Chapter Three

London

MI5 Headquarters

Thames House

12 Millbank

Tuesday afternoon

John read his encrypted reply to him and their exchanges: No sightings of any of the jihadists who worked with the old imam or with Samir Basara?

None yet. Getting closer to the inner circle, waiting for the imam to ask me in.

Do not take unnecessary risks.

John ejected the thumb drive and slid it into a folder on his desk. He looked at the photos of his wife, Mary Ann, and of his daughter, Cici, who was walking now and banging her tiny fists if her spaghetti didn't magically appear. He'd studied Khaled's reports again because Lady Elizabeth Palmer was due to see him any minute, sent to him by Superintendent Hillary Morgan of Scotland Yard. He remembered that day at St. Paul's with perfect clarity, knew he'd never forget it, imagined occasionally picturing it on his deathbed. It was only by chance he'd seen his wife and baby at St. Paul's on a security camera, sitting next to a man disguised as an old woman, the man who'd planted the bombs, Samir Basara's henchman, Bahar Zain. He shuddered, thanked God. He'd almost lost them both that day.

"Mrs. Snow, please ask her to come in."

He came around his desk, shook her hand. "Lady Elizabeth, I am pleased to see you."

John smiled because it was quite true and pulled out a chair for her. "Please sit down and tell me what has happened."

John sat back and tapped his Tibaldi pen on the desktop, supposedly a birthday present from his year-old daughter. "Superintendent Morgan sent you to me because it's obvious the two attacks on you may be related to Samir Basara and his plot to blow up St. Paul's and murder the hundreds of people there at your friend's wedding. Let's consider someone holds you responsible for Basara's death. Why would they have waited so long? Were they out of the country and only just returned? If this is to make any sense, these people must believe that since you knew Basara intimately, knew details of his life, you must have betrayed him to us."

Elizabeth said, "Alas, many Brits would agree with him." She sighed. "So there have been no visitors who concern you?"

"Lady Elizabeth, this may be unpleasant for you to consider, but could these attacks be related to your brother, the Honorable Thomas Broderick Palmer? We're quite aware of his financial situation and cocaine addiction. Does he owe enough money to his cocaine dealer to make it worthwhile for them to come after you, take you perhaps, to frighten your father enough to pay his debts?"

Elizabeth stared down at her clasped hands. She had a ragged thumbnail. She tucked it into a fist. "Deputy Director, I've wracked my brain for other explanations, but I've had no murderous ex-boyfriends, no boyfriends at all, really." She forced a laugh. "To be honest, I suppose I've rather shut down since St. Paul's, kept to myself and worked, and frankly, all my friends are too busy with their lives to be concerned with my problems." She drew a deep breath. "I personally don't understand why anyone might blame me for Samir's death, since Samir died a continent away, killed by that FBI agent. As I told you, no one who knew him or did his dirty work for him would ever believe he'd trust me with his secrets. But these two men with their accents must have some connection to Samir—can you think of another explanation?" Elizabeth heard her voice rise, pulled back, breathed slowly, and tried to relax, but it was hard. Fear crawled through her, making her heart pound, her knuckles whiten. She clearly saw herself scrambling through her bedroom window clutching the butcher knife, thinking she was going to die.