it—what happened?”
Angela Emerson considered the impropriety of Ian’s very direct question on the afternoon of her first husband’s funeral, and her distaste for the press made itself apparent on her face.
“We divorced,” she said, “because it was a mistake to have married in the first place. I was very young.”
“Was it another woman, Mrs. Emerson?” another of the reporters asked. “Someone he knew from before, when he was a pirate?”
“No,” said Angela Emerson, pressing her lips together.
“You’ve always maintained that, haven’t you? Publicly and privately.”
“If he was seeing another woman, I had no knowledge of it,” she repeated, firmly. “Anything else?”
“What are you doing with yourself these days? Still listening to the radio?”
“My husband and I,” said Angela Emerson, “own a newsagent’s in Carshalton, and have done for the past fifteen years. I imagine I’ll be reading all about myself in tomorrow’s deliveries.”
“Thanks very much for your time, Mrs. Emerson,” Ian said. “How old are you, by the way?”
“One hundred and three,” she said, turning her back on him.
Ian flicked off his micro-cassette.
There was nothing in the least disturbing about the bland outer room of Dr. Baker’s private haven—whatever had to do with livers and brains, relative weights, drainage gutters, rubber boots and gloves went on in the chamber beyond, on the other side of a now-closed swinging door. Evan had nonetheless positioned himself in the best possible location to facilitate a quick exit.
“Ricin,” the pathologist said, tentatively, taking his hands out of the pockets of his white lab coat. “Whatever makes you suspect that?”
He was a very earnest young man, Evan thought, with black-rimmed spectacles, a lot of wavy brown hair, and skin that hadn’t quite recovered from what appeared to have been a rather spotty youth. He was too young to have remembered the Bulgarians.
“Did you find a puncture mark?” Evan inquired.
“Yes—in the small of the back—an insect sting. And as I’ve already told you, I am prepared to confirm the possibility of a severe allergic reaction—”
“Did you excise the skin around the wound before you released the body?”
“Yes,” Dr. Baker replied, clearly irritated by the inference that he hadn’t.
Patience , Evan thought. “You’ve never heard of Georgi Markov or Vladimir Kostov, have you?”
“I don’t believe I have, no.”
“The two of them together achieved a certain amount of notoriety in 1978. Bulgarian dissidents, one living in London, the other in Paris. The one who lived and worked in Paris—Kostov—was the target of an assassination attempt as he was coming up from the Metro. He felt a sharp blow to his back, just above his belt—nothing else. He went to see his doctor because there appeared to be some sort of puncture mark at the site of the injury. The doctor concluded he must have been stung by an insect. Kostov subsequently developed a high fever and some very painful swelling—but he recovered—unlike his unfortunate friend and fellow dissident in England, who was attacked by a man carrying an umbrella while he waited for a bus near Waterloo Bridge.”
“Hang on,” Dr. Baker said. “I do remember hearing something about that…”
“Within a day or so,” Evan continued, “he had a high temperature, vomiting, swollen lymph glands. As the poison spread throughout his system his blood pressure collapsed, his pulse rose and his temperature fell. His kidneys failed. His white cell count tripled. He lived for three days and then his heart stopped. During the autopsy a block of flesh was cut away from the back of his right thigh. It was sent to Porton Down to be analyzed, and what do you think they discovered embedded in that little square of skin?”
“I’m not going to like this, am I,” Dr. Baker said.
“A pellet. Fractionally larger than the head of a pin. Ninety percent
Angela Emerson considered the impropriety of Ian’s very direct question on the afternoon of her first husband’s funeral, and her distaste for the press made itself apparent on her face.
“We divorced,” she said, “because it was a mistake to have married in the first place. I was very young.”
“Was it another woman, Mrs. Emerson?” another of the reporters asked. “Someone he knew from before, when he was a pirate?”
“No,” said Angela Emerson, pressing her lips together.
“You’ve always maintained that, haven’t you? Publicly and privately.”
“If he was seeing another woman, I had no knowledge of it,” she repeated, firmly. “Anything else?”
“What are you doing with yourself these days? Still listening to the radio?”
“My husband and I,” said Angela Emerson, “own a newsagent’s in Carshalton, and have done for the past fifteen years. I imagine I’ll be reading all about myself in tomorrow’s deliveries.”
“Thanks very much for your time, Mrs. Emerson,” Ian said. “How old are you, by the way?”
“One hundred and three,” she said, turning her back on him.
Ian flicked off his micro-cassette.
There was nothing in the least disturbing about the bland outer room of Dr. Baker’s private haven—whatever had to do with livers and brains, relative weights, drainage gutters, rubber boots and gloves went on in the chamber beyond, on the other side of a now-closed swinging door. Evan had nonetheless positioned himself in the best possible location to facilitate a quick exit.
“Ricin,” the pathologist said, tentatively, taking his hands out of the pockets of his white lab coat. “Whatever makes you suspect that?”
He was a very earnest young man, Evan thought, with black-rimmed spectacles, a lot of wavy brown hair, and skin that hadn’t quite recovered from what appeared to have been a rather spotty youth. He was too young to have remembered the Bulgarians.
“Did you find a puncture mark?” Evan inquired.
“Yes—in the small of the back—an insect sting. And as I’ve already told you, I am prepared to confirm the possibility of a severe allergic reaction—”
“Did you excise the skin around the wound before you released the body?”
“Yes,” Dr. Baker replied, clearly irritated by the inference that he hadn’t.
Patience , Evan thought. “You’ve never heard of Georgi Markov or Vladimir Kostov, have you?”
“I don’t believe I have, no.”
“The two of them together achieved a certain amount of notoriety in 1978. Bulgarian dissidents, one living in London, the other in Paris. The one who lived and worked in Paris—Kostov—was the target of an assassination attempt as he was coming up from the Metro. He felt a sharp blow to his back, just above his belt—nothing else. He went to see his doctor because there appeared to be some sort of puncture mark at the site of the injury. The doctor concluded he must have been stung by an insect. Kostov subsequently developed a high fever and some very painful swelling—but he recovered—unlike his unfortunate friend and fellow dissident in England, who was attacked by a man carrying an umbrella while he waited for a bus near Waterloo Bridge.”
“Hang on,” Dr. Baker said. “I do remember hearing something about that…”
“Within a day or so,” Evan continued, “he had a high temperature, vomiting, swollen lymph glands. As the poison spread throughout his system his blood pressure collapsed, his pulse rose and his temperature fell. His kidneys failed. His white cell count tripled. He lived for three days and then his heart stopped. During the autopsy a block of flesh was cut away from the back of his right thigh. It was sent to Porton Down to be analyzed, and what do you think they discovered embedded in that little square of skin?”
“I’m not going to like this, am I,” Dr. Baker said.
“A pellet. Fractionally larger than the head of a pin. Ninety percent
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