Part 21 (1/2)

”Who were you talking to just now? My future bodyguard?”

”I already left a message with two guys I know. Hopefully I'll hear from at least one of them real soon.” He brushed a lock of hair off my face and tucked it behind my ear. ”That call was to an old friend in the D.C. office of the FBI.”

”I thought you guys in the CIA and the FBI didn't talk to each other.”

”The smart guys talk to each other, we just don't tell the others about it. He made a few calls for me. I'm sorry, baby. You're not going to like this, but the medical examiner is going to rule that Kevin Boyle's death was an accident.”

”That's not possible.”

”My buddy says Kevin sustained a basal skull fracture and that's what killed him. In other words, he cracked his skull. There were no injuries consistent with a struggle.”

”Someone pushed him, and that's how it happened. I'm sure of it.”

”Then call the officer who questioned you,” he said. ”Tell her you found a five-million-dollar motive for why it might not be an accident.”

”I left her card at home,” I said. ”I'll wait until this afternoon when it's proper business hours in Was.h.i.+ngton and then track her down.”

But once we were back in my room eating breakfast, I said, ”You know what's going to happen, don't you? If I tell Officer Carroll about the book, the police are going to confiscate it as evidence.”

He said through a mouthful of eggs, ”Not your problem.”

I shook my head. ”What a mess.”

Just before seven, James gave a discreet tap on the door and Nick let him in.

”Your car's waiting outside, Mr. Canning, and your luggage is already in the boot. It's been a pleasure having you stay with us, sir.”

He left so we could say goodbye in private. ”I'll text you or call as soon as I hear back from my security buddies,” Nick said.

”I almost forgot to ask where you're going now.”

”Doha.”

The capital of Qatar. ”Is that the last stop? When will you be home?”

”Almost the last stop. And I'll be home soon.” He kissed me. ”I love you.”

”I love you more.”

Then he was gone.

I ran to the window and waited until he emerged from the hotel to climb into the Bentley. He must have made some joke to the doorman, who broke into a hearty laugh as he closed the pa.s.senger car door. A moment later, as the big car circled Carlos Place, gliding toward Grosvenor Square, the mist from the fountain vents at the base of the two plane trees drifted into the air, perfectly timed so it seemed to swallow the Bentley. When it cleared fifteen seconds later, Carlos Place was empty.

I poured the last of the breakfast coffee into my cup and finally got ”No Little Plans” from the writing desk where it had been sitting since I arrived. Olivia Upshaw had e-mailed late yesterday, asking how I was getting on. I replied just now that I was in London-with the ma.n.u.script-and promised to get in touch when I got home next week.

The author, whom I hadn't met, had done a terrific job of telling the story of the creation of the National Mall with the high-stakes tension and drama of a blockbuster novel. For the next two hours I was caught up in the egos of a parade of larger-than-life personalities and the many clashes, feuds, and missed opportunities that began with Pierre L'Enfant and George Was.h.i.+ngton and ended with the Senate's McMillan Commission, which resurrected L'Enfant's grand plan for Was.h.i.+ngton and established the Mall as it was today. My phone alarm went off at nine, a reminder it was time to get ready for my meeting with Edward Jaine. I skimmed the last pages of the book, along with Olivia's notes about the final photos she wanted, panoramic views of Was.h.i.+ngton from Pierre L'Enfant's grave, which was in front of Arlington House, Robert E. Lee's home in Arlington Cemetery, overlooking the city he'd designed.

By nine thirty I had showered and dressed, and was downstairs in the hotel lobby. While I waited for a cab, I phoned Alastair Innes. The call went to voice mail, and I left a message asking him to call me back as a black cab swept into Carlos Place. The doorman helped me into the cab and told the driver I was going to Centre Point.

I smiled and thanked him. But I really wasn't looking forward to my meeting with Edward Jaine.

The Paramount restaurant occupies the top two floors in the tower of what was once London's tallest skysc.r.a.per back in the mid-1960s. Now it is dwarfed by other buildings that have sprung up over the years, like NatWest's Tower 42, One Canada Square in Canary Wharf, and most recently, the unusual Gherkin and the exquisite Shard, which, along with the Eye are instantly recognizable on London's skyline. I gave my name and showed my American driver's license to a woman in the lobby, who phoned the restaurant to confirm I was expected upstairs and then directed me to a bank of elevators.

The restaurant and bar were on the thirty-second floor; the floor above was a gla.s.s-enclosed observation deck. When I stepped off the elevator, the first thing I saw was an enormous copper bar behind which mirrored gla.s.s shelves displayed rows and rows of bottles of alcohol. The Art Deco decor was dark and rich, sleek midnight-blue sofas and nubby gray chairs around galvanized metal coffee tables where guests could sit for morning coffee or afternoon tea or drinks at night. Beyond the bar, the tables in the empty restaurant were already set for lunch. The Paramount's big drawing card was the bank of windows that showed off a 360-degree bird's-eye view of London.

Edward Jaine was the only male in the bar among a couple of tables of women who were getting an early start on c.o.c.ktail hour. He was dressed much the same as he'd been at the Austrian amba.s.sador's home the last time I saw him, in jeans and two-tone leather cowboy boots, brown and a textured mottled skin that looked like rattlesnake. His brown leather jacket matched the boots, and a white dress s.h.i.+rt and a red silk scarf hung loose around his neck.

He was seated on a sofa by one of the windows checking his phone as I entered the restaurant. A manila folder and an empty espresso cup sat on the coffee table in front of him. When he saw me, he stood. ”Sophie. Good of you to come. Please have a seat.”

Already on a first-name basis and yesterday it had been an ultimatum, not an invitation. I took one of the chairs across from his sofa. Edward Jaine sat back against a pile of burnt orange velvet throw cus.h.i.+ons and surveyed me like a sultan receiving a guest in his palace.

A waitress appeared, and he said, ”Would you care for something to drink?”

I wanted to get this over with. ”No, thank you.”

He gave me a cool look. ”As you wish.” To the waitress he said, ”I'll have another espresso.”

He asked me, ”So what really brings you to London?”

I folded my hands in my lap. ”Personal reasons.”

”You don't need to be hostile.”

”You didn't invite me here, you threatened me if I didn't come. So here I am.”

”All right. You have something that belongs to me.”

The waitress set down his espresso and her eyes darted between the two of us. ”Is everything all right, sir, miss? Can I bring you something else?”

He waved her off. ”Everything's fine, thank you.”

After she left, he said, ”Oh, for G.o.d's sake. I know you have the book, or you know where it is.”

”I don't have it.”

”I'm not going to play games. How did you get your hands on it in the first place?”

”I found it. And it was Kevin's book, Mr. Jaine.”

He wagged a no-no-no playful finger at me. ”Ah, but I paid for it.”

I had no idea what kind of deal he'd made with Kevin. ”Kevin bought it. He found the book in a bookstall on Portobello Road and he paid next to nothing for it since it was at the bottom of a box of old gardening books.”

Jaine seemed taken aback that I knew that much. ”I gave him the money.”