his life. You think prison’s less comfortable than the street?”

“Well thank you, Ebenezer Scrooge!”

The truth of the matter was that Alex saw sense in what she said. But he wasn’t ready to give up on his client just yet. He decided to probe a little.

“Okay let’s assume my client is guilty.”

Diane smiled, with dripping mockery.

“Okay, let’s assume.”

“Do you have any idea why he did it?”

“No. Do you want to tell me?”

“Maybe it was self-defense? The dead guy was a lot bigger than he was.”

“Is that your angle?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Keep digging Alex; maybe you’ll hit paydirt.”

“I gather that you’re relying on the physical evidence. You haven’t a clue about the motive.”

“You’re still whistling in the dark Alex.”

Alex said nothing. Diane, pressed home her advantage.

“That can mean one of two things. Either your client told you the reason… and it’s jury poison... and you’re worried we might find out.” She was watching him now, trying to read his face or body language for any sign of a reaction. “Or your client is playing his cards so close to his chest even you don’t know.”

Alex didn’t want to show his hand. But he had to hold his ground.

“Either way Diane, if you want to make murder one stick, you’re going to have to supply a motive.”

“Well the obvious motive is robbery.”

“There’s nothing obvious about it. The John Doe had two thousand on him. My client never touched the money.”

“All that means is that he panicked when he heard the siren or saw the squad car.”

“And hasn’t it occurred to you that it’s a bit off-the-wall that a John Doe with no ID is walking around with two thousand dollars in the first place?”

“Yeah, it is kind of weird. So what do you want? To solve the great earth-shaking mystery that’s got you losing sleep?”

“I reckon you’re probably not in any hurry to find out Diane.”

“Why should I need to know? Like you said, we’ve got physical evidence and there’s nothing to support self-defense.”

“I am going to keep digging Diane. And if I find something, I’m going to shoot you down in flames.”

“You do that Alex,” said the ADA, putting a hand on the desk to indicate that the meeting was over.

“Aren’t you in the least bit curious?”

Diane stood up, prompting Alex to do likewise.

“Have you seen my caseload? I’m curious as hell. But if you think I’m going off on a wild goose chase when we’ve got an open and shut case, then all I can say is you must have a lot of time on your hands.”

*     *

“So, I gather you weren’t able to work anything out?”

They were back in Court 20 of the San Francisco Hall of Justice for the preliminary hearing and Justice Lavinia Woo did not look pleased as she addressed both of them. Diane looked at Alex, letting him do the talking.

“With best of intentions Your Honor, we dis –”

“I seem to remember a movie when a kid got shot in the head after his friend used that phrase.”

Diane stepped in, taking advantage of Alex’s embarrassment.

“What he means is that we negotiated in good faith, but failed to come to an agreement.”

Stone was sitting there nervously, trying to take it all in. The judge picked up on the words “negotiated in good faith.”

“What did you talk about?” he whispered to Alex.

“Only what I told you about. I sounded her out on what she was ready to offer and she wouldn’t do better than life without parole.”

The judge cut in.

“Okay, well let’s take a look at the evidence. Are you ready to call your first witness Ms Carter?”

Diane Carter smiled at Alex and licked her lips.

“Yes Your Honor. The people call Kyle Simpson.”

Kyle Simpson was the arresting officer. The early questions established that he was a rookie patrolman serving in the Central District, with his partner Joseph Reilly, that he and Reilly had been taking a meal break outside McDonald’s in Pine Street just before midnight, that they had been called to a report of a prowler in Becke’s Alley and that they had to respond immediately because it was a “Code 2” – i.e. urgent.

As they were getting near to Jackson Street they saw a man hobbling towards the Columbus Avenue intersection and he seemed to respond to the police car and turned abruptly, hobbling back the way he came. They pursued him and ordered him to stop through the squad car’s public address system. When he failed to respond, they stopped the vehicle and pursued him on foot, with Kyle bringing him down with a flying tackle.

It was only then that they realized that the reason for the man limping was because he had a prosthetic leg, which came off when he was brought to the ground. But before they cuffed him, he threw away a bloodstained knife into the dirt by a nearby tree, but his partner retrieved it and put it into an evidence bag. Meanwhile Kyle Simpson noticed heavy blood stains on the man’s shirt. After establishing that the man was not hurt, they searched the nearby area and found an unconscious man with a stab wound. They arrested the one-legged man on suspicion of attempted murder and at the police station, his shirt was taken as evidence.

“And do you see that man here in this courtroom?” asked Diana.

“Yes I do. That man over there.”

He pointed to George Stone.

“Let the record show that the witness identified the defendant George Stone,” said Diane. She turned to Alex. “Your witness.”

Chapter 8

In a comfortable hotel room not far from Alex’s office, the man known as Wainwright was sending an encrypted message to London. It read:

Prelim going ahead. No sign of Mitchell’s asset talking, but precautions wise. Have made arrangements.

That was all. He knew that London would understand.

*     *

Meanwhile, in Court 20 at the Hall of Justice, Alex was about to begin his cross-examination of Kyle Simpson, the arresting officer. The lawyer knew that he was unlikely to break the witness at this preliminary hearing. But he could do something now that he dared not do in front of a jury – ask questions to which he did not know the answer. This would enable him to probe details of the prosecution case, establish its strengths and weaknesses and – perhaps most crucially of all – get the witness to commit to a certain position that could not be changed at the trial without serious loss of credibility.

“Mr. Simpson, you testified that the defendant threw the knife into the dirt by a tree, is that correct?”

“Yes sir, that’s correct.”

“And it was at around midnight?”

“Yes.”

“So it was dark?”

“Yes but there were street lamps.”

“And there was sufficient light from the street lamps for you to see the blood on the knife at the precise moment when he threw it?”

“Well no, not at the time when he threw it. But when Joe, I mean Officer Reilly, retrieved it, I saw the blood at that point and I countersigned the evidence bag after he bagged it up.”

“So at the time when he threw the knife, you saw the knife but it looked like it didn’t have any blood on it?”

“Well no, I mean I didn’t actually see him throw the knife…”

He trailed off. Alex resisted the urge to smile. The cop was a rookie and had probably never faced cross-examination in his life. Alex picked up the dangling thread.

“I’m sorry, didn’t you say that you saw the defendant throw the knife into the dirt by the tree?”

“Yes but I didn’t actually see him throwing it. When his prosthetic leg came off I was bit disoriented –”

Again he realized that he had said too much.

“Yes?”

“Well anyway, I was concentrating on making sure the suspect was unharmed… and of course on making sure that he was properly restrained.”

“So if you didn’t see him throwing it, how did you know that he’d thrown it?”

“Well Joe said…”

Again, Alex let it hang in the air for a few seconds.

“So the only reason you thought that the defendant had thrown the knife was because your partner told you?”

“Er, yes.”

Alex addressed the judge.

“You Honor, move to strike this witness’s testimony regarding the defendant throwing the knife on grounds of hearsay.”

“Ms Carter?”

“Your Honor the statement was made in the presence of the defendant.”

“That doesn’t necessarily qualify it as an exception to the hearsay rule.”

Diane shifted uncomfortably.

“Res gestae, Your Honor.”

“How so?”

“Disposal of the murder weapon?”

The judge’s tone was scathing.

“Ms Carter, the disposal of the murder weapon may be part of the res gestae, but the officer’s statement about it is most certainly not. The motion to strike is granted.”

Diane Carter sat down, fuming. The truth of the matter was that it was a non-issue. She could simply call Officer Reilly. She also had a fingerprint expert on hand. The judge nodded for Alex to continue.

“You said you were keeping an eye on the defendant, was there any moment between then and when he was processed at the station that you were away from him?”

Kyle was nervous.

“How do you mean?”

“Well was there a time – however brief – when you left him or when he was out of earshot and when he might have said something, prior to him being processed… something that you didn’t hear.”

“No.”

“And in the time you were with him, did he say anything incriminating?”

“Objection, Your Honor, the witness is not qualified to say what is incriminating.”

“Sustained. Rephrase Mr. Sedaka.”

“Did the defendant admit to killing the deceased?”

“Er, no.”

“Did he offer any explanation of how the deceased died?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything such as to indicate that he was aware of how the deceased died?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything to indicate that he was a witness to the crime.”

“No.”

“Did he say anything to indicate that he had any prior knowledge of, or acquaintance with, the deceased?”

“No.”

“Neither knowledge nor prior acquaintance?”

“No, nothing.”

Kyle was getting flustered.

“Did he specifically deny prior acquaintance with the deceased?”

“No, look, he didn’t say anything. He stayed silent the whole time.”

Alex was satisfied. Stone could still dispute any and every part of Kyle Simpson’s testimony, but Simpson himself had now closed several doors.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Diane Carter decided not to call Officer Reilly at this hearing. Instead she called a fingerprint expert to confirm that Stone’s dabs were on the knife and a DNA expert to testify that the DNA on Stone’s shirt and the knife belonged to the dead man. Then she rested her case. At this preliminary hearing she did not have to establish guilt beyond reasonable doubt, only that there was a case to answer. The fingerprints on the knife linked the knife to Stone, the blood linked it to the victim. The blood on the shirt was the icing on the cake.

Alex passed both the fingerprint expert and the DNA expert without cross-examination. He didn’t expect to make any headway and he wanted to study their reports in detail before deciding on a strategy.

It came as no surprise when the judge ruled that there was a case to answer. The prosecution now had fifteen days to file a document called the Information, giving the particulars of the charges, after which the defendant would be formally arraigned a second time and would be asked to enter a plea.

*     *

“So what’s the strategy Boss?”

Alex and Juanita were in the conference room at the Embarcadero Center. Laurie Mason was covering the phones. The new receptionist had been disappointed to hear that they had been unable to get the case thrown out at the preliminary. So Alex patiently explained that there had never been any realistic prospect of that. The purpose of the preliminary – or the defense purpose at any rate – was to test the strength of the prosecution case and to get those witnesses who were called to commit to certain positions so that they would not be able to change their story later.

“Well George isn’t talking so –”

“I think you frightened him boss.”

“I had to tell him the risks. The DA’s office is still going for a death sentence.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean telling him not to talk. He’s afraid to tell you anything in case it limits you too much. So now you’re going to have to squeeze it out of him.”

“The thing that’s bugging me is that I’m sure he knows the victim – or at least knows something about him.”

“Yet he didn’t know that the John Doe had two thousand dollars on him?”

“Or didn’t care,” Alex speculated.

Juanita’s eyes widened.

“That makes even less sense.”

“I never said it made sense. But he said himself that the barman saw the drunk take out the money in the bar. That means Stone saw it too. So why the hell didn’t he take it?”

“What’s your theory boss?”

“At this stage, I don’t have a theory.”

“What about the tattoo?”

“That’s the other thing that’s been bugging me, Juanita. The truth about Hashem.”

“Didn’t you say you were going to check out some websites?”

In fact, Alex already had his laptop open in front of him and was logged in to the internet through the office WiFi.

“I’ve got a whole list of them here, Juanita. Quite a few pages.”

“And?”

“A load of Hassidic Jewish sites.”

“Have you tried them one by one?”

“I’ve been going through them. So far I haven’t found anything.”

“Why don’t you try an advanced search?”

“That’s what David suggested.”

David was Alex’s son, a 28-year-old theoretical physicist who was making waves in the scientific community at CERN with his latest paper. Alex had asked him to explain it once. David had replied by handing his father a copy from the abstract of the paper:

The acceleration in the rate of expansion of the universe accounts not only for the preponderance of matter ‘craters’ over antimatter ‘mountains’ in the four dimensional tensor field, but also for the proportionality of gravitational to inertial mass, as matter “craters” offer inertial resistance to the expansion along the fourth-dimensional axis, whilst anti-matter “mountains” do not. This also accounts for the predicted absence of gravity in antimatter, as well as unilateral antimatter decay into photons, leading to a breakdown in CPT symmetry, though antimatter remains subject to gravity (like massless photons). A further effect of the second order expansion rate is the Lorenz Transformation of special relativity, as perceived units of distance measurement are increasing relative to a hypothetical external objective observer, such that the perceived distance between objects in motion is being effectively ‘eaten up’ over a macroscopic coordinate-chronological field, whilst occurring at a proportionately slower rate on a microscopic scale. Indeed, only the constraints imposed by the uncertainty principle prevent superluminal motion being observed over a local coordinate field.

Alex didn’t ask after that.

“Have you tried?”

He was shaken out of his thoughts by Juanita’s question.

“What?”

“An advanced search.”

“Well I did a search for the whole phrase rather than the individual words.”

Juanita was shaking her head.

“I mean a smart search including both the phrase and some other words like ‘dead man’ and ‘tattoo’?”

“Oh, er no, I hadn’t thought of that.”

In the laptop between them, he started typing in the words, putting “dead man” in quotes, to make sure it was treated as complete phrase.

“What’ve you got?”

There was a long list, but at the top of the screen it said:

No results found for "the truth about hashem" tattoo "dead man"

Results for the truth about hashem tattoo dead man (without quotes):

“Zilch. What else?”

*     *

Back in jail, later that day, George Stone had scrupulously observed Alex’s injunction not to talk to anyone about the case or about himself. Indeed, so thorough had been over these past couple of weeks that he had avoided contact with other prisoners altogether. When other prisoners had approached him, he had simply mumbled something and walked away. But he was on his guard only against talking, not violence.

It was while he was on his way to the prison library, the day after the preliminary hearing, that he noticed two other prisoners walking in the opposite direction. They appeared to be friendly, at least to each other, talking and smiling and paying him virtually no attention. But as they passed him, the one who was closest reached into his pocket and pulled out something that looked like a spoon.

What Alex didn’t know was that the “spoon” had been sharpened against a stone wall and was now – to all intents and purposes – a blade with a handle.

A fraction of a second later, the sharpened spoon was plunged into his gut, in much the same way as he had stabbed the man in the alley outside Kell’s. He let out a scream, but again – in a surreal replica of his own action – a giant hand was clamped across his mouth, stifling the sound. He fell to the ground bleeding and felt his consciousness slipping away.

Chapter 9

“Try ‘the truth about hashem’ and the other thing on the tattoo.”

In the conference room of their suite at the Embarcadero Center, Alex and Juanita were continuing their endeavors to figure out the meaning of the dead man’s cryptic tattoos.

“It was a picture.”

“I thought there were some letters or numbers?”

“Oh that, yes.”

Alex typed in ‘the truth about hashem’ and A2- with the same result.

“Same thing.”

Juanita thought about it for a moment.

“Can I see the photo?”

Alex rummaged around in the box for the autopsy report. Eventually, Juanita elbowed him aside and found it in seconds – in a different box. She flicked through the photographs and found the one that showed that tattoo.

“Well would you believe it?” she asked, her eyes beaming wide.

She handed the picture to Alex. He looked at it, but saw nothing more than he had seen the first time.

“What?”

“Take a look at the way it’s written.”

Alex looked again.

“It’s all in lowercase.”

“That’s right. And what else?”

Again he stared: again he saw nothing more.

“I guess it must be that old problem with limited male perspicacity,” he said resigning himself to an onslaught of mockery.

“I guess it must be.”

“So?” he said, still waiting.

“How much space would you say there is between the words?”

Alex peered at the photograph again.

“Practically none.”

“Practically none? Where does the practically come from?”

He looked again. Juanita was right: there was no space at all between the words – at least no more than there was between the letters within the words. His mind had created the spaces that weren’t actually there.

“You’re right.”

“So what does that tell us?”

He still didn’t quite see it for a couple more seconds, until it finally clicked.

“Domain name?”

Juanita was smiling and nodding. Alex typed in thetruthabouthashem.com into the URL bar of his browser. It threw up a website… of sorts. That is, there was no error message or “this site is under construction.” But there was no content either: just a plain blank page.

“Empty.”

Juanita looked at it and nodded as the phone rang at the reception desk.

“Another one bites the dust,” was her less than solemn verdict.

Their disappointment was palpable.

“Still,” said Alex. “It was worth a try.”

This time, the phone rang in the conference room. Juanita took it.

“Yes? ... hold on a minute? It’s for you.”

She handed the phone to Alex.

“Hallo.”

“It’s a call from the Sheriff’s office.”

“Okay put them through.”

“Hallo.”

A woman’s voice came on.

“Hallo is that Alex Sedaka?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Sedaka, this is Angela Jones from the San Francisco Sheriff’s Department. It’s regarding your client George Stone.”

Alex felt that twinge that you get just before receiving some bad news.

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid he’s been stabbed.”

Alex felt in that moment as if he had been stabbed. He remembered the attempt on Elias Claymore’s life. It seemed as if, despite high security to prevent escape, California jails couldn’t make their prisoners safe from violence, although San Francisco had a better record than most.

“Fatally?” asked Alex with some considerable trepidation.

“No Mr. Sedaka. He’s out of danger and he’s recovering in a trauma unit at San Francisco General Hospital.”

“How did it happen?”

“Apparently a prisoner used a sharpened a spoon to attack him. That’s all the information we have at present.”

In prison it was very easy for a prisoner to hide a spoon up their sleeve, sharpen it against a concrete or brick wall and turn it into a shank. And the other prisoners never “saw” anything – unless they wanted to be the next victim. That was why prison was such a dangerous place. And there was nothing the guards could do about it. Ultimately prisoners had to protect themselves. And there were only three ways a prisoner could do that: be tough, have or get some tough friends and avoid making enemies in the first place – and even then, the last one was miles away from sure fire.

Alex felt a stab of anger. Stone was a new prisoner and a vulnerable one. Christ, he only had one leg! He shouldn’t even have been in with the general population!

“And could I ask where the guards were when this was happening?”

“Like I said that’s all the information we have at present.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

*     *

Over five thousand miles away, the British Prime Minister was sitting with Sir Geraint Purdue, the head of the Secret Intelligence Service in the white-paneled study of number 10 Downing Street. Sir Geraint was dressed formally in his office suit, the Prime Minister, somewhat more casually. This was, after all, his home and he could permit himself that luxury.

“Why in God’s name do we keep using amateurs?

The Prime Minister didn’t have quite as bad a temper as his predecessor, but it could get pretty nasty at times.

“We didn’t really have a choice Prime Minister. The man is in prison – that means he’s not easily accessible.”

“Well couldn’t we have used one of the guards? At least they wouldn’t make such a dog’s dinner of it!”

“We did have one of the guards look the other way Prime Minister. But more than that would have been impossible. They have CCTV cameras all over the place and no guard is going to stick his neck out that far.”

“And a prisoner would?”

“The guard told him where the blind spots were… and I have to say, he very nearly pulled it off.”

Sir Geraint sounded almost laudatory in his tone. But the Prime Minister was unimpressed.

“Yes, well you know what they say about betwixt the cup and the lip.”

The tone was irritable and Sir Geraint knew when to back off.

“At least he’s not talking.”

“Yes but that’s what concerns me. If he isn’t likely to talk then why did we need this whole fiasco? And if he was a disclosure-risk then isn’t he all the more likely to talk after this?”

“Well the truth of the matter is that we don’t know how much of a risk he is.”

“Because of Mitchell going to ground?”

“Precisely Prime Minister.

“Is he still incommunicado?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And of course, he didn’t expect his asset to get caught.”

“Presumably not.”

“Did he say anything to indicate that this… what’s his name?”

“Stone sir… George Stone.”

“Did he actually say that Stone was a risk? That we needed to silence him?”

“Not in so many words Prime Minister. But the fact that Mitchell went into hiding suggests that he was afraid of exposure. And that would suggest that there is at least some risk of disclosure on the part of George Stone.”

“So now we’re back at square one.”

The head of MI6 said nothing. The truth of the matter was that they were at less than square one. Because although George Stone might very well not talk, there was bound to be some sort of process of inquiry at the jail, triggered by the near-fatal stabbing of a prisoner. And even if the San Francisco Sheriff’s Department tried to minimize the damage, Stone’s lawyer would demand a full inquiry and press for answers.

Thinking about Stone’s lawyer, gave Sir Geraint some ideas for a diversionary tactic of his own to stave off further prime ministerial wrath.

“We have been getting some information out of Alex Sedaka’s office.”

“Alex Sedaka?”

“Stone’s lawyer. We wired his office, remember.”

“Oh yes. What have we got?”

“Something potentially damaging. They found a website.”

“A website?”

“Apparently O’Neil had set up a website called thetruthabouthashem dot com.”

“What did it say?”

Sir Geraint handed over a report to the Prime Minister.

“It’s all right there sir.”

The PM started reading it, his face reddening.

“Of course we took down the site immediately – as soon as we knew what was happening.”

“But what bloody good does that do? Once he’s already seen it!”

The head of the Secret Intelligence Service smiled.

“Well the good news is that he didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“See it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You see sir, we weren’t only monitoring the internet traffic, we’ve also bugged his office, so we had a live audio feed going straight through to GCHQ. And if you look at the transcript of the conversation between him and his paralegal, it becomes clear that they didn’t see anything.”

“But I mean... how could they miss it? Are they blind or something?”

“Not blind Prime Minister, although possibly color blind.”

By this stage the PM was getting rather irritated.

“Would you mind not talking in riddles Gerry and just spell it out!”

The capacity to maintain one’s equanimity in the face of ministerial rage is one of the unofficial qualifications required of a senior civil servant – all the more so in the case of prime ministerial rage. So the head of the Secret Intelligence Service kept his cool as he spelt it out... to the delight of the Prime Minister.

*     *

While the Prime Minister’s rage at the failure of the attempt to silence George Stone had been assuaged by the good news that Alex’s efforts to gather information had been thwarted, Alex’s own fury at the failure of the jail to guarantee the safety of his client was not easily placated. He broke off the discussion with Juanita and went back to his office to file a petition to obtain the names of the guards on duty in that part of the jail at that time of the stabbing and to have them suspended pending a full inquiry.

When it was done, he sat back in his high-backed chair, clasped his hands behind his head and started thinking. Was this just a random act of prison violence or was there a reason behind it? Ordinarily he wouldn’t have had such thoughts. Violence is endemic to jails and prisons. Such is the nature of the beast. Punitive and preventative confinement in institutions is designed for criminals and those suspected of crime – particularly violent crime. Put a lot of violent people together in one place and what can you expect if not violence?

But there was something troubling Alex about this case. Here was a man who was himself accused of committing a motiveless crime of violence and yet who didn’t seem to have a violent bone in his body. Of course he could be a psychopath prone to sudden fits of violent rage punctuating a life otherwise filled with long stretches of placidity and tranquility. But Alex didn’t buy that. George Stone had a certain timidity about him.

Of course timidity could be faked. A psychopathic serial killer might well fake timidity as a means of luring his victims into a trap. But there didn’t appear to be any sign of “luring” the victim in this case. Quite the contrary: the victim was followed and killed. No robbery, no premeditation, no ready-made escape or concealment plan and indeed no planning or organization. And that was the key to it all. The murder of this John Doe – apparently by Alex’s client – was what the boys in Quantico would have called a “disorganized killing.”

The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia had a long and venerable tradition of classifying killings and their perpetrators as “organized” or “disorganized”. Some British profilers had questioned this, but the methodology still prevailed at Quantico and in the US in general. And this was clearly a disorganized killing just as Stone was an archetypal disorganized killer: unkempt, socially inadequate, nocturnal by habit, leaving the body intact at the crime scene, attacking in a “blitz” pattern leaving evidence behind and a chaotic crime scene. You couldn’t get more disorganized than that.

Except that Stone broke the pattern in one respect: he was intelligent.

And that was something you did not expect to see in disorganized killers. Nor was there any evidence to suggest that he had killed before; nor yet any sign that he intended to kill again.

Then there was the victim. A man with no ID on him but a huge wad of cash. A man who was clearly well-fed and fit, yet whom no one had come forward to claim. A man who had the developed musculature of some one who kept himself in good shape – possibly even a fighter or a body-builder. And yet somehow, a meek, timid, weak homeless man, with one leg had managed to get the better of him.

That last part may not have been quite such a big mystery as the statement from the barman indicated that the man was probably drunk when he entered the bar. His friend had even bought him an energy drink to counter the drunkenness.

Thinking about this now, Alex had an idea.

What did the autopsy report have to say about blood alcohol levels?

He realized now that in his efforts to find evidence of self-defense – such as bruising on the dead man’s knuckles – he had overlooked the simple question of how drunk the dead man actually was. So drunk that he could hardly move, made him look like a vulnerable victim. But drunk enough to be aware of his surroundings, might mean that he was capable of alcohol-fuelled aggression. And that could help with Stone’s defense.

The files on all active cases were kept by the reception area. Alex went there and retrieved the autopsy report. At his desk, he flicked past the main report and went to the section marked “toxicology.” It listed blood samples taken from various parts of the body and chemicals looked for and either found or not found. It also listed stomach contents. One word stuck out a mile in Alex’s jargon radar: rohypnol. The tranquilizer sometimes referred to as the “date-rape drug.” As he read on, it became clear to Alex that the dead man had enough rohypnol in his system to account for his semi-conscious state.

So he wasn’t drunk at all when his staggered into the bar with him. He was drugged.

Chapter 10

He was watching a report on the TV about the attempt on Stone in a seedy little motel somewhere along Route 66:

Charlie Jackson, the only deputy in that part of the jail at the time has been suspended pending an inquiry into his conduct. The other deputy on duty at the time reportedly told his superiors that Jackson sent him on an errand that took him away from his post, leaving Jackson alone on duty in that area.

The area in question is covered by several CCTV cameras, but it appears that at least one of these was disabled just before the attack. The San Francisco County Sheriff’s office has stated that they are taking this matter very seriously.

He switched off the TV and flung the remote control across the room in a blaze of anger.

He decided to pay Jackson a little visit.

*     *

“They’re not talking,” said Leary, putting the coffee mug down.

“I guess it was a long shot.”

Alex was getting the lowdown from Leary on what he had found out about the John Doe and George Stone – or rather what he hadn’t found out. Leary was one of the few people from outside the office whom Alex met in his private office. He normally met people in the conference room.

“I have to say one thing though. Some of them reacted to Stone’s name… they knew him. But they don’t talk about each other. On the other hand, when I mentioned the other guy, nobody reacted.

“Well, without a name, there’s not much for them to react to.”

Leary spread his hands in surrender.

“Okay, but you tell ‘em about a John Doe with a load of bread and the physique of bodybuilder… you’d think some one would recognize him.”

There was so much in this case that Alex found puzzling. On the surface it may have seemed open and shut – certainly to an overworked police department. But to Alex there were all sorts of niggling details that didn’t make sense. And this was just one of them.

“Maybe he wasn’t actually homeless.”

“Then how come he had no ID on him? No keys, no driver’s license, no credit cards. Nothing!”

“Maybe he was rolled by a hooker, shortly before that.”

Leary gave Alex a withering look.

“So she took his keys and drivers license and credit cards and she left two grand in cash?”

Alex had been clutching at straws – they both knew that. But then Alex had as thought.

“Wait a minute… maybe he was robbed of his money too?”

“What and then he robbed some one else to get some more money.”

“No, but we’re forgetting something. He was brought into the bar by some one else… a friend… the one who called him ‘Corny’. Maybe that friend gave him some money.”

“What gave him a couple of thousand bucks and then just left him there?”

“Why not?”

“ ‘Cause it don’t make sense, that’s why not.”

“Even if he didn’t give him the money it doesn’t make sense. Why bring a friend into a bar and leave him there when he’s still intoxicated. The friend said he had to go. Where did he have to go? And why did he have to go?”

“Could be any number of reasons, Alex. Remember he bought him an Irn Bru. That’s an energy drink… got caffeine in it. He could’ve been tryin’ to sober him up. But then he had to go… wherever he had to go. So he takes him in there, does as much as he can to sober him up in the time frame available and then leaves to do whatever else he had to do.”

Alex was shaking his head.

“I’m not buying it.”

“You’re not buying it.”

“There’s something we’re missing Leary.”

“So what’s next?

“How do you know there is a next?” asked Alex.

Leary smiled that easygoing smile that he used to disarm people he was pumping for information.

“Come on man, you know I can read you like a book. You’ve got that ‘I have an idea’ look on your face Alex.”

Alex smiled back.

“You’re right. I do have an idea. The jail suspended one of the deputies who was on duty when Stone was stabbed: a man called Charlie Jackson. It seems he was the only man covering the area when Stone was stabbed. And there was also something about him sending one of the other deputy’s away”

Anything else?

Alex told Leary what he had heard about the CCTV cameras not working.

“That’s kind of suspicious,” said Leary in his customarily understated way.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“So you want me to go round to his place and slap him around?”

This time, interestingly, Leary was not smiling.

“I want you to go in there with your quietly disarming manner and get him to open up.”

Leary still wasn’t smiling.

“You do realize that there’s no way a man who’s just been suspended is going to open up to a complete stranger? He’s probably gone to a lawyer and been told to keep shtum. He ain’t gonna open up to me. Hell, he ain’t gonna open up to anyone but his own attorney.”

“And that’s why you thought I wanted you to slap him around.”

“Well that’s the only way he is gonna open up.”

“What if you pose as a journalist? Offer him money?”

“He’d want it in writing… and he’d want his lawyer to look over the contract.”

Alex knew that Leary was right. It was a stupid idea. But still, a weak lead is better than no lead.

“You know what Leary… do it anyway. I don’t mean slap him around. Just go there and ask him. See how he responds to leading questions. Even if he refuses to answer, see if you can pick up on body language. See what questions make him nervous.”

Leary smiled.

“Do I tell you how suborn a witness?”

“Sorry. I’ll leave it in your hands.”

*     *

Wainwright was watching the news report about the botched assassination in a comfortable hotel room in San Francisco, He had given London little information about the prison guard and what was discussed at their meeting. But now that it had all gone wrong, he knew that he had to exercise extreme caution. He had already apprised London of the risks but their instructions had been minimal: contain the damage.

Nothing specific. No authorization of any particular activity. Just do what you have to do to control the damage. Operating without a backup team already increased his vulnerability. Operating in a friendly country without permission was an exceptional, though not unprecedented activity. But, as expected, he was very much being left to his own devices, or at least expected to act largely on his own initiative.

He thought about the fact that he was operating in a state that had the death penalty and he made the mistake of letting his mind idly speculate on a worst case scenario: being identified and arrested. How would London respond? Would they move heaven and earth to protect their man, even at the price of damaging that famous – albeit one-way – “special” relationship? Or would they throw him to the wolves as the Israelis had with Pollard?

He suspected the latter.

But the question was, just how vulnerable was he? Would the deputy talk? If he did, how strong a case would it be? Wainwright’s word against the deputy’s? And what could the deputy actually say? That Wainwright had encouraged him to encourage a prisoner to kill another prisoner? Could the DA build a case on that?

“He told me to tell him to do it.”

And would that be enough, even if the DA believed the deputy? Didn’t the law require some kind of corroboration?

But Wainwright dismissed the fear in its entirety. The deputy would have more to lose by talking than by silence.

It wasn’t even clear that they had caught the prisoner who did it. He hadn’t seen any reports about it on the television. The only reason he knew about it was because London had told him. And they knew because GCHQ in Cheltenham was monitoring Alex Sedaka’s office through the bugs Wainwright had planted. It was quite likely that the prisoner had wiped and ditched the shank and then quietly blended in with the rest of the prison population. If they didn’t have the prisoner who did it, then there was already a weak link in what was in any case no more than a tenuous chain of evidence.

And it was unlikely that the prisoner who did the stabbing would get caught. The other prisoners certainly wouldn’t “snitch”. They just don’t do that sort of thing in jail. And if they did, the one who did the stabbing wouldn’t talk. Even if he did what could he say? That a deputy had deliberately been looking the other way to let him try to kill a fellow prisoner? That the deputy had encouraged him to try and kill a fellow prisoner?

And without that, all they had on the deputy was that he wasn’t properly monitoring the situation in the area he was supposed to be supervising. The most they could accuse him of was negligence.

That might affect his career – might even result in him being sacked – but it wouldn’t be enough to make him talk. Talking would only make his situation worse. If he admitted that he was part of a premeditated plan to murder a prisoner it would take it from a disciplinary offense costing him his job to a felony prosecution. And even if he cut a deal, they still wouldn’t give him his job back.

And yet Wainwright did not feel completely safe. The fact that the Charlie Jackson had been such a weak link that he had been able to exploit so easily, meant that he was inherently unpredictable. And unpredictable meant dangerous. Oh yes, his uncorroborated testimony couldn’t prove anything. But inability to prove didn’t mean inability to throw a spanner in the works of a major operation designed to contain certain sensitive information.

Even if Wainwright was legally untouchable, if it got back to George Stone that the murder attempt was more than just a case of random prison violence, it might trigger the very thing that they were trying to avoid: Stone opening his mouth and blabbing.

There was already such an elevated risk, even now. But Stone was in San Francisco General Hospital and unable to communicate clearly and coherently. Of course, when he did recover, he might very well decide to talk. But the person he was most likely to talk to was his lawyer. If he did that, they would soon know because of the live feed to GCHQ.

But the deputy was still a loose end. He could identify Wainwright and that could make trouble.

Why leave loose ends, when it’s so easy to get rid of them with a neat little snip?

*    *

Leary had driven past the white stucco-fronted house in Palou Avenue and parked a few yards down the road. The two-level house was at the end of a row, next to a courtyard protected by a high fence. Alongside the house ran an alleyway, also protected by a locked chicken-wire gate.

He didn’t know if Charlie Jackson was home right now. He was suspended, so he could be, but there were no definites in this line of work. For all Leary knew, he could be at his lawyer’s office or even in some bar drowning his sorrows. But Leary had a hunch he’d be at home right now as he walked nonchalantly to the house, taking in the environment like the trained observer that he was.

The door was protected by an ornate, white-painted metal gate. But this was unlocked and slightly ajar, further adding to the impression that the owner was at home. Leary rang the doorbell and waited, straining his ears for that sound of movement inside to confirm that the owner was in the process of coming to the door to answer. In the seconds that followed, Leary fancied that he heard a shuffling of footsteps or some kind of movement, but then it all fell silent.

It was hard to be sure, because of the sound of a cars going by outside. But Leary was sure that some one was home, even though the silence that followed suggested otherwise. The obvious explanation was that Jackson didn’t want to talk to anyone. Possibly he had looked out the window, seen an unfamiliar black man – and a big one at that – and decided not to answer. For all he knew, Leary might have been a process server, there to serve a subpoena on him for a lawsuit by the injured man. This was not too far from the truth.

But whatever the reason, Charlie Jackson was not answering. Leary stepped into the entrance area between the white metal gate and the door and tried the handle. This was a risky move. Entering another man’s house without an invitation could get one shot – or at minimum convicted of domestic burglary. In any event the problem didn’t arise, because the door didn’t give.

But Leary was still concerned about those noises inside. If Jackson was there, he wanted to speak to him. George Stone – a man who by all accounts wouldn’t harm a fly – had been stabbed in jail by an unidentified fellow prisoner and Alex Sedaka wanted to know why. Leary wanted to know why. And so far, Charlie Jackson was the only man who could supply the answers. He might have a gun. He might be lying in wait. But Leary had no intention of letting it go. He was going to find out.

“Jackson!”

Leary had learned that when you want to enter a house, it doesn’t pay to play timid.

“Charlie Jackson!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Still no answer.

“My name’s Leary! I just want to talk to you!”

One of the advantages of shouting out, was that it also staked him claim with the neighbors that he was not an intruder. It also made it clear to Jackson that he wasn’t in any hurry to go away.

“Charlie Jackson! I’m here on official business.”

He had to be careful not to cross the line. A private investigator is still – at the end of the day – nothing more than a private citizen. A PI’s license gave him the power to investigate on behalf of a client, it did not confer any powers that an ordinary private citizen did not already have.

Leary strained his ears for further sounds of movement. He heard nothing. Either Leary had misheard before – unlikely – or Jackson wasn’t playing ball. But Leary wasn’t giving up. He left the entrance area, went round to the left side of the house and calling on his old navy SEAL skills, quickly scaled the chicken-wire gate that led to the alleyway that ran by the left side of the house. He sprinted down the alleyway, knowing that Jackson could hear him, determined to make his intentions clear.

He was hoping that Jackson would realize how determined he was and cave in. But that didn’t happen. And when Leary arrived in the back yard, he was greeted by the same silence as before, punctuated by the odd car, or distant shout or the sounds of nature. Behind and to the left of the back yard was a sports complex including a basketball court. To the right, a bit further back, there was another separate basketball court where a game was in progress. But Leary wasn’t interested in either of these. He was interested in the house.

He pressed his face against the rear window and looked into the kitchen and saw something that troubled him. It was hard to tell for sure, but it looked like he could see a pair of legs beyond the kitchen door. Not feet. Not a man standing there. Just a pair of legs as if some one lay unconscious in the corridor.

Immediately, Leary’s mind went into overdrive.

Suicide?

Had Jackson topped himself in response to taking the rap?

Leary had to know. And if there was time to save the guy, Leary knew that he had to give it his best shot. And in these kind of situations, time was of the essence. Even if a man shoots himself in the head he can sometimes be saved. And if he did it with poison or with gas from the oven, he might have just lost consciousness but still be alive.

Leary knew that he had to do something.

It took him about eight kicks before he managed to open the heavy kitchen door. By that time, he was sure he must have attracted the attention of some of the neighbors.  But nobody had shown their faces. Not one of them wanted to get involved.

As the door flew in, he charged through the kitchen and past the door to look at the supine figure in the corridor to the left. But as he did so, he caught a rapid movement to his right. And in that fraction of a second, he knew that he wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge what was coming.

Chapter 11

Juanita was thinking about the website they had found – or rather not found. At the time she had dismissed it as a red herring. But now she was not so sure. The fact that it didn’t have any content didn’t mean that it was irrelevant. Some one had evidently gone to all the trouble of acquiring the domain name.

And they must have also bought web hosting space for the domain. If they had acquired the domain without hosting space, it would have defaulted to the ISP through which the owner had acquired the name, when they typed in the domain name into the URL bar of the browser. But it didn’t. It had gone instead to a blank website.

That meant that the owner had probably acquired the name with the intention of creating a website but hadn’t yet got around to it. Or maybe they’d been killed before they could get around to it.

That didn’t leave them with much to work with. But there was one possible point of entry: the person who had registered the domain name. She looked it up in the official InterNic registry. This gave her the name of the registrar company and also that of the nameservers – which in turn gave her the name of the hosting company. But not the name of the owner. She tried several of the private Whois sites, but they all listed the registrant as “private.” That meant that for an extra fee, the owner had elected to keep his – or her – name confidential from prying eyes.

However, this was a matter of importance in a felony case. That certainly gave Alex Sedaka’s law practice the legal standing to find out more. She prepared a discovery motion to find out if the DA had the information and was holding it back. This was unlikely, but she remembered what Alex had said about covering all the bases.

But it was also possible that the DA had not even bothered to look into the matter, seeing no benefit to the prosecution case from it. Juanita decided to prepare a motion to compel the registrar to disclose the identity of the registrant. She reckoned that the pursuit of exculpatory information in a felony case – indeed a capital case – would be sufficient cause.

*     *

As a Navy SEAL, Leary had been trained to the highest level of alertness and with lightening-quick reflexes, should not have made an easy target, especially when entering a stranger’s house in search of information. But he was now 42 – no longer the young man who had served in Iraq in 1991 – and he had lost that young man’s edge.

So it was perhaps not entirely unexpected that he should have dropped his guard momentarily when he entered Charlie Jackson’s house and saw the legs of a supine and unconscious man in the corridor. Indeed, only years of training and experience enabled him to see it coming at all.

And what was coming – he saw with his peripheral vision – was a hand, shooting out straight towards that spot behind his ear that would have rendered him unconscious, or at least heavily stunned. By the time he realized, it was too late for a sweeping block, but he tried anyway. His forearm didn’t rise up in time to connect with the attacker’s arm. But the accompanying leaning away motion and slight twisting of his upper body saved him from immediate defeat.

What he managed to do was pull back and turn slightly towards the assailant, so that the blow landed not behind his right ear, but directly on it… and with somewhat lesser force, because of his own receding motion. That is not to say, however, that it had no effect. Leary’s right ear was ringing and he knew that it would have been considerably worse if the attacker had used a clenched fist instead of the heel of the hand.

But because the blow had been right-handed and thrown by an attacker on his right, the attacker himself was now twisted to ninety degrees relative to Leary and thus vulnerable to a counterpunch – all the more so as Leary had turned left to counter the blow and his left arm was therefore already in circular motion. In that split-second, Leary threw a left hook with a chop. It connected. But Leary realized that he must be losing something because the other man was barely even stunned. He merely pulled back and smiled.

In the brief time that the man took to recover from the counterpunch, Leary took in some brief details about his opponent. Crew cut, a couple of inches shorter than Leary, but with a solid frame, this man was clearly fighting fit. But whereas Leary had to some extent run to fat, this man’s frame was cloaked in solid muscle. But Leary had no time to assess the situation, for his opponent was not standing still, as the attacker pivoted sharply to his right and delivered a snap kick to the side of Leary’s knee.

Leary was unable to suppress the cry of pain that accompanied the impact. But again he managed to lessen the impact by raising his foot and whipping his leg away from the blow so that the closing speed of impact was reduced.

But in addition to the searing pain, the move left Leary off-balance and vulnerable as his lightening-fast opponent pressed home his advantage and jumped at him, catching him with a left arm and shoulder. They tumbled to the ground together, with the attacker on top and Leary almost face down and thus particularly vulnerable.

The attacker’s follow up move was a fist aimed at the base of the back of the black man’s head. If it had connected it would have been lights for Leary, possibly permanently. But Leary again drew deep on his reserves of desperation to find a way to survive the onslaught. He caught the motion out of the corner of his right eye and as the blow came he twisted right and despite the man’s considerable weight upon him, managed to change his own position from prone to supine.

The blow still landed, but on his face instead of the back of his skull. In some ways this was worse because he took it on the soft tissue – and he felt his nose breaking when the fist connected – but at least it saved his life. If he had taken the blow on his neck it would have killed him or at least paralyzed him. Several more blows followed to the face and side of the head followed, with Leary having only limited success in blocking or parrying them from his supine position.

This guy’s a pro, he thought, not finding any comfort in knowing the caliber of the man who was subjecting him to such a vicious beating. In fact, Leary realized, the man was ex-military. But Leary was not yet ready to give up. He still had one thing going for him: he was slightly bigger and heavier than his assailant and he hadn’t yet been drained of all of his strength.

As the man shifted his weight to get better purchase for his onslaught, Leary took advantage of his greater heft and the power he had retained in his stomach muscles to twist sharply right and then left, throwing off the attacker. However instead of turning back the other way towards the wall to get to his feet, he made the mistake of continuing the left turn to try to get the drop on his now rolling opponent.

Big mistake!

Even at a disadvantage, the attacker’s fighting spirit didn’t flag. And when Leary raised his upper body towards the attacker, he took a kick to the face for his troubles.

It didn’t knock him out. In fact for a couple of seconds it didn’t even hurt – having the affect of numbing him instead – but then the pain set in. And the pain was agony. If he had thought his right ear was ringing before, it was now as if both ears were subject to Quasimodo’s chorus. And although he had never been considered for the astronaut program, he was now seeing stars dancing before his eyes.

He wanted to clamber to his feet before this monster fighting machine could do any more damage. By this stage, he would have been content to stand and run away rather than stand and fight. But that option was no longer available to him. For the man had rolled clear and leapt to his feet.

Leary closed his eyes against the pain and forced himself to stagger to his feet. He felt sure that the other man could have taken him in that moment. Yet for some reason – whatever reason – he didn’t. But now, as Leary stood – and resisted the urge to back away – the man took a step towards him. In retrospect, it might not even have been an aggressive step – it was evidently far slower than the man was capable of. But to the half-blinded Leary, any move by this man in his direction was a threat. So when the man took a second step, Leary replied with a risky move: a kick to the midriff.

It was a stupid move, and he should have known from his training it was a mistake. High kicks and even medium kicks are rarely done outside the context of old-fashioned, highly stylized, martial arts. But Leary thought that it was precisely the unexpectedness of the move that might carry the day.

The hope was futile. The underlying nature of the kick, the fact that Leary was no longer in peak condition and the fact that he had already been weakened by the beating he had taken, all combined to ensure that he telegraphed the kick to his highly alert opponent. The man simply caught the kick with an underarm forearm of his left, followed by a toe grab with his right hand. With the leg trapped, he raised his left forearm, twisted the foot by the toes and sent Leary flying through the air and tumbling to the ground.

“Fuck it!”

It was not the fallen Leary who spoke, but the man who had felled him.

By now Leary knew that it was fight over and even as he curled into a ball and covered his head, he held out little hope of survival if his opponent was set on homicide. But despite Leary’s obvious vulnerability, the other man did not approach. Instead, Leary saw through the haze of his surviving vision, the man simply turned and went into the kitchen. From the receding sounds, Leary knew that the man had left by the same back door that Leary had kicked in barely a minute before.

Knowing the immediate danger had passed, Leary permitted himself the luxury of closing his eyes against the pain of the kick that had connected with his face. As he did so, he heard the man coming back. But there was nothing he could do. He half-opened his eyes, squinting at his executioner, barely seeing his frame as a silhouette against the light that entered from behind the man. The funny thing was: this time the man looked smaller.

But he couldn’t tell, because his consciousness was fading.

*     *

In London, Sir Geraint Purdue was at his desk reading through a report when the computer on his beeped to indicate that an eMail had arrived. He clicked on the icon  and it invited him to key in his password. He keyed it in and an encrypted eMail opened up before him. It was from Wainwright. It read:

Charlie Jackson – guard who was looking the other way during the attempt on George Stone’s life – killed. Does not address the issue of Stone himself, but that problem is less urgent as Stone probably doesn’t trust anyone.

Wainwright (by phone)

He sent back a brief reply: “Congratulations, keep us posted” but was surprised to get another eMail a few minutes later.

Can’t claim credit. Killing appears to be work of Mitchell. He appears to have taken it personally that some one attacked his asset. Unfortunately was unable to make contact with Mitchell before he fled. But can confirm that neither Mitchell nor I exposed to any danger of detection.

Wainwright (by phone)

Sir Geraint looked at the eMail confused.

What the bloody hell was going on?

*     *

His head was throbbing when the dawn of consciousness returned. But as he opened his eyes and squinted against the almost unbearable light, Leary became aware of activity around him. There were people moving about… people in blue… and a couple were standing over him. One was even slapping his face.

“That’s right big man! Rise and shine!”

Instinctively he tried to resist, but was firmly restrained by several pairs of hands strategically placed around him. They were policemen.

“What’s going on?” he muttered weakly.

“You’re under arrest.”

“A… arrest? What for?”

“Suspicion of murder.”

Chapter 12

“I love Sarah Palin?” said Alex Sedaka incredulously.

“I had to say something about the tattoo, so that’s what I came up with. And I tell you boss, within hours it was all over the internet.”

“That’s great!” Alex replied with mock-approval. “So now we’ve got loads of people believing the dead man had the tattoo, how long do you think it’s going to be before the DA’s office issues a denial.”

Juanita smiled that bewitching smile that almost made him drop his guard against office romance.

“You told me to spread disinformation. I hesitate to say his, but I was just following orders.”

“Yes but not the kind of disinformation that raises its head above the horizon. I wanted the kind of thing that some one could find but that wouldn’t leap out at people. If it gets around too much, the DA will issue a denial. And even if they don’t, if everybody knows it then a jailhouse snitch won’t use it.”

“Sorry boss. But I had no way of knowing how it would play out. Information like this takes on a life of its own.”

In truth she didn’t sound sorry. But then again, in truth she was right in her argument. There was no way she could have known how the story about the tattoo would spread. What William Goldman said about the movie business was equally true of the worldwide web: nobody knows anything. Sometimes an absurd story dies a quiet stillborn death. Other times it goes viral. There were still people out there who thought that Jared Loughner was Jewish and even that his mother attended the same synagogue as Gabrielle Giffords – despite the fact that the story had been completely discredited – simply because one self-styled “friend” of Loughner had started the ball rolling with a lie to one obscure publication.

This was not some organized campaign like the conspiracy theories over 9/11 that gave the profits of paranoia to the prophets of paranoia. Within hours there were dozens of websites falsely reporting that the right-wing redneck who had murdered six people – including a nine-year-old girl – was Jewish. One of them – a Rasputin look-alike – even went into a local library and used their internet facilities to record and upload a YouTube video touting the myth.

So Alex could hardly blame Juanita for underestimating the speed with which her disinformation would spread.

“Was that the only story you put out there?”

“Hell no. That was just the most spectacular – the one that caught on.”

“So what else?”

“I put out a story that Stone was a Dodgers fan and once got beat up by Giant’s fans.”

“It’ll just be our luck if it turns out to be true.”

“I can prove I put it on the web – and when.”

“So that’s it?”

“No, not quite. Also his mother came from New Mexico. He lost his leg in a car accident. Oh yes, best of all, I put out the word that the motive for the killing of the John Doe was anti-Semitism.”

“You mean the victim was Jewish?”

“Well that kind of goes with the territory, boss.”

“And what if he really turns out to be one of the tribe? Then we’re in shtuch”

“Didn’t you read the autopsy report?”

“Of course I read it.”

“Then you must have missed the bit about the victim not missing a bit.”

It took a few seconds to register.

“Gotcha!”

“I do my homework boss.”

The obvious implication being that Alex didn’t.

“There’s just one problem Juanita. If they check it out with the coroner first, they’ll find out that it isn’t true.”

“They won’t.”

“What? Check it out with the coroner?”

“Find out.”

“How do you know?”

“When I was doing my independent checking, I got a lot of info, but when I tried to find out if he was circumcised, they got suspicious and clammed up.”

“So if a jailhouse snitch tries to check it out, he’ll hit a brick wall.”

“Exactly.”

“But then again, if he somehow manages to finesse them, then the prosecution will have something that you weren’t able to obtain independently – and that could break our defense.”

“What are the chances boss? I think we’ve got this one covered from both sides.”

The phone rang. Alex answered. It was Laurie from the front desk.

“We’ve just had a call from the police!” She sounded edgy. “Leary’s been arrested.”

“Arrested? For what?”

“Murder.”

“What the –”

“It seems that Charlie Jackson’s been killed.”

*     *

“But why would he be doing it?”

“Like I told the PM, squaddies have their own honor code – something you civvies can’t understand.”

“Well all I can say is it’s bloody unprofessional!”

The head of MI6 had called General Carson for the lowdown on Mitchell. Carson had tried to explain, but it was obvious to both of them that they were talking different languages.

“Look I know it doesn’t make sense to you. But Mitchell is the kind of man to protect his assets. I don’t know why you or the PM authorized an attempt on Stone in the first place, but–”

“We didn’t. Wainwright was given a wide brief to contain the situation. How he did it was very much up to him.”

“Well you should have cleared it with me first! I could have told you that Mitchell would go ballistic if anyone had a go at his asset.”

C was thoroughly befuddled by all this.

“So let me get this straight. First Mitchell hires a one-legged homeless man to kill a member of his own unit – some one whom he once thought of as a friend – despite the fact that he supposedly has this great honor code. Then when some one goes after the homeless man whom he hired, he takes revenge and kills, not the prisoner who tried to kill Stone, but a prison guard who’s only crime was that he was looking the other way at the time.”

“I assume he couldn’t get at the prisoner who went after Stone. And as far as Mitchell’s concerned, the guard was complicit.”

“But how does he even know that? I mean how does he know that the attack on Stone was premeditated and that the guard was involved? Why doesn’t he just assume like everyone else that it was a prison stabbing and that the guard just wasn’t on the ball?”

“Because he’s not stupid, that’s why! I know you think squaddies are all brawn and no brain but it isn’t like that. Mitchell can think as clearly and logically as any of your field officers – including your man Wainwright, who appears to have made a dog’s dinner of the whole thing.”

“At least Wainwright is reporting in at regular intervals.”

In fact Wainwright was on his way back to London. C had decided that after what happened at the house in Palou Avenue, things were getting too hot and he might have attracted some unwarranted attention. So he summoned his man home on the next available flight.

But Carson was still in an argumentative mood.

“That’s what he’s trained to do. Mitchell’s trained to do the opposite.”

“What are you talking about, General?”

“Mitchell isn’t an intelligence officer; he’s a soldier. He’s trained to operate in the field behind enemy lines for long periods without breaking silence. And that’s exactly what he’s doing. Without any support from you I might add!”

“I’d hardly call America ‘behind enemy lines.’”

“Be that as it may, Mitchell did what he was told to do: eliminate Corny O’Neil. And hopefully get the film.”

This caught Sir Geraint by surprise.

“What do you mean hopefully?”

“Well he was supposed to get it, if he could. But in that message you read out at the COBRA meeting, he never said anything about getting the film. All he said – as I recall was ‘Corn cut. Scythe hand with Mr. Blue. Gone to ground UFN.’ In other words, Corny O’Neil is dead, the killer has been arrested and I’m going to keep a low profile until further notice. Not a word about retrieving the film.”

Sir Geraint felt the teeth of fear gnawing away at his innards. General Carson was right. Mitchell hadn’t said anything about retrieving the film. In fact he hadn’t even said that Corny had the film. That was also merely an assumption. Maybe Corny hadn’t got the film in the first place.

“You think he might not have got it, General?”

“I’m saying that at this stage we don’t know. So perhaps instead of trying to second guess him and trampling over his manor, we should let him get on with it and wait till he’s able to break silence.”

This did nothing to alleviate Sir Geraint’s apprehension. Maybe they had been wrong to try and silence Stone… and Jackson. The whole point of this exercise was to retrieve the film. Without the film there was no threat. A few people knowing meant nothing if they couldn’t prove anything. But with the film still out there it didn’t matter whom they killed. It was the film that was the real threat, not the people.

And if Mitchell hadn’t retrieved it, then where the devil was it?

*     *

“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard.”

Alex was looking the police captain straight in the eyes when he said it. And he didn’t flinch either. But then again, neither did the captain.

“Is it? Think about Sedaka, your man is in the house with the body –”

“Unconscious.”

“All right, unconscious, but the only person there – apart from the dead man. We found bruising on his knuckles that suggests he hit some one and were traces of fibres on his clothes that match the color of the victim’s clothes.”

They were in the captain’s glass fronted office. Unlike the traditional police captains that one sees on TV, this man was not fat, or at least no more than marginally so. He was also still in his thirties – not the usual forties or fifties. But the proverbial crustiness was there. You could defy some of the clichés but not all of them. Crustiness appeared to be an occupational hazard for police captains, if only because of all the crap they have to deal with.

“Have you got the lab report on the fibres yet?”

“No, but I think we both know what it’s gonna show.”

Alex was nervous. He wasn’t actually sure what the lab tests would show.

“Isn’t it damn obvious that we’re talking about a staged crime scene?”

“Cute. But then again I wouldn’t expect a defense lawyer to say anything less.”

“As a matter of fact, I can’t be his lawyer in this case – conflict of interest.”

“Because you sent him there?”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t exactly do much for your cred.”

“What do you think? He beat himself up?”

“No, but Jackson might’ve put up a fight. He was fighting for his life after all.”

“Come on captain, you don’t buy that.”

“I said it’s possible.”

“What? Yeah right… and then he decided to wait there until your boys showed up to haul his ass downtown.”

“He was seen outside. He even drew attention to himself by shouting out. And we have reports from neighbors about shouts and signs of a struggle.”

“Jackson was murdered – violently… of course there was a struggle.”

“The neighbors said they heard the struggle after the tall black man shouted out from outside.”

“You said he said something about a big man attacking him. Presumably that was the killer… the same guy who knocked him out.”

“Yeh… presumably.”

The tone was skeptical. But Alex sensed that the captain didn’t really believe that Leary had killed Jackson and then stuck around to get arrested. Why would he?

“So are you gonna charge him?”

“That’s up to the DA. We just write up the reports.”

“And what… you’re gonna hold him the full seventy two?”

“No need. You can take him home and tuck him up in bed. I reckon in his state he won’t be going anywhere. Just make sure he don’t leave town. And the same applies to you. Like I said, if you sent him, then that makes you a suspect too.”

Alex was just about to say something when the captain cut off by adding the word “technically.”

*     *

“I went there to silence Jackson, but I heard sounds of a struggle, including muffled voices, so I kept a low profile in the alley beside the house till it was over. Then I saw him leave.”

Wainwright was back in London, being debriefed personally by C in his office overlooking the Thames.

“Mitchell?”

“I presume so.”

“Presume?”

“Well he kept his head down and raced off behind the house. But from the height and build I’d say it was him. Also, he seems to have beaten the crap out of Leary. That would have a taken a man with Mitchell’s skill.”

“Leary being?

“Sedaka’s private investigator… a former US navy SEAL. It must have taken some one of comparable fighting skill and strength to give him a beating like that.”

“Like Mitchell.”

“Exactly. Anyway, he ran off to quickly for me to approach him and quite frankly the way he was moving I wouldn’t have liked to get too close. He seemed all keyed up about something.”

“Well we know what he was keyed up about don’t we?” said Sir Geraint.

“Er yes sir. That is, I soon found out when I went in there.”

“And you’re sure the guard was dead?”

“The deputy, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“Technically, Charlie Jackson was a deputy in the San Francisco Sheriff’s department. But yes, he was a guard in Jail 3.”

“Jail 3?”

“The housing jail of the County of San Francisco where Stone was being held. He’s now under armed guard in the San Francisco General Hospital. I could actually by-pass their security and finish the job if you want me to.”

“Don’t get any ideas. Carson blew his top when he heard about the last time. He keeps banging on about Mitchell’s honor code.”

“Honor code?”

The head of the Secret Intelligence Service had forgotten that Wainwright was a former preppie not a squaddie – a graduate of Oxford rather than Sandhurst. This in itself was not a disadvantage for a field intelligence officer, but he had been found wanting in other areas. He possessed a modicum of athleticism, having captained the fencing team at Trinity, but not the Spartan discipline or the espit de corps. He enjoyed his creature comforts and he was, by nature, a lone wolf – far more so than Mitchell. He not merely preferred, but enjoyed operating autonomously in the field. He also lacked any understanding of how the other half lives – something that could put him at a disadvantage in the real world.

“They believe in protecting their own,” C explained. “He seems to think he has some sort of a moral obligation towards Stone. We’re assuming that’s why he killed Charlie Jackson: because Jackson allowed some one to get at Stone, probably deliberately.”

“Do you think Mitchell knows that we were behind the attempt on Stone?”

“We?” the head of MI6 echoed, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, me.”

“You’d better pray that he doesn’t.”

“The thing that I don’t understand is why he beat the crap out of Leary. I could understand if he’d killed him. Then it would just be a case of silencing a witness and tying up the loose ends. But why beat him up and then leave him there?”

“Leary was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So why attack him first and then let him live?”

“Think about it Wainwright, he’s in the process of killing Jackson when a former US Navy SEAL stumbles his way into the picture. His first thought is to go into defensive mode. The other man is big and strong too, and he doesn’t know what the other man’s agenda is. So they fight.”

“But why didn’t he follow through? I mean the guy must have seen him. He can testify… ID him.”

“That’s probably also part of his honor code. Leary may be able to ID Mitchell, but technically he’s an innocent man. Aside from that, if he kills Leary, the cops will go looking for some one else. This way Leary himself is now the prime suspect…for killing Jackson that is.”

“For which you have me to thank,” said Wainwright, with a preening smile.

“I presume you were careful to avoid leaving fibers from your own clothes?”

“Well I didn’t have a bunny suit, but I was as careful as I could be. I even put a few strands of Leary’s hair under Jackson’s fingernails.”

“Good thinking. That means they won’t be looking further.”

“I wonder why Mitchell didn’t think of that himself.”

C mouthed the words “honor code.” Mitchell might knock out an innocent man who was a potential threat. But he wouldn’t frame him unless it was in the vital interests of the realm.

“So is my mission over?”

“Not quite. With Mitchell staying incommunicado, there’s a loose end.”

“Is he unreliable?”

“Well the way he went off on one after the attack on Stone suggests he’s letting his emotions cloud his judgment. But aside from that there’s a practical problem.”

“Which is?”

“He still hasn’t confirmed that he’s got the film.”

“I don’t see how I can help from this end.”

“You can’t. That’s why I want you to go back there.”

It was only when Wainwright had left the office that Sir Geraint had picked up the handset keyed in a security code and called the US Department of Homeland Security.

Chapter 13

“You look like you’ve just gone twelve rounds with Joe Frazier.” said Alex, as Leary was let out of the police lockup.

“Joe Frazier? You’re showin’ your age man!”

Alex was pleased that Leary hadn’t lost his sense of humor. He was holding an ice pack to his head, and it was obvious that he had taken quite a beating – much worse than the police had led him to believe. Alex wouldn’t have expected that of Leary.

“I suppose you’d’ve said Mike Tyson.”

“More like Rocky.”

“Balboa?”

Leary gave Alex a withering look.

“Marciano.”

“And I’m showing my age?”

“I mean he was white.”

Alex looked like he’d been pole axed.

“You let a white boy whop your ass?”

“I didn’t exactly give him my informed consent… anyway, you should see the other guy.”

“Yeah right.”

“Seriously though –”

Leary was about to say more, but Alex signaled him to wait. He didn’t want Leary saying anything in the presence of the cops. Leary had waived the right to silence and counsel, knowing well enough what to say and what not to say during the interrogation. Alex would have preferred it he’d been there, but Leary had a mind of his own – and he knew all about the tricks cops play. He figured that he had a better chance of beating this rap if he didn’t get all lawyered up.

Leary’s clothes were also ill-fitting. Alex had bought them in haste, when the cops told him that Leary was in a paper suit, because they’d taken his clothes for forensic analysis. But Alex had bought the new clothes a couple of sizes too small, making Leary look even bigger than his already considerable size.

It was only when they were walking towards the car that Alex resumed the conversation.

“So… about this albino monk…”

The mockery was a private joke. Alex knew that Leary was a fan of Dan Brown.

“He used the Pearl Harbor approach.”

“Pearl Harbor approach?”

“Crept up on my blind side.”

“I’m not trying to judge your combat skills.”

Leary shrugged.

“No excuses man. I shouldn’t’ve let him. I mean, like, I knew there was something going down when I went in. I saw Jackson’s legs sticking out, like he was unconsciousness. I didn’t know he was dead. But he was out like a light. I should’ve expected some one else round the corner.”

“So how’d it go down?”

Leary seemed to struggle for a moment thinking about it, like a battered fighter doing a post-match interview with Howard Cosell.

“I’ll tell you one thing man, that guy was trained.”

“A SEAL?”

“As good as.”

“Green Beret?”

“Don’t jive me man! You think I’d let one of them pussies get the drop on me?”

“So what, then? Israeli?”

“A hymie? More like a limey.”

“How d’you figure that?”

“He said ‘Fuck it!’”

“How does that make him a limey?”

“The accent man.”

They had reached the car. Leary got in the front passenger seat. Alex had something on his mind as he walked round to the driver’s side and got in.

“There’s something I need to check, when we get back to the office.”

Leary looked confused.

“What?”

Alex started the engine, looking straight ahead before answering.

“Something in the barman’s statement. What you said about him being a limey. It reminded me.”

“What?”

“I need to check it – just to be sure. But I think he said something about the two men in the bar having British accents – both of them… the dead man and the man who brought him in.”

Alex drove the car into the stream of traffic.

“You think it could’ve been the John Doe’s friend from the bar? The guy who attacked me I mean?”

“It’s possible. I want you to write out a full description. In fact, I want you to work with an artist. We need a picture.”

“What for?”

“To show it to the barman… see if it’s the same man he saw.”

Leary had an idea too.

“Did the barman do a picture?”

“I don’t think so. The cops weren’t interested. They still think it’s open and shut.”

“So maybe you should get the artist to do a picture with the barman. Or a different artist. Then we can compare them properly – without confirmation bias.”

Alex remembered that Leary was studying psychology at night school.

“I’ll give it a shot – if he can be persuaded. There’s just one thing I’d like to know. When did he say ‘fuck it’?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well at the start? While you were fighting? At the end?”

“Oh… er, at the end. He had me on the ground and he could’ve finished me off, but instead he just mumbled ‘fuck it’ and walked away.”

“That’s probably what aroused the suspicions of Captain Grumpy back there.”

“I guess the dude decided he had no beef with me.”

“The question is,” Alex pondered out loud, “what was his beef with Jackson?”

“Beats me.” Alex turned round to see Leary grinning sheepishly. “What I mean is: the way I see it, if he was a friend of the John Doe, his beef would be with Stone, for killing his friend. Why would he have a grudge against the deputy who turned a blind eye when a con tried to kill Stone?”

Alex nodded, approving of the logic.

“The captain said something about fibres from the dead man’s clothes on yours.”

“From the guy who jumped me maybe. Not from the dead man. I mean I never touched him. Anyway, how’d he know anyway? Can they get the results that quick?”

“No, but he seems very sure. Is there anything I need to worry about?”

Leary was just about to say ‘no’ when he remembered something.

“There is actually. After the big guy left and I was drifting off into dreamsville, I thought he came back.”

“Thought he came back.”

“I was in the twilight zone man. The world was one big hazy cloud.”

Alex’s cross-examination radar picked up on this: the innocent phrase that contains a clue or hint that can all too easily be overlooked. Not that Leary was a hostile witness. But he was dazed and confused and he may have been holding a golden nugget of useful data without even realizing. Alex had to probe for more.

“Okay, let’s go through this carefully.  When he came back… what did you see? Or think you saw.”

“He… came back slowly… I mean not stomping aggressively like the way he left… but slowly… almost like he was afraid… or like he was being cautious… only he was smaller… like he’d shrunk.”

Alex thought about this. An obvious question came to mind.

“Are you sure it was the same man.”

“I wasn’t sure of my own name man.”

“I mean now.”

“Yes, I’m Leary.”

“I mean the man!” shouted Alex, ignoring Leary’s puerile grin.

Leary took a moment to consider this.

“I guess it could have been some one else.”

“And what did he do?”

“He… I don’t really know. I think I dropped off the side of the world by then.”

Alex’s mind was exploring alternative theories.

“Are you sure Jackson was dead when you arrived?”

“I can’t be sure. I mean he wasn’t moving. But he could’ve been unconscious. When I got to the corridor – before I got a chance to check him out – Tarzan jumped me and I was kind of pre-occupied. By the time I came back from the Land of Nod, the cops were crawling all over the place and haulin’ my ass downtown.”

Alex phrased his next question very carefully.

“Could this other man – if it was another man – have killed Jackson?”

“What are you talkin’about man?”

“Could it be that Jackson was alive and this other man killed Jackson?”

“That don’t make sense! You think one guy came along and KO’d Jackson and then me and then another man came along and killed Jackson and made it look like I did it?”

“I’m just checking possibilities,” Alex replied, his tone defensive.

“Well I can’t say for sure. But it don’t make no sense.”

“But you don’t actually know what that other guy did?”

“Like I said… I was out of it by then.”

*     *

A few days later, George Stone’s second arraignment hearing took place at his bedside in the San Francisco General Hospital. This arraignment was on the facts specified in the Information that the DA had filed. Alex had wanted to spare his injured client the stress of the second arraignment, by holding the hearing in absentia, with Stone signing a Section 977 b1 waiver of his right to be present. The problem was that the waiver itself had to be executed by the defendant in court. Whilst it was possible for Justice Woo to convene the court at the bedside just for the waiver, she pointed out that this was just as likely to be stressful to the defendant.

She suggested instead that Alex agree to a postponement of the hearing. But Alex was anxious to avoid any delays. He wanted as speedy a trial for his client as was humanly possible, fearing that the longer the prosecution had, the more gaps they could fill in their case. So instead he suggested – albeit reluctantly – that they hold the entire second arraignment at the bedside. He pointed out that his client would in any event be pleading Not Guilty and so they could keep the hearing brief and set an evidence hearing for later when – hopefully – his client would have made a full recovery.

The single charge alleged that George Stone had followed an unidentified human being (“John Doe”) out of Kell’s Bar and Restaurant and stabbed him in the liver in the adjacent alley, causing him to die through loss of blood.

The charges further alleged that said George Stone committed this act with a knife, that he had brought with him to the crime scene and that consequently he had acted with premeditation. The information also alleged that said George Stone he had acted with malice aforethought either by intending that John Doe to die as a result of his actions or with the prior knowledge that the death of John Doe was the likely result from his action. The charges contained the additional argument that the careful and specific pursuit of John Doe prior to the act of causation of his death was constructively equivalent to lying in wait and thus constituted special circumstances, making the crime one of capital murder.

Alex knew that the capital charge was just posturing. He didn’t feel comfortable playing Texas Hold ‘em with his client’s life. But he felt confident that he had room to maneuver and he was determined not to cave in. Even standing by his client’s right to a speedy trial, he was sure that he could get Stone a better deal than life behind bars.

The Texas Hold ‘em analogy was apt. Criminal proceedings were just like poker games and Alex was a seasoned player. The first arraignment was like the ante or the blinds – and Alex had no intention of folding his hand at that stage. Discovery and the Information is like the flop: you know that whatever the DA may have in the hole, he has to show some of his strength by then. But even after that, the outcome isn’t decided. There’s still the turn, when the prosecution presents its case and then the river, when the defense delivers its response.

No, Alex had intention of letting the DA bluff him out of the pot before the hand was played out. The DA’s office had already offered to drop the special circumstances if Stone pled it out to first degree and life without parole. That meant that their hole cards weren’t aces. They still didn’t have motive. And all they did have was a small man who had stabbed a much bigger and stronger man in the absence of witnesses. Furthermore, the dead man was a John Doe. That meant the defense could impeach his character and impute to him any behavior that they liked without fear of contradiction.

A weak, vulnerable, one-legged man stabs a big strong man whom no one knows anything about. Yes, there was certainly room for the defense to maneuver.

At the bedside arraignment, Stone was asked to speak only twice at the hearing: once to confirm his name and once to enter a plea. He spoke weakly when he confirmed his name, but his voice seemed to find an inner strength when he responded “not guilty” after the charge was read out. Then the judge set a date for a pre-trial conference and evidence hearing and urged the parties resume their efforts to come to some agreement.

And with that it was over and the hearing was adjourned.

*     *

Wainwright was jet lagged. He’d flown American Airlines to LA via Boston, with a three and a half hour stopover. It was ten past eight in the evening local time, but his body was telling him that it was four in the morning. He had slept a few hours on the second leg of the flight, taking advantage of C’s generosity in booking him First Class instead of the usual Business. But it was a 757, not one of the new modern wide-bodied aircraft where the seats turn into beds.

He could have flown by wide-bodied 777 on the second leg, but the timing would have been split differently, giving him only five and half hours – just enough time to drift off to sleep and then be woken up abruptly for landing. More importantly, it would have involved flying in via Dulles International in Washington DC, something he was loath to do. Passengers at Dulles are always subject to greater scrutiny than Logan.

And scrutiny was the last thing he wanted to attract.

He wouldn’t drive up to San Francisco tonight. There was no reason to. He would get a good night’s sleep in the Los Angeles Bonaventure and then make the six hour drive up to the bay area tomorrow morning.

According to his information, George Stone was still in the prison ward of the San Francisco General Hospital. Wainwright was planning to pay him a visit.

Chapter 14

Hector Garcia was looking over his notes for a campaign speech he was planning to deliver to the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, when the intercom buzzed.

“Your twelve O’clock with Albert Selby.”

“Send him in.”

Hector’s radar went into action as the door opened a few seconds later. The forty-something man of average height and portly build who walked in was a diplomat. That didn’t mean he currently worked at Foggy Bottom or even that he’d been recruited from the State Department. Only that his role within the corporate structure of government was that a conciliator. His job was to smooth over the cracks and reconcile disparate factions: to resolve conflicts not by arbitration but by brokering compromises.

As a DA, Hector Garcia was an elected public official and therefore had to be a consummate politician. This meant he had to know how to identify people not just by name but also by role. He had to know who were the greenlight men – the decision makers – and who were merely the lackeys. And to that end he had built up an impressive catalogue of categories and sub-categories into which to assign people – as well as a powerful set of visual and aural cues for classifying them.

And so, judging by attire, posture, mode of speech and even timing of speech, he was able to quickly classify people. This gave him the  knowledge he needed for how to relate to them both immediately and in the future. And the classifications related not only to power but also to background and even their style of working. There were businessmen, military officers (who usually, but not always, really were ex-military). There were “suits” and “jeans” – even if a man was wearing a suit you could tell if he was wearing it comfortably or would rather be dressed in more casual attire.

There was the “bull in a china shop” type, the “ass kisser” type and in this case, the Diplomat. The man who wouldn’t kiss ass to ingratiate himself but was ready to do so – or to crack the whip – in order to maintain the cohesiveness of the organization. In other words, Albert Selby was a team player with no ego issues; a man whose only concern was to keep the wheels of good governance turning in the right direction.

This was a strange role for a man from the Department of Homeland Security. Their remit was one of flexing their muscles, quietly but firmly, to protect the United States from its enemies. Theirs was probably the last organization in America that would need a diplomat. Even the armed forces had more of such a need – if only to deal with inter-service rivalries. Homeland Security needed enforcers on the front line and paper-shufflers in the back office. Why would they need a diplomat?

But then again it was strange that Homeland Security would have any business with the San Francisco District Attorney at all.

A firm handshake was followed by the taking of seats and an offer of coffee, which was politely declined. Selby had already had a cup while he was waiting and now he was anxious to get down to business.

“We understand that your office has decided to take quite a strong line in the case of California versus George Stone.”

Garcia did well not to show his surprise. This was the first indication he had received as to why Homeland Security wanted to see him. Yet in some ways he wasn’t altogether surprised. The case was a strange one. Not strange in the form of the murder or even the lack of ID on the victim. But strange in the way that it didn’t fit neatly into any known pattern of crime.

The fact that the anonymous victim was fit and well-fed was the first aberration of the norm. The fact that said victim had a large sum of cash on him also fell outside the scope of any crime pattern – if only because the money had been left there. And there was even that statement by the barman at Kell’s that the dead man and the man who had entered with him, both had British accents.

“That’s right,” said Garcia, oblivious to the length of the pause that had preceded his answer.

“And we also understand that you’ve offered life without parole in return for a plea of guilty.”

“How would you know that?”

“From the defense.”

“You’ve talked to Sedaka?”

“I prefer to say that we’ve listened to him,” Selby replied, his tone non-committal. “Sometimes it’s better to listen than to talk.”

“I’m listening,” said Garcia, getting the message.

“First of all let me ask you, how strongly do you feel about this case?”

Garcia let the seconds tick by again.

“When I started here, fresh out of law school, I did a lot of… feeling. And they threw me in at the deep end. I dealt with cases involving spousal abuse, child abuse, elderly abuse… then I graduated to rape and murder.”

“And?”

“And I kept my sanity.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I learned – quite early on – to stop feeling. Having feelings, when your prosecuting, is like trying to breathe under water.”

“So you er don’t…”

“Have a dog in the fight? That depends what breed.”

“Well some people have a breed called ‘Emotion’.”

Selby didn’t smile when he said it. But Garcia did when he replied.

“My breed is called ‘Pragmatism’ – maybe even ‘Expediency’.”

“In that case would there be any reason not to make Stone a better offer?”

“Is there any reason why I should make an offer?”

“What if I said you’d be helping your country?”

A thousand questions occurred to Hector Garcia – all at the same time. His mind went into overdrive as he prioritized.

“Okay, let’s say I want to do my patriotic duty. And let’s say I accept that giving a sucker an even break is patriotic. What sort of deal did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking maybe… voluntary manslaughter.”

Well at least he didn’t ask for involuntary!

“And what? Eleven years?”

“I was thinking more like three.”

“Stone had a knife.”

“It was dark. He was frightened.”

“He followed the man out there.”

“Okay, what about six?”

Six years for stabbing a man to death with no apparent reason?

“What about we put all this on hold until you tell me why?”

Garcia realized that this sudden shift from the terms to the reasons might seem like he was seriously considering the idea, but he had to know what Selby’s game was. Selby, however, was playing his cards close to his chest.

“I’ve told you why.”

“You’ve told me jack shit!”

This was the first sign of emotion from Garcia, or at least the first sign of the anger that he had been repressing since Selby had shown his hand – and even now, the G-man was still keeping an ace in the hole.

“You know how we operate. There’s a limit to what I can tell you.”

“Just tell me this Mr. Selby, do you have a dog in this fight?”

“No Mr. Garcia, I don’t.”

“Then what the heck is this all about?”

Even in private, Garcia wouldn’t use obscenities. As a career politician, he was too canny for that.

“Let’s just say that if this case goes to trial, then it may lead to certain matters becoming public that we’d rather did not become public.”

“You’re asking me to let a killer cop-a-plea because some politician couldn’t keep his pants on?”

“It’s not about sex.”

“Then what? Money? Some one’s been taking bribes.”

“No one’s been taking bribes. At least no one connected with this case.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

“Sometimes… in the interests of national security… things have to be done that we can’t admit to. Things that the people want done so that we can go on enjoying freedom, motherhood and apple pie – but things that we as a God-fearing nation can’t do… or at least can’t be seen to be doing.”

“Okay, now you’ve fed me the line, maybe you’ll tell me what George Stone’s got to do with all this?”

“He’s a part of it… a small part.”

“And the John Doe.”

“He’s part of it too.”

Garcia stayed silent for a long interval. In the old days, this would have been the time to take a long draw on a cigarette or cigar. But health regulations in public buildings had abolished all that. So instead there were no gimmicks to camouflage the long, contemplative pause that followed Selby’s evasive answer.

“Is that why Stone was stabbed?”

This time it was Selby’s turn to pause, or at least to hesitate.

“Don’t even go there Mr. Garcia.”

At this point, the red mist descended on Garcia. This Washington spook was telling him where he could and couldn’t “go” in his own jurisdiction?

“Is that why Stone was stabbed!”

This time, he had shouted so loud that his secretary popped her head into the room to see if he was all right. When the DA had re-assured her and she had returned to the outer office, he met Selby’s eyes, making it clear that he still expected an answer.

“I don’t know all the ins and outs myself. I do know that powerful people – in powerful positions – want this case to go away quietly… one way or another.”

“Even if it means killing the defendant?”

“Like I said, I don’t know anything about that.”

“Well when you do, we can resume this conversation.”

And with that Hector Garcia stood up. It took Selby a few seconds to realize that he was being given the bum rush. When he was gone, a red-faced Hector Garcia phoned the San Francisco County Sheriff.

“We may have a problem with George Stone.”

“I thought he was out of danger,” the sheriff replied.

“I don’t mean the stabbing.”

“What, more of a problem than a prisoner being stabbed?”

“It may not have been an accident.”

“I don’t think a prison stabbing is ever an accident.”

“I mean I think it was more than just some prisoner with a shank. And if I’m right, he’s still in very grave danger.”

“Would you care to elaborate on that Hector?”

The sheriff’s frivolity had vanished. Over the next few minutes, the DA summarized his encounter with the man from Homeland Security. The sheriff’s reply was brief, to the point, and not quite monosyllabic.

“Jesus!”

“And all the apostles,” Garcia added. “Listen where is Stone now?”

“What do you mean where? He’s still at San Francisco General.”

“The Medical Center?”

Medical Center in this context meant the maximum security wards 7D and 7L – the former an 11 bed medical surgical unit for prisoners with medical problems and the latter a 12 bed ward for prisoners with psychiatric problems.

“No. We only keep 7D open when there’s more than one patient.”

“So where is he?”

“In a regular ward – with a pair of deputies babysitting.”

“Listen, after what happened at the Hall of Justice, I don’t want to take any chances. I want you to re-open 7D and stick him there – with the armed guards.”

“Isn’t that kind of like overkill?”

“When the man comes riding into town from the capitol, waving the stick in one hand and the carrot in the other, you gotta take it seriously.”

“You think the feds are gonna try and kill a prisoner in custody on US soil?”

It wasn’t the sort of thing the US government did on their own turf – conspiracy theorists notwithstanding. But Selby’s visit had spooked Garcia and he wasn’t in the mood for taking chances.

“Let’s just make sure we cover all the bases. We’ve got an election coming up”

Garcia chose these words for a reason. The sheriff was coming up for re-election too.

Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

*     *

Never look around furtively!

That was the golden rule. Look around by all means, but do it confidently. Look like you belong there. That was what Wainwright did when he arrived at San Francisco General Hospital. He had sat near the workers in the staff cafeteria and casually opened a newspaper to a page with the latest story on Stone. This had prompted a couple of hospital porters to start talking about the case, prompting others to join in. By the time he had finished listening to the lively discussion – prompted by one or two prompts from himself – he had established that George Stone had been transferred from an intensive care ward to the prison wing.

That was annoying. It meant that what he had to do would be harder. But not impossible.

He hung around near the ward until three p.m. when they changed shifts and selected a doctor who looked enough like him to pass at least a cursory inspection. Walking with his polished, casual nonchalance, he followed the doctor to the parking garage, making some idle conversation in the elevator about not remembering where he had parked his car and then “remembering” that it was in the same section where the doctor had parked his.

The doctor was surprised by this and asked Wainwright if he was staff, noticing the British accent. Not wanting to be caught out in an area where his knowledge was weak, Wainwright had replied that he was a documentary film producer from the British Broadcasting Corporation and they were making a documentary about medical treatment in the US which included some shooting in the San Francisco hospital. He added that he had got parking permission from the administration as it was only for two days.

The doctor seemed quite interested and this enabled Wainwright to keep talking to him till the doctor got to his car. What he did not see was that Wainwright’s hand was in his pocket, snapping off the cover of a pre-filled syringe. As soon as the doctor unlocked his car, he felt a strange jab in his left buttock and his vision became blurred. Seconds later his legs buckled and he found himself supported by a pair of arms that guided him into the back of the car.

There was no one else about, so Wainwright went to work quickly, getting the photo-ID pass from the now unconscious doctor with ease. But entry to the locked ward wasn’t by pass alone: it was by pass and code. He wouldn’t be able to attach electronic monitoring equipment to the entry device in broad daylight in front of other people. He had to get the six digit pass code from the doctor himself.

But he was prepared for that now. With his free hand, he proceeded to slap the doctor lightly about the face to revive his consciousness. When the doctor opened his eyes, they were filled with fear – a fact that Wainwright had every intention of exploiting.

The MI6 man held up the syringe before the terrified doctor, knowing that one of the effects of the drug was to dilate the pupils, thus blurring the vision. There was no way the doctor could see that the syringe was half full. Then he spoke.

“This one won’t just knock you out: it’ll kill you.”

“P… p… please,” the doctor gasped.

“Talk quickly. I want to know your pass code.”

The doctor hesitated. Wainwright slapped him.

“Don’t think! Just answer! If you take time I’ll know you’re lying. Tell me now!”

“Three-eight-six, five-four-five.”

“You’re lying!” Wainwright shouted. “I’m gonna kill you now!”

“I’m not lying!” the doctor choked.

“Say it again!”

Wainwright was just making sure. Of course, the doctor could have had the presence of mind to give him some other number that he remembered – like part of a bank account or phone number or even his Social Security Number.

“Three-eight-six, five-four-five!”

The terrified look in the doctor’s eyes, told Wainwright that it was probably true. But he had one other cross-check to make.

“Okay I’m gonna ask you one more question, and if you don’t answer – or if you hesitate for a second – I’m gonna kill you. Do you understand?”

Even in his semi-conscious state, the doctor understood. He nodded with surprising vigor for a man who was half unconscious. Then Wainwright spoke.

“What’s your social security number and your full telephone number?”

In fact there was a moment’s hesitation. But not enough for the lethargic doctor to have invented anything. And neither number contained the six digit number that the doctor had given as his pass code – or even either of the two three digit halves. The doctor was telling the truth.

But Wainwright had to make sure that this man didn’t sound the alarm.

“Say goodnight,” he said with a smile.

“The doctor’s terrified ‘no’ was stifled by the loss of consciousness that followed immediately from the minor pain of the jab. In fact, this wouldn’t kill him, just ensure that he slept for a few hours. He would probably wake up to the pleasant feeling that he had been ‘saved’ and might even undergo a religious epiphany.

But that was no concern of Wainwright’s. He just needed the pass and the code. He covered the unconscious doctor with a blanket.

Now all he needed was a white coat and a stethoscope… and he knew where to get those.

Chapter 15

With George Stone now conscious and able to speak, Alex had arranged a visit to discuss the case. Until now he had been reluctant to press his client for answers that would narrow the scope of his defense. But now that he had a fair amount of information, he needed those answers to plug the gaps.

So he found himself driving from his office to the San Francisco General Hospital in his shiny, new Blue Lincoln MKX, with a hundred and one questions on his mind. He was sure that Stone must have some idea of why an attempt had been made to kill him. This wasn’t just one prisoner. Some one had killed Charlie Jackson who had turned a blind eye to the murder attempt and that same man – or possibly some one else – had given Leary the beating of his life for nothing more than stumbling across it.

There was also another man there, who turned up later, if Leary’s hazy recollection was to be relied upon. And then there was also the barman’s statement about the dead man and his friend having British accents. Was there a connection between this and Leary’s less-than-reliable recollection that the man who attacked him had a British accent. It was only two words. And by his own admission. Leary was bruised, battered and barely conscious by that stage.

Still it was two pieces of information that were compatible with each other. And that gave Alex at least something to work with.

And then Alex had another thought. If both men were British – including the dead one – then maybe they should be looking to some sort of British provenance for that cryptic tattoo on his torso. Alex had assumed that it was variously Hassidic Jewish, Christian Messianic or conspiracy theory anti-Semitism, because of the words “the truth about hashem.”

But what about the symbol. He had assumed that it was some kind of German military cross. But what if it was British? It certainly looked military. And Leary had been adamant that the man who attacked him had also been military. What then, if this was a British military symbol. He would get Leary to check it later. Or maybe Juanita.

But right now, he had to concentrate on George Stone himself. What did he know. What could he add to Alex’s knowledge?

And would he talk?

At the back of his mind, Alex considered the possibility that the reason Stone had told him little was not because he had brushed him off, but because Stone had his own agenda and was not inclined to tell him the whole truth – at least not at this stage. There is an old adage – almost a cliché and certainly a professional mantra – that clients in criminal cases never tell the lawyers the whole truth at first.

But enough water had flowed under the bridge for Alex to be able to tell his client that the time had now come for him to lay his cards on the table.

It was as he was crossing from Beale to Mission that his cell phone blared out the opening bars of the William Tell Overture – or the “Lone Ranger” as Laurie, the receptionist, called it. Alex took the call though his blue tooth earpiece.

“It’s Hector Garcia.”

“Oh hi,” said Alex, surprised that the DA would be calling him personally.

“We need to talk about your client.”

“What about him?”

Alex was naturally cagey and not inclined to volunteer the information that he was on his way to see his client right now.

“I was wondering if you’d consider a deal.”

“I’ll always consider a deal Mr. Garcia, if it’s a good one.”

“How about second degree murder?”

“That’s fifteen to life!”

“Exactly! With good behavior, he can be out in fifteen.”

“That’s barely an improvement on what Diane offered.”

“Can I ask a question? Why is everyone taking this so personally?”

Alex picked up on the wording.

“What do you mean everyone?”

“Well, I mean… look… it’s a good deal.”

“You mean for a homeless junkie.”

“If you want to put in that way, then yes.”

“He’s still a client. And I’m not convinced you’ve got such a strong case… unless you’ve been holding out on the discovery documents.”

“I haven’t been holding out. Now then… what about my offer?”

“You said before that everyone was taking this personally. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I had a visitor today from Washington.”

“State?”

“DC.”

“There’s a federal angle?” asked Alex, trying to keep his tone non-committal.

“More like a national security angle.”

“How do you mean” asked Alex cautiously.

“The visitor… he wasn’t from Justice… he was… Homeland Security.”

That came like a bolt from the blue. But even if  had a national security angle, why was Garcia telling him? And right after offering him a deal? But what was the connection? He decided to go for broke using one of his favorite cross-examination techniques: the sudden question.

“Are you being leaned on?”

“How the –”

He had given too much away –and they both knew it.

“Let’s just say that they’re looking for a compromise.”

Alex’s confidence was picking up. If the DA was being pressurized by Washington, then it gave Alex the upper hand.

“But don’t take me for a pushover,” Garcia added, as if reading Alex’s mind. “I’m ready to be flexible, but I’m not going to be pushed around. Your client doesn’t belong on the streets.”

“You mean you get me to help you keep my client behind bars and in return he gets the vague prospect of getting out one day.”

“That’s the compromise I’m offering.”

Even after the voluntary disclosure, Alex wasn’t sure if the DA was being straight with him. But he didn’t expect to find out anything more now.”

“I’ll put it to my client.”

*     *

The injunction for clandestine operators to refrain from looking around furtively was easier memorized than practiced. In situations of covert activity, it is natural to look around for signs of danger. Animals that have predators, when seeking food, do it instinctively and despite the size and power of the human brain, it is very hard for learned behavior to overcome millennia of evolution.

So Wainwright found himself looking around now as he made his way to the supply room. He picked the lock to enter and emerged a minute later, fully kitted out with a white coat and stethoscope, disporting the bar-coded name tag of the doctor whose unconscious body was peacefully sleeping off the effects of the tranquilizer.

He made his way to the stair case and walked up, avoiding the elevator. The last thing he needed was to be stuck in an elevator going all the up to the seventh floor. He might encounter some one who knew the real doctor by face as well as name and who might therefore challenge him. On the staircase there was less chance of this. It would be harder to read the name tag while passing quickly on the staircase and no one stops for a chat on stairs.

Fortunately his height and long legs meant that he could climb the stairs quickly without hard work. He didn’t want to arrive at the ward sweaty or in any state that might arouse suspicion.

When he got to the floor, he quickly took in the fact that there was a rather bored looking deputy sitting outside, reading the paper. He had watched the procedure before he followed and tackled the doctor, so he knew that he didn’t have to clear his entry with the deputy. He held his pass up to the laser scanner, sensing the deputy’s eyes upon him. A red light scanned it and an LCD invited him to key in his pass code. He typed in 386545 and a beep confirmed that the door was open. He pushed it and went in. As he entered another deputy, who had been seated by the door stood up.

“I’ll need to see your pass… just the first time.”

Wainwright hadn’t expected this. Obviously it would not have been practical – or necessary – to have him show it every time. He had selected a doctor who looked vaguely like him, but if the deputy looked closely at the picture, he would see that it was not the same man. Furthermore, he must have seen the other doctor’s ID before and that meant he would probably have noted the name. Between the picture and the likely recollection of the name, there was no chance of the deputy spotting the deception. Indeed the very fact that Stone had been moved here in haste meant that the deputy would be on high alert.

Wainwright had to think quickly. Refusal to present the ID was out of the question. So he held it up with his left hand, but only slightly, forcing the deputy to bend his head and stoop slightly to see it. As the cop saw the name and picture, Wainwright delivered a chop behind the ear, rendering the cop stunned, but not unconscious. There was a slight grunt, but nothing loud enough to catch the attention of anyone at the nursing station on the other side of the heavy, locked door.

As the deputy fell to the ground, face down, partially breaking the fall with his hands, Wainwright moved round him, straddled him, snapped off the plastic cover of another syringe and jabbed it through the deputy’s trousers into his right buttock, injecting about half of it. After allowing a few seconds for the tranquilizer to take effect, Wainwright lifted his weight off the deputy, snapped the cover pack on the syringe and put it in his trouser pocket.

*     *

Alex had just entered the parking garage from 24th Street and was driving around looking for a parking space. Eventually he found not one but two, prompting that prolonged moment of indecision. His daughter Debbie – now a hot shot corporate lawyer with a Wall Street firm – had once said that the best way to drive her father crazy was to offer him a choice of two parking spaces.

After finding one, he made his way to the hospital, proceeding to the intensive care ward where Stone had been. But when he got there, he was surprised to see that there was no deputy outside, keeping an eye on the ward entrance. He was therefore able to enter the ward, unchallenged, and was yet more surprised to see no deputy inside or any sign of his client.

Fear began to arise within him, bordering on panic. Surely nothing untoward could have happened to Stone? He would have been notified immediately. The nurses were going about their business largely ignoring him. His face had become familiar here. He raised a finger to catch the attention of them, a woman in her twenties.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where Stone is? George Stone.”

Another nurse, black and slightly older, looked up and took a couple of steps towards him.

“Oh didn’t you hear? He’s been transferred to the jail ward.”

“What back to jail? Is he fully recovered?”

He was surprised at this. They were going to keep Stone here until he got his strength back and was fully recovered

Surely they would have told me if they decided to bring that forward?

“No, the prison ward in this hospital. Seven D.”

“But why?”

“Don’t ask me. They had a call, consulted the doctor who said he was okay to move and then they moved him. Probably just the usual hospital bureaucracy.”

Alex had his cell phone out and was already on the phone to the sheriff.

“Hallo Alex.”

“Hi Joey, listen, I’m at the San Francisco General. I’m supposed to be seeing my client but it looks like he’s been moved. It’s a scheduled legal visit and nobody told –”

“I had a call from the Hector. He told me he wanted Stone moved to the closed ward for security reasons.”

“Security? Why? He had a couple of your boys babysitting –”

“I think he just panicked. He had a…”

The sheriff trailed off, as if he had realized that he had said too much. But Alex’s radar was on and he didn’t miss a blip. He had to press for an answer.

“He had what Joey?”

The sheriff remained silent. Alex’s mind quickly went back to the conversation with Hector while he was driving. He decided to lead.

“He had a visitor? From Washington?”

“He told you?”

“Of course he told me!”

“So why didn’t he tell you about asking me to move Stone to the closed ward?”

Why indeed.

“We only had a brief chat. I was driving at the time. We were going to talk later. You want to fill me in?”

He had used his persuasive tone as he tried to give the impression that there were no secrets between him and the DA – only time constraints.

“He told me that some guy from Washington paid him a visit and leaned on him to let Stone cop a plea. They said they just wanted this case to go away.”

“Did he say what sort of plea?”

“He basically hinted that Hector should agree to whatever it took.”

For a second a wave of euphoria swept over Alex. If Washington – for whatever reason – were leaning on the DA to plead the cased out, then that surely gave Alex the whip hand. And the sheriff had specifically used the words “whatever it took.” But then the cold, hard wind of reality blew in Alex’s face as he remembered that Hector Garcia was a man of integrity. The boys from Washington might lean with all their weight, but Garcia could be something of a sumo wrestler when it came to standing his ground. He wasn’t going to let a bunch of G-men push him around. In fact, it might even harden his heart like the biblical Pharaoh – although their brief conversation when Alex was driving suggested otherwise.

“But what’s that got to do with moving Stone?”

“The way the G-man was talking, Hector got it in his head that the feds might be responsible for the attempt on your client’s life.”

It was like a kick in the ribs.

“Wait a minute! He moved him for safety? He thinks the feds are gonna try and kill Stone.”

“He thinks they may have tried already!”

“The stabbing? And you’re buying that?”

“I’m not buying anything Alex. But if the shit hits the fan I don’t want to be the – what’s that expression of your people – the shlemazal who takes the fall!”

Until now, Alex had assumed that the stabbing had really been just another typical act of random prison violence. But the San Francisco Sheriff’s Department was a trailblazer in prisoner protection and Alex remembered the famous dictum of Arthur Koestler in his celebrated treatise against the capital punishment: Reflections on Hanging:

When in a scrupulously clean hospital I find a fly in my soup, the inference is that there are a number of them about.

Koestler meant that if in a good legal system, one still manages to find even one case of a man wrongly executed, the chances are that there are several undiscovered such cases, And by the same token, if in a jail with a good record of prisoner protection, an inmate is stabbed – almost fatally – the implication is that it is not a random occurrence but rather an event driven by an intelligent designer. Add to that the fact that people in high places were clearly taking an interest in this case, and the grounds for suspicion became considerably stronger.

“Okay, look I’m glad some one is taking the threat seriously. I just hope he’s got some reading material to keep him busy.”

“You’re a real champion of the downtrodden Alex.”

The tone was jocular. But Alex had to get practical.

“Okay but what about my legal visit?”

“Just go to Ward seven and show the paperwork to the deputy on guard. I’ll phone him and tell him to let you through.”

“Thanks Joey.”

*     *

Lying in bed in Ward 7D, George Stone had heard what sounded like an altercation outside, but it was just round the corner and he couldn’t see what was going on. Although no longer in danger, he was still weak from the stabbing and felt powerless and vulnerable as the staccato footsteps became louder.

When the tall, lean man rounded the corner and came into view he felt relieved. The sight of the white coat was re-assuring.

A doctor.

And therefore no threat to his safety.

But as the doctor approached, the look on his face alerted Stone. The man was smiling. Doctors seldom smiled in Stone’s experience. Nurses yes, but not doctors. And the way this man was smiling was not in any way soothing or re-assuring. It was menacing.

He stood by the bed and pulled out a syringe from his pocket. That in itself was strange. It was an unusual place to carry a syringe.

“Mr Stone?”

“Yes… yes.”

The first “yes” had been little more than a croaking sound in his throat.

“I have a couple of questions for you. The first is a simple one… do you want to live?”

Chapter 16

Alex took the elevator to the seventh floor, thinking about what the sheriff had told him. He had felt from the beginning that something was not quite right about this case. When Diane had first handed him the file, it looked like an open and shut case of one homeless man killing another, presumably over money, or possibly over some petty offence taken by a man under the influence of drink or drugs.

But what had started out quite simply had taken a series of complex turns. The first warning sign had been the fact that Stone had left $2000 in the dead man’s possession, suggesting that robbery had not been the motive, but also raising the question of where the money came from in the first place.

The jail stabbing, in contrast, had seemed straightforward and almost mundane. But now that the Department of Homeland Security had got involved all bets were off. And of course, there was also the bartender’s statement about the victim and his anonymous friend having a British accent.

Alex was determined to find out what the hell was going on, and the only one who could tell him was George Stone. Despite his cageyness, Stone had already tacitly admitted that he knew the JohnDoe. Now Alex had to find out the rest.

He walked up to the deputy at the locked ward and presented his ID.

“Oh yes, the sheriff told me you were coming. There’s a doctor in there.”

“What just for one patient?”

“He’s doing his rounds I guess.”

The deputy used his own ID pass and code to open the door.

*     *

Wainwright could see the apprehension in Stone’s eyes, but he could tell that Stone was more confused than afraid. Wainwright’s “do you want to live” quip could just as easily been an example of a morbid bedside humor as a threat. Hence Stone’s feeble “yes” in response. So now was the time for Wainwright to press home his advantage.

“Good. Then tell me where the film is.”

Wainwright prided himself on reading people with the same precision with which academics read books. And so he was able to impute meaning to the change of expression on Stone’s face. Stone had finally realized that Wainwright was not a doctor. He realized that he was facing a man who meant to do him harm. And it showed in the terror that slowly crept into Stone’s eyes.

“If I tell you… you’ll… kill me.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.”

This – Wainwright realized – was the Catch 22. The threat – like all threats – was a double-edged sword. He wanted something from Stone. And for that reason Stone had something to bargain with. But this strength was also a weakness. Once he told Wainwright what he wanted to know, he would have nothing more to bargain with and Wainwright had no reason to let him live. On the other hand, if he made it clear that he had no intention of telling Wainwright what he wanted then Wainwright also had no reason to keep him alive. This was the old game theory paradox. Wainwright wondered what in fact he would do if Stone held out… or if he didn’t. The truth of the matter was that what Stone knew was not a threat. It’s what he could prove.

And that brought things right back to the missing film. And the missing Mitchell.

“It’s with…”

He was going to say “with Mitchell,” and they both knew it. But he choked on the words.

At that point Wainwright heard a sound that filled him with terror: the door to the ward was being opened.

Some one was coming!

That could be a problem. He was unarmed. And there was an armed deputy outside. He might be able to take him in hand-to-hand if he got close enough. But a well-trained law enforcement officer would know better than to do that. And what if there was more than one?

He could hardly lie his way out of it with an unconscious deputy lying there. He couldn’t say the deputy had just passed out because then why was he not tending to him? He had to flee! But there was no way past the deputy.

He saw a fire escape at the far side of the ward.

Surely it can’t be possible to open it from the inside of a secure ward?

But Wainwright knew that safety regulations required that there be a way out in the case of an emergency such as a fire – or even an earthquake. Then he realized what it must be. An automatic lock that would disengage in the event of the alarm going off.

But how to set it off?

San Francisco still didn’t have an earthquake alarm system, due to lack of government funding. But fire? It must be linked to the fire detection and sprinkler system.

Wainwright knew what he had to do!

He looked up, spotted one of the sensors, dragged a bed a couple of feet, stood on the bed, whipped out his lighter and held it to the sensor for several seconds, his mind screaming for the sensor to respond.

“Deputy!”

He heard a voice shout out from the entrance to the ward. Whoever it was who had just entered, had spotted the fallen deputy and was calling for help. That meant that he had seconds to make his escape.

Suddenly the alarm screamed and water came spouting from the ceiling. The sprinkler system had been activated. That meant that the electronic locks on the fire door would now have disengaged.

He sprinted the few feet to the fire door, opened it manually, and sprinted down a short corridor and down a staircase.

*     *

Alex had walked through the door in a state of blissful ignorance as to what awaited him on the other side. He had expected to see the doctor reading Stone’s temperature/blood-pressure chart, asking him how he felt and possibly making some notes for the nurse.

Actually it was the “nurse” issue that had been lurking at the back of Alex’s mind after the deputy outside had told him about the doctor being in there. Usually a consultant would make his rounds with a senior nurse and couple of junior doctors. But the deputy had said “the doctor” not “the doctors.” Alex realized – in the instant that he saw the unconscious deputy – that the “doctor” to whom the deputy outside was referring, was not doctor at all.

His initial reaction was concern for Stone. And he certainly had no intention of backing down where his client’s safety was concerned – or even waiting for the cavalry. But he wanted to maximize his advantage – or rather minimize his disadvantage. So he called for the guard at the top of his lungs, not only to alert the deputy to come to the aid of his fallen colleague, but also to frighten the intruder into thinking that he was outgunned.

Alex was sure that the intruder was still there and knew, also, that he would only have to go round the corner to confront him. But he didn’t hesitate. He raced forward just in time to hear the scream of the fire alarm and feel the first water droplets falling upon his face. By the time he had rounded the corner, all he saw of the intruder was a white coat disappearing through the fire exit.

George!

His mind screamed louder than the klaxton. What had the intruder done? Was his client still alive?

He raced forward to the bed and saw that though Stone had a glazed look in his eyes, it was the look of fear, not the stare of death. These were not the unblinking open eyes of a dead man, but the thousand yard stare of a shell-shocked victim. And when Stone saw Alex, the life and hope returned to those eyes.

“You okay?”

Stone swallowed, as if testing his self-awareness and consciousness of his surroundings.

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t a real doctor.”

Alex could have figured that for himself. From round the corner, he heard the conscious deputy summon help for his unconscious colleague. A crackle of a radio and a staccato reply told Alex that the call for backup had been heard and help was on its way. But Alex knew that the help was aimed at securing the area and giving medical support to the injured man.

In the meantime, the perpetrator was getting away. And this was the second time that an attempt had been made on George Stone’s life.

Alex was not having it. Realizing that Stone was now in safe hands, Alex excused himself with a curt “just a minute” to his client and sprinted off in the direction of the fire escape. Pushing down on the lever to exit through the door, he ran down the corridor and onto the staircase, where he heard receding footsteps. The intruder was still there, making his escape. And Alex was determined not to let him.

He started sprinting down the stairs, aware that the staccato clattering of his own shoes on the polished surface would alert the intruder to the fact that he was being pursued.

*     *

Back in Ward 7D, a couple of doctors and several nurses had arrived to help the unconscious deputy. The other deputy backed off to let them do their work and was relieved when one of the doctors said: “he seems to have been drugged.”

With the weight of concern for his colleague lifted from his shoulders, the deputy was now able to concentrate on the other pressing matter: catching the perp. Speaking into his radio, he told the dispatcher what had happened and called for enough police and deputies to lockdown the hospital. It was a desperate move, but he had to try something – anything – to catch the bastard who did this.

Then he had another idea. Spotting a man from hospital security, he walked up to him and spoke.

“The man who did this was disguised as a doctor. He had a doctor’s ID and he scanned it, can you check the name on the ID?”

“Sure thing,” said the security man, who promptly got on his radio to the security control center, telling them which scanning device to check. They came back with an answer in less than a minute.

“See if you can page him.”

“We already tried.”

“Can you trace his pager?”

“We don’t have the technology.”

“Okay what’s his cell phone number. I can get SFPD to trace it.”

The man from security came back a minute later with the number. The deputy radioed it through to the police dispatcher.

“You think it was him?”

“I don’t know but if it wasn’t then this guy must have got his pass. Either way, we need to find him.

*     *

Alex was feeling his age. Despite regular sessions of rock climbing and krav maga, he felt the tension in his muscles and the shortness of breath that goes with being a man in ones mid-fifties. He heard the footsteps receding and he knew that his quarry was getting away. A distance was opening up between them and he lacked the stamina to close the distance. If he did catch up, he wondered if he would win the inevitable confrontation. He was determined to find out, but his hope was rapidly fading.

He knew that the deputy was on the case. Surely he would have radioed through to his colleagues to block the fire escape? But how many deputies were in the area? Or cops from SFPD? He realized now that in spite of the swathe of thoughts and emotions that had swept through him, it had been less than a minute since he set off in pursuit of the intruder.

He stopped for a second to hear if there were still receding footsteps. There were. It was very hard to conceal ones footsteps on this staircase. He leaned over the railings to get sight of his quarry, expecting to see him – on the assumption that a man running down a staircase built around a well would keep to the inside to minimize the difference. He caught the flash of a shadow, but nothing clearly defined, just disruption of the light, but no clearly visible figure.

He wondered if the bogus doctor could slip away onto one of the other floors. But he remembered that the emergency doors could only be opened by the handle on the inside. Unless he found some carelessly open door along the way, he would have to go all the way to the ground. And surely the police would be waiting for him by the time he got there. The deputy must have alerted them.

But then Alex noticed that it had fallen strangely silent. He carried on walking down the stairs, but slowly now and more cautiously. Time was no longer of the essence. There were two possibilities: the first that the fake doctor had escaped, the second that he was lying in wait. In the former instance, speed was no longer necessary. In the latter instance, it was more important to remain alert.

When he got to the next floor down, he noticed that the door to the fire exit was ajar. Either the fake doctor had found some way to open it, or it had been left open and the mystery figure had simply availed himself of the opportunity. Either, once in the hospital they couldn’t catch him. A lockdown was impossible. They could do a lockdown for a known prisoner but not for an unknown, nameless, faceless suspect. What could they do, stop everyone leaving and ask them to account for themselves and cross-check it with other sources?

They could demand IDs and check them later but what would that accomplish. He might very well have a fake ID and if he didn’t he could disappear as soon as they let him pass. Aside from that he could probably leave the hospital or make his way to another wing before they could lock it down.

There was no way Alex could avoid facing up to the reality: the man he had been chasing had escaped.

*     *

Meanwhile the police had gone into action in search of the doctor whose ID had been used to gain entry to the jail ward. They couldn’t trace his pager, but they could trace his cell phone and they got a fix in the parking garage. It wasn’t an accurate fix, but the hospital administration told him the license plate number and the make of his car, so all they had to do was scour the parking garage for the car.

They found it in a matter of minutes, with the doctor still sleeping in blissful ignorance in the back. It would be a few days before he could tell them anything.

Chapter 17

“So that’s the deal.”

Alex was back in Ward 7D for his legal meeting with George Stone. A doctor had checked Stone over and found that he was in a condition to talk, so the legal visit could go ahead. Alex was pleased that the Sheriff’s Department had beefed up the security. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that even if the physical threat to his client was effectively negated, the fear that the intruder had inculcated in Stone with might cause him to capitulate to the DA’s offer, without really thinking it through. Stone’s answer immediately disabused him of this notion.

“It doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”

So he wasn’t clutching at the lifeline. But he didn’t sound defiant either. He was neither cowed nor spurred on by the intruder, but his tone was one of passive resignation to the hand of fate. Alex could hear the helplessness in Stone’s voice. The lawyer sensed that his client was only now, finally starting to appreciate the gravity of the situation and the first signs of despair were setting in. He had to give Stone at least a hint of encouragement.

“The fact that he’s moving at all is a good sign.”

“Do you think I should take it?”

Alex paused before throwing Stone a lifeline.

“Before I advise you on that, I think we need to talk.”

He was now watching Stone carefully before continuing.

“You see, I also happen to know the reason why he’s offering a deal. And what happened here today may strengthen our hand.”

The look on Stone’s face revealed little. Was he relieved that they now had a fighting chance or concerned that Alex knew something that he wasn’t supposed to know? Over the next few minutes, Alex told Stone about the visit from Homeland Security to the DA’s office and the DA’s concerns that the US government itself might be behind the attempt on Stone’s life. If this had come as surprise to Stone then Alex would have expected his client to show fear. But instead the look on George Stone’s face appeared to suggest relief.

So, now was time for Alex to lay it on the line with his client.

“Look… George... if I’m to help you then you’ve got to be straight with me. Do you know who’s trying to kill you? Or why?”

“It was just a fight over something stupid… something I said or he thinks I said.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Alex, unable to conceal the incredulity.

“You know what prison’s like, Alex: too much testosterone in a confined space… tough guys trying to prove something. I guess ‘cause I’m not in a gang and don’t have protection it makes me an easy target. I may have just looked at him the wrong way –”

“I’m not talking about the stabbing! I’m talking about what happened now! That phony doctor! You think that was just a gang member you got the wrong side of?”

“He didn’t try to kill –”

He broke off. But it was too late, Alex realized: he had said too much. That was it! Stone knew something. Maybe he could have got away with that innocent act before. But not now. Now he had let the cat out of the bag. And Alex knew that he had to press him for the truth. He couldn’t protect him in prison, but if he was to have any chance of successfully defending him in court, he had to see Stone’s hole card.

“Then what was he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look George, if you don’t tell me, then it means I’m working blind. Now that might have been okay at the arraignment or the prelim, but if this goes to court, then we’re gonna get screwed – you’re gonna get screwed! Heck I can’t even bargain if I don’t know what cards we’re holding.”

They eyeballed each other for a long time. Finally Stone broke the silence.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But I have some idea. I think I may have killed the wrong man.”

Alex was frustrated at this.

“You weren’t supposed to tell me that! I told you the rules!”

“You said you wanted the truth.”

He had a point. There was still time for Stone to tell him that he was referring to another killing. But if Alex was to have any chance at working a successful defense, he needed to know the truth. So instead of warning his client to back off, he decided to go for broke and get the rest of the facts.

“You mistook him for some one else? You meant to kill the other man? The one who was with him?”

Stone was shaking his head.

“No, nothing like that. I just mean that he had friends – has friends. It looks like he has some pretty powerful friends. But there was no way I could have known that.”

“So you just happened to kill a man who just happened to have powerful friends?”

Alex’s tone said it all.

“I didn’t ‘just happen’ to do anything. It was self-defense.”

“Self defense?”

It wasn’t getting any more credible. But Stone just swallowed and nodded.

“So let me get this straight,” said Alex. “A big man who had two thousand dollars in cash on him, attacked a small, weak, one-legged man who had no money on him and you had to stab him to save your life?”

Stone took a deep breath, as if it was a struggle to speak.

“After I saw him with all that money, I got it into my head that maybe I could get a handout from him. So I followed him outside and approached him. But before I could even ask him, he got all defensive… I mean, like… aggressive.”

“Presumably because he had all that money on him and you were approaching him on a dark night.”

“I guess. I mean he must have misinterpreted the situation. I wasn’t tryin’ to rob him, just get a bit of bread off him. But he became all aggressive and I mean, like, he was pretty strong. And I have a wooden leg and I felt kind of vulnerable and I tried to explain, but he just wouldn’t listen. He just grabbed me and I thought he was going to kill me so I instinctively pulled out my knife and stabbed him. I mean I know it looks bad, but it really was self defense.”

“You stabbed him twice. How do you reconcile that with self-defense?”

“It all happened so fast… very rapidly… one after the other. Why do you think I left the money? ‘Cause I wasn’t trying to rob him, just get a handout.”

“Most people in your situation probably would have taken the money before running.”

“I know but I’m not like that. I could never kill a man in cold blood. I wanted to ask him for a couple of dollars. But it all got out of hand. And then I panicked and ran.”

“And that’s it?”

Stone shrugged.

“That’s it.”

Alex thought about it for a moment. It was a good story. Heck, it was actually a great story! He even told it convincingly. There was just one problem: it wasn’t true.

First of all, if it was true, he would have told Alex before. Secondly it was full of holes. Alex decided to test Stone, to see if he could plug the holes.

“Do you know how the man happened to be carrying two thousand dollars in cash on him in the first place?”

“No. Like I told you, I’d never seen him before.”

Good answer!

But it was a double-edged sword. On the one hand it was perfectly consistent with the rest of his story. On the other hand it left an important detail unexplained: why did the dead man have two thousand dollars on him? Could it have something to do with his powerful friends? Time for the next question.

“So who do you think these people are? I mean these people who are trying to kill you?”

Stone hesitated. Was that a sign that he was making something up? Or just thinking to try and figure it out himself?

“His friends I guess.  I mean didn’t he have some sort of tattoo on him? Maybe he was a gang member and his homeys are on my case. Maybe that’s why he had all that money. Drug dealing or something like that.”

Another good answer. Indeed a VERY good answer!

It was the sort of answer that gave Alex something to work with. All that money on the dead man and no clue as to his ID. That meant that Alex could say anything he liked about him: like suggesting that he was a drug dealer.

Thanks for that, George.

One of the things that defense lawyers often try to do when they face a strong case is put the victim on trial – sometimes referred to as “desanctifying the victim.” Alex had already considered doing that in this case. And the unexplained two thousand dollars certainly gave him some powerful ammunition.

That explained the smile on Stone’s face when he had said it and the smile on Alex’s face when he heard it. But there was a problem. And Alex now had to put that problem to his client.

“And you think that he counts the Department of Homeland Security as one of his… homeys?”

The smiled vanished from Stone’s face.

“I don’t know anything about that. Maybe he was a government agent infiltrating one of the gangs.”

“Then the man who visited the DA would have been FBI or DEA or Justice.”

“Maybe it’s terrorists. Maybe they were financing their activities with drugs. Or maybe the money was for terrorist activities.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

Alex’s tone was mocking.

“Well you were the one who asked me to speculate. I can only tell you what I know. Everything else is guesswork!”

Alex wanted to say “well in that case how about you start by telling me the truth!” But he knew that now was not the time. Stone still wasn’t ready to confide in him and to push for the truth now would only make him clam up. Alex knew that he’d have to bide his time. There was no hurry really. He didn’t want Stone to take the deal. And in any case, Stone had still given him a defense to work with – even if it was a phony one.

There was however another potential problem – and one that he had to explain to Stone right now… if only to give him something to think about.

“The fact that you didn’t mention any of this before might count against you.”

“But no one asked me.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s something called impeachment by omission.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if a defendant fails to mention something ex-culpatory – that is something that is helpful to the defense – when questioned by the police, even if they don’t specifically ask about that particular thing, then the jury can take into account that you waited so long and they’re allowed to consider the possibility that you might have made it up in the meantime.”

“You mean that if some one accused of a crime clams up at first because they’re afraid or confused or frightened…”

He trailed off. But Alex was all too aware that he was being played. He had known from the beginning that George Stone was no fool. But now it appeared that he was a lot smarter than even Alex had given him credit for.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean that they will disbelieve you. I mean no one – not even the judge can tell the jury that they have to disbelieve you or even take it into account that you waited a long time to say it. But they can take it into account if they want to and the judge will tell them that in his summation.”

“And that’s actually the law?”

“It’s a well-established legal concept based on precedent. The classic case is New York versus Savage, 1980. Since then variants of that ruling have been accepted in many other states, including California.”

“So does that mean I can’t say anything in court that I didn’t already say?”

“No, it’s a bit more complex than that. You can say it, but the prosecution might be able to attack it.”

“What do you mean might be able to attack it?”

“Well, the general rule is that if you make a statement and later say something else afterwards that adds something you left out the first time, the prosecution can attack the inconsistency to impeach at least the added statement and possibly also the veracity of the person who made the statements. But in this case, it’s slightly different. Because although you didn’t explicitly invoke your right to remain silent, you didn’t actually make any statement at all – and in fact they didn’t even question you. They were so sure of the physical evidence that they didn’t bother with an interrogation. So we can probably invoke Caruto.”

“Caruto?”

“California versus Elide T Caruto. Basically it means that if you invoke the right to remain silent, even after making an initial statement, they can’t use impeachment by omission. It’s a violation of your fifth amendment rights.”

“But I didn’t invoke the right to remain silent.”

“No but they didn’t question you at all, so it’s as if you invoked the right. If you told them some things but left out others, then they could impeach by omission. But you didn’t say anything. Also there’s also another precedent we can use, Doyle versus Ohio.”

“But isn’t that from a different state?”

“Yes but it’s a federal Supreme Court Ruling. In this case there was no formal waiver, but the absence of any interrogation or any statement is the equivalent of a formal waiver.”

“So why is it a problem?”

“Because they might be able to smuggle it in via the back door. They can’t comment on it explicitly, but they can do it indirectly. They can ask you why there were no signs of injury to you if such a big and obviously strong man as the deceased attacked you. Then if you say ‘the police never looked’ they’d ask if you showed them the injuries or if you know of any reason that they would have had for looking.”

“But they did look! I mean they checked me over when they refitted the prosthetic leg.”

“Yes but that’s hardly something we want to emphasize. That’ll merely show the jury that you didn’t have any injuries to back up this story about him attacking you.”

“So it sounds like what you’re saying is that even though under the rules they can’t use the fact that I didn’t say it before against me, in practice they can.”

Alex thought about this for a moment.

“That’s what it amounts to.”

*     *

Entrance to the 41-storey tower at One Sansome Street, was via a granite-clad, glass-roofed conservatory with an Ionic façade, replete with columns that rose nearly forty feet high. The conservatory was all that was left of what had once been the Anglo and London Paris National Bank, built in 1910.  Wainwright remembered reading somewhere that the writer Raymond Chandler had worked there in 1919, after serving in the trenches in France as part of the Canadian Expeditionary Force.

A confirmed fan of Chandler’s roman noire thrillers, a wry smile came to Wainwright’s lips as he remembered a line that some one had attributed to Chandler, but that he’d never quite been able to verify: “If you’re looking for trouble, I come from where they make it.” The line was very apropos in reference to Wainwright too.

Not that he was sure that Chandler had actually said it. He suspected that it was a pseudo-Chandlerism, much like those countless invented Goldwynisms along the lines of “we spend one third of our waking lives asleep,” “there’s nothing like a civil war to unite the country” or “when I want your unsolicited opinion, I’ll ask for it!”

The building was still known locally as the Citigroup Center – the name that appeared on the façade – even though Citigroup had sold it in 1999 and it had changed hands twice since then, in favor of other financial institutions. But Wainwright wasn’t there to go to the bank. He was there to visit the British Consulate-General and in particular to make use of its secure line to London.

Ten minutes later, he was in a soundproof room, in Suite 850, talking with the head of MI6 on a secure line.

“Mitchell has the film.”

“Is that what Stone told you?”

“As good as. He was being cagey… trying to hold out. But he let it slip.”

“And where’s Mitchell.”

“I didn’t get the chance to find out. But I doubt if he knows.”

“Why not?”

“Because a man of Mitchell’s training never sleeping in the same place twice. But I’m pretty sure he knows how to contact him.”

“But you didn’t get the chance to find out.”

“No.”

“Did you find out why Mitchell doesn’t just come in from the cold?”

“Presumably he doesn’t feel safe.”

“Don’t assume.”

“I’m not assuming. But it makes sense. He compromised the mission. He probably thinks we see him as the same sort of liability as O’Neil.”

“I hardly think that’s a fair analogy. Corny O’Neil didn’t compromise a mission by carelessness. He had a breakdown after what happened with his daughter and was shooting his mouth off.”

“Well the only other explanation I can think of is that he’s sticking around in the hope of springing Stone from custody.”

There was silence from London. Wainwright waited for C to speak.

“He hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“Not from the jail sir. But I’m wondering if he’s thinking of trying it while Stone is in transit… or possibly even at the courthouse itself. For a man of Mitchell’s training, that is possible sir – albeit with difficulty.”

“Are you serious? I mean are you saying that he might not only try to rescue Stone, but may actually succeed?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t bet against him sir. When you consider the inherent vulnerabilities of prison transit and add to that Mitchell’s superlative level of skill, he has a fighting chance.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why he’s made no effort to give us the film.”

“Maybe he’s destroyed it.”

“Destroyed it?”

“Yes. That would presumably fulfill the same purpose. I mean it is containment we’re after, isn’t it?”

Sir Geraint spoke slowly.

“His instructions were to return it, not destroy it.”

“Well in a worst-case scenario, I suppose he might be planning on using it to blackmail us into helping him get Stone out.”

“Well if that’s the case, then a rescue by force is a pretty blunt instrument. I’ve actually taken steps already to try and get Stone out by diplomatic means.”

“What steps?”

“That needn’t concern you Wainwright. What I need you to do is stay in situ and hold a watching brief until further instructions.

*     *

After the meeting with Stone, Alex returned to the office and filled in Juanita on his adventures at the jail ward in the hospital. Laurie had already gone home for the day, but Juanita – as a prospective partner – had stayed late, finishing various minor chores and waiting for Alex’s call to update her on the Stone case. When she had heard about the intruder, and Alex’s efforts at pursuit, she decided to wait in the office until Alex returned, so she could get the lowdown.

“Do you think you’d’ve taken him, if he’d stood his ground?”

Alex smiled.

“That’s a question kids ask their daddy. ‘Can you beat Johnny’s dad in a fight?’”

Juanita blushed with embarrassment. It was true, and they both knew it. And the motive was the same: fear for the person they love… or at least care about. Juanita wasn’t attracted to Alex physically – she wasn’t that way inclined. And even if she had been, she knew that his relationship with Martine Yin was too serious. The fact that Martine was away in China merely strengthened the bond if anything.

Martine had been a TV news reporter. Alex had met her on that last intense day of the Clayton Burrow execution case and they got to into a more serious relationship during the Elias Claymore rape trial. But then she had given up reporting to join the professional snooker circuit. This meant spending a lot of time in Britain and China, where she was currently playing.

“So what d’you make of his defense?”

Alex realized that Juanita was changing the subject, unwilling to think about the prospect of him getting hurt.

“It’ll play well in court, as long as the DA doesn’t find an angle to poke a hole in it.”

“I assume that means you’re not buying it?”

“Of course not. Apart from anything else there’s this business with Homeland Security. We need to find out what they’re game is.”

“And how are we gonna do that?”

“Right now, I haven’t a clue.”

The phone rang. It was Leary.

“Hi Alex, listen I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes?”

“You remember I told you about that guy who jumped me? I thought he was ex-special forces?”

“Right,” Alex replied tentatively.”

“And remember those two guys in the bar came in together, and had British accents, according to the barman?”

“Yes,” said Alex, still unsure of where this was going.

“Well I was thinking about that tattoo on the dead man… A2 and then a short straight line.”

“Yes?”

“Well that short straight line could be… like a minus sign.”

“A miner’s sign?”

“A minus sign. Like a negative. And so the A2 could be A2 negative.”

“What’s A2 negative.”

“A blood group man!”

Leary was getting impatient. But as the penny dropped Alex understood why.

“Of course! You’re right,” said Alex, acknowledging his own lack of perspicacity by comparison. “And the fact that he had it tattooed on his torso…”

“Exactly! Soldiers often have their blood group tattooed on their torso – in case they need a blood transfusion in the field. It’s a way of telling doctor’s and medics. You can get a limb blown off, and still survive and need treatment. But if your torso’s blown off then you’re probably dead anyway.”

“So you’re saying both men were ex-military.”

“I’m sayin’ more than that man. I’m sayin’ that soldiers don’t only have their blood group tattooed on their torso – they sometimes have their unit.”

Alex was slowly getting the picture.

“So that symbol could be his regiment.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’ man.”

“So we need to check out that symbol against pictures of symbols of British army regiments.”

“If you scan it and eMail it over, I can check it out for you.”

Chapter 18

He was getting used to these roadside diners. No one could do them like the Americans could – and they were a lot better than the fast-food chains. He had seen them countless times in road movies, but you can’t taste the food in a movie. Now, biting into hot pastrami on rye, he could appreciate why the chains that had invaded the cities and shopping malls had failed to reign supreme on the routes and back roads – even they monopolized the interstate highways.

Sitting alone by a window, where he could spot any signs of encroaching danger, he was watching the evening news on the TV screen in the corner, thinking about his next move.

Had he been right to go back and deal with that corrupt bastard of a prison guard? Was that black guy okay? It turned out he was a private detective, presumably planning on questioning the prison guard or deputy or whatever he was. Now he wouldn’t be able to do that. Not that there was anything to find out. It was all pretty obvious. The prison guard had been slipped a bribe to look the other way while a prisoner with some petty grudge killed a helpless man who wouldn’t have hurt a fly.

Fortunately, George had survived, otherwise this avenging angel would now be going after the prisoner who had stabbed him. He knew now who it was – having beaten it out of Charlie Jackson – and it probably wouldn’t have been too hard to get at him. He could identify a wife or girlfriend of another prisoner and offer some generous money to get them to kill the prisoner who had stabbed George – a certain “Paul Dunne.”

But there was really no point. George was alive and in solitary. Why escalate the matter any further. He had already gone too far by going after Charlie Jackson. But that was enough, He had assuaged his anger. He had to learn to think with his head and not with his heart. They were probably getting worried at his antics back in London. He had told them that he had gone to ground because of George’s arrest, but they wouldn’t be too happy about him running wild in America.

Running wild was always one of their big concerns. That was what had started this whole operation. He just had to stay clam and focused. The problem was George. Well two problems really. He wanted to help him. George was loyal to him and he owed it to George to get him out. He wasn’t supposed to get caught like that. It was all supposed to be nice and simple. In and out in one neat little move. But a police car in the wrong place at the wrong time had upset the applecart. And now his loyal friend was facing the possibility of life behind bars. He couldn’t let that happen. He just felt powerless to do anything about it. All he could do was hope that George’s lawyer, Alex Sedaka, was up to the job of defending him. From everything he had heard about Sedaka, he was sure that he was.

The other problem was that nagging question of why some one had tried to kill George at the jail. He knew that prison was a violent place and prisoners get into petty feuds over the most frivolous and trivial of provocations. But George was such a mild-mannered man, it was hard to imaging him rubbing up anyone the wrong way. And at the back of his mind was the creeping suspicion that this wasn’t just a prison feud. Some one had deliberately set George up to be killed. If it had just been prison feud, then it would have been a spontaneous eruption of violence. But the fact that the guard had sent away his colleague and had been looking the other way himself, suggested that it was something altogether more deliberate.

He was now beginning to regret not interrogating the guard more closely before killing him. Now he would never know the real reason. But he could be sure of one thing, if it was MI6 behind it, then they wouldn’t give up. As if on cue, a news item came up that froze him. On the screen was a picture of Stone, followed by archival footage of Alex outside a court building.

“Can you turn that louder,” he said to the man behind the counter.

The man behind the counter pointed a remote at the screen, but instead of turning it louder, he pressed a button that turned on subtitles that were not very accurate and that lagged several seconds behind the screen image. But it was enough to get a sense of what the report was about. Another attempt had been made on George Stone’s life.

The next thing that appeared was an attempt by a reporter to interview Alex Sedaka. He brushed them off with a firm “No comment” – but the report went on to state that this “shy, reluctant hero” had “bravely pursued the intruder” until the intruder escaped.

It seemed that his confidence in Sedaka was well-founded. As he had suspected, Alex Sedaka was a man who really went to bat for his clients. But the problem was that some one was clearly out to silence Stone. And he suspected he knew who it was. He had to contact London. But at the same time he had to be careful. If he opened up the lines of communication, they would ask him about the film.

*     *

The following day Alex arrived at work just after eight to find Juanita already there, covering the reception desk. Laurie started at nine, although she sometimes got there at quarter of.

“You’re in bright and early.”

“Don’t patronize me boss.”

“Rough night?”

She replied through clenched teeth.

“What part of ‘don’t patronize me’ do you not understand?”

After Alex’s last case, Juanita had decided to explore her “other side” and discovered that she liked it. She was now heavily “into women” – although she admitted that she also had a sadomasochistic attraction towards younger men, but only if they were smaller and weaker than herself.

“I’m not interested men that I can’t outwrestle,” was one of her more recent aphorisms.

Unsure of whether or not he fell into that category, Alex beat a hasty retreat to his office. But Juanita followed him.

“Sorry about that. It’s too early in the morning for me.”

“Why are you in so early?”

“I guess that now I’m on the partnership fast-track, I feel like I owe it to both of us.”

“Anything on your mind… in particular?”

“The Stone case.”

“Our biggest case at the moment.”

“Yes, but there is something in particular. In the barman’s statement, it said that the man who was with the deceased brought him in and they were friendly… and he called him ‘corny’.”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Well Corny sounds like a nickname.”

“And?”

“Well that means they were friends. I mean they didn’t just come in together… they talked like they were friends.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is that if this man was the dead man’s friend… and if he’s the man who attacked Leary… and if you’re defending the man who killed his friend… I’m just worried that you might be putting yourself in some kind of danger.”

Alex wasn’t sure how to respond to this. She really was worried about him. It occurred to Alex that that might be why she was in so early: she hadn’t slept for worrying about him.

“Well even if I am in danger, what can I do? I’m not going to drop a client to save my skin. You know that.”

“What I’m saying is… just be careful.”

She blushed, obviously embarrassed by this display of concern.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. But I have a feeling that the man who attacked Leary isn’t such a threat to me.”

Juanita was surprised at this.

“What are you talking about? He practically killed Leary!”

“Yes but I don’t think that was intentional.”

“How do you beat the crap out of a man unintentionally?”

“I mean the fact that they ended up fighting at all. I think Leary was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The man was there to kill Charlie Jackson – the deputy – and when Leary turned up, he just panicked and attacked him to make sure he could make a clean getaway, unimpeded. Remember, when he had Leary at his mercy he just left him and took off. I don’t think he had any interest in Leary. I just think he wanted to hightail it out of there.”

“But now that Leary’s seen him…”

“He could’ve killed Leary if he wanted to. But he didn’t. That says it all.”

Juanita weighed this up in her mind.

“I guess you’re right boss.”

He nodded reassuringly. At that point, Alex’s cell phone rang. It was Leary.

“Well talk of the devil!”

“Alex, where are you man?”

“The office.”

“You’re early.”

“I think it’s an epidemic. Juanita’s here too. How come you’re up so early.”

“What d’you mean ‘up so early’? I didn’t go to bed yet.”

“Good one. I assume you’ve got something.”

“You assume right. I found that symbol… the one from the tattoo.”

“And?”

“The Royal Green Jackets.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Most decorated regiment in the British army. Fifty nine Victoria Crosses.”

“Victoria Crosses? That sounds like some sort of cake.”

“Are you jerking my leash? The Victoria Cross is the highest honor in the British army!”

That set Alex thinking.

“What are the odds that the dead man was on some clandestine operation here?

“That might explain why Homeland Security’s getting involved.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“There’s just one problem though.”

Alex tensed up.

“Shoot?”

“They no longer exist. Victims of their government’s cost-cutting.”

“Disbanded?”

“No exactly. They were scaled down and then merged with other units to form the Rifles.”

“So what, you think he’s some renegade solider from a disbanded unit with a chip on his shoulder? And what’s that gotta do with my client?”

“I don’t know. But didn’t you say that Stone lost his leg in a mine explosion while doing volunteer work.”

“Yes, but he was a civilian aid worker. Or you think he was lying?”

“I don’t think anything. But even a civilian aid worker might encounter soldiers in the course of his activities. I mean let’s say he was doing relief work in some Third World country. There might also be NATO soldiers there. That sort of thing happens. Civilian aid workers to dole out the food and medicine; soldiers to protect them. Maybe you should ask him.”

“The trouble is he’s holding out on me.”

“You don’t have to tell him what you know Alex. Make it seem like you’re just looking for background information for a sympathy defense.”

“You’d’ve made a great lawyer Leary.”

“Why thank you Mr. Sedaka. I guess I should complement you on your military process.”

“I’m Jewish. We’re a race of wimps.”

“Tell that to the A-rabs,” said Leary with a smile.

*     *

Over five thousand miles away, in Britain, it was just after midnight. But at GCHQ in Gloucester they never sleep. The vast monitoring station – like its American counterpart, the NSA – worked round the clock. One of those covering the graveyard shift was a young surveillance officer listening to every word of Alex’s conversation with Leary.

Unlike many of the live feeds, which are monitored by intelligent software, this was a HumInt-monitored live feed. That meant it had to be listened to in real time by a human being with a clear set of instructions on which circumstances to immediately alert MI6 of the contents. Otherwise it would merely be sent for transcription and dispatch to MI6 to read at their leisure.

The young officer checked his list of instructions for immediate alert. One of these was if there was any reference to the “Royal Green Jackets.” It wasn’t his duty to speculate on the why and wherefore. These were trigger words and the words had definitely been used. That meant he had to send the audio file to London with an attached warning that Condition 26 applied, requiring their immediate attention.

He sent the file to London, for the personal attention of C, using the ultra secure IPCRESS IP system – so named after a spy thriller of the nineteen sixties. The file was no longer within the remit of the young monitoring officer. That part of his job was done.

Chapter 19

“So what’ve you learned about the Royal Green Jackets?”

Alex was sitting opposite Leary at the Urban Blend Café. He wasn’t happy about driving into Oakland, but Leary didn’t like sitting around in offices. His own office was his car. Most of his work was for lawyers and business – and he usually met clients in their offices. But with Alex his relationship was more relaxed and he preferred the sense of freedom he got from meeting in a café.

“They were originally the Green Jackets Brigade – that’s like three regiments, the Rifle Brigade, the King’s Rifle Corps and the forty third and fifty second.”

“That’s four.”

Leary didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

“Don’t be a smart-ass civilian. The forty third and fifty second was one regiment – they used to be called the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. The individual regiments were reduced to battalion strength and they also had a couple of battalions from the TA.”

“Tel Aviv?”

“Territorial Army. That’s like the closest thing the Brits have to the National Guard.”

Leary looked down at his iPad for the rest of the information.

“Anyway the Royal Green brigade became the Royal Green Jackets regiment in 1966 and stayed that way until a new round of amalgamations in 2007, when they merged with the Light Infantry, the Devonshire and Dorset Light Infantry and the Royal Gloucestershire, Berkshire and Wiltshire Light Infantry to become one big super-regiment called The Rifles.”

“Okay, but let me ask you this: how do we know that the man in the morgue was a member of the Royal Green Jackets and not the Rifles?”

“That’s a good question,” said Leary. “You see the symbol in the tattoo is basically the Maltese Cross. It was used by the Royal Green Jackets as their cap badge.”

“And what are you saying? Was it retired when they merged with those others to form the Rifles or do the Rifles still use it?”

“Well now that’s the interesting thing. The Rifles cap badge is a bugle with a crown on top. It was originally the bugle horn of the Light Infantry and the crown is a graphic depiction of Saint Edward’s Crown.”

“Saint Edward’s Crown?”

“One of England’s crown jewels. They use it in the coronation I think.”

Alex remembered that Leary was interested in military history. But there wasn’t time for that right now.

“Okay never mind that. What did you mean when you said it was ‘interesting’ about the symbol – the Maltese Cross that the Royal Green Jackets wore?”

“Well regiments have several symbols. For instance, the Rifles have a badge on the backs of their caps that consists of the sphinx surrounded by a laurel wreath with the word ‘Egypt’ underneath the Sphinx.”

Alex was puzzled.

“Why would they have the Sphinx? And what’s the connection with Egypt?”

“It originally belonged to another regiment that got merged in stages all the way to the Rifles. It was awarded for their campaigns in Egypt way back in 1800. But the point I’m getting at is that the buckle worn on the cross-belt of the Rifles is the Maltese Cross of the Royal Green Jackets.”

“Which leads back to my question: how do we know that he wasn’t a member of the Rifles?”

“Because, Alex, the belt buckle badge contains an inner circle that contains the horn as well, and also has the regimental motto ‘Swift and Bold’ as well as the words ‘The Rifles’. It also has the word ‘Normandy’. And none of that’s in the tattoo.”

“Gotcha.”

Leary wasn’t finished however.

“But in any case that’s not relevant. He could have been integrated into the Rifles for all we know, but the tattoo could still date back to him joining the Royal Green Jackets.”

“Good point. In fact based on the coroner’s age estimates, that makes perfect sense. Maybe we should contact the British embassy and see if they can help us ID the man.”

“Okay, but when you do, there’s something else you should take into account.”

Alex could tell by the look on Leary’s face that it was something important.”

“Shoot.”

“The Royal Green Jackets weren’t just the most highly decorated British regiment of modern times: they were also – together with the Paratroop Regiment – one of the main contributors to Britain’s own special forces unit, the Special Air Services. You know… the SAS.”

*     *

Alex’s conversation with Leary in the café was beyond the prying ears of GCHQ. But they had already caught the original phone conversation in which he had passed on that critical piece of information about the dead man sporting a tattoo of the symbol of the Royal Green Jackets. That had been enough to trigger the dispatch of an encrypted copy of the recording to Sir Geraint Purdue.

And now, after he had listened to it several times, the head of MI6 found himself in something of a quandary. On the one hand it was clear that Alex knew only a fraction of what there was to know. But on the other hand, the mere fact that he had pinned it down to a former British soldier meant that it was only a matter of time before he identified the body. He would know how to go through diplomatic channels and contact the Ministry of Defense. And they would have no reason not to cooperate – unless the Minister or Prime Minister agreed to put a spanner in the works.

The question was… was that a good idea?

The feeds and transcriptions from Alex Sedaka’s office suggested that he was planning on running a self-defense argument, taking advantage of the dead man’s current anonymity. As long as no one knew who it was, that might work. And it could go either way, as far as London was concerned, the results would still be the same. One tramp killing another tramp, wouldn’t register particularly strongly in the average San Franciscan’s memory. Either George Stone would walk or he’d rot in jail.

But if they found out who he was, then Sedaka could no longer run that defense and both and the DA would want to know more. They would want to know who was that man and why would an ex-soldier from Britain be running around in San Francisco without ID but with two thousand dollars in cash in his pocket?

Letting it rest was the obvious choice. And making sure that the Ministry of Defense put stumbling blocks before Alex Sedaka and stymied his efforts to find out the truth, made perfect sense.

But the strength of that idea was also its weakness. If Sedaka found his efforts to find out the identity of the John Doe frustrated, he would try even harder, and even if he couldn’t succeed in getting past the barriers, he would create a hell of a stink as an alternative. And a stink was the one thing they didn’t want.

Furthermore, even if he settled on straightforward self-defense in the first instance, if it failed and his client was found guilty, he’d resume and redouble his efforts. Sedaka was not the sort of man to forget about a client and move in if he felt that the verdict was a miscarriage of justice. Sedaka was bulldog and like, man’s best friend, he had an innate and inherent loyalty about him that would make him keep his teeth locked firmly on the bone.

In other circumstances, Sir Geraint would have admired this trait. He was the kind of man that every service needs – military or civilian – to serve the higher cause. But in the present context, Alex Sedaka was just a pain in the proverbial backside and his unwavering dedication, a thorn in the side of MI6.

And there was another problem. If it ever came out that MI6, or the British authorities in general, had hushed up the identity of a man killed in the United States, it would raise the ugly specter of British involvement in the killing and would also provoke a scandal regarding the concealment of the death from the widow of the dead man. It wouldn’t look good if the Mail on Sunday ran a two-page spread with O’Neil’s widow about how “they” concealed the fate of her missing husband from her.

So if Alex Sedaka came calling, looking for answers, they would have to tell him at least the bare minimum: the ID of the dead man and his family details. And once Alex had that, he would start asking questions of anyone who knew the man – or at least anyone who was ready to talk. There wouldn’t actually be all that many people willing to talk, and it was unlikely that he would be able to piece all the facts together.

But the question then was: what would George Stone do? Would he come clean and tell Sedaka the rest? That was why it was such a problem. That was why it would have been better if Wainwright’s plan had succeeded. But it was no use crying over spilt milk.

The question now was how much was likely to come out in the wash? They had taken down O’Neil’s website, so Sedaka was unlikely to find out about Macadam. O’Neil’s widow couldn’t tell him much because, back in those days, her husband was still a loyal soldier and knew better than to talk. And she, as a good army wife, knew better than to ask.

But there were just too many loose ends out there. Mitchell was playing a strange game, as if he were unsure where his loyalties lay. Maybe he had gone to ground because of the heat and Stone’s capture, and maybe he was planning on springing Stone at some stage. But why did he have to go after that prison guard? Wouldn’t that draw the heat even more?

And as long as he stayed incommunicado, there was no prospect of them getting the film from him, which was the single most important thing that they needed. Everything else was just window dressing.

Sir Geraint realized that he had to look at this logically. He couldn’t hope to understand the strange mind of a military man like Mitchell. But he could calculate the odds and the angles and work out the best way to contain this situation.

One thing was for sure, he had to assume that Sedaka would keep digging and he had to assume that if the lawyer did so then he would find out a lot. That would give him an advantage over the DA. That would be fine if Alex could put the squeeze on the DA and get Stone to ‘walk’ without too much publicity. But the DA had already made it clear that he was a man who didn’t bend with the wind – much less break. Homeland Security had made this clear after their initial approach. The San Francisco DA was not going to let a murderer go just to help MI6 maintain British secrets – even if those secrets did have a bearing on US national security.

But what if it were the other way round? What if the DA had an advantage over Sedaka that made Sedaka realize that his best defense wouldn’t work and that he may as well cut a deal for his client – even if it was a bad deal.

Then it would work and everyone would be happy. Stone would be locked away for a good long time, unable to talk – or at least unable to talk to anyone who would listen. Alex would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had done his best and that his client was guilty in any case. Even Stone would at least get a lower sentence than life and the prospect of seeing the light of day eventually, if he behaved himself.

And then again maybe, after a little while, they could arrange another little prison ‘accident’ – hopefully getting it right this time.

But the best way to make it clear to Sedaka that he might as well cut a deal was to give the DA a clear advantage. And the best way to do that was to give him the dead man’s details. Once the DA could hold out the threat of using the dead man’s widow to gain sympathy for the victim, Sedaka would have no alternative but to take whatever deal was offered.

So the solution was simple: all he had to do was tip off the San Francisco DA.

Chapter 20

Juanita was cramming for her bar exams when Laurie brought in the envelope from FedEx. It was a legal document and she knew what it was before she even opened it. Her heart was pounding in anticipation. It had taken a long time to come through, but the Internet Service Provider had finally responded to the court order. As she ripped open the envelope she knew what it contained: the name of the person or persons who owned the domain name “thetruthabout hashem.com.”

And there it was. That didn’t surprise her. She raced from her office.

Alex was doing some paperwork for one of their many minor cases when she threw the door open and barged in. Alex looked up surprised, but knew that it must be important.

“I’ve got name of the owner thetruthabouthashem dot com?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s registered to a Cornelius O’Neil.”

“Cornelius?”

“O’Neil.”

“And the address?”

“It’s in England – London.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“You said he was British. I mean you said that’s what the barman said. What was that name he said the other guy called him?”

Alex smiled at Juanita’s sharp recollection

“Corny.”

“You think it could be the same man boss?”

He wondered how much longer she’d call him boss. She usually only called him boss when she was being sarcastic.

“Could be. Corny/Cornelius. Everyone has a nickname in the army. Add that to the tattoo and his website and it all falls into place. The only trouble is the website was blank. When was the domain name registered?”

She handed him the piece of paper from the ISP The domain name had been registered a few months ago by the named man and hadn’t been sold on or changed hands. It didn’t bring them any nearer to finding out the content of the website or knowing to what “Hashem” the website owner referred or wanted to reveal “the truth” about. But at least it gave them the identity of the dead man – and his nationality. In fact it even gave them his address. That meant they could talk to people who knew him and find out if he had any family.

And that in turn might tell them why he was out there in san Francisco with no ID, no driver’s license, no passport, no credit cards but two thousands dollars in cash on his person.

It might also explain why he was drugged, why he was brought into that bar and then abandoned by his friend and why he was killed by a one-legged down-and-out who had taken his time opening up to his own lawyer and then told a pack of transparent lies that his lawyer could see straight through.

“We need to contact whoever’s at this address now and see if they know him. Get onto Leary.”

*     *

Hector Garcia was a troubled man. And the thing that was troubling him right now was the case of the People of the State of California versus George Stone. That was a lot of “people” to be ranged against one homeless one-legged man.

Ordinarily this wouldn’t trouble Garcia. He had no time for the wishy-washy, bleeding heart liberals who handed out indulgences to those who had been failures in life, at the expense of the rights of law-abiding citizens. He had no sympathy for those who had failed in the land of opportunity – and especially not those who took out their problems on other people.

And as for indulgences – well maybe the Pope had the authority to grant indulgences for sinning against God, but no one had the right to sign away the rights of the citizen. Even the concept of diplomatic immunity did violence to Garcia’s conscience. He was just thankful that out here on the west coast he had never had to deal with it.

But this case was different. What had started out an open-and-shut case of a tramp killing another homeless brother had become something infinitely more complex. And he still hadn’t managed to unravel it. Like Alex Sedaka, he had been troubled by the unexplained two thousand dollars in the dead man’s possession and even more puzzled by the fact that Stone hadn’t taken it.

But the real joker in the pack was the interference from Washington. That meant that this case was something bigger than just a local murder of one bum by another. But bigger in what way?

The obvious hangnail was the dead man’s identity. They had run his DNA through the local, statewide and federal DNA databases, but drawn a blank from each of them. They had cross-checked against missing persons but hadn’t found anyone who matched. They had received a few calls from people claiming to be related to the dead man but had satisfied themselves that they were all from cranks or freeloaders.

The problem was compounded by the fact that news about the two thousand dollars had entered the public domain, meaning that people were coming out of the woodwork in the hope of picking up the money as the dead man’s “next of kin.”

It wasn’t hard to discount these claims with just a few cursory questions, but it was tying up valuable police resources and bringing the DA no nearer to knowing who the dead man actually was. The fact that it was Homeland Security that intervened and not Justice, narrowed down the possibilities somewhat. It was unlikely that the dead man was an undercover agent. They had already ruled the possibility that he was a known criminal by querying the FBI’s National Crime Information Center.

The NCIC also held information on foreign fugitives, immigration violators, missing persons and known terrorists, but not necessarily their fingerprints or DNA. And matching people to photographs, sometimes grainy ones, was as much an art as a science. It certainly couldn’t be automated.

But more than the involvement of Homeland Security, Garcia was troubled by the two attempts on George Stone’s life. The first one had all the hallmarks of a simple prison feud that got out of hand. Even the fact that Stone hadn’t squealed on the man who did it made perfect sense, when one took into account the violent, menacing atmosphere of a prison. If he had gotten on the wrong side of one prisoner, he would hardly want to alienate the others on the wing by getting a reputation as a snitch.

But the murder of the prison guard, who may well have been complicit in the stabbing, was deeply troubling to Garcia. The fact that a PI working for Stone’s lawyer had been attacked at the scene didn’t exactly make things any clearer – although Garcia was inclined to accept Leary’s explanation that he had gone there for the legitimate reason of asking Charlie Jackson about the incident and had been jumped by the murderer. Even the clothing fiber transfer between Leary and Charlie Jackson was such an obvious staging of the crime scene, that it added to the weight of the exculpatory evidence in Leary’s favor.

But the fact that Jackson had been killed at all – not in some spontaneous street attack or family flare up, but in an apparently premeditated attack in his own home – suggested that something serious was going down. First an attempt was made on a prisoner’s life with the apparent collusion of Charlie Jackson – he had even sent another deputy away to make it happen. Then Jackson himself was killed.

And then, to top it off, another attempt was made on Stone’s life – or at least an intruder had got to him. It wasn’t entirely clear why the intruder hadn’t killed Stone. They knew the time of his entry, as well as the time when Sedaka entered with the second deputy, because entry via the electronic locking system was automatically recorded. And as far as Garcia could determine, the intruder would have had ample time to kill Stone if that had been his aim.

So why didn’t he? Was he actually there to help him? Was he trying to help him escape? Or did he have some other, inexplicable purpose? Or did he think that he had plenty of time and wanted to stage the killing in some particular way?

At the back of his mind, Garcia wondered if Alex knew more than he did. Certainly he had the advantage that Stone could tell him anything, knowing that it was protected by privilege. But Alex also appeared to be stumbling along blindly. Diane had told him that Alex appeared to be whistling in the dark when they first tried to negotiate a plea bargain – suggesting that his client was holding out on him.

Maybe Alex was still in the dark. Maybe Alex was just as confused as he was.

Garcia’s ruminations were interrupted by the phone. It was his secretary.

“I’ve got a call from the British Ministry of Defense.”

Alarm bells went off in Hector Garcia’s head. What would the British Ministry of Defense want with him?

“Put them through.”

The phone clicked.

“Hector Garcia, San Francisco DA. What can I do for you?”

“Hallo my name is Arthur Beck. And it’s really more a case of what I can do for you. Basically we keep track of our ex-servicemen for a short period after their discharge, principally for health and safety reasons. Anyway, we had information that one of our charges – who was discharged for psychiatric reasons – had flown to the United States. It actually happened a few weeks ago, but you know how it is, the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly.”

A nervous chuckled came from Beck’s end of the phone.

“Anyway. The reason I’m calling you is that –”

“Wait a minute!” Garcia had caught on pretty quickly. “I have a case of a John Doe who –”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. As soon as we  found out that he had flown to America, we contacted your Department of Homeland Security and sent them his fingerprints and DNA. We keep that information on file for identification purposes – and they promised us they’d look into it. Well it took them a while, and I think they had to liaise with your Justice Department, but eventually they matched him up with some one that your office had sent to them for identification purposes. And from what they told me, it appears that this man is now, um… deceased.”

“Yes that’s right. We have a John Doe – that is, an unidentified person – who was killed in a stabbing attack a few weeks ago. We have a suspect and the suspect has been arraigned and indicted. But the deceased had no ID on him and we’ve been desperately trying to identify him.”

Over the next few minutes Hector Garcia filled in the man from Britain’s MoD about the details of the case.  He concluded by saying: “perhaps you can tell me about the deceased and how he came to be here in northern California?”

“Well yes certainly,” said the British caller. “His name is Cornelius O’Neil and he’s a former British soldier, recently discharged.”

“You said before that he was discharged for psychiatric reasons. Could you elaborate?”

“Er, yes certainly. Well basically he had a mental breakdown. I mean you know, it’s an occupational hazard for soldiers and all that. And he was just one of the ones who could handle the arduous physical side of soldiering but couldn’t hack it when it came to the emotional and psychological side. Rather sad really.

“Anyway, he broke up with his wife and became a recluse. We try to keep track of ex-servicemen and monitor them when they’re discharged under these circumstances, but of course we can’t mollycoddle them too much. I mean we’re not a nanny state after all. And on the other hand, if we ignore them, then we get it from the same tabloids for being indifferent to our brave boys, as it were. It’s quite a fine balance really.”

“A bit of a juggling act,” Garcia prompted.

“Exactly. And in this case he was able to go abroad – which of course he had every right to do – but we became concerned about him. However, other than putting out the usual feelers, there wasn’t much we could do.”

“But you said you sent out his DNA and fingerprints to Homeland Security.”

“Well yes, that’s right. I mean we sent out his details to your Department of Homeland Security more or less as a matter of routine. I mean after all a man with mental problems is a suicide risk –”

“Were you worried that he was going to commit suicide be? I mean why would he come here to commit suicide.”

“Oh no it wasn’t suicide we were worried about. I mean suicide is always a risk with ex-servicemen – especially when they’ve had a breakdown like O’Neil did.  But I mean no, we certainly didn’t expect him to turn up dead or anything like that.”

“Then why his DNA? I mean we don’t take DNA from tourists – just a thumb print and eye scan. And that’s only at the port of entry. Once he’s in the States, he could be anywhere.”

“Oh yes, we know that. But the other occupational hazard for ex-serviceman, when they have psychiatric problems, is crime. Ex-servicemen, who have known no other life outside the military, are at an elevated risk of becoming criminals when they find themselves on civvie street. And the risk is even greater in cases where the reason for their discharge was psychiatric rather than straightforward medical or economic cutbacks… if you see what I mean.”

Garcia thought for a moment.

“Yes I do. So you thought he might come here and commit a crime?”

“Well we considered it a risk. And we figured that if he did, then the information we supplied your authorities would enable them to contact us.”

A little troubling thought was nagging away at Garcia.

“But if a British citizen got into trouble in the United States wouldn’t he contact the British embassy or ask for their support anyway? I mean why would you need to make sure we knew.”

For the first time in this conversation, Arthur Beck hesitated.

“Well yes, that’s true. But we wanted to make sure.”

Garcia was thinking about the  ham-handed way that Homeland Security had intervened – and the possibility that this whole thing was some kind of black op. He decided to put a little pressure on Beck.

“I’ll be frank with you Mr. Beck, the only reason I can think for a British citizen accused of a crime in America not calling on his embassy would be if he was wanted for a crime back in his home country. Was that the problem Mr. Beck? Was this Cornelius O’Neil a wanted man?”

This time it wasn’t a case of hesitation. More a case of stuttering. Beck tried to answer immediately, but the words fell like stumbling blocks before him and he kept tripping over them.

“Well I mean no, that is, he certainly wasn’t wanted for any crime here, I mean if he was wanted here we would have applied for his extradition. But it was purely a case of thinking that he might come to some – I mean we didn’t know what to think, we just wanted to make sure he was all right.”

The tone had changed. Gone was the jovial, bon vivant Brit full of jocularity and slabside humor. In its place was a mumbler and stumbler who was finding it hard to string a coherent sentence together. Hector had cross-examined enough suspects – and enough liars – to know that this man was lying through his teeth. But he also knew that unlike a suspect who had to save his skin, this man was at the other end of a telephone and all he had to do to avoid further problems was clam up.

Under these circumstances, there was no point putting any further pressure on him. Garcia realized that he would have to use more subtle methods. That wasn’t a problem. He was well-versed in the art of the quiet cross-examination too, slowly extracting the sought-after information by asking innocuous sounding questions in the right order. But then he realized that there might be another opening for getting the information.

“When you said he broke up with his wife, do you mean he got divorced?

“Oh er no. I mean they separated but of course it takes a bit of time to get a divorce and someone actually has to start the process. He just left the marital home and hit the road jack. ‘scuse the levity.”

“Has she been notified of his death yet?”

“No, but of course now that the ID has been confirmed by DNA, we will notify her right away.”

“Okay but the reason I’m asking, Mr. Beck, is because although we use and accept DNA identifications, we regard it as a last resort.”

“What do you mean?”

Beck’s voice was suspicious. Garcia was playing it by ear. He didn’t want to frighten Beck off or say anything that would stop him cooperating. But the DA needed to prize this opening apart.

“Well what I mean is, maybe you could tell Mrs. O’Neil that we believe that her husband is dead but we’d like her to make the identification in person.”

More hesitation. Garcia wondered if Beck believed him. The truth of the matter was that now it was Garcia who was lying. Of course they could accept an ID based on DNA, as long as all the paperwork was properly submitted. But what Garcia wanted was to talk to the widow and see what he could find out from her. But his request had a couple of rather large holes in it.

“Can’t you just send over a picture? I mean I understand you do high quality pictures as a standard part of the post-mortem procedure. I mean autopsy procedure. Surely you can just eMail the facial picture over and we can get her to do a formal ID from that?”

Garcia had to think quickly. Had Beck figured his game? Or was he just being logical? He thought of saying something about the trauma of looking at a picture of her dead husband. But would that be any worse than the trauma of looking at his actual body in the morgue.

Maybe I should level with him and say I want to ask her for more details?

There was no reason why he shouldn’t agree. How could Beck refuse? He could hardly say “we don’t want to help you catch the killers of a British citizen.” But he decided to try something else first.

“Well it would generate a lot of paperwork. I mean confirmation of the source of the DNA, confirmation of the picture, confirmation of the ID in a sworn affidavit. And then there’s reclaiming the body. I mean I don’t know the circumstances of their estrangement but surely she’ll want to reclaim the body.”

“Oh er yes of course. But I mean we can help arrange that. The MoD and the British embassy or consulate.”

This was it. Arthur Beck wasn’t going to budge. So Hector Garcia decided to lay all his cards on the table – excluding the fact that he thought Beck was a liar.

“Okay well it’s up to you – and I suppose also up to Mrs. O’Neil. But I would have preferred it if she came her in person. That way she might be able to help fill us on all those small details that can make the difference between catching the murderer and letting him get away with it.”

“But I thought you said you had a man in custody. And even charged him.”

“Yes that’s right. But he still has the right to a defense. And if we don’t give him access to all this background information – even if we don’t know it ourselves – then he can walk.”

“What do you want to know? Maybe we can give you that information.”

Garcia was frustrated. This Brit was just refusing to play ball.

“Okay, first of all, do you know of any reason why this Cornelius O’Neil had two thousand dollars on him – in cash?”

This time the hesitation was predictable.

“Well first let me say that British  servicemen – especially of O’Neil rank – are quite well paid. He was a second lieutenant.”

“But why cash? Why not credit cards or cash cards?”

“Well I guess that’s his military mentality. The main reason most people don’t carry much cash is because they’re afraid of being mugged. As an ex-soldier, O’Neil probably wasn’t.”

“But why didn’t he have any ID documents on him? Not even his passport?”

“Ah… now that I couldn’t tell you.”

He was trying to sound smooth. But what he actually sounded was frightened.

“Okay but that’s the reason I’d really like to talk to O’Neil’s widow. Look, I’ll tell you what. Can you at least tell her about my offer? And let her decide? My office is ready to pay all the expenses – flights and hotel.”

“Okay I’ll tell her, but I have a feeling it might be a problem. She has a young daughter – a pre-schooler –  and she’d either have to make special arrangements for her, or bring her with.”

“Okay thank you Mr. Beck.”

“Oh one other thing Mr. Garcia.”

“Yes.”

“Are there any disclosure requirements regarding what we’ve talked about in relation to the lawyer for the guy you’ve charged with the crime?”

Is he worried about that or does he want me to disclose?

Either way, the answer was the same.

“It’s called ‘discovery’ not ‘disclosure’… and the answer is yes. It’s like going to the priest for confession. We have to tell him everything.”

Chapter 21

While waiting for Leary to get back to him, Alex was pondering the question of the website. Cornelius O’Neil had registered the domain several months ago and even if he was now dead, he had not been dead all this time. Indeed he had at some point taken the trouble to acquired a tattoo with the domain name. If he had taken the trouble to acquire a domain name and emblazon that name on his torso, then why leave the site itself blank? It could not have been for lack of time.

Okay, maybe he was not all that computer literate. Alex could understand that. He was heavily dependent on his son’s advice. Maybe this Cornelius O’Neil  suffered from a similar handicap. But Alex dismissed that excuse just as quickly. There are so many off-the-shelf programs for creating all manner of websites from blogs to retail sites to social networks. Many of these programs were freeware, shareware or offered by the Internet Service Provider as part of the hosting package. So lack of skill was also not the issue.

Could it have been wiped or sabotaged? Maybe some hacker had attacked the site and deleted its content. And maybe killing O’Neil was the last step in the process of silencing him?

Now that, at least, did make sense. Finally an alternative motive! And that might explain why Homeland Security were involved. If this had all been a plot to silence a man, then that would mean that his client was part of the conspiracy. That might explain why he was being so damn uncooperative. He had got the impression from the beginning that George Stone was a lot more intelligent than he was prepared to let others see. And even if he was homeless and a morphine addict, it didn’t mean that he was stupid.

But then again it did mean that he was the sort of person that no government would touch with a ten-foot pole. After all why would a government hire a loser like that? Especially when they appeared to have professionals working for them – like the man who had done a job on Leary.

No damn it!

The pieces still weren’t fitting together. It was like part of the puzzle fit together but as soon as he tried to add more pieces, he found that he had to take out some of those already in place. There was a lot more to be discovered, before this puzzled would fit together.

But now that he had the identity of the owner of the domain name – and probably the identity of the dead man – he at least had something to work with. Which led him right back to the question he had started off with.

Why was the website blank?

Aside from George Stone – who was hiding behind his preposterous self-defense story – there was one person he knew who could probably tell him the answer to that question: Alex’s son David. Until recently he had been based at Berkeley, but now he was working at CERN in Switzerland, testing his theories on antimatter and working towards a “Grand Unification” theory that would surely net him the Nobel prize – if it stood up to scrutiny.

Alex didn’t feel comfortable calling him constantly for advice on computers, especially as he was six thousand miles away in a different time zone, some nine hours behind California. But he needed his advice. Leary might be able to get some information if he went to England and contacted whoever lived at that address. But the blank website was still a mystery.

He checked the time. It was  just after half past nine in the morning; half past six in the afternoon in Geneva.

He made the call and waited.

“Hi Dad,” came the reply, sounding not too tired.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your office number shows up.”

“Of course.”

“You need help.”

“You read minds?”

“It’s not Friday evening. So it’s either help or something’s happened to Debbie.”

“Nothing’s happened to Debbie.”

“I know that. You wouldn’t have been so cheerful when I said ‘Hi Dad’.”

“So you do read minds!”

“Only voices. What can I do for you?”

Over the next few minutes, with the occasional grunt or ‘yes’, Alex explained about the blank website and finding the address. David waited patiently, although at times it had sounded to Alex as if he wanted to interrupt. Only at the end did he speak.

“Okay so basically you’re asking me two questions. The first is about making contact with whoever’s at the registered address without actually sending Leary all the way to London on what might possibly be a wild goose chase. The other is how you can get more information about this website or find out if anything was there and has been deleted.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay if you send me the details of the URL owner I can run some checks. But not till later this evening. There are ways you can check up on people in England online via the voting register – provided you have the address. I can find out who’s registered to vote at that address and maybe even get their phone number. If not you can write or hire a local private investigator to go there instead of sending Leary.”

“Detective.”

“In England they call them private detectives.”

“Wait isn’t that like impersonating a police officer?”

“No because detective isn’t a police rank in England. I mean it is and it isn’t, but anyway they call them private detectives in England – or sometimes Inquiry Agents.”

“Oh. Well that’s good to know.”

David was always gentle with the sarcasm.

“And what about finding out if anything’s been erased from the website?”

“That’s easy. Go to google and in the search box type ‘cache’ then a colon then, without leaving any spaces, type the full domain name. Then hit enter. That should give you the most recent deleted version of the website. If you want something older than that, you can use the wayback machine.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an internet archive of old internet content. I’ll send you the URL. Basically you type in the domain name and it searches for older versions of the site. But try the Google option first; you might get lucky. Sorry gotta go.”

“Okay thanks. Bye for now.”

It was their old sign-off when David was a kid and didn’t want to hang up or stop hearing his father’s voice. Now it was Alex who felt lonely and strangely dejected. It was like that Harry Chapin song Cat’s in the Cradle. Except that Alex had always had time for his son, despite his work.

Alex did as David had suggested, typing: “cache:www.thetruthabouthashem.com” to find a white screen. Again, there was no 404 error message just a pale white screen that insisted on remaining stubbornly blank: a white sheet that had never been written on.

He logged on to his eMail but David hadn’t sent him the URL of the so-called “Wayback Machine.” However he wasn’t completely computer illiterate, and a Google search found it quickly. He typed in the URL and came up with several older versions of the website, but it was the same thing again and again: a blank screen. Something wasn’t quite right about all this. But he couldn’t figure out what.

*     *

In the live-feed monitoring section at GCHQ in Cheltenham, a monitoring officer had overheard Alex Sedaka’s conversation with his son. He knew that he had to alert London immediately. But he also knew from the content that Alex had been looking online. He checked the stored download files and the download log. He could see immediately that the downloading had been done in several short bursts, but was now complete. That meant that Sedaka had logged on to a website and then either clicked on several links or had typed in several URLs and looked at different pages that way.

Either way, the downloading appeared to have stopped and there was no sign of any further traffic, so he lost no time in transmitting both the data files and the audio file to MI6. The truth of the matter was that he was dying of curiosity and would have loved to take a peak at those files. But while he was permitted to listen in on the audio traffic to and from Alex Sedaka’s office, his remit did not extend to looking at the internet traffic. That would be done by a senior intelligence analyst at MI6.

*     *

Hector Garcia was rounding up the days work when he got a second call from Arthur Beck.

“Well I have some good news for you old boy.”

It was transparent how Beck was trying to sound cheerful. Garcia wondered if this was a sign of deceptiveness or reluctance. Was he trying to mislead or was he simply uncomfortable with what he was doing and was probably only doing it against his better judgment or because he had been vetoed and countermanded by his superiors?

“What good news?”

“Well we’ve spoken to O’Neil’s widow… and of course obviously this has come as a bit of a shock to her… I mean she knew her husband was missing and there was a possibility that he might be dead, but she wasn’t sure. Anyway, we explained to her that one of the formalities requires that she identify the body, if at all possible and that the body could only be released after the trial of that man who killed him – or at least after the formal identification. And she’s agreed to go over there to do the formal identification, if she can bring her daughter. I should explain that her daughter is only four.”

“We’ll pay for her flights and hotel accomodation. If you can find out what’s a convenient date and suitable time, we’ll arrange everything here including eTickets. We can also arrange a courtesy car to pick her up and bring her to the airport in Britain… and of course she’ll be picked up at the airport here in San Francisco.”

“Thank you. I will tell her right away.”

After the conversation ended, Garcia stopped to think for a minute. For all his deviousness and evasiveness, Beck had in fact come through and done the right thing. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe Garcia’s feelings of hostility were just a residual response to the arrogance of Albert Selby. Certainly the man from Homeland Security had rubbed him the wrong way.

But Selby was more than arrogant. Garcia had the feeling that he might also be part of something corrupt. And if so, the same could be said of Beck. Garcia was very concerned about these shadowy big players who were getting involved in this case. And the attempt or possibly attempts on George Stone’s life, were still playing on his mind. San Francisco had a good reputation for protecting prison and jail inmates and he didn’t want that record to be tarnished on his watch.

That was why he had transferred Stone to the prison ward and then beefed up the security when even that course of action had proved inadequate. That was also why he had made an offer to Stone’s lawyer and why he was now trying to keep Alex Sedaka in the loop. That reminded him that he should inform Alex of the latest developments. He picked up the phone and made the call.

“Hallo Mr. Sedaka, Alex. I’m calling to let you know that we’ve identified the deceased in the case of California versus George Stone.”

“Would that be Cornelius O’Neil by any chance?”

“How the fuck did you know?”

It was the first time Garcia had let an obscenity pass his lips since childhood.

*     *

George Stone had used his belt to make an improvised tourniquet and had to some extent stemmed the flow of blood. But now, paradoxically, the pain was returning.

He looked out beyond the minefield at the gathering crowd… locals and other aid workers… people that he had once thought of as his friends. And they were doing nothing to help him. They were just watching as his life slipped away – afraid to enter the minefield.

In fact as he looked at them, he realized that they weren’t even watching. They were afraid to meet his eyes. No… not afraid… ashamed. They knew that it was nothing but cowardice that prevented them from coming to his aid. They could follow the path that he had taken to reduce the risk.

Okay, following the same path was no guarantee. Very often it was the second or third man in the line who set off the landmine and bore the brunt of the explosion. But wasn’t that the measure of a man? The readiness to take risk for a fallen comrade?. Okay they were civilians and not soldiers and they didn’t have quite the same code of honor. But they were colleagues in a common cause. They had known they were taking risks when they agreed to serve out here in this war zone. Were they now going to betray the very principles that had brought them here?

Okay it was he who had taken an unnecessary risk by going out onto the minefield for little more reason than bravado. What a puerile, STUPID thing to do. But he had done it! It was too late to take it back. And now… were they just going to let him pay the ultimate price for his stupidity?

And then he saw a figure in the distance, behind the others but coming towards them in brisk strides. It was a man… a big man… a man he didn’t know… a man in uniform.

Chapter 22

The scar looked horrible – an evil looking gash on the side of her face. And she couldn’t have been more than five. About four-and-a-half Alex guessed.

Where does a four year old child get a scar like that?

And it was recent. He could see that too. Certainly in the last year. Maybe even more recent than that. It was the scar that was the first thing he noticed, when he arrived at the morgue to witness this formal identification. Apart from the scar, she was a beautiful child – almost like a doll in her print-patterned Laura Ashley dress that made her look like a “Mini Me” of her mother – and Alex felt a twisting in his gut that a child of that age must have suffered terribly when she got that scar.

Presumably it was the result of some kind of domestic accident. It was hard to resist the temptation to judge. But he knew that one shouldn’t. Domestic accidents happen. His own son had suffered a broken nose as a child when his sister had swung a little league baseball bat too close to his face. But this injury looked so much worse. He couldn’t imagine the pain she must have gone to. And for a child so young, it must have been all the more traumatic.

Alex realized in that moment, that the mother too – Maureen – must have gone through a lot of turmoil in her… what?... thirty something years on this earth.

She had flown in from London, via Dallas/Fort Worth to identify the body of her husband – a husband from whom she had become estranged after he had a breakdown. It could not have been a pleasant flight, regardless of the creature comforts of first class or the pleasantness of the staff.

An injured daughter?… A husband suffering from a mental breakdown? Maureen was an averaged-sized woman, somewhat thin if not actually frail. And yet she had the weight of so much responsibility on her shoulders. That explained also the lines on her young face. They were not lines of age but lines of stress. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, matching her daughter’s and enhancing the resemblance.

At first Alex had thought it strange that she would bring her daughter with her to the United states. Stranger still that she would bring her here to the morgue. But then again what else could she do? Leave her back in England with relatives? Maybe she didn’t have any, or at least none that she could rely upon. And what could she do here? Leave her at the hotel? Of course sitters were available. But dragging her daughter thousands of miles and then leaving her with a sitter presumably wouldn’t have felt right.

At the back of his mind, Alex was wondering if she was going to subject her daughter to that terrible ritual – so prevalent in some cultures – of “saying goodbye” to the corpse. It was an awful thing to do to a young child. Forcing them to look at a dead body, or in some cases even to kiss the body. He knew that some cultures and religions did it as a matter of course.  No doubt they thought it was cathartic. Or maybe they rationalized it that if the child didn’t say goodbye then they would lack “closure” and regret it later. But it was still an horrendous ritual for a child so young and Alex hoped and prayed that it was not Maureen O’Neil’s intention to subject her daughter to it.

But it was not his place to say anything. His presence here was merely a formality: to witness the identification on behalf of his client. Even that was really a courtesy. The DA had been under no obligation to invite him, but after what had happened to his client and because of the outside inference, Hector Garcia thought it would be right and proper to see that nothing was done behind the back of the defense.

Before going in, Maureen O’Neil knelt down in front of her daughter, took her hands and, addressing her as “Amy”, explained that “mummy” – pronounced the British way – was going in to do something and would be out in about a minute. She then asked the girl if that was all right, as if not wanting to leave her until she was sure that Amy accepted and understood what was happening. Alex was relieved at this, although he half-expected an hysterical scene in response to the impending temporary separation. But little Amy was a real trooper. She just swallowed nervously, nodded her tiny head and stayed calm as Maureen released her hands, turned round and walked in with the DA, followed by Alex.

Inside the room where the bodies were stored she was led over to a drawer in a refrigerated unit which was opened fully for her to reveal the corpse of a powerfully built man of maybe just over six feet in height. But the face was still covered. She stood near to the head, next to the DA, with the member of the coroner’s staff who had opened the drawer moving round to the other side. Alex stood a few feet away in order not to intrude. But he noticed Maureen O’Neil tense up as the draw was opened.

She stayed tense, while the staff member uncovered the face to give her a clear view. The tension remained for a few seconds longer and then she appeared to relax, as if the confirmation of what had already been determined by science offered her the relief of closure. She swallowed, nodded towards the staff member and half-turned to the DA, adding “that’s him.”

Then she turned away, coughed and started to sob uncontrollably into her hands. Hector Garcia put a comforting arm around her and led her away, while the staff member closed the drawer. Garcia led her away, followed by Alex, who felt like an outsider as he conceded space to them.

He noticed, when he arrived outside in the waiting area, that Mrs. O’Neil, drawing on that inner strength that only mothers have, had stopped crying. She didn’t want her daughter to see her tears and with willpower alone she made it happen. Amy ran up to her mother who, not content, with a mere hug, scooped her daughter up in her arms and lifted her, letting her press against her chest as she clung with that desperate love of a child.

Alex watched them and felt that uncomfortable feeling of guilt to which defense lawyers are supposed to be immune. No words had passed between them and she had avoided looking at him. But the DA had told her who he was and why he was he and she would know that this was the man who was defending the man who had murdered her husband. What must she be thinking?

But then again, there were so many other questions nagging away at him. Like what had caused his breakdown that Garcia had told him about. Why was her husband wandering around loose in America.

And what about that scar on little Amy O’Neil’s face?

*     *

“It’s a call from David Sedaka,” said Laurie.

She was talking to Juanita, in her office.

“He wants me?”

“He called for his father, but when I told him he was out, he asked for you.

“Okay put him through.”

Laurie out the call through.

“Hi David.”

“Hi Juanita. Listen I’m sorry I didn’t have time to talk my dad before. I was just wondering if he had any luck with that website?”

“What, thetruthabouthashem? No, not at all. Nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

He sounded surprised.

“He found various cached versions of the site, but they were all blank.”

“What you mean like a 404 error message?”

“No, not even that. Just blank. A plain black screen.”

“Did it crash his computer. I mean like the whole screen went blank?”

“No, nothing like that. It still had the URL bar and the browser. Just the area where the website content should be was plain white.”

There was a long pause.

“David?”

“Just a  minute I’m thinking.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, thinking she had picked up a note of tension in his tone.

“Okay try this. First google cache then a colon then thetruthabouthashem dot com. Wait a minute, you’re not busy are you?”

“I’m always busy, but not –”

“Okay do it later. I’ll send you an eMail.”

“No I’ll do it now! I’m not too busy for this.”

“Okay try that first.”

He waited while she opened a new tab on her browser, and typed it into the Google search box that came up by default.

“Okay, blank screen. Just like your father got.”

“Okay now move the cursor to the top left corner, then click on the left mouse button and then, while holding down on the button, slide the mouse down and to the right. That should block an area of screen and make it dark. See if anything appears in that selected area.”

“Okay just a minute… doing it now… oh my god!”

“What?”

“There’s writing!”

“I knew!” said David, crowing with delight. “He hid it in plain sight! It’s white on white.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

“What does it say?”

“It says: ‘the truth about hashem’ – that’s the heading. Then underneath that it says: ‘On this site I will be revealing the truth about the death of Prince Hashem in a so-called skiing accident and the torture and murder of the John Macadam.

*     *

Some ten minutes later Sir Geraint Purdue’s phone rang. It was the officer in charge of the unit monitoring Alex Sedaka’s phone and data traffic at GCHQ.

“Sir, I think we may have a big problem.”

“Spill it man!” said C irritably.

“Alex Sedaka’s secretary has obtained access to the content of O’Neil’s website.”

Panic!

“I thought we had it taken down!”

“We did sir. But there are cached versions online that we didn’t manage to take down and she’s found one of them – with the aid of Sedaka’s son, David.”

The head of MI6 thought about this.

“So now two more people know the content.”

“Yes sir. And it’s quite likely that more will before we can do anything.”

Sir Geraint thought about this for a long while, keeping the GCHQ officer waiting.

“Where is David Sedaka at the moment.”

“In Switzerland sir. He’s a physicist at CERN.”

Again Sir Geraint paused, weighing each answer and carefully considering each question.

“How much do they know?”

“Well the site contains no photographs. And you’ve got a copy of the written content.”

“So they have access to all that information.”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay thank you.”

C ended the call.

Now he had to think carefully. He had a number of options. He could call a COBRA meeting. He could consult General Carson for his opinion – sharing the responsibility they call that, in the civil service.

Or he could deal with it himself.

That was no doubt what he was expected to do. The Prime Minister didn’t want to be dragged into the matter. He wanted the head of his “Secret Intelligence Service” to deal with it all by himself. And if he failed he was expected to fall on his sword and take the rap, so the PM could go on and wipe his hands of the matter as if nothing had happened.

Of course taking care of it himself, didn’t literally mean by himself. He was allowed – nay expected – to make use of all of his resources. But he was also expected not to call on anyone higher up the food chain to help him out.  Other departments yes. But not to escalate the matter to cabinet level. The PM would not welcome that sort of passing the buck. The PM believed in delegating.

He remembered that famous sign on the desk of former US President Harry S Truman that read “the Buck stops here!” That was an assertion that everyone could pass the buck except the president. Important decisions had to be made at the top. That was all very well for a country in which the top levels of civil servants were political appointees that changed with every administration. A president could hardly disavow responsibility for the actions of political cronies whom he had appointed in the first place. And to some extent that was true of the political advisers of cabinet ministers.

But when it came to Britain’s permanent undersecretaries and apolitical civil servants, responsibility could be passed down the chain of command as well as up. Of course he could force the issue and put the ball in the Prime Minister’s court. But that would only serve to embarrass the PM and stifle his own chances of the hoped for – or rather the expected – seat in the House of Lords.

Even if things went wrong, he could simply resign and then after a short period in purgatory get “kicked upstairs.” But if he fell afoul of the PM by embarrassing his own boss, then all he could look forward to was that long walk into oblivion and a glorious retirement playing golf and fishing! He couldn’t even write his own memoirs, because most of his career was covered by the Official Secrets Act.

Instead he reached for the phone and told his secretary: “Get me Wainwright.”

*     *

Outside the building where the coroner’s office was located, Hector Garcia was talking to Maureen O’Neil by the courtesy car that was on standby to take her and her daughter back to the hotel. Alex stood a few yards away. When Maureen and Any back on their way to the hotel, the DA walked back to Alex.

“You know Alex, there are a lot of things about this case that don’t make sense?”

“Is that from the ‘no shit, Sherlock’ department?”

Hector Garcia smiled.

“I don’t know what your client has already told you, but I suspect that it isn’t everything.”

“Go on,” said Alex, sensing that the DA had more to say, and not wishing to breach lawyer-client privilege by word, deed or grunt.

“So I’ve convinced Mrs. O’Neil to talk to both of us and give us some background information about her husband. I explained to her that whatever she tells me I have to give to you anyway, so she agreed that you may as well be there when I talk with her.”

“Will I be allowed to ask questions?”

“You can ask her anything you like, but I’ve explained to her that she’s not obliged to answer: not you and not me. She can tell us whatever she wants to tell us and withhold whatever she wants to withhold. I’m not going to subpoena a grieving widow. And if you’ve got any sort of decency you won’t either.”

This was wasted on Alex. He knew already better than to try and help a client by trying to force a grieving widow to answer questions. Unless he knew what he was looking for to begin with, he wouldn’t even know what to ask, other than general questions. And the only thing he could subpoena her for was the trial itself. But it would be a perilous undertaking to question her in court. The golden rule in court was: never ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer. A courtroom is not a place to go fishing: when you go fishing, you never know what you’re going to catch.

He was interrupted in these thoughts by the sound of the William Tell Overture as it blasted from his cell phone. He looked at the display to check who was calling and then answered.

“Hi Juanita. What’s up?”

“David phoned.”

“Did you tell him to call me?”

“No, when Laurie told him you were out, he asked for me.”

“And?”

“He had some ideas about the website.”

“What ideas?”

“White on white.”

“What’s that – oh!”

He realized before she had time to answer.

“Exactly boss. ‘Oh’ is the word.”

“So did you find anything?”

“Oh yes!”

Chapter 23

He didn’t have any metal detector or ground penetrating radar or sonar. He didn’t even use the old “Dad’s Army” method of prodding the ground with a bayonet. And he couldn’t use any of the combined detection and clearance methods that involved detonating the mines. Because that would have endangered the very man he was trying to save.

Instead, George Stone saw the soldier step out across the line and stride boldly towards him. That took balls of steel. And even the way the soldier walked spoke of his fearlessness. He didn’t crouch or stoop but stood upright and strode with a proud bearing. It was as if he were not so much tempting providence as simply saying “if this is to be my last day on this earth, then I will die like a man.”

Of course, Stone realized, there was always a danger that he might set off a mine close to Stone himself, that he had missed on the way out. But that was a risk Stone had to endure. This man was out here risking his life to save him – after he had foolishly committed hubris against the Gods by crossing through the torn away hole in the chicken wire fence.

The soldier drew closer and although Stone’s consciousness was slipping away, he got a clear vision of his rescuer. The man was about six foot tall – maybe slightly taller. He had the solid frame of a bodybuilder, or at least some one who was supremely  fit. He was wearing camouflage fatigues and although they carried some insignia, it was not clear at this distance what his unit was. But Stone knew that there were several units of the British army out here.

Within seconds, the man had reached him unscathed and proceeded to re-apply the tourniquet, this time more effectively. He looked more like a combat soldier than a medic, but he seemed to have some medical knowledge. At any rate, he acted with confidence, as if he knew what he was doing. Then he picked up Stone in a fireman’s lift – as if he were lighter than a feather – and carried him back to safety.

As the soldier deposited him on the ground beyond the minefield, Stone knew that he was safe from immediate danger. But through blurred and fading vision, he wondered if he would get the necessary medical help at the field hospital to save him from the blood loss and other consequences, such as gangrene or infection from the shrapnel.

As he contemplated his own mortality, he wanted to thank the man who had risked his life to save him. If he didn’t make it through, he wanted at least to express his gratitude to this man for trying.

“Thank you,” he muttered, forcing a smile onto his lips.

The man… the stranger… the soldier… smiled back at him and said: “No problem. Who dares wins.”

*    *

My instructions regarding John Macadam were to obtain all photographs, negatives electronic copies and electronic photo equipment from him and then to silence him. I wasn’t sure WHY we needed to silence him, if I obtained the pictures from him. After all, it was the pictures that were the proof. Without the pictures it would his word against that of a whole load of other people.

But nevertheless I followed my orders to the letter, at the time, because it was my duty, or so I believed. With hindsight I suppose that it would have been enough if I’d merely got the pictures. But then again, one can say a lot of things with hindsight.

Alex was reading the printout that Juanita had prepared. She had copied the whole cached website onto a file on the local office server, but rather than force him to read as she had, by highlighting the text in blocks, she had printed it off.

In order to be sure of getting all the pictures from him – including any copies he may have made – I had to resort to a combination of questioning him under sodium thiopentol and the old fashioned slapping-him-around routine. He gave up the pictures pretty quickly, including the backup copies. He obviously wasn’t trained to resist pressure and he had no stomach for violence. But I had to be sure. He had even put copies in the Cloud, but I got them too.

However afterwards I realized that what I had done was wrong and I held on to one of the two reels of film which surprisingly were undeveloped. This was interesting because although he had started hawking them around the day after Prince Hashem’s death, he hadn’t yet bothered to develop them. It seems he relied on the electronic pictures, although they didn’t show very much. That just goes to show how greedy he was that he was so anxious to cash in that he forgot the basics. I suppose it also shows how quickly we went into action when we got word that a photographer was trying to flog pictures of the dead prince.

But as I said I did feel guilty about what I had done. I had tortured and killed a man needlessly, so I wanted to get the pictures developed myself and find out what he had died for. But it wasn’t safe to develop them in any publicly available lab and I didn’t know how to develop pictures myself.

In any case, they told me why he was killed. It all had to do with Prince Hashem of the Kingdom Bahakabir – one of Britain’s and America’s closest allies in the Persian Gulf and the source of very large supplies of oil. Prince Hashem as the Crown Prince and eldest son of the king was the heir apparent, destined to take over the Kingdom when his father dies. However some one evidently did not want him to take over, because they took the trouble to get rid of him while he was on a skiing holiday in the Jungfrau region of Switzerland.

Which leads us back to the death of the photographer John Macadam. I had to kill Macadam (and torture him) because he had proof that Prince Hashem didn’t die in a skiing accident as everyone was led to believe. HE WAS MURDERED.

Alex looked up at Juanita who was looking down at her copy, but not really reading it, as she had already read it many times before he even returned to the office.

“Is it getting interesting?” she asked.

“If it’s true.”

I am not of course saying that the skiing accident was faked. The accident that was widely reported DID occur – if one can call it an accident. But it was not the “accident” that killed him. After the accident a helicopter ambulance was flown in and they gave him oxygen, as is normal in these cases. Except that the oxygen wasn’t oxygen it was CARBON MONOXIDE.

“How the hell does he know that?” asked Alex.

“Know what?”

“That it was carbon monoxide.”

“Read on.”

Alex realized that he had been doing something that he didn’t normally do: reading carefully, word for word. Usually he just speed-read. But this time he didn’t want to miss anything, so he was focusing on what he was reading and resisting the urge to skip forward.

Carbon monoxide, as we all know, is the gas that comes out of the exhaust pipe of cars. Unlike carbon DIoxide, which can only choke or suffocate you, carbon MONoxide is toxic and can poison you. That is why people sometimes use car exhaust and hosepipes to kill themselves. Strictly speaking carbon monoxide is colorless and odorless. The smell of car exhaust comes from other ingredients in the mixture.

That makes carbon monoxide a very good means of killing a person. It can be detected in a post mortem of course, but only if you are looking for it. And in this case they weren’t looking for it. Of course if they were to exhume Prince Hashem’s body and run tests they could probably find traces of it. That might be why they wanted me to kill Macadam and not just get the pictures.

Which leads me right back to the reason why John Macadam had to die. It was because he had proof of the way Prince Hashem was killed. Macadam was just one of the paparazzi who stalks celebrities and royalty in the hope of getting a good picture. But on this occasion he got more than he bargained for. He got pictures of the air ambulance, of the doctor’s trying to “revive” Prince Hashem and of the oxygen tank itself.

But when the paparazzi take pictures of famous people who they’re denied access to or who are on private property (and remember Prince Hashem was skiing on a private Alp owned by his father) they use very powerful telephoto lenses. And it appears that the lens on at least one of Macadam’s cameras was powerful enough to pick up the label on the oxygen tank. And the letters on that label said CO.

The symbol for oxygen is O^2. The reason for this is that although oxygen is an element, it exists in molecules consisting of pairs of oxygen atoms. But the symbol for carbon monoxide is CO. The letters CO on the so-called “oxygen” canister proved that it really contained carbon monoxide and Macadam’s pictures clearly showed the letters CO on the canister. Other pictures showed that this canister was used on Prince Hashem. So that proves that he was murdered with carbon monoxide by the people from the air ambulance.

Now that does not mean that we (the British) murdered him. Although the place was swarming with British security officers, the people from the helicopter ambulance were probably locals. In other words Swiss. And we all know how the Swiss can be bought. But the fact that a Crown Prince of one of our close allies could have been murdered under the noses of British security officers, would be deeply embarrassing to the British government.

The question is, what to do about it. And the truth of the matter is I still haven’t decided whether to blow the whistle or not. That’s why I’m keeping this site like it is for the time being. If you are reading this then you must be cleverer than most people. Google doesn’t even bother to give a Page Rank to sites with invisible text.

But right now I have to stay one step ahead of my “brothers” back in old blighty in case they decide to do to me what they got me to do to Macadam. After all I’ve got proof in the form of the photographs. And also, as I said, if I blow the whistle, the good folks in Bahakabir might decide to exhume Prince Hashem’s body and run some tests for carbon monoxide.

When I can develop the pictures I will and then I’ll have to decide whether to blow the whistle or stay quiet. I know that if I do – or if they even think I'm going to – they'll send people after me to kill me. In the meantime I have to keep moving until my cash runs out.

I have mixed feelings about what I did to Macadam. But when I think about what I’ve become I realize now that it’s not something I want to be. Maybe I’ll just let them get me. It’ll be a merciful end.

He stopped reading and looked up Juanita.

“Now do you believe it?” she asked.

“Oh I believe it. I just don’t understand how they staged the original skiing accident. Or why they needed to. But I know at least one person who can tell me… maybe two.”

Chapter 24

Hector Garcia had arranged for a medium-sized meeting room to provided. It was to be only a three-way discussion and a smaller room would probably have sufficed. But Garcia wanted to be sure that Maureen O’Neil was comfortable, and there was also the possibility that other people might have to join the meeting depending on the turn of events. He didn’t want the deceased’s widow to feel in any way crowded or pressured, physically or mentally. She was here at his invitation, but by her own consent.

The meeting room was paneled in lacquered cherrywood that matched the long oval table.

A young female member of staff had taken charge of little Amy and was showing her around the office. She seemed to be impressed by the computers but was also quite taken by a young man who was doing a legal internship there while in his final year of law school. In fact she made it clear in her child-like way that she would have preferred it if the young man was showing her around instead of the woman. In the end, both members of staff found themselves uprooted from their normal work to play mommy and daddy. They actually found it a welcome relief.

Maureen O’Neil was ushered into the blue-carpeted meeting room, and shown to her seat at the large oval table, joined by Garcia and Alex. A secretary had brought in a tray with pots of coffee and English tea, along with milk, cookies and a jug of fresh orange juice, and left it on the table near to Maureen.

Another secretary brought in three notepads and pens. That was significant, Alex noted. It meant that the meeting was not going to be electronically recorded or even officially minuted. This was exceptional. Usually a public official, such as the DA, would want to ensure that there was an indisputable record of the discussions.

But Alex understood the rationale behind the DA’s decision. Maureen O’Neil was a victim and emotionally fragile. That she had agreed to be here at all, answering questions, was a major concession to prosecution and defense alike. Garcia did not want to insult her by asking for permission to record the meeting. And he couldn’t record it without her permission.

When they were all seated, Garcia began.

“Okay first of all Mrs. O’Neil I want to thank you for agreeing to this meeting. I know this must be very stressful to you and both Mr. Sedaka and myself are grateful to you for agreeing to this. Secondly, although there’s no formal record of this meeting, just to confirm that my name is Hector Garcia and I am the San Francisco DA.  And that man over there is Alex Sedaka Esquire, who is council for the defense in the case of California versus George Stone on the charge of murdering a man previously listed as John Doe, now known to be Cornelius O’Neil.

“Now before I go any further, Mrs. O’Neil, let me just state that if at any stage you wish to end this meeting you may do so just by so stating. Also, if you wish to pause the meeting or take a break, you may do so entirely at your discretion. Finally, if it any stage you wish to ask a question yourself, please feel free to do so and even to interrupt. Is that all clear and satisfactory to you.”

She swallowed, awkwardly and nodded.

“Yes, completely.”

“Thank you. Now I’d like to start off by asking if you can shed any light on when and why your husband came to America.”

“Okay first of all, I should explain that Corny – my husband... that was his army nickname – was a member of the British army. He was originally assigned to a regiment called the Royal Green Jackets, an infantry regiment. He signed up before he was my husband. I won’t go into all the boding details of how we met. Just suffice it to say that my late father was a soldier to and I lived in a town close to an army base where most of the eligible young men were soldiers on leave.

“Anyway, shortly after we were married, my husband applied to join the SAS – that’s the Special Air Services, an elite unit in the British army. I think it may have been because my father had served in the paratroopers and actually failed in the final stages of the SAS selection process. Anyway, unlike my father, Corny got through the rigorous selection process and got into the SAS in which he served for several years.

“Now in the SAS they do a lot of special operations and... what I think you call ‘black ops’.”

“Black ops?” Garcia repeated, disingenuously.

“Isn’t that what you call it? Clandestine operations, or at least operations they can’t talk about.”

“You know about such operations?”

Maureen O’Neil shook her head.

“I don’t know the details of any specific operations that he participated in. But I know that his service would almost certainly have included such operations. He was professional who knew not to talk about such things. And I’m a good army wife – and former army brat – so I knew better than to ask him about those kind of things.”

She seemed to have run out of steam. Garcia decided to prompt.

“But about your husband being in the United States...”

“He had a breakdown… that’s why... Look let me just go back a bit to what caused it. You have to understand that SAS men work at a very high level of alertness and tension. They have to go without sleep for protracted periods when they’re on a tour of duty and when they’re out in the field on a special op, they also have to be incredibly alert to danger coming from any direction. An SAS soldier is basically like a powder keg, primed and waiting to go off. They have to learn to react instantly in automatic mode. And they’re so wound up like a spring that when they leave the service, they’re monitored for eight years for potential mental and psychiatric problems.”

She stopped again, as if she were finding it hard to continue. Garcia looked at her sympathetically. Alex thought that he was about to suggest that she take a break. But Alex – despite his sympathy for the woman – knew that now was not the time. A pause or a break would give her time for second thoughts, time to reconsider cooperating or time to work out a plan to hold back information that she did not want to divulge, but that might be priceless for his client. He couldn’t risk that. So he spoke up, prompting her to continue.

“And is that what happened to your husband? Is that why you separated?

“Basically, yes. You see like I said, they have to be very alert at all times and to react with force – even deadly force. I mean if some one crept up on you for a joke and grabbed you, you might jump out of your skin and pull away or say something like: ‘hey what is this?’ But what you wouldn’t do is lash out with violence. But an SAS man is trained to react to any surprise encroachment on his space as a deadly threat.”

She paused again and this time a couple of tears were visible in the corners of her eyes. Alex could see that this was getting all too much for her. But he sensed where it was going.

“Your... daughter...”

He didn’t have to say anymore. She broke down, sobbing into her hands. Garcia looked at Alex chidingly, as if disgusted by his predatory probing. He resisted the urge to put a fatherly hand on Maureen’s head or hair. But he leaned towards her and spoke softly.

“We can take a break if you like.”

She shook her head. Alex understood. She wanted to continue. This was cathartic. She  had to get it out of her system. She hadn’t told anyone this – hadn’t been able to talk about it to anyone – and she wanted to talk about it now.

“She crept up on him in her bare feet on the carpet. It was a game she used to play with me. A little girl creeping up on mummy and putting her hands over mummy’s eyes and saying ‘guess who it is.’ Only this time she didn’t do it with mummy. She did it with Daddy. He was home on leave and sitting in his favorite armchair. I arrived in the room just as she did it. She put her hands over his eyes and before she even had the chance to speak he grabbed the bottle on the coffee table, spun round and smashed it into her face.”

She couldn’t continue. And by this time, even Alex was overwhelmed. They all needed a break. Garcia called it and Alex nodded his agreement. During the time-out, the DA called Alex over to the window, as far away from Maureen as possible, and read him the riot act.

“Who the heck do you think you are?” asked Garcia in a loud whisper. “Can’t you see how fragile she is?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it Alex she’s a human being and –”

“It’s all right!” Maureen O’Neil called out. “It’s time I spoke about it. And you both need to know, if you’re to do your jobs. There’s a man on trial for murder. It isn’t about me any longer.”

So there it was. Absolution... in all it’s mercy.

Alex resisted the urge to smile. Gloating over Garcia would be undignified. But he was relieved to be let off the hook and actually rather proud that he had called it right. A few minutes later, after some tea and sympathy, they were back at the table and Maureen O’Neil was telling them the rest of the story, or at least trying to excuse her late husband.

“It wasn’t a conscious act against Amy. He was reacting the way he was trained to react. At the moment when he did it, he didn’t know it was his daughter. In that split second, he was back on the battlefield and she was the enemy. The moment after he did, he realized what he had done… and he was practically in tears himself. He couldn’t believe that he’d done it and he felt completely helpless. He couldn’t even take her in his arms and comfort her because she screamed when he approached. I had to tell him to leave the room, while I calmed her down. And when they carried her out to the ambulance on a stretcher and she saw him outside, she started wailing again. He had to move out of her sight and he couldn’t go with her in the ambulance.”

She was struggling to speak, but she held the tears back and fought to force the words out of her mouth.

“It broke up our marriage. I mean we tried to hold it together, but it just fell apart. Amy was terrified of him so the had to move out of the house. We still saw each other, but we both knew that it could never be the same. Then a few months later, he was sent on a mission. I don’t know what it was, but after he got back, he phoned me and we were talking on the phone. Not about the operation he’d been on but, you know, just general chit-chat… and while we were talking, Amy was nagging me and trying to get my attention, so I told her that I was talking to Daddy and she said… she said…”

Again Maureen had to stop. She didn’t break down, but it was obvious that she would have done if she continued. She had another sip of tea, swept her hair back and then forced herself to carry on.

“She said: ‘daddy likes hurting people.’ And I… I didn’t know what to say. I mean I had Amy there in the room with me looking at me, not with a hurt look, but just being her normal self – or at least normal since… what he did to her. And then I had Corny at the other end of the phone. And there I was stuck in the middle. I was going to say something to Corny, to apologize on Amy’s behalf or explain to him that she didn’t mean it or that it was still too raw and fresh in her memory. But then I… I heard something.”

Alex could see that the inner struggle was not getting any easier for Maureen O’Neil. But he also knew something that Garcia didn’t: that she wanted to tell them this – not just didn’t mind, but really wanted to tell them. She wanted them to hear the whole story. She wanted them to understand. And that was why Alex spoke up again, despite the warning look from the DA.

“What did you hear?”

Maureen drew in her breath before speaking again, as if the intake of air into her lungs would give her that strength she needed for the final burst to the finishing line.

“I heard him crying.”

She stopped. Her eyes were dry and she didn’t break down. But it seemed as if she felt that she had got to the end of her story – or at least the end of a long, tiring chapter. This time Alex waited. He still wanted to know more, but he felt that now was the wrong time to pressurize her. She would continue if she was left alone. But if he tried to push her – or if Garcia broke her flow – she would trail off into permanent silence.

And so, seizing the initiative in the most subtle way he could think of, Alex reached out to the teapot and poured another cup of tea for Maureen. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even meet her eyes. He gave her the breathing space that she needed. But his action had the desired effect: it forestalled any interruption by Garcia – any suggestion that they take another break.

An intake of breath by the DA, prompted Alex to hold up his hand to him. It was an impertinent gesture – like an adult telling a child to be silent. But it did the trick. Garcia cut himself off before any words came out of his mouth. Alex poured coffee for himself and the DA and they both waited in silence for Maureen O’Neil to continue. She drank her own tea in similar silence and then finally did continue.

“After that he deserted.”

Alex looked up and sat bolt upright at this. Maureen seemed to catch his confusion.

“I know, I know. They told you that was given a psychiatric discharge. Well yes, technically they did. That is, they gave him a psychiatric discharge after he deserted and backdated it so it wouldn’t show on his record as desertion or even going absent without leave. They didn’t know where he had gone, but he pulled out a few thousand in cash and became a drifter.”

“How do you know? I mean how did they know?”

“That’s what they assumed. They had reports about various sightings of him in various places. The lake district, Ireland, France. You have to remember he knew how to live off the land. Strictly speaking he didn’t even need cash. You could drop him in the middle of a jungle with nothing but a hunting knife, a water canteen and piece of flint and he could survive. In fact he told me once that he didn’t even need the water canteen or the flint: the knife alone was sufficient. He was a master of bush craft.”

This time it was Garcia who had a question.

“But why would he have come to America?”

“Partly I suppose as a means of staying one step ahead of the authorities.”

“But didn’t you say they gave him a psychiatric discharge?”

“Yes, they covered for him. After all his years of loyal service, that was the least they could do.  But he probably didn’t know about that. I mean he might have assumed that they were after him and wanted to arrest him and bring him back. But there may also have been another reason. You see he’d always wanted to visit the united states. He said it had some great national parks where a man could really test his mettle against the elements, living off the land.”

“You mean like Yellowstone and Yosemite?” asked Alex.

“I think he meant more like Alaska and the Everglades. He used to say that Yellowstone and Yosemite were for wimps!”

She was smiling at the memory – an island of pleasantness amidst all the pain.

But Alex’s mind was racing on ahead. Was it really just to fulfill a lifelong dream that he had come all the way out here to the United States? To California? Especially if he thought that Yosemite was for wimps? Or did his presence here have more to do with his more general desire to stay one step ahead of his pursuers?

But aside from that, why were they pursuing him? Not, presumably, for desertion. Even if they had not granted him a retroactive pardon in the form of a psychiatric discharge, they would hardly pursue him outside Britain over desertion charges. But Alex was thinking now of that website thetruthabouthashem.com. Cornelius O’Neil wasn’t just a deserter: he was a potential whistleblower – a deserter in possession of some very serious information about a black op in which the British government may well have been implicated.

Alex knew that his last mission – which his widow claimed to know nothing about – was to kill the photographer who had photographed the killing of Prince Hashem of Bahakabir and to retrieve the photographs that showed the prince being killed with carbon monoxide administered by what were presumably fake doctors  or a fake crew from a helicopter ambulance. But although O’Neil had “done his duty” – both killing the photographer and retrieving the photographs, he had retained one roll of exposed but undeveloped film.

Furthermore, he had hinted in the text of the website that he was seriously considering blowing the whistle on his government and the army. Was it possible that the British had found out about this? Had they seen his concealed website. True he had concealed it easily enough from Alex. But with David’s help Juanita had found it. Surely the British would have had no trouble in finding it too? And with that ominous threat to blow the whistle, what would they have done? How would they react?

And how much did Maureen O’Neil know.

Carpe Diem!

“Mrs. O’Neil,” said Alex, “I need to ask you this. Is there any possibility that your husband – in the state of mind that he was in – might have spoken out about things he had done or operations he had been on? I don’t mean out of any deliberate desire to betray secrets, but in his confused state of mind? In the state of mental turmoil that he must have been in?”

Maureen looked at him almost with pity.

“You don’t have to apologize for asking Mr. Sedaka. It’s a legitimate question. And the answer is yes. In his normal state of mind, he wouldn’t have breathed a word to anyone – not even me. But after his breakdown, he was a different man. I’m not saying he would have leaked any information, but he might. He was drinking heavily by then. I mean he drank even before that, but like a man – like a soldier. After the breakdown, drink was his escape from reality. And in that state he might have said anything.”

“If I were to mention to you two names – Prince Hashem and John Macadam – would either of those names mean anything to you?”

He was watching her carefully, on the lookout for a reaction. He saw none, except perhaps a slight flicker. But then again there was no real attempt to hide it. That meant it was surprise, but without any intent of concealment.

“Wait a minute! Prince Hashem? Wasn’t that that Arab prince who died in that skiing accident?”

“You know about it?”

“It was reported on the news. He died in a skiing accident in Switzerland. But look if you’re thinking that Corny had anything to do with that, I can tell you now that you’re wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Er because he was on leave at the time.”

There was a trace of sarcasm in the tone.

“And how come you remember? I mean was it such a big news item in England at the time?”

“No not really. But big enough that I remember it. And how do I know that Corny was on leave at the time? Because we were sitting there together in front of the television when we saw the news report. And Amy was on his lap. And he’d been home for two days and he was home for several days after that too. So I think I can safely say he had nothing to do with. Unless you think he may have planned it in some way and then stayed at home and watched it from a distance – which may I hasten to say would most definitely not have been his style.”

Her mood appeared to be almost perking up now as if she were amused by this childish attempts to put her husband in the frame for something that he clearly didn’t have anything to do with. But Alex noticed that she hadn’t mentioned the other name.

“What about John Macadam?”

She shook her head. He wondered if this was because she didn’t trust her voice.

“Doesn’t ring any bells?”

“No. None at all.”

He studied her face for a few seconds, but couldn’t be sure.

“Look,” she added, “I don’t know anything about this John Macadam, and even now I don’t ask you how you know – or what you know. And the reason I don’t do that is because I learned to cut myself off from these idle speculations. But I’m not saying that Corny didn’t know anything about it or him or whoever he is. I told you already, before his breakdown Corny was the soul of discretion. And so was I. It’s like your army’s policy on gays in the service.”

This time it was his turn to look at her blankly.

“Don’t ask; don’t tell. For the umpteenth time: Corny didn’t talk about his work and I knew better than to pry. Of course I saw things in his face – not facts, just emotions. I could sense when he was disturbed or troubled. But I didn’t know the details. All I know is that when he broke down in that conversation when Amy said he liked hurting people, he was tormented by more than just what he did to Amy. It may well have had to do with one of his assignments or missions – maybe even the last one.”

Alex was pondering this and trying to figure how it fit into the picture as a whole, or at least the picture that he had built up already based on the website and what Maureen O’Neil had told him.

“Okay, but now let me ask you another question. And this may sound a bit heavy, but please bear with me. I have to ask.”

Garcia was looking at Alex shaking his head slowly. But he kept shtum. Alex was aware that he was apologizing profusely in advance. But he saw that Maureen O’Neil was leaning forward as if she were none-too-troubled by whatever the question might be and was almost willing Alex on to cut to the chase and ask it.

“Is there any possibility, that he might have disclosed – or might be ready to disclose – something so sensitive, that they might have been ready to… silence him?”

Hector heaved a sigh and looked as if he were about to shoot Alex’s suggestion down in flames. But Maureen appeared to smile – or at least suppress a smile – and then spoke.

“You mean in defense of the realm?”

“Pardon?”

“A film. About the British government being ready to kill to protect state secrets.”

Alex and Garcia exchanged looks that spoke of their confusion.

“I’m sorry,” Maureen continued, “that must have sounded rather flippant. Look I suppose it is possible. But it’s also very unlikely. I’m not a great believer in conspiracy theories. I read them all the time on the internet and most of them are based on ignorance of how the real world works. But on the other hand I’m not saying that a government wouldn’t kill one of its own citizens if it felt it had to. In fact I know for a fact that sometimes they do. But then again is that really so surprising? I mean they kill enough of other people’s citizens don’t they?”

Alex looked at Garcia. He could see that the DA wasn’t buying it. But he had to press for more.

“All right but let me ask you something else. If, for some reason, they did decide that they had to ki – to silence him… who would they send to do it? Other soldiers of comparable skill? A civilian intelligence officer? Or an amateur?”

Maureen nodded, as if to indicate that she understood not only the question, but also the why and wherefore behind it.

“They’d send one or more soldiers.”

“SAS men?”

“The SAS are a group of highly-trained killers. But they also have a code of ethics in relation to other members of their unit. They would never kill a fellow SAS member.”

“Not even,” Alex asked slowly, “in defense of the realm?”

“If a member of the SAS ever became such a threat to national security that they had to kill him, they’d use soldiers from another unit to do it: not the SAS.”

“But would soldiers from other units be up to it? I mean would they be able to track down and kill a trained killing machine who can lie low and live off the land like your husband could?”

This time Maureen didn’t trouble to hide her smile.

“It depends who you ask?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well if you ask the SBS – the Special Boat Services – they’ll tell you that they’re better than the SAS. If you ask the SAS, they’ll tell you otherwise.”

“So what are you saying? That they’d send the Special Boat Services after him?”

Maureen paused for thought

“The SBS wouldn’t necessarily know how to track them. They learn overlapping combat skills, but some of their other skills are different. They wouldn’t necessarily know how to track him if he was living off the land. They’d’ve had to call in the SAS.”

“But I thought you said the SAS wouldn’t kill one of their own.”

“Not kill him no. But they’d track him down. They’d hunt him and identify him. They’d point him out to others, but they wouldn’t actually kill him. That’s where they draw the line.”

“But those others… they wouldn’t have been civilians would they? They’d have been other soldiers surely?”

“I guess. I mean that’s what I’d expect. If they had soldiers available.”

“But not a civilian intelligence officer – and definitely not a homeless man with one leg?”

“I doubt it. I mean in the military it’s all about trust. And who do you trust in the army? Other squaddies.”

“Squaddies?”

“A British expression for military men. If they did send an SAS man to track down my husband, he would have had to have absolute trust in whoever they sent with him to do the actual killing.”

Alex and Garcia made brief eye contact.

*     *

After the courtesy limousine had taken Maureen O’Neil back to the hotel, Garcia invited Alex back into his office.

“It fits with what the barman at Kell’s said. The big man must have been the hunter, presumably a soldier, possibly from this SAS. He must have hunted him down and instead of killing him, just knocked him out or drugged him. Then he brought him into the bar – still drugged – bought him an Irn Bru to give him a caffeine buzz and wake him up and then left him there. Then O’Neil leaves, still disoriented, and the hunter’s accomplice – AKA George Stone, your client – follows him out and kills him.”

“There’s just one thing. George Stone isn’t a soldier. And you remember what she said: they wouldn’t use a civilian.”

“She said unlikely, not impossible.”

“The point is, there’s now an alternative to my client being guilty.”

“Ah come off it Alex, you’re not gonna run a smokescreen defense for the jury are you?”

“That all depends. Can you improve on your offer?”

Garcia thought for a moment.

“Okay, it all depends on whether we can find the other guy. But if you can convince Stone to roll over and finger his boss – and if we catch the guy who he was working for – I’ll let your client cop a plea to voluntary manslaughter and six years.”

“Make it three.”

“Okay three. But only if we catch the other guy. I’m not giving handouts or freebies just for trying.”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” said Alex, not sounding very confident.

“Well don’t get too enthusiastic,” came the sarcastic reply.

“No I mean it, I’ll try. But if Maureen O’Neil was right, then it means that the big guy trusted Stone absolutely. And if that’s the case, it’s gonna be one hell of a job convincing him to roll over.”

Chapter 25

“Ta-dah!”

Martine Yin was grinning broadly from ear to ear as she showed Alex the trophy that she had won in China. Made of the finest cut crystal, it was a triangular snooker frame, with fifteen semi-circular basins where the red balls would normally be. She had just returned from Beijing, where she had won the Chinese Open Women’s Snooker tournament. This was her finest achievement to date and the proudest moment in her career.

At 36, the tall, somewhat muscular, dark-haired, half-Chinese woman was competing with younger players. But snooker was a game of skill more than strength, where an experienced older player could compete on equal terms with a fit, younger player. In fact Martine had not been a professional all that long.

Until recently, she had been a semi-professional, fitting in her participation in money prize tournaments with her other career, earning her principle livelihood as a TV news reporter. But she was getting to the age when female reporters in front of the camera have to watch their backs against the encroachment of the latest flavor of the month – the proverbial spring chicken muscling in on the nest with the encouragement of the producer. Producers always thought with their dicks, even if they justified their decisions in terms of the “ratings”.

But Martine wasn’t one for lawsuits or bitching. She was a firm believer in self-help. And that meant finding the best deal for herself without self pity. It was a case of being not narcissistic but Darwinistic. And the fact of the matter was she had another string to her bow from which she knew she was more than capable of making a decent living.

Women’s snooker had always been a bit of an orphan or step-child to the men’s game, but as in so many other areas, interest was slowly growing – especially as the game was coming out of the bars and pubs and onto the TV screens. The fact that it was also becoming incredibly popular in her mother’s birthplace – a country of over one and a half billion people, also meant that there was a growing market for it. And although China was traditionally a patriarchal society – a tendency that Communism had failed to erase – that was not a handicap to women in sport. If anything it was an advantage, because of the primal voyeurism of men.

So she had gone from being a well-paid TV news reporter to being a successful, jetsetting snooker player. The upside was that she received money and praise and got to travel and see the world. The downside was that she didn’t get to see as much of Alex as she would have liked – or he of her.

“Beautiful,” said Alex.

“You mean –”

“The trophy’s nice too,” he added with a smile.

By the time she had set the trophy down carefully on the cabinet beside the double bed, he had already unbuttoned his shirt. But she didn’t wait for him to take it off, preferring instead to give him a helping hand. They spent the next the next minute devoting more attention to tearing off each other’s clothes than removing their own and the next hour (plus) making up for lost time.

Alex was surprised at his own behavior as much as Martine’s. Their lovemaking, normally tactile and exploratory, was this time fast and frenzied. They usually got it together to the melodic strains of the BeeGees, whether played on Alex’s state-of-the-art sound system or merely played out in their heads. But whereas their past lovemaking never ventured beyond the rhythmic pace of You win again, this time it was pitched at the frenetic tempo of Stayin’ alive from the get-go.

Later, when their energy was spent and their passion sated, they lay back, looking at the ceiling. She resisted the urge to light up because she knew it bothered him. But this time, there was something else was on his mind.

“Okay what is it?” she asked.

“I need to pick your brain.”

“Do I have subject matter jurisdiction?”

He turned his head and noticed the smile. She was teasing him as usual.

“Your credentials are impeccable. I mean, you do know international affairs don’t you?”

“As in… what goes on in other countries?”

“Er, that’s the kind of international affairs I had in mind, yes.”

She mulled this over and then responded with false modesty.

“A bit more than the average American, I suppose.”

“So what do you know about Bahakabir?”

“In the Gulf?”

“Unless there’s another.”

“Well if I was a Bubba from Hicksville I’d say it’s one of dem countries full of ragheads, like Abba-dabba,  where we get our oil from.”

Smiling at Martine’s somewhat over-the-top portrayal of a redneck, Alex spoke slowly.

“A few months ago, one of their princes was killed in Switzerland… in a skiing accident.”

“Er not just one of their princes. The crown prince. The heir apparent.”

“Were there any rumors that he was murdered?”

“There are always rumors. Elvis was spotted in Safeway. Tupac is still alive. Kennedy was killed by the man on the grassy knoll. The twin towers were brought down by thermite not by planes – which were really just holograms – and Princess Diana was killed by the freemasons, the illuminati and the Mossad. So which particular rumors did you have in mind?”

“The rumor that he was killed by the British.”

“I didn’t hear that one. No, strike that I think I did. But it never really went viral.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe ‘cause even conspiracy theorists realized it was too preposterous.”

Alex looked round to see if she was jerking his leash again.

“Would that stop them?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why?”

“I guess because it wasn’t big enough. Until he died, no one had even heard of Prince Hashem. I mean we get oil from Bahakabir. But we get oil from a lot of those states and most of it from Saudi Arabia. Bahakabir’s important for the business community and banks, but it’s not exactly high profile. I’m sure you can find stuff about conspiracy theories to do with Prince Hashem on the internet if you look for it.”

“You’re right, I never thought about it. I never even linked up thertruthabouthashem dot com with Prince Hashem until David helped me retrieve the content of the website.”

She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him.

“What are you talking about?”

He propped himself up too and spent the next twenty minutes telling her the whole story.

“Well it’s a fascinating story,” she observed dryly when he got to the end.

“You think he was making it up?”

“No, but when you think about it, the story’s divided into two parts: what he knows first hand, based on what he did and what he was told by others.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well he tells us about this guy Macadam and what he – the writer – did to Macadam. But he doesn’t actually know what Macadam saw. Nor does know what was in that canister.”

“No but he said how it was marked with the chemical symbol for –”

“And he doesn’t know who the crew of the air ambulance actually were. He even says so.”

“So you don’t think it could have been the British?”

“Definitely not. And not even anyone western – or at least no one looking out for western interests.”

“And how do you get to that conclusion?”

“Because the death of Prince Hashem was a complete disaster from the point of view of western interests. The king of Bahakabir is a master pragmatist who likes to play off one side against the other, but since he came to the throne he’s been mostly in the Anglo-American camp, if only because of the fact that being pro-western, pro-British and pro-American is money in his pocket.”

“Okay but does that mean he blames the west for the death of his son?”

“No nothing like that. But Prince Hashem was a playboy. He wasn’t just pro-western, he loved the west. He loved its casinos, it’s parks – a change from the desert – and mostly it’s lap dancing and pole dancing clubs! You know he used to sleep with anything up to four hookers in one night. And he’d take them to the fanciest casinos where he’d drop two million of daddy’s money in one evening.”

“In that case, maybe his father had him killed,” said Alex with a smile on his face.

“That wouldn’t be too whacky a speculation. Prince junior probably did try his father’s patience more than once. But he was also very good for his country because when he wasn’t gambling, boozing or wenching, he was actually cozying up to western leaders, especially in Britain. He got on well with European royalty and the aristocratic set and he was quite popular on the champagne-and-cocktail circuit.”

“And that was the man who was all set to inherit the kingdom of Bahakabir when the old man shuffled off this mortal coil?”

“Exactly. And considering that daddy is getting on in years, that day may not be so far off.”

Alex summed up her argument.

“So the pro-western playboy prince was all set to become the playboy king.”

“He was the heir apparent.”

“But maybe some one in Langley decided that the playboy prince was unreliable and they wanted some one more straight and steady.”

Martine smiled.

“That might work, except for one thing. The aging king was certainly very prolific, with eleven progeny – legitimate progeny that is. But of the eight who survived, six were born sans le penis.”

“You mean…”

“Two boys, six girls.”

“So Hashem had only one brother.”

“One surviving, legitimate brother, yes. Prince Walid.”

“And what, he’s too young to take the throne?”

“He’s twenty. Not too young – although he’ll probably appoint advisers.”

“So maybe the black-op boys decided to ditch the playboy prince and install his younger brer on the throne.”

“Like I said, Alex, that might work except for one thing. Prince Walid is a confirmed Islamist. He hasn’t openly challenged his father, but he’s widely known for flirting with Islamic extremism. It’s been in the news and he’s never really troubled to hide it.”

“Is he married?”

“Yes, he just married recently in fact.”

“So maybe his wife can tame him?”

“Not in such a patriarchal society.”

“So there’s no possibility that anyone in the west would have wanted him to replace his brother?”

“Not an ice cube’s chance in the desert.”

*   *

“Round and round,” said Maureen with a smile, holding on to her daughter, even though she was already safely secured in the giant tea cup.

“Round and round!” Amy echoed.

They were in the Alice in Wonderland ride. Maureen O’Neil had told the DA that as she was out here, she may as well avail herself of at least one of the opportunities that it afforded. So after talking to Hector Garcia and persuading him to cover the costs out of the DA’s office budget, she whisked her daughter off to Anaheim for a trip to Disneyland. She hadn’t held out much hope when she phoned the DA. “Blagging” had never been one of her strong suits. But the DA had been so anxious to show his gratitude, especially after her ordeal at the meeting, that he had agreed with a moment’s hesitation.

Despite being reasonably well-traveled, Maureen hadn’t really appreciated the distances involved in America between the Bay area and the LA basin or that it was a choice between an 85 minute flight or a six hour drive.

When the ride finished, they walked towards the hot dog stand. On the way, Maureen felt Amy tugging at her hand. She looked down at her daughter.

“Mummy, is daddy dead?”

Maureen felt a lump in her throat. Amy was four and a half and they had never broached the subject of death. She stopped and crouched down in front of her daughter.

“Your daddy is in another place… a better place.”

“Maybe he’s in Disneyland!”

“No, I mean a place far away.”

“But where?”

“It’s like… he’s in a very deep sleep.”

Amy started crying.

“But you said he’s in another place. That’s not the same as being a sleep.”

“He’s in a place called Heaven. It’s where God is.”

They weren’t a religious family and they’d never talked about heaven or God in the past. Maureen was now wishing she had done so. She took Amy in her arms and scooped her up. Any clung on tightly, not wanting to lose her mother as she had her father.

“I’ll always be with you Amy,” said Maureen, knowing how badly her daughter needed the reassurance.

But Maureen’s mind was elsewhere. She was thinking about Alex Sedaka, the lawyer who was defending the man accused of murdering her husband.

*     *

Normally Juanita would have been surprised that Alex wasn’t already in the office. Laurie, she could understand. Laurie always turned up in the quarter hour before the official opening time of nine O’clock. But Alex usually got in by eight thirty, sometimes even before eight. This time, it was getting on for Laurie’s arrival time and still no sign of Alex.

But on this occasion it came as no surprise. Martine Yin was back triumphant from China – Hail the conquering heroine! – and Alex was celebrating her return as much as her victory.

So as she covered the front desk, just in case there were some early calls, she speculated on who would get in first, Laurie or Alex. The speculation rose to fever pitch when she saw the door opening. But she got the shock of her life when saw that it was neither. Instead she found herself confronted by a powerful, muscular man of just over six feet in height. She reckoned his weight at maybe 220 pounds, but not an ounce of it fat. He was not a power lifter, but he was perfectly defined.

But the thing that puzzled her was how he came to be here at all? How did he get in? He would have needed a pass to get through the barriers. They wouldn’t have just let him through. Even if he had an appointment with some one in the building, they would have called through to the office in question and the office would have had to send some one down.

And they certainly hadn’t called through to her.

Had he made an appointment with some other office and then shaken off his escort? Had he got through during a security lapse for a legitimate appointment and then taken a wrong turn?

Whoever this man was, he knew what he was doing. And from his powerful frame, the determined look in his eyes and the mere fact that he had managed to get into this office unannounced, it was obvious that he was dangerous.

“I’m here to see Alex Sedaka.”

The accent was British and the tone was surprisingly quiet – not in the least aggressive. But that didn’t mean a thing. Norman Bates was also mild mannered.

How do I play this?

“Do you have an appointment?”

“You know I haven’t.”

She swallowed.

Well so much for businesslike formality.

“Mr. Sedaka isn’t here yet.”

She considered adding that he only sees people by appointment, but thought the better of it.

“I thought he always gets in early.”

“He usually does. But he may have appointments outside the office today.”

The man walked closer to the reception desk. It wasn’t an aggressive swaggering walk. It wasn’t a fast walk. It was almost like a quiet, nonchalant stroll. Yet it carried all the menace in the world that Juanita could imagine. She considered whether or not to scream. To reach for the phone. But she knew that whatever she did, it would not be quick enough. And she knew that she couldn’t stop him.

She also knew who he was – or at least what he was.

This was the man who had beaten up Leary when he went to the house of the deputy to ask him about the murder attempt on George Stone. And this man was also – quite possibly – the man who had staggered into Kell’s with the semi-conscious Corny O’Neil. In fact this man was – if Alex’s theory was right – the man who had set O’Neil up to be killed by Stone.

But there was no violence in him at this moment. Instead he merely stopped in front of the desk.

“Surely you’d know if he has an appointment outside the office,” he said with a smile.

“Oh I’m not the receptionist. I’m Mr. Sedaka’s partner – law partner. Juanita Cortez.”

She decided to test his intentions, or at least his mood. She stood up and held out her hand.

“Russ Mitchell,” he replied, taking her hand and shaking it.

His actions were surprisingly gentle. If there was any threat in him, it was a latent threat. But the fact that he hadn’t harmed her, didn’t mean that he had no intentions of harming Alex.

“Can you check his diary. I need to talk to him… urgently.”

“I think he may have gone to see a client in jail… George Stone.”

She said this deliberately. She was testing him. And he seemed to smile for a moment, as if he knew what she was doing.

“That’s what I need to talk to him about.”

“Do you have some information that might help us?”

“I have some information. I just don’t know how to play it.”

“Well maybe you’d like to tell me. Anything you can say to him, you can also say to me.”

“You mean its privileged,” he said, hesitantly, as if unsure if it was the right term.

“I’m covered by the same privilege as Al – as Mr. Sedaka. But that privilege is between lawyer and client, not lawyer and witness. That would apply to Mr. Sedaka as well. As long as you understand that.”

“I understand. But can I ask you one thing. And I’ll phrase this in general terms to make it easier for you to answer. I know all the lawyer jokes and that lawyers have a reputation for being uncaring and unfeeling. But I’ve also read about Alex Sedaka that he’s not like that – that he’s the kind of lawyer who really fights like a tiger for his clients.”

“What’s your question,” asked Juanita, losing her fear and warming to this visitor.

“I just want to know, can I be sure that your boss – sorry your partner – will do everything he can to get Stone off?”

He IS the man who Stone was working with!

Juanita knew in this moment that this was the man that Alex was going to try and convince stone to give up in order to save himself. And yet here was this man, trying to reassure himself that Alex would give his all in an effort to save George Stone.

Whatever bond there was between this man Russ Mitchell and George Stone, it must be a strong one.

That meant Alex was probably right. He had told Juanita about his conversations with Maureen O’Neil and the DA. He had said that it was going to be hard to convince Stone to save himself. He had also explained to her about the strange military code of honor that prevented SAS men from killing other SAS men, but being ready to set them up for a third party.

Loyalty is a powerful virtue – especially in the military. So despite the paradox, it was perfectly natural that Mitchell should want Alex to help Stone beat the rap. And it was natural that Mitchell should have gone after the crooked deputy who had turned a blind eye while some one tried to kill his friend in jail.

But the one thing that didn’t make sense was Stone’s unwavering loyalty. George Stone was a civilian, with no trace of a military record. Yet he was prepared to get locked away for life rather than cut a deal and save his skin.

Well actually, they didn’t yet know that. Now that the deal was only three years, maybe he would roll over. But somehow Juanita doubted this, even now – especially now.

She chose her words carefully.

“Alex will do whatever he can within the law to help his client. But I can’t say what his client will do.”

For a moment Mitchell held not only his tongue but also his breath. Juanita tried to read him. If there was fear there, had she assuaged it? Or enhanced it? Was Mitchell ultimately more concerned about himself or his friend? And if his friend turned on him – if the civilian’s loyalty gave way to fear – how would this powerful killing machine, with a military concept of honor, react?

Finally Mitchell’s breathing returned and a second later he spoke.

“That’s all I wanted to hear.”

And with that, he turned sharply and left.

*     *

By now they were getting used to the routine at GCHQ. They could even tell which matters were urgent without even glancing up at the list of trigger words. And Mitchell’s visit to Alex’s office had triggered alarm bells. Within less than a minute of his departure, an encrypted recording of Mitchell’s conversation with Juanita was on its way to Sir Geraint Purdue, the head of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Chapter 26

Alex was sitting down to breakfast with Martine. As usual when they were together, a pair of striped pajamas had been divided between them; he wearing the bottom half and she the top. It offered them both the eye candy they sought. She liked his defined rock-climber’s torso and he lusted after her firm derriere and thighs.

Alex usually skipped breakfast when he was alone. But when Martine was with him, it was a must. Breakfast consisted of freshly squeezed orange juice, potato pancakes, smoked salmon, coffee, toast and jam. Martine had tried to introduce him to the lights of fried bacon and pork sausages. But although he professed to be an atheist devoid of religious convictions, his cultural attachment to his native Judaism made him physically sick at the prospect of eating the meat of a pig – even in that bastion of exception making, the proverbial Chinese restaurant.

“So,” Martine said to her bleary-eyed partner, “any more thoughts on the Prince Hashem saga?”

“Not really. You’ve pretty much killed it with your incisive analysis of the internal politics of Bahakabir.”

“I suppose those opposed to the west might have killed him.”

“Yes, but O’Neil’s website clearly stated that he was surrounded by British security people and that his job was to retrieve the film and kill the photographer who had recorded the event.”

“Yes but note that word retrieve Alex. Not destroy the film and the electronic images, but to retrieve the film and the cameras. Maybe his job was to retrieve it so they could identify the perpetrators.”

“What good would that do them? Hashem would still be just as dead. And why then would they kill Corny?”

“Maybe because if he publicizes the fact that they’ve got the pictures then it’ll warn off the people who did it.”

“It still doesn’t make sense. Revenge for the sake of revenge isn’t the way the British do things. The Israelis yes. The Russians certainly. But not the British. It’s not their style.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Well the only thing I can do is keep trying to figure it out.”

“I mean about Garcia’s offer?”

“I’ll put it to Stone at our next meeting. And now that I have the info from Corny’s website, I have something that I can put to him. Maybe I can bluff him into thinking that I know more than I do. Maybe I can get him to spill his guts by confronting him with what I know already.”

The phone rang.. It was the office.

“Hi Juanita.”

“Hi Alex. Are you tired?”

“Why would I be tired?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I’ll be in later.”

“I figured as much.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We had a visitor.”

Something in the tone blipped on Alex’s radar.

“Who?”

“His name was Russ Mitchell.”

“Never heard if him. What did he want?”

“I don’t know if it’s his real name. But he’s British.”

Now his alarm was on as well as his radar.

“What did he look like?”

“Like the man described by the barman.”

“Tell me everything.”

She told him everything. What had happened, what Mitchell had said and her assessment.

“Are you okay.”

“Completely. I was frightened when he walked in but it quickly became clear that he wasn’t a threat to me.”

“Nor me apparently.”

“That depends. If you manage to convince Stone to give him up, you might become the enemy. This guy’s big on loyalty and esprit de corps. Remember what Maureen O’Neil said. And he seemed very anxious that you move heaven and earth to save Stone.”

“Even if that includes getting him to betray his friend.”

“That’s what I’m saying Alex, if he was prepared to have his own head on the block to save his friend then he’d just turn himself in.”

Alex thought about this.

“Not necessarily. I mean there’s no way he could know about the deal.”

“You think I should have told him about it?”

“Hell no! But I need to speak to Stone about it.”

“There’s no time now. You’ve the Kelly hearing this morning and a couple of evidence hearings this afternoon.”

“Okay book it for late afternoon.”

“Will do.”

*     *

Sir Geraint Purdue made it his business to be in his office overlooking the Thames by eight O’clock in the morning. Upon his arrival, he found the urgent message from GCHQ. Playing the audio file immediately, he found himself listening to Mitchell’s conversation with Juanita with growing alarm.

“I just want to know, can I be sure that your boss – sorry your partner – will do everything he can to get Stone off?”

Okay it was a rather innocuous statement. But Mitchell had gone to ground and rendered himself incommunicado because the heat was on after his asset’s botched killing of Corny O’Neil. And yet here he was marching into the office of the lawyer who was representing that asset. And worse still using his real name! Not even making up a name.

And the lawyer had been offered a deal that apparently involved getting Stone to give up the man whom he was working with. Mitchell, of course, didn’t know that. But he must have known that walking into Sedaka’s office was flirting with incomparable danger.

And if he was impervious to the danger, then why was he making such a big deal about Stone being under arrest. It should have been obvious by now that Stone wasn’t going to give him up. At the beginning – when they knew nothing of Stone – they had no way of knowing how likely it was that Stone would squeal. But after monitoring phone and voice traffic from Alex Sedaka’s office, it was obvious that Stone’s loyalty to Mitchell was boundless. Although they couldn’t be sure, it was very unlikely that Stone would take even the latest and most generous deal. And Mitchell didn’t even know the deal was on the table.

So why doesn’t he break his silence.

And then a thought occurred to the MI6 chief. If it was possible for Corny O’Neil to lose his enthusiasm for the work that he was so good at – because of a crisis of conscience – then was it not also possible that Mitchell might be undergoing a similar crisis of conflict?

After all, he had helped track down and kill a fellow member of the SAS. And he had used a rather vulnerable person to help him – a one-legged, homeless man. And the man he had used had been caught. And now he was feeling the helplessness of knowing that the man he had used was in danger of going down for life and there was nothing he could do about it.

How this all must have been weighing heavily on his conscience!

And then some one – recruited by C’s own man, Wainwright – had tried to kill Stone. This had not sat well with Mitchell. He had responded by killing the deputy who had looked the other way and sent the other deputy on a wild goose chase. Given half a chance he would probably have killed the prisoner who did it too – if he knew who it was. Except that the prisoner would have been beyond his direct reach and he might not have known how to go about recruiting another prisoner, as an intelligence officer like Wainwright did. Indeed, if Mitchell had identified Wainwright, he would probably have gone after him. Except that Wainwright was smart enough to have covered his tracks.

Still, it was hard to escape the conclusion that Mitchell was going the same way O’Neil had. He was developing a conscience and starting to act irrationally. He was no longer playing by the rules. He was no longer serving the best interests of his country. And it was unclear what he would do next.

But then it occurred to Sir Geraint that he didn’t really know Mitchell at all – not like he knew Wainwright. Mitchell was a military man and C was a civilian all the way through to his bones. Maybe he was exaggerating the fears in his own mind. Maybe there was nothing unnatural, or even dangerous, in what Mitchell was doing. He had to ask some one who would know better. And the man to ask was the Chief of the Defense Staff: General Sir Roger Carson.

He knew that Carson was an early riser like himself – a habit of military men – so he put the call though to the General’s direct line.

“Carson here!”

Why do military men always sound like they’ve got a megaphone built into their larynx?

“Sir Roger, I wonder if I might trouble you for some advice?”

“What is it?” the general asked irritably.

In addition to the stentorian tone, military men tended to lack the collegial spirit when dealing with their civilian counterparts.

“I’m wondering if there was any possibility that Mitchell might have gone rogue?”

“What are you blabbering about Purdue?”

C told him about Mitchell’s unannounced appearance at Alex Sedaka’s office.

“And you have this recorded?”

“I’ve just listened to it several times.”

“Okay send it over.”

“Of course. I’ll send it now.”

*     *

In a dark corner of a bar somewhere in Fillmore Street, Wainwright was meeting a man he didn’t know but to whom he had been referred. He didn’t know the man man’s real name. But everyone he had spoken to called the man as “Mister fixit.”

“I’ve been told you can get things for people.”

“I don’t know who told you that but I can spot a narc a mile away.”

The smile was mocking, the tone that of an off-the-cuff put-down.

“Do they all have British accents.”

Wainwright reached into his left inside pocket with. For a second the man flinched and three other people, strategically located around the bar reached “inside” too. Wainwright withdrew his hand, opened his jacket with his left and then with the tips of the fingers of that same left hand pulled out his passport. The other man was wide-eyed: both incredulous and amused.

“You’re showing me your passport?”

“Check it out.”

Mr. Fixit picked it and perused it. Then tossed it down as casually as he had picked it up.

“Okay so you’re British. So what?”

“So it means I’m not a narc. Unless you think this is some big international drug-busting operation.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Not for what I’m after.”

“What are you after?”

“An emetic.”

“What?”

“A pill to make some one throw up.”

“I know what a fuckin’ emetic is! You’re wasting my time for a fuckin’ emetic?”

“I need it quickly, I need to be sure it’s the real McCoy and I need it from some one who isn’t going to roll over on me afterwards.”

“How quickly is quickly?”

“In the next hour. And I don’t mean something big and bulky. I can make a mustard emetic myself. I mean a pill that can be easily concealed.

“And how much are you ready to pay for this emetic pill?”

“A hundred now and another four hundred on delivery.”

“Let me get this straight, you’re ready to pay five hundred dollars for an emetic pills?”

“That’s right.”

“Man you must want to throw up pretty badly.”

“It’s not for me,” Wainwright added, unnecessarily.

“Well,” said the other man slowly, “whoever it’s for, you just bought yourself a five hundred dollar practical joke.”

“Oh, er, there is something else I need.”

“What?”

“Morphine.”

*     *

C was gazing out at the Thames when the call came through.

“It’s General Carson,” said the MI6 chief’s secretary, a warning tone in her pleasant, mellifluous voice. “And he sounds angry.”

Sir Geraint was curious as to why the General should be angry. He had sent the voice file over a couple of hours ago, what could have happened in that time to ignite the General’s ire?

“Put him through.”

The hold music lasted a few seconds, followed by a click.

“Hallo General Carson.”

General Carson’s voice came like an explosion from the other end of the line: “Purdue, you’re the biggest ass on God’s earth!”

Chapter 27

“Three years? What made him suddenly make such a generous offer.”

George Stone was sitting up in bed in the jail wing of San Francisco General. He was still weak from the  original stabbing attack, as well as from the frightening experience of the fake doctor’s mysterious presence. But he was feeling well enough that he could now sit up and talk and eat solid food – even his strength lasted for only a few hours each day. It was late afternoon now and Stone had rested for a few hours after lunch.

“Because he wants something in return.”

Alex was watching George Stone carefully now.

“What?”

“Russ Mitchell.”

Stone looked visibly shaken, but recovered his composure quickly.

“Who’s Russ Mitchell?”

“The man who staggered into Kell’s Bar and Restaurant with the semi-conscious Cornelius O’Neil – AKA Corny – after he’d captured him and drugged him. Mitchell is the man who poured a can of Irn Bru down Corny’s throat to wake him up and then left him there for you to follow him and kill him in that back alley.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Stone, trying hard to sound confused.

Alex decided to go on the offensive, realizing that a little bit of aggression goes a long way.

“I’m talking about the execution of a photographer called John Macadam because he had photographs of the murder of Crown Prince Hashem of Bahakabir using carbon monoxide after a skiing accident that was presumably arranged! I’m talking about Macadam being so eager to cash in, that he was already trying to sell the pictures before he’d even developed the film – presumably using the electronic pictures as bait. I’m talking about an SAS soldier called Corny O’Neil forcing Macadam to give him the pictures and then killing Macadam to keep his mouth shut! And I’m talking about O’Neil having a breakdown and holding back one of the rolls of film and the British sending out another SAS man, called Russ Mitchell, to kill O’Neil. Only SAS men don’t kill their own. It’s against their code of honor. So instead, they track them down and point the finger for another man to do the job. That’s why Mitchell had to get a friend from outside the SAS to kill Corny. And I think we both know who that friend was.”

Alex was looking Stone to see his reaction. Strangely, Stone seemed to have recovered his wits.

“And we know this because?”

“Because I found his website… you know… the one with the white on white text.”

Stone looked deflated, but also confused.

“But Mitchell’s name…”

He trailed off. And they both well knew why. Mitchell indeed wasn’t mentioned on the website. At the time that O’Neil had prepared the text for the website – or at least the version of the text that Alex saw – Corny O’Neil presumably didn’t know the name of the man the British had sent to hunt him down.

“He came to my office,” Alex explained.

Stone looked shell-shocked.

“You… you met him?”

“I wasn’t there. But Juanita was.”

“Juanita?”

“My future law partner.”

“Why did he go to your office?”

“He wanted to talk to me. He wanted to make sure that I did the best for you… to get you off. I guess he’ll do as much for you as you did for him – well… almost.”

Alex wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing by saying this. Telling his client effectively how loyal Mitchell was still being, would make Stone less likely to take the deal that Hector Garcia was offering. But Alex knew that he had to be honest with his client. It was his client’s right to choose. His duty was to be one hundred percent straight and honest and candid with his client and then hope that his client would make the right decision.

“And you want me to turn him in?”

“No George, the DA wants you to turn him. At this stage all I want you to do is tell me the truth.”

George Stone appeared to be struggling, as if he couldn’t cope with this new situation in which Alex knew so much.

“Wha… what do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

*     *

Wainwright always had trouble with the American accent but he managed to get it right when he visited the jail. He was sitting in front of a prisoner called Paul Dunne under the guise of being a lawyer. The credentials, ostensibly from a white shoe law firm, had been easy enough to fake. And the firm was so large that if anyone had been suspicious, they would have had to go through several layers of bureaucracy to check out their suspicions.

The fact that he had used the name of a real associate at the firm also made it harder to check. If they did make it through the red tape, they would have been told that yes, James Cunningham did work at the law firm and yes he was indeed a criminal lawyer. Of course he did not represent Paul Dunne. He did not represent indigent clients period. And John Dunne was an indigent client who could certainly not afford the read James Cunningham’s fees.

But to find this out, they would have had to make it through to either Cunningham himself or Cunningham’s paralegal. They might have been able to find out by consulting the accounts department, but the accounts department wouldn’t waste their time running checks for outsiders. They’d refer the inquirer to Cunningham himself.

A small-time drug dealer and burglar, Paul Dunne was a big man whom the other prisoners did not usually mess with. Although his girth was as much fat as muscle, it was hard fat and he was the kind of man who gets to run the prisoner side of the jail and not let others run him. But his luck had finally run out recently under the “three strikes” rule and despite his knowledge of how to play the system, he knew that he was now facing life-imprisonment and he had not only a mother and a wife, but also six kids to support.

But Dunne was not quite as poor as he once had been. That is, he had actually come into a sum of money recently, courtesy of the very same man who now sat before him in the guise of a white shoe lawyer. And the money in question had been in consideration for the stabbing – albeit unsuccessful – of one George Stone, a few weeks ago.

Although the stabbing itself had not resulted in the intended death of Stone, Dunne had managed to make a clean getaway without being detected and had successfully disposed of the knife. For this attempt and for his ongoing silence, Dunne had been generously handsomely rewarded. That is to say his wife and mother had been rewarded.

But the money, though quite substantial by their own poverty-stricken standards, had not been sufficient to keep the wolves at bay forever. And Dunne’s family could certainly use more cash if it were to come their way. Meanwhile, with no prospect of beating the rap, he was expecting to spend the rest of his life behind bars. He was, in short, a man who had nothing to lose.

Only three people in the world knew That it had been Dunne who stabbed George Stone.. Two of them were Wainwright and Dunne himself. The deputy who had “looked the other way” – Charlie Jackson – had also known, but he was now dead. The third man who knew was the man who had killed him Jackson.

“This time there’s no room for error… you can’t make a mistake this time.”

“But how am I going to get at him. He’s in the fuckin’ hospital.”

“Okay now listen carefully, don’t look. But just remember there’s a camera in the corner.”

“But they can’t hear us,” said Dunne.

“I know. But I’m going to pass you a few sheets of paper with some pills stuck to the underside by a couple of band aids.

“Pills? What for?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. I want you to look at the papers as if you’re reading it, take it below the table out of sight and get the band aid with the pills off and then look at it some more and then hand it back to me.”

“Okay,” said Dunne, still confused.

Wainwright handed over the papers. Dunne perused them while Wainwright spoke.

“I want you to take the yellow one them after a meal.”

“What for?”

“It’ll make you sick.”

“Hey, wait a minute…”

“Don’t worry. It’s not going to kill you. It’ll just make you throw up. It may also give you a temperature.”

Dunne lowered the papers below the table and extracted the pills, wrapped in tissue paper. He put them in his pocket with one hand while holding up the printed papers with the other. He pretended to read them.

“When you throw up you just tell the doctor you’re feeling really bad and you’re sweating. They’ll be worried that you may have something infectious and they won’t want you to infect anyone else, so they’ll send you to the jail ward at San Francisco General.”

Dunne handed back the papers to Wainwright.

“But won’t they have guards there?”

“Yes, they probably will. But you’ll be so ill that they won’t worry about you.”

“Wait a minute, you said it wasn’t dangerous.”

“And it isn’t. But it will make you throw up. You may have to do a bit of play-acting and pretend that you feel worse than you really do. And be polite, don’t be aggressive. Be all very apologetic and sorry and even say you don’t need to go to the hospital. Make it seem like it’s their decision.”

“And what am I supposed to do when I get there.”

“You’ll spend the first few hours recovering. But when you start to feel better, don’t let on. Make them think you’re still in a bad way. You need to be steady on your feet when you do this, but if you seem like you’ve recovered, they might move you out and take you back here.”

“But how am I supposed to kill him? I won’t be able to smuggle a weapon in there?”

“That’s what the other pills are for. However, you’ll also have to locate a syringe.”

“Wait a minute, I can’t just stab him! I mean they’ll know it was me.”

“You’re looking at life without parole anyway.”

“Yes but they can call it special circumstances. I could get the death penalty.”

“Yes, but they’re not going to know it was you.”

“But how? Do you want me to make it look like it was one of the deputies? Or suicide?”

“If you just listen to me, I’ll tell a way of doing it that they won’t even know he was killed at all. It’ll look like natural circumstances.”

*     *

“Corny and Mitchell were friends,” George Stone was explaining. “They’d served together in the Green Jackets as well as the SAS. But they could both be equally ruthless. And when Corny had his breakdown and there was a danger of him blabbing his mouth off, it was Russ Mitchell who was given the job of tracking him down.”

“They asked his friend to track him down? That sounds like something out of ancient Rome.”

Stone looked at Alex blankly.

“Testing whether their loyalty to their friend was greater than their loyalty to Rome.”

Stone smiled at Alex’s explanation.

“There may be something in that. I mean, maybe they did want to test his loyalty. But the main reason was that they knew each other’s habits, understood each other, so Mitchell was able to think like Corny. Of course they had several leads because of the website and they could track where people log on from. I mean it was the website that first alerted them to the threat. They figured that Corny might sing like a canary and they didn’t want him to. Remember he still had the film he got from Macadam – the one he didn’t hand over to them. That meant he had more than gossip: he had proof!”

Alex noted that Stone sounded a lot more intelligent now that he no longer had to pretend. He was still a homeless man – that at least was not a pose – but he wasn’t stupid. He was an intelligent man who was down on his luck. Alex idly wondered how many homeless people fell into that category. But right now he had to press on.

“Mitchell couldn’t actually kill Corny O’Neil could he?  The old SAS code of honor.”

“I suppose it was Maureen who told you about that.”

Alex was surprised.

“Oh you know Maureen?”

“Not personally. But like I told you, her husband and Mitchell were friends. And you said you spoke to his wife. So I assume she’s already told you quite a bit.”

“Yes.”

“And you know about the code of honor and how they’ll track the quarry down and set him up with the Judas kiss–”

Alex opened his mouth at this.

“That’s what they call it,” Stone explained.

“And you know this because…?

“C…c… can’t you guess?”

“Mitchell told you?”

“Of course.”

“And you were Mitchell’s right hand. He used you as his executioner.”

“Exactly.”

“So presumably you didn’t know Corny directly. I mean Mitchell had to ID him.”

“Yes. But he told me about Corny. Told me that he’d been a first class soldier before his breakdown. It’s just that… after what happened with Macadam… he just lost it completely.”

“Why after Macadam? I mean surely that was nothing compared to his daughter?”

“Yes, he was already fragile after what he did to his daughter. But that was one moment of madness in automatic mode followed by repentance for life. With Macadam it was different. What he did to Macadam was slower and more drawn out. He had to knowingly torture a man who hadn’t really done any grievous wrong.”

“Not done wrong? Wasn’t Macadam threatening to reveal things that were damaging to the British government?”

“Yes but that wasn’t what he was trying to do. He wasn’t a terrorist. He wasn’t an enemy soldier. He wasn’t a spy giving away military secrets that might threaten the security of the free world. He was just a photographer doing his job. Yes, his actions might cause embarrassment to the British government. But only because other people had done something wrong. But Macadam was deemed to be a threat by Corny’s superiors and so Corny had to kill him – and torture him first. And then afterwards it played on his conscience and it wouldn’t go away. Especially when it was added on top of the guilt that he already felt over his daughter.”

“You sound like you sympathize with him.”

“With who? Corny or Macadam?”

Alex thought for a moment.

“Well both I guess.”

“You’re right. I do!”

“And yet you were a hundred percent loyal to Mitchell.”

“Still am.”

“Would it be disloyal of you to explain to me certain things about – how shall I put it – the technical side of this operation.”

“Probably not. But remember you told me that you didn’t want me to say anything that might limit the scope of my defense.”

“We’ve gone past that stage. Anyway, what I want to ask you about isn’t the killing of Macadam, but the killing of Prince Hashem.”

“I don’t really know much about that. I mean I know it happened, but it wasn’t Corny’s operation. Corny only became involved when he was assigned to retrieve the film from Macadam.”

“Okay, but there was something on Corny’s website that I didn’t understand. He said the pictures showed that Prince Hashem was killed by carbon monoxide being administered under the guise of giving him oxygen after the skiing accident.”

“Yes… that’s what I heard too.”

“But this is the thing that doesn’t make sense. Why the skiing accident? I mean presumably they didn’t just get lucky. So they must have done something to create the skiing accident. But why use a skiing accident as well as carbon monoxide? Why not just carbon monoxide?”

Stone smiled at Alex’s naivety.

“And how would they get anywhere near him to administer it? You think the crown prince of a wealthy oil state – surrounded by bodyguards – is going to let some one clamp a mask over him and poison him with carbon monoxide?”

“Couldn’t they use some other sort of poison. Slip it into his drink or something?”

“And then what? Even if the killers weren’t identified, it would still come out that Prince Hashem was poisoned. Presumably the plan was to make it seem like natural causes. Once it becomes known that he was poisoned, then it starts raising questions about who did it.”

“But wouldn’t the same thing happen with carbon monoxide?”

“Only if they were looking. That’s the whole point. An accident provided the necessary cover. They’re not going to look for poison if there was an accident.”

“But they’d find it in the autopsy. I mean they’d do blood tests – that’s practically automatic”

“Yes but it wouldn’t necessarily be identified as the cause of death. And carbon monoxide can be explained away from other causes. Also, I’m not sure if they even did an autopsy. You have to remember that in Islam – as in Judaism – the dead have to be buried as quickly as possible. Autopsies are allowed in cases of suspicious circumstances of death. But with the skiing accident, there was nothing really suspicious. The accident explained it.”

“Yes but he died in Switzerland – and so Swiss law would apply.”

“He was a crown prince of a foreign state and he probably had sovereign immunity. Even if he didn’t, the Swiss are intensely pragmatic – especially when it comes to dealing with foreign governments.”

“But if whoever did it arranged the skiing accident then why not just use the accident? Why bother with the carbon monoxide as well.”

“Again, because they have to be sure. A skiing accident might kill a person. But like a car accident there’s no guarantee. And poison or toxic gas will work if you can get close enough, but then even if it goes undetected, you’d have to explain why a healthy, fit, young person who had regular check-ups with a private physician would suddenly die of natural causes. This way you’ve got all the bases covered: an accident to create the credible context for the death and the carbon monoxide to guarantee that the death of the target actually occurs.”

“And how do you arrange a skiing accident?”

“I guess you sabotage the skis. Or maybe shoot the person with pellet in the knee from a high velocity air gun when they’re going down the slope at high speed. It won’t kill them. But it’ll hurt them and throw them off balance. And of course the injuries can then be explained by the accident.”

Alex realized that he had got as much from Stone as he could. At the back of his mind, he wondered how much of what Stone was telling him was knowledge and how much was supposition. After all, everything he knew came from Mitchell. But it was Corny, not Mitchell who had killed Macadam. And it was Macadam who had photographed the killing of Prince Hashem.

At the back of Alex’s mind a thought was forming. Was it possible that Mitchell knew a lot more about the killing of the prince than he could merely have got from a briefing his superiors? Was it possible that Mitchell had direct knowledge of the killing of Prince Hashem that even Corny O’Neil did not have. Was Mitchell ready to hunt down his friend and set him up for death not merely because that was what his superiors had told him to do, but rather because Mitchell himself stood to be exposed as the killer of Prince Hashem? That would certainly explain Mitchell’s readiness to hunt down a former friend.

But it wouldn’t explain everything. There were still a few loose ends. Alex decided to broach the matter indirectly, by focusing on the reason why he was here officially.

“Okay George  I think I understand what happened. But none of this changes the fact that you killed Corny O’Neil and the DA can prove it. I may be able to throw up smoke screens, but I don’t think they’ll work. So the question is: are you ready to take the deal?”

“You already knew Russ Mitchell’s name. And I’ve confirmed that it was him. What more do you want?”

“His location.”

“I don’t know his location. It probably doesn’t stay the same for long anyway. You have to understand, this is a man who can live off the land and stay in hiding as long as he likes – just like Corny.”

“Do you have a way of contacting him?”

Stone looked down at the floor.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, so let’s say I can contact him. What do you want me to do? Tell him to turn himself in so I can get a deal?”

“You can lure him out of hiding.”

“Set a trap for my friend?”

“The time for that sort of loyalty is long past.”

“He’s still loyal to me! You told me what he said in your office.”

“Yes, but that’s just his military mentality. You’re not an ex-soldier. Or are you?”

Stone looked up.

“You think civilians don’t have any loyalty? Like what? You don’t have any loyalty to your clients?”

“Of course I have loyalty to my clients! Why the hell do you think I’m doing all I can to help you?”

Stone nodded, as if he had scored some kind of a victory.

“Then you’ll understand why I can’t betray him.”

Alex stared at his client long and hard.

“What is it?... what is this strange hold he has over you? And why does he trust you so completely that he was ready to use a man in your condition to do a soldiers job?”

Stone was quiet for a long time, his breathing labored. Finally he answered.

“He saved my life!”

Chapter 28

Paul Dunne waited till after the evening meal and then took the emetic pill that the man calling himself “James Cunningham” had given him. He wondered who the man really was. All he knew was that he was a man with plenty of money to throw away, a man who knew how to impersonate a lawyer and a man who wanted the prisoner called “George Stone” dead.

He didn’t have a clue why this man wanted Stone dead. All that mattered was that this man was taking care of Dunne’s family financially and would continue to do so as long as Dunne helped him and did his bidding. But this time Cunningham had upped the ante. Because whereas before he had given his instructions and made the arrangements through Deputy Charlie Jackson, he had now come out into the open, in the guise of a defense attorney, and come face to face with Dunne himself.

And the reason for this, Dunne knew, was because Charlie Jackson had been killed. No one had told the officially, but the word had spread throughout the jail like wildfire. First Deputy Jackson had been suspended because of his questionable actions in the period surrounding the non-fatal stabbing of George Stone. And then, while at home on suspension, he had been killed and apparently also beaten up rather badly beforehand.

Paul Dunne couldn’t avoid the thought that what happened to Jackson might have had something to do with his role in the stabbing of George Stone. And if that was the case, then Dunne wondered if he too might be a target. But then again he was in jail… only then again so had Stone been.

He forced himself not to think of these things. He was not a weakling like Stone or Jackson. He was a man who could fight off three or four other prisoners if he had to.

So why do I need to be afraid of a little pill?

He found out what he had to be afraid of about ten to fifteen minutes later when he began projectile vomiting of the evening meal. He hadn’t expected it to be so bad, or so violent. And the worst part was that because of the way his head was thrashing about, it also gave him a terrible instant headache. It was almost unbearable. He fell to the ground on all fours, struggling to bring it under control or get the food out of his system completely.

“What’s happening? What’s the matter?”

Several deputies were gathered around him. They knew he was not malingering because they could see the vomit. They just didn’t want to get it on their nice clean uniforms.

“Call a medic!” shouted one.

“Call a doctor!”

Dunne’s eyes were closed and the throbbing pain in his head was agonizing.

Was all this just a trick to kill me?

Wondering if “Cunningham” had actually been not the man who bribed Deputy Jackson, but the man who killed him, Dunne felt the room spinning and going dark.

*     *

Maureen O’Neil was staying at the Super Eight Motel in Anaheim during her three day visit to Disneyland. She and little Amy were on their way to dinner after a long and tiring day, spent partially on the rides, but mostly queuing for them. But Maureen was troubled. She had told Alex Sedaka and Hector Garcia a lot, possibly even too much. But something was troubling her.

She had suspected, when she was first told of Corny’s death in America, that he had been killed because of what he knew and what he had done in his last mission. But she had also wondered about why he had come specifically to America rather than gone into hiding in Europe. It might have been the language, but he could just as easily have gone to Australia, where he had been before and could probably have blended in more easily – not to mention staying hidden.

She had told Garcia and Sedaka that Corny had always wanted to come out here to the USA, which was true. And she had told them that he wanted to test his mettle against the land – which was also true. In fact, her suspicion had been that he came out there to die. As if, living off the land in America had been his dying wish.

But there was something on her mind that was troubling her: the thought that Corny had a more specific reason for coming out here, not just to the United States, but to California in particular. She had kept it to herself and not confided in either the DA nor the lawyer representing George Stone. But the more she thought about it, the harder it was to keep it to herself. She knew that she was supposed to keep quiet. Silence was standard for the wife of an army officer – especially one who worked on special operations. But keeping secrets was hard. It was a weight on her mind and she had to find some way to alleviate it.

Finally she decided to make the call. Remembering that hotels charged ridiculous rates for phone calls, she whipped out her “mobile” phone and called the number that Alex Sedaka had given her, not realizing that she was being watched.

*     *

“I was a civilian aid worker in Iraq.”

“You told me that. That’s how you lost your leg: stepping on a mine.”

“That’s right.”

In the silence that followed, Alex’s mind filled in the missing link.

“And Mitchell saved you?”

“Yes. I was bleeding. The lower part of my leg was blown off and I would have bled to death. None of the medics wanted to take a chance of stepping out onto the mine field to rescue me. They were making for the army sappers to come along. But I’d’ve been dead by then. Then C… c… came my salvation.”

Stone had a tendency to lapse into the most peculiar phraseology when he was overwhelmed by the emotions of what he was describing, Alex thought. He also had a tendency to stutter at such times.

“Your salvation being…”

“Mitchell. I don’t know if there were any other soldiers with him when he turned up. But he was the one who ran out into the minefield and rescued me. He wasn’t a sapper, but that didn’t stop him. He was oblivious to danger. He was trained as a soldier and he acted like a soldier. He saw a man in danger and he saved me without hesitation.”

“And that’s why your so loyal to him,” said Alex, finally understanding.

“You sound like you’re surprised.”

“Not really. Now that I know, it makes perfect sense.”

“Then you’ll also understand why I can’t betray Mitchell. Okay so you know his name. But I don’t know where he is or how to contact him. I mean I suppose I could try a few things that might get through to him. But there’s no guarantee. And even if I could, there’s no way I’d be ready to do so. He saved my life and there’s no way I’m going to betray him. If I go down for life so be it. If it wasn’t for… if it wasn’t for Mitchell, I wouldn’t even have a life.”

Alex and Stone stared at each other for a long time. It wasn’t a face off contest – just an attempt by one to explain and by the other to understand. After a few seconds, Alex realized that his client wasn’t going to change his mind. Nodding resignedly, Alex gathered up his papers and prepared to leave.

As he was leaving, he noticed a flurry of activity at the entrance as the security door was opened and a gurney was wheeled into the ward.

“What’s going on?” he asked the deputy guarding the entrance.

The deputy shrugged and turned to the doctor.

“Another patient.”

“From the jail?”

“That’s the only patients they bring in here.”

“What’s wrong with him.”

“He threw up after dinner.”

“That’s it?”

“Projectile vomiting. Suspected food poisoning at the jail.”

“Only one?”

“So far. They’re checking the food. But he’s the only one who seems to have come down with symptoms.”

Alex looked down at the man and saw some one who genuinely looked sick. He shook his head and walked on.

Outside, he switched on his cell phone and checked for messages and eMails. It was early evening and he guessed that the office was closed. But they might have left him a message. There was nothing from Juanita or Leary – neither eMail nor text message – but there was a voicemail message from an unknown number. He called his voicemail and heard the stressed out voice of Maureen O’Neil.

“Hallo, Mr. Sedaka, this is Maureen, Corny’s widow. Listen I have something to tell you but I don’t want to leave a message. I took Amy to Disneyland and I’ll be staying at the Super Eight Motel in Anaheim. Please call me ASAP. It’s something really important and it may help your client. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing, but there’s something I need to tell–”

Well!

That was strange. It sounded like she had been cut off mid-sentence. But there were no other messages, so evidently she hadn’t called back. Maybe her cell phone battery gone flat. But if she was staying at a hotel then why didn’t she call back from there? Alex’s mind went into overdrive with paranoid speculation. Had something happened to her? He tried to call her back, but it went straight through to voice mail.

Something important!

Then why not call again? Or even leave a message saying what it was she wanted to tell him? Why this cageyness?

It may help your client!

Was that just a “come on” to get him to call? Why would she want to help his client? Even if she was estranged from her husband, why would she want to help the man who killed him? Then again, that whole network of relationships was complicated. Stone had told him that Russ Mitchell had been Corny’s friend. And George Stone himself was, in turn, Mitchell’s friend. It was almost like they were all a close-knit network of friends, even if fate had set them at each other’s throats. So maybe she really was trying to help, whatever her reason.

Walking back to his car, he logged on to the internet and got the hotel’s phone number. Then he put a call through to them.

“Super Eight Motel. Can I help you?”

“Hallo, yes, I’d like to speak to a guest called Maureen O’Neil. I don’t know what room she’s in.”

“I’m connecting you now.”

It rang for a few seconds and then he heard:

“The guest you are calling is not answering if you would like to leave a message press One. To return to the switchboard press Two.”

There was no point talking to the desk again. What could they do? They wouldn’t be able to tell him if she was in the room or not, so he might as well leave a message. He pressed 1.

“Hi Mrs. O’Neil, it’s Alex Sedaka. I got your message, but it cut off in the middle. I don’t know if there was a problem with your phone, but can you please call me back.”

He considered leaving an additional message on her cell phone. But what would be the point?

The question was, what to do now. Was there any significance in the fact that she had rung off? Cell phones do cut out. When they run out of juice. When you go into a tunnel. If you’re on pay-as-you-go and run out of credit. If you enter an area with no coverage.

Maybe it was nothing. But why hadn’t she tried again from the hotel? Maybe she hadn’t got there yet. Maybe she decided not to because she was in any case merely leaving a message on a machine. She wanted to talk to him, not just leave another message.

She said she was going to be staying at the Super Eight Motel. Maybe she wasn’t there at the moment. Maybe she was having dinner. He could always phone back later. But what if there really was a problem. He could call the police. He could call them right now. But what would he tell them? That some one left a message calling from a cell phone and got cut off? So what! That they didn’t call back? Again, so what! That you’re a big hotshot lawyer and you demand they check it out?

He knew that if he wanted something done about it, he’d have to do it himself. But again… what? Was he supposed to just drop everything and go there? It was a seven hour drive. Sure he could fly to LAX, pick up a rental car and drive there? But would that be any quicker? It depended on the flights and what was available.

He looked at his watch. 6:11 PM. If he started driving there now, he’d get there after midnight – more like one in the morning actually. But how urgent was it?

Maybe it can wait till tomorrow?

But then again maybe not!

She said she had something to tell him. He needed all the information he could get. But information could wait till morning. The trouble was, it wasn’t the information that he was worried about. It was Maureen O’Neil herself. There was nothing he could say that could get the police to go there and check if she was all right. But by the same token there was nothing he could think of to reassure himself that she was all right.

He decided in that instant to drive down to Anaheim. He would still try to call her to see if he could get any information. But he wouldn’t waste time sitting around in San Francisco. He would either meet her or get the information over the phone. But one way or another he would find out what was so urgent.

*     *

It was a few minutes later, in Ward 7D at San Francisco General Hospital, that Paul Dunne awoke from his slumber. He had been sedated upon his arrival, but he was starting to awaken.

The immediate effects of the emetic were also beginning to wear off, but he was still too weak to do anything. He tried to focus his eyes in the dim light, but it was hard. He knew he was here for a purpose. But he couldn’t remember what that was. He only knew that he had to wake himself up and remember. His children’s future as well as that of his wife and mother depended upon it.

Chapter 29

Alex was taking exit 8B from the Lincoln Highway to get onto Interstate 580 East. Around him was nothing but parched, dry land and the occasional low building and telegraph poles. It felt like flat land.

He’d been driving for ten minutes and with his Bluetooth earpiece practically burning his right ear, he had made several unsuccessful attempts to call Maureen O’Neil. He decided instead to call Juanita. She didn’t answer her home phone so he tried her cell phone.

“Hallo.”

“Hi Juanita, sorry to bother you, but –”

“Hi boss. Why don’t you call me on the land line.”

“I just did you didn’t answer.”

“Funny, it didn’t ring. Are you sure you called the right number.”

“It’s on speed dial – unless you’ve changed your number recently.”

“Wait, did you call my home?”

“Yes, why, where are you?”

“I’m at the office.”

“Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“A woman’s work is never done.”

“Okay hold on, I’ll call you on the land line.”

He called again, this time to the office. She answered after one ring.

“Hi Alex.”

“Hi Juanita. Sorry I know you’re busy. Can you fill me in. Anything happen after I left for the jail?”

“Not really. All the excitement was in the morning.

“As in Russ Mitchell’s surprise visit.”

“Yes. What about you?”

“I’m on my way to Anaheim.”

“Anaheim? I’m slaving away at my desk and your off to Disneyland!”

He explained about Maureen O’Neil’s call.

“Okay boss, like Gandhi you must do what you must do.”

“I think you’re confusing Gandhi with Robin Williams.”

He hung up and had another go at calling Maureen O’Neil. Still voice mail.

*     *

The IPCRESS-IP system was active again in the special unit at GCHQ assigned to Operation HOMM – an acronym formed from the first letters of the names Hassan, O’Neil, Macadam and Mitchell.

This time it was the name “Maureen O’Neil” that had served as the trigger. And this time, there were revised operational instructions. The head of MI6 had to be notified by text message to his “mobile” phone that he had a message in his inbox with an attachment. Also, General Sir Roger Carson, the Chief of the Defense Staff had to be copied into any such messages.

Apparently they had lost precious time last night when an important message had been sent to Sir Geraint Purdue’s inbox out of hours and he hadn’t received it until the following morning.

This time there would be no delays as the encrypted file sped its way from Cheltenham to London. Both the head of MI6 and the Chief of General Staff would know about this latest development within seconds if they chose to check their mobile phones.

*     *

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but now he was awake again. It was dark and Paul Dunne struggled to remember where he was. There were other beds. But he wasn’t in the jail. He was in… a hospital ward.

Yes! That was it.

He was in the jail wing of San Francisco General Hospital. He had been sick… and they had brought him here.

But he had a reason for being here. He had made himself sick. He swallowed a pill. His lawyer had given it to him… Cunningham… no… that wasn’t his real name. It was some one calling himself Cunningham and putting on a phony American accent.

But what was he supposed to do? He was in here with another prisoner.

Stone!

George Stone.

That was it. He had to kill George Stone. Stone was in there… in another bed in the ward. There was guard there. But he was reading a paper. And some point he’d have to go to the bathroom. But there was a problem… Paul Dunne couldn’t get up… he couldn’t get out of the bed… not because he was handcuffed. His hands were free… both of them.

He just couldn’t rouse himself from his lethargy.

Then again, what did it matter. George Stone wasn’t going anywhere.

*     *

“It has to be tonight, there’s no more time.”

“And how am I gonna get my homies over to the basin before he gets there?”

Wainwright was back in the bar with Mister Fixit. And this time he wasn’t as calm as before. He had received a call from C and it was made clear to him in no uncertain terms that they were facing a major threat to their containment policy. It had actually come as quite a surprise when he discovered who the source of the threat was.

“Haven’t you got anyone down there who can do it.”

“Man you don’t understand jack shit. My turf is up here in the Bay Area. The basin’s a whole different ball game man.”

“Can’t you call in a favor. Don’t you have… like… alliances with some of the LA gangs?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know… the Crips maybe.”

There was a gasp from Mr. Fixit’s minders at the neighboring tables. For a minute, Wainwright thought he might have to fight his way out of there. But he was greeted by a smile on Fixit’s face.

“Man you don’t know Jack shit about street gangs. The Crips hate out guts.”

“What about the Bloods then?”

“Trust me man, you may have read a few names in Wikipedia, but you Brits don’t know diddly-squat about the street.”

“Okay, so help me out here. I’m whistling in the dark but I’ll pay top dollar to get the job done.”

Mister Fixit seemed to weigh this in his mind. Then after a few seconds he smiled again.

“All right, but it’ll cost you twenty grand.”

“Twenty K?” Wainwright repeated.

“You tipped your hand. Said it was important.”

Wainwright realized now just how shrewd a businessman Mister Fixit was. But then again gangsters and businessmen were really just two sides of the same coin – and of course one could say the same about gangsters and politicians. But the one fear nagging away at Wainwright’s mind was the possibility that Mister Fixit might just take his money and then not deliver on the service. After all, it wasn’t as if Wainwright had any obvious redress. I mean he could kill Mister Fixit – he had the skill to stalk him and kill him and make a clean getaway. But he could hardly threaten that now unless he wanted to get killed on the spot himself or at minimum beaten senseless.

Then again, it didn’t work like that. People like Mister Fixit made their name by delivering on their promises. You don’t get a name like Mister Fixit by letting people down. You get it by showing all and sundry that you’re a man of your word and once you take the money, you get the job done.

On the other hand, it was a lot of money. But maybe therein lay the guarantee.

“Okay, but I haven’t got the cash on me. I don’t know if I can get it in the next few hours, but I can get it by tomorrow morning.”

Wainwright realized that now he was the one asking for trust – even though this guy barely knew him from Adam.

“Relax man. Your credit’s could with me. But I don’t want cash. I’ll make some calls and have the job done tonight but you just make sure you bring me fifteen ounces of gold by ten O’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Gold?”

“24 Karat, nine hundred and ninety nine fine. Ten O’clock tomorrow morning. And clean gold. I don’t want nothin’ from a heist.”

“The only gold I’d know how to get is  clean gold,” said Wainwright, sounding somewhat embarrassed at the confession.

Not sure of the procedure, Wainwright held out his hand. Mister Fixit spoke again.

“Let me get this straight, you don’t want us to kill them, just hold them?”

“That’s right.”

“Good answer, cause we don’t like hurting women and we definitely draw the line at children.”

“Just hold them. It shouldn’t be more than twenty four hours, but just in case, plan on three days.”

“No problem.”

“And it has to be tonight… in the next few hours.”

“Just stay cool man. Like I said, I’ll make the calls.”

Wainwright nodded. Only then did Mister Fixit take his hand and give him a firm handshake.

*     *

Maureen was tossing and turning, trying to get to sleep. She looked at the illuminated wall clock. It said 00:45. Nearly one in the morning. She had dozed off earlier but then woken up again and was now unable to get back to sleep. She wondered why Alex Sedaka hadn’t called her back. She could call him again in the morning, but she wished that he had called her back tonight. There was so much that she wanted to tell him.

She checked the mobile phone that was charging by the bed. It was now fully charged. But there were no messages or voice mails. And he hadn’t called the hotel either. Then she remembered that she hadn’t actually checked. In fact she had taken disconnected the phone as soon she got there so that Amy wouldn’t be disturbed when she put her to bed. She knew that the first few hours of sleep were the most crucial ones – and the evening and early night were the most likely to times to receive a call – so she had followed her usual routine of disconnecting the phone. She had just forgotten to put it back.

She did so now and noticed that there was a message. Looking over at little Amy, sleeping peacefully, she listened to it, holding the phone away from her daughter so the sound would not disturb her.

It was Alex… and he was telling her that her call got cut off in the middle. She had noticed that the battery of her mobile had gone flat after the call, but she didn’t realize that the call itself had been cut off. He was probably worried about her. She decided to call him back to reassure him. She was no longer sure if she wanted to tell him what she had originally called about. Perhaps it was a big mistake. But she couldn’t just leave it hanging in the air between them. She might have to fudge it and offer a partial explanation only. But she couldn’t just let him worry about her and the interrupted call.

But she didn’t want to awaken Amy, so she decided to use her mobile phone and to make the call from the bathroom, if there was a signal there. The bars at the top indicated that there was indeed a signal, but now it occurred to her, that he might well be asleep. She decided to send him a text instead.

Hi Mr S, all OK, in hotel, bat needed rechrj. Just got yr msg. wil cal 2moro.

Then she put the phone on silent and vibrate and went back into the bedroom. But within seconds the phone was vibrating and flashing. She looked at it. It was Alex Sedaka. She went back into the bathroom.

“Hallo Mr. Sedaka,” she said as quietly as she could.

“Mrs. O’Neil! I was worried about you.”

He sounded relieved. She realized now much of a panic she had started.

“I know I’m sorry. Look I’m okay.”

“Why are you whispering.”

“My daughter’s asleep in the bedroom. I’m in the bathroom.”

“Oh sorry. Look I can call back in the morning. It’s just that I…”

He trailed off. She sensed that there was something he wanted to tell her. But she realized now that it was a big mistake to tell him the whole story. She realized now that she’d have to come up with a cover story.

“Look, I guess I was being a bit more cagey than I needed to be. You see, the thing is… my late husband had friends out here in California… from his training days. They did some joint training exercises… with the Green Berets I think.”

“Not with the SEALS?”

It sounded to Maureen like he was almost laughing when he said it.

“Not as far as I know – well actually it might have been. Actually I think the SBS trained with the SEALS and the SAS with the Green Berets. Well anyway, the point is, he may have come out here to meet up with some of his friends. Maybe he thought they could hide him. I mean I don’t know that. But it’s possible. I just thought you should know that… in case it’s any use to you.”

“Okay well thank you.”

She could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“Well anyway. I just thought…”

She also thought she heard something else… something like the sound of someone fiddling with a lock.

*     *

The dark road was eerily quiet and the sound Alex heard apart from the quiet engine of the Lincoln was Maureen O’Neil’s voice and now even that had fallen silent.

“Mrs. O’Neil,” said Alex, wondering what was happening.

“Please…” It was a whisper, even quieter than before.

“What?”

“Please help me. They’re in the room…”

Then the line went dead.

“Mrs. O’Neil! Mrs. O’Neil!”

It was no use. The line was silent. He thought of calling back, but then he realized that that would only alert whoever was there to the fact that she had called some one. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He realized that he was very near to the motel. There was no need to call back. He could just drive there.

He floored it, not caring if he drew the attention of the California Highway Patrol. In fact if he could get a police escort with a siren, so much the better.

As he drew near, he saw the motel ahead of him and saw a black jeep Cherokee lurching out of the motel parking lot and swerving right abruptly onto Disneyland Drive. Its tires screeched as it made the sharp turn and its engine gunned as it lurched away.

Was that them? Had they done something to Maureen O’Neil and were now fleeing?

He could phone back to Maureen’s cell phone. But if they had done something, he would get no answer. And in the meantime they would be getting away. He couldn’t help her by calling. He had to stay with the Cherokee. He kept his foot down on the gas, determined to keep them in his sights. At the next intersection, the jeep hung a left, taking it under the underpass. Alex followed in his Lincoln, expecting to see the jeep tearing up West Ball Road.

But it wasn’t there. The sound of his own car had masked the sound outside, but he realized that the jeep had done a hairpin U-turn and was now heading north on Disneyland Drive. He stuck with them as they veered to the right on Interstate-5 North.

They were headed for Los Angeles!

He had to stay with them. But it wasn’t going to be easy. The Lincoln’s 305 horsepower, paled beside the Cherokee’s 465. That meant the difference between 4.8 seconds and 6.4 in the standard 0-60 MPH acceleration test.

But these figures were based on equivalent loads. Alex noticed, however, that he was gaining on them. And it soon became apparent why. For while Alex sat alone in his Lincoln MKX, there were quite a number of people in the Cherokee. In addition to the driver there were at least two other men and a woman. And as he drew level, he saw that the woman was a frightened-looking Maureen O’Neil.

Seized by a new sense of urgency, he willed his car forward. Then he decided to use his brain. In this stretch of road there was nothing to be gained by positioning to overtake before he was in any position to do so. He remembered some of the basic physics David had taught him and lined up in their slip stream. This meant he was facing less air resistance. David had taught him this in the context of fuel conservation. But by reducing the drag it could also increase the speed that he got out of the Lincoln when he went flat out at full throttle.

And sure enough he gained further and effectively closed the gap, until he was tailgating them. And they didn’t like it one bit. Easing up on the gas to avoid rear-ending them, he could see the man in the back seat with the woman, looking out of the rear window and frantically shouting something top the driver. Alex turned up his headlamps to dazzle the driver of the car in front. It also gave him a view of the man in the back seat, as well as the terrified look on Maureen O’Neil’s face. But it also showed him something else.

The man in the back had a gun. A handgun only, but a gun nevertheless – probably a Glock. And he was making no effort to hide it. He held it at Maureen’s head, as if to warn Alex to back off. But with the jeep tearing away at that speed, and rocking every now and again, he couldn’t hold it steady.

Alex decided that now was the time for a bit of psychology. He knew that if they had wanted to kill Maureen, they could have done it already. The fact that they hadn’t, implied that for some reason they wanted her alive. So he dimmed his headlight to let the man in the back of the Cherokee see him, when his eyes readjusted, and grinned broadly from ear to ear, mocking them and taunting them.

But then he saw something that frightened him even more. The man with the Glock lifted something into the air. The something was actually some one – Amy O’Neil.

He should have realized before. But it would have been frightening either way. If Amy had been left alone at the hotel alone it would hardly have been any better. But what made this particularly poignant was that Amy had woken up. And she was terrified. He couldn’t hear her, but at this proximity he could see her sobbing and screaming. She meet his eyes and seemed to be crying out to him to help.

In that moment he made a decision. He was going to stop the Cherokee – even if he had to ram them in his lighter vehicle. He swerved out to the left and floored it again. He gained on them rapidly, pulling level. He saw the driver and both the other men looking out at him with murder in their eyes. But he wasn’t going to let their anger stop him, nor their threats – nor even their guns. He met the driver’s eyes with a hard stare of his own, and then swung the steering wheel to the right, side-swiping them towards the sloping verge.

But the lighter Lincoln lacked the momentum of the Jeep and did little more than make it swerve slightly. The driver of the Cherokee reacted more with humor than anger, smiling at Alex’s audacious efforts and licking his lips with glee at the prospect of showing this uppity “suit” who was King of the Road. Then, with the smile still gleaming, he swung his own steering wheel to the left, ramming Alex’s Lincoln into the next lane. He followed it up a second time and a third, each time edging him further to the left as an overpass loomed ahead.

Then the man in the back of the Cherokee rolled down the window and, using his left hand to steady his right arm, took aim at Alex. At first Alex thought he was bluffing. When he squeezed off a shot that shattered the front passenger window Alex knew that this was no bluff. The bullet lodged somewhere in the foot well below the passenger seat, but Alex knew that he couldn’t count on the luck to continue. When the second shot came – in time with the Cherokee ramming him yet again – Alex ducked and swung the wheel to the left to minimize the impact.

But he had forgotten about the overpass. And as he swerved sharply, the Lincoln lurched to the left and struck a concrete column. Alex felt himself being thrown forward and sideways as the airbag exploded into life aggressively. There was a smashing of heavy metal on concrete, a screeching of rubber, a shattering of glass and a feeling of stomach-churning weightless as his car skidded ninety degrees, flew through the air and flipped over, landing on its roof.

When the dust settled, the eerie silence had returned. His head was spinning and he felt the pain shooting through his body. Then, with the world still spinning around him, he heard sirens in the distance and it all went dark.

Chapter 30

“Why are you doing this?”

“Just shut up and get your ass inside!”

The gang had taken Maureen and Amy to a house in 57th Street and were hustling them in. The house was essentially a bungalow but with a converted attic. Amy – in her mother’s arms – was still crying, but one of the gang had started acting friendly, like a big brother figure and calmed her down to the point that the tears were flowing silently down her cheeks instead of the loud wailing that at this time of night was likely to awaken the neighborhood.

But Maureen’s emotions were in turmoil. On the one hand they had kidnapped rather than killed them. On the other hand these were an unsavory crowd. One of them was nice. But the other two were aggressive and gave the impression that they didn’t care if she lived or died. They hadn’t been all that rough, brandishing their guns and a bit of arm grabbing, but no slaps or punches. They had kicked in the door to the bathroom, but had picked the lock of the motel door – presumably to avoid making the kind of noise that might have alerted other people.

But the thing that worried her most was what happened to Alex Sedaka. She hadn’t realized it when she was speaking to him on the phone, but he had evidently driven down to Anaheim from San Francisco and had pursued them on the freeway, after they had been kidnapped. It had been Alex Sedaka who tried to ram them onto the sloping verge by the roadside and Alex Sedaka whose car had smashed into a pillar in that overpass.

Maureen was desperate to know if he was alive or dead. He had risked his life for her and now she feared the worst. She had always prided herself on being self-sufficient, an army wife with a husband who was often away. But now for the first time in her life she felt helpless – uncertain of whether Alex  was alive or dead and unable to do anything to save herself or her daughter from these monsters who had kidnapped them and whose purpose remained a mystery to her.

And yet she knew that there was still a ray of hope as she felt the pain of her spontaneous effort at survival. She silently thanked Corny for teaching her the technique, even though she had laughed at the very thought of it at time.

*     *

“That tickles!” said Laurie Mason, giggling.

Laurie was in bed with Juanita, taking her turn on top after Juanita had played the dominant role. Juanita had just initiated the blonde into the delights of Sapphic sex, something that Alex would probably not have approved of. He didn’t believe in workplace relationships, especially in a small organization like his law practice. They could be very disruptive if they fell apart.

But they were both consenting adults and when Juanita had picked up on the subtle hints that Laurie had been sending out, the older woman had jumped at the chance to play Xena to Laurie’s Gabrielle.

“Wait a minute,” asked Juanita, mockingly, in response to Laurie’s hypersensitive reaction, “are you a virgin?”

“You’re a bit late with that question,” Laurie replied, still giggling.

“I mean men.”

Laurie rolled off Juanita and onto her back.

“I’ve never slept with a man in my life.”

Juanita turned to look at her to see if she was smiling. Even in profile, it was clear that she wasn’t. In a second, Juanita was on top of her, wearing her serious face. But she propped herself up with her hands on the pillow, keeping her weight off Laurie this time.

“Are you telling me the truth girl?”

“Uh-huh.”

Juanita now became concerned.

“Does that mean you’re gonna go all clingy on me?”

“Why? All I said was I’ve never slept with a man before.”

Laurie was grinning. Juanita was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“But I’ve slept with four boys.”

Now that caught Juanita from left of field. She had been expecting Laurie to say that this wasn’t actually her first experience with a woman. But instead she was merely marking the distinction between the mature male of the species and his more common immature counterpart.

“Four boys?” Juanita echoed, disapprovingly.

“Well not all at the same time of course.”

The blonde looked at Juanita wide-eyed, with an insolent grin, challenging her for a response. Juanita rolled off Laurie, put her hands underneath the younger woman’s body and with one swift movement of her strong, well-exercised arms, flipped the nineteen-year-old over onto her front. As the surprised Laurie opened her mouth to object, Juanita delivered a half dozen stinging smacks to Laurie’s buttocks, alternating between left and right.

While Laurie squealed her mock protest. Juanita spoke in a tone that parodied a Victorian nanny.

“If you’re going to be cheeky, young lady, you’re going to get punished.”

Laurie turned her head to look at Juanita, but kept her arms submissively at her side as she remained in the prone position.

“Cheeky?... How about sluttish?”

She realized almost immediately that it was unwise to taunt the older woman. But seconds later, she found herself face down over Juanita’s lap and the next few smacks came raining down in a torrent – not alternating, but blistering one side first and then the other – and they stung a lot more than the first lot.

Again Laurie faked her protest vociferously, while offering not the slightest physical resistance, save for the writhing and wriggling that intensified the stimulation she felt. Only the ringing of the phone brought her some unwelcome respite.

“Saved by the bell,” said Laurie, miserably.

“I haven’t finished with you yet, young lady,” Juanita replied firmly as she reached for the phone.

“Juanita speaking.”

She never said her full name in case it was a wrong number, but tried to professional by giving some information confirming her identity to callers.

“Hallo is that Juanita Cortez.”

“This is she.”

“I’m calling from the Anaheim Regional Medical Center. It’s about Alex Sedaka.”

A jolt shot through Juanita’s body.

“What’s happened to Alex?”

*     *

Alex could barely open his eyes and the throbbing pain in his head was his only reminder that he was still alive.

What time is it? Where am I?

“He’s coming round.”

“Alex… Mr. Sedaka… do you know where you are?”

He forced himself to open his eyes. Several people were looking down at him: a nurse, a couple of doctors… a police man. The doctor shone a light in his eyes, forcing him to squint.

“I need you to keep your eyes open sir, so that I can check you out.”

This was one of the doctors. He forced himself to hold his eyes open.

“Can you recite the alphabet sir?”

Why are they asking these questions? My problems are physical not mental!

He rattled off the alphabet while the other doctor did a couple of reflex tests on his knees and the soles of his feet. Then the lawyer added facetiously “Do you want it in Hebrew too?”

“No that’ll be just fine sir.” There was a slight cheerfulness in the doctor’s tone, as if the crusty defiance and flippancy of Alex’s reply were in some way re-assuring.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Wednesday. Why does that matter?”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay sir. Do you know who the president is?”

“He’s the man who sits in the Oval Office and pretends to run the country.”

“I mean his name sir.”

“Newt Gingrich?”

There was a nervous pause.

“You think Newt Gingrich is the president?”

“No, but if Newt Gingrich is the president then you might as well bury me. If it’s still Barak Obama then the prognosis is good.”

“I see you’ve got your sense of humor Mr. Sedaka,” said the doctor.

A cop was standing nearby. Alex could tell from the expression on the cop’s face that he didn’t share the doctor’s enthusiasm – or Alex’s political convictions.

After the tests were complete, Alex was told that he was in the Anaheim Regional Medical Centre and asked if he felt up to answering a few questions from the police. He answered in the affirmative and minutes later, though still in pain and feeling disoriented, he told them about the truncated message from Maureen, his unsuccessful attempts to call her, driving down there, her call back, the intruders and the chase. The only thing he had little recollection of was the accident itself.

When he finished talking, the cop said: “get some sleep. We may have some more questions in the morning.”

*     *

Laurie had thrown on her panties and a T-shirt and was sitting on one side of the bed with her feet on the floor, looking away from Juanita to give her some space. Juanita was now in her underwear but had more urgent things to do than get completely dressed. She was sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard, her knees drawn up against her. She had the phone in her hand, having just called Leary’s number. She thought it was going to ring-out when Leary’s familiar and most irritable voice answered.

“This had better be good.”

“Leary, it’s Juanita!”

“Juani – what the fuck babe! What’s up?”

“It’s Alex! He’s been injured.”

“Injured?”

“In a car accident. In Anaheim.”

“What the fuck’s he doing in Anaheim?”

She quickly rattled off the whole story.

“We need to get down there.”

“That’s what I was thinking. But there’s nothing we can do now. The first plane to LA doesn’t take off till five past six and it gets in at half past seven.”

“Okay, well let’s take it.”

“Right. I’ll rent a car online now so it’s all ready waiting for us at LAX. Oh and only take hand baggage. I don’t want to stand around by a carousel for an hour.”

“Okay.”

After the call, Juanita turned to Laurie.

“I’ll need you to hold down the office all day and possibly for the next two or three days. You think you can do that?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Laurie, showing a hesitant smile.

“I’ll call in regularly so we can keep each other posted. That reminds me…”

She got up off the bed and started looking through the draws of the bedside cabinet.

“I need to recharge my cell phone… where’s that fuckin’ charger?”

Seeing how stressed out Juanita was getting, Laurie stayed silent.  There was to be no more heavy sex that night. But after Juanita plugged in the charger and booked the tickets online, as they lay there in the dark, watching the glow of the phone, they both rolled onto their left sides and Juanita edged in behind Laurie. For a while they lay there unable to sleep, like two spoons, Juanita’s strong arms encircling Laurie’s waist, as they waited for morning and the four thirty alarm.

After a sleepless half hour, Laurie felt Juanita’s exploring hands lifting up her T-shirt. She cooperated by raising her arms and letting the older woman slide the flimsy garment over head. And she raised her side equally cooperatively, when Juanita reached into the elastic of her panties.

*     *

Nearly four hundred miles away, Maureen was trying to sleep under the watchful eye of the man sitting on the chair in the corner. They had boarded up the attic windows, but she could see the moon through the skylight. The kidnappers were clearly taking no chances. Lying under the bed cover with little Amy now sleeping soundly, Maureen concentrated her mind against the pain.

In truth the pain was no greater than the pain of giving birth to Amy and in some ways it was similar. When she heard the sound of some one fiddling with the lock, she had opened the bathroom door slightly, in time to see two men entering, one of them carrying a handgun. Because the bedroom and bathroom lights were off, her eyes were attuned to the dark, while theirs – coming as they did from the lighted corridor – were not. So she had seen them without being seen.

The gun was did not have the tell-tale extension of a silencer and she knew that if they were there to kill anyone it was her not Amy, so she had closed the bathroom door silently and appealed to Alex for help and then done the one thing that she knew might give her a sporting chance.

Corny had told her once that they had been trained to conceal small objects in an emergency in their “posterior cavity” as he delicately put it. This involved, squatting down, placing the item between the cheeks of ones buttocks and then standing up. It was, to put it mildly a less than pleasant experience. But it could be done if one had to.

“That’s how inmates smuggle drugs and mobile phones into prison,” he explained.

So after appealing to Alex for help, she quickly pressed the red button to end the call, squatted down, took a deep breath and concealed the phone. But the time they kicked the bathroom door fully open she had already stood up. When they dragged her out of the bathroom, they might have noticed the strange way she was walking. But they would have equated this with fear or passive resistance, or maybe even just having been disturbed while using the bathroom for one of its more usual purposes.

At any rate, their suspicions had not been aroused. And now she was lying under the covers of the bed, knowing that she could probably take the phone out surreptitiously without being noticed.

But then what?

She could hardly make a call without the man who was watching her hearing. She could leave an open line without talking, but what if the other party talked. She hadn’t turned the volume down only the ring tone, and in the quiet of the night, talking at the other end might be heard. She was glad that she had set the ring tone to silent and she wondered, with wry humor, what would happen if some one called and it started to vibrate.

But the thought merely added to the discomfort.

No, she told herself. “I’m not going to let pain defeat me. I endured the pain of a fifteen centimeter cranium passing through a ten centimeter aperture to bring life into this world… and I’ll whatever pain it takes to protect that life.

*     *

Alex had nodded off to sleep, dreaming uneasily. In his mind he was reliving the pursuit as he saw the Cherokee nosing out of the motel parking lot and turning right onto Disneyland Drive. The world’s most famous theme park was supposed to be a place of happiness and joy, but some one’s happiness had been marred by this tragedy.

He was chasing them, pursuing them, trying to stop them… trying to ram them. But they rammed him… and fired at him… and he flipped over and crashed, upside down and pinned to his seat by his airbag.

He awoke with a start in a private room at the hospital. It was now early morning, but the westward-facing room was almost dark. Not completely dark though. Alex could still see. And he was terrified by what he saw.

In the dim light a man’s face was pressed against his – pressed so close that he could smell the man’s less than fresh breath. He wasn’t even sure if he was asleep or awake. But he recognized the physique. It was the physique of a fit man… a strong man… a man like the one described in the barman’s statement… or the man who had beaten up Leary.

“Mitchell,” said Alex weakly.

The man neither smiled nor nodded. But he spoke. And the voice – though muted in order to avoid detection – was angry.

“What the fuck have you done?”

Chapter 31

In a different hospital, some four hundred miles away, the light of dawn was just beginning to show in the eastern sky beyond the windows of the hospital ward, but it was still well before sunrise and daylight. And Paul Dunne was trying to concentrate. He had a job to do and after a night of fitful, troubled sleep, he remembered what it was. And he remembered his instructions precisely.

He looked over at the deputy on duty inside the ward and he saw that he had fallen asleep.

Now! His mind screamed. Now’s my chance! Do it now before the chance is gone!

He quietly folded back the cover, turned his body and swung his legs round. Eschewing shoes or the hospital slippers nearby, he lowered himself onto his bare feet and tried to stand.

The room started to spin, but he held it together. Keeping a hand on the bed, he was still unsteady on his feet but using the bed for support he managed to remain standing long enough to get re-accustomed to the feeling. He cast a second glance at the sleeping deputy to make sure that the one source of danger was still in abeyance and then took a chance on walking away from the bed, like a toddler making his first attempts at standing.

When he was confident that he could stray from the bed without falling, he plodded slowly to a row of bins of various different colors, wheeling his saline drip stand along with him. Each bin marked with what they were to dispose of, but it was the bin marked “used syringes,” that he was interested in.

Using the foot pedal to open it, he rummaged around inside until he found what he was looking for: a used syringe.

*     *

“What do you want?” Alex asked nervously. Mitchell was looking down at him with murder in his eyes and Alex knew better than to shout or call for help. He had faced angry people before and although he was usually ready to fight he knew that finesse was always the preferred option. In this case it was the only option because the throbbing pain in Alex’s head meant that he wasn’t even up to his normal standard of physical fitness.

Even if he had been, fighting would still not have been an option because this man could wipe the floor with him as easily as he had wiped the floor with Leary.

“The woman and the kid.”

Alex wasn’t sure what he meant. Did that mean that Mitchell had something to do with it? Or he thought Alex had.

“They were kidnapped,” Alex replied weakly, almost in a whisper. He knew that it was an abduction only at this stage, because if it had been a killing, it would have been done on the spot.

“I know they were kidnapped. You got them kidnapped.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want them.”

Alex detected something in Mitchell’s tone – this time something other than anger. He decided to test his hypothesis.

“Why? So you can kill them?”

“Don’t push it Mr. Sedaka.” The snarling anger had returned to Mitchell’s voice. But that itself was a clue. “I know you’re not a bastard like some lawyers, but don’t push it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Alex, his voice still weak from his injuries. “You killed her husband… the little girl’s father… and now… you’re angry because some one kidnapped them… and you’re blaming me?”

Mitchell’s eyes blazed and for a minute Alex thought that maybe he had misread the other man’s emotions. For a moment it looked like Mitchell was going to explode with rage. But then the SAS man took a deep breath and seemed to get his emotions under control.

“We take care of our own, Mr. Sedaka.”

Alex looked at him for a long time in silence.

“Your honor code… you won’t kill one of your own directly… but you’ll…”

He didn’t need to finish. Mitchell was smiling, as if he approved of Alex for knowing this fact.

“Then you’ll also know that we don’t knowingly harm women and children. And you’ll know also that in those rare instances when we have to silence one of our own… we make sure that their family is taken care of and provided for.”

Alex idly wondered if there was more to it than this. Could it be that Mitchell was “taking care” of Mrs. O’Neil and her daughter even when Corny O’Neil was still alive? Was there, perhaps, a personal dimension to this whole affair?

That would explain why Maureen O’Neil wanted to give Alex information that might help his client. But it made no sense if other respects. If there was any personal angle, then the British wouldn’t have sent Mitchell. A man who is emotionally involved is inherently unreliable. And if Mitchell was acting entirely on his own initiative, then why would Homeland Security have got involved? And there was also Corny’s website. And of course his own client – George Stone – had confirmed the reason for the targeted killing. Of course Stone was loyal to Mitchell. But he had already confirmed Mitchell’s identity as the killer. Why would he fabricate a motive?

No, there was no doubt that Russ Mitchell had killed Corny O’Neil to silence him. But that didn’t rule out the possibility that he might have some feelings for Corny’s wife. After all if he was Corny’s friend, he probably would have known her. And there was the vaguest possibility that he had some sort of a personal involvement with Maureen O’Neil without the British army knowing about it.

Could Mitchell be Amy’s real father?

The thought was not as strange as it might first sound. But it was hard to concentrate because of the throbbing pain in his head.

“Look,” Alex rasped through his agony, “I got a call, I was worried, do I came down here…”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I didn’t have any reason to.”

“But you had a reason to rush down there!”

“All I had was a call saying she wanted to tell me…”

He trailed off, wondering if he should say this. Knowledge can sometimes get a man killed and Alex knew that this man was dangerous. He had killed before, even if he had spared Leary.

“What did she want to tell you?”

“She didn’t say. I mean she just said that it was something important. But she didn’t want to leave a message. I tried to call her back, but it kept going straight to voice mail.”

“But what made you rush down there? And if you thought it was that important then why not call the police?”

“Her message appeared to break off mid-sentence. It turned out her cell phone – her mobile phone had run flat… I mean the battery. I tried calling the motel but there was no answer from her room. So I guess I panicked and drove down here. But I could hardly have got the cops to act on that.”

“And then?”

“We finally spoke after midnight. She called me… answered my message. She was talking quietly from the bathroom ‘cause she didn’t want to wake her daughter. And then we were interrupted… something happened.”

“What?”

“I think she heard some one coming in. She said ‘help me’ and then the call ended.”

“Did you hear the intruder? Or only her?”

“Only her. I don’t even know how many intruders there were. But then I floored it and saw their Jeep Cherokee nosing out of the parking lot and I followed.”

“What color was it?”

“What/ Oh, er… Black. I tried to stop them, but my Lincoln was no match for their Cherokee – and they had guns.”

Mitchell seemed to be less tense now than he was before, as if he had heard a note of comfort or reassurance in what Alex had told him.

And there was something else too. Mitchell was looking down at the bedside cabinet next to Alex. In fact he was looking at something in particular: Alex’s iPhone.

“Can you get on the net with that?”

Alex looked between Mitchell and the iPhone to make sure they were on the same wavelength.

“The iPhone? Sure. Why?”

“Can I borrow it for a second?”

Alex nodded. He was powerless to say no. Mitchell picked it up and started tapping away at the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m logging on to a phone tracing service.”

Alex was surprised.

“What you can just trace a phone like…”

He trailed off into silence. He knew that all sorts of services were available on the internet. But he didn’t think that anyone could just log on and use such services. Then again, Mitchell was not just anyone: he was an elite combat soldier who probably had the backing of some sort of intelligence service.

“It’s a long shot… come on baby… gotcha!”

He whipped out a pen and paper, wrote something down and then put the pen and paper away, looking down at Alex with a smile.

“Thank you. Look I’m sorry about coming on strong like that, but I had to know.”

And with that Mitchell turned away and headed to the door. Alex was confused.

“What are you going to do?”

Mitchell turned.

“I told you: we take care of our own.”

“Shouldn’t we call the cops?”

“And have them warn the kidnappers with their sirens? I don’t think so.”

“They can do a silent approach.”

“That might work if I knew where they were.”

“But I thought you…”

He looked at Mitchell, waiting for clarification.

“I narrowed it down to a radius of about three hundred meters. But I still don’t know exactly. If they see cops searching house to house, they might panic. I can’t take that kind of chance.”

And with that, he was out of the room.

*     *

Dunne had opened up the syringe and was now crushing the pills into powder. These were not emetics like the one he had taken. These were some form of morphine. He crushed them as fine as he could and then added warm water from the faucet, closed the syringe and started shaking it up vigorously.

It was probably a most unhygienic arrangement but then again, who cared. Stone wasn’t going to survive it. In fact he wouldn’t be alive long enough to suffer an infection.

Dunne heard a sound and looked around. The deputy was still asleep but appeared to be stirring. It was clear that he might wake up at any moment. Dunne wanted to finish it now: get it over with ASAP. But he couldn’t take a chance on being caught in the act. Firstly, if he was spotted before he had done the job, then Stone would be saved and Dunne’s family would get nothing. Secondly whilst he was resigned to life behind bars, he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about being strapped down and given a lethal injection.

So he scurried back to bed, concealing the morphine-filled syringe under the covers. He waited and watched while the guard stirred and resumed his heavy, belabored snoring.

*     *

Alex was still reeling from the encounter with Mitchell. His head was throbbing and he wanted to get back to sleep. But he couldn’t leave it at that. Maureen O’Neil had wanted to tell him something and had been kidnapped, along with her daughter. And now Mitchell – the man who had arranged for Maureen’s husband to be killed – had materialized out of nowhere and apparently tracked her down using the internet connection of Alex’s iPhone.

He forced himself to sit up, fighting in his mind against the pain and dizziness. He picked up the phone and opened the web browser. He found the website that Mitchell had logged on to: a commercial cell phone tracking and tracing site. But in order to see what Mitchell had looked at, he would have had to know Mitchell’s User ID and password. He knew neither.

But he wanted to know how these things worked. How could one trace another person’s phone. He looked up the page that explained the site and how it worked. The “About us” and FAQ pages explained that in order to trace a phone you first had to open an account with them and pay either a monthly fee or a flat some that pre-paid for a certain number of traces or tracks.

But it turned out that even then, you couldn’t just trace any old phone. First you entered the  number or numbers of the cell phone you wanted to trace. The tracking service would then send a message to the phone asking for permission to track it on behalf of the person named in the account. Then if, and only if, the account holder if the owner of the cell phone texted back the word YES would the tracking service trace the phone and reveal its whereabouts – and then only to within about 300 meters..

Of course one could open an account in a false name, pretending to be some one whom the phone owner trusted. But they’d have to be very gullible to fall for it. Furthermore, even after that the tracking service would periodically send out requests notifying the cell phone owner. The subsequent alerts do not require a response, but they give the cell phone owner the chance to opt out.

The question was, which phone did Mitchell trace? The kidnappers would hardly have let Maureen O’Neil keep her phone. And if she had somehow managed to conceal it, then she could hardly whip it out in front of her abductors and text back her acceptance of his request to track it.

Could it be that he was tracing a cell phone belonging to one of the abductors? Could it be that Maureen’s and Amy’s abductors were his own people? And had they double-crossed him?

Chapter 32

Paul Dunne was curled up in the fetal position under the covers as the morning light streamed into the ward. He knew that he would almost certainly be transferred back to Jail 3 in the court building tomorrow at the latest. So he had to do it today. And once the day shift started it would also be too late. He looked over at the deputy guarding the entrance. He was no longer snoring loudly, but he looked like he was still asleep.

Now! Dunne’s mind was screaming. I have to do it now.

He got up stealthily, holding the syringe flush against his side and crept over silently to the bed where George Stone lay asleep. When he got there, he plunged the syringe through the silicone seal into the white port of the saline drip bag. He depressed the plunger steadily, emptying the contents of the syringe into the saline bag.

Then he disposed of the syringe in the same bin where he had found it and returned to bed. From what the man calling himself Cunningham had told him, George Stone would be dead in a matter of hours.

A slight stirring sound alerted Dunne to the fact that the deputy was awakening. He scurried back to bed and pulled the covers over him. As he lay there squinting at the lethargic deputy, he realized that he needn’t have bothered. The deputy was still fast asleep.

*     *

“How are you feeling Mr. Sedaka?” asked the doctor, looking at the thermometer.

“Like I’ve been in a road accident.”

“Your temperature’s okay. Let’s check your blood pressure.”

Alex’s blood pressure was all right too.

“Do you feel up to receiving visitors.”

His head was throbbing and the truth of the matter was he didn’t feel up to receiving visitors. But he also had a sense of duty.

“You mean the cops?”

“Actually no. They might come back later, but it’s not the cops.”

Alex remembered the “visitor” he had received last night. He was ready to tell the cops about him, but he wasn’t sure about telling the doctor.

“Who is it?”

“Your partner and a man.”

“Martine?”

He was wondering who the man could be.

“Oh is that her name? I thought she said it was Juanita.”

“Oh my law partner. Sure… send her in.”

The doctor went out and seconds later, Juanita entered with Leary into tow.

“You look like shit!” said Juanita, trying to cheer him up with the bad news first.

“I guess I’m like a woman,” he replied with a smile.

“Careful boss,” Juanita warned.

“Never at my best in the morning.”

“Got your humor back I see,” said Leary.

“You’re not the first person to notice that.”

They pulled up chairs and sat by the bed on the same side, so Alex could see them both without having to move from the position he was in.

“Are you up to talking about it,” asked Juanita. “You don’t have to.”

Alex struggled against the pain. He had things on his mind – important things.

“I talked to the police.”

“That’s okay,” said Leary. “You probably need to rest.”

They were surprised when Alex – with an almighty effort – reached out to the button that raised the bed and pressed it, bringing him up into an almost seated position.

“No, I’ve got to tell you something.”

Leary could see that Alex was struggling almost beyond endurance.

“Not now. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“Maureen and Amy have been kidnapped!”

“What?” both of them replied almost in unison.

Alex starred at both of them. He didn’t have to repeat it.

“Shit!”

That was Leary, underscoring the fact.

“Did you tell the cops?” Juanita asked.

“Yes. But there’s more.”

“Something you didn’t tell them boss?”

“Something that only happened after they left.”

They both looked at him confused and concerned in the pregnant silence.

“I had another visitor in the wee hours… some one slipped in past security and made it all the way here.”

Juanita was the first to pick up on this.

“Who?”

“The same man who came to see me at the office when I was late.”

“Mitchell?” Juanita muttered incredulously.

“Mitchell.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She was almost gushing in her concern.

“No, he had no reason to. Although at first I thought he was going to.”

“What did he want?”

Alex explained about Mitchell’s apparent concern for Maureen’s and Amy’s wellbeing and his attempts to trace them. Juanita was confused.

“Why would he care about them? After killing Corny O’Neil? I mean he killed his friend for Christ sake! Why would he suddenly care about his friend’s wife and daughter.

Leary was shaking his head. He already knew the answer.

“You don’t understand the military mind Juanita. You know when a soldier dies in combat there’s practically a tradition that one of his unmarried buddies marries his widow.”

“Yes but not when they’re the one who killed him in the first place.”

“No you don’t understand Juanita,” said Leary, defensively. “If he killed O’Neil it wasn’t because he wanted to; it’s because for some reason of operational necessity, he had to.”

Alex wasn’t entirely sure if he agreed with this.

“The thing that I’m worried about is why they kidnapped her.”

Juanita shrugged her shoulders, but in any case he was looking at Leary when he spoke.

“Well presumably to stop her telling you whatever she was going to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t they kill her,” asked Alex. “And I guess part of me was wondering if Mitchell had something to do with the abduction. I was thinking that maybe the kidnappers were working for Mitchell but then turned against him for some reason.”

Leary shook his head.

“No that don’t make no sense. But it could be something similar.”

“What?” asked Alex.

“Maybe what Maureen O’Neil was going to tell you has nothing to do with it? What if this isn’t about Maureen O’Neil at all? What if it’s about Mitchell?”

Despite the pain and dizziness, Alex found the strength to sit forward.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what if the people who did this, know about the way a military man thinks? What if they know how his mind works? What if they know that Mitchell wouldn’t just stand idly by while O’Neil’s wife and kid are kidnapped. What if they know that he’s the kind of man who’d be ready to track ‘em down and go after them? And what if they’re lying in wait for him?”

Alex looked at Leary aghast.

“A trap?”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

Juanita took up the thread.

“Then maybe we should send the police after him – and them.”

“The problem is we don’t know where they are… or where he went.”

Leary seemed to have an idea.

“Didn’t you say he used your phone?”

“Yes, and he didn’t wipe the cache, so I was able to find the website that he logged onto. It’s some sort of an internet tracing service. I didn’t know such things existed.”

“They do,” said Leary, picking up Alex’s iPhone from the bedside cabinet. “But they can only trace a phone with permission.”

“I know that. But I can’t even get into his account. He logged off.”

Leary started tapping away at the iPhone with the same easy confidence that Mitchell had displayed forty minutes earlier.

“What are you doing?”

“Downloading a program from my cloud.”

“What program?”

“It’s a Selective Bruce Force Password Searcher.”

“A what?”

“It checks out various permutations of passwords, using combinations of capitals and lowercase letters and numbers.”

“But surely it would take ages to come up with the right one?”

“That’s why it’s called selective.”

Leary didn’t look up as he continued speaking.

“You input information about the person whose password you’re trying to get – his name, names of his family and friends, places where he worked and lived, his dog’s name, his age and date of birth and those of his family – and it tries out thousands of combinations and inputs them in the relevant input field until it gets in… Okay done, now we install it.”

While it was installing, Leary looked up at Alex.

“Okay let’s go over what we know about Mitchell. Anything you can tell me.”

“How much data can we enter?”

“You can enter alphanumeric data in over three hundred fields and dates in another hundred fields. But it recommends that you prioritize. You can either give the most important information first or just enter it and then start moving it up or down. As we’re working with a mobile phone and it’s a bit fiddly, I suggest we start off with the most important data first. You can also link related pieces of data, but that’s more tricky because it really needs a mouse.”

“How do we know what’s important?” asked Alex.

“There’s no hard and fast rule, but whatever comes to mind first is likely to be more important than what you have to struggle to remember.”

“Okay well let’s see, he was in the SAS and Royal Green Jackets, he killed John Macadam who was a photographer. He may have killed Prince Hashem, he was a friend of Cornelius O’Neil. He may –”

“Slow down,” said Leary. “I got type all this in on a tiny touch screen.”

Alex waited for Leary to catch up. When Leary stopped tapping at the screen and nodded at Alex, the lawyer continued.

“Cornelius was also called Corny. It’s quite possible that Mitchell’s name was shortened to Mitch. His first name is shortened to Russ – probably short for Russell. We don’t know if he has or had a wife, but he probably knows O’Neil’s wife Maureen and kid Amy. He definitely knew George Stone. He served in Iraq. We can probably get some ages and dates of birth if we look around.”

“We haven’t got time,” said Leary. “But that should be enough to be getting along with.”

And with that, Leary hit the Enter key on the touch screen and set the program to searching for Russ Mitchell’s password for the cell phone tracking and tracing service. Alex wasn’t expecting a result anytime soon based on the vibes he was picking up from Leary. So he was surprised by what happened next.

“Hello.”

“What?” Alex asked, not daring to expose his confidence to Leary’s contagious excitement.

“Well would you ever?”

“What?” Alex repeated.

Leary held the iPone out to Alex.

“That’s it?”

“That’s the password.”

“And what about actually getting the information that he got?”

Leary took the phone back and started tapping away at the screen again.

“We’re already in. The program shows the password as well as logging in, but I don’t know if it saves past searches or if we have to do another search… oh wait a minute… yes it saved it.”

“So where are they?”

“They’re somewhere within a three or four hundred yard radius that’s shown on the map.”

“You better call the police.”

“There’s a problem Alex. They’re not gonna search that whole block.”

“We’ve gotta do something. Mitchell’s the only one who can save my client. We need him alive. That’s if he hasn’t walked into a trap already.”

“The way I see it, if he doesn’t know the exact address then all he can do it look around for a black Jeep Cherokee.”

“He’s had quite a head start don’t forget.”

“Maybe, but this ain’t his turf. He’s probably driving around there. We don’t even know if he has a gun.”

“I think he’d’ve got a gun. Or else he’d know where to get one.”

“That might slowed him down a bit – getting one I mean. That gives us a chance.

Alex noticed that Leary had whipped out his own cell phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling an old army buddy,” Leary replied. “Hi Napoleon, Leary here… It sure has.”

Alex and Juanita made eye contact and mouthed the name “Napoleon” at each other.

“I need a favor. Are you still in South Central… okay, are you busy right now… good well listen, I need some one to cruise around the blocks around the 57th Street, Holmes Avenue intersection and look for a black Jeep Cherokee. I know man… And the thing is there maybe some one else looking… no I don’t want you to take him out… it’s a long story… look I’m gonna drive down there now. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

By the time Leary had pressed the red button to end the call Alex was out of bed.

“Hey where do you think you’re going?” asked Juanita.

“I’m going with.”

“Whoa! Man you ain’t in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I’m not letting you go on your own.”

“You think you can handle Mitchell better than I can?”

“Mitchell trusts me. I can talk to him. If he sees you, God knows how he’s going to react.”

Juanita stepped in.

“You know boss, sometimes I think you’re crazy.”

He knew that she was concerned. But he also knew that they were approaching the endgame and he had no intention of standing on the sidelines while Leary put his life on the line.

“Sometimes I think so too,” said Alex. By this time he was nearly dressed.

“Let’s go,” he said to Leary, doing up the last few buttons on his shirt.

Juanita looked on helplessly as they left the room. Then she looked at the screen and saw the password that Mitchell had used.

Amazing.

*     *

Leary had been right about Mitchell being slowed down by not having a gun. Like Wainwright, he had done a bit of asking around and finding out who knew the word on the street before getting to meet the person who could provide him what he wanted. Guns were in fact quite easy to come by in LA, as they were elsewhere in the USA. But you still had to find the right people.

And Mitchell didn’t just want one piece, he wanted to come heavily tooled up. He actually would have preferred body armor too, but the gang banger doing the selling had made it clear that it would take longer than Mitchell was prepared to wait.

So now at eight thirty he was cruising around a 12 block area of South Central looking for a black Jeep Cherokee. And he couldn’t even be sure it was on the road or in the driveway. Some of these places had garages. And he couldn’t even be sure if they kept the jeep. If it had been involved in accident they might have dumped it. Maybe they had dropped off Maureen and Amy and then taken the jeep to a scrap yard to be crushed.

All he could do was drive around and keep looking. And he had to be careful. This was gang turf. If the local gang thought he was doing a recce  for a rival gang to do a drive-by, they might just decide to take him out.

The trouble was, there was quite a bit packed into that 300 meter radius. And then he saw it.

*     *

“Can’t you go any faster?” asked Alex.

Despite the throbbing pain in his head, he was undaunted in his determination. It was as if he had pressed the “Hold” button on the pain while he concentrated on rescuing the two people for whose safety he felt personally responsible.

“That’s a good one,” said Leary, “a lawyer telling a man to break the law.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“You think that’s gonna make any difference to LA’s finest when they see a black guy speedin’?”

“You’re a PI. You can show them your ID.”

“It’ll still slow us down. And that’ll defeat the purpose.”

Alex fell silent, knowing that Leary was right.

“Besides. We’re nearly at South Central. Now we just need Napoleon to come through..”

As if on cue, Leary’s cell phone rang. He pressed the answer button, putting it on speakerphone so they could both hear.

“Leary.”

“Leary! I got it brother!”

“You got it? I knew you’d come through you son of gun. Spill it man!”

Napoleon told him the exact address.

“Oh one more thing… I seen your man.”

“You sure it’s him?”

“Six foot… two-twenty pounds of solid muscle… and he’s doing the walk. I reckon he’s carrying two.”

“Where?”

“One in a shoulder bag – probably an Uzi – the other in a shoulder holster.”

“Okay thanks.”

“You want me to help him? I’m up for a rumble and I owe you one.”

“Won’t it stir up trouble between your gangs.”

“We’re already enemies.”

“Yeah but I don’t want to stir things up. Anyway our man is kind of trigger happy right now. He’s probably not safe to approach. Can you see him now?”

“Not any more. He’s taken off round the back. I reckon he’s gonna do a sight survey and then make an entry.”

“Okay thanks. Look I don’t want to drag you into this, but there may be a woman and child in there. Can you keep an eye?”

“Already doing.”

“Okay, just keep a low profile.”

Leary pressed the button and floored it, ignoring what he had said earlier.

“What’s the walk?” asked Alex.

“What?”

“The walk. He said he was doing the – ”

“Oh the walk, yeah… when a man’s carrying a concealed weapon, he subconsciously touches the area where he’s got it concealed. Law enforcement know to look out for it: it’s a dead giveaway.”

They heard a police siren behind them and knew they’d picked up a tail.

“How near are we?” asked Alex.

“About two minutes, I’d say.”

“Ignore them.”

“That’s just what I was plannin’.”

*     *

Mitchell had gone to Holmes Avenue and walked along to the alley between the streets to get to the back of the house. He had to count carefully to find the right one, but his task was made easier by the boarded up rear window upstairs. That was consistent with holding some one prisoner. It even helped him by effectively telling him which room the hostages were in.

He studied the points of entry carefully. He could climb up a drainpipe on the side of the house, smash the bathroom window and be there on the upper floor adjacent to the boarded up window. That way he could secure the woman and the child first. But then he’d have to fight his way out of there without knowing the strength of the opposition. According to Alex, there had been three males in the car with them, But that didn’t mean it would be the same number here at the house. It could be more or it could be less.

The other way of entering would be to smash the window of the kitchen door or even just kick the kitchen door in. Those doors were usually quite flimsy. But that would make a noise and alert them. Of course, he fully expected to fight it out with them. But there was a danger that one of them might make it to the bedroom and hold a gun on the woman, or even the child – creating a Mexican standoff.

But as he looked more closely, he saw that there was a way to enter quietly. The kitchen door was opened by key rather than a latch, but the key was in the lock. He tore off his jacket, wrapped it around a half brick that he found lying there in the yard and smashed the glass. The sound was noticeable, but not loud. With various windows open, they would probably hear it in the neighboring houses. But in this neighborhood they wouldn’t make much of it anyway.

He quickly put his jacket back on, scooped up the bag with the Uzi reached in with his left hand, turned the key in the lock, opened the kitchen door and went in.

*     *

From the garden of the house on the next street, Wainwright had been watching. He had a clear shot, but he didn’t want to take a chance on drawing attention, so he had crouched behind the garden shed and started to fix a silencer to his hand gun. By the time he had finished, his target was already in the house.

Chapter 33

George Stone was struggling to force himself to wake up. He had been in that state of twilight sleep for ages, watching the man injecting something into his drip bag. The man was not wearing a white coat and was clearly not a member of staff. Aside from that, Stone vaguely remembered seeing the man getting up from a bed and rummaging through the bin and taking something out.

Why would a doctor or a nurse do that?

He considered that it might have been a dream, but it seemed too real. He may have fallen asleep after that but he was sure that when he saw these things it was actually happening. Even though physically lethargic, his mind was screaming at him that he had to act. Whatever it was that the other man had injected into his drip bag, it wasn’t going to be anything good. And he didn’t know how much time had passed already.

In fact, it might already have taken effect. Maybe that even explained why he was now feeling so lethargic. He knew that he had to find the strength to get up now. If he waited for the doctors to do their morning rounds, it might be too late.

He found the strength in his left arm to pull back the covers. But now came the hard part – getting out of bed. He rolled onto his side and curled up in the fetal position. He had found in the past that sometimes, when he was very tired, that curling up in this position for a few minutes gave him the strength to get up.

In a minute, he told himself. In a minute I’ll find the strength to stand up.

*     *

He had entered the kitchen stealthily, but now he had to check out the rooms one by one. He strained to hear sounds. Upstairs in the attic a radio was on, tuned to a music station. He reasoned that Maureen and Amy were probably held in the attic, that there was probably a bedroom there and that, despite the windows being boarded up, they would have one man guarding them.

But what about the others? Had they gone out? Or were they right here? One thing he had taken on board right away was that there was no lingering smell of cooked food in the kitchen to suggest that they had cooked breakfast. But that left several possibilities. They might have skipped breakfast or had a cold breakfast. Or one of them could have gone out and brought in breakfast. Or then again maybe one of them was out now. Or two.

He strained again to hear whatever sounds could be heard. But it was hard to distinguish sounds within the house from those outside. He could hear two men talking. But where? And what were they saying?

“I’ll raise you fifty man.”

“You’re bluffin’ man. I know you’re bluffin’.”

They were playing poker. And the voices were coming from the living room. There was no way they would have Maureen and Amy O’Neil with them. Presumably, they would be upstairs in the boarded up attic. Probably with one guard. Alex had said he saw three. So, two down here playing poker and one upstairs guarding Maureen and Amy. And he knew the exact position of the two down here, from their voices.

He crept stealthily to the corridor and then – confident that he knew what awaited him – he swung round into the living room with the hand gun at the ready, finger on the trigger.

*     *

Leary’s rented car screeched to a halt in the street opposite the house where the black Cherokee was parked. Alex had already unfastened his seat belt and was out the door ahead of Leary. They had put some distance between themselves and the cops, but knew that they only had seconds.

Alex had to run round the car to get to the house, but before he got there, Leary had grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

“Careful man! They’ve got guns.”

*     *

Inside the house, Mitchell had swung round into the living room, the adrenaline flowing and the heart pumping. The first one didn’t even have time to look round as the man with the soul of an avenging angel fired off a shot at his body. The second one spun his head round just in time to look his executioner in the eyes, before he too succumbed to a body shot.

Although he was trained in headshots – including double taps, like the ones used on Jean Charles de Menezes, the normal practice was to aim for the broadest part first, so as to minimize the chance of missing, and then finish off the job with headshots once the target was slowed down or stopped by the body shots. Of course, there were exceptions, such as situations where body armor was a credible possibility, or hostage situations where they were actually aiming their guns at the hostages or were in a position to detonate explosives. But in this case, the hostages were upstairs.

And that was where he had to go now. The third man was bound to have heard the shots and he would probably have grabbed his gun by now.

Realizing that time was of the essence, Mitchell ran to the stairs, only to find himself confronted by a terrible sight. The door to the attic was open and Maureen was standing there with fear in her eyes. Behind her and a little to the side, was a man holding a gun to her head. Mitchell had only the very slightest angle and he knew that although his own aim was true, he couldn’t be sure about the gun itself. He hadn’t had time to test it and if it was even a little bit off, he could end up killing this woman that he had come here to protect.

The man holding Maureen hostage smiled and licked his lips as he noticed the effect his threat was having.

“Back off or she dies.”

*     *

Outside the house, Leary and Alex had heard the shooting above the sound of the approaching police sirens. Alex looked at Leary for a lead. He knew that in this type of situation, Leary was the man and he was the spectator. As if by way of confirmation, Leary whipped out his Sig Sauer P239.

“Wait here. When the cops arrive put your hands up and tell them what happened. I don’t want to take a chance on me or Mitchell getting hit by friendly fire.”

And with that he raced off to the house.

*     *

“All right… okay you win…”

Mitchell held his gun pointed away from the man who was threatening Maureen O’Neil, to show that he was no threat as he backed off. But now the question was what to do. The situation couldn’t continue. And now he could hear police sirens, so matters were coming to a head. He wasn’t sure if they were on their way here or just in the neighborhod. Gunshots were probably quite common here and it was by no means certain that this house was the focus of the police attention. In fact he fancied that he had heard the approaching siren even before he fired his shots.

But still, there was a man upstairs with a gun holding two hostages. And that man knew that the man who had come for him was not going to go away. He must also have realized that his two friends were dead.

He’s a cornered animal – and you never know what a cornered animal is going to do.

Usually these hostage situations end in surrender. Most gang members, despite their displays of bravado, don’t want to die in a shootout or strapped to a gurney – any more than other people do. Even soldiers see death in action as an occupational hazard not as a desirable objective in its own right. A few religious fanatics might see things differently. But this was no religious fanatic.

He had hoped to rescue them and end their suffering sooner rather than later. But now it looked like he was going to have to hand over to some SWAT team – who would probably sit it out for days while the woman and child went through hell.

Then he suddenly had an idea.

*     *

Inside the attic, the man pulled Maureen back and kicked the door shut. But he knew that he was trapped and had nowhere to run. He had called out the names of his homeys, but they hadn’t answered – and he well knew why.

He realized that if the cops were going to come after him there was only one way they could do it: through the door. He looked around for something heavy with which to barricade the door. The only thing was the bed. But he didn’t want to take a chance on releasing the woman while trying to move it. He looked round and saw the little girl huddled in the corner, crying, her knees drawn up against her face.

“Come here!” he shouted.

Maureen’s fear grew, but so did her anger.

“Not my baby!”

“Shut up bitch!”

He threw her aside, stormed over to the corner and grabbed Amy who screamed and struggled. He dragged her over to Maureen and shoved her in Maureen’s direction. Maureen put her arms round Amy and comforted her. After a few seconds, the little girl calmed down somewhat. She continued to cry, but almost silently.

The man waved the gun signaling them to stand in front of the door. His plan was obvious. If anything was to come through that door, he wanted the first thing in their path to be the woman and child. He would maximize his safety by hiding behind them.

His instructions were that the woman and child were not to be harmed. But he was no longer interested in following orders. His only objective now was self-preservation… at all costs.

*     *

Mitchell raced outside, the same way he came and then round to the side of the building. He looked at the drain pipe. It was one of those modern, plastic drain pipes, not the old lead ones. But it looked quite sturdy. Structurally, cylindrical plastic of this thickness was strong enough to support a man’s weight. But the question was how securely was it fixed to the outside wall? For it was that that would determine whether it was secure enough to support his fifteen and a half stone.

He was trained to make lightening assessments of such things, and looking at the bolts that held the pipe to the wall, it was clear from the diameter of the heads that they were long bolts that clearly went through the stucco façade to get a sit deeply in the concrete beneath.

Holstering the gun, he gripped the drainpipe and confidently, not gingerly, began climbing. But again, so wrapped up he had been in his efforts to gain entry to the house that he had not noticed Wainwright skulking behind the shed in the back yard of the house in the next street. And so while he climbed, concentrating on making it to the roof and the skylight undetected, Wainwright was taking careful aim.

*     *

Leary had initially raced to the front of the house thinking there was an easy way in. But the door was closed and when he tested it, he found that it was locked. Of course it was a pretty flimsy door and he could probably have kicked it in with one kick.

At this stage, there was nothing to be gained by stealth. Shots had been fired and it was obvious that something was going down. But he didn’t want to be killed by Mitchell any more than he wanted to be shot by trigger happy cops. And he knew that Mitchell, as an ex-soldier with a hair trigger reaction in a combat situation, would shoot first and ask questions later.

So he kicked in the door with a single kick and then shouted from the outside: “Hey Mitchell! Don’t shoot it’s Leary… the guy you whopped at the deputy’s house.”

It wasn’t just levity, or even self-effacing appeasement. He knew that by including a piece of information that was widely known, Mitchell would be able to trust the information, even without sight of Leary, so that when he came into view, Mitchell would be prepared, would recognize him and hopefully would not open fire.

*     *

Wainwright heard it, but he didn’t really care. He had actually given express instructions to make sure that Maureen and Amy O’Neil were unharmed. Indeed he would have a lot of explaining to do in London if any harm had come to them. So if Leary managed to rescue them unharmed that was perfectly consistent with his both his remit and his agenda.

He had only one job to do and he was doing it now as he took aim with his silenced handgun. He steadied the gun in his right hand, by supporting it underneath with his left and squeezed off a single shot.

It was supposed to have been a head shot, but a sudden spurt of movement in a final sprint to the top, at precisely that moment, meant that instead it embedded itself in side of the chest of his target. But it was enough to do its job.

There was a cry of pain, a sudden release of a previously iron grip and fall of a man onto a concrete path with a loud thud, the shoulder bag with the Uzi, next to him and the weapon almost falling clear of the beg.

Wainwright wasn’t sure if a follow-up was needed, but the loud cry had created the danger of discovery, something he was anxious to avoid. He ducked behind the shed, holstered the gun, raced off into the back ally and round at a leisurely pace to the front of the house.

*     *

At the front of the house, Alex heard the shot. He didn’t think it could have been Leary, because Leary had gone into the house and this shot appeared to come from somewhere outside, possibly behind the house. But he couldn’t be sure. Maybe Leary had gone through to the back and had now taken a shot.

Unarmed, but oblivious to the danger, Alex raced round the side of the house to find Mitchell lying there in agony, bleeding from the side. He was clearly in a bad way, but still alive. Alex had only limited knowledge of first aid – and knew virtually nothing about gunshot wounds. But he knelt down now, next to the man, desperate to do what he could to save him.

*     *

It’s now or never, George Stone told himself in the prison ward of the hospital as he swung his legs round. Whatever it was that the other prisoner had injected into his drip bag, some of it had already entered his bloodstream and he couldn’t take a chance on any more getting in.

The trouble was, they had removed his prosthetic leg and not even provided him with crutches. He slipped off the bed into a standing position, trying to use the drip stand for support. But his one leg felt like rubber. He managed to hop three steps before keeling over.

Chapter 34

Inside the house, Leary checked out the living room and saw the two men lying dead by the table, where they had been playing poker. Despite the urgency of the situation, he was almost tempted to look at the cards to see if either of them were holding aces and eights, the so-called “dead man’s hand” of the Wild Bill Hickok legend.

But Leary knew that the neither the legend nor even the etymology of the phrase “dead man’s hand” stood up to scrutiny. He also knew better than to get distracted when the lives of two innocent people were on the line. Instead, he strained to hear any voices in the house. Somewhere above him, he heard a man say in a quiet whisper: “You better pray that he don’t come through that door bitch.”

As he suspected, they were in the attic. But how could he get in? If he could get the man in front of the door he could shoot him. Even if he were to the side of the door he could get him, locating him by voice. But the problem was the voice alone would not tell him if there was anyone in between. And it was almost certain that he was using Maureen O’Neil as a human shield, and possibly also the daughter.

But there was another way.

He ran to the kitchen and out the back.

*     *

The sirens were now deafening as several police cars arrived in the street at the front of the house. As they approached, the man called Napoleon quietly drove away. He had watched as Alex and Leary arrived and had been amused by their antics. He had almost got out of his car to join them, but thought better of it and decided to carry on watching from a distance.

But now he realized that there was nothing more he could do to help Leary. He had paid back the favor – sort of – and his presence here served no further purpose – not for Leary and not for himself. So he drove away, slowly, in order not to attract attention, carefully pulling over for the cops to make it seem like he was just a cooperative member of the public.

He noticed as he drove away that people were at their windows looking at what was going on and some of them had come out into the street.

*     *

Leary ran out into the back yard and made a sharp turn to get to the side of the house. There he saw Alex kneeling over the injured figure of Russ Mitchell.

“What happened man?” he asked as he ran up.

“He’s been shot.”

There was a hint of anger in Alex’s reply, as if he thought the question stupid. But Leary figured it was the frustration of helplessness.

“But how’d he get out here?”

“I don’t know.”

Leary saw no trail of blood to suggest that Mitchell had been injured in the house and then staggered outside. That suggested that he had been shot outside. But the two dead men were in the living room and the third was in the attic with the hostages.

Leary was looking at Mitchell. He was bleeding badly and it looked like he had some other injuries on his body. But he had not given up the ghost yet. As Leary met Mitchell’s eyes, he saw not an old enemy… not the man who had given him a whopping at the deputy’s house… but a fellow soldier who did his duty.  There was a grudging kind of mutual respect in their brief moment of eye contact.

And then Leary noticed Mitchell’s arm rising, his fist clenching and his index finger extending. As Leary turned his head and eyes to follow Mitchell’s index finger, he realized that Mitchell was pointing to the roof.

We both had the same idea.

But Leary realized that Mitchell was trying to tell him more than that. The subtext to Mitchell’s gesture was: never mind me – I’m unimportant. You’ve got something urgent to do. Get your ass up there on that roof!

The reminder was enough. Leary didn’t need any prompting than that.

*     *

In the attic, Maureen was holding Amy in her arms, trying to calm her down. Amy was crying, but the tears were now flowing silently after the man with the gun had frightened her by shouting at her and dragging her to mummy.

Maureen stood there in front of the door, terrified, not for herself but for her daughter.

Leary was more or less right about the action of the man in the attic. He knew that his two homies were dead and he was on his own. And he was trapped. They couldn’t get at him as long as he stayed here in this room with the woman and the child. But he couldn’t stay here for ever. And just as the police had no safe way in, this man had no safe way out.

And if they caught him, what would it be? Abduction of a woman and a child. He wasn’t sure what the exact penalty was, but he knew that he was unlikely to see the light of day again. And because the other two were dead, he couldn’t even hope to cop a plea by offering to testify against them. And if he killed Maureen or Amy, he’d be facing the death penalty.

Of course right now what they had was a hostage situation. But how long was it likely to go on for? How long would they let it go on for? Could he negotiate his way out? Demand a helicopter? Would they give him what he demanded. He remembered from some movie that hostage negotiators never say “no” to any demand. But there’s a difference between not saying “no” and saying “yes”. And there was also a difference between saying “yes” and meaning it.

And to top it all off he was dirt tired. He had been up all night keeping an eye on the woman and child and the plan was that one of the other two would relieve him and he would get some shuteye. But that had all been blown away now and he couldn’t think straight… he just couldn’t think…

But still… as long as I got the gun…

*     *

Leary had made the climb that Mitchell would have made had he not been shot by Wainwright. Even though not in such peak condition as Mitchell, it had been a simple matter of one hand over the other, gripping the drainpipe by passive tension with the hand inserted behind it and leaning back, while the feet were planted firmly on the stucco exterior of the wall.

He had worried slightly about whether it could take his weight, but decided to put the fear behind him, reminding himself that he had faced greater dangers in the past, and a woman and child’s lives were at stake.

The hardest part was actually heaving himself up onto the roof, but he managed that, without making too much noise. Now he maneuvered carefully until he was in position over the skylight. He looked down to see the man standing behind Maureen and the kid.

You spineless coward, he thought. You miserable, yellow-bellied coward.

He unholstered his gun, planted his feet wide apart to maintain his balance without holding on and took aim at the man’s head, using the same grip that Wainwright had used when he fired upwards at his target on the drainpipe. Shooting at a man who is at an angle is equal hard whether the angle be up or down, and a steady hand was needed. Leary was just about to squeeze the trigger when a voice through a bull-horn punctured his concentration.

“You on the roof! Drop the gun and put your hands up!”

*     *

In the attic, the man heard it and realized immediately what was happening. He spun round to see Leary aiming a gun at him but with a frozen look on his face. Leary looked round to see that at ground level several cops had their guns aimed at him. It was obvious that if he fired, they would shoot him down where he stood. So he lowered the gun to his side.

But on seeing this, the man in the attic took his chance. Knowing that he could not be seen by the cops and could not effectively be fired upon himself, he spun round fully, raised his gun and fired off a shot at Leary, aimed at the upper torso where the chances of missing were minimal.

*     *

The bullet ripped through the skylight. But Leary had seen the spinning movement of the man and the raising of the gun and although his reaction was slow – restrained, as he was, by the fear that sudden movements would provoke the cops into shooting – he managed to twist his body away, avoiding the gang-banger’s bullet, but dropping his own gun in the process. It slid down the roof, bounced off the guttering and rattled down the side of the building.

For a second Leary’s heart stopped as he prayed that the cops would recognize that he was the target not the perp and not open fire on him. At the same time, he had to lean back to avoid being in the gunman’s firing line if he should decide to let off another round. And even though he had lost his gun, it was not clear if the cops had seen this clearly, so he also had to put his hands up to show the cops that he was complying. And he had to do all this without losing his balance and falling or slipping off the roof.

“He’s holding a woman and a kid!” he shouted, to try and explain the situation quickly, hoping that his words would not provoke the man in the attic any further, but realizing also that in any event he had little choice.

*     *

In the attic, Maureen had seen what happened and she knew that the man who was holding her was trigger happy and capable of anything. It was obvious that he had lost the plot completely. It was now or never.

She was an army wife and army wives aren’t self-effacing shrinking violets. Army wives have tough husbands and have to be tough themselves to keep the household together. Plus – and this was the killer – she had to protect her daughter.

He was still distracted by the skylight and the danger that lay beyond, but in a moment he would return his attention to the room and to his hostages.

Now was the chance.

And with that thought in mind, while still holding Amy in her right arm, she brought back her left elbow sharply into his solar plexus, brought it forward quickly and then smashed it into the bridge of his nose. All this in the space of less than a second. It happened so fast that he didn’t even manage to get the scream of pain out of his throat until the second impact.

And most crucially, he dropped the gun. At this point Maureen had a hard decision to make. She could dive onto the ground and try to scoop up the gun, but she knew that if she did that she might have to use it… in the presence of her daughter. Even if she didn’t have to use it, she would have to threaten to use it. And that in itself would further traumatize Amy who had suffered so much already.

So instead she opted to lurch to the door, fling it open and carry Amy out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time in a desperate effort to get clear before the gunman recovered.

*     *

“Stay away from there!”

“I need to get down.”

Leary had tried to edge over to the side of the roof so that he could climb down by the same drainpipe that he had used to get there in the first place. But the police didn’t want him to because it would take him out of their view.

“Come to the front!”

It didn’t make any sense. There was no way to climb down from the front. But they still had their guns trained on him and they weren’t taking any prisoners.

Nervously, he began edging to the front of the roof.

*     *

Fuck you bitch! I’ll fuckin’ KILL you!

His nose felt like it was broken and the blow to his solar plexus had winded and stunned him.

Where is it? Where’s that fuckin’ gun?

He was scrambling about on the floor, and the bitch was getting away. Finally he found it. He scooped it up and sprinted out the door, determined to do the very thing he had been told not to do when he and the others were hired: kill the woman and child.

*     *

The cops had told Leary to stay away from the side of the house, so he couldn’t climb down by the drainpipe. Instead they signaled him to come to the front of the roof, where he had to clamber down and literally hang there, while several police officers took hold of him and told him to drop, like a basketball player, breaking his fall by holding onto the ring after a slam dunk.

He had been counting on them to at least hold him with sufficient strength to cushion his fall, but instead they seemed content to let him drop and then grab him. The result was that he landed badly and twisted his ankle. This brought no sympathy from the cops, who swarmed all over him, shoving him roughly against the exterior wall of the house and cuffing him.

“He’s got a woman and child in there!”

“Yeah sure!”

*     *

When Maureen reached the bottom of the stairs, she was so anxious to get out of the line of sight of the staircase from the attic that she took a wrong turn and ran through the kitchen. She ran to the back door and released Amy to run on ahead of her. This took them out into the back yard.

Turning her head left and right, she tried to assess the situation. But Amy had already seen a man kneeling or crouching over another man and had run off in his direction. Maureen took off after her, realizing that the kneeling man was Alex Sedaka. But then she scooped up Amy and spun her round, trying to head back to the house.

Only while still in the back yard, she found herself confronted by the man who had held her hostage, who had just run out of the house from the kitchen… and he was holding the gun aimed squarely at her torso.

*     *

Alex, who had looked up, saw Maureen’s approach and sudden flight. From where he was crouching, he could not see the cause of her sudden stopping in her tracks. But he saw one of her arms go up, as if in surrender. He had heard the police call out to Leary and he knew that the PI had not dealt with the last kidnapper.

There were cops on the other side of the house. Any second now they must come through or round the house to deal with the situation.

But time was of the essence. They were in a situation now where every second counted. And Alex knew what was expected of him.

He scooped up the Uzi, swung it round and sprinted the few steps that took him into a position where he had a clear view of the gunman. He saw the gunman before he was seen, but when he squeezed the trigger nothing happened. He had assumed that Mitchell would have had the weapon primed for action. But it didn’t fire.

Come on God-damnit!

It was too late. The gunman had seen him. He would kill Alex and then the woman and child.

As if confirming Alex’s thoughts, the gunman swung his gun round to aim at Alex. But again the gang banger had underestimated Maureen O’Neil’s tenacity. She lurched at the gunman and deflected the gun upwards, clawing at his eyes at the same time. In ordinary circumstances, her strength would have been no match for his. But he was a drug user who had lost body mass in general and muscle in particular through years of substance abuse. And he was tired. And she was a mother who was fighting to save her child.

She half-turned to Alex.

“Press the grip safety when you squeeze the trigger!” she shouted back at him.

Grip safety? What the fuck?

Then he looked at the grip and saw the button at the back.

Grip safety! An extra safety feature! Of course!

He adjusted his grip, aimed the gun at the struggling gunman squeezing the trigger and depressing the grip safety at the same time. The Uzi discharged in automatic mode, cutting the gunman down. His hands flayed and his body reeled backwards away from him and fell to the ground. Then Maureen scooped up her daughter and ran back into the house, to be greeted by the police.

Alex ran back to Mitchell who seemed to be slipping away. But as Alex crouched down, Mitchell forced himself to smile and even gave Alex a thumbs up as cops appeared, along with medics and a tall thin man in a suit.

Mitchell reached into his pocket with the last of his strength and took out a small yellow canister, like the type used to store 35mm film. With a trembling hand, he reached out to Alex, offering it to him. Alex took it and the man closed his eyes, finally losing consciousness.

“I’ll take that,” said a voice above him. Alex looked up to see a tall thin and holding out some kind of ID towards him.

“Alex Selby,” said the man. “Homeland Security.”

And without waiting for Alex’s consent of cooperation he took the canister out of Alex’s fingers and put in his pocket before Alex could muster the strength or the willpower to protest.

At that point the medics pushed Alex aside and cut open Mitchell’s shirt in an effort to get at the wound and stem the bleeding. Alex noticed that Mitchell too had the tattoo of the Royal Green Jackets – a poignant reminder that Russ Mitchell and Corny O’Neil had been brothers in arms before fate had set one against the other. And the irony went deeper when Alex saw the blood group A2- underneath the symbol.

The even had the same blood group.

Alex suddenly had the fanciful thought that maybe one of them had received a blood transfusion  with blood donated by the other. Now that really would have been ironic.

Blood brothers.

*     *

In ward 7D of San Francisco General Hospital, the deputy had who was supposed to be on duty had woken up. And what he saw frightened him. George Stone was lying on the floor by his bed, face down.

Oh God! They got him! The sheriff will kill me!

“Nurse! Nurse!”

The door opened and a couple of nurses entered, walking quickly but not running. They saw immediately the fallen figure of George Stone and went over to him.

“Mr. Stone… Mr. Stone are you all right?”

“I needed to go to the bathroom, he said. I’m okay now.”

His words were slurred, but he was not seriously hurt. At any rate his pupils were not dilated, and he could express himself reasonably coherently. But the fall had detached him from his saline drip bag. A nurse quickly re-attached it and then they helped him back to bed. The doctors would soon be making their rounds.

Chapter 35

The following day Alex was sitting in the DA’s office, facing Hector Garcia over a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. The atmosphere was quite friendly, despite the fact that they stood on opposite sides.

“First of all Mr. Sedaka, I want to say that I am truly sorry about what you had to go through – not to mention what happened to your client. You understand that while prison violence is a perennial problem, we actually have a very good record of dealing with it in San Francisco.”

“I’m not blaming you for what happened sir. You did you best and in any case my client also has to accept some responsibility. No one asked him to walk on one leg.”

“No indeed,” said Garcia. “And then we had all that other drama in the ward with Paul Dunne.”

“Not to mention my drama in Anaheim and LA.”

The DA nodded.

“I suppose as dramas go, yours trumps anything that happened up here.”

“I trust Maureen and Amy O’Neil are being well looked after.”

“Oh yes,” said Garcia. “We’ve assigned counseling psychologists to both of them. I think it’s going to be harder for Mrs. O’Neil than for her daughter. Kids are remarkably resilient.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You must have been pretty shaken up yourself Alex.”

“So was Leary. He practically got shot by LAPD.”

“But I understand it’s all been straightened out now.”

“Oh yes. He was released on the spot, as soon as Maureen O’Neil explained what happened. I don’t even think there’s going to be a Grand Jury hearing, as all the principals with any sort of culpability are dead.”

“Including Mitchell.”

“Unfortunately. Although I’m still wondering who got those people to kidnap Maureen and Amy in the first place.”

“We’ll probably never know Alex.”

“Could it have been Homeland Security?”

“Well they certainly interfered with the case. I mean I told you they sent one of their lackeys to my office.”

“Yes. They interfered down in LA too. Mitchell tried to hand me a roll of film before he died, but a guy called Albert Selby from Homeland Security took it off me.”

“Selby? What down in the basin?”

“Yes, why, you know him?”

“He was the guy who came here and tried to lean on me to let you cop a plea. That chubby diplomat sure gets around.”

“Chubby diplomat?”

Garcia blushed with embarrassment.

“I can’t believe I said that out loud. Anyway, that’s how I thought of him. I like to size people up and assign them to their role.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well in any organization you’ve got greenlighters who make the big decisions, ass-kissers who do just like the name implies and diplomats who try and smooth over the cracks and patch up the warring factions. Selby seemed like a diplomat.”

“Yes but why chubby?”

“Well ‘cause he was… chubby.”

Alex was confused.

“Wait a minute are we talking about the same Albert Selby?”

“I don’t know. How would you describe your Albert Selby.”

“Well he was about six two, thin. I mean I would hardly call him chubby… skinny as a rake if you ask me.”

Hector Garcia sat forward.

“Wait a minute you’re saying that a tall thin man introduced himself to you as Albert Selby?”

Alex was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“That’s what I’ve been saying to you for the past minute.”

“And he took a roll of film off you?”

“Yes. I mean I assume it was film. It was in one of those yellow canisters like the old 35 millimeter film.”

“Well… I don’t know what to say Alex. I mean the Albert Selby who came to see me was average height and chubby. Unless it’s some sort of generic name they use in Homeland Security.”

“And you’re sure the one you saw was the real McCoy?”

“Well he had an appointment arranged through his office and he had ID.”

Alex thought about this. The one whom the DA had seen must have been the real one. If it was arranged through his office, there would have been too many risks of it going wrong. Besides, how would an impersonator have known about the appointment and how would they have stopped the real Selby turning up? And what purpose would it have served?

But some one faking the identity to get the film? Some one who knew that a cursory check with Homeland Security would get the confirmation that, yes, we do have some one by that name. That made perfect sense.

And he had fallen for it!

He cursed himself for his stupidity. And then couldn’t help but smile.

“What?” asked the DA, seeing the look on Alex’s face.

“Do I have the word ‘sucker’ written on my forehead?”

“I think we both do Alex. I think we both do.”

Something about the DA’s smile alerted Alex to the fact that there was more to this – that there was something else that Garcia wasn’t telling him.”

“Why do you say that?”

The DA shifted uncomfortably.

“Well I had a call from some one at the British Defense Department – or Ministry, I think they call it – a man called Arthur Beck. He told me that they’d sent the DNA profile of Cornelius O’Neil to Homeland Security and that Homeland Security had matched it to our John Doe. But Homeland Security would have put the profile on FDIS – the federal database. But then we’d’ve got a match when we submitted it. But we didn’t.”

“So how did they know about O’Neil.”

“Well it looks like they had a source here all along.”

“Our mysterious Albert Selby impersonator.”

“Exactly. Anyway, I understand you have a request to make, Alex. I think I know what it is, but maybe you’d like to spell it out to me.”

“Sure,” said Alex, bracing himself for the DA’s reaction and knowing that even at this stage in the game, he couldn’t count on anything. “We now know that Russ Mitchell was sent by the British to kill Cornelius O’Neil, because O’Neil had certain information – and film – that was embarrassing to the British government concerning the assassination of Prince Hashem of Bahakabir. We know that O’Neil himself had tortured and killed a photographer called John Macadam who was the source of that film. And we know what George Stone was working for Mitchell, out of a misguided sense of loyalty after Mitchell saved his life in a minefield in Iraq.”

Hector Garcia held up his left hand like a traffic cop.

“You don’t have to tell me the background, Alex, I already know it.”

“Okay well then you also know that all the people involved in this case are already dead, except for our Albert Selby impersonator, who’s probably flown the coop.”

“And of course your client.”

“Exactly. Now I know that this means I haven’t really got anything to bargain with. We can’t offer you anyone else’s head on a plate. But when you think about it, George Stone is small fry.”

“He did do the actual killing.”

“But the man he killed was also a killer – and a torturer too… by his own admission. I mean he even put in on his own website.”

“I believe he also put on his website something about how guilty he felt over what he did to John Macadam.”

“Yes and for what it’s worth my client feels guilty about what he’s done too.”

“It’s a bit late for that isn’t it Alex?”

“I can only say this. George Stone, was a brave man, who lost a limb doing aid work. He became a morphine addict because of the emergency treatment he got in the field hospital. His life took a downward spiral and when the man who saved his life called in the favor, he felt obliged to do it. Since then he’s survived at least one attempt on his life. He’s been stabbed, threatened by a phony doctor and then injured himself in a prison hospital while trying to go to the bathroom. He’s suffered quite a lot, both since his arrest and in his life in general. I know every perp asks for one more chance, but this guy isn’t a career criminal. He’s never really had a chance. All I’m asking sir, is for you to give him a chance now.”

The DA smiled.

“I don’t know whether to take out my violin or my handkerchief.”

Alex smiled back, realizing that the kind of performance he’d just given might work with juries, but not with a hard-headed DA.

“Did I overdo it Hector?”

“Just a little, Alex. Just a little.”

“Well… what do you say?”

Garcia thought about it for what seemed like quite a long time. Then he spoke.

“I’m ready to agree to Involuntary Manslaughter and two years probation. But one of the conditions of the probation is that he gets into a state-recognized drug rehabilitation program and complies fully with all its terms, including regular testing. The other is that he must find gainful employment. I know that’s not entirely in his hands in the present state of the economy, but if I am to give a man a second chance, that means getting him off the streets without putting him on welfare. That means a job and a home.”

“I don’t see how I can guarantee that?”

“I heard that after the Elias Claymore case your office has been quite busy.”

“Yes Juanita’s taking care of that. She’s going to become a partner very soon.”

“Well presumably you ‘re going to need some hired hands to answer the phone and do the filing.”

“We’ve already got a girl…”

He trailed off, seeing the look in Garcia’s eyes. He knew what the DA was thinking.

How can you ask me to let your client get off scot-free when you’re not willing to make even the slightest sacrifice to help him yourself?

“Okay. I’ll give him a job. Laurie can probably do with an extra pair of hands in the office.”

He smiled when he said this, remembering something that Juanita had told him on the way back from LA about certain recent developments in her private life.

*   *

“I can’t understand, it didn’t seem life threatening.”

“None of the other inmates even had food poisoning.”

The two consultants were standing over the bed, where Paul Dunne was being covered in preparation for being wheeled down to the pathology lab.

“Does he have any relatives?”

“I think so.”

“Well we’d make sure they do a thorough autopsy. Otherwise we’re going to be facing a lawsuit from some ambulance chaser.”

“Are you sure we’re gonna like what we find?”

“Maybe no. I guess we’re lucky we only lost one. It could easily have been two with that fall Stone had.”

In his bed a few yards away, Stone was straining to hear their conversation while pretending that he was uninterested. He was glad that he had managed to get over to Dunne’s bed and swap drip bags after Dunne had fallen asleep. And equally glad that he had the presence of mind to wipe his fingerprints off the bag and the line.

He realized now in a clear frame of mind that Dunne had tried to kill him with morphine or diamorphine. And he knew also that even if they identified the cause of Dunne’s death, the hospital would take the rap. But he didn’t feel in the least bit guilty. They had failed to provide him with adequate security. He had no choice but to defend himself.

*     *

“Okay who wants the chicken?”

“We all do Alex,” said Leary. “Just keep shovelin’ in on.”

Alex was holding a barbecue in his back yard. Martine, Juanita, Laurie, and Leary were all present. Also present were Maureen O’Neil and Amy, who had stayed on, courtesy of the British Ministry of Defense, who had generously agreed to make an ex gratia payment to Maureen to enable her and her daughter to recover from their ordeal in a relaxing atmosphere. But Juanita and Laurie, on the sheltered swinging love seat, seemed to be paying most of their attention to each other. The others were circulating and talking to each other.

“Is there are any relish to go with it?” asked Maureen as Alex handed her a pita pocket bread with a piece of barbecued chicken breast inside it.

“It doesn’t need relish honey,” said Martine, appearing on Maureen’s shoulder, “Alex’s marinade gives it all the flavor it needs – and the moisture.”

Alex handed Martine a similar sandwich as Maureen took a bite out of hers.

“You’re right,” said Maureen. And even the bread was softer than the usual pita bread sold by supermarkets. “Where d’you get the pita bread?”

“I made it myself,” he said. “In that.”

He pointed to the wood-burning clay pizza oven in the corner of the yard.

“I actually made the oven too.”

“You’re multi-talented,” said Maureen, enthusiastically. “What’s in the marinade?”

Alex threw his head back, trying to remember the details.

“Olive oil, soya sauce, honey, mustard, salt, pepper, garlic and finely chopped cilantro leaf.”

“Cilantro?”

“Coriander.”

She took another bite.

“It’s good.” She looked over at Amy who was swinging on the improvised swing, pushed gently by Leary. “Amy… you need to eat something!”

“I’m not hungry,” said Amy, defiantly.

“Honey. You’ve got to eat.”

Amy pretended not to hear. Alex was about to say something to try and temp her into trying the food when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get that,” said Martine.

Alex made up a few more chicken sandwiches and then threw the beef and lamb onto the grill. Less than a minute later, Martine came back and approached Alex with a nervous look on her face.

“It’s George Stone,” she said quietly. “He came to thank you personally for what you did for him. But I didn’t think it was good idea, what with Maureen and Amy here.

“Georgie!” Amy screamed and ran towards the house. Stone, who had been standing just inside the kitchen stepped out into the yard, as Amy ran up to him, and scooped her up in his arms.

“Hi there Sleeping beauty. What have you been up to?”

Alex was watching, in a state of confusion, while keeping one eye on the barbecue grill.

“I want you to give me a piggyback,” said Amy.

Stone looked over at Maureen, as if asking for permission.

“Only if you eat something,” said Maureen.

“But I don’t want to eat that.”

“Okay well what do you want?”

“Eggy bread?”

Maureen looked over at Martine helplessly.

“Eggy bread?” Martine repeated.

“It’s fried bread dipped in beaten egg.”

Martine smiled.

“Oh, we call that French toast. Sure… I’ll rustle up some.”

And with that Martine went into the kitchen, while George Stone gave Amy the piggyback she was demanding. Alex looked on, trying to take it all in.

Chapter 36

“I’ll have the lamb,” said Wainwright, knowing that he didn’t have to specify anything more to get it just the way he liked.

“And what would you like to drink with that?”

In the first class cabin of  a London bound jet, Wainwright perused the wine list.

“I’ll have a bottle of the Mas de Daumas Gassac 2009.”

The flight attendant made a note of the order and moved on. Wainwright was flying back to London after a successfully completed mission. Both O’Neil and Mitchell were dead. George Stone was free but unlikely to talk – and unlikely to be believed even if he did. And in Wainwright’s pocket was the still undeveloped film that three people had died for – six actually, he realized, as he recalled the three thugs at the house in Los Angeles.

Although not bound by the same honor code as the military, Wainwright had actually kept his word to Mr. Fixit and sent him 15 legally purchased one-ounce gold coins, by special courier.

And now he could relax on the 10 hour twenty minute flight to London. He would dine in one and a half hours and then sleep for the rest of the journey. He wasn’t sure what he was looking forward to most, the minted lamb and pureed potatoes or a well-deserved eight hours of sleep.

*     *

“Eggy bread’s ready,” shouted Martine from the kitchen.

“Okay you’d better go eat,” said Stone, hoisting Amy into the air and gently lowering her to the ground, “otherwise you mommy will be angry.”

Amy raced towards the kitchen. Alex caught Leary’s eye and signaled him over with a discreet flick of his head.

“Take over here, will you,” he uttered quietly. “I need to have a word with my ex-client.”

Leary looked a bit confused, but took over anyway. Alex strolled nonchalantly over to Stone, who was making eye contact with Maureen, but not actually approaching her.

“How’s it going George,” asked Alex.

Stone, who had his back to Alex at that point, turned round, looking a little disoriented.

“Okay.”

“Word?”

Alex inclined his head to the house. Stone looked reluctant, but Alex’s unyielding eyes left him no choice. He walked into the house, followed by Alex. In the kitchen, Amy was sitting down at the table eagerly devouring her French Toast. But Alex gave a look to Martine to tell her to keep Amy there, while he and Stone went into another room.

They went to Alex’s study – actually a small alcove off the living room – and sat down.

“What is it?” asked Stone, nervously.

“You wanted to thank me for getting you the deal.”

“Yes I did actually. I mean you really…”

He trailed off, seeing Alex’s raised hand.

“Nothing to thank me for. I just did my job.”

“No you went above and beyond the call of duty.”

“I guess you’re right. But I really need you to help me out here George. There are some things I need to understand.”

George Stone swallowed and nodded. Alex began.

“When the medics went to work on Mitchell, trying to stem the blood flow and save his life, I noticed that he also had a tattoo of the Green Jackets’ crest.”

“Well that’s how they met. They were both in the Green Jackets before they joined the SAS.”

“Yes, I know that. But that’s not my question. The thing is, there was also a blood group tattoo.”

“I think soldiers often have their blood group tattooed on their torso. It’s a practical thing in case they –”

“Yes I know that too. But it was the same blood group. So I – I don’t know why – but I got this crazy idea that maybe one of them had donated blood and the other had received that same blood in a transfusion. And I was thinking that maybe that was the source of their original friendship, despite what happened afterwards.”

Stone was smiling.

“That’s too much like something out of a story book. Look I’m not saying it didn’t happen but c…c…can’t be very likely. I mean Mitchell never told me anything like that.”

“But you can’t rule it out.”

“No, it’s the sort of thing he would have told me. We were good friends after he saved my life, don’t forget. And also, don’t forget that people don’t have to receive blood from their own group. People of all blood groups can receive blood from a donor of blood group O. And I think that’s something like forty percent of the US population.”

“Actually O negative is a lot less, but okay, if he didn’t tell you, then it probably didn’t happen.”

“Is that it?” asked Stone, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

“No there were a couple of other things. When Mitchell came to see me in the hospital he used my iPhone to do a trace on Maureen O’Neil’s phone. But you can only do a trace on a phone if the owner has granted permission and then the owner gets periodic options to withdraw their permission. So I was wondering if you could shed any light on that?”

“Why don’t you just ask Maureen?”

“I was going to, but then I started thinking that after all she’s been through, maybe it’s not a good idea to put her under pressure. That’s why I’m asking you.”

Alex met Stone’s eyes uncompromisingly. Stone squirmed. And then defiance kicked in.

“Wait a minute. Are you asking me if Maureen O’Neil and Mitchell were having an affair?”

Alex didn’t smile.

“Well the thought had crossed my mind, especially after I saw the password that Mitchell had used on his account to the phone tracing service: Amy four dot five.”

Stone looked blank.

“Amy four point five? Any four and a half?”

“She’s four and a half now,” said Stone, as if this were self-explanatory.

“I know That would suggest that it was somewhat recent that he set up the account. That’s if my theory is correct and that the affair was going on for some time. In other words, maybe Mitchell was Amy’s father.”

Stone smiled again.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree Alex. Look Corny and Mitchell were friends. He would have known Maureen and probably even been like an uncle to Amy. But that doesn’t mean that he and Maureen were having an affair!”

Alex was thinking that a moment ago it had looked more like Stone was like an uncle to Amy. But he put that aside for the moment.

“That wasn’t my only reason for thinking it. At the house in LA, she came running out to where I was crouching over Mitchell, trying to stem the blood blow. Only as soon as she saw that, she scooped up Amy and ran the other way. So I was thinking like maybe Mitchell is Amy’s real father… and Maureen didn’t want Amy to see him like that? You can tell me George. Mitchell’s dead. There’s nothing to protect him from now.”

Stone no longer looked amused, or frightened. He looked irritated.

“You missing the obvious Alex! She didn’t want her four year old kid to see a dead man with blood pouring out of him. It isn’t rocket science. And especially a man who had at one time been a close family friend.”

“Okay let’s put that aside for now. Let’s talk about Corny for  a minute. The autopsy report said that he was dosed up with rohypnol. And according to the barman, he had to be practically carried into Kell’s. And of course with rohypnol you can keep giving them another dose when they’re in a semi-conscious state, before it wears off completely. Corny had probably been drifting in and out of sleep for days. Mitchell had probably kidnapped him for a while before that.”

“Yes that’s right. Mitchell had to get back the pictures that Corny took from Macadam. Mitchell’s brief was to get hold of the pictures – every last one of them. So he had to needed to make sure that Corny wasn’t holding anything back.”

“So he used those days to do what?”

“Question Corny. Put a little pressure on him. Just like he did with Macadam.”

“There were no signs of torture on Corny.”

“That’s probably why it took a few days.”

“All right, but why did Mitchell have to bring him into the bar. Why not just kill him quietly, when he had him out of the public eye?”

“You’re forgetting their honor code about not killing their own. That’s why he got me to do it.”

Yes but why so publicly? With the risk of getting caught?”

Again the accusing look from Alex. Again the indignant response from Stone.

“You think he wanted me to get caught?”

“On the contrary. In fact, he was as loyal to you as you were to him! When that guy stabbed you in jail, he went after the deputy who set it up and killed him. At first I thought that might have been to silence him. But then, when Mitchell turned up at my office, practically begging me to save you, I knew it was genuine loyalty. He was at his wit’s end. He wanted to help you, but he couldn’t and he knew it was down to me.”

“Okay,” said Stone, shrugging, unsure where this was leading.

“Which takes me right back to my original question: why did the killing of Corny O’Neil have to be done so publicly?”

Stone shrugged.

“I don’t know Alex. I just don’t know. But when he told me what he wanted done, and that he was calling in my note, I knew that I had to do it.”

Alex pressed on.

“But you see George, there’s another thing. The DA told me that the British never sent any DNA profile over here. If they had, it would have been in the federal DNA database. That was just a lie they told the DA to explain how they ‘knew’ about the dead man in the San Fran morgue being O’Neil.

“So how did they know it was Corny?” asked Stone.

“They were getting information from their man right here in San Francisco. He told them about the man in the morgue with the tattoo – and it was the words “the truth about hashem” that convinced them. They already knew about the website. And the details matched up, so they knew it was Corny.”

Alex was leaning closer to Stone, making it clear that he wanted an answer.

“You think I was passing on information?” asked Stone incredulously. “I was arrested at the scene right after I stabbed him and I didn’t make any calls. You can check that out. When would I have had time to tell them about Corny being killed?”

Alex spoke softly as he uttered his next question.

“Why do you call him Corny?”

Stone looked confused.

“Everyone did. That was his nickname. You keep calling him that too.”

“Yes but why didn’t you call Mitchell by his nickname?”

“Maybe he didn’t have one.”

“But you see that’s the problem George. You’re right. I don’t know if Mitchell had a nickname. But why did you say ‘maybe’?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said maybe he didn’t have one. But you were his friend. Don’t you know if he had one? And why don’t you call him Russ?”

Stone looked lost for words. When he finally spoke, his tone was weak and almost desperate.

“What are you saying Alex?”

Alex drew in his breath as he homed in for the kill.

“I’m saying you didn’t kill Corny O’Neil.”

Stone’s face turned bright red.

“Then what do you think happened… outside Kell’s?”

“I think you killed Russ Mitchell outside Kell’s.”

Stone appeared to struggle to say his next words.

“But Mitchell died at that house in LA… rescuing Corny’s wife and daughter.”

“No George! Corny O’Neil died at the house in LA… rescuing his own wife and daughter.”

George Stone looked at Alex in deadly silence. He didn’t even try to wriggle out of it. He had nowhere to run.

*     *

“And of course as soon as we knew what a monstrous mistake the Secret Intelligence Service had made, we moved with all due haste to put it right – and indeed it was all sorted out very swiftly and expeditiously from there.”

At a COBRA meeting, General Carson was gloating over Sir Geraint Purdue.

“And let me be clear about this,” said the Prime Minister, up until then everyone thought that Mitchell was still alive and that O’Neil had been killed by Stone?”

Sir Geraint Purdue blushed and squirmed as he spoke.

“Er yes Prime Minister. But you have to bear in mind that at the time we had no reason to think otherwise. O’Neil had managed to get Mitchell’s phone and have Mitchell killed. He was communicating with us in a way that made it hard to check out his identity, but all the information he gave us seemed to check out. The report about the man in the mortuary – or morgue as they call it – checked out. Wainwright was able to access local sources of information who confirmed the tattoo with the words ‘the truth about hashem’ which we assumed was a tattoo that only O’Neil would have. They had broadly the same physique and musculature.”

“And you couldn’t get a picture? An autopsy photograph? A DNA profile?”

The PM’s tone was indignant.

“We had no reason to Prime Minister. Our belief was consistent with the information available to us at the time. But at least it was our bugging of Sedaka’s office that got the information that enabled us to discover O’Neil’s subterfuge.”

“And it’s lucky you sent it to me, old boy,” General Carson chipped in. “Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to send it to their unit psychologist for an evaluation. And he of course recognized the voice immediately.”

“Well thank God we caught it in time.”

“Absolutely Prime Minster, and sometimes the army is best left to do it own intelligence work.”

Isolated at the other end of the table, Purdue, who felt like he had been banished or “sent to Coventry” was squirming. His position away from the PM, assigned by the cabinet secretary at the start of the meeting, was a sign of how heavily in disfavor he now was. But he was determined to salvage his position as best he could.

“I’m pleased to report, however” he said “that Sedaka and Stone – and indeed every one else around them in America – bought the story about the killing of Hashem.”

But the PM sought clarification.

“Do you mean the how or the why?”

“Both,” Sir Geraint said, with delight. “That is they bought the story as to the how, and they haven’t a clue as to why.”

*     *

In Alex’s study, Stone finally broke his silence.

“Okay, I guess I may as well tell you now. Basically pretty much everything I told you about me and Russ Mitchell was true if you substitute Corny O’Neil for Mitchell. I was out there in Iraq doing aid work, but it was Corny, not Mitchell, who saved my life. I was shipped back to the US for medical treatment, but it blew my life savings ‘cause although I had medical insurance they said it didn’t cover it because I was doing a risky job.”

“Didn’t the aid agency provide you with health care?”

“They chipped in with the costs, but it didn’t cover everything. I mean it covered basic care, but if you want a proper prosthetic you’ve got to pay for it yourself. It covered basic counseling, but basic is the operative word. Plus I’d now become a dope-head. The high dose of morphine they gave me to kill the pain had left me addicted.”

“But you stayed in contact with Corny?”

“Yes, I mean that was before my money ran out completely and my life spiraled out of control. I visited Corny in England a couple of times and I guess you could say I was a friend of the family.”

“I presume that’s why Amy’s so friendly with you.”

“Yes, but the last time I got back here, the economy was a full blown recession. Lots of people were losing their jobs. Who was going to keep a one-legged man on the payroll – especially a one legged man with a poor attendance record.”

“The morphine?”

“Exactly. My life took a nosedive and I ended up on the streets – or at least in a condemned property that was too rundown for the bank that foreclosed to even care about it. And I had to share it with a lot of other homeless people.”

“But why did Corny come out here? And how did he hook up with you?”

“After he had his breakdown, when he was creating the website and debating with himself whether to go public and blow the whistle, he knew they were after him. And he still had the film he took off Macadam. He’d given them most of the film and the flash card with the pictures, but he kept that one roll back. At first they didn’t even know it existed. That was how he was able to get away with it at first. It was only because he mentioned it on his website that they knew it existed.”

“But he never developed the film.”

“He didn’t know how and he didn’t want to take a chance letting it out of his sight.”

“But I mean if it was undeveloped then he didn’t know what was on it.”

“No but it was the hardest one to get out of Macadam so he knew it had to be the big one. And remember he was still trying to make his mind up what to do. He hadn’t actually decided to blow the whistle. By that stage he was just trying to stay one step ahead of the British. By that stage he knew they were trying to kill him. And even if he gave the film back, they might decide to kill him anyway.”

“So he came out here. Knowing that his friend lived out here.”

“That’s right.”

“But how did he find you? You were homeless.”

“He asked around. He was the kind of man who knew how to get information.”

“But he left a trail.”

“He bought a ticket to California – to San Francisco in fact. They got information from the airline. That meant that they’d managed to track him down to the Bay area.”

“And they sent Mitchell to find him.”

“Yes. And presumably when Mitchell went missing they sent that other man.”

“The fake Albert Selby.”

“Yes.”

“But how did it go down? I mean the kidnapping before the killing.”

“Well Corny knew he couldn’t hide from them forever. He was good at hiding and living off the land, but they had formidable resources to track him down. But he was a better soldier than Mitchell and he ID’d Mitchell as his tail easily enough.”

“How did he do that?”

“He planted information that suggested he’d be somewhere at a certain time and then he staked the place out and fingered Mitchell as the hunter.”

“And he’d hooked up with you by then?”

“Yes. The thing is he had cash to rent a place, so we rented a place and he worked out a plan.”

“I presume the cash was so he could move around without leaving a trail.”

“Exactly. And the two thousand dollars that Mitchell had on him was planted by Corny before he brought him out to the bar.”

Alex was nodding, as his brain finally caught up with Stone’s account.

“And the Brits knew that Corny was using cash, so the fact that the John Doe had a load of cash on him strengthened their belief that it was Corny.”

“Exactly.”

“But what about the tattoo? Why would Mitchell have a tattoo that said ‘the truth about Hashem.’”

“That was part of the plan. You see, I managed to slip Mitchell a mickey in a bar and we got him back to the place we’d rented. Corny had bought the equipment and dies and needles to do the tattoos. Corny didn’t actually have any tattoo saying ‘the truth about hashem’ but he knew that by giving Mitchell tattoos to match the ones he was known to have – the regimental crest and the blood group – and then adding the one with the name of the website, he would make it seem like it was him.”

Alex was confused.

“Okay, but surely he didn’t think they would accept an identification based on the tattoo alone? Without a photo or DNA?”

“They would if it was backed up by Mitchell claiming that was the case. Remember Corny had Mitchell’s phone, he knew all the protocols and the plan was he’d pretend to be Mitchell.”

“Yes but he couldn’t just go back as Mitchell! They’d know instantly. And if he didn’t go back then they’d wonder why Mitchell had vanished off the face of the earth… surely?”

“Yes but his plan was to make it seem as if Mitchell was going back to England via Mexico and got killed there.”

“And why would they believe that? Why would Mitchell go via Mexico?”

“To minimize the chances of being caught. The idea was that he’d fake a message saying that the heat was on and the airports were being watched and that he was going to Mexico by road. Then he’d actually go to Mexico, send a message from there and then to create some kind of accident leaving Mitchell’s ID behind.”

“And he thought they’d just accept that?”

“They’d have no reason to doubt it. And even if they were suspicious about Mitchell’s death, they’d have to be very smart to figure out that he’d pulled a switch. As long as he made a clean break and didn’t contact anyone who knew him in England, he’d be okay.”

“But it didn’t quite work out that way did it?”

Stone lowered his eyes and looked almost ashamed of himself.”

“No it didn’t. I wasn’t supposed to get caught.”

“And when you did, Corny couldn’t just go off to Mexico and leave you. He had to stick around and try and help – even though he didn’t know how..”

Stone looked up and there were traces of tears in his eyes.

“It wasn’t a case of couldn’t. It was a case of wouldn’t. Corny was loyal through and through. He’d never abandon a comrade on the battlefield and he’d never abandon me to me my fate here.”

“I know. But he couldn’t spring you from the jail. Not even he was capable of that.”

“No. But he had to do something, even if he didn’t know what.”

“So what did he do?”

“We weren’t in contact, so I don’t really know. But I assume he carried on playing the role of Mitchell and sent messages to the British that he was keeping a low profile. That was basically his plan with going to Mexico: stonewall them by telling them that he was keeping his head down till the flack stopped and the dust cleared. So I guess he must have carried on doing the same thing, but right here in San Francisco.”

“And when that prisoner tried to kill you, with the deputy looking the other way, he killed the deputy.”

“Like I said he was loyal through and through. If he’d had the chance, he’d’ve killed Dunne too.”

“Dunne?” asked Alex, alerted by the name.

“Paul Dunne. The guy who stabbed me.”

Alex was shocked.

“Wait a minute! The same Paul Dunne who was brought into the jail ward that day?”

“The very same.”

“He was the one who tried to kill you?”

“Both times. First he stabbed me, then he tried to kill me with morphine.”

“But wait a minute, didn’t the autopsy show that he died of a morphine overdose?”

Stone was actually smiling.

“Isn’t there some saying: ‘hoist with his own petard’?”

“You mean you…”

“My lips are sealed Alex. All I’m saying is, he was the man who tried to kill me. And if Corny had been able to get at him the first time, like he was able to get at that deputy, he wouldn’t even have made it to the jail ward for the second attempt. That’s how loyal Corny was.”

“Oh I know how loyal he was. When he finally realized that he couldn’t spring you from jail he came to my office to beg me to do whatever I could to get you out. But then they kidnapped his wife and daughter?”

“Yes. But I don’t know the details. Remember I was in jail and we had no way of communicating with each other.”

“The cops told me that the kidnappers were gang bangers. But it was probably a contract job. Gangs don’t ordinarily go in for kidnapping – unless they’re planning on torturing a snitch or a member of a rival gang. In this case they kidnapped them and held them unharmed until the shootout at the end.”

“I guess that must have been the British trying to flush him out, Alex – the fake Albert Selby. And the bastards succeeded.”

“And they got the film.”

“Bastards,” Stone muttered.

“But there’s still one thing I don’t understand. My girlfriend told me that Prince Hashem was pro-western. His younger brother is an Islamist. Why would the British kill a pro-western heir apparent, knowing that he’s going to be replaced by an Islamist. That’s the part that still doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know either Alex. But I’m sure they had their reasons.”

Alex felt deflated.

“I guess now, I’ve heard it all.”

EPILOGUE

In fact Alex had anything but heard it all.

The following day, in an elegant room, an elderly lady wearing a Karl Ludwig cerise multi-colored print dress, with a pink jacket was sitting opposite a nervous looking man in his mid-forties. The room was part of a network linked by narrow corridors, one of which was designed by John Nash and had a saucer dome. Another corridor had cross-over vaulting. The man had walked through the corridors and presented the elderly lady with the set of photographs that she was now viewing.

The photographs were prints of the negatives that Corny and later Mitchell had held onto. And contra to what Alex Sedaka and George Stone believed, they didn’t show a Carbon Monoxide canister. Carbon Monoxide canisters as such do not exist – not even for assassination purposes – except in works of fiction. And if they did exist for such purposes, they would hardly be labeled as such.

That was just the camouflage story the army and MI6 had told Corny O’Neil when they briefed him for his mission to hunt down John Macadam. The same story that they told Russ Mitchell when they briefed him to track down Corny O’Neil. The same story that O’Neil had told George Stone when he enlisted his aid in killing Mitchell and setting up the subsequent deception. And it was that same story that Alex Sedaka now believed, despite his other discoveries.

What the pictures actually showed was a young red-headed man (nicknamed “Ginger” by others in his army unit) jumping Prince Hashem from behind and using his advanced unarmed combat training to break the man’s neck in one neat snapping movement of his powerful arms. Later pictures showed him arranging Hashem’s body to make it look like he hit a tree at the bottom of the slope before the lagging body guards came within eye line of the scene.

“Couldn’t we have got some one else to do it?” asked the lady.

“It had to be some one who had the skill to do it and make it look like an accident. A broken neck… swiftly and efficiently… no signs of a struggle.”

“I’m sure he’s not the only one with the necessary skill.”

“No, but it also had to be some one Hashem trusted – some one who could get in close... some one who had the caché and status to persuade Prince Hashem to separate from his bodyguards without arousing suspicion – his or theirs… then or since. And some one who would be believed afterwards by the royal family of Bahakabir.”

“Couldn’t you have had some one with the necessary skill lying in wait at the bottom of the slope?  That way he wouldn’t have had to do it himself.”

The man thought about this for a moment. This was going to be harder to explain than he thought.

“I suppose we could have… but he wanted to do it. He considered it his duty.”

“I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him,” said the lady, with a gentle stress of pride in her voice.

“He’s a good soldier, don’t forget. He’s had first class training.”

“Forgive me for my naivety David,” the lady muttered uncomfortably. “But why was it necessary to kill Prince Hashem in the first place, when he was such a good friend of the west?”

The man squirmed with embarrassment and took a long time to get another word out of his mouth.

“He was acting in defense of the realm,” he said finally, offering up this platitude as a kind of all-embracing excuse for what the pictures showed.

The woman’s voice suddenly took on a firm, cutting edge, as if she were not the passive old lady that she had at first appeared to be.

“I didn’t ask you to editorialize. I want to know the reason.”

“I shall try to put this delicately. We have video evidence that Hashem’s brother Walid – though noted for being a devout Muslim and Islamist – is also… gay. More specifically he is a…  passive homosexual.”

“Is that significant?”

“It would be in the eyes of his own people. An active homosexual, they might be able to make excuses for. It’s a power thing. But a passive homosexual – a man who acts like a woman – that they would regard as something quite beyond the pale.”

“But why should his sexuality concern us?”

“Because we have photographic and video evidence of it.”

“And I repeat: why should that concern us?”

“Well please bear in mind that Bahakbir is rich in oil reserves, is strategically located and is – under the leadership of Walid’s father – a steadfast and loyal ally of the United Kingdom. We wish to keep it that way.”

“But if the problem was with Walid, then why kill Hashem?”

“Because Hashem is the less popular within Bahakabir. Although Hashem was the heir apparent, most of the people are poor and they look to religion for their comfort. Walid – the anti-Western Islamist – is the one they want as leader.”

“Forgive me, but I would have thought that this would be all the more reason for eliminating Walid, rather than his brother.”

“Yes but even with Walid removed, Hashem would never have been a stable leader. He was seen as a pro-Western playboy and if he had become leader he would have been living and operating under the sword of Damocles. Even if he had the army on his side, all it would have taken would be another extremist mullah to foment rebellion and he could be overthrown – and then we don’t know what we’d be getting in his place.”

“And how does it help getting rid of Hashem and replacing him with an anti-Western Islamist?”

“By getting rid of Hashem, we smooth the way for the transition to Walid’s rule when his father dies.”

“You think he’ll be grateful?”

“No, but as long as we have photographic and video evidence of his proclivities, we can control him.”

“You mean blackmail him.”

The tone was almost chiding.

“Yes ma’am.”

“And you think it will work?”

“We’ve already tested him. We’ve got him to do things for us to test that he’s well and truly under our control. Trust me, Ma’am, he’s too scared to defy us.”

“Espionage is a dirty business,” she said, matter-of-factly, as she continued to study the images intently, as if still finding it hard to believe what she was seeing, even though she believed – all too well – what she was hearing.

“Yes indeed.”

She looked up slightly raising the pile of pictures in both hands.

“And you’re sure these are the only remaining copies?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Well we can never be a hundred percent sure. But we think so.”

The lady spoke again.

“And these will be sealed for… what… the maximum 75 years.”

The man looked at her hesitantly, as if unsure of how to broach the subject.

“With the greatest of respect, we think that… under the circumstances… even seventy five years wouldn’t be prudent. We feel that even after that time, this sort of thing could come back to haunt us and undermine our foreign policy.”

He fell silent, as if unsure of whether to continue, or how.

“Go on,” she prompted.

“What we would like to do… is to destroy these pictures altogether. We know it’s somewhat unconventional… but…”  he trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

“You think it’s for the best,” she said quietly, completing the sentence for him.

He nodded silently, his voice deserting him, before swallowing and adding nervously, “if you have no objections.”

The elderly lady hesitated while the man held his breath. After a moment, she permitted herself a smile. “I have no objections,” she said, nodding reassuringly.

The Prime Minister breathed again.

“Thank you Ma’am.”

THE END

Afterword

If you liked this book, please go to Amazon and share your opinions with others by giving it a good review and clicking on the LIKE button. If you’ve got time, you can also give it some relevant subject tags or agree with other people’s tags about the subject matter, to spread the word and get it out there.

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Also, don’t forget to check out my website: www.davidkesslerauthor.com. It contains not only the latest information about my books, but also my ranting and raving blog about the many subjects that I feel strongly about.

Finally if you haven’t read it yet, don’t forget to check out the first two Alex Sedaka thrillers  as well as my many other titles:

Alex Sedaka thrillers

Mercy

No Way Out

Marked Man

Daniel Klein thrillers (as Adam Palmer)

The Moses Legacy

The Boudicca Map (coming soon)

Other thrillers

A Fool for a Client

The Other Victim

Thrillers for children and young adults (as Dan Ryan)

Ethan and The Devious Doctor

Ethan and The Cryptic Clues

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

EPILOGUE

Afterword