Death of the Falcon

Chapter 4

Since my cover was being a trouble-shooter for a Houston-based oil company with worldwide interest, I spent my second day in a briefing session on the oil business. The first half of the day was spent in backgrounding; the second in being quizzed about what I had learned. My memory banks work pretty well, and I was sure I had passed when Hawk summoned me to his office about ten o’clock that night with a smile on his face.

“Well, Nick,” he said. “Briefing tells me you’ve done pretty well. How do you feci about it?”

“Quite honestly, sir,” I told him, “I’d like to have a couple more days. But I think I can handle it.”

“Good, because there just isn’t any more time. Sherima and the others arrive from London about noon tomorrow. Now, we’re pretty certain that nothing can happen to her for a day or so. The Sword’s plan, the way we figure it, is to let her get settled in at the hotel and make some contacts; then he will set up an assassination to throw suspicion on the CIA.

“The Secretary of State already has talked to Sherima in London. She’s been invited to his home for dinner. Abdul Bedawi will be driving her to the Secretary’s home in Alexandria. That will tie up the two of them for the evening and leave the Knight girl on her own.”

“And that’s where I come in,” I said.

“Right. You will make contact early in the evening. I want you two to be good friends. Good enough so that it will be a simple matter for you to meet Sherima and, because of your obvious affection for Candace Knight, have an excuse to stick close to them. Right?”

“Yes, sir. How long will I have?”

“The Secretary will see that dinner drags on pleasantly. Then, when it is time for Sherima to start back, her car will have a little trouble getting started. Nothing extensive and nothing that could possibly arouse Bedawi’s suspicions.”

I grinned. My back-up team was on the ball. “Goodbye, sir,” I said, heading for the door.

“Good luck,” Hawk replied.

During its seven years of operation, the Watergate Hotel has catered to the celebrities of the world, and its staff has naturally developed a blasé attitude toward the presence of the famous people who come and go. Most of the big stars of dance and the theater have appeared at Kennedy Center at one time or another, so the center’s next-door neighbor is a logical choice for them to stay. Movie actors, in the District for personal appearances, invariably stay at the Watergate; and it is the home away from home for the jet-setters. Most of the world’s political figures stay there, and even the few top-level international leaders who take up temporary quarters in the official government guest mansion, Blair House, often address gatherings in one of the hotel’s opulent banquet rooms.

Still, accustomed as the hotel staff is to such international luminaries, the former wife of one of the world’s remaining absolute monarchs gave them pause. It was obvious that Sherima rated some very special attention, and as I watched from my post in the lobby, I could see that she was getting it.

I had decided to be in the lobby that afternoon at the time I knew Sherima would be leaving for Alexandria. There aren’t many places to sit, but after loitering for a while in front of the newsstand, examining out-of-town papers, and standing around in the Gucci shop at the hotel’s front entrance, I managed to claim one of the chairs in the lobby. The traffic was heavy, but I could keep my eye on the two small elevators that serve the upper floors and the concierge’s desk.

About five o’clock, I saw a man I recognized as Bedawi get off the elevator, cross to the stairway that led to the parking garage, and disappear. Assuming he was going for the limousine, I walked casually to the entryway; about ten minutes later, a big Cadillac with diplomatic plates swept into the drive and stopped. The doorman started to tell the chauffeur that he would have to keep going around the circle, but after a brief conference, Bedawi got out and went inside, leaving the car at the door. Obviously, the doorman agreed that the former Queen shouldn’t have to walk more than a couple of steps to her carriage.

I could see Bedawi go to the concierge’s desk, then return to wait for his passenger. He was shorter than I expected, about five feet ten, but solidly built. He wore a well-tailored black jacket that accentuated his massive shoulders and tapered sharply to a slim waist. The tight black trousers outlined his incredibly muscular thighs. His build suggested that of a running back for professional football. The chauffeur’s cap covered hair that I knew from his file picture was cut short and inky black. His eyes matched the hair, and they swept over everyone moving past him. I had stepped back into the Gucci shop to watch him from behind a selection of men’s handbags hanging next to one window near the door. He doesn’t miss a thing, I decided.

I knew the moment that Sherima came into his view from the sudden tenseness that filled the man. I moved to the doorway in time to see her walk by. From the AXE report, I knew that she was five-foot-five, but she appeared much smaller in person. Every inch was that of a queen, however.

Bedawi snapped the door open for her, and as she slipped inside the limousine, her dress slipped above a knee for a quick second before she pulled her leg inside. Several people standing nearby waiting for cabs turned to look, and I could tell from the whispers that some of them had recognized her, perhaps from the pictures the local papers had carried that morning with their stories on her expected arrival in the capital.

Time to go to work, I decided, and headed for the elevator.