Cal said, “You can bet he doesn’t file flight plans for all his trips. That would mean his pilot is complicit. Can we find out his name, Gray?”
“Wait a second. I’m looking at his family in Algeria.” He scanned, looked up. “Well, would you look at this. His grandfather’s name was Hercule.”
Sherlock pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”
Cal said, “Kelly, you need to call your counterpart at MI5. Another thing—Shadid and Kenza are going to need protection. I have a feeling once Basara finds out we’ve outed him, he might try to have them killed.”
Kelly picked up her cell and dialed. “John? Have I got something for you. What? What did you say? Wait, I’m going to put you on speaker.”
John Eiserly sounded higher than a kite, but with an odd slick of fear in his voice. “We nearly lost Saint Paul’s. It was close, too close, but we got him in time. He’s a wanted terrorist named Nasib Bahar. My wife and my daughter—they were in Saint Paul’s attending a society wedding along with hundreds of the upper crust. If I hadn’t been assigned there as extra security, if I hadn’t happened to zoom in on my wife as he placed a packet of C-4 at the Nelson Monument, we would never have stopped him. He was dressed as a posh old lady, an incredible disguise.”
“John, take Mary Ann out tonight, someplace really special, and celebrate. Congratulations.”
“It can’t be all that special, I mean, we’ll have our baby with us, and believe me, Ceci can yell a house down. Well, maybe a Wimpy or Spudulike.”
Laughter, then Kelly said, “And I’ve got some great news for you, too. We think we’ve identified the Strategist as Dr. Samir Basara, a British citizen. He’s been in your newspapers lately as Lady Elizabeth Margaret Palmer’s escort.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I know the guy, seen him on the BBC, Roland Atterley’s show. Lady Elizabeth Palmer? She was here at the wedding. She’s still inside waiting to be interviewed. Let me go get her. Thanks. I owe you.”
It never hurt, Kelly knew, to have a favor tucked in her pocket. She beamed at all of them. “Saint Paul’s survived and now we’re in business.”
WYVERLY PLACE
LONDON
Monday
Hercule didn’t look away from the skyline toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Where was the billowing smoke? But he knew he could no longer deny that Bahar must have failed. St. Paul’s should have blown up at least twenty minutes ago. He had his television on and he turned when he heard the BBC break to a reporter standing near St. Paul’s with news of an attempted bombing, and then they switched to a video obviously shot on a bystander’s mobile, but clear enough. MI5 agents were hustling an old woman out of St. Paul’s. She was struggling, trying to jerk away, when her wig fell off. He stared at Bahar. He watched wedding guests pour out of St. Paul’s behind them, most trying to maintain their English dignity, but some yelling and pointing at Bahar, then the sharp voice of a man in a dark blue suit yelling at them to get the man into the waiting van. What had happened? They must have seen Bahar placing one of the C-4 packets at a site Hercule had chosen. Hard to believe because Bahar was a consummate professional. It was another failure. He found it hard to breathe, then forced himself to calm. He knew Bahar would never give him up. They’d worked together for nearly six years, brothers-in-arms in the jihad, or at least Bahar thought so. Hercule cared less about losing Bahar than the millions of pounds that would not be wired to his account in Zurich for the assassination of Lord Harlow.
His mobile buzzed. Was it Elizabeth? He grabbed it off the table and looked down at the name that filled the screen—it was the imam. Why was the old fool calling him on his private number and not on the burner? It was a long-standing agreement between them. Was the old man senile at last? He wouldn’t answer it, it would be the height of stupidity to answer it. Then he realized the damage was done, the imam had already placed the call. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “Why do you call me on my private line?”
The imam sounded old and afraid, his voice shaking. “MI5 agents have invaded my home. They have a warrant and are going through everything. They want to question me. Me, Hercule! They talked about Mifsud—your boy—they accused me of sending him to kill that FBI agent, and of sending Bahar to bomb Saint Paul’s. They were gloating. Do you hear me, Hercule? They were gloating!
“They are confiscating everything! I told them I felt ill. I am in the bathroom, agents outside the door. They didn’t realize I had my mobile to use because I destroyed my burner as they broke in on me and they didn’t think to look for another. Hercule, what am I to do?”