Collateral Damage (Stone Barrington 25)

“Don’t get off at any other floor or you’ll be shot,” the young Marine said with a straight face.

Stone rode upstairs and was admitted to the sealed floor. He walked into the station chief’s office and found a strange man sitting behind the desk. He was disheveled, had a couple of days’ beard growth, and had the hollow eyes of the seriously jet-lagged. “Hello, Lance,” Stone said.

“Stone,” Lance replied. “Sit down. Holly will be back in a minute.”

“How was Tokyo?” Stone asked.

“Charming,” Lance replied. “The flight here was something else—an air force transport, two stops for refueling.”

Holly walked into the office. “Oh, you’re back. How was the witness?”

“Remarkable,” Stone said, tossing the photo of Jasmine on the desk. “She identified this woman as being in her office, applying for the job of a translator of Arabic and Urdu, who left to go to the ladies’ a minute before the first explosion.”

“Got her!” Holly said.

“Have you? Where?”

“I mean, you’ve pinned the bombing on her.”

“Well, yes, the witness confirmed your supposition. What are you going to do about it?”

“I assume Harry Tate was with you, so there’s no need to inform Special Branch. What else should I do?”

“How about circulating that photograph to the known world? Or are we worried about the tabloids?”

Holly turned to Lance. “Your thoughts?”

“Wire it to the FBI and let them notify all the other agencies,” Lance replied. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she has left the country. We’ll see where she pops up next.”

“Just follow the explosions,” Stone said.

“You seem a little off, Stone,” Holly said.

“I’ve just seen a formerly beautiful woman who has lost an eye and had her face permanently altered by flying glass. It didn’t improve my mood.”

“Did Harry show her this photo, or did you?” Lance asked.

“I did, after Harry had finished questioning her and was ready to leave.”

“Did Harry seem surprised that you showed it to her, or that she identified Jasmine?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Lance said.

“Throckmorton told us he hasn’t issued a general alarm for her, either—just distributed the photo to a whole lot of functionaries, including milkmen.”

“I wondered about that,” Holly said.

“A smart move,” Lance said. “Thousands of milkmen will be delivering to all sorts of obscure addresses in the UK. They might well spot her in a housedress, watching soap operas on the tube.”

“If you say so,” Stone said.

“At any rate,” Lance continued, “I think Throckmorton has indicated to us that he does not want the British public at large to know that the two most horrific bombings in London since the IRA attacks during the seventies have been carried out in his city by a mere slip of a girl.”

Ann Tinney came into the room. “Architect is here,” she said. She stepped back and allowed Felicity Devonshire to enter, dressed in a tailored suit of Scottish tweed, her red hair tucked up in a bun.

Stone and Lance stood up and shook her hand; Stone planted a kiss on her cheek.