A Brilliant Deception

by Kim Foster

  For now, I was tracking the assassin’s cell phone. Technically, Gladys was tracking it, and informing me of his progress. He was on his way to Manhattan; he’d be entering the tunnel any minute. When Atworthy had fielded that phone call in the limo, he’d told me everything I needed to know. Take the shot had revealed the method of assassination. Clear your post meant the assassin would be operating from a remote location. Which could only mean one thing: the assassin was a sniper.

  Making note of the exact moment of the call had meant Gladys could trace it on the network and identify the caller’s number. From there, we could track his vehicle, cross-checked with car registration. And now I had a plan for when he reached the tunnel. Atworthy was keeping me mostly in the dark regarding the details of the assassination plot. After all, I was only a pawn in his machinations.

  But a pawn can bring down a king.

  “Okay, Cat,” Gladys said, “you’re looking for a blue Prius. He just entered Boyle Plaza.”

  Perfect. The Jersey City entrance to the tunnel. I smiled a little at the fact it was a Prius. An assassin with an environmental conscience? Nice one.

  Gladys was back in Singapore now, having traveled there with Ethan and the remaining team. I knew they were holed up in a hotel there, plotting Templeton’s rescue, and I wanted to let her get back to that task. I would only need her assistance for a few more minutes, if everything went according to plan.

  “Okay, Gladys, make it happen,” I said.

  In the next instant, there was a broken water main spraying everywhere. Cars came to an abrupt halt. It wouldn’t be long before service vehicles and emergency response vehicles would come flying through.

  I held my breath and scanned the rows of blocked vehicles. Blue Prius . . .

  There. From my hiding place I spotted the car, although it was too dark to see the driver’s face. I waited.

  I knew the profile of an assassin. He wouldn’t be content to sit there for long without knowing what was happening. Especially a sniper on the job, on the clock. It would only be a matter of time before he got out of his car to see for himself what was going on and insist they let him through.

  I watched. And tapped my fingers. And as I was about to despair that he wasn’t going to get out, the driver’s side door opened. Out stepped a man.

  He had short brown hair shot through with gray. His face was square and hard, and he gazed straight ahead with a cold, steely look. If I hadn’t been completely sure before, the chills prickling my neck removed all doubt. This was the right man.

  I surveyed the scene from my hiding spot. I knew the other drivers would be looking at the commotion, if they weren’t already out of their vehicles. I needed to pick my moment.

  Sabotage was my only hope at this point. It was the only thing that could buy me time and save the prime minister, without tipping my hand to Atworthy. For Templeton’s life, I had to appear like I was still going ahead with the plan.

  Like a shadow, I slipped through the darkened tunnel, knowing the focus would be at the emergency, the broken water main. I would be essentially invisible.

  When I reached the Prius, I glanced briefly around, then slipped into the backseat. I looked around the interior of the car, hoping the briefcase would be in the front seat or the backseat.

  Nothing.

  Shit. He must have locked it in the trunk. I glanced up. There was still plenty of fuss over the water main. I had time.

  I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and took a close look at the rear seat. Good. It was the kind I could access the trunk through. I unlatched and flopped the seat forward and reached into the assassin’s trunk, praying my fingers would meet the hard surface of a briefcase and not the cold lumpiness of a dead body.

  My gloved hand closed around a solid case. I exhaled with relief and slid it forward onto my lap. I focused on my next few steps, trying to stay calm. I had to get this job done in a matter of seconds.

  Heart pounding, I opened the case and stared at the black rifle resting inside. I gingerly lifted it out and turned the adjustment on the scope by the tiniest amount. I knew he must have already zeroed his scope, and would have tested it before coming. As a sniper, he wouldn’t have a chance to recalibrate the sight. Snipers had one shot, and the scope couldn’t be off by even the slightest degree. A more obvious sabotage might be noticed by him. A subtle shift would be overlooked.

  I replaced the rifle in its case, closed it, and slid it back into the trunk, terrified of the sniper’s return. But nothing happened. I relatched the backseat and instantly slipped out of the vehicle. I walked quickly away across the rows of vehicles.

  My ears were pricked for any suggestion I had been spotted. But there were no alarms, no shouts. Nobody had seen me climb in and out of a stranger’s car. When I got several cars lengths away, I tucked into my alcove again, melting into the shadows.

  I peered into the tunnel and saw the assassin returning to his car. He climbed into the driver’s seat and I stared at the silhouette of his head. He didn’t turn, didn’t look behind him into the backseat. Within moments, traffic began to move again.

  There was no sign he was suspicious of anything. I allowed a small flutter of triumph in my chest. It was done.

  I began climbing back up through the ventilation tower. I had a gala to attend.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Ethan glanced at Brooke in the passenger’s seat as he drove the team toward the Singapore prison in the surveillance van. Brooke was staring out the window at the skyline—a forest of skyscrapers with sunlight singing off their mirrored towers—as the van sped along the freeway. He hadn’t intended for her to come.

  But as he’d been packing his bags and preparing to leave the resort in Bali, Brooke had appeared in the doorway, dressed for a journey.

  “Brooke, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Why would you do that? It’s going to be dangerous.”

  “Oh, is it? You mean I might chip a nail?” Her mocking look transformed into something more serious. “I’m aware of the danger factor, Jones. Obviously. But this is for Templeton. He doesn’t deserve to be in there. He’s the best one of all of us.”

  Now Ethan pulled the van off the freeway, where Brooke would take the car that was waiting for her. They would continue the journey to the prison separately.

  Before leaving the van, Brooke applied a final layer of deep red lipstick. She checked her reflection in the mirror and smoothed her hair. Ethan caught sight of Felix gaping at her from the backseat, and he chuckled lightly to himself. Brooke was in her element—she was going in disguised as Templeton’s lover. And she was relishing the role.

  Ethan adjusted his white lab coat. For his part, he would be playing a doctor.

  Gladys had discovered, by combing through the hacked e-mail system, that a visit had been arranged for one of the high-profile prisoners to be seen by a prominent cardiovascular surgeon. Ethan would be posing as that guy. Just arriving a day early.

  Ethan cracked his knuckles. This was way, way out of his comfort zone. A high-security prison? Gladys had furnished them with a full set of blueprints and security details, but even still. He was going to have to pull off the con job of his life, with equal parts charm and deception. With a quick prayer to the patron saint of hustlers, he put the van in gear and drove on to the prison.

  He was determined, and he wasn’t going to back down now. Like Brooke said, Templeton was a good man. He did not deserve to be in this prison. He certainly didn’t deserve to be on the death row of this prison. He was the sacrificial lamb in Atworthy’s filthy game, and that was all kinds of wrong.

  In spite of himself, Ethan wished Jack were there. The man was irritating, but he might have been of assistance. When they’d still been in Bali, Felix had tried calling him. “Jack, we need your help,” he’d said, after finally getting through. “Where are you?”

  There had been a pause. “I’m in New York.”

  “An
d what are you doing there?”

  “We’ve located the Fabergé,” he’d said. “This is big, Felix. I have to see this through.”

  Felix had disconnected the call and looked at Ethan, shaking his head. It wasn’t going to happen. Fine. They’d do it without Jack’s help.

  After learning Jack’s location, Ethan had hesitated a moment, then fired off a quick encrypted message to Cat. If Jack was in New York, maybe he could help her, somehow. Then it was immediately back to the planning of their own mission impossible.

  At the prison, Brooke went in first. She approached the guard office while Ethan, Gladys, and Felix watched from the van just outside the parking lot, staring at the CCTV feeds they’d hacked into. Ethan tightened a fist; he wondered what state Templeton would be in. Would he realize what was happening and play along? Would he say something to blow Brooke’s cover?

  At the front desk, the guard shook his head firmly when Brooke said she was there to visit Templeton. “No visitors.”

  Brooke cocked her head, and arranged her mouth in the subtlest of pouts. She ran a hand through her hair, ostensibly trying to figure out what to do next . . .

  The other guards in the office turned their heads toward her. Ethan smiled knowingly. It was impressive, the way she carefully amped up the sex appeal. He watched the guards’ response.

  Come on, Ethan thought. Were they really going to turn her away? Wouldn’t they want to let her in so they could watch her a little longer? They were well-trained, clearly. It was the only explanation for their refusal.

  And then, after a few brief words among them, they let her in. Ethan exhaled. Good.

  And now it was his turn.

  Ethan left the van and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes that was waiting for him. He drove through the entrance to the prison parking lot, knowing they would be following in the van shortly. He parked in a VIP spot and walked to the guards’ office, his breathing loud in his ears. Like flipping a switch, he centered himself and gathered his composure. He knew Cat had always marveled at his effortless ability to appear cool under pressure—she’d told him many times. But it wasn’t effortless; it was a skill, like any other.

  “You aren’t on the schedule until tomorrow,” the guard said in British-accented English, inspecting Ethan’s ID.

  “My surgical schedule got rearranged, and I had a block of time available this morning. My assistant was supposed to contact you with that information.”

  The guard scrutinized him, his deliberation stretching out agonizingly. Finally, he buzzed Ethan through. “Feng will inspect your belongings. You will have time to set up; your patient will not be here for a few minutes as we need to arrange his transit.”

  As Ethan waited in the visitors’ area for his arrival to be stamped and approved, Feng, a larger, meaner-looking guard, rifled through Ethan’s black doctor’s bag. Then Ethan saw guards leading Templeton to his visitor, Brooke.

  He didn’t look good. Ashen, hunched, and much older than his years. Ethan fought to keep the shock from his face—only a few days’ detention had done this to Templeton?

  Ethan was then taken away by Feng, buzzed through the entry doors, and marched down a long corridor. But he could still hear Brooke through his earpiece.

  There were murmurs of the sorts of words a lover and a prisoner would exchange. Ethan was impressed; Templeton was playing right along without missing a beat.

  “Sugar, are you okay? You don’t look so good. Maybe you need to see . . . a doctor.”

  “To be honest, darling, I’m not feeling at all well, suddenly . . .”

  Good, Ethan thought. He’d taken the hint.

  And then things got a little more agitated. “Oh honey, please stay calm,” Brooke said. “I don’t want you to have another heart attack, like last time. I couldn’t stand that. If you had a heart attack. I’ll never forget how you looked last time, the way you clutched your chest, started breathing heavily . . . it would be awful if that happened RIGHT NOW . . . Baby. I’m just so worried.”

  “Guard?” Brooke was saying. “I think he’s having a heart attack! Help him!”

  The only part of the gamble was this: how much would they care if Templeton dropped dead right there? He was on death row. It would save them the trouble.

  But Ethan hoped the Singaporean sensibility would not allow something messy like that to happen. They valued control and order. A prisoner dying a few weeks before it was scheduled would not be looked upon favorably.

  There were shuffling sounds and some discussion, and Ethan heard a guard’s voice say, “Sir, sit down here, we’re taking you to the infirmary.”

  Another guard said, “Your lucky day, old man. There’s a famous heart doctor working there today. You picked a good day to have a heart attack.”

  At this point, Ethan had reached the infirmary. The regular doctor who worked there was on a tea break, he was told. Ethan began setting up the room and arranging his equipment on a tray—faking it utterly, but making it look good, Ethan hoped. A guard came in then and asked Ethan if he could see another patient first. He briefly described the situation.

  “Fine,” Ethan said. “Bring him right in.”

  While Ethan waited for his patient, part of his “setting up” process was to disable the CCTV in the room, which he did in short order.

  In another minute they wheeled Templeton inside, seated in a wheelchair. He was clutching the center of his chest, hunched over. The room was suddenly crowded, with Ethan, Templeton, and one guard standing right behind Ethan. Ethan was unsurprised that Brooke was not with them.

  “If they don’t let you in,” Ethan had said when they’d been planning this part of the op, “you still need to hang around. You need to look like you’re waiting for news. What you’re really doing is causing more of a distraction for the guards in the main office.”

  “You know I object to this role, on one level,” Brooke had said. “I would rather be doing the interesting stuff.”

  “I know. But this particular world is male-dominated and sexist. We’re just using that against them.” She had seemed somewhat satisfied with this.

  The guard was standing close, right off Ethan’s shoulder, but his gaze was pinned on the prisoner. It was with a quick, smooth action that Ethan reached over and attacked the guard, pulling him into a strong headlock. The man had no idea what hit him, and then Ethan plunged a syringe in his neck, injecting him with the fast-acting tranquilizer he’d brought in his doctor’s kit.

  Templeton took it all in stride, as if he’d been in on the plan, and waited for instruction from Ethan. Even as a trampled prisoner, Templeton still managed to remain unflappable. It was an awe-inspiring sight. Ethan flashed Templeton a grim smile, and together they set to work.

  They hauled the unconscious guard to the infirmary bathroom and stripped him of his uniform. They were going to disguise Templeton as the guard, switch their identities. They would only have moments in which to work; another guard could enter the infirmary at any time.

  They shaved Templeton’s face and eyebrows, and he inserted brown contact lenses. Ethan handed him a pot of cream to apply to his face—Brooke’s secret weapon. “It’s an irritant,” she’d explained. “It’ll plump the skin up, fill out the wrinkles. It’ll take years off, within a minute. It doesn’t last, and it burns like a son of a bitch. But if you really want to look younger, this will do the trick.” Next came a tinted cream that gave Templeton the proper Asian coloring, and the finishing touch: a black wig.

  The disguise didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be good enough to give them a way out.

  Templeton uttered quick pointers on the guards as he pulled on the uniform. “They’ll send a second guard here in a minute. We won’t have long.” Ethan nodded. Templeton had obviously been monitoring the guards’ habits and movements while he’d been inside the institution.

  Working together, they dressed the unconscious guard in Templeton’s prisoner uniform, and placed him on a g
urney, rolling him over so he was facing away from the door. Then Ethan and Templeton quickly left the infirmary.

  They marched down the corridor and reached the front security checkpoint. “This guard is escorting me to my vehicle,” Ethan said in his most important and impatient tone, while Templeton stood behind him, pretending to be busily adjusting his walkie-talkie. “I need some further equipment.” He waited for the guards to clear their exit.

  “Where’s the prisoner? The one having a heart attack.”

  Ethan glanced past them at the CCTV screens behind them. The screen under the label “INFIRMARY” was black. “We’ve left him in the infirmary. Another guard is there with him.”

  Ethan stared at the office guards and they stared back. A trickle of sweat rolled down Ethan’s neck.

  And then they buzzed him through.

  Ethan and Templeton kept their eyes up, straight ahead, as they walked through multiple sets of doors and out into the parking lot. Ethan could see the van, waiting. They were almost there.

  And then, Ethan heard Felix’s voice in his ear. “Another guard just disappeared into the infirmary. He’ll see the guard on the gurney. Any second—”

  Ethan swallowed uncomfortably but they kept walking straight for the van.

  “Guys, you need to move. Now.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  I stepped out onto the rooftop patio on Atworthy’s arm and took in the sight that greeted me. Surrounded by Manhattan skyscrapers, with a twilit summer sky arching overhead, the rooftop gardens shimmered with a thousand twinkle lights. Marble sculptures gleamed among deep green yew hedges carved in whimsical shapes. Men in black tie strolled with women in couture, while a chamber orchestra sent music up to the heavens. A warm breeze rose up from the street, twenty-five stories below.

  Thick, luxurious turf sank underneath my Louboutins as I walked. I accepted a flute of champagne from a waiter in white tie. Not that I was going to drink it; I needed to be sharper than that tonight. Atworthy was posing as a diplomat from a tiny country in Europe that nobody had heard of, and I was posing as his wife. The top floor of this building, an old art deco masterpiece from New York’s golden age, had recently been renovated and converted into a luxurious private residence where guests of the US government would stay when visiting New York. Specifically, it was functioning as the official residence of the prime minister of Britain and his entourage.