Cause of Death (32 page)

Paper rustled as he folded the London Times and glanced at his watch. "I think that's us," he said, getting up as Flight 2 was called again.

The Concorde held a hundred people in two cabins with two seats on either side of the aisle. The decor was muted gray carpet and leather, with spaceship windows too small to gaze out. Flight attendants were British and typically polite, and if they knew we were the two passengers from the FBI, Navy, or God knows, the CIA, they did not indicate so in any way. Their only concern seemed to be what we wanted to drink, and I ordered whiskey.

"It's a little early, isn't it?" Wesley said.

"Not in London it's not," I told him. "It's five hours later there."

"Thank you. I'll set my watch," he dryly said as if he'd never been anywhere in his life. "I guess I'll have a beer," he told the attendant.

"There, now that we're on the proper time zone, it's easier to drink," I said, and I could not keep the bite out of my voice.

He turned to me and met my eyes. "You sound angry."

"That's why you're a profiler, because you can figure out things like that."

He subtly looked around us, but we were behind the bulkhead with no one across the aisle, and I almost did not care who was at our rear.

"Can we talk reasonably?" he quietly asked.

"It's hard to be reasonable, Benton, when you always want to talk after the fact."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean. I think there's a transition missing somewhere."

I was about to give him one. "Everyone knew about your separation except me," I said. "Lucy told me because she heard about it from other agents. I would just like to be included in our relationship for once."

"Christ, I wish you wouldn't get so upset."

"Not half as much as I do."

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to be influenced by you," he said.

We were talking in low voices, leaning forward and together so that our shoulders were touching. Despite the grave circumstances, I was aware of his every move and how it felt against me. I smelled his wool jacket and the cologne he liked to wear.

"Any decision about my marriage can't include you," he went on as drinks arrived. "I know you must understand that."

My body wasn't used to whiskey at this hour, and the effect of it was quick and strong. I instantly began to relax, and shut my eyes during the roar of takeoff as the jet leaned back and throbbed, thundering up through the air. From then on, the world below became nothing but a vague horizon, if I could see anything out the window at all. The noise of engines remained loud, making it necessary for us to continue sitting very close to each other as we intensely talked on.

"I know how I feel about you," Wesley was saying. "I have known that for a long time."

"You have no right," I said. "You have never had a right.

"And what about you? Did you have a right to do what you did, Kay? Or was I the only one in the room?"

"At least I'm not married or even with anyone," I said.

"But no, I shouldn't have."

He was still drinking beer and neither of us was interested in canapes and caviar that I suspected would prove the first running of a long gourmet game. For a while we fell silent, flipping through magazines and professional journals while almost everyone else inside our cabin did the same. I noticed that people on the Concorde did not talk to each other much, and I decided that being rich and famous or royal must be rather boring.

"So I guess we've resolved that issue then," Wesley started again, leaning closer as I picked at asparagus.

"What issue?" I set down my fork, because I was lefthanded and he was in the way.

"You know. About what we should and shouldn't do."

He brushed against my breast and then his arm stayed there as if all we had said earlier was voided at Mach two.

"Yes," I said.

"Yes?" His voice was curious. "What do you mean, yes?"

"Yes about what you just said." With each breath I took, my body moved against him. "About resolving things."

"Then that's what we'll do," he agreed.

"Of course we will," I said, not entirely certain what we had just agreed to do. "One other thing," I added. "If you ever get divorced and we want to see each other, we start over."

"Absolutely. That makes perfect sense."

"In the meantime, we're colleagues and friends."

"That's exactly what I want, too," he said.

At half past six, we sped along Park Lane, both of us silent in the backseat of a Rover driven by an officer of the Metropolitan Police. In darkness, I watched the lights of London go by, and I was disoriented and vividly alive. Hyde Park was a sea of spreading black, lamp smudges of light along winding paths.

The flat where we were staying was very close to the Dorchester Hotel, and Pakistanis pooled around that grand old hotel this night, protesting their visiting prime minister with fervor. Riot police and dogs were out in numbers, but our driver seemed unconcerned.

"There is a doorman," he said as he pulled in front of a tall building that looked relatively new. "Just go in and give him your identification. He will get you into your accommodations. Do you need help with your bags?"

Wesley opened his door. "Thanks. We can manage."

We got out and went inside a small reception area, where an alert older man smiled warmly at us from behind a polished desk.

"Oh right. I've been expecting you," he said.

He got up and took our bags. "If you'll just follow me to the lift here."

We got on and rose to the fifth floor, where he showed us a three-bedroom flat with wide windows, bright fabrics and African art. My room was comfortably appointed, with the typical English tub large enough to drown in and toilet that flushed with a chain. Furniture was Victorian with hardwood floors covered in worn Turkish rugs, and I went over to the window and turned the radiator up high. I switched off lamps and gazed out at cars rushing past and dark trees in the park moving in the wind.

Wesley's room was down the hall at the far end, and I did not hear him walk in until he spoke.

"Kay?" He waited near my doorway, and I heard ice softly rattle. "Whoever lives here keeps very fine Scotch.

I've been told we are to help ourselves."

He walked in and set tumblers on the sill.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I asked.

"It's never been necessary in the past."

He stood next to me, and we drank and leaned against each other as we looked out together. For a long time we spoke in small, quiet sentences, and then he touched my hair, and kissed my ear and jaw. I touched him, too, and our love for each other got deeper as kisses and caresses did.

"I've missed you so much," he whispered as clothing became loosened and undone.

We made love because we could not help ourselves. That was our only excuse and would hold up in no court I knew.

Separation had been very hard, so we were hungry with each other all night. Then at dawn I drifted off to sleep long enough to awaken and find him gone, as if it all had been a dream. I lay beneath a down-filled duvet, and images were slow and lyrical in my mind. Lights danced beneath my lids and I felt as if I were being rocked, as if I were a little girl again and my father were not dying of a disease I did not understand back then.

I had never gotten over him. I supposed my attachments to all men had sadly relived my being left by him. It was a dance I moved to without trying, and then found myself in silence in the empty room of my most private life. I realized how much Lucy and I were alike. We both loved in secret and would not speak of pain.

Getting dressed, I went out into the hall and found Wesley in the living room drinking coffee as he looked out at a cloudy day. He was dressed in suit and tie, and did not seem tired.

"There's coffee on," he said. "Can I bring you some?"

"Thanks, I'll get it." I stepped into the kitchen. "Have you been up long?"

"For a while."

He made coffee very strong, and it struck me that there were so many domestic details about him I did not know.

We did not cook together or go on vacations or do sports when I knew we both enjoyed so many of the same things.

I walked into the living room and set my cup and saucer on a windowsill because I wanted to look out at the park.

"How are you?" His eyes lingered on mine.

"I'm fine. What about you?"

"You don't look fine."

"You always know just the thing to say."

"You look like you didn't get much sleep. That's what I meant.

"I got virtually no sleep, and you're to blame."

He smiled. "That and jet lag."

"The lag you cause is worse, Special Agent Wesley."

Already traffic was loud rushing past and punctuated periodically by the odd cacophony of British sirens. In the cold, early light, people were walking briskly along sidewalks, and some were jogging. Wesley got up from his chair.

"We should be going soon." He rubbed the back of my neck and kissed it. "We should get a little something to eat. It's going to be a long day."

"Benton, I don't like living this way," I said as he shut the door.

We followed Park Lane past the Dorchester Hotel, where some Pakistanis were still taking their stand. Then we took Mount Street to South Audley where we found a small restaurant open called Richoux. Inside were exotic French pastries and boxes of chocolates beautiful enough to display as art. People were dressed for business and reading newspapers at small tables. I drank fresh orange juice and got hungry. Our Filipino waitress was puzzled because Wesley had only toast while I ordered bacon and eggs with mushrooms and tomatoes.

"You wish to share?" she asked, "No, thank you." I smiled.

At not quite ten A. M., we continued on South Audley to Grosvenor Square, where the American Embassy was an unfortunate granite block of 1950s architecture guarded by a bronze eagle rampant on the roof. Security was extremely tight, with somber guards everywhere. We produced pass t, ports and credentials, and our photographs were taken. Finally, we were escorted to the second floor where we were to meet with the FBI's senior legal attache, or legate, for Great Britain. Chuck Olson's corner office afforded a perfect view of people waiting in long lines for visas and green cards. He was a stocky man in a dark suit, his neatly trimmed hair almost as silver as Wesley's.

"A pleasure," he said as he shook our hands. "Please have a seat. Would anybody like coffee?"

Wesley and I chose a couch across from a desk that was clear except for a notepad and file folders. On a cork board behind Olson's head were drawings that I assumed were done by his children, and above these hung a large Department of Justice seal. Other than shelves of books and various commendations, the office was the simple space of a busy person unimpressed with his job or self.

"Chuck," Wesley began, "I'm sure you already know that Dr. Scarpetta is our consulting forensic pathologist, and though she does have her own situation in Virginia to handle, she could be called back here later."

"God forbid," Olson said, for if there was a nuclear disaster in England or anywhere in Europe, chances were I would be brought in to help handle the dead.

"So I wonder if you could give her a clearer picture of our concerns," Wesley said.

"Well, there's the obvious," Olson said to me. "About a third of England's electricity is generated by nuclear power. We're worried about a similar terrorist strike, and don't know, in fact, if one hasn't already been planned by these same people."

"But the New Zionists are rooted in Virginia," I said.

"Are you saying they have international connections?"

"They aren't the driving force in this," he said. "They aren't the ones who want plutonium."

"Who specifically, then?" I said.

"Libya."

"I think the world has known that for a while," I replied.

"Well, now it's happening," Wesley said. "It's happening at Old Point."

"As you no doubt know," Olson went on, "Qaddafi has wanted nuclear weapons for a very long time and has been thwarted in his every attempt. It appears he finally found a way. He found the New Zionists in Virginia, and certainly, there are extremist groups he could use over here. We also have many Arabs."

"How do you know it's Libya?" I asked.

It was Wesley who replied, "For one thing, we've been going through Joel Hand's telephone records and they include numerous calls-mainly to Tripoli and Benghsli made over the past two years."

"But you don't know that Qaddafi is trying anything here in London," I said.

"What we fear is how vulnerable we would be. London is the stepping-off point to Europe, the U. S. and the Middle East. It is a tremendous financial center. Just because Libya steals fire from the U. S. doesn't mean the U. S. is the ultimate target."

"Fire?" I asked.

"As in the myth about Prometheus. Fire is our code for plutonium."