Prime Target (8 page)

‘You are Professor Sonnemann, is that correct?'

‘Why do you ask?' Karl said stiffly.

‘Well, I was sure, actually,' the young man said, blinking rapidly, gesturing with one hand, the other buried in his jacket pocket. ‘But mistakes cannot be rectified afterwards, as they say in the supermarkets.'

‘What do you want with us?'

‘You
are
Professor Sonnemann? Professor Karl Sonnemann?'

‘Yes, yes,' Karl snapped. ‘So what of it?'

‘I have a message,' the young man said.

His face became very grave. He took his hand from his pocket. He was holding a long, straight butcher's trussing needle.

‘This is for Yitzhak Brenner.'

He thrust the needle deep into the side of Karl's neck. Charlotte screamed. Karl felt nothing. He was only aware that suddenly his control of himself was gone. Charlotte pulled her arm free of Karl's and ran to the taxi rank.

The young man did not follow. He stood staring into Karl's shocked face. The eyes were already glassy. His whole frame trembled as arterial blood left his body in a surge, draining him of life. He let out a rasping breath, his mouth foaming as blood surged from his neck down over his fine woollen overcoat.

Charlotte was at the rank, howling and pleading. Karl sank to his knees, coughing blood. His face looked waxen and artificial.

Two taxi drivers were coming, both of them running. The young man wiped his fingers on the shoulder of Karl's coat. He turned, pressed his elbows to his sides and started to run. He ducked round a corner and disappeared into a throng of pedestrians.

One taxi driver tried to follow him. The other knelt by Karl. He was on his back on the pavement, completely still, the big needle jutting from his throat.

The following morning Sabrina Carver took an early flight to Washington DC. It was her intention to interview, as casually as possible, the known friends and associates of Emily Selby, with a view to gaining the kind of insight the records didn't show. Ahead of her visit UNACO administration made an appointment for her at the White House, where she hoped to talk to Emily's former colleagues under the guise of a police investigator. Her laminated ID card, exquisitely printed in muted, solemn colours, identified her as an officer of the United States National Central Bureau of the International Criminal Police Commission. It was the stiff-necked official way of declaring she was an agent of Interpol. At White House Reception she was met by a brisk young woman who showed her to a visitors' waiting room. There, after a few minutes, she was joined by the Information Officer's number-two assistant, Kevin Riley. He was a firm man, entrenched in his procedures.

‘White House security regulations demand that you stay in this room at all times during your visit,' he told Sabrina. ‘If you leave the room for any reason whatsoever, you must be accompanied by a member of White House Security. Of course, we will do all we can to accommodate you within the rules governing your visit here.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Since your people emphasized you're not here on official investigative business, we've let people make up their own minds whether they want to be interviewed or not. Three colleagues of Mrs Selby have shown a willingness to talk to you. The first should be along shortly. Naturally, we want to do all we can to clear Emily's name of any shadow.'

The first to arrive was Janice Cleary, a short, overweight woman in her forties. Janice wore the kind of perfume that surrounded her with a cloying miasma. She wheezed as she sat down and took a moment to rearrange her voluminous clothing. When she spoke, her voice had a high, childish register.

‘I was probably Emily's closest friend, professionally,' she told Sabrina. ‘Four years ago we worked on the Herzog project together. I think our friendship cemented around that time.'

‘What was the Herzog project?'

‘It was named after the President of Israel at that time, Chaim Herzog. He was looking for a solid basis for an Arab-Israeli peace settlement, and the
feeling here was that he could use a shade more support from the USA, which wasn't officially all that cosy with Israel at the time. Emily and me, we did what we could to high-profile non-political areas of common ground between the two nations.'

‘How did you do that, exactly?'

‘We used press and radio outlets to boost awareness of cultural exchange programmes, we got an information booklet together showing how alike many of the American and Israeli down-home aspirations were. The aim, overall, was to pass on the message, to both nations, that, political differences aside, we were really natural friends. Emily really put her heart into that programme and, as I said, we became real close.'

‘Tell me about Emily as a person,' Sabrina said. ‘Did she socialize much? Go to parties, the theatre, concerts?'

‘Not after Desmond died,' Janice said. ‘Not too much before that either, I don't think…'

‘She took it badly, her husband dying?'

‘Well, wouldn't you?'

‘Was she a long time getting over it?'

‘She never got over it.'

‘She told you that.'

‘No need. I could tell. The change in her. She became withdrawn. Reclusive. She developed little daily rituals of work that involved only herself, which is easy to do in this line. It's how you get to be a specialist, and Emily was our shiniest specialist of all. On the ball, always.'

Sabrina was sure Janice had never been as close to Emily Selby as she thought; crass people often mistake politeness for friendliness. They talked for a few more minutes, long enough for Sabrina to be sure that whatever the extent of Emily's social life, Janice Cleary knew nothing about it. Sabrina thanked her and apologized for taking her away from work.

A minute after Janice left, a young man came in. He was tall, with a narrow mouth that looked incapable of smiling. He looked at Sabrina cautiously from pale sunken eyes. He was Joe Dexter. For five years, he said, he had been a research assistant working for three senior political analysts, and Emily Selby had been one of them.

He talked for ten minutes about Emily, without once needing to be prompted. He described her working methods, her talent for organization, her patience with other people, her unending devotion to her job. He thought the world of her, he said.

As he continued to talk, Sabrina realized he meant that literally: he thought the world of Emily Selby, and although it appeared Emily had regarded him as no more than a valued assistant, he had obviously been obsessed with her. But he had said nothing, he had never betrayed to Emily any sign of his emotional response to her. It would have been unprofessional to do that, he said.

Just like me and Mike,
Sabrina thought, startling herself. She had confronted a buried truth, not
for the first time, but, as always, she was inclined to shy away. She bowed her head over her notepad and closed her eyes for a moment.

Just like me and Mike.

Nothing had ever been declared, or demonstrated. Usually, it was the opposite of affection that prevailed. They were rivals on the same team, antagonists in a single cause. At times there was a strength of antipathy that felt like hatred, at least on her side. Yet she knew she kept the lid on a richness of feeling that would have engulfed him, smothered him. And she suspected, without having examined the suspicion, that he kept something suppressed, too.

Joe Dexter fell silent, and Sabrina thanked him for his time. He left without another word.

She gazed at her notebook. Again, she had been told nothing that threw any real light on Emily Selby. She accepted that she might be going back to New York empty-handed. It would be best to get used to the idea now and work on her defence against Philpott's displeasure.

And then the telephone beside her rang. A woman introduced herself as Dilys Craig. She was a former colleague of Emily's, she said, and she would love to talk to Sabrina about her, but right now she was tied up.

‘It's an unexpected job, something I can't get out of,' she said. ‘How about we meet outside later today? For coffee, say?'

‘That would be fine,' Sabrina said, ‘if it's no trouble. Where will I meet you?'

‘Harvey and Hannah's,' Dilys said. ‘Go down Pennsylvania Avenue till you come to the Willard Hotel complex, look for the Occidental Grill, and it's right alongside. Four-thirty. Does that suit?'

‘Perfectly,' Sabrina said.

At 4.32 Dilys Craig walked into the coffee shop, looking stunning in a checked Escada jacket and grey pencil skirt. She came straight to the table where Sabrina sat. She was tall with large hazel eyes and skin smoothed to perfection by cosmetics. Her hair was cut short and had been tinted a shade somewhere between chestnut and auburn. She was not young, tiny crow's-feet were visible at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she had impressive poise and energy.

‘I got you coffee,' Sabrina said, pointing to the cup opposite hers. ‘The woman seemed to know what you like.'

‘She's a doll,' Dilys said, sitting down, crossing elegant sheened legs. ‘Nice to meet you, Sabrina.' She took a sip of coffee. ‘Shall we get right to it?'

‘Sure.'

‘Well, let me tell you right off, I was as close to being friendly with Emily as you could get. But that wasn't very close. She was good at keeping the world at a distance.' Dilys took out a matt black cigarette case. ‘Mind if I smoke?'

‘I don't mind, no, but I thought -'

‘It's banned in here? Right. That makes me enjoy it all the more. I can smoke so long as there
are no other customers.' She lit up, and sighed. ‘This all seems so unreal, I still can't quite believe that she's gone. But I obviously want to help your investigation in any way I can.'

‘I'm trying to get background on Emily's off-duty life,' Sabrina said. ‘Did you ever meet her socially?'

‘Oh, yes, often. That was when Desmond was around, of course. He lived in Ithaca teaching at Cornell during the week of course, but would come down to Washington on week-ends. Or Emily would go up there. Anyway, they used to go to functions here in DC and so did I, usually with whoever I was seeing at the time, so we met outside office hours on a fairly regular basis.'

‘Did you meet any of her friends, anyone not associated with her work here?'

‘No,' Dilys shook her head. ‘I don't think they had friends, not in the sense of relationships with people they saw regularly, nothing like that. They had each other, you see, and that seemed to be enough. And of course there was Emily's father, whom Desmond lived with on the campus at Cornell. I know she was deeply fond of her father.'

‘Did she ever mention a woman called Erika?'

‘Erika Stramm?' Dilys smiled, catching the look of surprise cross Sabrina's face. ‘She was her cousin.'

‘Cousin?'

‘Well, second cousin, actually.'

Sabrina wondered how the resources of UNACO hadn't managed to determine that Emily and Erika were blood relations.

‘Emily's father was born Johannes Stramm,' Dilys said. ‘But he changed his name in the concentration camp where he spent three years of the war. He did it to lose his identity and save his life. When he came to America he kept the assumed name. He was known here as Johannes Lustig, so Lustig was Emily's maiden name. Erika is his cousin's daughter. I knew about Erika, sure. So did some of the White House administration. It wasn't really a black mark, having a semi-violent lefty for a relative - not if you were someone as universally respected as Emily. It certainly isn't the kind of fact that gets entered on a person's record these days. Too tackily McCarthy-ish, you know?'

Sabrina noted with interest Erika Stramm's established reputation as an active leftist terrorist. ‘Do you know anything about the people Emily associated with after her husband died?'

Dilys shrugged elegantly with one shoulder. ‘She was very close about that. I had the feeling her circle of acquaintances shrank to near nothing. That happens a lot to widows.'

‘I guess so. Tell me more about her as a person.'

Dilys sucked on the cigarette and peered at the tiny Gucci watch on her wrist. ‘One thing that needs saying about Emily is, she was selfless. We've all heard of it. Selflessness. But Emily was the only person I actually met who had it. If two sets of interests were at issue, she would always disregard her own.'

‘I get the impression she was something of a saint.'

‘Jeez, no.' Dilys made a face. ‘Who said she was a saint, for heaven's sake?'

‘Nobody did. But what I've been told about her adds up to a picture of an unusually good person.'

‘She had some of the characteristics, I suppose, but she didn't have the sickly bits that would qualify her for sainthood. What she was, I suppose, was a good scout. She was withdrawn but she was never remote, she was always there for you, and she would really put herself out. She was shy, too, but she never tried to play it like she was mysterious. Do you see what I mean?'

‘I think so.'

Sabrina watched the woman behind the counter make a cappuccino with a head on it an inch high. It was fluffy but firm at the same time. She wished she could do that. Whatever she did wrong, the head always came out nice and creamy, but also flat as a pancake.

‘Dilys, do you have any theory about why she was killed?'

‘I was getting around to asking you that.'

‘We only know how. We haven't a clue why.'

‘Well. Given the way she was - good-hearted, generous, also a woman who kept pretty much to herself…' Dilys did her one-shoulder shrug. ‘I'd say it was either a bad mistake on the part of the killer, or it had something to do with her cousin.'

‘Erika Stramm.'

‘Right.'

‘Do you know if they saw much of each other?'

‘In recent times they corresponded a lot. And it was serious business.'