Entanglement

by Michael Brooks

  'Rachel?' he said. His voice was thin, reedy. She managed to look at him. He was holding a mobile phone, open, and flicking his eyes back and forth from her face to its screen. He snapped the phone shut and smiled. 'Rachel Virgo,' he said. 'It is you. Welcome to Cuba.'

  They stood, warily watching each other for maybe thirty seconds. Rachel examined his face. It was thin and long, like his tall, wiry body. His clothes were smart but not distinctive: a white shirt and beige slacks. The tasselled tan leather moccasins on his feet looked expensive. He was around forty-five years old. It was hard to tell.

  Usually Rachel could read people, see their motivations, tell what they were like. But he confused her. He was pointing a gun at her, and his eyes were calm – peaceful, even. She had seen London traffic wardens more cut up about giving out parking tickets.

  'Sit down, yes?' He flicked the gun barrel towards the sofa. Slowly, eyes fixed on his face, she shuffled across the room and sat.

  'Where is my daughter?' Rachel's stomach was falling towards the centre of the earth, but she kept control of her voice. Getting hysterical was not going to help.

  He nodded towards the bedrooms. 'In there. With my colleague.'

  So there were two of them. Her panic deepened, but she controlled it, taking a breath. Somehow Rachel knew, maybe from one of those ridiculous survival programs Nat occasionally watched on TV, that she had to engage him if she was to survive this. They had to be two human beings in conversation. She couldn't just be his victim.

  'What's your name?' she asked.

  'You don't need to know my name.'

  But you know mine, she thought. How? And why did he have her photo on his phone?

  'You have my name,' she said. 'Tell me yours. It will help us to talk.'

  The gun never wavered, but the man rubbed his thumb down over his moustache.

  'Vicente,' he said.

  She was winning. She could handle this.

  'And what do you want, Vicente? Money?'

  He laughed. 'Money? No. I do not want money. Not from you.'

  'Then what?'

  'I want you to do what I tell you. That will be best for everybody. We are going to stay here for a little while. Then . . . then we will see.'

  'My daughter. Katie. Is she OK?'

  'She is fine. She is tied up, and she have . . . ah . . .' – he wiped a hand across his mouth – '. . . She does not talk.'

  'Tape? You put tape on her mouth?'

  'Tape. Yes.'

  'Are you going to put tape on my mouth?'

  'Are you going to scream?'

  'I'm not going to scream.'

  'Then I'm not going to put tape on you.'

  She couldn't think. What next? Keep talking. Be a human being. He is a human being. We're all human beings.

  'Are you going to sit down too?'

  No reaction.

  'Can I see Katie? She's only young. She'll be very frightened. Can she come and sit with us out here? She won't scream. We'll do whatever you say.'

  He was thinking about it. His eyes were scanning hers, looking for something. Treachery. She smiled, as sweetly as she knew how.

  With an abruptness that made her jump, he whistled, then shouted something in Spanish. The door to Katie's room opened.

  Katie was pushed out, or kicked, judging by the way her back arched as she came through the opening. Her hands were tied behind her back and her mouth sealed by a metallic grey slash of duct tape. Her eyes were wide, terrified. Vicente's colleague was younger, fatter, more dishevelled. He, too, wore a shirt and slacks, but he looked altogether more unkempt, and his slacks fell untidily onto his scuffed black lace-ups. He had the same dark wavy hair, but it was set lower on his forehead, giving him a meaner look. There was nothing confusing about his face as he pushed Katie into the room with the muzzle of his pistol. He was enjoying himself.

  Katie collapsed onto the sofa opposite Rachel.

  'It's OK, sweetheart,' Rachel said, trying to hold back her rage. Everything in her wanted to go wild, leap up at the two men, tear at them, destroy them in any way she could manage. She forced herself to look at the guns. Be rational. Think. She lifted her eyes back to Vicente.

  'Please take the tape off her mouth. You can tie me up, if you like.' She held out her hands. 'But please take the tape off.'

  Vicente eyed Rachel with curiosity. 'If she makes a noise, I will shoot her.' He nodded across the room. 'Ramón.'

  His colleague looked disappointed at first, then a smile played on his lips as he pinched a corner of the tape across Katie's mouth. She suppressed a scream as it yanked free; the tape tore at her skin, and her top lip dribbled blood. Katie licked it as she fixed her gaze on her mother. They locked eyes. We will survive this, said the look that passed between them.

  Vicente reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a length of electrical flex. Ramón nervously flicked his gun between them as Vicente tied Rachel's wrists behind her back.

  'Now,' Vicente said. 'We wait.'

  CHAPTER 30

  GENOVSKY WAS LONG GONE. Virgo had seen her, far in the distance, as he came into the immigration hall, but she was in the fast-moving line for US citizens, and he was joining the back of the non-US line, a nervous, shuffling column of souls under suspicion.

  He passed the time watching the silent news pictures that played out on the TVs arrayed along the wall. Some cruel scheduling had littered the headlines with Homeland Security stories. Or maybe that's how it always was on TV over here now. Or maybe that's why they chose this channel: intimidation tactics. The Secretary for Homeland Security cropped up on screen from time to time, a huge, dark-skinned, greyhaired head miming indignation and concern as he silently railed against something or other in front of flashing cameras. The rolling strap declared that Secretary Thomas Wheelan was vowing to secure US borders against the cocaine trade.

  Wheelan.

  A chill crept into Virgo's guts. He looked up at the screen again, then dismissed the thought. But it wouldn't go away.

  We are the authorities. That was what Genovsky had said at Heathrow. Was he up against the Secretary for Homeland Security? Had the head of the FBI kidnapped his wife and daughter?

  He was getting paranoid.

  But what if it was true?

  If it was true, he – everyone – was in deep. With no prospect of rescue. He was alone. And on enemy territory.

  He knew it was true.

  It took a full hour before Virgo came to the front of the line. The officer took fingerprints, took his picture, asked him how long he was staying, and why he had come. After a couple of minutes of interrogation, the United States reluctantly let Nathaniel Virgo into its territories.

  He advanced through to the baggage hall and picked up his luggage, then headed for the exit. Just customs to clear. He waited in line again, progressing slowly. A Japanese couple ahead of him were sidelined, and their bags searched. Then the beagles came. His heart raced, even though his mind told him there was nothing to fear. He hadn't even tried getting a teabag into the country, let alone something really dangerous like a piece of fruit. Unlike the young woman in front of him. The beagles sniffed at her pockets, then sat down next to her. Her face went white, like a prisoner facing execution. Hurriedly, she surrendered two apples into a gloved hand. They would be incinerated, and the country would be safe. The beagles moved on.

  A customs officer took his declaration and waved him straight through into the United States of America: he was in.

  Getting out might be harder.

  He dismissed the thought and scanned the airport's signposting for directions to the taxi ranks.

  CHAPTER 31

  THEY WOULD ASK WHERE he was, of course. When the planes started going down, Thomas Wheelan fully expected to hear the President asking for him.

  He put down the briefing papers and stared at the mahogany panelling across from his desk. It was beautiful, rich, exquisitely crafted, exactly the kind of workmanship such an important office deserved.
When it was no longer his office, when he had the Oval Office, he would come in here and point out the beauty of the wood to his successor, and how it reflected the delicate craftsmanship required to oversee the most important department in the United States government.

  There would be questions about his absence during the attack, about the fact that he didn't inform the Pentagon, or the Oval Office, of his whereabouts. Bob Holmes, as Chief of Staff, would be the one to make the biggest fuss. But the tapes would show that an insider had been involved. It would be clear that he did the right thing; that telling no one about the plot he had discovered was the best course of action – until they knew the identity of the insider he could risk nothing. If he had to, he would stand up in court and swear that handpicking a team to break in on the terrorists was the best course of action. The only course. It was regrettable that it took a while to pin down their location. Even more regrettable that so many citizens died at the hands of those who perpetrated these evil acts. But he had acted as swiftly and decisively as was possible; who knew how many more people might have died if he had taken a different course of action?

  And when it became public, his personal involvement would be welcomed by the American people. His record was already exemplary. He had served in the army, knew what it was like to face bullets in the defence of his country. None of that National Guard bullshit. The Secretary for Homeland Security would be known as someone who had taken his appointment to public office just as seriously as his postings in the military. Here was a man with no regard for personal or political safety. He would make a hands-on, hands-dirty kind of president. The kind of president that America deserved.

  And then his mission would roll on. Let justice roll on like rivers, and righteousness like a mighty stream. He had sat up straight in church last week when Reverend Lowden quoted that; it was like he'd been waiting to hear those words all his life. Amos chapter 5, verse 24; he had committed it to memory. Let justice roll on like rivers. That was his mission statement now.

  The journalist flashed across his mind. If only they knew what was on the disk this Virgo character said he had. Perhaps it was nothing. Alex had taken a disk from Gierek's body; that one was blank, she said. So what could this second disk be? What kind of stunt had Gierek been trying to pull? It made sense to find out before they killed Virgo. And they had the leverage they needed out there in Cuba. Wheelan made a mental note to call Marinov when he left the office, to make sure this Virgo got the message about just how high the stakes were.

  He picked up the papers again. They made interesting reading. Tomorrow, they would take a few planes down. People would die: maybe a few hundred, maybe a thousand. But look what he'd already achieved since getting behind this desk: the Arizona border-control experiment had shown what could be done if there was the will. They had already seized 200,000 pounds of marijuana more than they did last year. Cocaine seizures were up from 86 pounds to 4777. Heroin from 17 pounds to 1525. That was surely more than a thousand lives saved on the streets of America's biggest cities already. And deaths from exposure were down too: the migrants were getting picked up well before their dehydrated bodies fell limp onto the desert sand. Rescues were up fiftyseven per cent. His was a humanitarian mission, in every sense.

  And Arizona's border, what was that – a few hundred miles? The United States had 7000 miles of border, and drugs were leaking through everywhere. He needed more resources, more political will to stem the evil tide. And, after tomorrow, he'd be well on the way to getting everything he needed.

  The words and figures started dancing a little jig before his eyes. Wheelan put the papers down again, and rubbed his brow; he could feel the blur coming on.

  'Marjorie?'

  His assistant put her head round the door, and Wheelan smiled gracefully. He suddenly felt like shit, but he didn't have to make that anyone else's problem.

  'Marjorie, could you get me some more water, please?'

  'Of course, Mr Secretary,' she said. 'Can I get you anything else? A sandwich, perhaps?'

  'Just some water, thank you.' He smiled again.

  Wheelan unlocked the desk drawer and pulled out a brown plastic bottle. He stared at it a moment. His last two pills. For a moment, he felt a little pinprick, a dart of panic. But it didn't last. Tonight, he was heading up to Boston and having a late dinner at Gabe and Ellie's place. And Ellie would have a full bottle ready for collection.

  Everything was under control.

  CHAPTER 32

  AS VIRGO'S CAB CROSSED the bay, downtown Boston loomed ahead: a confusion of towers in steel and glass and concrete. He leaned forward.

  'What's that huge arch on the harbourfront?'

  'The Harbor Hotel. Got a few hundred dollars a night?' The driver turned and looked him up and down. It was obvious what he thought. 'The Buckminster's nice enough. You'll do OK there.'

  The cab driver had chosen the Buckminster for him. It was close to the Boston University campus – just like he asked – but Fenway Park was just round the corner too. Even if it was off-season, the cabbie reasoned, he at least had to go and have a look on his first time in town. He would divert the ride, free of charge, so he could show Virgo the Green Monster. Thirty-seven feet of left-field wall.

  Virgo had no idea what that meant, but nodded in appreciation. Close to BU was good enough.

  It felt like any American city: big, bustling, impressive. But oppressive too, with its huge expressways and vehicles to match. By the time they got close to Fenway Park, though, it was becoming friendlier, somehow more intimate. The streets closed in a little, and people seemed to be strolling rather than hurrying down the sidewalks.

  'There it is.' The driver pulled to the side of the road. 'The Green Monster.' Virgo looked up. A sheer cliff of green steel rose up from a brown brick foundation.

  'Highest in professional baseball,' the driver said. 'Fly balls don't get you a home run so easy when you're taking on the Red Sox.' He turned and grinned at Virgo. The grin faded when he registered Virgo's blank face. 'Anyway, best get you to the hotel.' He swung the cab back into the traffic.

  As they approached the Buckminster, the streets gradually became populated by young people, released from classes and milling aimlessly between brightly lit shops and bars.

  They drove into a huge open square. The driver slammed a hand onto the horn as a couple of students threatened to step out into the road. 'Kenmore Square,' he said. 'Unbelievable pain in the ass. Here we are. The Buckminster. Want me to wait, make sure they got a room?'

  Virgo shook his head and paid the fare. He looked up at the hotel as the cab pulled away. It seemed OK, nothing special.

  They had rooms. He paid with Genovsky's cash. He was surprised how driven he felt, how lacking in nerves as he spun out another identity. He would eat, sleep, and get into the university first thing. He had to meet Genovsky at noon tomorrow, and he would make sure he had something to bargain with. Something to keep him in the game.

  In this game, we are the authorities.

  Thomas Wheelan? The name banged against the inside of his skull.

  Virgo shook his head. It didn't matter. Whatever this grand scheme, he could only do what he could do. He just had to make sure he kept himself in the game.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE SECRETARY FOR HOMELAND Security had gone to the bathroom. And Gabriel MacIntyre knew that when Tom came back he'd be a different man. It was a little routine they went through pretty much every time Tom came to the house.

  Ellie was her brother's supplier. MacIntyre smiled at his wife; she hadn't worked out that he knew, because she didn't believe people could be intrinsically suspicious or conniving. It wouldn't occur to her that her husband would even watch her moves. But the knowing look she shared with her brother, the way she slipped out of the room for a moment, Tom's shifting, anxious stare that dissipated on her return – the handover was obvious.

  There was no need for him to say anything.

  It wasn't like he particularly mind
ed the drugs being in the house. Ellie would keep them well out of Jennie's reach, he knew that. He did wonder if Ellie had to lie to her physician to get them, or whether the maid got them for her. Where she lived, Beatrice would certainly know the right kind of people. But he wasn't going to ask. He liked the leverage he retained by keeping the matter undiscussed.

  It wasn't like he had a lot of leverage over Thomas Wheelan. But to have the Homeland Security chief use his house to pick up the pills he needed – that surely had to be worth something. Being married to his supplier wasn't a bad position to be in, either.

  MacIntyre stared at the Chagall print mounted on the wall. There was another reason he never mentioned anything to Ellie: he knew it tore her apart. She was ripped in two by the need to care for Tom, to do what she could for him, and the need to always do the right thing for her husband, and for little Jennie. She would do anything she could to do the right thing. But her brother's need for the pills was greater than her own need for an easy conscience. And Tom's addiction was an anomaly, a cruel twist of fate. She needn't feel guilty about keeping its consequences under control.

  There was certainly an irony in it: Tom was hooked on sleeping pills and he hadn't had a decent night in eight years. Not since the police found his son lying in a dirty room downtown, track marks peppering his arms, lost to a chemical haze. The papers had gone to town on it: the son of Atlanta's mayor thrown out of home, dead in a rat-infested warehouse.

  What a waste. That's all Tom had said. It wasn't like he hadn't tried. He'd locked Joshua away, sent him to rehab – what else was he supposed to do? Every time the boy came back out, he went in search of a score again, stuck himself with needles in the dirty streets. In the end, Thomas Wheelan, Mayor of Atlanta, recipient of a Distinguished Service Medal, admitted he was out of his depth. Joshua was beyond help. They forced him out of the house and changed the locks while his mother wept in the hallway. Kill or cure.