Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [86]
He was deposited at a small brick guardhouse at the gated entrance to the sprawling embassy, arguably the most stately in a city of stately embassies. The guard confirmed his credentials, called inside the main house, and allowed Crowley to enter. He was met at the front door by the embassy’s head of chancery. “Mr. Crowley,” he said in a pinched tone, “right this way
They went down the main hallway, a long, wide corridor with bloodred walls and a checkerboard floor of white Vermont marble and black Pennsylvania slate. Huge portraits of British leaders past and present peered down at them as Crowley was ushered into a room with unmarked double doors. Heavy maroon drapes covered whatever windows were behind them. A large Tabriz carpet dominated the small, square room whose furniture was distinctly in the Louis XVI style, chairs and side tables all gold and blue. On the walls were four carved plaster friezes of Grinling Gibbons motifs, interspersed with landscapes by the hand of an artist unfamiliar to Crowley. Maybe Constable, he mused as the other men in the room stood at his entrance.
He knew two of them. Joseph Browning, replete in a three-piece suit different from what he’d worn when they’d last met at the Department of Homeland Security’s headquarters, offered his hand. The second face familiar to Crowley was Jillian Thomas of the British Foreign Service home office in London. What is he doing here?
The third man, a stranger to Crowley, introduced himself: “Wendell Jones, Mr. Crowley, Canadian Security Intelligence Service
“Pleased to meet you,” Crowley said after shaking Jones’ hand. The representative of the CSIS was a portly man, probably in his mid-fifties, Crowley judged, with a round, shiny face, gelled black hair, and heavy lips defined by a too narrow black moustache above them.
Thomas, tall and as slender as a javelin, was slightly hunchbacked, referred to in his circles as a “socialite slouch.” In his sixties, he possessed a full head of flowing silver hair in which he obviously took immense pride, judging from the care with which it was arranged. An almost perpetual sneer, like his curved back, would be considered a sign of world-weariness and keenly honed cynicism. Crowley did not like him and never did, although his subservient position in the Foreign Service’s hierarchy precluded him from demonstrating it.
“Enjoying your holiday?” Thomas asked Crowley after everyone was seated in a circle in their gold-and-blue chairs.
“I hadn’t considered it a holiday,” Crowley said, not pleased with how defensive he sounded. “Just a day or two between assignments
“Yes, quite,” Thomas said. “Well, I see no reason to delay the topic of our gathering. Mr. Browning, please
The American reached into the recesses of a large, battered, top-opening briefcase and extracted a sheaf of papers. He looked through them, chose one, and handed it to the Canadian, Jones, who slipped on a pair of half-glasses and frowned as he read. Crowley waited patiently, adjusting himself in the lovely-to-look-at, uncomfortable-to-sit-in chair to accommodate his nagging hip.
“Yes, this matches what we’ve been told,” Jones said, handing the paper back to Thomas.
“May I ask what this is about?” Crowley asked, after first clearing his throat.
“It’s about what the bloody terrorists are planning, Milton,” said Thomas. “It’s about what your people in Amman have been hinting at for months but never quite delivered
Crowley extended his hand to Thomas. “May I see what is of such interest?” he asked.
Thomas grimaced, ran fingertips down his prominent nose, and handed Crowley the dispatch. Milton was aware that six eyes were trained on him, awaiting a response. He read slowly and deliberately, ignoring the tendency to want to accommodate them by reading faster. Finished, he looked up and said, “Yes, the Canadian connection is very much in line with what my people in Jordan were able to gather from their Iraqi sources
“Hardly a great revelation,” Thomas said. “The question, Crowley, is why these gentlemen