CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Ministry of Defence (MoD or MOD) is the British government department responsible for implementing the defence policy set by Her Majesty’s government and is the headquarters of the British Armed Forces.
—Wikipedia
MI5 Headquarters, Home Office
Thames House
12 Millbank
Westminster, London
Ian filled them in as they rushed back to the Home Office. “Sir Terry Alexander was heading into an early lunch at Marianne in Notting Hill. The car dropped him off, and according to witnesses, he stopped to take a call, then stumbled, went down on the curb.”
Nicholas asked, “Was there a drone?”
“We don’t know. My God, sir, three in three days. We were told by the associate he was meeting Alexander for lunch, then Alexander was leaving for Paris.”
“I think Mike and I should head to Notting Hill, see the scene firsthand. It has to be a drone, and we have to find someone who saw it.”
Harry nodded. “All right. I’ll reschedule Ardelean. I’ll call ahead, let them know to expect you, so you won’t have a problem getting past the police blockade. Adam can continue searching the servers.”
Nicholas tossed out an arm, and a taxi stopped with a screech. He and Mike bundled into the back seat, and Nicholas said, “Take us to Marianne, in Notting Hill.”
“Won’t be able to do it, sir, the area’s been cordoned off. Some sort of attack.”
Nicholas said, “We’re coppers, they’ll let us through, trust me. And while you’re at it, could I trouble you for your mobile?”
The driver gave Nicholas a quick stare, then tossed his phone over the seat. Nicholas dialed Penderley’s mobile. No answer. Nicholas left a brief message, saying they were headed his way.
The driver had them there in twenty minutes flat. He was forced to drop them at the corner of Shrewsbury and Westbourne Park Road, as close as he could get. Mike passed over several pounds, and they were running down the street. They saw the flashing lights a block away. “There. Let’s go.”
Media vans were parked along the way, their satellite dishes turned toward the sky, and Mike could see at least fifteen officers in black uniforms wearing black baseball caps with a black-and-white checkerboard pattern around the brim and fluorescent lime-yellow reflective vests. POLICE was stamped on the back of the vests, and long truncheons lay at their sides.
There were a few heavily armed officers as well, with ear defenders on, heads turning, looking for threats.
Several silver Metropolitan Police BMWs blocked the road, their blue and lime-yellow paint screaming a warning. Mike saw a K9 officer leading a large German shepherd along the street, letting the dog sniff chairs and postboxes and car wheels, looking for explosives. White-and-red POLICE LINE crime-scene tape was stretched across the side streets, keeping people from entering the area.
Mike and Nicholas showed their credentials at the roadblock that gave onto Chepstow Road. The officer said, “Superintendent Penderley told me you were coming, Agents.” He pointed. “He’s down there, on the right side of the road. Penderley said specifically you are to avoid the media, no interviews, no chatter, nothing even off the record.”
Nicholas said, “Understood,” and wrote their names on the list of people attending the scene. They both ducked under the tape and headed down the street. They found Penderley standing under an awning talking with a woman Nicholas vaguely recognized from his time at New Scotland Yard.
Penderley was wearing a bulletproof flak jacket over a white button-down shirt and gray slacks and was gesturing around the scene. He was obviously the top brass. He spied them and called them over, shook both their hands, and introduced them to the woman by his side. “Drummond, Caine, meet DI Clare Griffith, she’s one of our best and brightest, and she’s running this scene. I have to get back to Scotland Yard and start the damage control. We’re going to have every eye in the free world on us within the hour, so figure out what the bloody hell’s happening, would you? Oh, yes, and we checked the other two crime scenes, and nothing like a needle was found, though there was plenty of metal trash. It’s all been taken into evidence.”
“Thank you for trying, sir. Good to see you.”
“You, too, Drummond”—and after a nod to Mike, he added to Nicholas, “I thought I asked you to get it sorted.” And he was gone.
DI Griffith looked sharp, tall, black hair twisted up in a roll at the back of her head. She was wearing a blue suit with a bulletproof vest under her blouse. She looked once at Nicholas, looked again, something Mike was used to from nearly every woman who spotted him. To her credit, Griffith got her cop brain turned back on and said, her voice official, “Agent Drummond, I was actually in uniform when you were Penderley’s go-to. You’re a hard act to follow, but I’ll get there.” She looked him up and down, all cop now, shook her head. “Imagine, you left us to become the first Brit in the American FBI.”
Nicholas smiled, said immediately, “Can you tell us exactly what’s happened?”
Griffith waved across the street, where Mike could see the gray wainscoted front of the restaurant; its name, MARIANNE, on a sign hanging over the door. People were huddled along the old redbrick walls, numb and gawking. There were faces staring out of the restaurant windows at the chaos outside.
And Mike saw the shape of a body under a white tarp.
Griffith said, “Mr. Alexander is lying where he fell. Too soon to know exactly what happened, but witnesses say he stopped on the sidewalk right outside the restaurant, to make a call. He slapped a hand to his neck and went down. He was dead before the first emergency calls went out. If we hadn’t had two other influential people die in two days, I don’t think we’d be looking at this as anything other than a heart attack or stroke, but clearly, it’s much more.”
Nicholas asked, “May we see the body, please?”
“Certainly.” Griffith smiled at him, but it was professional this time, cop to cop.
Mike asked, “Were there any drones reported in the area?”
“We haven’t heard of any, and believe me, I’ve told all our officers to ask, given how Mr. Donovan and Mr. Hemmler were murdered.” She led them across the street, where two officers were guarding the body.
Nicholas went down on his haunches and pulled back the sheet.
They looked down at the congested face of the former secretary of defense. His bulging eyes stared back at them.
“Not a peaceful death,” Griffith said.
Nicholas shook his head. “No.” Using his forefinger, he gently moved the head from left to right. “Nothing on his neck I can see. May we roll him over?”
Mike said, “No, wait, Nicholas. Look there, right under his ear. There’s a red spot.”
“Good eyes, Agent Caine. You’re right, there is.” He began scanning the ground. So much dirt, rocks, little bits of litter, detritus on the street.
He grinned up at Mike. “You know what we need, don’t you?”
“Yep. DI Griffith, any chance you have a magnet around?”
“A magnet? I don’t—wait, I do, sort of. The cover of my iPad is magnetized. It’s constantly picking up loose paper clips from my desk. Why?”
Nicholas grinned. “That will work. Can you fetch it, please?”
“Thank goodness Scotland Yard froze the scene,” Mike said, “or we wouldn’t have had a chance of finding it.”
Griffith returned, handed over her red-cased tablet. “Here you go. I also put a call in for someone to bring us a magnet a bit more powerful, just in case.”
He opened the cover. First, he slowly ran it over the body. “I don’t think it’s here.”
“It?”
Mike said to Griffith, “We believe there is a very small needle, or something similar, somewhere nearby.”
Nicholas whooped, stood up. “And here it is, not three feet from the body.” The edge of the case now had a small, thin piece of metal stuck to its edge.
Mike examined it. “Say hello to our murder weapon.”