Rules of Vengeance (8 page)

Kate ducked her head into the dusk of the porter’s lodge and announced herself. “I’m looking for Anthony Dodd.”

“Second floor. First door on the right.”

She climbed the wooden stairwell. It was approaching six in the evening, and she was already bone tired. It was the videos that did it. All day she’d sat in One Park’s security office reviewing tapes from the building’s closed-circuit camera system in hopes of spotting Robert Russell’s murderer. But no one—not she, nor Reg Cleak, nor any of the doormen who had worked the day before—had seen any unknown persons enter the building, or
—and this was the crucial point
—walk through the front door of Russell’s residence on the fifth floor. Eight hours and not a single clue.

At four the coroner had phoned with news confirming that Russell’s skull had been fractured before his fall. It was his opinion that the weapon was a blunt instrument, something akin to a ballpeen hammer. And though he couldn’t say whether or not the blow had killed Russell, he was able to state with certainty that the blow had rendered him unconscious. The news confirmed her suspicion that Russell was already dead, or at the least incapacitated, when he’d fallen from his balcony, and had bolstered her belief that the assailant had been waiting for Russell upon his return. The question remained: how in God’s name had he gotten in?

Reaching the second floor, Kate advanced down a gloomy hallway. The first door on the right stood ajar. Inside a cramped, sun-filled office, a burly young man in rugby kit was bent over a desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. Kate poked her head in. “Is this Professor Dodd’s office?”

“It is,” answered the student without looking up.

“Is he about?” Kate asked.

“He is indeed.” The young man put down his papers and stood up. He was taller than she’d expected, at least six feet four inches, and handsome. His cheeks were flushed, his brow damp with sweat below a head of tousled brown hair. But it was his legs she couldn’t help but notice. His thighs were as stout as tree trunks and striated with muscle.

“Where?”

“You’re looking at him.” Dodd nodded, stretching a hand to shake as he came closer. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m used to it. I’ll be forty next week. I’m praying for my first gray hair.”

“Lucky you,” said Kate. “I’ve been plucking mine since I was thirty. Detective Chief Inspector Ford.”

“I figured as much.” Dodd moved his rugby ball off a chair and motioned for Kate to sit. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, beer, diet soda?”

“Water would be fine.”

Dodd picked up a cell phone and called the scout with his order. “Sorry about the getup,” he said afterward. “Coming from a practice. Season’s almost here. I’m only a coach, but I like to stay in shape.” He took up position, leaning against his desk. “Anyway, let’s talk about Robert.”

“You knew him well?”

“I was his tutor,” said Dodd. “I supervised his doctoral work. We met twice a week for three years. We kept up contact since. I’d say I knew him well enough to know he’d never commit suicide. I take it you’re not convinced either.”

Just then Tom Tower stroked the hour of six. Dodd’s eyes shot to the window, and the two of them sat waiting for Great Tom to stop tolling. As the last bell died, he turned his gaze to her.

“No, Professor Dodd,” said Kate. “We’re not.”

“Call me Tony. How can I help?”

“I’m interested in learning a bit about Lord Russell.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” said Kate. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

Dodd granted her permission with the wave of his hand. Kate pulled her notepad and pen out of her jacket. She did not carry a purse. Purses were for girly girls, and she’d never been one of those. Everything she needed—her badge and identification, her phone, her wallet, and her gun—she carried on her person.

“Robbie came up in ’96,” Dodd began. “He was an Old Etonian. But he was different. Humble, not arrogant. He was smart enough to know he didn’t know everything. You don’t see that often, not from that kind of family. The Russells go all the way back to the Domesday Book. They fought with William the Conqueror at Hastings. But Robbie didn’t care about that. He was of the here and now. He put his nose to the grindstone from day one. He had a remarkable mind.”

“How so?”

“He saw past the facts. Oh, he could memorize with the best of them.” Dodd tapped his forehead. “He had an encyclopedia up there. But he went a step further. He saw patterns where mortals saw shadows. He identified trends long before they were anything but random events. He divined intentions. He even dared to predict. And he was right every damn time.”

Kate nodded politely.
Patterns. Trends. Intentions
. This kind of talk was beyond her. Blather, she called it. She was an O-level girl who liked mayo with her chips and her Guinness lukewarm in a pint glass.

“What exactly did Russell study?”

“Twentieth-century Russian history. Postwar, primarily. His dissertation was titled ‘The Case for a New Authoritarian State: Benevolent Despot or Totalitarian Czar?’ He was not optimistic about the course that Russia is taking. He studied the language as well, though that was with another tutor. He spent some time in Moscow doing some work for a bank. He came back afterward and we took him on as a don.”

“And is that what he taught? Russian history?”

“At first, yes.”

“And now?”

Dodd rose abruptly and began pacing the office, cradling the rugby ball in his hands. “I’m not sure what he was up to lately, to be honest.”

“But I thought you said you’d remained friends?”

“We are. I mean, we were. I can’t bring myself to believe that he’s gone.”

“Did you see each other regularly?”

“Not for the past year.”

“Do you recall the last time you saw him?”

“A month, maybe three weeks ago.”

“Did he seem in any way distracted?”

“How should I know?” Dodd turned to her, his eyes wet and angry. He paused, and the rage left him. “We weren’t close anymore. Robbie had his projects. I had mine. I’m in love with the past. He had his eyes on the future. We didn’t talk shop.”

“What about his students?”

“He didn’t have any students. Not anymore. Robbie stopped tutoring a year ago.”

“Then what exactly was his position at the university?”

Dodd stopped pacing and put the ball down. “You mean you don’t know?” he asked, suddenly wary, off-balance. “Didn’t they send you up here?”

“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Kate.

“I thought you’d been cleared for all this. I mean, don’t all of you speak to one another?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

Dodd stepped closer to Kate, and when he spoke, his voice had quieted and grown deadly serious. “Look, DCI Ford, it’s like this. Robbie’s work wasn’t a matter fit for public inquiry. I thought you knew that.”

“Was he doing something that might have jeopardized his life?”

“You’re putting me in a hard spot.”

“Am I?” asked Kate.

Dodd didn’t answer. He stood looking at her, shaking his head. Up close, she could see the lines spreading from the corners of his eyes. She no longer found it hard to believe that he was forty.

“Would it surprise you if I told you that we have proof Lord Russell was murdered?” she asked.

Dodd turned away and moved toward the window. “Robbie knew what he was getting into.”

“And what exactly was that?”

“The game.”

“What game?”

“There’s only one, isn’t there?” Dodd glanced over his shoulder. “Now, would you go? I can’t help you with this end of things.”

“I can’t find out who killed Robert Russell unless I know why someone wanted him dead. Please.” Kate paused and guardedly met his eye. “He was your
… student
, after all. I think he’d want you to help us find who took his life.”

Dodd considered this a moment, then looked away. “Five Alfred Street,” he said. “That’s where you’ll find them. But don’t expect them to talk to you. They’re a secretive lot. It’s the nature of the business.”

“Who are they? What business are you talking about?”

“OA. Oxford Analytica.”

Kate ran the name across her tongue until she was certain that she’d never heard of it. “What do they do?”

“What Robbie did best.” Dodd’s eyes drifted away from hers, to the open window and the looming form of Tom Tower. “They guess the future.”

   Emma is in London.

Jonathan pulled himself out of the window and hit the pavement at a jog. She was here. She had come to see him. He continued along Park Lane, then turned left onto Piccadilly. The sidewalk was teeming with pedestrians, tourists and locals mixed together, all appearing to be in every bit of a rush as he.
Slow down
, he told himself.
They’re watching
. But who? Where?

According to Blackburn, two of them had been keeping an eye on him at the reception, but it was difficult to imagine anyone being able to follow him through this crowd. He trimmed his gait to a brisk walk, weaving through the oncoming legion. Every few steps he glanced over his shoulder. If they were there, he didn’t see them.

Just ahead he saw the sign for Green Park Underground station. He descended the stairs recklessly and in the main concourse purchased an All-Day ticket, allowing him twenty-four hours of unrestricted travel on the tube. He was jogging again, and this time he didn’t care who saw him. He didn’t want to allow one more train to pass without his being on it. He followed the signs through the white-tiled tunnels until he reached the Bakerloo Line—northbound.

A breath of wind, a mounting roar, and the train bulleted toward the platform. He entered the last car and stood near the door, sweating despite the powerful air conditioning. He measured the journey in the beats of his heart.
Why don’t I feel happy?
he wondered as the train lurched out of the station. Six months had passed since he’d seen Emma. By rights he should be thrilled. After all, Emma had told him she would contact him when the moment was right, and only then. But if anything, he was frightened. What was she doing in London at the same time as he? Why was she showing herself if she knew he was being followed? And he realized then that he wasn’t frightened for himself but for her.

At Piccadilly he changed lines. The wait for the train was brief. As instructed, he got off at Marylebone and hurried through the long passageways. A line of commuters waited for the twin escalators that climbed to the surface. He dodged past them and took the stairs, attacking the steps two and three at a time. He reached the street a minute later, out of breath but calmer.

The Edgware Road was populated with block after block of cheap hotels with rent-by-the-hour rooms and run-down apartments. The area had always been popular with budget-minded tourists, newly arrived immigrants, and illicit couples. The tide of gentrification salvaging so many of London’s scruffier neighborhoods had not yet reached this far north.

He found No. 61 on a leafy corner, across the street from a tobacconist and a Middle Eastern grocery. As promised, the door was open. The alcove smelled of roasted lamb and cigar smoke. Foreign voices fought behind cardboard walls. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The key he’d been given slid into a well-oiled lock. Inside, the flat was dilapidated and mostly unfurnished. Damp rot ate at warped linoleum floors. Plywood took the place of the living room window. A naked bulb dangled from the ceiling. He turned it on, but it was dead.

In twenty seconds he’d ducked his head into every room and come back to the entry. The flat was empty except for a torn-up mattress, a few small tables, and an old black rotary dial telephone, circa 1960, sitting on the living room floor.

“Wait for our call,” Blackburn had said. “We have to make sure you’re clean.”

Jonathan picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone. He hoped their surveillance methods were more modern than the phone. He ran a hand over his mouth.
Call
, he whispered to himself.
Tell me where I’m supposed to meet Emma
. He checked his watch. It was almost seven p.m. The sun’s rays filtered through the soot-streaked windows, casting the flat in an antique light. He tried to open a window, only to find it had been nailed shut.

He waited five minutes, and another five. He looked down at the street. Evening traffic was a crawling, carbon-belching pageant. He paced until pacing grew unbearable, and then he sat, which was even worse. Back pressed to the wall, legs outstretched, he kept his eyes locked on the phone.

The room was hot and stuffy. The beer he’d drunk had kick-started his appetite, and now his stomach was moaning for something to eat. Suddenly he couldn’t stand the waiting. He jumped to his feet and tried the window again. He was sweating now, his back wet, his forehead beaded.

Finally the phone rang.

Jonathan put the receiver to his ear. “Hello.”

“And all these years I thought you liked it hot.”

It was her
.

But the clipped English voice hadn’t come from the phone. It came from close behind him. He turned and saw Emma standing in the doorway, slipping her cell phone into her jeans.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, yourself.”

“What brings you to London?”

“A guy I know’s visiting. I decided I might like to see him. Catch up on things. You know.”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he could see that her eyes were wet. He walked slowly toward her, wanting at first only to look at her. She was dressed as he always imagined her. Tight jeans, black T-shirt, sandals, her auburn hair falling in ungoverned ringlets to her shoulders. She wore an elephant hair bracelet on her left wrist and around her neck was the jade choker he’d given her for her twenty-fifth birthday.

He put a hand to her cheek, gazing into her green, steadfast eyes. “It’s good to see—”

She kissed him before he could finish.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, drawing back just enough to nuzzle his cheek.