The new US embassy at Nine Elms opened in 2017. It was in Battersea, south-west London. It looked like a sugar cube, easily one of the least attractive buildings in the city. And it was surrounded by a moat. A moat . When did America get so scared that they were resorting to medieval defensive systems? What was next? Trebuchets on the roof? A portcullis over the entrance? Murder holes? What was wrong with a bunch of marines and an ‘open to interpretation’ rules-of-engagement policy? The embassy looked like a joke on the people of London. Revenge for Piers Morgan.
Bernice took them to a secure briefing room. It was boxy with high ceilings. Windows you could look out of but not see into. Probably covered with anti-eavesdropping film. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the bookcase. This was a room for working, not entertaining. Coffee, pastries and fresh fruit were on the conference table. Koenig took a Danish and filled an embassy-branded mug with piping hot coffee. Draper did the same.
‘We’ll sweep the room before we start,’ Bernice said.
‘Is that necessary?’ Koenig asked.
‘It’s protocol when the agenda includes items above a certain security classification. It won’t take long.’
A suited man entered the room. He had short hair and didn’t speak. He removed a wand from a metal case and started running it over any obvious places a bug could have been hidden. Behind the wall monitor. The lights, the electrical sockets. Underneath the conference table. Bugs had gotten smaller and smaller since Koenig’s SOG days. He thought they were probably undetectable to the human eye by now. He took his Danish to the window. The briefing room overlooked the Thames. It was sluggish and murky brown. It looked like the chocolate river in Willy Wonka’s factory.
‘Looks like an open sewer, doesn’t it?’ Bernice said, joining him at the window. ‘It was called the Great Stink until a cholera outbreak forced the Brits to build a new sewage system. It’s now the cleanest river that flows through a major city.’
‘It’s brown.’
‘It has a muddy bed and it’s tidal. It’s always brown.’ She blew on her coffee. ‘I understand your sister lives in London?’
‘Zoe, yes.’
‘You making the time to see her?’
‘Afterwards maybe,’ Koenig said. ‘This is my priority right now.’
‘All clear, ma’am,’ the man sweeping the room said.
‘Thank you, Kevin,’ Bernice said.
They took a seat at the conference table. After they had refilled their drinks, Bernice said, ‘Before we start, I have something for you, Mr Koenig.’
She slid a bag across the table. He opened it and smiled. Inside was his Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife. It was like being reunited with a limb.
‘I could have gotten you one of those,’ Bernice said. ‘You didn’t have to put it in the pouch.’
Koenig closed the bag and placed it by his feet. He said, ‘I have a history with this one.’
‘Where do you want to start?’ she asked.
‘Tell me about the academic Jane Doe abducted.’
Bernice opened a laptop and pressed a button. The wall monitor flickered into life. A stern-faced, grey-haired woman appeared on the screen. She was facing the camera and she wasn’t smiling. The picture looked like it had been taken for a mug shot or a passport. One of those photographs that came with a whole bunch of instructions. Her eyes seemed kind, though, Koenig thought. They twinkled. Made her look as though she was in on the joke and you weren’t. She looked like the type of person who’d own a cuckoo clock.
‘Margaret Wexmore,’ Bernice said. ‘Sixty-three years old. British.’ Now she’d started her briefing, Bernice rattled off the facts like a machine gun. Short, economical sentences. No wasted words, no filler. ‘Spent most of her life at the LSE. That’s the London School of Economics. This is her faculty ID photograph. I’m told she’s not usually this austere.’
‘What does she teach?’
‘Cultural anthropology,’ Bernice said. ‘She’s considered one of the leading academics on what happens when culturally different groups come into contact with one other.’
‘Sounds riveting.’
‘It took me three attempts to get all the way through her latest book,’ Bernice admitted.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing that explains why she was abducted. She didn’t ruffle any feathers, didn’t write anything controversial. Her ideas were slightly different, but it’s cultural anthropology – most of what she talks about has already happened.’
‘Something in her personal life?’
‘Never married. No children. Owns a modest house in Camden Town. That’s in north-west London. Paid her mortgage off fifteen years ago and lives within her means. Holidays in Scotland twice a year. Occasionally gets offers to lecture abroad, but she turns down more than she accepts these days. No obvious vices.’
‘Health?’
‘There, I do have new information. She has a rare cancer called thymic carcinoma. It was diagnosed four years ago, too late for a good prognosis. I did some digging, and it seems she’s been exploring her palliative options.’
‘How much time does she have?’
‘No clue,’ Bernice admitted. ‘But if she’s looking at palliative care, it can’t be long.’
‘Medication?’ Koenig asked.
‘She stopped taking it a couple of months ago. I think she’s resigned herself to dying.’
‘We can’t find her through her prescription then.’
‘You think she’s still alive?’
‘I do,’ Koenig said. ‘It looked like she got into Jane Doe’s car willingly. And if that’s the case, this wasn’t an abduction.’
‘I’ll show you the Speakers’ Corner film in a minute,’ Bernice said. ‘It was definitely an abduction.’
‘Jane Doe was disguised as a homeless woman,’ Koenig said. ‘It’s possible Margaret only thought she was being abducted. It’s why she initially struggled. But when Jane Doe identified herself, Margaret went with her of her own accord.’
‘Interesting theory,’ Bernice admitted after a beat. ‘Scotland Yard were working on the assumption that Margaret got into the car under duress. Regardless, I don’t see how that helps you find them. Jane Doe avoided almost every camera in London, and that’s no mean feat. She could be anywhere now.’
Koenig reached for another Danish. ‘I think I’d like to see the Speakers’ Corner video,’ he said.