Anonymous Sources (19 page)

“And what do you know about Siddiqui? What do you want to ask him?”

Again I weighed how much to say. Then again, what did I have to lose? And journalism is like any business. There's a give-and-take; to get information sometimes you have to give some.

“Well, he is a scientist. Pakistani, as you know. He seems to have been one of the last people to see Thomas Carlyle. The White House counsel's son? Who died at Harvard last week?”

“Yeah, I remember. You've been writing about him. I read your stories before I walked over. But what's the connection to Siddiqui?” Withington looked genuinely bewildered.

“I don't know. That's the point. Just . . . Siddiqui was in Thom Carlyle's room. Twice. The night before he died, and then again just this past weekend. I don't know why. He also seems to have some . . . strange habits. And some loose ends back in Pakistan.”

That seemed to get Withington's attention. “Such as?”

“No, my turn now. You haven't told me what
you
know. Or why any of this is of interest to the US embassy.”

“Just trying to help. It's one of the embassy's missions to do press outreach to US reporters abroad.”

I sighed. “With respect, give me a break. I've dealt with my share of press officers. And I would bet money that's not what you are. For starters, you haven't tried to present me with a souvenir memo pad or a coffee mug with the embassy seal on it yet.”

This got a small smile. “I was saving them for the way out.”

“Seriously. If you're not going to let me quote you, or tell me anything, why are you here?”

Withington stared into the far corner of the tearoom. He picked up
a watercress sandwich, chewed it slowly, swallowed, then spoke quietly. “Nadeem Siddiqui is a person of interest. That's all I can tell you.”

“But why is he of interest?”

“Oh, lots of people are of interest. For all kinds of reasons. You wouldn't believe the number of people the US government takes an interest in. See, that's your tax dollars at work.”

“Come on. If you're here meeting with me, you must have some idea what makes Nadeem Siddiqui so bloody fascinating.”

“You come on. You seem smart enough. I wouldn't think it would take a wild leap of imagination for a reporter to figure out that since 9/11, nuclear scientists from Siddiqui's part of the world might be of passing interest.”

“Oh. So is he on some sort of nuclear watch list?”

“To be completely honest with you—and I'll admit it's an unfamiliar sensation—I don't know. There are so many different watch lists these days that it's a full-time job just trying to keep track of them.”

I tried changing tack. “And what about Thomas Carlyle? What's the connection?”

“I have no idea. I don't know that there is one. Swear to God, that's a new one.” He raised his right hand as if he were taking an oath. I studied him. Either he was a terrific liar or he was telling the truth.

I took a deep breath and let it out. “Fine. Let's just talk logistics then. Is Nadeem Siddiqui still in the UK? Or has he left the country?”

Withington cocked his head to one side. I wondered whether he was also weighing the universal rule of doing business:
to get information, sometimes you have to give some
.

Finally he spoke. “Just to make sure we're crystal clear. We are off the record, Miss James.”

“Yes. You've been quite clear about that.”

“This meeting did not happen. As far as you know, I don't even exist.”

“Oh, for God's sake. Has he left the country or not?”

“There is . . . there is nothing to indicate him leaving Britain.
Nadeem Siddiqui's passport hasn't scanned since he flew in from Islamabad in March.”

We were both quiet for a minute.

“Well, I guess that's something,” I said finally. “At least I know where to look for him.” I pushed my chair back and laid several bills on the table, to cover my share of the check.

“Hey, one last thing,” Withington said. “You said Siddiqui had some strange habits. Like what?”

What the hell, I thought. “Like power lifting, whatever that is. And he likes bananas. I mean, he
really
likes bananas. He's been ordering huge crates of them. From Pakistan, every month. But I thought he must be traveling, because the latest order . . .”

“The latest order . . . ?”

I decided I'd said enough. “I guess we'll have to see. It could be . . .” I fumbled, trying to backtrack. “It could be useful if he turns up to sign for it.”

“But why did you think he's traveling? Did he suspend his usual order or something?”

“How on earth would I know that?” I lied.

“Do you have a tracking number? The name of the company he orders from?”

“Nope,” I lied again.

He narrowed his eyes at me, and his tone changed once more. Now he sounded menacing. “Miss James, you normally cover higher education, if I'm not mistaken. I gather Pakistani scientists and banana shipments are a bit off the beaten trail for you?”

I nodded.

“You might want to think about keeping it that way.”

    

    

I
nside Harvard's Memorial Church it was hot and stuffy. The morning had dawned unusually warm for Massachusetts in June. Several hundred people sat crammed into the pews, perspiring and sneaking glances at their neighbors to gauge whether it would be rude to fan themselves with the order of service.

There had been some discussion over whether to have Thomas Carlyle's funeral here or in the church the Carlyle family attended. Thom had been baptized at Christ Church on Garden Street and had been dragged there to Christmas and Easter services all though his childhood. But there was the question of numbers: the Carlyles had many friends,
they all wanted to pay their respects, and Memorial Church simply held more people.

Among those in attendance now, in the second row, sat Petronella Black.

She looked exquisite. Her creamy skin, her pearl choker necklace, and her white-blond hair all caught the morning light. Everything else was black: black sheath dress, black kid-leather Chanel pumps—but lower than she usually wore, only three-inch heels. Petronella had been born knowing what to wear. It was the emotion she had to fake.

It was a bit awkward, being seated here in the family section. She was right behind Thom's parents and sisters, next to an aunt to whom she'd been introduced earlier this morning. Thom had occasionally spoken of his family. But she had never paid much attention to the details, and now she was struggling to keep the sisters' names straight. The Carlyle clan, on the other hand, all seemed to be under the impression that she and Thom had practically been engaged. This morning when she had met Anna Carlyle, Thom's mother, Anna had embraced her and wept. Then Anna had reached down, touched the bare fourth finger on the younger woman's left hand, and smiled sorrowfully, as if to acknowledge the diamond that would now never be placed there. Thom had apparently told his family he was going to propose. And he had apparently not had the chance to tell them that she had broken things off. Even Petronella had the decency to feel mildly ashamed.

She sat now with her hands folded primly across her lap, her face arranged into the mask of a grieving fiancée. So many people had approached her this morning, patting her arm and murmuring condolences, that she was managing to convince herself that she did perhaps feel something approaching grief.

She watched Anna Carlyle's shoulders ahead of her shaking with sobs. Petronella fluttered her lashes. Slowly a tear formed in her own eye. Her handkerchief was poised. It wouldn't do to muss her mascara; it
would look sloppy. Petronella did not own waterproof mascara. She had never needed it. She never allowed herself to cry.

She was trying to pay attention to the words the priest was speaking, truly she was, but it was so bloody hot in here. Her stockings itched around the ankles. She could feel her hair going flat. Also, she longed to turn around and ogle the president and the first lady. There had been a murmur when they slid inside, moments before the service began. They were sitting near the back, on their own, although she guessed Secret Service guards must be posted at the doors. Their presence lent a frisson of glamour to the otherwise mournful proceedings.

The priest droned on and on, and now it appeared there was to be another musical interlude. Was it her imagination or could she actually see heat shimmering up around the candles on the altar? A fat fly buzzed along the tops of the hymnals. Petronella fought the urge to sneak outside for a smoke. Her mind flitted in random directions. She thought of Lucien Sly. He had not returned her calls yesterday, and when she had finally reached him last night, he sounded odd. Distracted. They had exchanged pleasantries for several minutes, and it occurred to her they didn't actually have much to say to each other.

Petronella watched the lips of the priest moving in prayer. Her gaze wandered across the center aisle and settled on Joe Chang, Thom's old roommate. His cheeks were ashen and he was slumped over in what appeared to be true misery. When they had been introduced this morning on the steps of the church, he had appraised her unsmilingly and blinked in a way that seemed to say,
Now I get it
. Then he had turned and walked alone into the church.

In front of her, Anna's shoulders had stopped shaking. She was resting her head against her husband's arm, as he kissed the top of her head over and over. Lowell Carlyle had been polite to Petronella but more distant than his wife. He seemed an earnest man, more serious than his son. Making small talk with the woman his only son had loved was perhaps more than he could bear.

They were singing a hymn now, and it seemed the funeral might at last be drawing to an end. Petronella mouthed the words. The voice of one of Thom's sisters carried. Which one was she again? It was a pure, rich voice, but it trembled on one of the high notes as she began to cry.

Petronella's own eyes were dry. So many people here had loved Thom.

It was not her fault that she had not been one of them.

OUTSIDE THE CHURCH, MARCO GALLONI
scanned the crowd.

He had chosen a sober black suit and tie for the occasion. Unfortunate given the heat, but it wouldn't do to stand out. He had positioned himself near the bottom of Memorial Church's wide stone steps.

Harvard police were providing basic security, steering tourists away. And of course, a Secret Service team was escorting the president and the first lady. Galloni's role was simply to watch. You never knew what you might glean from the people who turned up for a funeral, what furtive glances or snatches of conversation you might catch. If Thom Carlyle
had
been murdered, chances were he knew the person who killed him. And it followed that that person might turn up here today.

Mourners were now pouring out of the church. They formed sad little clusters on the steps, exchanging greetings and sympathies. He watched Petronella Black sweep out from the double doors and step daintily to the side. She pulled a mirrored compact out of her handbag, checked her lipstick, and fluffed her hair. Then she glanced around and disappeared around the corner of the church.

Interesting. Galloni followed her. What he saw made him shake his head. Petronella was standing in a beam of sunlight, a microphone in her face, granting an interview to an excited-looking TV reporter. The logo on the side of the camera read
ABC NEWS
. She must have made the arrangement earlier, figuring she could squeeze in a few minutes
between the church service and the funeral cortege to the cemetery.

Tacky, thought Galloni. But then nothing about Petronella was to his taste. He had met and interviewed her briefly last night, at her hotel. She was a knockout, no question. But brittle. Snooty. And skinny, too narrow in the hip-and-ass department to hold his interest.