the driver of the Escalade doesn’t. He has light hair. The victim in the woods was dark-haired. This must have been the driver parked up outside Amir’s store and the winner of whatever altercation broke out when they drove off after Goldman’s murder.
Irish figures that, given the timing of the footage, the guy he’s looking at on screen is almost certain to be the killer.
The Lincoln comes into view again. It’s an expensive model. One of the new ones.
‘Ho–lee shit.’ He hits pause. ‘Rule Friggin’ Britannia.’
A broad smile breaks out across his face as he stares at what is unmistakably a diplomatic plate.
24
VIRGINIA
The second semi-final of
America’s Got Talent
is playing on the new fifty-inch flat-screen in the family lounge. Sword-swallowing dwarves compete with gymnastic nuns for a place in the last show. TV doesn’t get better than this.
At least not when your brain is aching from stress and all you want to do is sit in front of the tube with a drink and snacks.
Ron Briars has had a rough day. Right now he’s wondering if he should have got 3D as a bigger reward for all that hard labour.
Sixty-inch, 3D, internet equipped. Home cinema, surround sound. Sport certainly would have been a blast on that baby.
But – as usual – he’d given in to his wife’s demands and settled for something a bit smaller. More fitting with the layout of the room, the French windows and fireplace. Not that either him or his teenage son can even begin to understand how the fireplace or windows have anything to do with a TV.
Ron’s cell phone rings.
Wife and child stare accusingly at the BlackBerry as it rudely buzzes and flashes on the side table next to his iPhone and almost empty glass of French red.
Not many people have the number and those that do are very important. White House-important. Chief of Staff- or even President-important.
Ron smiles apologetically, gets up and takes the offending phone to the den. A glance at the display shows the caller has withheld the number.
The head of the National Intelligence Agency answers with caution. ‘Hello.’
‘Tole Mac.’ The voice is calm and measured, almost without accent but clearly British. ‘That’s Tango. Oscar. Lima. Echo. Mike. Alpha. Charlie.’
Seven letters and two words agreed by the NIA and the party on the line as a means of identity verification.
The caller is a trusted source. About as trusted as they come.
The principal security advisor to the President of the United States reaches quickly for pen and paper. ‘Clearance noted. Please, go on.’
‘Denny’s Garage and Body Shop, opposite Leonard Gordon Park in Jersey. You have between midnight tonight and sunrise. No later. Four men are sleeping inside with enough explosives to rip up half of New York. One entrance, a roller door and it is alarmed. We wish you good luck.’
25
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
The Inner Circle disbands and the armour-plated helicopters and cars disperse.
Only Beaucoup and Dalton stay behind. They’re working closely on leads relating to the missing crosses and whereabouts of Angelo Marchetti.
Owain and his wife dine alone. Not in the plush summer room that overlooks the croquet lawn, or in the conservatory that opens out to the rose gardens and southern lake.
They eat in the wild. Out at the summit of Glastonbury Tor, where the sun sets cherry-red across the soft, green, rolling hills.
Hundreds of feet beneath them, armed guards patrol the hill and ensure the couple have their brief moment of privacy. Anyone wishing to climb the very public place will be politely paid off with whatever it takes – thousands of pounds if necessary.
The contents of the wicker picnic basket are as exceptional as the ancient landscape. Rustic bread and Welsh cakes baked within the last hour. Buffalo mozzarella, beef tomatoes and green and black olives delivered that morning from Tuscany. Fresh cockles and shrimps from the nearby coast. Homemade pheasant
Irish figures that, given the timing of the footage, the guy he’s looking at on screen is almost certain to be the killer.
The Lincoln comes into view again. It’s an expensive model. One of the new ones.
‘Ho–lee shit.’ He hits pause. ‘Rule Friggin’ Britannia.’
A broad smile breaks out across his face as he stares at what is unmistakably a diplomatic plate.
24
VIRGINIA
The second semi-final of
America’s Got Talent
is playing on the new fifty-inch flat-screen in the family lounge. Sword-swallowing dwarves compete with gymnastic nuns for a place in the last show. TV doesn’t get better than this.
At least not when your brain is aching from stress and all you want to do is sit in front of the tube with a drink and snacks.
Ron Briars has had a rough day. Right now he’s wondering if he should have got 3D as a bigger reward for all that hard labour.
Sixty-inch, 3D, internet equipped. Home cinema, surround sound. Sport certainly would have been a blast on that baby.
But – as usual – he’d given in to his wife’s demands and settled for something a bit smaller. More fitting with the layout of the room, the French windows and fireplace. Not that either him or his teenage son can even begin to understand how the fireplace or windows have anything to do with a TV.
Ron’s cell phone rings.
Wife and child stare accusingly at the BlackBerry as it rudely buzzes and flashes on the side table next to his iPhone and almost empty glass of French red.
Not many people have the number and those that do are very important. White House-important. Chief of Staff- or even President-important.
Ron smiles apologetically, gets up and takes the offending phone to the den. A glance at the display shows the caller has withheld the number.
The head of the National Intelligence Agency answers with caution. ‘Hello.’
‘Tole Mac.’ The voice is calm and measured, almost without accent but clearly British. ‘That’s Tango. Oscar. Lima. Echo. Mike. Alpha. Charlie.’
Seven letters and two words agreed by the NIA and the party on the line as a means of identity verification.
The caller is a trusted source. About as trusted as they come.
The principal security advisor to the President of the United States reaches quickly for pen and paper. ‘Clearance noted. Please, go on.’
‘Denny’s Garage and Body Shop, opposite Leonard Gordon Park in Jersey. You have between midnight tonight and sunrise. No later. Four men are sleeping inside with enough explosives to rip up half of New York. One entrance, a roller door and it is alarmed. We wish you good luck.’
25
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
The Inner Circle disbands and the armour-plated helicopters and cars disperse.
Only Beaucoup and Dalton stay behind. They’re working closely on leads relating to the missing crosses and whereabouts of Angelo Marchetti.
Owain and his wife dine alone. Not in the plush summer room that overlooks the croquet lawn, or in the conservatory that opens out to the rose gardens and southern lake.
They eat in the wild. Out at the summit of Glastonbury Tor, where the sun sets cherry-red across the soft, green, rolling hills.
Hundreds of feet beneath them, armed guards patrol the hill and ensure the couple have their brief moment of privacy. Anyone wishing to climb the very public place will be politely paid off with whatever it takes – thousands of pounds if necessary.
The contents of the wicker picnic basket are as exceptional as the ancient landscape. Rustic bread and Welsh cakes baked within the last hour. Buffalo mozzarella, beef tomatoes and green and black olives delivered that morning from Tuscany. Fresh cockles and shrimps from the nearby coast. Homemade pheasant
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