Chapter 21

 

 

1:02 p.m.

Hilton London Kensington Hotel

 

Eva’s ear caught more muffled jabber in the hallway. She clenched her jaw as treading footsteps neared the door’s edge, followed by the sound of a door unlocking. She waited for an intrusion into her investigation.

None.

She waited some more.

Must be the occupant across the hall. Eva had snapped enough photos. She carefully returned the papers into Eichel’s coat pocket, her eyes catching two names on the documents. Written casually across the top of one of the sheets, several scribbled notes lay under the startling name.

Calla Cress.

How do I know that name? She would find out later. Right now she had to move. Eva quickly scanned the room one final time and without further lingering she scrambled into the hallway, bustling toward the elevators. Halfway down the corridor a man headed in the opposite direction. He navigated past her and, for a brief moment, his eyes focused on a note in his hands.

Eva recognized him from the news broadcast she’d seen on the Deveron. Caught up in his reading she shuffled her feet forward and slid on her sunglasses as she brushed past casually. Her face turned to the wall as she stole past him.

Eichel nodded politely, and then glared back at her. With her chin down she set off bolting and within seconds, she’d made it to the elevators. Her trembling hand reached for the call button as a bolt of adrenaline shot through her bloodstream.

She jabbed at the call button. Fidgety hands refused to settle as she glanced back. What’s taking so long?

Behind her Eichel started a slow march in her direction. “Hey, don’t I know you?” he said.

Eva attacked the control panel in frantic hysteria as Eichel’s pace quickened toward her. The doors dragged open and Eva threw herself into the safety of the busy compartment. “Ground floor, please,” she called to the smartly dressed woman closest to the elevator buttons.

As she waited for the doors to shut she caught Eichel’s eyes, who had gained considerable ground in her direction. Shudders began to rock her gut. If the doors don’t close within the next…She caught the eager look in his eyes as the steel slammed shut.

 

 

 

 

DAY 10

 

Fore Street

East London

 

Jack scooped up a spoon of steaming Thai noodle soup. Its piquant taste slithered down, lessening the hunger he had tried to ignore since returning from Rome a few hours ago. The aromatic spices tickled his nostrils and reminded him of dishes his mother used to prepare in the Seychelles. He finished his bowl rapidly and settled back in his work chair by the window of his converted studio apartment.

He lived alone and, in true bachelor fashion, the place could have benefited from a thorough cleaning. It didn’t help that a cleaner came in once a fortnight. A true mastermind his weakness was sloppiness. He alone could understand his mess.

In the background Ella Fitzgerald serenaded him with “Moonlight in Vermont,” a melodic tune that soothed his soul. Jack’s creativeness worked best with his two best friends: music and food. He stroked his neck, massaging the spot where he had received the blow in Rome. The pain was lessening now. He only had a few hours before needing to re-join Calla and Nash and, in deep thought, he switched on the computer, illuminating his multiple desk monitors.

He keyed in a series of passwords on the sleek console. A video program popped up. He set in motion the fast-forward button for a few seconds until he came to the point in the video that he sought. Footage, recorded earlier of Mason, played on his screen, as Jack took down a series of notes. “Business in India now? I can’t imagine it’s government related.”

He loaded another file and viewed some more footage, most of which wasn’t incriminating. He lips curled into a wide grin, proud that he’d obtained an earlier opportunity to plant his bug on Mason. The feat had been achieved by an admirer.

Lillian.

Mason’s personal assistant. Mason could easily justify a trip to India but Jack studied the man Mason kept calling Rupert Kumar. His eyes remained on the screen until he reached a certain frame. Three things in the last few recordings interested him. Mason’s unprecedented trip to India to meet with Rupert Kumar was the first. Jack had heard the name and he took note of the billionaire’s details. The second was Mason’s trip to New York, to visit front lady and Republican presidential candidate, Margot Arlington. Finally there was the meeting with Samuel Riche, the French billionaire. Wasn’t he that snooty journalist’s father? What’s her name, Eva Riche?

None of the meetings recorded in the footage fell within Mason’s jurisdiction or line of work. What’s the connection?

The front doorbell interrupted his musings and his eyes turned to the clock on his computer. Who could be calling at this time? He debated whether to go to the door at all and lowered the volume of Ella’s serenade, thinking his Jazz had been a notch too loud for the neighbors.

Jack moved toward the front door and glanced through the spy hole. “Who is it?”

Mrs. Hawke straightened her shoulders as she lifted her broad chin to the peep hole. “Jack Kleve? Hello. We met at Mr. Laskfell’s residence.”

How did she find my place? He placed his hand on the doorknob. “Mrs. Hawke, do you realize it’s 2:00 a.m.? What’s so urgent?”

He pulled a torch-like pen from the cabinet near the door and peered with it by rotating the cap lens to one side. Aided by its amplified night-vision feature he scanned her for any metallic or antagonizing objects, satisfied with the little device he’d created himself.

Mrs. Hawke rose to her toes and projected her voice through the eye hole. “Mr. Kleve, Mr. Laskfell sent me.”

She had no weapons.

He set the gadget down. “At this time of night?”

“Mr. Laskfell wants to know if you require any more information for his new project.”

“Can’t this wait until morning?”

“I was on my way home and thought I would do this last errand for him. He tells me you’re a night owl.”

True. But so what?

Jack cracked the door an inch. “As you can see, Mrs. Hawke, I’m getting ready to go to bed. What is it that can’t wait?”

Even as she spoke her scouting eyes explored the room over his shoulders. She handed Jack an envelope. “This is from Mr. Laskfell. He said I had to get it to you today.”

Jack took the envelope. “Okay, you’ve delivered the envelope. Is there anything else?”

Her attempt to spy over his shoulders was shameless, even with Jack’s stern look. Jack held back unutterable profanity as he scowled at the preposterous woman sporting her forties hat and coat. He repositioned the door to close it. “Good night, Mrs. Hawke, you’ve delivered your message.”

She shifted back into the hallway and raised inquisitive eyes, before she zipped round and departed.

 

Jack stared after her for a few seconds and then latched the door. He studied the envelope she’d delivered and narrowed his eyes. She could’ve easily sent a messenger first thing in the morning.

He traversed back to his computer and scratched his chin. He’d left the program running on mute. His body stiffened. Had Mrs. Hawke seen his footage? Had she caught glimpse of the bugged material? With the large monitor still running he studied the rolling video of Mason and Margot Arlington conversing deeply in the Waldorf Astoria lobby.