Power Play
Page 33
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“Sir,” Nicholas said, “do you know where exactly the picture was taken?”
“Northeast of Aleppo in Syria several weeks ago, in an area of rebel strength. We confirmed that William used his British passport to travel from Hamburg to Ankara, Turkey, about eight months ago. However, there has been no sign of him since, until now, with the photograph. It seems he has joined hundreds of other Europeans who have taken up the fight against the Assad regime. One hopes he has chosen to fight with the democratic coalition government and not Al-Nusra or the other radicals. But Syria is in chaos, and we don’t have the assets on the ground to find him, nor any legal reason to do so. If he is fighting, he may well be dead now. The casualties have been horrendous.
“That is all we know, Agent Savich. I will, naturally, alert you to anything new we discover, and I will rely on you to share any information you develop with us promptly.”
“Yes, of course, Superintendent. You have been most helpful, sir, thank you,” Savich said.
“Drummond, give your family my best.”
“I will, sir, and thank you.”
“Good luck with the Yanks.”
Nicholas was grinning as Savich punched off his cell.
Savich said, “What I told Penderley about having little to offer him is unfortunately true. Have you had a chance to speak again with your father, Nick?”
Nicholas nodded. “And to my grandfather as well. He and Everard Stewart McCallum, the future Viscount Lockenby, attended Eton together, then Oxford back before the war. From that point on, the families became close. My father and grandfather were both well aware of the distress George, the current Viscount Lockenby, has felt concerning his son, William Charles, ever since William was forced to leave Oxford some years ago. He never spoke of his son after that, and my father said he didn’t pry, he knew it was too painful.
“My family was delighted for the viscount when he announced his engagement to Mrs. Black. My father already knew her well through his contacts at the Home Office and embassy gatherings. They all quite liked her, especially my mum, who said she was exactly the firecracker the viscount needed in his life, high praise indeed.
“I was surprised to hear something from my father that Mrs. Black may not be aware of. He got a call from McCallum about a week before he died, asking his advice. You see, the viscount had received some death threats, block-printed, without postmarks. They were amateurish, complete with misspellings. Regardless, my father strongly advised him to bring in Scotland Yard, but his lordship decided against it. He didn’t wish to upset Mrs. Black further, or his family, or bring on more attention from the press.”
Davis sat forward. “So George McCallum ignored the threats?”
Nicholas nodded. “My grandfather believes, of course, that George McCallum’s death and the attempt on the ambassador’s life in England are connected. Oh, yes, he never doubted her story about the attack on the A2 for an instant, said she wasn’t the sort to raise a ruckus to cover any malfeasance. He and my father both believe it’s possible George McCallum’s son, William Charles—Billy—is responsible for his death, which puts him in the center of a bigger storm. They cannot fathom the motive, but there is no one else they can think of if George’s death was intentional.”
Davis said, “To murder his own father—and if William Charles did kill his father, why would he try to shift the blame to Mrs. Black? Don’t jihadists pride themselves on taking credit? And then he attacked her as well?”
Nicholas paused for a moment, threading a pen between his fingers. “I really can’t see it myself, even though the times I saw Billy when we were both teenagers—and self-absorbed as only teenagers can be—I could tell he was troubled, at odds with his family, scorned their attitudes and their opinions. He was unhappy and sullen. I do remember the viscount trying to bring him into family gatherings, but he would have none of it. But again, I didn’t pay much attention, since that is normal for a teenage boy.”
Sherlock said, “Did he ever show any interest in joining a terrorist group when he was young?”
“Not that I recall, but to be honest, I only saw him maybe a half-dozen times before he went to Oxford, then he was sent down, and then he was gone. I do remember he had a fine mind.
“The Billy I knew, despite his unhappiness, doesn’t seem to be the type to kill his own father.” Nicholas shrugged. “This is my father’s and grandfather’s opinion, though.”
Sherlock’s cell must have vibrated because she pulled it out of her pocket, checked the readout, looked confused for a moment, then got up and left the conference room. Davis saw her stop beside another agent’s desk, speak to him, and then leave the unit. He saw Dillon stare after her.
“Northeast of Aleppo in Syria several weeks ago, in an area of rebel strength. We confirmed that William used his British passport to travel from Hamburg to Ankara, Turkey, about eight months ago. However, there has been no sign of him since, until now, with the photograph. It seems he has joined hundreds of other Europeans who have taken up the fight against the Assad regime. One hopes he has chosen to fight with the democratic coalition government and not Al-Nusra or the other radicals. But Syria is in chaos, and we don’t have the assets on the ground to find him, nor any legal reason to do so. If he is fighting, he may well be dead now. The casualties have been horrendous.
“That is all we know, Agent Savich. I will, naturally, alert you to anything new we discover, and I will rely on you to share any information you develop with us promptly.”
“Yes, of course, Superintendent. You have been most helpful, sir, thank you,” Savich said.
“Drummond, give your family my best.”
“I will, sir, and thank you.”
“Good luck with the Yanks.”
Nicholas was grinning as Savich punched off his cell.
Savich said, “What I told Penderley about having little to offer him is unfortunately true. Have you had a chance to speak again with your father, Nick?”
Nicholas nodded. “And to my grandfather as well. He and Everard Stewart McCallum, the future Viscount Lockenby, attended Eton together, then Oxford back before the war. From that point on, the families became close. My father and grandfather were both well aware of the distress George, the current Viscount Lockenby, has felt concerning his son, William Charles, ever since William was forced to leave Oxford some years ago. He never spoke of his son after that, and my father said he didn’t pry, he knew it was too painful.
“My family was delighted for the viscount when he announced his engagement to Mrs. Black. My father already knew her well through his contacts at the Home Office and embassy gatherings. They all quite liked her, especially my mum, who said she was exactly the firecracker the viscount needed in his life, high praise indeed.
“I was surprised to hear something from my father that Mrs. Black may not be aware of. He got a call from McCallum about a week before he died, asking his advice. You see, the viscount had received some death threats, block-printed, without postmarks. They were amateurish, complete with misspellings. Regardless, my father strongly advised him to bring in Scotland Yard, but his lordship decided against it. He didn’t wish to upset Mrs. Black further, or his family, or bring on more attention from the press.”
Davis sat forward. “So George McCallum ignored the threats?”
Nicholas nodded. “My grandfather believes, of course, that George McCallum’s death and the attempt on the ambassador’s life in England are connected. Oh, yes, he never doubted her story about the attack on the A2 for an instant, said she wasn’t the sort to raise a ruckus to cover any malfeasance. He and my father both believe it’s possible George McCallum’s son, William Charles—Billy—is responsible for his death, which puts him in the center of a bigger storm. They cannot fathom the motive, but there is no one else they can think of if George’s death was intentional.”
Davis said, “To murder his own father—and if William Charles did kill his father, why would he try to shift the blame to Mrs. Black? Don’t jihadists pride themselves on taking credit? And then he attacked her as well?”
Nicholas paused for a moment, threading a pen between his fingers. “I really can’t see it myself, even though the times I saw Billy when we were both teenagers—and self-absorbed as only teenagers can be—I could tell he was troubled, at odds with his family, scorned their attitudes and their opinions. He was unhappy and sullen. I do remember the viscount trying to bring him into family gatherings, but he would have none of it. But again, I didn’t pay much attention, since that is normal for a teenage boy.”
Sherlock said, “Did he ever show any interest in joining a terrorist group when he was young?”
“Not that I recall, but to be honest, I only saw him maybe a half-dozen times before he went to Oxford, then he was sent down, and then he was gone. I do remember he had a fine mind.
“The Billy I knew, despite his unhappiness, doesn’t seem to be the type to kill his own father.” Nicholas shrugged. “This is my father’s and grandfather’s opinion, though.”
Sherlock’s cell must have vibrated because she pulled it out of her pocket, checked the readout, looked confused for a moment, then got up and left the conference room. Davis saw her stop beside another agent’s desk, speak to him, and then leave the unit. He saw Dillon stare after her.
