Entanglement

by Michael Brooks

  It killed him.

  And then Sheila filed for divorce. Tom had slipped into free fall for a while, and Ellie had fallen with him.

  MacIntyre had been too busy at work to do anything but watch. The tragedy of the events had almost destroyed their marriage, just like it destroyed Tom's. But they were stronger than that, he and Ellie. They'd already survived the hate of two fathers-in-law; nothing but death was going to drive them apart after that.

  Tom came back into the room, and Ellie's gaze sought out his mood, met his eyes. Her brother looked at peace again. He smiled; Ellie relaxed.

  MacIntyre saw again how beautiful his wife was. Breathtaking. He was the luckiest guy alive.

  'You ready to eat, Tom?' Ellie smiled at her brother.

  Tom looked up at her, then at him. 'I am. You ready, Gabe?'

  MacIntyre forced a smile onto his lips. 'All set,' he said. 'Let's eat.'

  CHAPTER 34

  'ANYBODY SEE ANYTHING YET?'

  Frank Delaney lifted his head and squinted through the gloom at his trainees. Their faces were lit by the soft glow of the LCD screens in front of them. It was ridiculous: evening class in the dark.

  The FBI's new data-management system cost $170 million, came in two years late, and was still appallingly unreliable. But the really appalling thing was that someone had lit this room like it was meant to re-enact the nuclear flash over Nagasaki. No dimmers: the settings were off or blinding-light on. All they could do, if they wanted to see the screens, was operate in the dark. The more resourceful of the students brought flashlights to class so they could read their assignments by something more helpful than the screen's dull glow.

  Delaney gazed out the window at the Quantico lights. Beyond, a mile or so away, the Creek called to him. He could be night-fishing.Why was he here?

  An age ago, he had been one of these kids in training. But that was when you got issued a notepad and pencil, and you knew who the enemy was. These days, you got a password and a list of enemies as long as you wanted. Every colour, every creed, white collar and blue. Everyone was the enemy.

  These kids were facing the very definition of mission impossible when they got out of here. Computers weren't enough.

  Why was he here? Because he didn't have the guts to go back out in the field. He didn't have the fire any more. That was the truth. He could dress it up as being pissed at the Bureau, at the new idiot culture that presided over everything in government, but was that it? Did he really have the stomach, the balls, to see an investigation through?

  He had volunteered to go to London, to talk to Nathaniel Virgo. The Baltimore field office was backed up with an agent-intensive drugs sting, and needed someone to go. The guy at the embassy was on some godawful exercise with the Metropolitan Police. And he had stepped up. Surely that was something? Or was it just a plane trip?

  It had been just a plane trip in the end. He'd hardly filed a report before the instruction came through that the investigation was to be closed. The ticket must have cost a thousand dollars, and then someone at Homeland Security – why Homeland Security? – shut the whole thing down.

  At least the network was up and running for once. And his students, if not particularly gifted, were at least hardworking. Trawling through entries to the US in the last twenty-four hours, looking for possibles, didn't require gifting, it required graft.

  What was he teaching them? That everyone is a suspect. That to get an agent's job done involves searching through thousands of names, hoping the computer will put two and two together when it finds the right data. Most of the time, the computer totalled two and two at five.

  'No one got anything yet?' He looked at the clock. In another half-hour he could go home. He would get up early again, and go and finish that painting by the Creek.

  A hand went up in the corner of the room.

  'Sir?'

  'What you got, Schlessinger?'

  'Arab name, can't pronounce it. Mush something. On CIA watch-list. Entered US via JFK this afternoon.'

  Can't pronounce it? Jesus. Annabel Schlessinger, rich kid seeking a little danger. A liability-in-waiting. How had she got this far?

  Delaney kept his mouth closed, and told himself to calm down. The public education system had failed these kids like it had failed him. Don't judge them, Delaney. At least they're here, not out somewhere trying to become celebrities. At least they'd made a decision to do something with their lives.

  'OK,' he said. 'Log it, and send the info to New York.'

  'Sir?'

  'Is that too tough for you, Schlessinger?' Sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

  'No, it's not that, sir. I got another one.'

  'Wow, Schlessinger, you're on fire tonight. Go on.'

  'Nathaniel Virgo. A Brit. Recently questioned over a murder in Baltimore, entered via Boston Logan earlier this evening.'

  No shit.

  'Show me.' Delaney walked to Schlessinger's terminal. He leaned in, took over the mouse, and scrolled through the entry.

  Well, well. Virgo had made up a hotel name on his immigration card. Delaney knew the entire length of Lincoln Avenue like he knew his own hallway. There was no Marriott on Lincoln. He lifted his head.

  'Everyone, come here. Gather round. Schlessinger's kicked all your asses.'

  He handed her back the mouse and stood upright again.

  'Go to the British police files, and see if anything's come up.'

  Schlessinger made a few clicks. 'Report filed an hour or so ago. Some guy found dead in Virgo's house. The Brits are looking for him.'

  'And we found him.'

  Glory be: these computers weren't entirely useless. Delaney felt a fire kindle in his lungs.

  'OK, nice work, Schlessinger. Leave it with me. Back to your terminals, everybody, and carry on. I'm going to make a couple of calls. When I get back, I expect a report from every one of you. This world is full of dangerous people, and I want to know their names.'

  Delaney walked to the door, then turned down the corridor towards his office. The fire in his lungs was still burning as he picked up the phone. Virgo was back in the United States, and Delaney knew exactly what he was going to do about it. He would show the idiots at Homeland Security just what it took to get to the bottom of an unsolved crime.

  CHAPTER 35

  THEY HAD BEEN SITTING an hour or two, maybe. Rachel didn't have a watch on, and Vicente had ignored her every plea for attention. He seemed reluctant to talk at all. Across from her, pale and red-eyed, Katie was staring at the far wall of the room.

  Vicente watched them from the balcony. He still had the gun in his hand, but he looked relaxed, and the night breeze played in his hair.

  'Vicente,' Rachel called. 'We need something to eat. And some water. Please.'

  They had been given nothing so far. They'd hardly even moved.

  Vicente didn't react.

  'You can take money from my purse,' Rachel said. 'Please, get us something. I promise we won't try anything while one of you is gone. And get something for yourselves, too – you must be hungry.'

  Vicente stared at her for a while, then slowly walked back into the room. 'OK,' he said. 'But I don't need your money.'

  He pulled some dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to Ramón, muttering something in Spanish. Ramón left the apartment, and Vicente stood over them, gun in hand.

  After a couple of minutes, Ramón returned carrying chocolate bars. It was something.

  Vicente filled a glass from the kitchen tap. He held it to their lips in turn, first Katie, then Rachel. The water was cool and refreshing, and the throbbing in Rachel's head abated almost immediately. Then he fed them each some chocolate.

  Ramón slumped on a chair, playing with his gun, but Vicente did not sit down for more than a few minutes at a time now. Every time he got up he would pull the phone from his pocket, stare impatiently at the screen, then stroll to the balcony and look out to sea. When he came back into the room he seemed calmer, less anxious. But
it didn't last.

  Whose call was he expecting?

  Everyone in the room jumped when Vicente's phone finally broke the silence. He slipped the gun into his waistband, and answered the call. After a couple of seconds, he caught Ramón's eye and nodded urgently towards the captives. Ramón sat upright and pointed his pistol at each face in turn. Rachel forced herself upright on the sofa cushions to listen, but Vicente's conversation was in muttered Spanish, and he had walked away up the hallway. All she gleaned was his agitation.

  Think.

  This was to do with Nathaniel. Somehow, she knew it. They weren't after money. Cuba didn't have terrorist groups – or even political factions. It was a paradise island, but not a free society, not in the sense that some other places were free. And it was her they were after: they had her picture, they knew her name. What had Nat got himself into?

  And who was Vicente? Ramón was a sidekick, that was clear. He looked bored, sitting toying with his gun. She had caught his eye a few times, sparked his interest with a welltimed eye flash, a tiny smile or a studied stare accompanied by a bite of her lip and a flash of her tongue. Katie had noticed, and given her an inquisitive look. Maybe she didn't get it. It didn't matter what Katie thought. For now, it was the only way out that Rachel could see.

  The phone call only lasted thirty seconds. Vicente studiously pressed a couple of buttons after he had finished speaking, then looked up at her for a moment in silence.

  'We are going,' he said.

  Rachel's stomach plummeted. 'Where to?'

  She wanted to sound calm, but her voice had cracked, even in those two words. There was something in his face that wasn't there before the phone call.

  'That's not your concern.'

  'What is this about?' she pleaded. She had to know – was this a random thing, or was there some sense behind it? She knew the answer really, but she still had to ask. 'Is it something to do with my hus . . . with Nathaniel Virgo?'

  Vicente crossed the room, and crouched down so that his eyes were looking directly into hers. He turned his head and flicked his eyes to Katie to make sure he had her attention, too. Something in his eyes made Rachel's heart beat faster. There was a new intensity, a new purpose.

  'Understand something,' he said. 'We are going out to the car now. I don't even have to unbind your hands. My people own this hotel – if you make a noise, we will simply tell interested passers-by that we are police and you are under arrest for smuggling drugs. There will be no fuss, I can assure you. If you give me any trouble, if you try to run, I will kill you once we get to the car.' He paused. 'Do you understand?'

  Rachel nodded. She wasn't sure she could walk, let alone run.

  'Stand up,' Vicente said. 'Ramón, come behind us.'

  Rachel looked at Katie. Could she still stand and walk? She usually wanted a break from her prosthetic after a couple of hours. She had been wearing it all evening now. It would be sore and heavy. Katie's face betrayed nothing as she stood. Nothing more than defiance.

  They filed to the door. Vicente poked his head out of the room, then pulled Rachel out into the corridor. They went briskly along the stairs, Vicente by her side. She could hear a band playing bright salsa somewhere in the distance. No doubt people were dancing to the rhythms, swaying their hips, having a good time. Maybe getting a little drunk, a little flirty. Just like she and Nat used to do. Rachel felt a hot tear well in the corner of one eye and run down her face. She caught her breath. Yes, she wanted to cry. But she couldn't. Not yet.

  She steeled herself as she walked. She didn't have to follow her instincts. She would use her brain to get them out of this. And her body. She turned her head: Katie was following a few steps behind, with Ramón bringing up the rear. She caught his eye again and forced herself to stare a little, just for a moment. It felt dangerous, but what choice did she have?

  As they stepped off the stairs, Rachel had to scurry to keep up with Vicente's stride. She looked to left and right, but no one was even watching. The urge to scream, run, do something was overwhelming, but she forced herself to ignore it. Vicente paused at the desk, and one of the clerks handed him some scraps of paper. He slipped them into his shirt pocket, and they headed outside.

  The hotel's gardens were drowned in the heavy scent of flowers. She had loved the fragrant air when they arrived, but now it just seemed cloying and oppressive. The air was alive with sound: insects chattering, drums beating in samba rhythms, a trumpet sounding out from the hotel club. A typical Cuban night: scent and salsa. And kidnapping.

  Vicente was still walking too fast. Rachel turned to look at Ramón again; this time, he responded. He put his tongue between his lips and waggled it up and down. His face broke into a lewd grin. She turned back quickly. It would be worth it in the end. She would find her moment.

  They were in the car park, walking towards a black, highfinned monster of a vehicle. Vicente pulled the rear door open.

  'You two get in the back.' He pushed Rachel in first. Then Katie.

  The contact with her daughter's flesh was bliss. Rachel looked into Katie's eyes. If their arms were free, they would have thrown them round each other. Katie dropped her head onto her mother's shoulder, and the soft fragrance of her daughter's camomile conditioner took her back home, back into safety for a moment. Hot tears squeezed their way into Rachel's eyes again, but she blinked them away. They would get through this. She and her baby would get through this.

  'We're going to be OK,' she whispered.

  She leaned back again, into the door. Subtly, slowly, she pulled at the handle, waiting for the catch to respond.

  'It only opens from the outside.'

  Vicente was watching her in the driver's mirror. 'It's the one useful feature of this broken wreck,' he said. He didn't smile.

  The engine clunked slowly into life on its third attempt. It coughed, then roared. Vicente released the handbrake and pulled away.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE STREETLIGHTS GREW SPARSE, the buildings more rickety, and desolate spaces stretched between dwellings. They were headed out of town. Palm trees leaned threateningly over the road in clumps, no longer planted in the neat patterns of urban avenues. Rachel steeled herself not to give up hope. Leaning forward, she could see the dark rise of higher ground silhouetted against the anthracite sky.

  The car's headlights picked out the shadow of potholes on the crumbling road; Vicente steered round the worst of them. Then, after a couple of miles, he swung a hard right onto a dirt track, and they became unavoidable. With their hands still tied, the two of them were thrown to the gods and back on the bench seat. Rachel yowled as a steel spring ripped through the cracked leather and drove itself into her thigh. Ramón turned and grinned from his position in the front. Katie stared straight ahead as they bounced, seemingly immune to the chaos. Rachel knew that look. Katie was concentrating, like she did before a race. She focused on the finish, on the moment when everything was over and she had come out on top.

  Suddenly, with a wrench to the wheel, Vicente pulled the car off the road. He muttered something to Ramón, who got out and pulled at Rachel's door. She almost fell out as it swung open. A drowning panic rose within her.

  'You. Get out.'

  With a glance back at Katie, Rachel complied. She missed her footing and stumbled, falling to the ground at Ramón's feet. Katie shuffled across the seat to follow, but Ramón slammed the door and waved his pistol in her face.

  'You stay there.'

  Ramón was pulling at the front passenger door, pistol raised; he was getting back into the car. Rachel watched, her eyes wide. They were going to dump her here in the middle of nowhere, and take her baby away. She tried to scream, but the air emerged silent from her lungs.

  Then Vicente got out from behind the steering wheel. He walked round the car, lifted a white piece of paper from his shirt pocket, and glanced at it. He pulled out his phone and dialled a number, his eyes shifting back and forth between keypad and paper. He held the phone to his ear for a few
seconds.

  'Nathaniel Virgo?' he said, eventually. His tone was flat, uninterested. 'Someone wants you to know that the stakes are . . . ' He hesitated, looking for a word. '. . . Sky-high, Mr Virgo. The stakes are sky-high.'

  He paused for a moment, then looked over at her. 'Say something to your husband.' He held the phone up in the air.

  Rachel gasped for breath. 'Nat.' It came out as a whimper. Not what she had intended at all. She wanted to pour out her heart, and all she had managed was a pathetic sob.

  Vicente said nothing more. He turned away, and placed the phone, still open, on the roof of the car. Rachel could just make out the tinny shouts of a man's voice through the speaker. Was it Nat? Everything in her wanted to jump up, grab the phone, talk back to her husband's screaming, urgent voice. But she was paralysed, her eyes fixed again on Vicente.

  He was reaching into a pocket with his left hand. He pulled out a black metal tube nearly ten centimetres long. It was only when she saw him screwing it onto his pistol barrel that she realised what it was. He was half-turned away from her, so she could only see the corner of his eyes in the grim fire of the car's headlights. His face was heavy now, and darkness brooded behind the gaze fixed on the silenced gun. He sighed, the breath of regretful duty. He turned further round towards her. She saw the tense set of his shoulders. Sweat had made the white shirt cling to his chest. A breath of steam rose through the headlight beam.

  She knew what was about to happen, but she could do nothing. In these moments, the instinct for survival should be automatic, unthinking as a drowning man's last gasps for air. But they weren't. She heard Katie screaming from inside the car, but couldn't pull her eyes off the raised gun barrel. In the corner of her vision, she could see the phone on the car roof. It glinted softly in the moonlight.

  The screaming stopped. She heard a whimper and a cry, but couldn't tell whether this new sound came from her own lungs or from her daughter's.

  A cicada chirped joyfully in the long grass, exulting in the scent, the open possibilities of another moonlit night.