‘This is Mrs Valdès, Agent Beck.’
Clay from Homeland Security pointed to al-Qasr’s chubby housekeeper. ‘Now she’s out of a job, her memory’s improved. Says she reckons al-Qasr had a little drive-in joint about a mile down the road, off track. That right, Mrs Valdès?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. I think I see him drive into trees once maybe.’
‘I’ve sent people down there. They’re checkin’ out Mrs Valdès’ story.’
Gresham and Beck explored al-Qasr’s house. It was neat, well furnished, a little austere perhaps. There was the odd enlargement of NASA’s more colourful galactic adventures, and scattered sepia prints showing scenes from pre-Saddam Iraq.
‘Seems our doctor was a bit on the dull side, wouldn’t you say, Sherman?’
‘The “banality of evil”, you mean? Does that cover forcing cyanide down Fiona Normanton’s throat?’
‘Sorry, I mean there’s nothing to suggest he was a fanatical type. No diaries with prayerful confessions. Not even a copy of the Koran.’
‘Maybe taken it with him.’
They heard a shout from downstairs. It was Clay. ‘Just got a call from your explosives people. Seems they got something. Can you take a look?’
Gresham looked to Beck. ‘You coming?’
‘I’ll come down soon. I want to speak with this Mrs Valdès while the heat’s on and the memory’s warm.’
Leanne stifled the urge to kiss him. ‘I’ll check it out and call. Oh damn it, Beck! I left my cellphone in my bag up at RIBOTech.’
‘Use mine. Maybe I’ll call you first.’ Beck winked.
Bob Lowenfeld had been found in al-Qasr’s bunker. The investigators had lowered a brace into the bunker to lift out the body, in case of further booby traps. Lowenfeld was still lying on the ground, uncovered. Gresham noted Lowenfeld’s swollen lips. Cyanide again.
The young explosives expert wiped the sweat off his hot brow and rubbed his eyes. ‘Mrs Gresham, I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. When we finally found the hatch to this thing, we thought of what happened to you up at RIBOTech. Lucky we did. Al-Qasr had booby-trapped the hatch. After we cleared that, we then found he’d fixed a vibration mechanism to Mr Lowenfeld’s body.’
‘How did you…?’
‘We got all the al-Qaeda training stuff. Booby trap was standard.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘We’ve swept the place. Take a look. If you really want to.’
Leanne hitched her skirt up around her hips. The young man looked away. She eased her way down into the tiny bunker and sat on al-Qasr’s stool. She checked out the CCTV monitor linked up to the RIBOTech lab in the corner. She examined his table and noticed the staining around what might have been a laptop. She checked for a phone link.
‘Looks like he had a secure link down here. That’s why we never got anything from his office or home computers.’
The cellphone on the table rang. ‘I guess that’s Sherman.’
Gresham picked it up.
Up at al-Qasr’s house, Beck heard the muffled explosion.
Leanne Gresham was dead.