by Eva Hudson
“We’re not supposed to be political,” Ingrid said to no one in particular. Her insides collapsed slowly like an undercooked pudding. “How could he put us in this position?” Her phone buzzed in her hand just as David’s bleeped. They both had the same message from Deputy Director Frank Usher in DC.
We - ie, you - have to make this right. We only have 9 days b4 the election to get Rybkin. I want his ugly face on every news bulletin 24/7.
The most preposterous case of Ingrid’s career had just become the most important.
16
The following day, Ingrid took the stairs from the underground parking lot up to the FBI’s Legal Attaché offices on the fifth floor of the US Embassy. The door to Marshall’s office was open, but he wasn’t there. That probably meant he was on the prowl somewhere, looking for a pie he could stick his manicured fingers into. She checked the TV monitors in the bull pen and saw FBI Director Edward Leery’s face on every screen, on every news network. The chatter was unusually muted, but the increased decibels from the tapping of keyboards suggested she wasn’t the only one working hard to restore the Bureau’s reputation.
“Hi,” Jen said when Ingrid entered. “You’re soaked.” Her tone, as always, was upbeat. “Oh, that’s Dan,” she said, pointing to a man’s derrière poking out from under Ingrid’s desk. “Telecoms.”
“There wasn’t a problem with my phone,” Ingrid said. She hung her sodden jacket on the coat rack and left her helmet dripping on her desk.
“General upgrade,” a voice said from below. “Won’t be long.”
Ingrid sat herself down at the spare workstation, the one that in the past two years had been the temporary home of too many interns and junior assistants to count. Either Jen went through a personality transplant every time Ingrid left the office, or Ingrid was a tyrant only sunny Jennifer Rocharde could tolerate for more than a month. Or, more likely, it was that work in the Criminal Division was seen as less glamorous than Counter-Intelligence and Counter-Terrorism. Ingrid pressed the ignition key on the unfamiliar computer. She’d had an idea about how to track down Rybkin and was eager to get online.
“How are the wedding plans coming along?” Ingrid said over her shoulder.
“Pretty good, thank you.”
“Your spreadsheet is holding up?” Jen had an Excel document for everything from deciding which pair of shoes to buy to her annual toiletries budget. Her wedding spreadsheet would be rigorous enough to survive Mach 2. The seating plan would withstand a thermonuclear attack.
“Had to add a new column.” Again, there was glee in her voice. “Lacto-ovo vegetarians.”
Ingrid wasn’t going to ask what that was. She opened a browser and typed in ‘Igor Rybkin autobiography,’ having remembered the news report about him writing a memoir. “What time is Agent Rennie due at Bolton Square?” Ingrid asked.
Jen looked at the wall clock. “In about ten minutes.”
Ingrid checked her phone. Barry Jones should have been there by now. He was cutting it fine. “Could you do me a favor,” Ingrid asked. “Could you please call the front desk and make sure Barry Jones gets an escort up here the moment he arrives in reception?” There was a very large piece of Ingrid that hoped Jones wouldn’t turn up: if he conveniently disappeared, or proved himself unreliable, the Bureau’s half-assed plan to steal a Picasso would surely get nixed.
“Sure thing.” Jen got on the phone while Ingrid searched through the LexisNexis results on the monitor in front of her.
“Excuse me,” the engineer said. “I need to check this one now.”
Ingrid kept her eyes on the screen. “Are you finished at my desk?”
“Yes, just needed to replace a socket. All done.”
Ingrid, annoyed, strode over to her own desk, her wet jeans still sticking to her thighs like seal skin. Jen put down the receiver. “Reception said Barry Jones arrived twenty minutes ago.”
“Anyone show him up?” Ingrid thought of the art in the function rooms on the top floor. Jasper Johns, Singer Sergeant, Koons, Haring, Warhol.
“I can ask.” Jen got back on the phone.
He wouldn’t, would he?
Surely Jones wouldn’t be able to walk out with an American masterpiece? Trouble was, security was much more interested in what people brought in to the embassy than out these days. She snatched up the phone and dialed the guards’ desk.
“Good morning.”
“Good afternoon.”
She checked the clock on her computer screen as it flickered into life. It was 12:01.
“This is Special Agent Skyberg with the Legal Attaché program.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to alert all your teams to be on the lookout for a white male, sixties, five feet five no more than one hundred fifty pounds, gray collar-length hair—Jen, ask reception what he was wearing—possibly carrying a large flat package. His name is Barry Jones.”
Jen nodded. “Uh-huh. Yup, okay then.” She put the phone down. “They don’t remember. But he signed in at 11:42.”
“Okay,” Ingrid said into the receiver, “you need to check the cameras from the front desk at 11:42 for a description.”
“Is he armed?” the security officer asked.
“I seriously doubt it.”
“We’re on it,” the officer said.
“You seriously doubt what?” the phone engineer asked.
Ingrid peered at him. Why was he interested? Then she realized whom she was looking at. His smile widened as her jaw dropped. It was Barry Jones, looking utterly unlike the theatrical, housecoat-wearing man she had met the day before. He was in jeans, a baseball cap and a sweatshirt bearing the name and logo of an engineering firm, and was carrying a toolbox.
“Does my phone still work?” she said.
“What’s going on?” Jen asked.
“This,” Ingrid said, “is Barry Jones. Is that even your real name?”
“It’s one of them.” The camp mannerisms of the day before had been replaced with a jaunty blokeishness. He seemed taller, fatter. “Remember what I told you about misdirection?”
Ingrid, wide-eyed, rested her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her desk. “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”
“Must admit,” Barry said, plopping himself down on the chair Ingrid had just vacated, “dressing up is one of the things I like most about my line of work.”
“I thought you’d retired,” Ingrid said.
“Shall I call security back?” Jen asked.
“You can never really leave my kind of work behind,” Jones said, folding his arms across a paunch that Ingrid suspected was a pillow or a prop of some sort. “It’s more who I am, the thieving, rather than what I do. Like a vocation. You get me?”
Ingrid wasn’t used to criminals being so forthright about their careers. But then, Barry Jones had been hired—if that was the right term—precisely because of his reputation and resumé.
“Jen,” she said, maintaining eye contact with Jones, “can you call security and ask for a sweep of this room.”
“Um, okay.”
“Listening devices, bugs of any kind, I want to know this line is secure.”
“Hey, listen, I didn’t touch a thing. This box doesn’t even have any tools in it.”
“Hidden cameras.” She turned her computer off. “And I want IT to check this for viruses and malware. And the spare computer too. Total password reset.”
Jen picked up her phone and dialed.
“Did he touch your computer?”
“No,” Jen said before her call connected.
“Seriously, love,” Jones said to Ingrid, “I didn’t touch nothing. Just wanted you to know I’m like a bloody chameleon. Fit in anywhere, me.”
Ingrid narrowed her gaze. “Do us both a favor, will you?”
“You name it.”
“Don’t call me ‘love.’”
He saluted.
When Jen got off the phone, Ingrid used her computer to log into the live
stream of the body camera David Rennie was wearing. She wanted Barry Jones to know she wasn’t going to take his word as a form of insurance. They had arranged for Agent Rennie to pose as a prospective buyer of the house next to Shevchenko’s mansion and asked Barry Jones to join them to scope out the premises.
“Do you want to borrow pen and paper?” she asked him. The three of them perched round Jen’s desk.
Jones tapped the side of his head. “Photographic memory, dar—”
Ingrid raised her hand as video footage from the rear of a car appeared on Jen’s screen.
“Is this live?” Jones asked.
“Should be,” Ingrid said. “Maybe a few seconds’ delay, nothing more.”
He exhaled deeply. “If we’d had this a few years back…”
“Then what? You’d have stolen more stuff?” Ingrid couldn’t bring herself to admire his brazenness. He pulled a chastised smile. “Is there sound on that?” Jen tapped the appropriate key, but all they heard was the background hum of the engine and the occasional wink of an indicator. The image was surprisingly clear. She guessed it was coming from a button camera. She wondered if Rennie was sporting one of his hipster shirts or if, going undercover as a Silicon Valley billionaire, he had changed his attire. He typed a message on his phone and held the screen up to the camera.
You watching?
Ingrid messaged him back. Break a leg.
“Can you tell where they are?” Ingrid asked Jones. They got occasional glimpses of the city through the limo window.
“That looks like Exhibition Road,” Jones said. “Reckon they’re four or five minutes away.”
“Always helpful to have local knowledge. Right then, Jen, while we’re waiting, what have you got for me?”
Jen glanced at Barry.
“Well, obviously don’t share classified information.”
Jen looked unsure.
“I can go and use the gents’ if that’d help.”
“Frankly, I’d rather you stayed where I can see you.” She turned to Jen. “Shoot.”
Jen reached for her notebook and flicked back a few sheets. “Okay. First item on the agenda… naming no names… that journalist you asked me about.”
The image on the screen moved as Rennie twisted to take in the view through a window streaked with rain. His car was traveling down a street of impressive white stucco houses, but none of the size and scale of Shevchenko’s place. He was still in millionaire territory. Barry Jones’s face was static with concentration, no doubt imagining the treasures beyond the floriferous window boxes and polished brass doorknobs.
“Oh yeah.” Ingrid had almost forgotten about Angela Tate. “What did you find out?”
“Honestly, almost nothing. I got her address and tax details, but in terms of where she’s working now, I couldn’t tell you. I phoned her old paper and they just said she’d retired. I can keep trying.”
Ingrid thought about it for a second. “Thanks, but let’s park that one. Not the best use of your time. What else?”
Before Jen could answer, something on the screen caught their attention. The limousine door was being opened by the driver. Rennie shuffled forward and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He popped open an umbrella, instantly making Jen’s speakers rattle with the sound of the rain thrashing down on taut fabric.
“Would you like me to wait for you, sir?” the driver asked.
“Yes, please.” Something in Rennie’s body language suggested he was about to shake the driver’s hand, before remembering the role he was playing.
The door clunked behind him and the camera jerked as Rennie took the steps up to the door of 24 Bolton Square. It was the mirror image of Vitali Shevchenko’s house next door.
“Mr West?” one of the men sheltering in the porch asked.
“Yes,” Rennie said.
“Sorry about the weather. Hi, I’m James Mackie, from Keatings Estates. We spoke on the phone.” Rennie was standing too close for Ingrid to see more than Mackie’s buttoned-up coat, but he was well-spoken—‘plummy’ the Brits might call it—and overweight.
“Sure, hi.”
“And I’m Peter Delaney, from Cobra Security.”
“Thank you for coming,” Rennie said. “The place looks amazing, even in this weather. Shall we go in?”
17
The entrance hall of 24 Bolton Square was almost as grand as Shevchenko’s with its sweeping staircase, chandelier and marble floor. It was larger than Ingrid’s entire apartment. Unlike its neighbor, this house had several bicycles leaning up against the ornate walls, courtesy of its live-in guardians.
“So,” the realtor said, “this is the entrance hall, one of the grandest in London. You can easily imagine it being used for receptions, although the main entertaining rooms are on the first floor.”
“Is this not the first floor?” Rennie asked.
“In England, we call this the ground floor.”
“And how many floors in total?”
“Eight. Basement, this one and six stories above.”
“And the total number of rooms?”
“I’d have to check. I would guess somewhere in the region of forty. Perhaps fifty.”
The three men began their tour of the house, the real estate agent finding something remarkable about every room, and Rennie sounding downbeat about each fireplace and tradesman’s elevator as if he was going to try to negotiate £10 million off the asking price. At every juncture, he turned to the man from Cobra Security and asked him to suggest ways of maximizing the integrity of the building. Rennie, as briefed, stood at every window and every doorway so Barry Jones could determine the best entry point. Rennie was also wearing a digital scanner to record the dimensions of each room, which would allow them to map the building accurately. So far, from what Ingrid had seen, it was almost an exact copy of Shevchenko’s house.
“You noticing anything that worries you?” Ingrid asked Jones.
“Nope, not so far. The guy from Cobra’s a plonker though.”
Ingrid’s phone flashed. It was a Tinder notification. She had to turn those off. Jones pointed at the screen. The three men took the stairs down into the basement. The Realtor explained that many houses in London, including the one next door, had dug down several levels and out under the garden.
“Out of interest, who are the neighbors?” Rennie asked.
“Officially,” the faceless realtor said. Ingrid wished Rennie would lean back so they could see more than his paunch. “Officially I can’t tell you. Offshore trusts own most of the property round here. But on the other side of the square I think it’s fairly well known that the Duke of Devonshire has his London base. The owner of Indus Steel is rumored to own three houses the next street over.”
“What about next door?” Rennie asked.
“A Russian, I believe. Possibly a Ukrainian.”
“Phew.”
“You like the Russians?”
“No, not especially. Just didn’t want another Silicon Valley type next door. I hear Google and Apple are both setting up new headquarters in London. I could do with a break from those guys.”
“I’ve seen Michael Bloomberg on the streets near here, but I haven’t heard about the Zuckerbergs moving in.”
So far Rennie wasn’t digging up anything they didn’t know already. And as they knew the floor plan of Shevchenko’s place was different belowground, Ingrid was keen for him to take the elevator to the upper floors.
“How old is this place?” Rennie asked.
“It was built in 1782.”
“Oh my God, really?”
“Yes, George III was on the throne.” The realtor knew how to play to the American gallery. “And as this would have been one of the largest residences in London, it’s entirely possible the monarch himself visited here.”
“That means this place is virtually the same age as the United States.” Rennie sounded genuinely awed. “So are there, like, secret tunnels and a chilling basement where naughty servants were brut
ally dispatched?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
“There is actually a sewer that runs beneath the property.” The camera moved as Rennie turned to face the security expert. “We were involved in an operation for one of the neighbors. We installed motion-sensitive cameras and strengthened the structure.”
“Why?” Rennie asked.
“I believe there was a concern about a potential terrorist attack.”
“From the sewer?” Rennie sounded even more shocked.
“Our client was worried about an explosive device being left there.”
“Not something I had ever thought of,” Rennie said, “though as I mentioned on the phone, my preoccupation is in preventing abductions.”
“Yes, you mentioned your children had been targeted,” Peter from Cobra security said. “With us, we can offer prevention as well as protection.”
“Good to know. Can we go upstairs?”
When they stepped into the elevator, the screen went dark.
“Wonder what they make the lifts out of,” Jones said. “Interesting your boy can broadcast a signal from the basement but not the lift.”
He had a point.
The screen flashed back into life. Rennie was being shown what would have been the servants’ quarters on the top floor. The camera showed the view from the window, down over an overgrown lawn to a mews that ran along the back of the gardens. The agent told him that the mews house came with the main house. It had once been the coachman’s residence, and before that the stables. It alone was worth £8 million, he said.
“That’s interesting,” Jones said. “Wonder if all them houses have the mews at the bottom of the garden. You never see the Queen coming out the front gates of Buckingham Palace, do ya? Nah, she always slips out via the stables.”
Ingrid had no idea if he was right, but if you were an oligarch fearing assassination, an alternative means of exit would be highly desirable.
Rennie was taken to the floor with the main bedrooms, where several of the doors were padlocked. The live-in guardians, the realtor explained. “I can show you photos,” he said. “Not from this house, but of the equivalent rooms next door.”
