In Cold Blood by Mark Dawson Read Free Book Online

to invite him to stay for dinner. She would benefit from a better relationship with him and, so far, his cooperation had been won by threats as much as anything else. She still retained copies of the evidence of his predecessor’s duplicity and she had threatened to release it if he did not offer his assistance in tracking down the agents who had been at her house that particular afternoon. The four surviving agents plus the man who had sent them after her.
    He accepted her invitation and they moved to the dining room. It was painted a deep chocolate with dusky blue velvets and was lit by three large candle lanterns. The ceiling was painted with a mural of the desert’s midnight sky and the furniture was handmade from dark wood. Beatrix and Pope had gin and tonic and Isabella, when she eventually joined them, had a large glass of orange juice.
    “You must be Isabella?” Pope said as she sat down.
    She looked at him shyly.
    “Isabella,” Beatrix said. “Mr. Pope is working with me. Say hello to him.”
    “Hello,” she said, bashfully.
    Mohammed’s wife, Fatima, worked in the riad as their cook and she prepared a tajine, bringing the conical earthenware pot to the table and serving it in front of them. They had chicken served with olives, preserved lemons, parsley and saffron and it was, as Pope confirmed after clearing his plate and a generous second serving, delicious.
    Isabella had a glass of mint tea with them and then went up to her room as the two of them enjoyed glasses of wine.
    “Have you heard from Milton?” she asked him quietly.
    “No,” he said. “But I don’t really expect to.”
    “You don’t know where he went?”
    “No. And I’m not going to try and find him if he doesn’t want to be found. He’s been running long enough.”
    Pope took out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She took it, and pushed across one of the Lalique ashtrays that had come with the place when she bought it.
    “Look,” he said. “What about Joyce?”
    Her tone became colder. “What about him?”
    “Are you really serious about going to get him?”
    “I don’t joke about things like that.”
    “Then at least let me help you.”
    “I’m all ears.”
    “How are you thinking of getting there?”
    “I haven’t really decided yet.”
    “Surely you have to fly?”
    “I know. I was thinking about getting a charter to Kenya.”
    “You can’t take weapons on a charter.”
    “I’ll find them at the other end. Have you been to Somalia before, Pope?”
    “No. But you have?”
    “Once.”
    “Where?”
    “Mogadishu.”
    “What for?”
    “You remember President Farrah?”
    Pope nodded. Farrah was a warlord who had declared himself President of Somalia in 1995. “I know he caused plenty of problems.”
    “Until he got shot.”
    “That’s right, I remember. He died of a heart attack on the operating table.”
    Beatrix smiled. “That’s what they said.” She made a syringe with her thumb and forefingers and mimed the plunger being depressed.
    He looked surprised. “Seriously?”
    She shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”
    “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know that.”
    “Believe me, Pope, if Somalia is anything like it was then, it won’t be hard to find an AK.”
    “But wouldn’t you rather have your own?” He swept an arm out in the direction of the courtyard. “I’m taking it you have some here.”
    “Of course I do. And, yes, I would. But I’ll do what I have to do. If I have to be flexible, that’s fine.”
    “Look—how about this? The RAF flew me in today. It wouldn’t be such a big deal to divert on the way home. I’m sure someone back in London could come up with a reason why we need to stop off in Kenya on the way home. That way, you can bring your own gear with you. I might be able to arrange transport for you at the other end, too. At least it will get you to the border.”
    “If you could, that would be helpful. But you’ll have to be quick. I’m going