To the Death

And with that, Michael O’Donnell took his leave, heading out of the dining room to meet his wife and daughter. As he went, he called, “There’ll be some kind of a hooley at home on Sunday night if we win.”

Her reply “What’s a hooley?” was lost in the busy Shelbourne dining room.

And that, in a sense, was why Shakira was standing on the sidewalk in St. Stephen’s Green, her forged passport in her bag, awaiting her driver. She had decided, pending the arrival of her husband in a few days, to visit Tipperary, somewhere near this Coolmore Stud, 110 miles south of Dublin.

0900 Saturday 7 July Brockhurst, Virginia

Detective Joe Segel was becoming an expert on brick walls, dead ends, and roads leading nowhere. In the past five days, he had experienced all of them — in his fruitless search for the vanishing barmaid. In his own mind, he was as certain as an experienced detective ever could be that Miss Carla Martin had indeed stabbed Matt Barker to death. It also seemed certain that the big garage proprietor had launched some kind of sexual attack on her and paid for it with his life.

The only other certainty about Carla was that she had most definitely disappeared off the face of the earth. Just about every radio and television news station in the United States had carried the story. Not just the media in the local Virginia/Washington, D.C. area; the tantalizing mystery of the Barker Pecker had transported the murder story far and wide.

If Carla had been anywhere in the USA, and indeed been innocent of the crime, she would surely have called in to the 800 number at Joe Segel’s police station to clear her name. But she had not done so, which meant one of two things: she had fled the country, possibly before the body was found, or she was hiding out somewhere in the States until the murder hunt died down.

It was now obvious that her passport was a forgery. The two establishments in London that she had submitted as references had never heard of her. Her apartment yielded absolutely nothing, and the film on the closed-circuit system at Chesapeake Heights was so indistinct and the exiting figure so awkwardly presented, not even Fred Mitchell could swear to God it was Jane Camaro.

The lady had covered her tracks with astounding efficiency. The fact was, Joe Segel did not even know her name. He did not even know her nationality. And he sure as hell did not know where she was. He’d even had the FBI and the CIA launch an international search looking for a port-of-entry clue in every major nation in the Middle East, not to mention London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Amsterdam, Brussels, Geneva, Berlin, and Milan. Nothing.

Joe did not even have a car description or a license-plate number. There was nothing to go on. This particular murder hunt was headed for the “unsolved” file with near-record speed. There was only one suspect. And that suspect seemed not to exist.

Like Fred Mitchell five days ago, Detective Joe feared for his résumé.

1000 Sunday 8 July National Security Agency, Maryland

Lt. Commander Ramshawe had to be at the Australian embassy for lunch. His time was thus limited, and he moved fast to make sure he caught Admiral Morgan before he went out.

And again he spelled out his fears to the great man, to no avail, even though he stressed the danger that must be prevalent since it was entirely possible that Emily Gallagher had revealed too much detail to the girl now wanted for murder.

“Arnie, is it not possible for you simply to change the dates?”

“Out of the question. After London, we’re going up to Scotland to stay a couple of nights with Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, then we’re all going to Edinburgh for the Festival and the Military Tattoo.”

“I’ve been to that with Dad,” said Jimmy. “It goes on for about a month. Can’t you just go on a different night?”

“Jimmy, I’m taking the salute on a very carefully planned evening. The dates were only finalized on Friday. I have to go when I said I’d go. Anyway, it’s a pretty big honor. A lot of very big-deal military men have taken the salute at Edinburgh Castle. Churchill did it. The prime minister of England is doing it the night after me. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Hmmmmm,” said Jimmy, reverting to his rich Aussie accent, as he normally did when under stress. “Basically, I’m wasting my time, right? Just trying to save your bloody life.”

“Which is of course threatened by a barmaid. C’mon, kid. Let’s stay real. I got plenty of protection, not to mention half the British Army.”

“I’m not worried about the goddamned barmaid. I’m worried about her employers. That’s all. You know there’s some hotshot special operators in those jihadist groups. I’m just trying to keep you out of the crosshairs.”

“Don’t worry about me, kid. I’m fireproof. Gotta go.”

Crash. Down phone.

“Stubborn old prick,” muttered Jimmy.

1400 Sunday 8 July Western Mediterranean