“And how long will that take?”

“Days, maybe a week-provided, that is, that they get to you. Queue’s about sixty days as it is.”

“Thanks for the tip, Tony.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“No worries.” Kate patted him on the shoulder and made her way to the stairs. Ambient sound analysis, she thought to herself. There had to be an easier way. She shook her head. Church bells, of all things.

Just then she remembered something about the video message, a detail she’d noted but had dismissed as more grasping at straws. She stopped in her tracks. It was probably nothing, but…

She ran up the remaining stairs and threw open the door before getting hold of herself. No running allowed, she reminded herself. Never let them see you bothered.

Setting her chin against the world, she strode down the walkway and out of the building. She needed to review a copy of the video transmission. She was going back to Thames House, Graves be damned!

29

“Keep the lights off!” shouted the besotted voice.

Kate advanced into the recesses of the office on the first floor of Thames House. Squinting, she made out a shadowy form slumped behind the broad desk. “You all right, then, Colonel Graves?”

“What do you want?” The words slurred in a messy polysyllabic swamp.

Kate ran her hand along the wall and flicked on the lights. The room blazed to life. Graves raised a hand to ward off the glare, staring at her hatefully through bloodshot eyes. There was a bottle of whisky on his desk and a cut-glass tumbler filled nearly to the lip.

“I couldn’t reach you. Your assistant said I might find you here.”

“Remind me to sack him.”

“What’s all this, then?” Kate indicated the bottle and the glass and his generally lamentable state.

“Why, nothing, DCI Ford. Everything’s hunky-dory. All quiet on the western front. You may return to your troops forthwith.”

“I thought you’d be halfway to Timbuktu by now. You and your trusty Yankee bloodhound.”

“Ransom? You mean you haven’t heard?” Graves’s throaty laugh echoed through the room, a single forlorn bark.

Kate advanced tentatively toward the desk. “What is it?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone? Did you hand him over to the Americans? Did they admit to knowing him after all?”

“The Americans? ’Course not.”

“Then what?”

“He escaped.”

“He did what?” Kate asked, certain that Graves was engaging in some sort of twisted practical joke.

“Skedaddled. Went over the wall. He is no longer in police custody. Wipe that damn look off your face. Are you having a problem understanding me?”

Kate fell into the chair facing Graves’s desk. She was furious. Monumentally angry at whatever act of incompetence had allowed a suspect to escape from police custody. “When I left, you had him locked in his room with enough guards to protect the pope. What exactly happened?”

“Chap climbed down the building. Off the balcony and right down the façade. Apparently it’s not as hard as it looks.” Graves pushed his chair back and stood. “You didn’t tell me he was a climber,” he said, circling the desk menacingly. “I only just got that part. If I’d been so apprised, then perhaps I would have put two and two together. Not as dumb as some of the boys upstairs think, actually.”

“So you’re blaming it on me?”

“No,” admitted Graves. “This one’s all mine. When you take off a prisoner’s cuffs and let him wander around the room as if he’s the Prince of Wales and you’re his valet, then you don’t have anyone else to blame. My fault entirely.” He leveled a finger at her. “You may now mention something about my being an arrogant bastard who deserved to be hoisted on his own petard. I yield the floor to the member from Hen-don.”

“Not my style,” said Kate.

“Funny, it’s mine,” said Graves, almost cheerily. “Or should I say it was.”

“You sacked, then?”

Graves shook his head as if it were the furthest thing from the truth. “’Course not. They tend to be diplomatic about this kind of thing. The director will wait a week or so, so as not to draw any more attention to the matter than necessary. Still, it’s a matter of time. You don’t let the prime suspect in a car bombing that took seven lives, including some very important, very nasty Russian diplomats, slip through your fingers. Not when you have him under lock and key. Sacked? I’ll be lucky if I’m not crucified.”

“I’m sorry.”

Graves rolled his eyes. “Christ, a sincere one.” He picked up the glass and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Trying to find the woman who contacted Russell.”

“A nonstarter. Didn’t your buddy Tony Shaffer tell you that over at the Aquarium?”

Even now Graves had to let Kate know that he was one step ahead of her. “He said Five wouldn’t cooperate.”

“Better than admitting we were flummoxed,” said Graves. “Russell’s got that message routed through ISPs all over the globe. Before coming to England, it passed through France, Russia, and India. It would take a month to track it down.” Suddenly he guffawed. “The woman’s probably a pro, too. The baby was cover.”

Kate twisted in her chair to follow Graves as he ambled around his office. “Do you have a copy of her message handy?”

“Sure, but I can tell you that my best men have given it a thorough going over and come up with exactly nil.”

“Would you mind playing it?”

Graves opened the AV cabinet and activated the DVD player. A moment later the intercepted message began to spool.

“Stop there,” said Kate, halfway through the woman’s speech.

Graves froze the image. Onscreen, the woman had bent forward an inch or two to quiet her baby. One of her hands brushed the infant’s cheek.

“Look at the ring,” said Kate, pointing to the woman’s outstretched fingers.

“What about it?”

“It has a coat of arms. I think it may be a university ring.”

Graves increased the size of the image and the woman grew larger, her hand positioned in the center of the picture. Kate stepped closer to the monitor. “That’s an Oxford ring, if I’m not mistaken.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because I wanted to go there desperately.”

Graves studied the image for a few seconds, then spun and walked back to his desk. “Christ, you just may have something.”

In the space of ten seconds, his gait had regained its authority. His posture was its once rigid self. He plucked the phone from the cradle and put it to his ear. “Roberts,” he said, the slur a bad memory. “Get down to archives. Find the Oxford University yearbooks for…” Graves lowered the phone.

“The last twenty years,” said Kate.

“The last twenty years and bring them right up.” He set down the phone. “Drink?” he said.

Kate shook her head. “Better not. Still recovering.”

Graves perched himself on the edge of the desk. “That was you who blew the Kew Strangler arrest, eh? Tough going.”

“We had him IDed, with enough evidence to put him away for life. Our profiler said he was docile except when acting out his fantasies. We walked up to his front door as if he was any other Joe. We even rang the bell and introduced ourselves. I didn’t think there would be a problem. I’ve arrested twenty murderers. None of ’em made a peep. Gentle as lambs when we brought them in. We got complacent.”

“The chap who was killed-a detective chief superintendent, wasn’t he?”

“Billy Donovan. He was my fiancé.”

Graves winced. “I’m sorry.”

“The Met tried to force me to retire,” explained Kate. “They don’t like embarrassments either. I told them to shove it. I wasn’t going out like that. They stuck me on night shift and look what happened. I’ve got my second chance.”

“I don’t think the director general is so forgiving.”