Sam Somerville’s rental car had been where she left it in the short-stay parking lot at Heathrow. She drove straight to the manor house in Surrey. Kevin Brown read the letter she brought and glowered.
“You’re making a mistake, Agent Somerville,” he said. “Director Edmonds is making a mistake. That man down there knows more than he lets on—always has, always will. Letting him run sticks in my craw. He should be on a flight Stateside—in handcuffs.”
But the signature on the letter was clear. Brown sent Moxon down to the cellars to bring Quinn up. He was still in cuffs; they had to remove those. And unwashed, unshaven, and hungry. The FBI team began to clear out and hand the building back to their hosts. At the door Brown turned to Quinn.
“I don’t want to see you again, Quinn. Except behind a row of steel bars. And I think one day I will.”
On the drive back to London, Quinn was silent as Sam told him the outcome of her trip to Washington and the decision of the White House to let him have his head so long as she went with him.
“Quinn, just be careful. Those men have to be animals. What they did to that boy was savage.”
“It was worse,” said Quinn. “It was illogical. That’s what I can’t get over. It doesn’t make sense. They had it all. They were away clean and clear. Why come back to kill him?”
“Because they were sadists,” said Sam. “You know these people—you’ve dealt with their type for years. They have no mercy, no pity. They relish inflicting pain. They intended to kill him from the start.”
“Then why not in the cellar? Why not me too? Why not with a gun, knife, or rope? Why at all?”
“We’ll never know. Unless they can be found. And they’ve got the whole world to disappear into. Where do you want to go?”
“The apartment,” said Quinn. “I have my things there.”
“Me too,” said Sam. “I went to Washington with only the clothes on my back.”
She was driving north up Warwick Road.
“You’ve gone too far,” said Quinn, who knew London like a cabdriver. “Take a right at Cromwell Road, the next intersection.”
The lights were red. Across in front of them cruised a long black Cadillac bearing the fluttering pennant of the Stars and Stripes. Ambassador Fairweather was in the back, studying a report, heading for the airport. He looked up, glanced at the pair of them without recognition, and went on his way.
Duncan McCrea was still in residence, as if overlooked in the mayhem of the past few days. He greeted Quinn like a Labrador puppy reunited with his master.
Earlier that day, he reported, Lou Collins had sent in the cleaners. These were not men who wielded feather dusters. They had cleaned out the bugs and wiretaps. The apartment was “burned” as far as the Company was concerned and they had no further use for it. McCrea had been told to stay on, pack, tidy up, and return the keys to the landlord when he left the next morning. He was about to pack Sam’s and Quinn’s clothes when they arrived.
“Well, Duncan, it’s here or a hotel. Mind if we stay one last night?”
“Oh, of course, no problem. Be the Agency’s guest. I’m awfully sorry, but in the morning we have to vacate.”
“The morning will do fine,” said Quinn. He was tempted to ruffle the younger man’s hair in a paternal gesture. McCrea’s smile was infectious. “I need a bath, shave, food, and about ten hours’ sleep.”
McCrea went out to Mr. Patel’s across the road and came back with two large grocery bags. He made steak, fries, and salad, with two bottles of red wine. Quinn was touched to note he had picked a Spanish Rioja—not from Andalusia, but the nearest he could get.
Sam saw no need for further secrecy over her affair with Quinn. She came to his room as soon as he turned in, and if young McCrea heard them making love, so what? After the second time she fell asleep, on her front, her face against his chest. He placed one hand on the nape of her neck and she murmured at the touch.
But despite his tiredness he could not sleep. He lay on his back, as on so many previous nights, and stared at the ceiling and thought. There was something about those men in the warehouse, something he had missed. It came to him in the small hours. The man behind him, holding the Skorpion with practiced casualness, not the careful tension of one unused to handguns; balanced, relaxed, self-confident, knowing he could bring the machine pistol to aim, and fire in a fraction of a second. His stance, his poise—Quinn had seen it before.
“He was a soldier,” he said quietly into the darkness. Sam murmured “Mmmmm” but went on sleeping. Something else, something as he passed the door of the Volvo to climb into the trunk. It eluded him and he fell asleep at last.
In the morning Sam rose first and went back to her own room to dress. Duncan McCrea may have seen her leave Quinn’s room but he made no mention. He was more concerned that his guests should have a good breakfast.
“Last night ... I forgot eggs,” he called, and scampered off down the stairs to get some from an early dairy around the corner.
Sam brought Quinn his breakfast in bed. He was lost in thought. She had become accustomed to his reveries, and left him. Lou Collins’s cleaners had certainly not done any proper cleaning, she thought. The rooms were dusty after four weeks without attention.
Quinn was not concerned with the dust. He was watching a spider in the top far corner of his room. Laboriously the little creature laced up the last two strands of an otherwise perfect web, checked to see that every strand was in place, then scuttled to the center and sat there waiting. It was that last movement by the spider that recalled to Quinn the tiny detail that had eluded him last night.
The White House committee had the full reports of Drs. Barnard and Macdonald in front of them. It was the former they were studying. One by one they finished the summary and sat back.
“Goddam bastards,” said Michael Odell with feeling. He spoke for all of them. Ambassador Fairweather sat at the end of the table.