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Jeremy said not to disturb him, but still…this could be important.
I answer the phone. “Jeremy Windsor’s phone.”
A man’s soft voice says, “Is he available?”
“No,” I say. “He’s not. But he might be free in a few minutes. Can I take a message?”
The man says, “Oh, that’s all right. Perhaps I will call later, speak to him face-to-face.”
The voice is cultured, civilized, with a slight accent.
I squeeze the iPhone so tight I imagine I might shatter it.
“Rashad,” I say, “why don’t you give me a number so he can call you back?”
Chapter81
FREDDIE FARRADYis in the midst of breaking another American law—having begun his illegal activities by smuggling a pistol into New York City—and he doesn’t really care. He has entered the small brick building on the corner of 30th Street and Newtown Avenue by helping an older woman carry in her shopping bags, and now he is working on the lock for Mike Patel’s second-floor flat.
There.
The knob turns open and he puts away the two lockpicks into his pocket, then he quickly enters the apartment and closes the door behind him.
He takes a breath. All right, then.
And something is instantly off.
In all the black-bag jobs like this he’s done for Special Branch—no warrants or paperwork—the flats always had a dreary sameness: stench of cooking grease, tobacco, take-away containers or trash on the floor, soiled nappies piled in the loo.
But not this time.
The tiny flat looks clean, ordered. Two windows—sans screens—are open. Before him is a little kitchen area, small table with two chairs. Fridge and two-burner stove.
He steps in farther, begins a quick toss of the place.
Living room with a single couch and one chair. Small TV on a built-in bookcase, the other shelves empty of books.
There’s a hint of an odor now, something that tickles his memory.
He goes into the bedroom.
An hour after the bombing at City Hall Park and after numerous attempts, Freddie had managed to contact his MI5 supervisor, Portia Grayson. She had instantly cut him off.
“I don’t have time to talk about Patel,” she had said. “I’ve been called to the consulate to work with my French counterparts on finding out who this woman was. All we know is that she came from de Gaulle. Now leave me alone.”
Okay,he thinks in Patel’s neat bedroom. He’s leaving her alone, and he’s also working quickly because he knows Patel will be home shortly. But Freddie doesn’t believe in coincidences, and it’s hard to believe—Portia notwithstanding—that Mike’s presence in City Hall Park is not connected to that French tourist blowing herself up.
The bed is made, the place looks clean. Three newspapers on the small nightstand: thePost,theDaily News,and a four-day-old copy ofAl-Quds Al-Arabi,published in Britain. The adjoining bathroom has a shower and a toilet. Here, at least, Patel is not perfect: both the stall and the bowl could use a good cleaning.
That little odor seems stronger.
What is it?
It’s tickling him like a dream half-remembered during the daylight hours.
What’s triggering him?
He opens the closet. A few shirts and slacks dangling from the hanger, two pairs of dirty trainers on the floor.
