26 FEDERAL PLAZA
NEW YORK CITY
Monday
Agent Gray Wharton brought up a photo on his computer screen from the International Herald Tribune. “This is Sheikh Tamin bin Rashid al Amoudi. He’s oil wealthy and is treated like royalty whenever he visits London, which is often, because he spends lavishly. From what I can find so far, he is what he appears: an aging playboy who’s so rich he has not one but three jets.” Gray flipped to another photo. “On his arm is Lady Pamela Sanderson, daughter of Baron Pembroke. They’re on their way to a tony bash following a movie premiere, the latest James Bond.”
Sherlock studied the sheikh’s self-indulgent face, his dark eyes that saw nothing beyond his own desires. “No, not him, too old, too visible, too—pleased with all his wealth and what it brings him. What does he do with three jets?”
“Doesn’t say, but he’s got a good-sized family. I suppose you have to keep your relatives traveling happy.” Gray brought up the next picture, pointed to the man. “Here’s a British Muslim, Dr. Abbas Ghanbari, a professor at the University of Saint Andrews. The lady with him is the daughter of Viscount Pleasance. Look at him—stoop-shouldered, glasses, thinning hair, old. He looks too settled and content, doesn’t really fit the bill.”
Gray brought up another photo. “I’m thinking the next one’s our best bet—Dr. Samir Basara, thirty-seven, English citizen, well-known international economics expert, a professor at the London School of Economics. He’s Algerian, his father owns a large vineyard there. Samir was raised with wealth, left Algeria when he was eighteen to study at the Sorbonne in Paris, then went to the U.S. to Berkeley for his doctorate in economics, with emphasis on the Middle East.”
Cal said, “That’s bizarre. Kelly, Sherlock, and I watched him talk on the BBC last night. Bottom line, he said we share the blame for the attacks on JFK, Saint Pat’s, and the TGV. Not so surprising a position, given where he was educated.”
Kelly studied Basara’s face. “Look at his eyes, guys, they’re almost opaque, they give no clue what he’s thinking, feeling. And that suit he’s wearing, it probably costs more than I make in a month. He presents himself as a rich Western intellectual. Where does his money come from? His family? Middle Eastern contributors? If it’s true he flies in a private jet, we’re talking a lot of money. And that gorgeous blonde with him—”
“Lady Elizabeth Margaret Palmer, daughter of the Eleventh Earl of Camden,” Gray said, looking up from his typing. “She’s a popular society fixture and her daddy is a respected banker in London. Lady Elizabeth graduated from Oxford after returning from finishing school in Switzerland, active on the social scene. The tabloids say her younger brother is a cocaine addict.”
“Lady Elizabeth Palmer,” Kelly repeated her name. “Would you look at that smile she’s beaming up at Basara? Yes, Gray, focus on him. I’ll bet my Pink Panther knee socks Dr. Samir Basara is our Strategist.”
Sherlock nodded. “Now our problem is to prove it. Gray, did you find the records of his commercial flights?”
Actually, Basara hasn’t flown commercial in years, at least by his given name, which means he’s flying private. Here we go, Dr. Samir Basara owns a two-year-old Gulfstream, keeps it in southern England near Folkestone.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve, ah, ventured into the Civil Aviation Authority, you know, the FAA equivalent in Britain, to see if the good Dr. Basara files flight plans?”
“I’m going to the ICAO, the International Civil Aviation Organization. Any flights over international space are filed through them.”
Kelly said, “Does Zachery want to know what you’re doing?”
“Probably. Like you, I always tell him everything,” Gray said, never looking up. “Okay, take a look. The jet has filed a number of flight plans—to Paris, Munich, Rome—most could be short vacations or business trips to other universities. No trips to anywhere questionable, like Syria or Iran.” They all looked over his shoulder as he scrolled down. “It appears he travels once a year back to Algeria, at Ramadan.” He looked at them. “Well, look at this. He flew to Boston last week, stayed two days, then back to London.”
Kelly said, “So he was here not only when the Conklin family was flown in, he was close by when Saint Patrick’s was supposed to be bombed. He’s looking better and better.”
Cal said, “You can bet he doesn’t file flight plans for all his trips. That would mean his pilot is complicit. Can we find out his name, Gray?”
“Wait a second. I’m looking at his family in Algeria.” He scanned, looked up. “Well, would you look at this. His grandfather’s name was Hercule.”
Sherlock pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”
Cal said, “Kelly, you need to call your counterpart at MI5. Another thing—Shadid and Kenza are going to need protection. I have a feeling once Basara finds out we’ve outed him, he might try to have them killed.”
Kelly picked up her cell and dialed. “John? Have I got something for you. What? What did you say? Wait, I’m going to put you on speaker.”
John Eiserly sounded higher than a kite, but with an odd slick of fear in his voice. “We nearly lost Saint Paul’s. It was close, too close, but we got him in time. He’s a wanted terrorist named Nasib Bahar. My wife and my daughter—they were in Saint Paul’s attending a society wedding along with hundreds of the upper crust. If I hadn’t been assigned there as extra security, if I hadn’t happened to zoom in on my wife as he placed a packet of C-4 at the Nelson Monument, we would never have stopped him. He was dressed as a posh old lady, an incredible disguise.”
“John, take Mary Ann out tonight, someplace really special, and celebrate. Congratulations.”
“It can’t be all that special, I mean, we’ll have our baby with us, and believe me, Ceci can yell a house down. Well, maybe a Wimpy or Spudulike.”
Laughter, then Kelly said, “And I’ve got some great news for you, too. We think we’ve identified the Strategist as Dr. Samir Basara, a British citizen. He’s been in your newspapers lately as Lady Elizabeth Margaret Palmer’s escort.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I know the guy, seen him on the BBC, Roland Atterley’s show. Lady Elizabeth Palmer? She was here at the wedding. She’s still inside waiting to be interviewed. Let me go get her. Thanks. I owe you.”
It never hurt, Kelly knew, to have a favor tucked in her pocket. She beamed at all of them. “Saint Paul’s survived and now we’re in business.”