No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Riley was met in the security lodge at the side of the embassy by a square-jawed US marine in a uniform with mathematically-precise creases. He kept calling her ‘Ma’am’ and looked as if he ate nails for breakfast. Other than a couple of armed policemen patrolling the pavement, and the glow of lights from inside the embassy building, there was little sign of activity.

The marine turned and marched over to a phone and stabbed out a number, and spoke softly with someone on the other end. He managed to move without crimping his shirt or spoiling the mirror-gloss shine of his shoes in the process.

By comparison, Riley felt a mess, having thrown on jeans and a blue cotton shirt, and donning a sports jacket which she figured gave her at least an element of respectability for this time of night and the place she was going.

The marine ended his call and returned smartly to the counter.

‘Ma’am? Could I have your cellphone, please?’ Riley handed it over, and he placed it in a box. ‘It will be here to collect when you leave, Ma’am. This way, please, Ma’am.’ He snapped into a 180º turn and set off at a brisk pace, looking back to make sure Riley hadn’t got waylaid in his slipstream.

They entered the main building and negotiated the security screens, climbing to the first floor and passing several closed doors at speed. There were no overt signs of staff other than her square-jawed escort, and she wondered what would happen if she broke into a run.

The marine gave her no time to find out. He skidded to a stop by a plain door, knocked once and showed her inside, then departed at a gallop. Maybe, thought Riley, he was on a time-trial.

She was in a plain meeting room, with a long table, a twin line of chairs and a large US flag mounted on the wall at one end. The air smelled vaguely of mints. Then Riley saw why: Weller was seated at one end of the table, nursing a cup of coffee.

The man across from him had his back to the window. He was stocky, with carefully trimmed brown hair and eyes the same colour. He looked neat and contained, in a conservative grey suit, and looked to be in his early forties. He didn’t seem pleased to see Riley, but stepped round the end of the table and shook hands cordially enough.

‘Miss Gavin. Henry L. Portius. Nice to meet you.’ At least, Riley noted, when he took his hand back he didn’t wipe it on his jacket.

She nodded at Weller, who indicated a chair next to him and sat forward in a businesslike manner.

‘Henry agreed to this late meeting,’ Weller announced, as if he was in his own office, ‘after I lodged a request for the DEA’s input.’ He flashed a smile at Portius and received a cool look in return. Riley took it to mean that the ‘request’ had been a forceful one. It was an indication of Weller’s clout and how high this matter must have gone to get their agreement.

‘I’m still not sure we have an interest, here,’ Portius said carefully. He jerked his chin up from his shirt collar and looked hard at Weller. Riley wondered if the meeting was being recorded.

‘Don’t be an arse, Henry,’ Weller said genially. ‘One of yours is off the rails and causing mayhem. Of course you’ve got an interest.’ He paused a heartbeat. ‘At least, I take it Henzigger is no longer an agent?’

‘Of course not. I hope you understand that.’ His eyes swivelled Riley’s way and blinked once, the following stare cold and unfriendly. Riley took it to mean that he knew what she did for a living and was trying to intimidate her to silence. It probably worked a treat in the States and sent their journalists scurrying for cover. Right here and now it came across as the cheap bullying trick that it was.

‘We’ll see, shall we?’

‘Ahem,’ Weller coughed quietly and tapped on the desk. ‘Riley, I’ve already given Henry a summary of the situation as far as I know it, and he’s agreed to help.’ He fixed her with a look that said don’t wind Portius up because he’s come a long way, and technically speaking, we’re both on foreign soil. ‘He assures me that Henzigger is no longer an active agent with any branch of the US government. I believe him.’

‘If you say so. But why was he here?’

‘He was required to check in,’ Portius said, ‘as a requirement following his little problem with your Immigration department.’

Riley stared at him. Little problem? The man had come into the country on false plates! She wondered if ‘checking in’ was the reason Henzigger had been in the embassy just hours ago when she rang him, and whether Portius was aware of that fact. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t have that information.’

‘But you have been keeping a watch on him?’

‘Correct.’ Portius’s confirmation was supported by Weller’s nod.

‘May I ask why?’

‘It was routine procedure. He caused a problem. We like to make sure he won’t cause more before leaving.’ He smiled thinly.

Riley looked at both men. This was going nowhere. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘How about filling her in on the background stuff first,’ said Weller, looking at Portius.

Portius sighed, clearly reluctant but no doubt under orders. ‘Just over a year ago there was a drugs operation involving a shipment of cocaine and heroin from somewhere south of the Caribbean. It was tracked to the UK, and the operation was co-ordinated through a senior DEA officer named Quinn, who followed the shipment all the way to London.’ He stared past Riley with a wooden face. ‘Unfortunately, the operation was compromised as the boat was docking.’

‘The general consensus is that Agent Quinn was recognised by a member of the gang,’ Weller supplied casually. ‘He’s something of a media figure, apparently… for a law enforcement official.’ He avoided looking at Portius, who looked as if he wanted to explode at the obvious taunt.

‘Quinn wasn’t that high-profile,’ he muttered coldly.

Riley tapped her fingernail on the table before they came to blows. ‘How does this have anything to do with Henzigger?’

Portius nodded, throwing a final resentful glare at Weller before continuing. ‘The control centre was set up in the harbour master’s office, where they could observe the ship right to the berth. We were also watching the water, making sure no other vessels approached the ship offshore. Once it was in close, Mr Quinn decided he wanted to join the men down in the Customs shed, for a closer look.’

‘Just for the record,’ said Weller, ‘Henry here advised against it. Didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Portius puffed his cheeks out. ‘I did.’

Riley sensed a subtle bit of blame-shifting going on and asked, ‘But he didn’t listen?’

‘That’s right. He insisted on going. Maybe he’d been behind a desk too long and needed the action. We gave him the harbour master’s yellow coat and a hard-hat, and made him carry a box of files, for cover. That was all.’

‘And?’

‘He got part way across the yard and the men on the boat spotted him.’

‘They must have had damned good eyesight, from that distance,’ Weller muttered sourly, turning the screw. ‘A hard-hat, a yellow coat and carrying a box — yet he was still recognised? Who were the men on the boat — janitors from the Washington office?’

Portius opened his mouth but said nothing. Riley realised he wasn’t entirely convinced about what had happened, either. Take any group of men on a construction site, all wearing coats and hard-hats, and you’d have to get close before distinguishing one from another unless the one you wanted possessed strong physical characteristics.

‘So what are you saying?’ she asked finally.

‘I’m saying Quinn was made by somebody who knew him. Somebody who’d worked with him and would recognise him at a distance.’ The admission was grudging, and she realised that Portius must be under some powerful pressure to admit such information to a British policeman and a member of the British press. What she didn’t know was why.

‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ said Weller. His smile dared Portius to contradict.

‘Did you find out who the person was?’ asked Riley. She knew what he was going to say; he just didn’t like admitting to foreigners that they had a bad apple in the barrel, a concept that was anathema to their whole way of thinking.

‘There’s evidence to suggest,’ Portius’s voice sounded strangled, as if he was trying to expel a nasty object lodged in his throat, ‘that it was Toby Henzigger.’

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