Younger (27 page)

“They were in Mr. Barton’s attaché case. When he collapsed at my house.” She hesitated. “I’ve used the Maria Kelm passport. In Milan and here in Rome. I’m registered at my hotel as Maria Kelm.”

“You knowingly used not one but two false passports, Ms. Wallingham? Not such a good idea, is that?”

“I was assured the Tanya Avery one was legitimate, and I met the MI6 agent supposedly in charge. As for the Maria Kelm passport, using it seemed a much better idea than getting killed,” she said tartly. “Have someone call us a taxi and we’ll go to the Americans, if you prefer.”

David looked from Hyde-Bingham to Anna and back again, as if unwilling to take sides.

Hyde-Bingham blinked first under Anna’s chilly gaze. He shook his head. “No need for that.” He pushed a button on his desk, and the young assistant who’d escorted Anna and David into the British embassy popped his head in the door.

“Sir?”

“Malcolm, please escort Ms. Wallingham and Mr. Wainwright to waiting room 22.” To all three, he said, “This will take a few minutes.”

Waiting room 22
was clearly code, because there was no number on the door of the room to which they were led. “Coffee? No? Tea?” Malcolm offered brightly. “I’ll have it brought up. And the loo will be through the door there on the right. I’ll come for you as soon as Mr. Hyde-Bingham is ready.”

They were in a small conference room, the main features of which were a long, polished wood table and a framed photograph of some members of the royal family with the British ambassador. “Cozy, what?” David joked bleakly, flinging himself onto one of the steel-and-leather chairs. “Maybe we should have gone to the Yanks. That fool will have you locked up for using fake IDs before all’s said and done.”

Anna shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone would have greeted us with open arms, two idiots arriving unannounced out of the blue, bearing forged passports along with a far-fetched tale of magic potions and murder, spies and lies, and sinister stalkers.”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .” He shook his head as if to clear it, then patted the chair next to his. “Have a seat. We might be here awhile.”

“What if no one believes me? Or what if I got it all wrong?” Her voice rose in panic.

“There’s some hard proof there. And not just the faked passports. I mean, Barton’s dead, Olga’s dead, your friend Jan’s dead, the Rusakovs are dead. That’s not nothing. Let’s see what happens next.”

What happened next was the arrival of a stout, plainly dressed Italian woman bearing a tray holding tea things and a plate of shortbread, which she deposited wordlessly on the table. The door, Anna noticed, was opened from the hallway by a man who seemed to be stationed there as a guard now.

What happened after that was a great deal of waiting. Silent waiting. She and David had been ignoring the elephant in the room with them, no matter what room they were in: her lying to him and asking questions about his relationship with Anna while letting him think she was Tanya. But now, Anna knew, wasn’t the time to broach the subject.

David was just muttering, “Would it be rude to ask for a deck of cards?” when there was a tap at the door and Malcolm appeared.

“Come with me, please. Sorry you had to wait so long.”

He led them into another office, larger and plusher. “We’re moving up the ladder,” David whispered.

The man seated behind the desk stood and held out his hand. “Ms. Wallingham, Mr. Wainwright. Charles Dexter, British consul’s office.” He indicated the two other men seated next to the desk. “Elliot Lewis from the American embassy.” A short, dark-haired man shook both their hands. “And Sir Charles Etherington, SIS.” A man who looked like the “aristocratic, white-haired head of intelligence” character in a movie gave both their hands a muscular shake. “Please sit down.”

Dexter nodded to Etherington, who said, “As you surmised, no one named Martin Kelm is, or ever has been, a member of SIS. Someone will be arriving here shortly with photos in the hopes you can identify him. By chance, you’ve shown up on the embassy’s doorstep the day after I arrived to meet with the ambassador on totally unrelated business. And tomorrow our agent on the case in London will be here. On
this
business, I might add. I’ve asked him to fly in.”

“Your agent? On the case? You mean there’s already a British investigation going on?”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Wallingham, for quite some time. Since before Pierre Barton’s death.” He tilted his head in a very small shrug. “We knew about you, and we probably should have approached you ourselves or through your own people”—he gave a nod to Mr. Lewis—“but to be perfectly honest, no one was quite sure what your role at BarPharm was, or why you were there. And then you flew the coop.”

“And now?” David interjected. “What happens now?”

“Several things,” said Dexter. “First, we make sure we correctly ID the mysterious Mr. Kelm. Then we get both of you out of your hotel and into more secure lodgings. You’re correct in thinking you’re not safe. You mentioned your son in talks with Mr. Hyde-Bingham, Mr. Wainwright? We can begin immediately to have him and his mother’s house watched discreetly to make sure he’s not in danger. Tomorrow, we’ll meet with the agent in charge and decide how we should proceed. SIS will be in charge after that point.”

“And when can we leave?”

“Leave, Ms. Wallingham?”

“Leave Rome.”

It was Etherington who answered her. “That’s up to us,” he said mildly. “The fact is, you both have little choice in the matter at this point. You can walk out that door right now and know that, if a murderer on the loose doesn’t kill you, you will be picked up very quickly by Interpol and handed over to the Metropolitan Police in London for interfering in a murder investigation. You have stolen passports from a dead body, in addition to having withheld information. You, Mr. Wainwright, have aided and abetted her. We would like your assistance and your secrecy. As a United States citizen, you can’t be required to swear to anything for the UK, Ms. Wallingham. However, you will be very ill-advised indeed to make public any of the information we will need to share with you. We won’t keep you here longer than we need to, but we certainly won’t release you before it’s safe for you to be on your own. But I’ll leave that up to Barnes when he gets here.”

“Anything else?” Dexter murmured, breaking the long silence that followed. “Lewis, you had something, did you not?”

The American spoke directly to Anna. “We’ll be looking into the death of your friend, Mrs. Berger. It could be what it seems like, a random hit-and-run—but rest assured we’re checking it out.”

The phone rang and Dexter spoke briefly into it. “Photos are here, Chips. Shall we look at them someplace with better lighting?” They all filed down the hall to another conference room, this one brightly lit. A man carrying a dispatch box arrived at the same time, handed the box to Etherington, then left.

“You sit here, Ms. Wallingham. Please go through these carefully and pull out any you think might be Mr. Kelm.”

There appeared to be about forty photos in the box. The first ones were easy to reject, as they were posed identification photos or mug shots of plainly visible subjects, some of whom were blond or pointy nosed but none of whom was Martin Kelm. The candids were harder to judge, as they weren’t always clear, but when she came to a snapshot of a man in a bathing suit standing and smiling on a stretch of rocky beach, she handed it to Etherington. “This one, I think. His hair’s darker here, but it looks like Kelm.”

He nodded. “Please continue.”

She found two others: one, a passport shot in a suit and tie, and the other of poorer quality, perhaps a long-lens shot, showing him much as she’d seen him that day on the Ku’damm, dressed like a construction worker in a jacket and jeans.

Etherington beamed at her. “Excellent, my dear! Very well done. As anticipated,” he announced, “it’s SVR. Meet Russian Foreign Intelligence Service’s man of many faces, Grigoriy Komarov. Fittingly enough, Grigoriy means ‘vigilant.
’”

“You’re saying Martin Kelm’s a Russian spy? But he’s as British as—”

“As I am?” Etherington beamed more brightly. “Yes, isn’t he just? Excellent actor, the esteemed Komarov. A bit embarrassing we weren’t onto him sooner.”

“But I thought Aleksei—”

“You thought the butler did it, did you? But, no, the butler would be the man called Mikal, wouldn’t it? In any event, tomorrow is another day.” He put the three photos down and stood. “It will have to wait until then. Mr. Dexter, could you keep these three photos handy for the meeting tomorrow? I’ll have a car downstairs in fifteen minutes to take Ms. Wallingham and Mr. Wainwright to pick up their bags.”

“We have no say in this at all?” Anna protested weakly.

While Etherington continued to beam, a steeliness came into his expression that assured her good old Sir Chips was nobody’s fool.

“You came to us for safekeeping. This is how we keep you safe.” He nodded and left.

Then Lewis was handing her a card, saying, “I think I’ll leave you in the excellent hands of Mr. Dexter” and, as though he’d been poised at the door waiting, Malcolm was back, asking Anna and David to please come with him to waiting room 22.

“I’ll return to fetch you in a few minutes when the car arrives,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll check out of your hotel, then come back here.” His giggle was incongruous. “Free night’s stay in luxury surroundings. Food, too.”

“I didn’t realize our embassy took captives,” David said stiffly.

“Hardly captives,” Malcolm reassured him breezily. “Just our guests. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

“It’s just for a night or two,” Anna said after he’d gone. “I’m not thrilled, either, but at least we’re safe here. And they’ll make sure your son is, as well.”

“And at least they’re taking your fears seriously.”

“Did you think they wouldn’t?” she asked sharply. “That they’d tell you I was just being a hysterical woman?”

“Of course not, Anna. I told you I believed you. I’m trying to help you, remember? Not making sexist judgments.”

“Sorry. I was just being a hysterical woman for a moment there, wasn’t I?”

“We’re stuck here. No sense in fighting it. Mutual sarcasm interrupted by a spot of whining should help the time fly by.”

He grinned, and her irritation evaporated. She knew he was remembering the fun they used to have being sarcastic about things that bugged them.

Just then a knock heralded the return of Malcolm, who also bowed, adding the gesture of a courtier. “Your carriage awaits.”

“See?” David whispered as they followed Malcolm to the elevator. “Everyone’s going in for sarcasm now.”

Downstairs, a man so well muscled he lacked only a “Kiss Me, I’m a Bodyguard” T-shirt was waiting by the front door. Nor was he to be their sole companion. He led them to a black Range Rover out front and opened the rear door for them, and a second beefy escort turned in the driver’s seat to nod. Hulk #1 settled himself in the passenger position. “Now we know what happens to old Chippendales dancers,” David murmured.

Mario, back from his days off, looked terrified when the four of them trooped into the hotel lobby. “Mr. Wainwright and I will be checking out now, Mario,” Anna told him.

“
Sì, sì
, Signora Kelm. I will prepare your bills now.” He eyed the bodyguards.

“And Mr. Wainwright and I need the envelopes we left in your safe.” In her nervousness that morning, she had forgotten the envelope of cash she’d left for safekeeping the day before.

Anna had kept so many things prepared for flight that it took just moments to gather together her belongings. She looked up at Hulk #2 after closing her suitcase, not sure which of them should be taking the bag until he politely told her, with a touch of a Scottish burr, “I need to be hands-free, ma’am.”

She slung on her backpack and rolled the suitcase to the elevator. In the lobby, she paid both bills with cash and included a handsome tip for Mario. When David arrived with his duffel and Hulk #1, she told him, “The bill’s covered. You can get dinner.” One bodyguard stood with them while the other took a white-faced Mario aside for a little chat, a one-sided chat in which the Hulk spoke while the desk clerk nodded emphatically in agreement.

Back at the embassy, Malcolm escorted them to a different elevator, one with a lock for each floor. As they ascended, he said, “The accommodations are quite pleasant: two-bedroom, two-bath suite, with living room and wet bar. There’s a menu on the table in the dining area with an extension number on it. Just ring down and say you’re ordering lunch. Then do the same for dinner. There’s water and drinks in the refrigerator behind the wet bar, and you’ll also find a wine rack. It’s not the Hassler, but it’s not a doss-house, either.”

He led them down a tastefully decorated and carpeted hallway that wouldn’t have been out of place at a Ritz-Carlton. “Who normally stays here?” asked David. “Do Brits often come to Rome to throw themselves on your mercy?”

“Rarely, Mr. Wainwright. Most of our good citizens come to Rome to throw coins into the Trevi Fountain,” Malcolm replied smoothly, showing an aplomb that foretold a successful career in the Foreign Service. “The suites are usually for overnight diplomatic guests—a staff member from one of our services flying in for a meeting or a foreign guest needing a secure place. I can’t say you’re the norm.” He stopped in front of a door and opened it with a key card.

The drapes were open, flooding the living area with midday sunshine. There was the requisite big wall-mounted flat-screen television, good-quality if undistinguished furnishings, and more plush carpeting.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Malcolm. “My extension number is on the table with the menus. I’m here until half past six and then the night staff comes on, so if you call the extension after that, a very nice bloke named Ian will answer. I’ll fill him in before I leave. Meals come from a trattoria down the street and take about thirty minutes to arrive; they’ll be brought up by a staff member. You can lock the door to feel more secure if you like. But you couldn’t be in a safer place: the elevator runs only with keys, and the door to the other part of the building is steel, locked and guarded. In the event of fire or any other emergency, just dial zero or pull the red alarm handle to the side of the little fridge. If you need anything, call me or Ian. The meeting tomorrow will start at half past eight, and I’ll come to fetch you for that. I’ll have them bring breakfast at seven forty-five, shall I?”