“Didn’t work out, did it?” Kelly said, standing over the girl with her legs spread, her arms crossed over her chest.
They heard fire engines and sirens in the distance. Soon, she knew, neighbors would venture out to see what had happened on their quiet street.
Sherlock sat back on her heels, looked at the raging fire. It didn’t matter, a house was just a house, after all.
Everyone had done their job. One terrorist was dead, but two of them were alive, and one of them was this slight girl lying at their feet, cradling her shattered wrist.
BELAMY CLUB
LONDON
Monday, late morning
Dr. Samir “Hercule” Basara entered the sacred portal of the Belamy Club of Piccadilly Circus, nodded to the doorman dressed in the two-hundred-year-old club colors, deep blue with gold trim. Hercule always thought it looked ridiculous, a pretension that was a waste of time and money, but the upper class liked to cling to their old traditional ways. How else could they continue to regard themselves as different and above the rest? One of the only changes he knew of in the last decades was that women were now allowed to dine here for breakfast and lunch, but after two in the afternoon, no female was allowed through the door. Compared to White’s and Boodle’s, the Belamy Club was an upstart, but he liked the eighteenth-century building with all its gilded moldings, its impossibly high ceilings, its mahogany antique-filled rooms.
There were a dozen ladies and gentlemen in the receiving room, talking in low voices, all looking at home there. The majordomo, Claude, who looked nearly as old as the building, glided forward to give him a stingy smile. Dr. Basara was foreign, after all. He followed it with a small bow, another formal ritual that meant nothing. Then ancient Claude, his back straight as a Horse Guard’s, his circle of gray hair hugging his skull, gave him yet another small bow, surprising Hercule.
“Sir, if you do not mind my saying so, I wish to compliment you on your superb commentary last evening with Mr. Atterley. Your discourse was spot-on. These are indeed difficult times.”
“Thank you, Claude.”
“Lady Elizabeth is in the Cloverly Alcove. If you would follow me, sir.” Claude led him through the dining room, refinement and pride dressed in a shiny black suit, a red carnation in his lapel. The room’s long, narrow windows rarely let in sunlight, since there was so little to begin with in England. The white-covered tables were elegant, glistened with silver, and were mostly filled, as usual, well-bred conversations low. They stopped at one of the dozen discreetly named alcoves, reserved for those diners who wished for privacy. Hercule wondered if Elizabeth was surprised to be in an alcove this gray Monday morning. He usually pandered to her wish to flaunt him to her friends, to her family’s friends as well when the opportunity presented itself. An earl’s daughter, after all, could allow even an Arab to court her and remain on the best guest lists.
He leaned down, kissed her cheek, and slid into the rich mahogany leather booth. “You are looking particularly fetching today, Elizabeth.” She was wearing a stylish black Dior suit, her streaked blond hair in a severe chignon, which, oddly, suited her fine-boned face. She looked straight out of the boardroom, aloof, in control, indeed the epitome of cool English control. He wanted to laugh. She’d lost all her vaunted control in bed with him last night. And she would present yet a different face at the wedding she would attend with her father at St. Paul’s this afternoon.
“Thank you.” She scanned his Armani, admired its fit on his aesthete’s body, wondered how much he’d paid for it, and thought of her brother, who’d texted her thirty minutes ago, begging for more money. After last night, she expected at least a diamond bracelet, which should keep her brother off the streets and in cocaine for a month.
To shock her, he said, “I also thought you looked particularly fetching last night with your hair tangled around your face, all your lovely white skin on display, your naked legs wrapped tightly around my flanks when you screamed my name.” And who wouldn’t? He didn’t mind at all visiting Cartier’s after lunch to buy her, say, a lovely emerald bracelet, perhaps even a diamond bracelet—they’d made love three times, after all. Perhaps she would wear it once or twice before discreetly pawning it and giving the proceeds to her brother. All in all, he’d made an excellent bargain, as he’d told the imam. She had no idea he knew about everything she did. Paying to have her followed, her conversations recorded, had kept him a step ahead. Hercule regarded the monthly outgo as protecting his investment. And today he would reap the rewards.
Elizabeth sucked in her breath at his crassness, saw his mocking smile. He did this to her every once in a while, spoke crudely to shock and embarrass her—she’d admit it, in public she would look around to see if anyone had heard what he’d said. But his being crass didn’t change who or what she was—an earl’s daughter—and so she said only, with a faint smile, “Thank you,” and sipped at her sparkling Bavarian water.