To the death, p.17
To The Death, page 17
The two she chose for Jim Caborn were from the Mighty Quinn Bar in London’s Neal Street, Covent Garden. It was written on letterhead and assured the reader that Miss Martin was truthful, honest, hardworking, and always punctual. The other was from the Hotel Rembrandt, in Buckingham Gate, where Miss Martin had managed the downstairs bar, and again it testified to her reliability.
It was all plenty good enough for Jim, who made careful notes on a blue file index card and gave everything back to Shakira. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “You can work the 4 P.M. ’til eleven o’clock shift. That’s when you’ll learn the most.”
Shakira thanked him. They shook hands. And Jim watched her admiringly as she walked out. He was pleased with his new recruit, and was blissfully unaware that he had just hired the most dangerous woman in the United States.
Outside, she paused to assess her surroundings. The Estuary Hotel had stone white walls with mock Tudor beams, and it stood on a corner of the main street, which ran down to an area on the banks of the Rappahannock and then swerved around to the right.
Shakira guessed that from the top floor of the hotel there would be a view right across the wide river, as indeed there was from the parking lot of the supermarket that was situated on the opposite side of the main street.
Brockhurst had been here for a long time, and developers had taken care to protect its original character. There were many newish buildings, deliberately constructed to reflect the early twentieth century. There was the usual number of real estate agents and boutique gift shops. This little town attracted visitors all through the warm months. And the only place in town to stay was the Estuary, which had twelve rooms with baths in the main building and an outside annex with a dozen more.
Shakira walked around to the back of the hotel. There was a parking area in the rear, big enough for a large delivery truck to unload supplies. The street that ran along the side of the hotel was narrow and lonely. There were two small stores, one selling hardware, the other children’s clothes.
More certain of her bearings now, she walked back to the car and woke Fausi, who was asleep again. She climbed into the backseat. “Get moving,” she said. “I’ve just been hired, but I’m not living here. I start tomorrow afternoon.”
“Beautiful,” replied Fausi. “Now I’ll take you to your new home.” He turned the car north, and they drove back up Route 17 for a couple of exits and then swung down a tree-lined road to a new apartment block, cleverly set back into surrounding woodland.
The sign at the entrance said CHESAPEAKE HEIGHTS, which was interesting since the land in this part of the Virginia peninsula, which lies between the Rappahannock and York rivers, was almost geometrically flat.
It was 6:30 now, and the light was just beginning to fade. Shakira signed her lease, paid the money, and moved into the top-floor apartment. Fausi went off to buy her some groceries, just regular stuff: bread, milk, butter, preserves, cold cuts, eggs, fruit juice, rice, a few spices, cheese, Danish pastries, apples, grapes, peaches, and coffee. He delivered them in a couple of big boxes, one at a time.
“Will you need me tonight?” he asked, conscious of his 24-hour duties as Shakira’s driver, bodyguard, and personal assistant.
“No,” she replied. “But I’d like to make a tour of the area tomorrow morning. How about 10:30?”
“No problem,” he said. “I’d better get moving.”
Fausi was staying in a small hotel twelve miles away. His own anonymity was as important as hers. Nothing should connect them. Nothing should suggest that he was some kind of a boyfriend, or even a colleague. Nothing that would ever give any law enforcement officials the slightest clue as to the identity, or whereabouts, of either of them. Even the license plate on Fausi’s car was false.
In the ensuing weeks, he planned never to come to the main entrance of the apartment block, never even speak to the doorman, never enter the Estuary Hotel, or even park within its precincts. Fausi was a ghost, just as much as Carla Martin was.
Shakira utilized the first three days of her trial run behind the bar to familiarize herself with the locals. She quickly located the home of Mrs. Emily Gallagher, and once, parked along the street in Fausi’s car, she caught a good look at the lady as she tended her roses along the post-and-rail fence of her front yard.
She also watched when Mrs. Gallagher took her dog for a walk. He was a big, rather fluffy golden retriever and usually looked as if he were taking her for a walk, rather than the other way around.
On her fourth night in the bar, a fairly quiet Monday, the regular barman took off early, and Shakira, wearing her name tag with CARLA inscribed on it, had her first real break: Mrs. Gallagher came into the hotel with a friend and entered the dining room. At 10 P.M., she and the friend walked across the hall to the bar, where Mrs. Gallagher ordered two Irish coffees, which Shakira made.
At 10:20, the friend left, and Mrs. Gallagher stayed to order one more regular coffee. There were only two other people still in the bar, and Shakira ventured to ask the elderly lady whether she had enjoyed her dinner.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I always have a grilled piece of sea bass here on Mondays. They get a fish delivery here, my dear, at noon, straight from the wharf down at Gloucester Point. It’s always delicious.”
“They didn’t offer me any,” said Shakira, laughing.
“Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Gallagher. “Between you and me, that Caborn character is frightfully mean-spirited. He probably said you could have a cheeseburger.”
“Meatloaf,” said Shakira. And they both laughed.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Gallagher.
“Yes. I just started on Friday.”
“Well, I hope you stay for a while. Most of them don’t, you know. That’s the trouble with the young. Very restless, don’t you think? No time to enjoy anything.”
Shakira moved to her right at this point, to serve a final drink to the remaining two customers, residents of the hotel, and then returned to Mrs. Gallagher, who was preparing to leave.
Before she went, she said to Shakira, “My name, by the way, is Emily Gallagher. I usually come in on Thursdays as well, so I expect I’ll see you again. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Mrs. Gallagher.”
“Oh please, Carla, call me Emily. Otherwise you’ll make me feel ancient.”
There seemed to be no question of anyone paying a bill, so Shakira just ignored it, and assumed, correctly, the check would be added to some kind of monthly account.
And with a friendly little wave, Emily Gallagher left her longtime local hostelry for the short 200-yard walk, straight up the well-lit main street, to her home.
Shakira smiled a smile of pure contentment.
The following morning, Fausi dropped her off in the main part of the town. She shopped in the supermarket, placed her packages in the car, and asked Fausi to meet her at one o’clock. She walked toward Mrs. Gallagher’s house, and at 11 A.M., right on time, she watched the old lady come out of the house with her dog on his leash.
Timing her walk perfectly, she arrived at the front gate twenty yards behind, and noticed how difficult it was for Emily to control the bounding big retriever. Catching up quickly, she said, “Good morning, Emily. Would you like me to help you with this ridiculous person? What’s his name?”
Emily Gallagher turned around, and laughed when she saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you, Carla. You’re right. He is ridiculous, and his name’s Charlie.”
“He’s very good-looking,” said Shakira, “and handsome people get away with a lot.”
Charlie, sensing, as dogs do, that he was in the presence of another friend, turned to Shakira and planted his front paws on her belt, his tongue lolling out, his tail wagging fiercely.
She reached for the leash and said, “Let me take him. I’ll walk with you for a while.”
Emily looked relieved. “He is a terrible handful,” she said. “But I’ve had him for seven years now, and I would miss him terribly. He is a good companion for me, now that I’m alone. I usually take him about a mile down here, to the bend in the river.
“Last week, he got loose and jumped into the river. I thought he’d end up in Chesapeake Bay. But he just swam back to the shore and soaked me, shaking water everywhere.”
Shakira shook her head. “He’s almost too big for you,” she said, firmly pulling Charlie into line.
“I know he is,” replied Emily. “And, you know, if I ever miss a day taking him for a walk, he gets so boisterous, rushing around the house, knocking things over.”
Carla smiled and said, “Well, I love dogs, and I love walking. Would you like me to take him out sometimes?”
“Oh, my dear, that would be such a huge help. But would you mind? I hate to be a nuisance.”
“No, I should like it very much. I don’t have many friends around here yet. And he is the most gorgeous dog.”
Thus Carla Martin and Emily Gallagher became firm friends. Carla walked Charlie, three or four times a week, sometimes with Emily and sometimes not. Sometimes she had a cup of tea with the old lady before starting her shift at the Estuary, and occasionally they had lunch together.
Meanwhile, at the hotel she had become extremely popular, particularly with a youngish crowd who were in the hotel bar three or four times a week, always on Thursdays and Fridays, sometimes on Saturdays, and always on Sunday nights.
Despite all her efforts to play down her obvious charms with loose sweaters, wide skirts, flat shoes, no makeup, and her hair tied back in a plain ponytail, Shakira could not avoid attracting the attention of young men.
Among the group she saw most was Rick, the local computer engineer; Bill, whose father owned the supermarket; Eric, who had inherited one of the local building firms; Herb, who ran a photographic business; and Matt Barker, who had built and owned the local garage and Toyota dealership. Matt was older, maybe thirty-four.
The best-looking was Eric, twenty-four, divorced and the local golf club champion. Rick was the most studious and well-informed; Bill was the richest; Herb was showy and overconfident, with not much money but a lot of ambition to work in New York in fashion; and by far the most consistent in his admiration for Shakira was Matt Barker, who drove a Porsche and asked her to have dinner with him every time he saw her.
Shakira used all of her guile to remain remote from them. She hinted at a serious boyfriend in London; she always closed the bar by 11:30 and left by the back door, running swiftly across the parking lot and around the corner into a dark street, where Fausi awaited her, engine running.
She never said she was leaving, and her routine was not varied. She always pulled on a pair of short leather driving gloves, which she knew suggested she had her own car, and in turn that would discourage anyone from asking if they could drive her home. And once the gloves were on, she just slipped away, leaving the security to the night porter who supervised the last nonresidents, seeing them out, and then locking up.
After a couple of weeks, she became a woman of mystery. The guys used to ask each other, “When did she go? Which way did she go? She never even said good night.”
And she never would. Shakira had no intention of being alone outside the hotel with this high-spirited but well-mannered group of young bucks, the well-heeled middle-range stratum of Brockhurst society.
On busy nights, there were often girls from the town in the bar, but they tended to be those whose education or background had not taken them to a good university and on to Washington or New York. And Matt Barker and his guys had no serious interest in dating also-rans.
They had no idea who Shakira was (she thanked God), but they definitely knew she was not an also-ran. There was a poise about her, an aloof quality, like someone with more important things on her mind. And boy, did she have important things on her mind.
And every time the group came in, one of them, sooner or later, asked her out. With Bill and Eric it was slightly frivolous; Rick and Herb seemed earnest and genuinely were looking for more permanent girlfriends. Matt Barker, however, from across the bar, was falling in love.
Shakira determinedly kept him at arm’s length, spending less time chatting to him than she did with the others, but sensing him watching her, admiring her, wanting to talk to her.
He was a big man, always well dressed, clean-shaven, with longish blond hair. At first sight, he could easily have been mistaken for a city lawyer or financier, except for his big hands, which were slightly rough from years of grappling with car engines, brakes, and chassis.
“Hi, Miss Carla,” he would say when he walked in. “Have you changed your mind about me yet?”
Shakira did not wish to offend him, and she tried to be evasive . . . oh, you know I can’t, Matt . . . I’m very involved with someone . . . I might even be married before the end of the year.
Matt did not buy it. He sensed she was alone, and at times, late at night after a few beers, he found her the most sexually alluring woman he had ever seen. He would stand looking at her back, watching the firm tilt of her hips as she hurried about her duties. Matt actually dreamed about her, dreamed she was naked in his arms, imagined the feel of her, longed for the moment when she agreed to go out with him, as he believed she would. One day.
But night after night, she always slipped away, vanishing into the dark, leaving Matt bereft of the only woman he believed he could ever love. The trouble was, Matt believed Carla Martin was simply playing hard to get, and that she too lay in bed at night thinking of him in a similar light. Which was about eight hundred light-years from the truth.
It was a Monday morning when Shakira finally hit pay dirt. She called at Mrs. Gallagher’s house to collect Charlie and went in for a cup of coffee. She sensed that Emily was about to ask her for a favor, and her instincts did not let her down.
“Carla, my dear,” she said, “I have been so terribly worried. My daughter has asked me to look after her dog for a month, and very foolishly I said yes. But I just don’t think I can cope, not by myself.”
“Name and make?” asked Shakira.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Name and make?” repeated Shakira, laughing. “Of the dog, I mean.”
“Oh, how foolish of me,” chuckled Emily. “He’s called Kipper. A King Charles spaniel. My son-in-law says he’s as silly as a sheep.”
“Has he been here before?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of times. He’s really quite charming, nothing like so boisterous as Charlie, nor so greedy. Of course, he’s considerably smaller.”
“Emily, I don’t think you should be let loose on the public road with two dogs in hand. Especially since one of them’s Charlie.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s true. And I was almost afraid to ask you, but do you think you could help? I’d pay you to do this.”
“Of course I will. When do we expect Kipper to make his appearance?”
“Four weeks from today. That would be Monday, July 30, the day Kathy and her husband are leaving. She’s delivering Kipper, then taking the evening flight to London.”
“So you enter this two-dog frenzy the next day?” Shakira had learned everything she knew about humor from Ravi, and he learned it at Harrow. For an Arab, she really could be quite droll.
“Well, yes,” said Emily. “By that Tuesday morning, I will probably be at my wits’ end. Could you possibly be here early that morning? Just to help me get them under control.”
“Of course,” replied Shakira. “I usually come at eleven. While you have both dogs, I’ll be here at ten, starting July 31.” She produced her little leather-bound notebook and wrote in the dates. On the previous page were the words: TARGET EMILY GALLAGHER. Brockhurst, Virginia.
Shakira sat back and sipped her coffee, glancing up just once at a framed photograph she had seen before. “Is that your daughter there, in the photograph?” she asked.
Mrs. Gallagher picked up the picture and smiled. “Yes, that’s Kathy,” she said.
“Gosh, she’s pretty,” said Shakira, looking at the wedding-day picture, which showed Arnold and Kathy standing outside the offices of the justice of the peace who had married them in Washington.
“When was this?”
“Oh, just five years ago,” said Emily.
“Then it must have been a second marriage,” smiled Shakira. “No girl can be that pretty and remain single for that long.”
“You’re correct. Kathy was married before. He was rich but a frightful, selfish man. I’m just so glad she’s found real happiness now. Her husband is not everyone’s type, but he makes her happy. And I like him very much.”
“Are they going somewhere wonderful after Kipper gets dropped off?” said Shakira.
“Well, I never really know where they are,” replied Emily. “He’s some kind of very high-powered diplomat. All Kathy said was they were flying to London, staying at the Ritz Hotel for a few days, and then going to Scotland.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” said Shakira.
“Indeed it doesn’t. The Ritz! It always reminds me of that English war-time song ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’—that line, There were angels dining at the Ritz.”
Shakira looked thoughtful. Mrs. Gallagher really was the most charming lady, kind, generous, and so proper. For a split second, she wondered how she could possibly be sitting here in this lovely house, subversively planning to have Emily’s son-in-law murdered.
But again she forced herself back to The Cause, to remember the terrible plight of the Palestinians. The poverty, the suffering, the lack of medical supplies, the cruel arrogance of the Israelis, and above all the hatred, the hatred of the Great Satan, and her husband’s unflinching view that the West must be driven out of the Middle East forever and that Israel must be destroyed.
Of course, Mrs. Gallagher had nothing to do with any of this. But she was part of America, that monstrous nation that had somehow crushed her own and now stood smiling with its great white teeth, basking in its inestimable wealth, sucking the underground wealth of the Arab nations dry, while her own people lived and died on the precipice of destitution.
