Panic

THURSDAY MARCH 17
31

T he London-based CIA field officer – his name was Pettigrew, he didn’t offer a first name – picked them up at a private airstrip in Hampshire. He carried himself with an impatient air. Pettigrew was closemouthed as he hurried them to a car, driving them himself to a safe house in the London neighborhood of St. John’s Wood. He took his time, circling in roundabout routes, and Evan, who only knew London well enough to find Soho and the London Film School, got lost along the drive.

Pettigrew didn’t speak a word to them on the way.

It was early afternoon in London, and they had, to Evan’s surprise, left the rain in Ohio. The sky was clear, the few clouds thin cotton. Pettigrew shut a wrought-iron gate behind them as they went up the house’s front stairs.

Pettigrew escorted them to tidy, unadorned rooms, with private baths, and they both showered. A doctor waited to change Carrie’s bandage and inspect her healing wound. When they were done, they followed Pettigrew into a small dining room where an elderly woman brewed strong tea and coffee and served a lunch of cold meats, salad, cheese, pickles, and bread. Evan drank down coffee with gratitude.

Pettigrew sat down, waited until the elderly lady had bustled back into the kitchen. ‘This is all damned odd. Being ordered to dig up Scotland Yard files with cobwebs on them. Taking orders from a man with a code name.’

‘My apologies,’ Carrie said.

‘I have top clearance,’ he said. Almost peevishly. ‘But I live to serve. We didn’t have much notice’ – his tone held the acid of the long-suffering – ‘but here’s what we found.’

He handed them the first file, squiring the remaining two close to his chest. ‘Alexander Bast was murdered, two shots, one to the head, one to the throat. What makes it interesting is that the bullets came from two different guns.’

‘Why would the killer need two weapons?’ Carrie said.

‘No. Two killers,’ Evan said.

Pettigrew nodded. ‘Vengeance killing. To me it speaks of an emotional component to the killing. Each killer wanting to put his imprint on the act.’ He slid them a picture of the sprawled body. ‘He was killed in his home twenty-four years ago, middle of the night, no signs of a struggle. Entire house wiped down for prints.’ Pettigrew paused. ‘He worked for us for twenty-three years before he died.’

‘Can you give me more details about his work here?’ Carrie asked. She and Evan agreed that she, being a CIA employee, would drive the questioning. An ID Bedford had provided named Evan as a CIA analyst, but he stayed quiet.

‘Well, among Bast’s many creative sidelines, he dabbled in art, he dabbled in sleeping with celebrities who frequented his nightclubs. Drug arrests at one of his clubs lost him his cachet, and he burned thousands of pounds trying to keep them afloat. We looked hard at him then, we don’t want agents involved with illegal narcotics, but the drug dealing was simply a few of his regular customers abusing his hospitality. After the clubs closed, he focused all his energies on his publishing firm, which he owned for quite a while but had been his most neglected business. He published literature in translation, especially Spanish, Russian, and Turkish. Imported permitted books back into the Soviet Union, translated underground Russian literature into English, German, and French. So he was a valuable contact, given that he could reach into the dissident community in the Soviet Union and that he could travel somewhat freely back and forth. At first his handlers suspected he might be a KGB agent, but he checked out clean and got cleared on every follow-up. We watched him closely during his financial troubles; that’s a time when an operative might be bought. But he always came out clean. He was popular with the dissident Russian community here in London.’

‘So what exactly did he do for the CIA?’ Carrie asked.

‘Couriered data from his contacts’ contacts in and out of Berlin, Moscow, and Leningrad. He was handled by American embassy officers under diplomatic cover. But he was low-level. He didn’t have access to Soviet state secrets. And the dissident community was not particularly useful to the Agency at that point in time – they might give us names of people who had critical access and would spy for us, but dissidents were too closely watched by the KGB. Too easy, frankly, for the KGB to infiltrate.’

Evan studied the picture of Bast, murdered. Bast’s eyes were wide in horrified surprise. This man had known Evan’s parents. Played an unseen role in their lives. ‘No suspects?’

‘Bast lived a high life, even after his fall. A few husbands were rather unhappy with him. He owed money. He broke business deals. Any number of people might have wanted him out of their lives. Of course, Scotland Yard didn’t know about Bast working for the CIA, and we didn’t tell them.’

‘Rather important information to withhold,’ Carrie said.

‘I didn’t personally. You needn’t sound peevish.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Carrie said with a laugh, trying to defuse the sudden tension. ‘You’re not even forty, right? It just surprises me.’

Pettigrew’s voice took on a peppery tone of disapproval. ‘It’s not good advertising for recruitment to have your assets murdered.’

Carrie paged through the murder-scene photos. ‘The CIA must have suspected Bast was identified as a CIA agent and killed by the Soviets?’

‘Naturally. But the murder looked like it coincided with a robbery, and that simply wasn’t the KGB’s style. Remember, Bast was a low-level asset at best. He never was an original source of valuable information. He never fed us disinformation originating from the KGB. He was just a very reliable courier and gatherer of contacts. You know, a lot of KGB archives have come to light since the fall of the USSR. There’s no record that the KGB ordered him killed.’

‘Could we talk to his handler?’ Carrie asked.

‘Bast’s case officer died ten years ago. Pancreatic cancer.’

‘The robbery,’ Carrie said. ‘What was taken? Could the killer have discovered anything that pointed to Bast’s connection to the CIA?’

Pettigrew pushed another file toward them. ‘The Agency had an operative sweep Bast’s apartment after the murder and after the police had gone through. He found Bast’s CIA gear all properly hidden. Undiscovered by the police, who of course would have confiscated the stuff.’

‘What about his personal effects or his finances?’ Evan asked. ‘Anything unusual?’

Pettigrew flipped through the papers. ‘Let’s see… a friend, Thomas Khan, supplied information.’ He ran a finger down a list. ‘Bast had two separate bank accounts, he had a lot of money tied up in his publishing concern…’

‘You said Khan? K-H-A-N?’ Evan said. Same last name as Hadley Khan. Here was the connection from Evan to Bast. Carrie shook her head. Say nothing.

‘Yes. I have a file on Thomas Khan as well.’ Pettigrew fingered the file, pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Mr. Khan said Bast kept a fair amount of cash on hand and none of that was found in the house. Khan was a rare-book dealer and said Bast often paid him for volumes with cash’

Carrie took the paper and read aloud from the report as she scanned it: ‘Born in Pakistan to a prominent family. Educated in England. His wife had been an English-woman, a high-ranking political strategist and academician who worked on defense initiatives. No trouble with the law. Conservative in political leanings, served as a director on a British foundation that pledged financial support to the Afghani rebels against the Soviet invaders. Worked in international banking for many years, but his real passion is Khan Books, a rare-book emporium, on Kensington Church Street, which he’s operated for the past thirty years. He retired from banking ten years ago and put his entire focus on the bookstore. Widowed twelve years ago. Never remarried. One son, Hadley Mohammed Khan.’

‘I know his son,’ Evan said. ‘Hadley. He’s a freelance journalist.’

Pettigrew shrugged; he didn’t care. His phone rang in his pocket; he excused himself with a quick wave of his hand, shutting the door behind him.

Evan made a quick survey of the files. No hint that Bast was also Mr. Edward Simms. Bedford had dug last night into incorporation databases and found that the Hope Home in Goinsville had been bought by a company called Simms Charities. The company had incorporated two weeks before it bought Hope Home, sold all its assets after the fire. If the CIA had put Bast up to buying orphanages, though, no sign remained in his official file.

Evan went back to the sheet on Thomas Khan. ‘Rare books, and among his specialties are Russian editions. Bast did Russian translations. So they both had contacts back into the Soviet Union. And both were involved in rebellion movements – one supporting dissident writers, the other supporting the mujahideen in Afghanistan.’

‘So they both hated the Soviets. It doesn’t prove anything,’ Carrie said.

‘No. It doesn’t.’ But Evan sensed a thread here; he just didn’t know how yet to grab it, follow it. He opened the file on Hadley. It was not a formal CIA file, unlike the one on Thomas Khan, who had had a London station file opened on him when he’d assisted the police in Bast’s murder investigation, or on Alexander Bast, who had been a paid operative. It was the little Pettigrew’s people had gleaned after Bedford’s hurried request: Hadley’s birth date, schooling, travel in and out of Britain, financial records. The school records were not impressive; the success and brilliance of the parents eluded the son. Hadley had spent two months in an Edinburgh detox center; he had lost two good magazine jobs and had not been published in the past six months. But the inquiry had produced new information: according to his latest girlfriend, who had been fooled by a London station assistant who’d called her this morning pretending to be a colleague of Hadley’s, Hadley Khan was recently estranged from his father. The girlfriend had not heard from or seen Hadley since last Thursday, but she did not sound concerned; he was a loose-footed guy who often went to the Continent for a couple of weeks at a time. Especially after a falling-out with dear old Dad.

The photos of Hadley in the file were culled from his British driver’s license; Evan remembered him from the cocktail party a lifetime ago at the Film School, his grin a shade too eager, his eyes holding a secret.

‘So Hadley Khan anonymously urges me to do a film on the murder of Alexander Bast, a friend of his father, and never responds to my e-mail asking why,’ Evan said. ‘And then he takes off the day before my mother dies. Hadley never mentioned any connection between Bast and his dad in the material he gave me.’

‘That’s very odd. It would have simplified your research.’ Carrie tapped Hadley’s file. ‘We know there’s a connection between our parents and Bast. And a connection between Bast and Khan. That doesn’t mean a direct connection between Thomas Khan and our parents.’

A chill prickled Evan’s skin. ‘It’s no coincidence that Hadley pitched the Bast story. He must have known of my parents’ connection to Bast.’

‘He approached you, but he didn’t tell you everything. So he either copped out or he was stopped from getting in touch with you again.’

‘I think he got scared. It’s why he went anonymous. Hadley had his own agenda. The girlfriend says he and Thomas don’t get along. I wonder… if this was revenge against his father.’

‘It’s only revenge if his father’s done wrong.’ Carrie massaged her injured shoulder.

‘Like involvement with Bast’s murder?’

Carrie shrugged.

‘The British authorities would have an interest, but why would Jargo care?’

They fell silent as Pettigrew returned. He assembled a sandwich from the cold meats and cheese. ‘My source at New Scotland Yard called. There’s been no report filed that Hadley Khan is missing. No indication that he traveled out of Britain, or into any European country in the past two weeks.’ He took a jaw-breaking bite of sandwich. ‘We’ve called Hadley’s cell phone three times this morning, and he’s not answering.’

‘We’ll pay his dad, Thomas, a visit,’ Evan said.

‘No time like now,’ Pettigrew said around a still-full mouth.

‘We don’t alert Thomas Khan by barreling in full force,’ Pettigrew said as he parked a block away from Khan Books and displayed a Borough resident’s parking permit – Evan guessed it had been provided to the CIA by the Brits out of professional courtesy. ‘I suggest Evan go in alone.’

‘What do you think?’ Evan asked Carrie.

‘Khan may run,’ Carrie said. ‘I think I should be ready to follow him.’ She pointed at an opposite street corner. ‘I can stand there. You can tail him if he comes this way, Pettigrew.’

Pettigrew frowned. ‘We should have a team set up for surveillance. Bricklayer said nothing about this turning into an active field operation. I would have to alert the Cousins’ – using the term British and American intelligence services had for each other – ‘we can’t start tailing a guy on British soil without approval.’

‘Calm down,’ Carrie said. ‘I just want to be prepared.’

‘I’m not entirely comfortable,’ Pettigrew said.

‘If there’s a problem, Bricklayer will deal with it. No heat on you,’ Carrie said.

Pettigrew nodded. ‘All right then. If Khan bolts, you follow on foot, I’ll follow in the car.’

‘Watch yourself.’ Carrie got out of the car, put on sunglasses, walked down to the corner opposite the bookstore, held a cell phone to her ear as though she were chatting with a friend.

‘Be careful,’ Pettigrew said to Evan.

‘I will.’ Evan got out of the car, strolled past a mix of antiques shops, high-end eateries, and boutiques. The bell on the door of Khan Books jingled as he went inside. Late afternoon on a weekday, Khan Books’ only customers were a French couple exploring a display of Patricia Highsmith and Eric Ambler first editions in an assortment of languages. Evan found himself noting the exit doors, the surveillance cameras posted in the corners of the rooms.

I’ve changed. I feel like I have to be ready for anything at any time.

A small, wiry man, dapper in a tailored suit, with a shock of gray-chalk hair, came forward. His shoes were polished black ice; an impeccable triangle of blue silk handkerchief peeked from one pocket. ‘Good afternoon. May I assist you today?’ His voice was quiet but strong.

‘Are you Mr. Thomas Khan?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Evan smiled. He didn’t want to be subtle. ‘I’m in the market for first editions published by Criterius. I’m particularly interested in the translation of Anna Karenina and any dissident literature published in the 1970s.’

‘I’ll be happy to check.’

‘I understand the owner of Criterius – Alexander Bast – was a good friend of yours.’

Thomas Khan’s smile stayed bright. ‘Only an acquaintance.’

‘I’m a friend of a friend of Mr. Bast.’

‘Mr. Bast died a long time ago, and I barely knew him.’ Thomas Khan smiled in good-natured confusion.

Evan decided to gamble, toss another name into the weird ring that joined all these lives together. ‘My friend who recommended your store is Mr. Jargo.’

Thomas Khan shrugged. Quickly. ‘One meets so many people. The name does not signify. One moment, please, and I’ll consult my files. I believe I have multiple copies of the Karenina edition.’ He vanished into the back.

This man may have kept a secret for decades; you coming in here and tossing around names won’t scare him. But then, if you’re the first to toss it at him in many years… maybe you will rattle him. Evan stayed in place, watching the French couple loiter, the woman leaning slightly on the man as they hunted the shelves.

He waited. He didn’t like that Khan was out of his view. Maybe the man was bolting out the back door. Jargo’s name might be like acid on skin. Evan stepped behind the counter and went around the corner – cluttered with an antique desk with a computer; a watercooler; and stacks of books – and went searching for Thomas Khan.

Pettigrew watched Carrie pretend-chatting on her phone, keeping her gaze near the bookstore entrance. Evan went in. A minute passed; Pettigrew counted each second. Then he pulled a briefcase from the rear seat of his sedan, got out of the car, and strolled toward the entrance to the bookstore.

He saw Carrie watching him and he lifted his hand in a quick, furtive palm-up signal: wait. She stayed put as he headed for the bookstore.

The maze of offices in the back of the gallery led nowhere. ‘Mr. Khan?’ Evan called in a hushed tone as he went into the bookstore’s back. It was empty. Thomas Khan employed no assistants, no secretaries, no junior booksellers in his rabbit hole of a business. Evan heard a slight sound, two sharp thweets, maybe an alarm peep announcing a door had opened and closed. Evan found a back exit door. He pushed it. It opened onto a narrow brick way and he saw Thomas Khan running for the street, glancing back over his shoulder.

‘Stop!’ Evan ran after him.

Pettigrew performed best while taking specific orders. This was the truth of his life: taking orders in school, in family, in bed with his wife. He carried out today’s orders with certainty. He stepped inside the bookstore, closed the door behind him, locked the dead bolt above the key lock. He flipped the simple calligraphied sign over to CLOSED. No one else had left or entered the shop since Evan. He saw Evan stepping into the rear of the shop, quietly calling, ‘Mr. Khan?’

A couple rummaged for editions on a table. The woman murmured in French to the man, pointing out a volume’s price in dismay. Pettigrew brought out his service pistol and with a hand only slightly shaking, shot them both in the back of the head. Thweet, thweet, said the silencer. They collapsed, their blood and brains spraying across a pyramid of volumes. Ten seconds had passed.

Pettigrew set down the briefcase. Jargo said there would be a two-minute delay once he set the briefcase’s combo lock to the correct detonation sequence. Ample time for him to get out, go to the street corner, shoot Carrie in the head, escape in the confusion. He thumbed the last number of the lock into place.

Jargo lied.