Stone - 25 - Collateral Damage

Keane?”
    “Funny you should mention that, we discussed getting together.”
    “Well, let’s do it,” Harp said. “I’d like to get a closer look at Ms. Keane.”
    “Okay, I’ll call him.” Herbie waved at a waiter for the check. “Maybe I’ll invite Stone, too.”
    “That would be good. I’d like to get to know him better. Is he seeing somebody?”
    “Always,” Herbie said.

Jasmine Shazaz sat at a desk by the window in a small waiting room at the personnel office of the United States State Department, across the street from the United States Embassy. She could see down into Upper Grosvenor Street, which ran off the south side of Grosvenor Square, where the embassy, a massive building of reinforced concrete with a giant eagle out front, sat facing the square.
    From where she sat, slowly filling out a job application for a position as an interpreter, she could see down into the intersection of Upper Grosvenor Street with Burnes Street, which ran behind the embassy, crossing Culross Street, ending at Upper Brook Street.
    “How are you coming with the application?” the receptionist asked.
    “I want to get everything just right,” Jasmine said.
    “Please be as quick as you can,” the woman said. “We close in an hour, at five, and if you don’t have your first interview before then, you’ll have to come back another day.”
    “I won’t be much longer,” Jasmine replied, watching the DSL delivery van pull to a stop at Burnes Street, which was blocked by a steel security barrier.
    —
    The driver leaned out his window and shouted at the armed police constable at the barrier. “Hey, mate, I’ve got a delivery at the embassy, rear door. How do you want to handle this?”
    “I’ll take it,” the cop said.
    “It weighs over a hundred pounds,” the driver replied. “I’ll need to hand-truck it in there.”
    “Who is the addressee?” the policeman asked.
    The driver picked up a clipboard and flipped a page. “Bloke name of Thomas Riley, cultural attaché, from an address in Langley, Virginia, U S of A. And he has to sign for it personally.”
    “Hang about,” the policeman replied. He pressed the push-to-talk button on the microphone under the epaulet on his left shoulder. “Security, this is PC Bartlett at the Burnes Street barrier. I’ve got a DSL delivery of a heavy parcel for Mr. Thomas Riley, Cultural Affairs. Needs to come in on a hand truck, and he has to have Riley’s signature.”
    “Where’s it shipped from?” a voice came back.
    “A place called Langley, in Virginia, USA.”
    “Stand by.”
    “I’ve called it in,” he said to the driver. “They’ll get back to me.”
    “I can’t block this street all day,” the driver said.
    “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
    His radio came alive. “Okay, have the man hand-truck it to the rear entrance. Mr. Riley will meet him there and sign for it.”
    “Roger.” The cop turned back to the driver. “Unload it here and follow me with the hand truck,” he said. “The bomb squad will want a good look at you. Just leave the van there.”
    “Whatever you say, mate.” The driver got out of the van and went to the rear. He unlocked the door and operated the power tailgate that lowered the crate to the street. He got the lip of the hand truck under an edge and rocked it back onto the wheels. By the time he got it to the barrier, the copper had slid it back enough for him to wheel it through. The officer slid it shut behind him.
    “All right, follow me,” he said to the deliveryman. The copper led the way to a steel door, where he rang a bell. A long moment later the door slid open, and the deliveryman could see another barrier a few feet inside. “Bring it right in and set it down,” the copper said.
    The deliveryman did as he was told, and the door slid closed behind him. “Oy,” he said. “How’m I gonna get out?”
    “Wait till it’s signed for, and we’ll let you out.”
    Two U.S. Marines in fatigues came toward them, preceded by an eager black Labrador retriever.
    Another Marine at the next barrier picked up a phone and spoke into it, then hung up. “Riley will be right down.”
    “Are you gonna need me to roll it somewhere?” the deliveryman asked.
    “No, you can just leave it there,” the copper replied. “I’ll get our hand truck.”
    —
    Jasmine got up from the table, taking the application with her. “Excuse me,” she said to the receptionist. “Where is the ladies’