The trip wasn’t a long one. The driver killed the siren the last few blocks, and Lauren looked up to see busy streets as well as buildings, most no taller than three or four stories. Official flags flying in front of one building told her they’d reached their destination. The officer wheeled around back and pulled into a concrete garage. The door closed behind them and they were plunged into darkness. Lauren wondered if she’d see the sunlight anytime soon.
Lauren was eased out of the backseat by two officers who seemed to be waiting for her arrival. Wordlessly she was pushed through an open steel door. She held her head up and met the inquisitive stares with as little emotion as possible. Marched down a sterile corridor, through two more doorways, she came to the end of her short walk. The final door led to a cell. A single bench and a toilet bowl, the air smelling much like her prison on the tug. Her handcuffs removed, she was pushed the rest of the way into the cell. When the door slid shut behind her, she flinched as steel met steel. The distinct sound of the heavy lock falling into place echoed around her, and Lauren felt as if all of her options had just abandoned her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AS THE CHARTERED Gulfstream leveled off on the short flight back to Budapest, Montero and Donovan briefed Marta on everything that had transpired since Lauren had gone missing. Watching Marta, Donovan began to see Kristof in his daughter. She had his mannerisms and expressions. They were subtle, but they were there. Montero on the other hand, unbridled by the FBI, had become a force. She spoke to Marta about assets, both human and tactical. What weapons were available, traceable or untraceable? They discussed larger weapons, what would they have if this became a shooting war?
“How did you finally find your father?” Donovan asked once the talk of war seemed complete.
“I did what you did. I held my breath and hoped I wouldn’t be killed. I was seventeen. My mother was an addict, and pretty far gone by then, but she finally told me who my father was. My father was Archangel. In my mind I figured he’d just as soon kill an unwanted child than invite me into his life. I cried for days. I’d lied about my age and I worked in a bar. There was a regular who would whisper about knowing Archangel. I found a photograph of my mother and me, taken years ago. I wrote our names and birthdays on the back, and handed it over, hoping that it would somehow reach my father.”
“I gather Kristof got the message?” Donovan asked.
“He came himself,” Marta said. “I’ll never forget that moment. He and his men walked into the bar, and his men cleared the place out, the owner was asked to disappear. Everyone but me. He was larger than life—sent from above to rescue me and my mother. He remembered my mother and explained that he never knew about me. He took out a small kit and we both swabbed our cheeks and sealed them in tubes. He put them in an envelope and told me that the results would take several days. He said that if I was his daughter he’d be back and things would change, for both me and for my mother. If there wasn’t a match, he’d never return. He slid me an envelope filled with bills and asked that I pass it along to my mother. On his way out, he stopped and turned and asked me my name. When I told him, he smiled and left.”
“The waiting must have been difficult.” Montero said.
“It was, but ten days later, his men showed up and asked me to come with them. You have to understand that at that point in my life nothing good had ever happened. I went, waiting for the next bad thing to happen. It was all very businesslike. I was taken to an office where his attorney was waiting. Archangel smiled when I arrived, and I was seated next to him in front of this huge desk. He took my hand, and the lawyer announced that the DNA results were a perfect match, I was indeed his daughter. The rest was a whirlwind. Father took immediate custody of me and had my mother entered into rehab. That afternoon I went from living in a dirty walk-up apartment to a penthouse downtown. I was taken into a world I couldn’t have imagined. A designer took me shopping, a mountain of new clothes appeared. I spent an entire day at a spa. My hair styled, my first manicure, pedicure. I felt like a princess. During all of this, my father and I began the delicate task of getting to know each other.”
“When were you brought into the family business?” Donovan asked.
“I had street smarts, but the hardest part of my transition was my lack of education. I’d done well in school, but in my early teens lost any motivation to keep going. I’d dropped out, and Father would have none it. Instantly, there were tutors, tests, certifications, and then college.”
“Where?” Donovan asked, not surprised by Kristof’s actions.
“Cambridge. I studied psychology, plus social and political sciences. In the summer I was sent to a villa in Scotland, where, under the tutelage of a former Mossad agent, I studied weaponry and tactics, martial arts, and perhaps my favorite subject, poker.”
Donovan smiled at the thought. Kristof was an obsessive poker player, though never as good or as lucky as he needed to be. It was part of his early financial downfall.
“Why the smile?” Marta asked Donovan.
“I remember playing cards with him. He was . . . how do I say this . . . passionate. He loved to play, though he wasn’t ever very good. But I fully understand why he wanted you to learn the game properly. He valued the game, but he was never very much fun to be around when he lost.”
“You’re right. He’s a terrible card player, and an even worse loser. He had more tells than a nervous schoolboy.” Marta shook her head at the thought. “I was about nineteen when he included me in one of his games. I was allowed twice—I won big both times, and was never asked back. I wasn’t sure if he was angry or embarrassed.”
“Probably both,” Donovan said. “So you departed England with more education than the usual Cambridge graduate.”
“He had seized a business opportunity in Hungary. We spent most of our time in Budapest. For the most part I oversaw logistics, calculated economics, but eventually I stepped into more of the day-to-day operations. Thanks to his foresight, I was able to prove myself early, and from then on I was known as the little Archangel.”
“Your mother?” Montero asked.
“She died when I was at Cambridge. We did all we could, but she was lost to us by then. She’s finally at peace.”
Montero looked out the window and then at her watch. “Marta, before we land, I have a request for you.”
“Yes.”
“As I explained earlier, there is Michael and Trevor. They don’t know anything about Donovan’s past, and we’d like to keep it that way.”
“How many of us are there keeping this secret?” Marta asked.
“As of today, there are nine.”
“A well-kept secret, I admire your caution. I can assure you my interests aren’t served by ruining close relationships, or by inciting a media frenzy surrounding you, me, or my father. I can only imagine what would happen if the world knew you were still alive. There would be a media firestorm.”
“Exactly, which is why we both thank you for your discretion,” Montero added.
“I understand why you have her.” Marta directed her comment to Donovan. “She’s smart, capable, and she allows you more freedom. Though I’m surprised you chose a high-profile former FBI agent to be in your group.”
“That’s one of her many strengths. I operate in her shadow, plus, she can open a great many doors I can’t.”
“Ms. Montero. Earlier, when we were in the foyer of the house, I could tell how uncomfortable you were as I examined the photo in relation to Bobbie. What would you have done if I had pulled the trigger?”
“I could have easily taken Eric’s gun and killed you where you stood.”
Marta thought about it for a moment then shrugged. “Perhaps. Either way, I like you. Neither of you have to worry. I’ll call you Donovan or Mr. Nash. Your secret will be safe. Donovan, I do need to ask you something in reference to my father’s earlier remarks. Were you an accessory in the death of Meredith Barnes?”
“No.” Donovan’s reply was i
mmediate and he held eye contact with Marta until she finally looked away. “I think Kristof’s intention was to hurt me, and it had nothing to do with Meredith, but with Corfu. We both said things that night before the first punch was thrown. I questioned, and then attacked, his integrity, his courage, and his character in an attempt to keep him from turning his back on his loved ones.”
“Corfu. He threw the first punch, didn’t he?”
“Yes, just like he did today,” Donovan said with a firm nod. “It hurt more back then.”
“Are you sure about that?” Marta asked, the inflection in her voice leaving no doubt that she’d meant her words to hit at multiple levels, and then she picked up her tablet as if to signal that the topic was closed.
“I have a question,” Montero said. “Do you traffic in girls?”
Marta’s eyes scanned back and forth as she scrolled through several pages. She never looked up as she replied. “What would you do if I told you yes?”
“Right now—nothing.”
Marta continued to read her tablet. “Here’s what I was looking for. Of course, it says Veronica Montero currently sits on the board of a group of women’s shelters in the southeast United States. The answer, not that it’s any of your business, is no. I was once a lost girl on the streets of Warsaw. I knew girls who ran off in hopes of a better life, and I knew what became of them. I can assure you, the human traffickers that show up on my turf don’t last very long. Still, it’s a multifaceted problem that consists of both economic and societal complexities. But I deal harshly with those that steal children or sell them drugs, so I can assure you we’re on common ground.”
“Thank you for being forthright.”
“Make no mistake,” Marta said as she locked eyes with Montero. “I am involved in a great many illegal activities. The majority of our business deals in state-of-the-art military hardware. We don’t sell obsolete junk. We inventory everything from the latest automatic weapons, to customized armor-plated vehicles, to secure global communications, to modern helicopters and even small coastal gunships. Most of our methods, as well as clients, would probably conflict with your buttoned-down FBI sensibilities.”
“Of course,” Montero said. “Anything we see or hear is strictly between us.”
“While we’re exchanging favors,” Marta added. “I expect the same level of secrecy about my dealings that you’ve asked of me.”
“Everything remains confidential,” Donovan said. “Montero doesn’t have typical FBI sensibilities.”
“Really, sounds as if there’s an interesting story there,” Marta remarked as a tiny smile came to her lips.
“When Donovan and I first met, I was still with the FBI,” Montero said. “And then I blackmailed him. But we don’t need to get all wrapped up in those details right now. I do appreciate what you’re doing to help us, and I’m confident my sensibilities will be fine.”
“Tell me that after we’re finished,” Marta said. “What I’m about to do is throw a grenade into a room and see what happens.”
“That’s a perfect metaphor,” Montero replied.
“That’s what I fear you don’t understand. I’m not talking metaphorically.”
As the landing gear came down, signaling their final approach, Donovan marveled how one minute, Marta could talk so lovingly about her father, and then a moment later talk calmly about the harsh world of arms dealing, as well as killing.
“We’ll be met by Karl,” Marta said as she pulled her seatbelt snug. “He’ll have already reached out to our immediate resources in Western Hungary. Aside from the network of our illegal pursuits, there are a great many government officials we can access. We may get lucky, but if we don’t, then we’ll need to accelerate our efforts immediately. Considering how long Lauren’s been missing, I’ll be honest, we’re running out of time.”
The main gear kissed the runway, and the Gulfstream made a left turn and fell in behind a yellow vehicle that would marshal them to the General Aviation area. The ramp was busy with the morning freight arrivals. FedEx, UPS, DHL, and a handful of other regional airliners were lined up, being unloaded. Once they came to a halt, Donovan thanked the crew and the three of them were taken inside via passenger van where they were quickly processed by Customs and Immigration.
Marta passed through the automatic doors and waved at a familiar car. A full-sized black Mercedes Benz 600 sedan wheeled up to the curb. The driver, a muscular man dressed in a suit and tie, wearing dark glasses and sporting thinning white hair, hurried around and opened the rear door.
“I’ll sit up front,” Marta said. “Karl, this is Mr. Nash and Ms. Montero. We are to take utmost care of them both.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Karl dipped his chin at Donovan and Montero, and once everyone was seated in the car, he gently closed the door and took his place behind the wheel.
“What have you found?” Marta asked.
Karl handed her a thin file, put the car in gear, and drove off the airport property, merging onto the thoroughfare that led downtown.
Marta quickly scanned the file and began to read. “A fisherman was interviewed who positively identified Dr. Lauren McKenna. He claims to have witnessed her shoot a man and then slit his throat and steal a boat. From our friends in the Slovakian army, it’s now been determined that there were no bodies in the destroyed runabout.”
“This witness,” Montero said. “Was the runabout his?”
“No, he had a small boat powered by an outboard,” Marta continued reading. “The fishing boat that Lauren reportedly took was found intact not far from where the runabout was stolen. All of that was at least twelve hours ago. She could be anywhere by now.”
“If she were safe, we’d hear about it, so we have to assume she’s still on the run,” Donovan said. “But I’m having a hard time believing she slit a man’s throat after shooting him.”
“I agree,” Montero offered.
“We never know what we can do until forced. She doesn’t know who’s safe and who isn’t,” Marta remarked and kept reading. “The last detail that Karl pulled up was from the Hungarian police. It concerns the man who was arrested yesterday in connection with the attack in the park. We’re very familiar with him. He’s a contract player who works for Western intelligence concerns, including the CIA. We’re taking steps to have him released, and then we’ll pick him up for a chat.”
A phone rang and Karl answered. He listened for a moment, then handed his mobile across to Marta.
“Are you sure? How long ago? Do we have anyone on the inside to confirm?” Marta waited as her questions were addressed. “I see. Call when you find some answers. In the meantime, send a crew over to investigate.”
“What’s happened?” Donovan asked, fearing the answer.
Marta turned in her seat. “Nothing’s been confirmed. We’ve learned that a Jane Doe was just brought to the city morgue. The initial description matches Lauren, but it’s vague. I’m sending people to get eyes on the body. We’ll get a photo.”
“No, not like that,” Donovan said between clenched teeth. He fought his rising panic as he spoke. “I’m not identifying my wife via email. Take me there.”
“I’m not sure it’s in our best interests,” Montero said. “It could be a trap, or a distraction.”
“Now,” Donovan said in a voice he hardly recognized as his own. His hands balled into tight fists, as a white-hot rage flushed outward from his chest. He thought of nothing except getting there and learning the truth.
Marta gestured for Karl’s phone and hit redial. “It’s me, change of plans, we’re on our way there now.”
Karl drove fast, but with precision, smoothly changing lanes frequently, glancing in all three mirrors. Donovan stared out the side window; they were headed south. Beyond that he had no real sense of where they were. There was a ringing in his ears as if the pressure had suddenly dropped. His world seemed to shrink, as if he’d tumbled down a well, the sounds around him muted and distorted. Honking horns in the st
reet sounded as if they were far in the distance.
“It’s around the next corner,” Marta said. “My people aren’t here yet. Both of you stay in the car until I say it’s safe.”
Donovan nodded absently, his hands were shaking.
“Where are we?” Montero asked.
“Semmelweis Medical University. Karl, take us down that alley, we’ll go around to the back of the building.”
The Mercedes came to a gentle stop. Karl stepped out of the car, his hand rested inside his sport coat as he surveyed the people scattered about the tree-lined sidewalks that connected the separate buildings. Satisfied, he signaled for everyone to get out of the car. They walked to a set of double doors, and Karl held one open.
Donovan was struck by the immediate smell of disinfectant, and something else, heavier and unpleasant, that he didn’t want to consider. An older gentleman in a white lab coat met them. He and Marta spoke and then the man turned to Donovan.
“Mr. Nash. I am Dr. Janos. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Marta began speaking Hungarian, and she and Dr. Janos had an extended conversation as they walked down a waxed corridor, down a flight of steps, and finally to a heavy door that was locked. Janos swiped his card and the lock clicked open.
“He says she was found early this morning on the bank of the Danube. She had no identification, no immediate cause of death. The police brought her here for forensic analysis.”
Donovan felt lightheaded as they pushed through a final door into a chamber with stainless steel drawers along one wall. In his entire life he’d never stood in a place like this, waiting for his world to shatter.
Marta glanced at Montero who nodded and then placed her hand on his back to let him know she was close. The door was opened and the sheet-draped body rolled out. Dr. Janos took the edge, but stopped short of pulling the sheet back.
Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 14
