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“That would make sense, but these pieces,” he pointed at a few images, “were owned by wealthy, powerful Jewish families. I doubt they were sympathizers.”
“Then what’s the connection?”
“Exactly. That’s the question.”
“And do you have the answer?”
“Yes.” He went to the tree of pictures. There was a smaller group of photos off to the side. At the top was a flag—a field of red with three legs on it in a triskelion.
A trinity of legs.
Below the flag was a small strip of paper, held in place with two red push pins. It read “The Masters’ Admiralty.”
She turned wide eyes to Weston.
“Everything in those tunnels belonged to members of the Masters’ Admiralty.”
The clock was ticking.
“Thank you very much for your assistance, Gregory.”
The middle-aged man in the bright red uniform shirt of a car rental agency nodded once, seemingly surprised that Marek had remembered his name. Common courtesies were lost to many.
Tick-tock.
With a final nod of thanks, he left the small rental agency in Sussex. He’d followed Ms. Hancock’s trail from Boston to London. From there, he’d been able to acquire photos of a rental car leaving a small private airstrip in Greater Incorporated London to this small establishment, where it had been dropped off.
Gregory had been on duty three days ago when the car was dropped off, and remembered that the gentleman who did it had his own vehicle parked there. Unfortunately, the security cameras had broken a week ago and hadn’t been fixed.
That coincidence was a bit too convenient for Marek’s liking.
But he had a description of the man and his car. The car was a blue Toyota SUV, not totally out of place in the countryside, but not as common as a red Fiat compact, so there was hope on that front.
And the owner of that blue SUV had a lazy eye. Gregory was sure of that. “Only one of his eyes moved when he looked around.”
A personal detail like that might be all he needed.
Marek looked at his watch. It was just past two in the afternoon. He’d been in England nearly twenty-four hours.
Tick-tock.
His time was up.
If he didn’t call now, they might find out he was here from someone else—they had many, many sources. If that happened, there would be hell to pay.
Plus, it had been a week since he’d spoken with his grandparents. He was due to call them again.
Sliding into his own rental car—an anonymous gray Peugeot—he took out his cell phone.
“Lee residence,” a smooth male voice answered.
“Good afternoon, William,” he said politely to his grandparents’ house manager—their butler. His grandparents didn’t like the classist implications of “butler” so they had a “house manager.” Who did everything a butler did.
“Master Marek, how are you?”
Marek’s lips twitched—William was less than ten years older than Marek, but he’d been trained by the old house manager when he retired, so Marek was still referred to as if he were a child.
“I’m well, and you?”
