by L. A. Larkin
‘Jerry?’
‘Liv, this is too big. Tell Casburn. He’ll notify the right people.’
‘He doesn’t believe me.’
‘Then maybe you’ve got Sinclair wrong?’
‘And what if I’m right? What if he releases it at Creech? Or Heathrow? Or takes it to a city like Los Angeles? Imagine buildings collapsing, machinery failing. The devastation. The deaths.’ She takes a breath. ‘Can you find out if he flew to the USA yesterday? Probably Las Vegas.’
‘I know Inspector Walker at Heathrow, but he’ll tell me bugger all. You forget, I’m retired.’
‘Please, just call him. If I’m wrong, where’s the harm? If I’m right, maybe this Walker will take action.’
Butcher sighs. ‘His full name?’
‘Tobias Arthur Sinclair.’
‘I’ll call you back.’
By the time he does so, she’s already on the M25, approaching the T3 Heathrow exit.
‘Anything?’
‘Spoke to Walker. He was reluctant to co-operate.’
‘Is Toby on a passenger list?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No, Liv. He did not fly from Heathrow or any UK airport yesterday and he’s not on any list today.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘Guess Casburn was right.’
She falls silent. ‘Wait! Can you do one more thing? Ask Walker to check for Hector Mark Sinclair?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘His brother, lives in Australia. If Hector has become an Australian citizen, he won’t need his UK passport. They look alike, so Toby could’ve used his brother’s passport.’
‘A long shot but I’ll check.’
Wolfe takes the Terminal 3 turn-off and pulls over as soon as she can. A few minutes later, Butcher calls back.
‘You’re right. Hector Sinclair flew to Las Vegas yesterday, landing at 7.26 in the evening. Could it be the brother?’
‘As far as I know, Hector’s in Australia.’
‘You want me to talk to Casburn? He’ll listen to me.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Before she can dial Casburn’s number, he calls her.
‘Meet me at Heathrow’s police station. I need everything you know about Sinclair.’
68
Wolfe leans against her car outside Heathrow’s police station, ill at ease. Where is Casburn?
Located on the outskirts of the airport, the station is home to a specialist armed unit known as Aviation Security Command, or SO18. The building’s silver exterior resembles the large overlapping plates on knights’ armour, but the interior - she’s read - is modern, well lit and well ventilated, and is therefore unlike any other nick Wolfe has ever seen. It has thirty custody cells comfortable enough to rival rooms in a budget airport hotel, a high-tech Command and Control Centre and an armoury that would make any gun fanatic green with envy.
Someone ploughs into Wolfe, shunting her sideways into a wall. Her wrist is grabbed from behind. Instinctively, she bends the wrist and grips the hand that holds her, at the same time stepping away from her captor and turning to face him. The arresting officer is looking down at the handcuffs he’s pulling from his body armour pocket. Seeing his colleague in difficulty, the second officer lunges at her, but she has already taken the arresting officer in a painful wrist lock, forcing his hand down to a ninety-degree angle from the wrist. He winces and releases his grip. She bolts. This is not what she and Casburn agreed.
Wolfe is rugby-tackled to the ground. Two other armed officers point MP5s at her.
‘Police! Stay where you are.’
Wolfe freezes and raises her arms. The arresting officers don’t make the same mistake twice: one holds both her arms behind her back as the other handcuffs her, then they both drag her up to standing.
‘Olivia Wolfe, I’m arresting you for the murder of Charles Harvey.’
Wolfe senses somebody close behind her and smells stale breath barely masked by mint. ‘Dan, there’s no need for this.’
She’s escorted in silence to a table-less interview room and the handcuffs removed. In theory, the absence of a table enables them to watch her body language.
‘Where’s Flynn?’ she asks Casburn.
He folds his arms.
She folds hers.
‘He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?’
A man in his mid-thirties with receding hairline enters the room. His shirt is creased from wearing a bulletproof vest he’s only just removed. Inspector Doug Walker announces himself, the time and date and who else is present in the room - DCI Casburn.
Wolfe glances at the video camera recording them, then at Casburn, who wears a shirt too big around the collar. She guesses he’s borrowed a clean shirt from somebody at the nick. There are three rust-coloured stains on his jacket lapel. Possibly blood spatter: Vitaly’s. She feels a sudden surge of anger.
‘Dan, you promised me—’
‘I promised nothing. Now explain why you think Toby Sinclair is headed for Creech Air Force Base?’
Wolfe tells them everything she knows. She pleads with Casburn. ‘You know how destructive it is. Why aren’t you stopping him?’
Casburn remains poker-faced. ‘I’m waiting for confirmation Sinclair has it.’
‘Of course he does!’ she shouts in exasperation. ‘You just don’t want the Americans to know you’ve messed up.’
Casburn lifts his chin a fraction. That’s it. He doesn’t want to admit to the FBI he’s failed to contain Psychosillius. If it reaches the USA, his career is over.
‘If Sinclair has it,’ says Walker, ‘is it possible he’s used it at this airport?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t think so. He’s not targeting civilians, just the military.’
They get up to leave.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.
They ignore her.
‘Inspector Walker! A man posing a major threat to the United States has already sunk an aircraft carrier. At least warn Creech and the FBI.’
‘Have you any idea how many apparent threats we deal with every day?’ says Walker. ‘Ninety-nine per cent a waste of time. I need more than the word of a murder suspect.’
‘But you know Hector’s in Australia, right?’
Walker nods.
‘Don’t you find Toby travelling on his brother’s passport a little suspicious?’
There’s a knock on the door and a female PC enters, handing Walker a note. ‘Okay, keep it muted and bring it to me.’
Then to Olivia, ‘John Lindsay’s returned your call. You take it on loudspeaker.’
The PC returns with Wolfe’s mobile. Walker drags a spare chair into the space between them, puts the phone on the seat and takes the mobile off mute.
‘John, this is Olivia. Sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘It’s three in the morning. This’d better be important.’
‘Is Toby Sinclair with you?’
‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know you from a bar of soap. Why do you want to know—’
‘Enough!’ cuts in Casburn, who moves close to the phone. ‘John, I’m DCI Dan Casburn, with Counter Terrorism Command in London.’
‘Is this a wind-up?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What’s this got to do with Toby?’
‘Please, just answer the question. Is Toby Sinclair with you?’
‘Look, this isn’t right. You could be anyone.’
Walker interjects. ‘John, my name is Doug Walker. I’m a police inspector at Heathrow. I’ll give you our number. Call me back. But be quick. This matter is extremely urgent.’
Lindsay hesitates. ‘Err, well, okay, I guess. Look, something weird’s happened.’
‘What?’ demands Casburn.
‘I picked Toby up at the airport, brought him home, had dinner. He looked like crap so we had an early night. I hear a bang, get up to check it out and Toby’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’ as
ks Casburn.
‘I thought maybe a walk. You know, jetlag and all that. But he took his stuff with him.’
Walker blinks rapidly. Casburn shifts in his chair and clears his throat.
‘How long ago?’
‘I don’t know, twenty minutes.’
‘Is he on foot?’
‘Guess so. Hold on, I’ll just check . . . ’ They hear footsteps. Casburn’s jaw is locked so tight, the veins in his neck bulge. ‘Shit! He took my damn car.’
Casburn stands abruptly and leans over the phone. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘No idea.’
‘Is anything else missing?’ asks Wolfe. ‘Security pass, passport?’
‘You’re kidding, right? Toby’s not a criminal.’
‘Check now, sir,’ snaps Casburn.
The knot of anxiety in Wolfe’s belly tightens as they wait. Casburn paces, Walker stares at the phone.
‘I can’t find my Creech security pass.’
Casburn finally glances at Wolfe. There’s fear in his eyes. ‘Could Toby use it to get on to the base?’
‘In theory, yes. He’d have to switch the photo. But he’d never do—’
Casburn closes his eyes for a few seconds, takes a deep breath, then just as quickly opens them. ‘Mr Lindsay, I have reason to believe Sinclair will try to enter Creech. I’m contacting the base. The police will be with you shortly. Stay where you are and do not attempt to contact Sinclair. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but—’
Casburn pockets Wolfe’s phone and leaves, hastily followed by Walker. A police officer stands near the door watching her.
At last, they believe her. But after thirty minutes of waiting and no news, she’s going crazy, chewing her fingernails to the quick.
The door bursts open. Casburn enters with two officers armed with MP5s. He handcuffs her.
‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Creech Air Force Base.’
69
Las Vegas, USA
Wolfe has been handcuffed to Casburn for the entire flight and the constant focus of nervous glances from fellow passengers. Occasionally he yanks her wrist towards him, reminding her he is in control, as if she were a dog on a leash. When by accident the detective’s hand brushes hers, she shudders, repelled. She doesn’t trust him.
‘Are you wearing Vitaly’s blood?’ she asks, nodding at his jacket, unable to keep the anger from her voice.
Casburn swivels his head to look out of the window, ignoring the question. But she knows the answer and feels sick. Casburn sleeps most of the journey, except for brief phone calls. From these it’s clear that twenty-four hours after his arrival in the United States, Toby Sinclair is nowhere to be found.
As they disembark at McCarran International Airport, they’re met by two FBI agents who introduce themselves. Anthony Garriola, Special Agent-In-Charge, in his early forties, has a narrow face, deep-set eyes under heavy brows, and salt-and-pepper hair. Baron Banks, six foot four with a linebacker’s build, is in his late twenties.
‘We don’t want her here,’ Garriola says, jerking his head in Wolfe’s direction as they head for Passport Control.
‘I want her here. She knows Sinclair. We may need her to talk him down.’
‘We have professionals for that, sir.’
‘He trusts me,’ Wolfe says. ‘Let me help.’
Garriola doesn’t even look at her.
‘Sir, every goddamned law enforcement agency wants in on this one. USAF police, local cops, marshals . . . ’ Garriola stops himself, giving Wolfe an unfriendly glance. There’s something he doesn’t want her to know. ‘Then there’s the military pulling rank. It’s like feeding time at the fricking zoo. So we don’t need you interfering. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘Here to help,’ Casburn replies. Handcuffed to him, Wolfe feels his arm tense. ‘But let me remind you the suspect is a British national and our involvement in this operation has been cleared at the highest levels.’
Garriola shakes his head. ‘Let me remind you that you’re the ones who let a biological weapon get into the hands of a terrorist. You’ve done enough.’
Garriola flashes his badge and paves their way through border security.
The brightly lit red and yellow ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign in Arrivals does little to cheer Wolfe. This is not a good start. Casburn and Garriola need to co-operate if they’re going to find Sinclair in time. As they exit the terminal, the freezing night air makes her shiver. She and Casburn pile into the back of a black Chevy Suburban for the thirty-five mile journey through the desert to Creech Air Force Base. Garriola drives.
‘I need an update,’ demands Casburn.
‘Sinclair’s flight’s been quarantined and we’re locating all the passengers,’ Garriola says, his left arm resting on the doorframe, the window down despite the cold. ‘Got the best bacteriologists and germ warfare experts all over it. Your two scientists, Matthews and Price, and some other guys from Porton Down land in an hour. They’ll be escorted to the base.’
‘Good. Any news on Sinclair?’ Casburn asks.
‘Lindsay’s pickup’s been found in a car park. Must be driving something different. We’re following up on reported car thefts in the area. You sure about his target?’
‘All the evidence suggests he’s planning an attack on Creech.’
Garriola whistles through his teeth. ‘You’d better be right. Stirred up one hell of a shit storm.’
‘He wants revenge,’ says Wolfe. ‘A drone strike killed his wife and kids. A drone controlled from Creech. Creech has to be his target.’
‘Did I ask you a question?’ Garriola snaps, flicking her a look in the rear-view mirror.
Casburn squeezes her arm. A warning. Wolfe opens her mouth to object, then thinks better of it. In their eyes she’s a murder suspect.
‘Well, he ain’t been on the base, that’s for sure,’ Garriola continues. ‘Lindsay’s pass hasn’t been used and there’s no way he could break in. Maybe we scared him off?’
‘I doubt it,’ mutters Wolfe.
Once they are beyond the bright lights of Las Vegas, the straight road leads into an engulfing darkness with only dusty saltbush either side of the asphalt illuminated in the headlights. The silence is only broken by the rumble of the tyres. Soon, though, a wide arc of light brightens the horizon and street lighting lines the road once more. From a distance Creech is unassuming, a collection of nondescript hangars and low-rise administration buildings, surrounded by high mesh fences, razor wire and perimeter walls. Despite an almost full moon, Wolfe cannot see the barren hills surrounding the base or get any sense of the almost four square miles the site covers. The floodlit car park is a hub of activity: soldiers with dogs patrol the perimeter; the local police in their beige uniforms gather near one of the many parked black and white police cars as they’re briefed by an officer leaning over a map; and, as their car slows, NBC, KTNV and Fox News reporters rush towards them. Garriola weaves past the crash barriers and pulls up at the main gate, shows his badge to a female air force police officer in blue uniform and cap, and is waved through.
‘Who’s in overall charge of this investigation? You?’ Casburn asks Garriola.
The FBI agent shakes his head. ‘It’s never that simple.’
The motel was cheap, the clerk took cash and didn’t ask for ID. Sinclair sits on the sagging bed ignoring the loud hum from the mini-fridge, eating a take-out cheeseburger and fries as he watches the news on TV. There are often protests outside Creech, anti-war hippies with placards who get arrested. Well meaning but ineffective. Sinclair plans to use stealth. Surprise his enemy.
Local news reporters are filling air-time until they can discover what the unspecified ‘threat’ is at the base. The big question on every reporter’s lips is: will the special visitor arriving at Creech tomorrow still show? Sinclair is in no doubt. Of course he will. He’s not a man who scares easily.
Cameras flash and rep
orters scramble to see inside a black Chevy Suburban that’s just arrived at the base’s main gate. Sinclair leans forward, straining to see who has caused such excitement. There’s no mistaking the FBI vests worn by the men seated at the front, but it’s the person handcuffed in the back who draws his interest, her pale face and startled wide brown eyes recognisable in the glare of broadcast camera lights.
‘Ah, Olivia. I knew you’d come. Too smart for your own good.’
Sinclair looks at his padded backpack on the floor containing the hundred-millilitre shampoo bottles of Psychosillius. Of the twelve containers he brought with him, one is now empty, used to fill the fountain pen’s cartridge. He will keep one other for an unforeseen opportunity. The rest of the destructive bacteria he will transfer into a single glass bottle tomorrow.
I miss my little robin. I have nothing to do all day. Nothing except read my diary.
I’ve seen your face flash across every news channel, entering that American base, the media surrounding your car. What’s it called? Stupid name, rhymes with screech. Doesn’t matter. They say you’re a killer assisting the authorities with their enquiries. I feel bad about that. Time to set them straight. Eyewitnesses change their stories all the time. I don’t want you in prison for murdering Harvey. Where would be the fun for me?
I was surprised to see Casburn with you. Trying to save the world, Olivia, even if it means dancing with the devil?
Don’t bother. It isn’t worth it.
Just come home. Be mine again.
The holding cell is spartan: concrete floor, breezeblock white walls, a steel washbasin and toilet, bed base with anorexic mattress, and chair fixed to the floor. At least it’s heated and she’s had a meal. Wolfe is collected by a USAF police officer in camouflage battle-dress and blue beret, and taken to an equally barren interview room, where Garriola sits, arms folded, tightlipped as if he’s sucked a lemon. Next to him is a military USAF police investigator who is introduced as Hendrix. No Casburn. Wolfe suspects he’s on the other side of the large two-way mirror.
A man in his late thirties with shaved head in a dark suit wearing an earpiece, the spiralling wire disappearing behind his collar, strides into the room. From the tips of his polished shoes to the sunglasses poking out from his top pocket and the bulge in his loose jacket due to the gun, radio, handcuffs and badge he inevitably carries, Wolfe is in no doubt he’s Secret Service. The one in charge.
