T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Her place was thoroughly trashed. All the cupboards were emptied, all the remnants of her life stirred into a bitter caldron. She stepped carefully, moaning from the pain of recognizing small items, things prized by her alone. It was only when she realized much of the plastic crunching underfoot formerly belonged to her brother’s computer that she came close to breaking down. All her files were gone.

She walked downstairs, crossed the lawn, and was met by Millicent opening the back door. The gray head remained pointed determinedly downward. In all the time Jackie had lived there, Millicent had never once met her eyes. Through rage bordering on anguish, Jackie asked as gently as she could, “Did you see them?”

“Heard them first. Shouting. First inside, then when they left. Big men. Angry.”

“How many?”

“Angry men.” Millicent’s eyes tracked up and to the side, then down and away, searching for safety in a world far more insane than she would ever be. “Two first. Then another. When the third man went inside the shouting started. Bad words.”

“Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”

“Too many words for three men. But just three. First two gray men. Then one blue. I counted because I knew you’d ask.”

Jackie sighed and patted the woman’s bony shoulder. Up close Millicent smelled like her house, mildewed and ancient. “Thank you. You did just fine.”

Jackie crossed the unkempt lawn, climbed the stairs, and reentered her former haven. She spent hours searching for what had not been trashed. Nothing seemed to have been taken-no surprise there, as there was little of any real value. The intruders seemed to have been intent not upon robbery so much as mayhem. Jackie wept tears made fiery because they remained internal, as she mourned mementos of a life that had become almost a myth.

She sorted through the shredded papers until she came up with a pair of Washington names and numbers. The phone had been ripped from her wall and the tiny cellphone was missing altogether, so she walked to the corner booth to call Esther Hutchings. At least she was likely to offer a sane note, if not sympathy. The robot-voiced answering machine fitted the anonymous night. Jackie left a terse message, then dialed the second number. If this did not qualify as an emergency, nothing did.

The phone was answered before the second ring. “Yes?”

“Is this Nabil. . I’m sorry, I can’t read your last name.”

“Who is speaking?”

“My name is Jackie Havilland.”

“This name I do not know.” The voice was male, deep, and resonated with an accent she did not recognize. Perhaps Arabic. The man also sounded very suspicious. “How did you receive this number?”

“Esther Hutchings gave it to me.”

“Ah. Then you must be the mystery woman.”

“My apartment has been broken into and everything destroyed.”

“Which proves we were right in telling Esther not to take this course. She has only increased the danger to us all.”

Whatever Jackie had been expecting, it was not this overt hostility. “Can you get a message to her, please? They stole my cellphone and tore my other from the wall.”

When she stopped, the man said impatiently, “Yes? That is your message? Then I suggest you call the phone service and not Esther.”

“Look.” She took a deep breath. It would be too easy to unload her anger on this voice. “Give me a break here, all right? I’ve just come back to a house that looks like a demolition site. I’m not thinking straight.”

A pause, then, “This I can understand. Very well. I will call Esther for you and say they came. And when you were not home they left you a warning.”

The matter-of-fact tone both unsettled and attracted her. “I need to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

Jackie searched for some question that would help uncover all the man was not saying. “Esther supplied me with typed notes annotated by hand, I assume from her husband.”

“Another grave error.”

“I need to know who made those handwritten notes. Some of them refer to people I can’t identify, and-”

“Anyone with half a brain would know the honorable gentleman would himself be writing notes on his personal documents.”

“How interesting.” Acid rose to etch her words. “Seeing as how Graham Hutchings was apparently writing with both hands, and the left-handed notes show definite feminine traits.”

The deep voice showed its first trace of hesitancy. “Feminine. Yes. A researcher and dear friend helping Graham with his work.”

“Friend, foe, or morph, I don’t care. I just want to talk with her.”

“So would I,” the voice replied mournfully. “Oh, so very much. Alas, my dear friend was there when they came with her warning. You understand what I am saying to you?”

“Not exactly.”

“My friend was caused to fall from a building in Washington. That was their warning to her. So now all our questions must be directed toward the grave.”

Wednesday

The British embassy was a brick-and-glass wart rising from the leafy expanse of Massachusetts Avenue. Everything wrong with sixties architecture had been gathered together and planted amid the massive oaks and sycamores. Wynn passed through the metal detector and gave his name to the receptionist. An older woman standing alongside the table responded instantly, moving forward, offering her hand. “An honor that you would join us, Congressman. I am Audrey Portman, the ambassador’s personal aide. I know he is anxious to meet you.”

She did not lead so much as direct him from alongside. Midway across the floor, she murmured for his ear alone, “Perhaps I should mention, Congressman, the two ladies and the gentleman in the far corner, the ones watching us.”

As far as Wynn could tell, every eye in the room stalked their progress. “Yes.”

“British journalists. The two ladies represent the Guardian and the Independent respectively. The gentleman, however, represents the Sunday World.”

He caught the warning tone. “I should avoid him.”

“We refer to such tabloids as the rags, Congressman. And with good reason.”

She managed to insert herself into the group surrounding the ambassador, drawing Wynn along with her. “Excuse me, Lord Vinson, might I have the pleasure of introducing Congressman Wynn Bryant.”

The gentleman was as polished as his aide, and as well briefed. “Of course, Congressman. What an honor to have this opportunity to add my own personal welcome. You are recently arrived to this fair city, I believe.”

“Just yesterday.”

“Then you are even more the newcomer than myself. Perhaps you have not had the pleasure of meeting our esteemed companions.” Lord Vinson made swift progress around the circle. Wynn shook a dozen hands, met as many measuring gazes, felt himself invariably coming up short.

“I see you have not yet found yourself refreshment.” The ambassador steered him away from the others, a single step taking them beyond earshot. He signaled a passing waiter and said, “I have long been an admirer of your predecessor. Had the occasion to meet him, twice in fact, when Graham was over attending symposiums in the City.”

Wynn accepted a glass, sipped at a liquid he did not taste, and guessed, “The Jubilee Amendment.”

The ambassador’s eyes gleamed. “So nice to know you share our interest, Congressman. So very nice. Perhaps you would be so kind as to join us at the residence for dinner. I assure you, the chancellery is a far more pleasant environ than here. And more private.” A hint of a smile, a nod, and the man was lost in the swirling throng.

Before the crowd could sweep Wynn up again, however, another man was standing in front of him. He appeared so smoothly he revealed a lifetime’s practice at slipping into tight spots. “Congressman Bryant, I am Father Libretto. We spoke this afternoon by phone. What a pleasure it is to meet you, sir. A pleasure indeed. Sybel speaks so fondly of you.”