Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [89]
“Wareham, Dorset
“Yes, Wareham. Lovely spot. I know, I know, you’ll find it an adjustment to be a gentleman of leisure after the excitement and intrigue to which you’ve been accustomed all these years. But think of it this way, Milton, you’ll now have a leg up on your golden years, enjoying the sort of civilized comfort that’s been lacking in that hellhole Baghdad. Good food, good drink, and perhaps even a good woman with whom to commune.” His laugh was annoyingly lascivious. “Well, my friend, no need to prolong this. Any questions?”
Crowley fought to keep his face from reflecting what he was thinking and feeling at that moment. He remained stoic as he said, “No, Jillian. As disappointing as this is, I must agree with you. There is a greater good to be considered. All I can say is that my years of service have been highly satisfactory, and I trust my contributions have not gone unappreciated
They stood. Thomas placed his arm over Crowley’s shoulder and smiled broadly, displaying a large set of dull teeth. “You’ve been a true patriot to the Crown, Milton. The nation is in your debt. Make your travel arrangements through the embassy.” His laugh was accompanied by a deep, rattling cough. “And for God’s sake, man, remember to book a flight to London, not Baghdad. Cheerio, Milton. See you back home.” A firm slap on the back ended the meeting.
Crowley left the embassy with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there in quite a while. His hip was pain-free. Had he dared, he would have attempted to leap into the air and click his heels the way Russian dancers do. He enjoyed a cigarette outside the building before hailing a passing taxi. “The National Gallery,” he told the driver. Once inside the museum, he went directly to the Italian gallery and stood before Leonardo’s Ginevra de’ Benci, a smile on his face.
“Good news, Cora, darling,” he said. “We’ll be back in Dorset before we know it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Annabel Lee-Smith met the Secret Service’s four-man advance team at the Brazilian Embassy at four that afternoon. They lived up to the image of Secret Service agents as depicted in motion pictures and on television—taciturn, steely-eyed, short haircuts, dressed in nondescript off-the-rack suits, and all business, but not without a smile when appropriate.
“This is where the event will take place?” one of them asked Annabel, referring to fact sheets that had been provided earlier that day.
“Yes. This is where all the guests will gather after their more intimate dinners at various embassies around the city
She followed as they slowly walked the interior perimeter of the huge tent that was in the process of being erected on the embassy’s grounds.
“There will be a band over there,” Annabel said, consulting a sketch she’d been provided by Nicki Frolich. “And over there, too. The bars will be in those corners, and the food services—desserts, really—will be where those tables are being set up
The agents said nothing as they continued their stroll, eyes taking in everything, including rooftops of nearby buildings, bushes and trees on the property, and other potential locations from which an attack could be launched.
“The president and first lady won’t be eating or drinking,” Annabel heard one say to the other.
An agent turned and asked Annabel, “What about the band? Who are they?”
“Actually, there are three bands,” she replied. “One is being booked through a talent agency here in Washington. That band will play American music. The other two are Brazilian bands
“Which talent agency?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out
“The Brazilian musicians. Where are they coming from?”
“Brazil,” said Annabel. “The embassy has made those arrangements
They proceeded to what would be the portal through