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Vicks.”
    “Interesting first name,” I said.
    “Family name of some sort, I suppose. At any rate, Vicks has made his millions compliments of our government, and other governments around the world. He seems to have a knack for bidding high and getting the jobs because no one else is invited to bid against him. A bit like your Halliburton. Vicks is also rumored to deal in illegal military arms to third world countries and provide needed medicines to poorer nations at outrageous markups, all alleged but never formally charged. Nothing like having friends in high places.”
    “And money,” I said.
    “Yes, it’s always the money, isn’t it?”
    “Except in murder.”
    “You mean money is just one of the motivations for murder,” he said.
    “There’s also revenge, jealousy, fear, a whole range of emotions.”
    “Of course,” he said. “But we’re not talking about murder here, are we?”
    “No, and I hope it stays that way. I’ve had my fill of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when murders take place.”
    “Yes, you have had your share of such unfortunate events,” he said. “More sherry?”
    “Thank you, no,” I said.
    “You’re here in London for only two nights?”
    I nodded.
    He took my hand. “I hope this drink doesn’t constitute all we’ll see of each other.”
    I sighed and shook my head. “It might be, George. I don’t know what plans have been made, although I assume Wayne has come up with something to entertain us. We’re all expected to meet for breakfast here at the Savoy, but I’ll make time for us. Maybe lunch tomorrow or, even better, dinner. What’s your schedule?”
    “Relatively free. I’m off the clock unless something unusual pops up.”
    I heard a buzz and George grimaced.
    “Sorry,” he said, releasing my hand and flipping open his cell phone. “Sutherland here.” He pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket and made notes as he listened. “Yes, I see. You’re certain of the victim’s identity?” He made a few more notes. “Yes, I’ll go there immediately.” He snapped shut the cover on his phone.
    “I have a feeling that something unusual has popped up,” I said with a gentle laugh.
    “The older I get,” he said, “the more I believe in and respect coincidences.” He took my hand in both of his.
    I cocked my head.
    “There’s been a murder at Stansted Airport.”
    My eyes widened. “Yes,” I said, “that is a coincidence.”
    “More than you think, Jessica. I’m terribly sorry to tell you that the victim, according to what I’ve just been told, is your friend Mr. Wayne Silverton.”

Chapter Four
    O ne of the Savoy’s valet attendants held open the door of George’s silver Jaguar for me. George helped me into the left-hand seat and went around to the right where he slipped behind the wheel. This was, after all, the United Kingdom, where people drive on the “wrong” side of the road. Or, as the British prefer, drive on the “other side.”
    “I don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you,” George said, looking over to assure that I was belted in before fastening his own seat belt. “Our desk officer said that local bobbies are securing the area. Family hasn’t been notified yet.”
    “But he was certain of the name of the victim?”
    He nodded sharply as he steered the car out of the Savoy’s drive and into London traffic. It was late, but it could have been midday, judging from the multitude of cars crowding the street and the number of pedestrians strolling the sidewalks. George glanced at his watch. “Theaters are getting out,” he said. “It’ll be slow going escaping town.”
    I sat quietly while he concentrated on which roads would allow him to evade the worst of the traffic. My thoughts were riveted on our destination and what awaited us.
    How ironic that on the night of his triumph, the debut of his new airline, Wayne Silverton should be murdered. And by whom? Whom had he offended so