To the Death

Jimmy stood up and handed the Brockhurst detective a card with his name and phone numbers written on it. “Any time of the day or night, Joe. This could be a whole lot more important than you think it is.”

“Give my regards to Mrs. Gallagher.”

The two men shook hands and Jimmy walked out into the sunlight, where Jane was peering through the window of the local sports shop. Three minutes later, they were approaching the front gate of Mrs. Gallagher’s house, where the golden retriever Charlie was prostrate on the front stoop of the tall white colonial.

The front door opened, and Emily Gallagher stepped outside and welcomed them warmly, telling them Kathy had called and that she was delighted they had come to see her. Without further ceremony, she asked them to come inside for some iced tea and for a conversation about the missing Carla Martin, which she was certain they had hoped for.

Jimmy and Jane sat through the preliminaries — the possibility that Carla might be foreign, her politeness, her reliability, and the utter unsuitability, as an escort, of the late Matt Barker. Finally, on his second glass of iced tea, Jimmy ventured to ask whether Emily had told Carla when Arnold and Kathy were leaving for vacation.

“Well, I suppose I must have,” replied Mrs. Gallagher. “I had to tell her when the two dogs needed walking, and I am sure I mentioned the precise day when Kipper was due to arrive. That’s about three weeks from now.”

“Mrs. Gallagher, did you tell her where Arnold and Kathy were going?”

“Not very accurately, because I don’t really know myself. But I think I told her Kathy was coming here first, and then driving back to Washington, for the evening flight to London with Arnold.”

“You didn’t mention the airline, did you?”

“Certainly not. I don’t know it. But I did suggest that Carla might like to come over around noon, to have lunch with Kathy and myself and acquaint herself with Kipper, who is very slightly crazier than Charlie.”

“Did you give her any further details of their stay in London?” asked Jimmy.

“I’m sure not.”

“Do you know where they’re staying?”

“I expect the Ritz in Piccadilly,” she replied. “Arnold always stays there; says he likes the tea they serve in the Palm Court.”

“Did you mention that to Carla.?”

“You know, I think I must have. I seem to remember her saying something about cucumber-and-marmite sandwiches, her favorite, that she and an English army officer she once knew always went there for tea, as a special treat.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Jimmy.

“I’m sorry?” replied Arnold’s mother-in-law.

“Oh, nothing, Mrs. Gallagher. I was just remembering I stayed there once myself, with my dad. I was only about fourteen years old, but I remember those sandwiches.”

Emily laughed and wished she could have been more helpful. Her parting words to Jimmy and Jane were “Quite frankly, I hope Carla turns up. She was such a very nice girl. And so good with Charlie.”

CHAPTER 7

Lieutenant Commander Jimmy Ramshawe gunned his beloved Jaguar north up Route 17 without uttering one word for twenty minutes. Jane Peacock would have mentioned his uncharacteristic silence, except she was asleep in the passenger seat. Finally, as they ran through the flat-lands of Essex County, three things happened. Jane awakened. Jimmy spoke, or rather cursed. And a Virginia state trooper pulled him over for speeding.

When he produced his driver’s license, he also handed over his National Security Agency identification. The officer looked at both.

“You going straight through to Fort Meade, sir?”

“Right now I’m headed for the Australian embassy.”

The policeman nodded, handed back the documents. “Trouble?”

“Big.”

“Okay, sir. You need an escort?”

“I guess not. I’ll keep it down on the highway.”

“I’ll track you up to Fredericksburg. No problem, and, hey, thanks for what you do for our country.”

The state trooper, who was in his late twenties, offered his hand and confided, “I tried out for the Navy SEALs a few years back, down at Virginia Beach. Too tough for me. But I still appreciate what all you guys do. So long, Commander.”

Jimmy pulled back onto the road and accelerated once more toward Washington. The police cruiser sped along fifty yards in the rear, its blue lights no longer flashing.

Jane shook her head. “It’s a bloody miracle what those three little words mean in this country,” she said. “National Security Agency. It really matters, doesn’t it? Sometimes I forget how much.”

Her fiancé was pensive. After a few seconds, he said, quietly, “Speaking of miracles, I’ll tell you about another one. ”

“You will?”

“Yeah. Because that’s what it will be, if that Brockhurst detective ever finds Carla Martin — you know what? He’s never going to find Carla Martin.”

“How do you know? Half the country’s looking out for her.”

“Half the country’s whistling Dixie. Because Carla Martin no longer exists. She died with Matt Barker.”

“Died!”