Part 22 (1/2)
Victor hadn't specified where we'd meet, indoors or outside, so I decided to sit on the embankment wall next to the beer garden where we'd be likely to see each other as he entered the plaza. While I waited, I checked my phone. Another text from Nick sent just before he boarded his flight, letting me know he'd reached one friend who was in Helsinki, so he was waiting to hear back from the other guy.
The phone rang in my hand. Perry.
”Hey,” I said. ”What's up?”
”Where are you? Someplace noisy.”
”Bankside. The Anchor.”
”I wasn't sure if you'd heard the news about Alastair Innes,” he said, ”but I thought you'd want to know.”
I said with slow dread, ”What news?”
”He was killed in an accident early this morning. His car was found at the bottom of a ravine not far from the Seed Bank. Apparently he died at the scene.” There was a pause before he said, ”I'm sorry, Medina.”
After a moment he said, ”Are you there?”
”Yes. Sorry. Are you sure it was Alastair? I mean, they positively identified him?”
”Of course they're sure. Otherwise they wouldn't release his name to the press. You know that.”
I did. But I still couldn't believe it.
”Was anyone else involved?” I asked. ”Another car?”
”Too soon to tell. Maybe he lost control, maybe he swerved to avoid something, an animal, an oncoming car.”
”Yesterday someone went after him at the Seed Bank and today he's dead. I wonder if someone tampered with his car.”
”There'll be an investigation, you can be sure of that,” Perry said. ”What are you doing at the Anchor?”
”Waiting for Victor Haupt-von Vessey. His secretary said he wanted to talk to me.”
”Huh. Hey, before I forget, I looked up your buddy Edward Jaine.”
”He's not my buddy.”
”I'll say. Interpol has been keeping an eye on him.”
”You're kidding me. Why?”
”He owns a company that's been s.h.i.+pping old electronics-phones, laptops, digital cameras, stuff like that-to Third World countries, mostly in Asia and Africa. It's called 'e-waste' because of all the toxic stuff the older items have in them. Apparently the European Union is launching criminal investigations into a number of companies and Jaine is at the top of their list. The 'used goods' he's sending are electronics that don't work. Companies do it to avoid legitimate recycling costs. He sends this c.r.a.p to poor countries where people dismantle them without knowing what they're doing and get sick from lead, mercury, a.r.s.enic, and a bunch of other nasty stuff.”
”My G.o.d, that's awful. I wonder if that's what he and Kevin were arguing about at the engagement party. Maybe Kevin found out from one of his environmental contacts.”
”That would make sense,” he said. ”Jaine is in a pack of trouble. Apparently his balance sheet doesn't look so hot, either. He's trying to save his a.s.s and what's left of his fortune.”
I thought about the substantial check Edward Jaine had pushed across the table to me. If I had taken it and cashed it, would it have been good?
No wonder he wanted Kevin's book. Five million dollars wasn't much to a billionaire, but if you were broke, it probably looked like a lifeline.
”Medina?” Perry was saying. ”You still there?”
”I was just thinking about all this. It seems to me it gives Edward Jaine even more of a motive for murder.”
”You could be right. In the meantime, I don't think your meeting with your archduke friend is going to happen. I'm watching live television and he's walking into St. Mary's Hospital with his mother.”
”Right now?”
”That's what live means.”
I said, puzzled, ”Then why would he ask me to meet him here?”
”Did he call you himself?”
”No. The hotel pa.s.sed along a message from a secretary.”
”Jesus H. Christ, Medina. You've been set up. Get the h.e.l.l out of there. Now.”
18.
I slid off the embankment wall. It was still early, ten minutes to twelve, so perhaps whoever called the hotel pretending to be Victor's secretary hadn't arrived yet, or maybe he was waiting inside the pub. Either way, now I knew Victor wasn't coming, which gave me a tiny advantage if I could get out of here before anyone realized I was gone.
I didn't want to go back through the narrow streets of Bankside to the Underground station, or try to hail a cab. It would be too easy for someone to corner me. The obvious choice was to stay in the open, take my chances getting lost in the crowd. Up ahead, maybe half a mile or so, was the Millennium Footbridge, a pedestrian suspension bridge over the Thames that took you from the Tate Modern and the Globe on this side of the river and deposited you in front of St. Paul's Cathedral on the other side.
What I most wanted to do right now was make a dash for that bridge. Instead, I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and strolled out of the plaza down the Queen's Walk like I was just another tourist. When I had nearly reached the Globe, I rotated the camera on my phone so the lens faced me and held it up high as though I were taking a souvenir picture of myself in front of the theater. I snapped a couple of photos, scanning the scenery and the people walking behind me. In a split second I knew the slight man in the baggy black tracksuit, head down, nondescript baseball cap with the visor pulled low was the one. About forty or fifty feet back, moving fast, something long like a pipe tucked under one arm.
To gain access to the footbridge, you follow a zigzag ramp that gradually rises until you reach the aluminum deck over the river. I sprinted to the ramp and knew without looking back that my pursuer had sped up as well. A bunched-up crowd stood around the entrance, funneling from the wider promenade onto the narrow ramp, and that meant I was in trouble. Forming an orderly queue to wait one's turn is a British national character trait. If I pushed through those people to get ahead, there'd be a commotion and I might as well have a big neon arrow pointing straight at me. If I waited, Baseball Cap would reach me in no time.
But chivalry and decency are also quintessentially English, so I sidled up to two large men who were standing next to the ramp entrance. ”I'm terribly sorry,” I said to one of them in a low voice, ”but there's a man back there who's been bothering me and I'm trying to get away from him. Do you think you could possibly let me pa.s.s?”
”What's 'e look like, love?” he asked, moving aside.
”Black tracksuit, baseball cap.”
”I see 'im,” his companion said. ”Head down, coming toward us. We'll slow 'im down, my love, don't you worry. We'll turn into the Great Wall of China, we will.”
”Thank you so much.”
By the time I reached the deck of the bridge, I had slipped out of my jacket, shoving it in my camera bag, which I now cradled in my arms instead of letting it swing from my shoulder. I'd also put on the dark green hat I'd bought the other day and twisted my hair in a knot, tucking it under the hat. Changing my attire and my profile wouldn't buy me much time, but if my two friends on the ramp slowed my pursuer down even a little, it would help.
The Millennium Footbridge is approximately a dozen feet wide and probably slightly more than a thousand feet long, give or take, with two-way traffic. Here it was easier to thread through the crowd because so many people stopped to take pictures or admire the spectacular views. Fortunately for me, the bridge slopes up until you are in the middle of the river, where it levels off, before gently sloping down as you approach the other bank. The result is that it is impossible to see very far ahead for much of the time you are crossing the river.
That was the good news. The bad news was that Baseball Cap and his pipe knew I had to be on the bridge because there was no place else to go.