A Wild and Lonely Place (12 page)

“Sharon?” Renshaw was impatient.

“I need to meet with you. When’re you coming back here?”

“Not till Tuesday. I’m tied up in meetings with a major client in Irvine all day tomorrow.”

“Tuesday might be too late.”

“So come down here. There’s a seven
A.M.
flight from SFO that’ll put you into John Wayne at eight twenty-eight. I’ll buy you breakfast at the airport.”

Awful hour. “Will do. Have my coffee waiting for me.”

As I hung up, Adah said, “Well?”

“Tomorrow afternoon we’ll talk some more. Where’re your Yellow Pages?”

“Living room bookcase.”

I went inside, paged through one, and called for an airline reservation. Then I dialed Mick.

“It’s about time you got home,” he said. “I tried to call you at the cottage to warn you, and Hy said you’d left early. Where’ve
you been?”

“Warn me about what?”

“Somebody got into your house while you were away. There was an empty wine bottle and an open bottle of bourbon on the table
in the sitting room. A broken glass on the floor. And it looked like they slept on the couch.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I glanced at Adah, who had followed me in. “It was a benign burglar with alcoholic tendencies.”

The burglar glared at me.

I said to Mick, “Grab a pencil and paper, would you, and take down this list.” Turning my back to Adah and lowering my voice,
I told him what information I wanted from the newspaper files; it was a long list, and I added items as I went. “First thing
tomorrow I want you to call Charlotte Keim at RKI and get her working on this.”

“Shar, why can’t I do it?”

“We can’t let down our regular clients just because I’ve taken on too much. I’m counting on you to keep the agency running
smoothly.”

He gave me no further protest, just read the list back to me and said good night. I hung up and turned to Adah. She was looking
sulky again, but agreed to give me a ride home. When she dropped me in front of my house, though, she couldn’t resist a parting
shot: “McCone, if you can afford fifty-five buck bottles of wine, you really should start thinking about buying better bourbon.”

I didn’t reply. She’d get her comeuppance soon enough when she got home and realized I’d taken her guns for safekeeping.

* * *

John Wayne Airport had palm trees in the center of its indoor concourse. A friend who lived in nearby Newport Beach had told
me they were embalmed. Literally. Just how it was done, she didn’t know, but the trees looked fully lifelike, and it was eerie
to know there wasn’t a single living cell among them.

Another thing that was strange about the airport was that nobody would call it by its official name. The reservations people,
the ticketing agent up north, and the locally based flight crew all referred to it as Santa Ana. I mulled that over as I looked
for the restaurant, and decided that they must be resistant to the airport being named after a movie actor. As far as I was
concerned, the attitude made no sense. After all, hadn’t the state twice elected a far worse actor as governor? And then hadn’t
the entire country put same in the White House? At least the airport commission had honored Wayne after his death, rather
than putting him in charge of the control tower.

I spotted Renshaw in a booth toward the back of the restaurant, hunched over a cup of coffee. In his natural Southern California
habitat he dressed casually in a sport shirt and slacks, but they looked as rumpled and shabby as the suit and tie he wore
up north. Gage was reputed to be a millionaire many times over, and Hy had told me he displayed good taste in other areas.
The clothing, I concluded now, was an affectation designed to soften the image of a very ruthless business.

Dan Kessell had always kept in the background at RKI, allowing Renshaw to act as the firm’s front man with clients and the
press. Frequently Gage gave newspaper and magazine interviews in which he essentially said, “Oh, gosh, we’re just this little
company that teaches executives self-defense tactics and creates corporate security systems. Do we operate outside the law?
Come on! Do I look like the kind of guy who would do something illegal?”

But illegal activity had been a constant in Renshaw’s life, dating back to when he was with the DEA in Southeast Asia.

A great deal of smuggling went on across the war-torn borders in those days, and while Gage’s job was to prevent drug trafficking,
his sideline was to profit from moving commodities and people. As Hy had told me, “Kessell would get at least one referral
a week from Gage. Along with his official work, he was out there hustling and making contacts. People wanted to move stuff
fast—firearms, gold, jewelry, artifacts, uncut stones, currency. Drugs, too, although Gage pretended not to know about that.
They wanted to move themselves and their families, and didn’t care what it cost. And it cost plenty, because before Kessell
gouged them, Renshaw had his hand out for his finder’s fee.”

Those were dangerous times, violent times. A lot of people got rich, and everybody else—including Hy—profited nicely. But,
like my lover, many brought away more than the numbers of Swiss bank accounts: nightmares, tightly boxed demons, enough regrets
to last ten lifetimes. As I approached Renshaw’s booth I wondered about the quality of his sleepless nights. If he was human—and
the jury was still out on that—they must be nights of which I hoped never to experience the equal.

Gage rose and motioned for me to sit across from him. I nodded to the waitress who had appeared with a coffeepot, then scanned
the menu. As a consequence of getting up before five I was starving, so I ordered corned beef hash with poached eggs, an English
muffin, and tomato juice. Renshaw looked astonished and faintly disgusted.

He said, “Am I to assume you’ll be able to talk while you shovel all that in?”

“No problem. But we do have a problem with the Azadis. First, Hamid’s got to allow Habiba and Mavis to leave the compound.
I suggest stashing them in the hospitality suite at your San Francisco building; God knows it’s got everything you’d need
to keep a kid amused, and I’m sure at least one of your operatives has enough of a maternal or paternal streak to baby-sit
both of them.”

“I agree.”

That surprised me. “Can you talk to Hamid, or do you want me to do it?”

“You’re the likely candidate for the task.”

“I thought she’d refused to deal with me.”

“She did, but she will.” The set of his mouth was grim.

“Will you call her and set up an appointment for me?”

“I’ll do more than that—I’ll insist she see you.”

“Good. Now, there’s something else I’ve got to take up with her: the messages they’ve received from the bomber. This secrecy
has got to stop; she’s got to show them to the task force.”

“I agree,” he said again.

I eyed him speculatively. He seemed unusually subdued this morning, and I couldn’t remember him ever agreeing with me twice
in the course of any given conversation. “Has something happened that I don’t know about?”

He signaled for a coffee refill. When the waitress departed he said, “Within the past hour a bomb arrived by mail at the Azadi
Embassy in D.C. and the apartment of their U.N. ambassador in Manhattan. Fortunately, they didn’t get past our people, and
the bomb squads were able to disarm them. I got off a conference call with the heads of those squads just before you got here;
the signature C.L. appeared on both devices. I suspect there’ll be a follow-up message before long.”

My breakfast arrived. I looked down at it, wondering how I’d thought I could eat. “Where were the bombs mailed from?”

“San Francisco, Van Ness branch post office.”

“He’s staying close to the consulate, then.”

“Uh-huh. Aren’t you going to eat?”

“You take it. I’ve lost my appetite.”

Renshaw looked at the plate as if I’d offered him something with mold growing on it.

“So what do we do—just wait for the message?” I asked. “Just wait for him to strike again and again?”

Renshaw’s eyes moved, calculating. He nodded in quiet resolve. “What time’s your return flight?”

“It’s open. There’s one in ten minutes.”

“Be on it.” He opened the briefcase that lay flat beside him and took out a cellular phone. “I’ll call Hamid now, pave the
way. When you get back to the city, here’s what you do: Go straight to the consulate and tell her how it’s got to be. If she
won’t let you take the kid, demand to see her. Play that winking game with her, and get her out of there. Our people’ll assist,
and I’ll take full responsibility. If Hamid refuses to release the messages to the task force, get the file copies from Green
Street and deliver them yourself. Then call me at this number.” He scribbled on the back of one of his cards and passed it
to me.

I slid out of the booth and headed for the boarding gate.

* * *

Malika Hamid was furious. She stalked around her library, railing about Renshaw’s high-handedness and clapping her hands for
emphasis. He had no right to ring up and make demands, she said. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she would tolerate
no interference on my part, so why was I here? And how dare I demand to see her granddaughter?

I let her rant.

I was to leave the premises immediately, she said. She would contact her cousin the ambassador and demand he dismiss RKI from
their employ. She would sue Gage Renshaw for harassment. She would…

I glanced at Kahlil Lateef. The trade attaché perched on the edge of the sofa, his nervous gaze following the consul general.
She’d already sent him from the room on two errands; he looked as though he’d welcome a third. Every time she clapped, he
winced and jumped. The claps grew more frequent; Lateef’s jumps grew higher. Pretty soon he would spring off the sofa like
a demented jack-in-the-box and run amok through the halls of the consulate.

Finally Hamid’s voice stopped. I realized she must have delivered some dramatic ultimatum, but I’d tuned her out. I said,
“Frankly, we’re wasting valuable time here. The situation boils down to this: do you want your granddaughter to die? I don’t
think so. You may not care about your daughter-in-law; you’ve demonstrated that by abetting her drinking—”

“I have never—”

“You have, and we both know it. Alcohol is your hold over Mavis—and, by extension, Habiba. You must love her very much to
go against your religion. You don’t want to lose her.”

She turned away, hands locked behind the back of her dark suit jacket, and continued pacing, fighting for control. After three
passes up and down the Persian carpet she said, “You seem to know a great deal about the inner workings of this household.”

“Once you grasp certain facts, the rest isn’t too difficult to figure out.”

Lateef shot me an alarmed look, eyes pleading with me not to reveal where I’d learned those facts. I gave him a reassuring
nod and he relaxed some.

“As I said earlier,” I went on, “one way to minimize risk to Habiba is to remove her to the hospitality suite at RKI’s building.
It’s completely secure, has closed-circuit monitors that allow the occupants to watch all entrances to the building, as well
as the elevators and hallways. The combinations to the locks are changed daily, and I’m sure Mr. Renshaw will authorize additional
guards if you’d be more comfortable with that arrangement. There’s plenty of room, so Habiba’s nanny could go along to look
after her and Mavis—”

“I cannot allow my granddaughter to be exposed to her mother for a prolonged period.”

“Habiba loves her mother; she’d be upset if Mavis remained behind.”

Malika Hamid had been standing with her back to me. Slowly she turned. “How do you know what Habiba feels for her mother?”

“Your granddaughter is very clever at escaping the people who should be watching her.”

Hamid took a quick breath and strode to a window, pulling the drapery aside and looking out at the garden. What did she expect
to see? I wondered. Habiba escaping the compound?

When she didn’t speak I added, “Another way to reduce the risk to your granddaughter—once she’s safely off the premises—is
to take the messages you’ve received from the bomber to the task force. As it is, your secrecy has played straight into the
bomber’s hands.”

“That is enough, Ms. McCone!”

Now Lateef did leap off the sofa. Mrs. Hamid turned from the window and gave him a scornful look. He smiled weakly and inappropriately,
then tried to cover by leaning casually against a bookcase dominated by a bronze sculpture of a horse’s head. It leered over
his shoulder, putting me in mind of Mr. Ed.

Hamid transferred her haughty expression to me. I met her gaze and asked softly, “What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid! That is the most absurd thing you’ve said yet.”

“It has to do with Dawud, doesn’t it?”

Her face paled and she put a hand to her throat. Seconds of silence ticked by. Then she ran her tongue over her lips and moved
toward the sofa. Her unsure step and the fragile way she seated herself gave me a preview of how she’d move as an elderly
woman. In a brittle voice she said, “My son has been missing for many years.”

“Except on the days when he visits you and his daughter.”

Lateef’s eyes narrowed with interest. We both watched the consul general closely. She didn’t speak, just closed her eyes and
leaned back heavily.

“Mrs. Hamid,” I said, “please let me take Mavis and Habiba away from here.”

Her eyes remained closed; she shook her head.

“We’ll table any further discussion until Mr. Renshaw returns—providing you allow the two of them to leave.”

She shook her head again.

“Of course,” I added, “if you don’t allow it, I’ll have no choice but to hand deliver RKI’s file copies of the messages to
the task force. They’ll question me thoroughly, and I’ll be obliged to tell them about the situation here. And about Dawud.
And Klaus.”

Suddenly her eyes opened, full of shock that flared into rage. They fixed on me for a moment before she said to Lateef, “Kahlil,
please ask Aisha to pack Mavis’s and Habiba’s things. Tell her she’s to go along as well. They must be ready to leave in fifteen
minutes.”