Sophie Medina: Ghost Image Part 18

"It's going on half one," she said. "I think you should stay at least until two. I'd feel better knowing you'd had more time to recover. You didn't suffer the cold as badly as Dr. Innes did, but still it's quite a shock to the system."

"What time did you say? Oh, no . . . Perry." I pulled out my phone and discovered I'd forgotten to turn off the flashlight. The battery was down to almost nothing. "I was supposed to meet someone for lunch at one o'clock. In London."

There was a flurry of missed calls and text messages from Perry on my phone, most of them written from the Old Red Cow. The last text-in all caps-asked one final time where the h.e.l.l was I and said that he was leaving for a two o'clock interview at the House of Lords. He expected to be finished no later than three if I still wanted to meet him somewhere for a coffee or a drink. I wrote a quick reply.

Unavoidably detained, please forgive me. Promise a full explanation. How about the cafe in the Crypt at St. Martin-in-the-Fields at 3:30 since you'll be at the other end of Whitehall?

He replied right away: I'll be there. WILL YOU?

My screen went black and the phone died, turning itself off. I looked up and said to the nurse, "I've really got to get back to London. Do you think someone could call a cab to run me to the station? And my coat is still in Dr. Innes's office."

My coat was waiting in the reception room and the Afghan driver who brought me to the Seed Bank what seemed like an eternity ago showed up to take me back to town. He resumed our conversation where we left off on the trip here and didn't seem to notice my distracted answers, or that I kept glancing in his mirrors and over my shoulder to make sure no one was following us. I tipped him well and discovered I was just in time for the 2:12 to London, which I could hear coming into the station as I ran up the stairs.

No one else got on at Haywards Heath-I checked-nor had I noticed any vehicle following my cab on the journey from Wakehurst to the train station. I bought a cup of steaming tea from the tea trolley guy and sat in the silence of my empty carriage, trying to work out how someone had known to follow Alastair and me down to the underground storage area and lock us in.

It had to be someone who worked at the Seed Bank and had the necessary clearances to walk unchallenged throughout the facility. Alastair told me a few of his colleagues were aware he and Kevin had been working on a project together, but he seemed certain no one knew what that project was.

Somehow I didn't think that was true anymore. Someone did know. And today that person had made a bold play that could have silenced the two of us for good.

I decided to take the Underground from Victoria Station to Embankment and walk the rest of the way to Trafalgar Square, where the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields sat on a quiet corner across from the National Gallery of Art. Perry was already waiting at a table in the Crypt restaurant when I got there. His face creased into a broad smile, and he got up to pull me close in a big bear hug.

If you walked by Perry on the street, you probably wouldn't turn your head to notice him. He is not particularly good-looking-medium build with a slight paunch, reddish hair showing some white and going thin on top, pale blue eyes, hawk nose, large mouth, but there's something innately sensual about him that attracts women as if he were north and they were magnetized. I'd lost count of how many girlfriends he'd had. He turned fifty in January and, in typical Perry fas.h.i.+on, threw a huge bash for two hundred complete with music, dancing, and jeroboams of Dom Perignon at a friend's posh mansion in Holland Park. I would have gone if it hadn't been Nick's last weekend before he left for the Middle East, and I figured I'd get grief about it today. Perry lived hard, worked hard, and played hard. His workaholism cost him three marriages and a small fortune in alimony, or as he said, he had to work until they lowered his casket into the ground. But his staff adored him-me, included-and the London bureau won more press awards than any other IPS bureau, so the suits in New York thought he walked on water.

"Medina," he said, looking me over, "what the h.e.l.l have you been doing to yourself? I thought you were taking it easy since you moved back to D.C."

"I'm still recovering from a decade of working for you. It'll take awhile."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Seriously, are you all right? You look a little green around the gills."

"I'm okay, but I haven't eaten since breakfast. I'm starved."

"That's what you get for standing me up for lunch. What happened, anyway?"

"I'll tell you once we get something to eat."

We got in line at the cafeteria-style serving area, where I ordered a large bowl of spiced carrot soup, a cheddar, chutney, and cress sandwich, and a pot of tea. Perry got scones, with clotted cream and jam, and a pot of coffee. While he paid for our food, I found a table in the corner and took the seat so my back was to the wall where I could see anyone who walked into or out of the cafe.

When Perry joined me, he threw me a look that I knew had to do with the change in seating. "What are we doing in this dark corner?"

"It was too noisy over there."

"There was no one else sitting near that table."

"It's more private here."

He glanced at the couples sitting at tables on either side of us, sat down, and said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, "You're watching the entrance. Is someone after you?"

"Maybe."

He busied himself with pouring coffee into his cup, heaping sugar into it, and adding so much cream the coffee looked like liquid b.u.t.terscotch. Then he said, "You want to tell me about it?"

I trust Perry, I always have. He's had my back more times than I can count when I've been in the field and I needed something like a last-minute visa on a weekend to some far-flung place, a roll of cash to pay bribes-even a chartered plane. Whatever it was, he always took the heat from New York when they kicked up a fuss, deflecting it away from me and claiming it was all his idea.

I told him as much as I could without betraying anyone who had talked to me or helped me. When I had finished, he said, "That's a h.e.l.l of a story. How do you connect Kevin Boyle's death at a monastery in Was.h.i.+ngton with someone locking you and a scientist in a storage vault in the Millennium Seed Bank in Suss.e.x?"

"I don't know. At first I thought Kevin's death had to do with the book, Adam in Eden, but after today I believe it might have something to do with the seeds. Alastair helped Kevin identify the lewisia, the pressed plant in the book. According to the letter, the lewisia was supposed to be among the plants in the national botanic garden, and Kevin believed that meant it was also among the White House seeds. That's the connection between Kevin and Alastair."

Perry bit into his scone, which he had buried under a mountain of jam and drowned in clotted cream. He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. "Who knew about both the book and the seeds?"

"Before Kevin died?" I gave him a worried look. "Only one person I talked to. She asked to remain anonymous and she was the source of most of my information. Believe me, it's not her."

Perry gave me a you-don't-trust-me look.

"Never burn a source," I said.

"Fair enough," he said, "but that doesn't narrow it down much."

"I don't understand why someone would go after Alastair and me. Neither of us has any idea where the seeds are, and we haven't got the book."

"But you do know about those seeds." He gave me a pointed look. "That might be enough. By the way, you haven't finished your sandwich. You still eat like a bird."

"Thank you for trying to scare me, and my sandwich is all yours unless you want to pour clotted cream on it, which would be really disgusting." I pushed my plate over to him.

He picked up my sandwich and bit into it. "Someone just tried to put you on ice, Medina. Literally. You ought to be looking over your shoulder. You're making people nervous. Did it occur to you whoever pulled that little stunt was only going after one of you? And I don't just mean Alastair." He pointed a finger at me.

I s.h.i.+vered. "It can't have been me. Whoever did that has to work at the Seed Bank. There's no way a visitor could just wander off from touring the public area and slip into the part of the facility where the underground vault is located. Besides, as Alastair told me, Wakehurst is fairly out of the way. You don't just pop in for a quick visit. I think it's more likely a colleague who targeted him."

Perry stared at a spot over my shoulder. I knew that concentrated expression. He was working something out. "Have you ever considered that Kevin left a clue to what happened to those seeds right there in plain sight and you've been looking at it all this time?"

"No. But I guess maybe I should, shouldn't I?"

"If I were you and someone just tried to put me in the deep freeze, I'd be looking at every angle."

"It's so comforting talking to you," I said. "I feel so much better."

He flashed a quick grin before turning serious. "I'm not joking around. What does Nick say about all this?"

"He doesn't know. He's still in the Middle East."

Perry regarded me with a one-eyed squint. "What's he doing there?"

"Reconnaissance for Quill Russell, the former secretary of state. He's putting together a consulting firm and wants Nick to be his energy guy."

"Nick will be set for life if he hooks up with Quillen Russell and his gold-plated address book. And, not to give marital advice since I'm so lousy at it, but you ought to tell him what's going on, you know. Nick, not Quill Russell."

I smiled. "I will. When I see him." I balled up my paper napkin and set it on the tray next to the teapot. "Can I ask a favor? Two?"

"Ask me anything, sweetheart."

"Can you let me know any new information concerning Archduke Orlando Haupt-von Vessey? He's in St. Mary's, recovering from pneumonia."

"Have we turned into a paparazza?"

I glared at him. "No, of course not. I'm the photographer at his son's wedding in Was.h.i.+ngton. I'm asking as a friend of the family. And before you say a word, I'm not turning into a wedding photographer, either. It's a one-time favor for Victor."

Perry looked at me with more respect. "I'm impressed. What's your other favor?"

"Do you remember a story in the British press concerning Edward Jaine? Something not very flattering, possibly involving computer exports to the Third World?"

He shook his head. "Vaguely. I'll check it out and either call you or send you a link."

"Thanks. I owe you." I stood up. "I probably ought to be getting back to the Connaught."

Perry got up, too. "How much longer are you staying in London?"

"We go home Friday."

"Any more news about your grandfather?"

"Nope. Mom's still in Connecticut."

He draped his arm around me as we walked outside. "One more thing," he said as though he'd just thought about it. "There's an opening for a shooter in the D.C. bureau. Monica wants to talk to you."

Monica Yablonski, the International Press Service Was.h.i.+ngton bureau chief, was tough as old boots, the kind of boss who made Perry-as demanding as he was-look like a p.u.s.s.ycat.

"What happened? Which photographer quit or got fired? I lost track of the body count in that bureau," I said. "Thanks, but I don't need my b.u.t.t kicked by Monica every day, Perry. It's nice to be my own boss for a change."

He did his best impression of looking as if I'd stabbed him through the heart. "Are you kidding me? You're not interested? Come on, Medina. You can handle Monica. Don't sit on the sidelines. You ought to still be in the game."

"Was.h.i.+ngton is nothing like working in the field. It's press release city, full of talking heads and navel gazers."

"It's a major bureau. People would kill to have that beat. Aren't you the least bit interested?" He gave me a sly look. "The opening is at the White House. You wouldn't be based in the bureau. Job's yours if you want it."

The White House. A plum job, press photographer for a major news bureau. He'd held that piece of information back until the end.

"Monica actually said that? Come on, Perry, what did she really say?"

"She'd like to talk to you."

"Thought so. She needs to find someone who hasn't heard about her reputation for eating reporters and photogs for breakfast and spitting out the bones. Some benighted soul who's been living in a cave for the last couple of years."

"Aren't you being a little harsh? Sweetheart, this is the bra.s.s ring. Talk it over with Nick if you want, but Monica's beating people away with a stick. At least promise me you'll call her and throw your hat in the ring."

"I'll think about it. I'm happy freelancing and I'm plenty busy."

"You haven't got long. She wants it filled by Friday. Tick, tick, tick."

"Typical Monica," I said. "It's another road job if the president travels a lot. And this one goes to North Carolina for breakfast, Michigan for lunch, and Prague for dinner and a summit."

A boxy black cab turned onto Duncannon Street. Perry put his hand up and the driver pulled over to the curb. He opened the door and turned to me.

"I miss you," he said, giving me a hug and a quick kiss on the lips. "Since you left no one turns in expenses for mileage on a camel or insists they didn't get my e-mails saying they couldn't upgrade their flight to first cla.s.s."

"I miss you, too, and I was sore for weeks after that camel ride, and the upgrade was from Ulan Bator. The flight was full and the next one wasn't for another week."

He grinned and helped me into the cab. "She's going to the Connaught," he said through the window to the driver. "Take good care of her."

"Don't you worry, she'll be safe as houses with me, guv'nor."

Perry shut the door and the driver made one of those impossible tight circle turns London cabs are famous for. I looked over my shoulder and waved until we turned the corner onto the Strand.

"Everything all right, love?" The driver met my eyes in his rearview mirror as I settled back into the seat.

"Would you mind taking me down Whitehall? I'd like to see Horseguards Parade and Parliament and the Abbey."

"Of course. I'll take you by the Palace as well."

The training to become one of the world-famous London black-cab drivers is notoriously grueling and takes years to accomplish because it involves an intensive amount of studying, driving, and memorizing the city's maze of streets, both big and small. There are multiple exams and hundreds of routes that must be known by heart. The process even has a name: "Doing the Knowledge."

My driver, an elderly gentleman with flowing gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard, realized at once that I was checking his mirrors. "No one's following us, miss. I promise you," he said. "And if they were, I'd let you know and I'd lose 'em."

"Thank you."

But in spite of his comforting promise, I couldn't help casting an occasional glance out the windows and in his mirrors. Because maybe Perry was right: Whoever locked us in the vault this afternoon might not have been targeting Alastair.

He might have been after me.

15.

Archduke Victor Haupt-von Vessey turned away from the front desk at the Connaught as I walked into the hotel lobby shortly before five. His face lit up with his warm smile when he saw me, but otherwise he looked haggard and as if he hadn't slept much lately.

He kissed me on both cheeks. "It's good to see you here."

At home he was always well dressed, no baggy shorts, T-s.h.i.+rts, flip-flops, or baseball caps. But here in London there was something different about him, the elegant cut of his expensive suit, his erect posture, a confidence that made me more aware of his stature as a member of one of Europe's most distinguished royal families.

"And you," I said, smiling. "What are you doing at the Connaught?"

"Looking for you," he said, surprising me. "I had a meeting in Grosvenor Square this afternoon and then I walked around the corner to the Jesuit church across the street from here to light a candle for my father. Maybe you know it? The Farm Street Church?"