Power Play

Davis said without pause, “Nah, I had nothing to do with that stunt. That was another Sullivan, some clown they sent to the Anchorage Field Office.”

Savich said to Davis, “Until recently, Nicholas worked at Scotland Yard under Superintendent Penderley, whose call I am expecting”—his cell phone rang, and he put it on speaker—“and here he is.

“Superintendent Penderley, thank you for calling. Let me say again I’m pleased to be working with you. As I told you yesterday, we have very few avenues of investigation open to us here in Washington, despite the recent attack on Ambassador Black here, since the major leads in these crimes are under your jurisdiction in England. Believe me, we are grateful for your assistance. At your suggestion, I’ve invited Nicholas Drummond to join us. You’re on speakerphone, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly not, Agent Savich,” said an imperious old voice Nicholas knew very well. “Nicholas, I trust you’re acquitting yourself well at Quantico with the Yanks?”

Nicholas said, “Sir, every day it is my goal not to shame Her Majesty.”

“Good, good. Now, Agent Savich, let me start by assuring you that Scotland Yard has been front and center in investigating the death of George McCallum, Viscount Lockenby. We do not take the unexplained death of a peer lightly, despite all the scandal mongering about him and Ambassador Black. She will tell you herself that Her Majesty’s government assigned a special detail to protect her from the moment she reported the attempt on her own life, in addition to the protection provided by the Diplomatic Security Service. It would not have done to allow a United States ambassador to be murdered on British soil. Perhaps that is why whoever is behind these attacks waited until she left Britain to try again.” A small pause, then, “I have reviewed both cases. First, as for the report Mrs. Black made about the car that nearly ran her over a cliff near Canterbury, naturally, it was treated seriously by the local constabulary, despite there being no actual evidence of any such attack except for the very common brand of tire tracks that could or could not be relevant. I personally sent an inspector to Canterbury to reexamine the scene. My inspector was unable to find any other evidence, and thus, there is nothing more we can do.”

Savich said, “Very well. Tell us, sir, about your investigation into George McCallum’s death.”

“As you know, our people decided to resolve the issue with a ruling of accidental death, to spare the family a verdict of suicide. The determination was made after the autopsy. Now that you have informed us of the new attempt on Mrs. Black’s life in the United States, we are revisiting the case. I’ve assigned two of my best people. They will conduct further interviews with his family, friends, and business associates; review his recent correspondence and emails, the scene of his death, and his autopsy results again. The usual, Agent Savich.”

“And the email that supposedly led to McCallum’s death?” Savich asked.

“Yes. Interesting news there. The email purportedly sent by Mrs. Black to Viscount Lockenby from her personal account was in fact sent from the Agatha Christie Cyber Café on Shaftesbury Avenue. Anyone with her password could have managed it. We are well equipped with street cameras in Central London, but thousands of people pass by there every day, and we have no clue who to look for, since we showed Mrs. Black’s photo as well as all her embassy staff to all the staff at the café, and no one recognized any of the photos. I fear that is a dead end.” Penderley paused for a moment, then added, “However, the fact that the email wasn’t sent from Mrs. Black’s own laptop and was instead sent anonymously from a cyber café gives more credence to her assertion that the viscount was murdered, that something bigger was afoot here. That said, I will continue the McCallum investigation.

“Now, that email was forwarded from the same café, again anonymously, to Frederick Stickle at The Sun, along with links to articles about Mrs. Black and the viscount’s engagement, as if a newsperson at The Sun could fail to identify the George and Natalie of the email after the headlines they had run about him.

“The photograph of Viscount Lockenby’s son, William Charles, garbed and armed as a purported jihadist, was sent anonymously to Charlotte Tewks at The Mirror as a simple color printout from an inkjet printer. That, too, was clever, because a digital image might have contained tags identifying the camera or the service and account used to upload it. Ms. Tewks showed my inspectors the accompanying note pasted together from newsprint stating William’s name, the GPS coordinates, and the date of the photo. The picture was quite clear enough to identify William Charles McCallum. Tewks said she could hardly have taken the chance of getting hauled into the Old Bailey for printing something so inflammatory if she was in doubt it was true. The viscount never denied it.”