Patrick Robinson - To The Death

His NSA identification dispensed with any waiting. Within one minute, Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe was shown into the office of Brockhurst’s top investigator. They exchanged greetings, but Jimmy was aware of the natural reserve all local law officers display in the presence of officials from the FBI, the CIA, or, even more sinister, the National Security Agency.

Detective Segel smiled. “And to what do we owe this great honor?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Jimmy, cheerfully. “I was just trying to get a handle on this vanished Carla Martin. Tell the truth, we think she might be foreign, and we’d very much like to know precisely what she was up to, working here in this small Virginia town.”

“But what caused you to care so much, you drove personally all the way down here? Your card says you’re the assistant to the director.”

“Two things, Joe,” replied Jimmy, slipping easily into the naturally casual way of the Aussie. “One, Miss Martin apparently took a great amount of trouble removing every trace of identification at the hotel. I’m assuming the murder of Matt Barker was a sudden and bloody inconvenient occurrence, and merely hastened her departure. Like no one thinks she came down here just to murder Matt.

“Two, that dagger was Middle Eastern in origin, and America’s most important terrorist hunter, Admiral Arnold Morgan, just happens to have a mother-in-law who lives right here in this town. I guess a few hundred yards from where Carla Martin worked so anonymously. We don’t like the coincidence.”

“Stated like that, I’m not sure I do either,” replied Detective Segel. “I do, of course, know Emily Gallagher. And I have, of course, had a chat with her about Carla Martin. I’ve spoken to most people in the area, especially those who frequent the Estuary Hotel. But I’ll admit that it had not occurred to me that Mrs. Gallagher was the prime reason for Carla’s presence right here in Brockhurst.”

“Different mindset, old mate,” said Jimmy. “You’re trying to solve a murder. I’m looking at the possibility of a future attempt on the admiral’s life. Although I’ve kept that one to myself. And I sure as hell haven’t told the admiral!”

Detective Segel laughed. “Good idea,” he said. “Might make him nervous.”

“Not him,” said Jimmy. “He’d just laugh and say he wasn’t sufficiently important for that. But even he’d know that was pure bullshit.”

Detective Segel frowned. “You mean Carla Martin was here as a kind of jihadist outrider, trying to find out the future movements of Admiral Morgan and his wife?”

“I think she might have been. But first, could you and I have a look at the murder weapon?”

“It’s right here… let me give you a pair of rubber gloves to handle it with. The forensic guys might want to look at it again.”

Jimmy pulled on the gloves and removed the dagger from the plastic evidence bag. He pulled a small folding printmaker’s glass from his pocket, and he stared hard at the area where the blade joined the handle. And there he saw what he had come for. A small mark, perhaps a hieroglyphic, possibly Arabic writing, no more than a half inch long. It began with a shape like a small letter “a” with two dots above and below, then two curves like a “j” and then a “9,” finally a “w.”

Jimmy pulled a small white card from his pocket. It contained an alphabetical list of fourteen Middle Eastern countries, from Bahrain through Egypt, Iran, Iraq, and Jordan to Yemen. Next to the name of each country was the Arab translation. The markings on the dagger fitted precisely the country listed eleventh from the top, Syria.

“Well, Joe,” said the commander, “at least we know where the murder weapon was made.”

“Does that help?”

“Not much. But it might. Especially if your Carla Martin made her way here from Damascus and tucked this little devil right here in her suitcase.”

“You think she might have?”

“If she did, I’m rapidly losing interest.”

“How come?”

“Joe, at the National Security Agency, we only look for very big fish. If this barmaid took a chance and stuffed that dagger into her luggage, running the risk of a U.S. airport security man finding it… well, that would not be the action of a professional. A true terrorist agent would never do that, because for them, discovery is unthinkable. If you find her, which I doubt, make sure you find out where she got that dagger.”

Detective Segel nodded thoughtfully. “If indeed it was hers,” he said. “You are not interested in the murder, are you?” he said.

“No, I just want to know who Carla Martin really is, where she came from, and what her purpose was here in Brockhurst.”

“A pretty tall order, right? Where’s your next stop? Mrs. Gallagher?”

“Correct,” said Jimmy. “We’re friends of the family, and I do not believe the sole reason for Carla coming here was to murder this somewhat insignificant garage owner. And I don’t need to tell you how important it is for you to keep us informed, the moment you find her.”

“If we find her.”

Jimmy stood up and handed the Brockhurst detective a card with his name and phone numbers written on it. “Any time of the day or night, Joe. This could be a whole lot more important than you think it is.”

“Give my regards to Mrs. Gallagher.”

The two men shook hands and Jimmy walked out into the sunlight, where Jane was peering through the window of the local sports shop. Three minutes later, they were approaching the front gate of Mrs. Gallagher’s house, where the golden retriever Charlie was prostrate on the front stoop of the tall white colonial.

The front door opened, and Emily Gallagher stepped outside and welcomed them warmly, telling them Kathy had called and that she was delighted they had come to see her. Without further ceremony, she asked them to come inside for some iced tea and for a conversation about the missing Carla Martin, which she was certain they had hoped for.

Jimmy and Jane sat through the preliminaries-the possibility that Carla might be foreign, her politeness, her reliability, and the utter unsuitability, as an escort, of the late Matt Barker. Finally, on his second glass of iced tea, Jimmy ventured to ask whether Emily had told Carla when Arnold and Kathy were leaving for vacation.

“Well, I suppose I must have,” replied Mrs. Gallagher. “I had to tell her when the two dogs needed walking, and I am sure I mentioned the precise day when Kipper was due to arrive. That’s about three weeks from now.”

“Mrs. Gallagher, did you tell her where Arnold and Kathy were going?”

“Not very accurately, because I don’t really know myself. But I think I told her Kathy was coming here first, and then driving back to Washington, for the evening flight to London with Arnold.”

“You didn’t mention the airline, did you?”

“Certainly not. I don’t know it. But I did suggest that Carla might like to come over around noon, to have lunch with Kathy and myself and acquaint herself with Kipper, who is very slightly crazier than Charlie.”

“Did you give her any further details of their stay in London?” asked Jimmy.

“I’m sure not.”

“Do you know where they’re staying?”

“I expect the Ritz in Piccadilly,” she replied. “Arnold always stays there; says he likes the tea they serve in the Palm Court.”

“Did you mention that to Carla…?”

“You know, I think I must have. I seem to remember her saying something about cucumber-and-marmite sandwiches, her favorite, that she and an English army officer she once knew always went there for tea, as a special treat.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Jimmy.

“I’m sorry?” replied Arnold’s mother-in-law.