by Adam Hamdy
Kamal was glued to his mobile, pacing the apartment as he engaged in furtive conversations in an attempt to tie the escapee to Seattle.
Pearce had left them to it and wandered onto the roof terrace, where he’d spent time listening to the ceaseless toot of horns and general cacophony of Cairo’s streets. His eye had been caught by a man who had a small shop on the ground floor of a nearby building. The shop was illuminated by strip lights that made it blaze brightly in the Cairo night, and Pearce had watched the white-haired man work his way through a pile of crumpled clothes, methodically straightening each one on his board before smoothing it with a traditional cast metal iron that was heated on a hotplate. As he prepared each garment, the old man would drink from a small bottle and then spit a cloud of fine mist over the item. Running the scorching iron over the moisture created hissing clouds of steam, and, as he’d been entranced by the hypnotic rhythm of the man’s work, Pearce had thought back to the prison cafeteria and all the people who’d died there. Whoever wanted the escapee had been prepared to pay a high price to get him.
Pearce had joined the others for pizza before turning in. Now, with the sound of the morning call to prayer filling his room, Pearce climbed out of bed, stretched and got dressed, opting for a pair of light cargo trousers and a black T-shirt. He found Leila alone in the large living room. The French doors were open and the call to prayer louder, carried by a gentle breeze that billowed the long curtains.
‘Tell me you’ve been to bed,’ Pearce said.
‘I’ve been to bed,’ Leila replied in a flat tone that made it very clear she was humouring him. ‘And when I woke up, I found out all about this little thing.’ She held up the microchip. ‘It’s a digital transmitter, used to carry a signal from a cellular device, so the toxin can be triggered remotely. It was manufactured using a semi-conductor foundry built in a factory in Almelo, Holland. The machine in question had originally been sold to a touch-screen manufacturer in South Korea.’
‘But it’s moved on,’ Wollerton added as he appeared in the doorway. He was in boxer shorts and a T-shirt and carried two cups of freshly brewed coffee. ‘Sorry I had to crash. Did you find out where it went?’ he asked Leila, handing her one of the coffees.
‘I checked the sales ledger of the South Korean firm and the semi-conductor foundry was sold to a broker who then sold it to a company in Qingdao, China.’
‘How do you know the chip wasn’t made in Korea?’ Pearce asked.
‘The foundry wasn’t there long enough,’ Leila replied. ‘My guess is the Korean firm is a front to get round European export controls that protect against providing the Chinese with high-end technology. The first chips that foundry ever made rolled out in Qingdao.’
Wollerton studied the window open on Leila’s laptop. ‘Qingdao Consumer Products. Suitably bland.’
‘We need to get out there,’ Pearce said.
‘No,’ Brigitte cut in as she entered the room. She was dressed in black trousers and a red top.
Pearce thought he saw Leila stiffen at the sight of the Frenchwoman.
‘I found this,’ Brigitte produced her phone and showed Pearce a local news report about the sudden and unexplained death of a Seattle Port worker.
‘What am I looking at?’ Pearce asked.
‘Read on.’
Pearce took the device and scrolled through the article, until he found what Brigitte wanted him to see.
‘A witness who was with Mr Cutter at the time of his death,’ Pearce read aloud, ‘said the victim, who had no prior conditions, suddenly developed breathing problems and suffered a cardiac arrest. Local police chief Xavier Moro reassured residents, saying they’d found no traces of any toxins at the scene.’
Pearce saw the others register the significance of his words.
‘I’ve let the Seattle police know what we found here, a toxin that asphyxiates without leaving a trace,’ Brigitte said. ‘We’ll see what they do with that information.’
‘If that’s the same stuff used in the prison break,’ Wollerton said, ‘then we’re on the right trail.’
‘But we’ve got a solid lead in Qingdao,’ Leila protested.
‘We split up,’ Brigitte said. ‘I will go to China with Leila. Kyle and Scott will go to Seattle.’
Leila shook her head and shot Pearce a sharp look.
‘We don’t work for you, remember? Our interests just happen to coincide,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to Seattle with Leila. You and Kyle can follow up the Qingdao lead.’
Brigitte fixed Pearce with a stare and he could sense her wrestling over whether to challenge him.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll make the arrangements.’
Chapter 24
It was after midnight when they arrived at the roadside bar. The dusty parking lot was packed with large motorcycles and a group of leather- and denim-clad bikers were drinking, smoking and jostling each other outside. The backs of their jackets were covered with huge patches that depicted the snarling jaws of a red wolf. The bar was the kind of anarchic place that seemed to perpetually teeter on the edge of violence. Not somewhere Ziad would ever have associated with Elroy or the quiet Thai.
Ziad parked beside a row of bikes. Their chrome fittings gleamed in the gaudy neon light of a sign which declared the name of the bar: RPM. Awut and Elroy were unfazed by the rowdy bikers who clustered near the entrance, and led Ziad through the group. A guy in a black T-shirt emblazoned with a bone-white skull tested them for coronavirus before ushering them inside.
The loud thrash metal music was almost painful. Bikers of all races, genders and ages crowded the place, dancing, drinking and acting up. Almost everyone wore a Red Wolf patch or sported a similar tattoo. The interior stank of sour mash, doubtless a consequence of years of whisky spillages on the hardwood floor. The walls were covered with black and white photos of classic motorcycles and the bar was decked out in old tin road signs.
Ziad followed Awut and Elroy across the dance floor and through a door which led to the toilets. The corridor was permeated with the stench of urine and the walls were covered with Polaroid photographs of customers in various states of undress. Thought-provoking, funny or just plain lewd messages had been scrawled beneath the photos in pen and marker. One caught Ziad’s eye. It read, ‘I was a sex slave for a week and it fucked my mind.’ Above the messy writing was a photo of a middle-aged woman in her underwear doing a Mick Jagger pout at the camera, her haunted eyes a window into her broken mind.
Elroy and Awut passed the doors to the toilets and continued towards another marked ‘private’. A huge bald-headed man leaned on a stool beside it. Elroy didn’t even acknowledge the giant and marched straight through the door. Ziad followed Awut inside, and found himself in a smoky back room. A couple of skinny bikers had their shirts off and were hunched on the edge of an old sofa sharing a crack pipe. A woman of no more than twenty, wearing black leather trousers and a Napalm Death T-shirt, had passed out in the chair next to them.
Awut took up a watchful position by the door. Elroy didn’t even glance at the crackheads and headed for a seating area on the other side of the room. Three sofas were arranged in a corner, beside a large window that was sealed by a corrugated shutter. On the sofas sat two men and a woman.
‘Ziad,’ Elroy said, ‘these are my associates.’ He gestured to the trio, all of whom had remained seated. ‘This is Eddie Fletcher. He owns this place.’
Fletcher was a bald white man in his early forties. His white vest exposed his muscular arms, which were covered in tattoos that ran up to his neck. Every image was a variation of the ‘Red Wolf’ patch. He nodded at Ziad, but said nothing.
‘His wife Kirsty,’ Elroy continued, signalling a woman of about Ziad’s age.
She wore light jeans and a black vest, sported even more tattoos than her husband and had close-cropped hair that did nothing to conceal the noticeable scar which ran from her left temple down her cheek to her chin. She glared at Ziad with the wild eyes of a dangerous anim
al.
‘And this is Andel Novak,’ Elroy said, gesturing at the final member of the group.
Novak wore a light-blue suit, a sky-blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of shiny black shoes. He looked as though he was in his early fifties, but the scraggy beard that reached halfway down his throat made his age difficult to pinpoint. Like his hair, it was black with broad streaks of grey, but unlike his hair, it was curly and unkempt, giving the man a wild air. His eyes were bright blue and were alive with intensity. He smiled at Ziad indulgently.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Novak said, getting to his feet. The man had a pronounced Eastern European accent, but there was a clipped English formality to his speech, which made it impossible for Ziad to guess his nationality. He shook Novak’s proffered hand, and found the man’s grip surprisingly strong.
‘Have a seat,’ Elroy suggested, and Ziad sat next to him.
‘You are glad to be a free man again?’ Novak asked.
Ziad nodded.
‘Our friend tells us you’ve risen to the challenge, that you can be trusted. Is he right?’ Novak asked.
‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ Ziad replied. ‘I want Deni Salamov and his family to suffer.’
‘Good,’ Novak said. ‘Do you know what we are?’
Ziad shook his head.
‘We are the Red Wolves,’ Novak continued. ‘Some call us criminals, but we prefer to think of ourselves as revolutionaries who aren’t prepared to accept that the way things are is the way they must always be. One day, when you have truly proven yourself, you might become a wolf.’
Fletcher sneered.
‘Mr Fletcher commands this chapter,’ Novak explained. ‘He’s a very hard man to impress. And rightly so. Becoming a Red Wolf is a great honour.’
This is it, Ziad thought. I’ve finally earned their trust.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Deni Salamov has a shipment coming in. We’d like you to tell Mr Fletcher when the product is due to be collected.’
Ziad looked at the brutish biker and his wild-eyed wife. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘You know what this means?’ Elroy asked.
Ziad nodded. ‘Yeah. You’re going to steal it.’
Elroy smiled. ‘More than that. We’re going to start a war.’
Chapter 25
They called him the Midas Killer. By the time Leila and Pearce arrived in Seattle, Brigitte’s warning to Police Chief Xavier Moro had leaked to the media and been filtered through at least one hyperactive imagination that painted a picture of a crazed killer who inflicted invisible, untraceable death. Pearce had purchased a copy of the Seattle Star from an airside newsstand and while they waited in the arrivals hall, he and Leila leafed through four sensational pages devoted to what was essentially a thin story of conjecture and speculation that linked the death of Richard Cutter to the mass murder of the Al Aqarab prison break.
It had taken Brigitte a couple of days to make the necessary arrangements, but, seventy-two hours after deciding to split the team, Pearce and Leila had touched down in Seattle after a gruelling journey from Cairo. Leila slept poorly at the best of times, and was usually kept awake by the pain of her old injuries and a profound fear of her nightmares, but aircraft – with their stale air, cramped seats and incessant noise – offered no hope of rest. She’d stayed awake during the flight from Cairo to Amsterdam and the onward connection to Seattle and had linked her laptop to the inflight network so she could dig up as much information as she could find on Richard Cutter, the dead port worker. She’d also taken a look at Huxley Blaine Carter’s father, Tate, and had started to build a file on the Silicon Valley entrepreneur whose life had apparently been cut short by a heart attack.
‘You OK?’ Pearce asked.
Leila nodded. She was leaning against her small upright suitcase, trying to rest her sore legs. They were travelling light, and Pearce just had a small holdall slung over his shoulder. Brigitte had assured them the gear they’d requested would be waiting for them on arrival, but Leila wasn’t filled with confidence – their driver wasn’t even here and they hadn’t been given his contact details or told where they were going, so all they could do was wait.
‘You want to find somewhere to sit?’ Pearce asked.
Leila shook her head. ‘You know I’m not your child, right?’
‘My kids would never be as rude as you,’ he smiled.
Leila replied in kind, but her smile was tinged with sadness. The mention of children reminded her of the loss of her infant child, who’d been stillborn in Syria after she’d been savagely beaten. She tried not to think about him, but it was difficult, since her disability was a result of the complications she’d suffered during the birth. Whenever her baby came to her, Leila always wondered what he might have done with his life. She did so now and felt light-headed at the thought of her boy. A memory of trauma triggered by a simple joke. Her distress must have shown.
‘Come on, let’s find a seat,’ Pearce said, taking her arm gently.
Leila was saved from an admission of weakness by the appearance of a heavyset middle-aged man in black trousers and a white shirt. He picked his way past other travellers and touted a placard with two names on it. Susan and Isaac Samuels; the false identities Pearce and Leila had used to enter the United States. Leila and Wollerton had established these cover identities in Cairo, building out legends for all four of them. Leila was particularly proud of the Samuels, a husband and wife team of travel bloggers who had come to Seattle to give their readers the scoop on the city. Brigitte had provided the passports through one of Kamal’s contacts and they’d held up to scrutiny when they’d gone through immigration and disease control in Amsterdam and Seattle. Their matching credit cards were equally effective. Leila had created a blog for the Samuels, populating it with reviews she’d cribbed from TripAdvisor. Wollerton had added to their authenticity by giving them a few fans on social media. Such was the beauty of the digital landscape – it could be reshaped with ease to make a truth of lies. And Leila was an excellent sculptress.
The placard waver spotted Leila and Pearce and made a beeline for them. ‘Sorry I’m late, Mr and Mrs Samuels,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Traffic.’
Leila knew Pearce sufficiently well to recognize the look of suspicion that clouded his face.
‘How did you know it was us?’ he asked.
‘Lucky guess,’ the man said, and Leila was suddenly on edge. Was this really their contact? ‘Let me help you with that.’ He reached for Leila’s case.
She looked at Pearce for guidance and he nodded. Something wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t dangerous – at least not yet.
‘My car’s outside,’ the man said, pulling Leila’s case towards the doors.
Leila followed, leaning heavily on her cane. She kept her eyes on the man purporting to be their contact. His grey hair was perfectly styled into a neat officer’s cut and his hands were nicely manicured. He’d tried to present himself as a limo driver, but was wearing expensive brogues, and when she looked more closely, Leila noticed his black trousers had a satin strip running along the outside seams. They were the bottoms from a tuxedo. This was someone playing at being a driver. Leila glanced at Pearce, who smiled in reply. He was up to something.
The heavyset man took them to the multi-storey car park opposite the terminal building, where he led them to a 7 Series BMW parked on the second floor. He put Leila’s bag in the trunk, and Pearce threw his in beside it.
She and Pearce rode in the back, and no one said anything until they’d left the airport and were heading north on the Pacific Highway.
‘Federal pension must be pretty bad,’ Pearce observed.
Leila saw the driver glance in the rear-view mirror.
‘If you’ve got to supplement it driving a cab,’ Pearce added.
‘This is an executive town car,’ the driver said.
‘I bet you don’t see too many of these driven by former directo
rs of the NSA,’ Pearce remarked, and the driver glanced at him sharply. ‘Took me a moment to place you, but I remember your file photo, Director Clifton.’
‘Former Director Clifton. How’d you get your hands on my file?’
‘When I was investigating the Black Thirteen group we had to figure out who was instructing the lawyer who’d hired me. Huxley Blaine Carter was using an old cipher in the classifieds of a local paper to run messages. You sit on the board of three of his companies. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out who was advising him on tradecraft,’ Pearce revealed. ‘I guess the big question is why. The NSA doesn’t let people play the game when they retire, so either you haven’t really retired, or you’re doing this well below the radar.’
‘Huxley told me how you cracked the cipher, Mr Pearce,’ Clifton said. ‘It’s part of the reason I wanted to meet you. To see if you’re as good as they say.’
‘My guess is you’re flying below the radar. But I can’t figure out why you’d take that kind of risk. If the NSA finds out you’re playing the game privately – well, that’s jail time.’
‘How did you meet Huxley’s father?’ Leila asked. She’d been watching the two men, studying Clifton’s reactions to Pearce and thought she’d seen enough.
‘How’d . . .?’ Clifton tailed off in astonishment.
‘You’re about his father’s age. You probably don’t need money, so your motivation has to be personal and sufficiently important to risk everything, which means a lover or a very good friend,’ Leila replied.
