To the Death

She glanced at her watch, which was still on American time, five hours back. “Twenty-five minutes late for work,” she murmured. “I wonder if they’ve missed me yet.”

The wind was gusting out of the southwest tonight, directly off the Atlantic, and they took off in that direction. The lightly loaded Airbus climbed steeply away from the airport peninsula at the head of the Shannon estuary and swung hard right over Ireland’s greatest river.

It was just a short twenty-minute flight to Dublin, straight across the lonely heart of the Emerald Isle. They would scarcely fly over any towns. After crossing Lough Derg, their route would take them only above an endless dark green patchwork of fields.

Shakira was awakened after perhaps ten minutes of sleep, when the captain told the passengers he was beginning the descent into Dublin airport. Eight minutes later, they were on the ground. And Shakira’s nerves began to tighten.

As a first-class passenger, she was among the first to disembark from the aircraft, and she walked briskly to the passport control booth. There were only two officers on duty, and both of them gave the impression they could think of better things to do at this late hour on a Tuesday evening.

She handed over her perfectly forged copy of Maureen Carson’s passport. The officer opened it and put a large green port-of-entry stamp on one of the pages. He looked at her, smiled broadly, and said, “Welcome to Ireland. Have a nice stay here.” Shakira wondered whether he said that to everyone, and decided, on reflection, he probably did. As usual, she tried not to think of these people as part of the Great Satan.

The baggage area was quiet, and she walked through the green nothing-to-declare area, which was totally deserted. She did think this was strange, not being attuned, as yet, to that crystal-clear Irish logic, which reasoned: Now, what would be the point of putting a customs team in there when no one has anything to declare?

Shakira climbed into a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the Shelbourne Hotel. However, when they arrived in St. Stephen’s Green half an hour later, she realized she had no Irish currency. No euros. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Please wait. I expect the hotel will change me some American dollars.”

“Ah, Jesus,” he said, “don’t be worrying yourself. I’ll take ’em — it’s twenty-eight euros. The dollar’s about one and a half. Say forty-two bucks.”

Shakira gave him a $50 bill and said, “Keep the change, and thank you.”

“Ah, you’re a Christian,” he replied in the Irish idiom, grinning broadly, delighted with his tip, and certainly not realizing how utterly wrong was his statement.

The doorman took her bag, and she checked in. The Shelbourne is an innately Irish hotel, its bars the favorite watering holes for generations of Dublin’s scholars, poets, and businessmen, from Brendan Behan on down. They mostly don’t have any nonsense with passports, especially for their American clients.

And they never even asked for Shakira’s. “Just a quick swipe of your American Express card, and it’s fine,” said the desk clerk. “Niall, over there, will take your bag up, room 250, enjoy your stay. Anything you need, just pick up the phone.”

No, it couldn’t be possible. These cheerful, welcoming people could not be part of the Great Satan’s world domination. She would forbid Ravi and his men to make any kind of attack on any Irishmen, anywhere.

She unpacked some of her suitcase and hung a few things up. Then she took a long, luxurious bath in deep fragrant water and climbed gratefully into bed. Shakira had had little sleep, indeed she had not even been in a bed since eight o’clock on Monday morning. And now it was midnight Tuesday.

She relaxed on her pillow, worked out that it was 7 P.M. in Brockhurst, Virginia. They’ve probably missed me by now,

she thought. But I still doubt they’ll connect me with the death of Matt Barker.

Like the cab driver’s, that was another truly astounding misjudgment.

1900 Same Day Bowler’s Wharf, Virginia

Four state police cruisers were parked on the main street of the little village on the banks of the Rappahannock. House by house, the troopers banged on doors, asked if there was a Mrs. Jean Leno in residence, asking if anyone knew of a Jean Leno in residence, finally asking if anyone had ever even heard of a Jean Leno in all of their lives.

The answer was negative, to all three questions. Jim Caborn’s shrewd decision not to risk his five dollars betting with Joe Segel was looking better by the minute. The troopers’ secondary question was whether a very beautiful woman, in her late twenties, name of Carla Martin, had been living in the village for the past couple of weeks, going to work in a small car in the late afternoon.