White Shotgun Read Online Free PDF Page A

bullets whizzing by your head. Thank your lucky stars.”
    He knocks on the wooden desk. I knock on the coffee table.
    “I have your debrief with Inspector Reilly from New Scotland Yard. You had a pretty good look at the gunman. What was it he said to you?”
    “He said, ‘Want a cigarette?,’ but I’m not sure he meant me.”
    “Just the general public?”
    “I don’t know, Dennis! Do terrorists have a sense of humor? It’s the kind of thing a lowlife jerk-off would say before he blows out a restaurant. Like, Want a cigarette, asshole? Here’s a match. ”
    “Anything else come to mind that’s not in the report?” Dennis asks.
    “The attackers knew there was a party, and who was there.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “The street. A feeling I had.” I am remembering the stillness of the cherry trees. “When we came out, it was quiet. Deep quiet, the way it is past midnight on an upper-class street. The place was dead—I would have noticed something, but there were no lookouts. Nothing hinky. Then right on cue, a car speeds past. Twice as fast as you’d expect in that neighborhood. Doesn’t stop, opens fire. Hits multiple targets.”
    “The Metropolitan Police are investigating the victims for links to terrorism or organized crime. The Italian government has asked for our assistance concerning the mafias, so we’re into this on both accounts.”
    “Talk to the owner of the restaurant. His name is Martin.” I surprise myself by saying this, as I had thought of Martin as a decent, if somewhat unctuous, guy. “He was nervous and didn’t want to seat us. Interesting that he didn’t turn out to be one of the victims.”
    “You think Martin was the tip-off?”
    “The knuckleheads knew the targets were there. Somebody must have told them.”
    Dennis nods and jots a note.
    “Got some new intel from the Met.” He indicates the monitor of a massively outdated computer. “It was a Ford Focus, right? The attack vehicle? Kinda old? Bad paint job? Do you recognize the year?”
    He shows me a group of Ford Focus photos. I can’t reliably tell the difference between the models.
    “London has more video cameras than God,” I say. “They should check surveillance tapes of the nearby intersections. Interview everyone in every apartment building in Edgewater Crescent. I hope they understand that this is a boots on the ground operation.”
    “They’re on it. What’s your gut on the motivation?”
    Dennis makes his face go slack. Open to whatever the subject wants to bring.
    “It was a brazen act, meant to send a message.”
    “Not just random?”
    “I can’t believe it’s random when you drive into an upscale neighborhood and shoot seven people with automatic weapons, with the city on high alert and cops patrolling the streets, in some tucked-away little square with not a lot of options for escape, unless you’ve got a compelling reason.”
    “Money?”
    “Or you believe in something.”
    “Like radical Islam, you mean? I’m sure the British Counter Terrorism Command is looking very carefully at who the targets were—if there’s a connection to the extremist attacks they’ve had the past few weeks, or similarities to other crimes.”
    “It’s not necessarily the individuals who were targets. It could have been English society in general. It’s a very tony area they hit. Diplomats, businesspeople. And a fourteen-year-old kid.”
    Dennis shrugs. “Collateral damage. What do they care? This is fun for them. Tell me again why you were there?”
    The question is not as casual as it sounds. I had ducked it before, with Inspector Reilly, in order to protect Sterling. Now Dennis is watching me with an intensity I know very well.
    “I stopped in at Baciare for a glass of wine.”
    “Just on your own?”
    I give him a look. “I’m a big girl, Dennis.”
    “No doubt.” He slaps a passport on the desk. “This is for you. Official government business.”
    “I feel like James Bond.”
    “Don’t