by Eva Hudson
“The hit-and-run driver?”
She inhaled deeply, like a hiker at the bottom of a hill staring at a forbidding summit. “Right. So, he’s a member of an organized criminal gang, the Moldovan version of the Mafia. He had been hired by a firm in Moldova to assassinate Rennie.” Pause. Breathe. “Agent Rennie was investigating the firm for their role in laundering Russian money into the American banking system.”
Marshall looked at her expectantly. “And?”
“And it seems that Yvgeny Kashlikov, the divorce lawyer—”
“I know who he is,” Marshall said curtly.
“Seems that, as part of his attempts to get a settlement for Yelena Rybkina in her divorce, he had uncovered the money-laundering operation.” She sighed. “Which is why—”
“He and Yelena Rybkina were killed.”
Ingrid hadn’t liked it when Marshall had finished her sentences when they were together. She liked it even less now. She looked at Jen and wondered where her own sunshine switch was. Her fingers drummed on the desk. “The thing is…” Delaying saying the words out loud wouldn’t make them any less true. “The thing is, Igor Rybkin is no longer a suspect in the killings of Yelena Rybkina, Yvgeny Kashlikov, David Rennie and Hector Maltby,” Ingrid said.
“Who’s Maltby?” Marshall asked.
“He was pushed under a Tube train. Mistaken identity.”
“Mistaken for whom?”
“Rennie.” Had she not told him? “The Met now believe they were all victims of hit men and—technically—one hit woman, hired by XPN Data to protect their money-laundering operation. And given it’s worth nearly—” She stopped herself. “Jen, have you got Rennie’s background on Operation Mother Tongue?”
“Um…” She looked nervously at Marshall. “I, er, well… after all that stuff got locked on the server…”
“Yes?” Ingrid said.
“I downloaded a whole bunch of stuff. You know, in case more stuff got locked.”
Marshall’s lips contracted. His nostrils flared.
“And, um, well, I put everything on Mother Tongue on that thumb drive.” She gestured to the USB stick Nick Angelis had given Ingrid.
Ingrid snatched it up just as Marshall reached for it. “Oh, come on, Marshall. Play nice.” She pushed it into a port on her computer. “This is to do with the murder of an FBI agent.”
She waited for the icon to appear on her screen and clicked on it. A blue circle spun slowly. Marshall stood behind her.
“The money-laundering operation is worth, honestly, millions and millions. Every year. They have plenty of motivation to keep killing people who threaten to expose them.” She twisted in her seat and looked up at Marshall. “I really wish you’d sit back down.”
Chastised, he did as he was told. Jen shrank slightly in anticipation of verbal crossfire. Marshall crossed his legs and then his arms.
Ingrid looked away from the spinning icon and stared at Marshall. “So here’s the thing.” She picked up a stress ball and pressed it between her palms. “While Rybkin was a suspect in the murders, I was assisting the Met in arresting him.”
Marshall inhaled so violently he wheezed.
“As our own investigation into Rybkin had been—” she searched for the right words “—put on ice, we were planning on—”
He smacked her desk, making Ingrid flinch. “Let me guess. Tempting him out of his hidey-hole with a nice Picasso for his collection?” He stood up so quickly and so furiously he sent his chair rolling backwards. “You had orders, Agent Skyberg!”
Ingrid got to her feet. “And I was following them! Operation Dovetail was shut down—”
“I don’t know what to do with you, Skyberg,” he hissed. “You’ve got your assistant downloading locked files—”
“You leave Jen out of this. And besides, those files are still on the system.” She raised her hand to stop him speaking. “I have not done any work on Dovetail. Your authority is intact, Agent Claybourne. You can flounce and stomp all you like, but you do not get to accuse me of insubordination.” She sniffed. “And you do not get to malign Jennifer’s reputation, you hear me?”
He stamped a foot. “Sit down, Agent.”
She stepped toward him. “Due respect, sir. I haven’t made my point yet.”
He chewed his bottom lip, resentment radiating from his entire body. “And that is?”
“I have a rendezvous set up for 1215 hours tomorrow to hand over the stolen Picasso to a buyer who I am very much hoping will either be Igor Rybkin or a very close associate of his that will lead me to him.”
Marshall’s shoulders inched up toward his ears. “And why, Agent Skyberg, is that of any darn interest to the Federal Bureau of Investigation at this precise moment?”
She wiped his spittle from her face.
“Because, sir, he is suspected of trying to buy American democracy. Now I don’t know why you joined the Bureau, but I know why I did. My badge means something to me, Marshall. What the hell does it mean to you?”
He stamped and spun away from her. “It doesn’t matter. We have orders.”
“Screw the orders, Marshall! I remember when we first met. We thought we were going to make a difference. I don’t remember you ever saying at Quantico you were joining up because you wanted to push pens around a desk.” She took a step toward him. “That’s not you. At least it’s not who you wanted to be.”
Veins bulged on his neck. Over his shoulder, Jen tried to make herself invisible.
“All I want is a small team of agents to oversee the handover. Five people. Four. For a couple of hours.”
“Not. Going. To. Happen.” He popped his knuckles then buried his hands in his pockets. “This stops, Agent. This stops now. Dovetail is on lockdown. You work for the government, and the government has shut down your investigation. I do not care that you do not like it.” He stormed to the office door and yanked it open. “You don’t have to damn well like it. You just have to follow orders.”
Ingrid threw her hands up in the air as he marched out into the bull pen. Jen quietly got up and closed the door. Ingrid slammed down onto her chair. A growl of frustration left her lips.
“God, he’s annoying.”
Jen leaned against the closed door, too scared to move.
Ingrid smiled at her apologetically. “I am so sorry you had to see that.”
Jen tried to lighten the mood. “It’s no wonder you split up.”
Ingrid wasn’t ready to see the funny side. Her chest heaved like a boxer’s. “Why are we in this job if we don’t go after the bad guys?” She whacked her desk, nudging her mouse and illuminating her screen. She ran both hands over her scalp. “I just don’t get it.”
Jen, sensibly, said nothing.
“I just want a bit of support to monitor the handover. There’s got to be a way of getting the backup.” Her words suddenly stalled. Her monitor was displaying the list of files on the thumb drive. They had unfamiliar names. Lundberg. Bering. Bildeburg. She shook her head, trying to work out what she was looking at. Then she remembered what Jen had said. She’d put the Mother Tongue data on Nick Angelis’s USB stick: these were the reports Nick had wanted her to see, reports relating to the undercover assignment he’d sent her on in Sweden.
She started scrolling through. Ghedi. Nyström. Friese. They were all names of people giving evidence to a public enquiry into her failed mission. Now wasn’t the time to look at them. She carried on scrolling, searching for the Mother Tongue files. She stopped when she saw a sequence of jpeg thumbnails with the filenames Westwaysoccer1.jpg., Westwaysoccer2.jpg., Westwaysoccer3.jpg. All in all, there were thirteen photos called ‘Westwaysoccer.’
Saliva pooled under her tongue like a poison. The hairs on her neck stood to attention. What the hell? She hovered the mouse over the first one, not wanting to click but knowing she had to. She held her breath and clicked.
A surveillance photo of her and Carolyn embracing over the advertising hoarding at the sports center popped up. She clicked the next one.
It was a photo of them smiling. The next showed Ingrid stroking Carolyn’s face as Lula looked on. Ingrid’s nose started to buzz like it was about to bleed. The next image was more in focus. More detail of Carolyn’s face. You could see the Diesel logo on her jacket. Ingrid felt sick. Bile threatened its way up her esophagus.
This was why Nick had given her the USB stick when he did. He must have found out she was under surveillance. And if the people following her knew she was Natalya, there was every chance they also knew the identity of the other woman in the photographs.
Carolyn was in danger.
Shaking, Ingrid stood up, staggered over to the door and stepped into the bull pen. She shuffled past the TV screens and laser printers and watercoolers and paused outside Marshall’s office. She knocked but didn’t wait for him to reply before opening the door. He was sitting behind his desk, making a call. He glowered at her.
“Marshall,” she said, her voice trembling, “when did you last speak to Carolyn?”
He put down the receiver. “What’s happened to my sister?”
46
Ingrid looked at Marshall intently, trying to assess what Carolyn was saying from his expression. He held the receiver tightly, his knuckles visible through his skin.
“Okay, sweetie. If you’re sure.” He nodded. “No, no reason to be scared, just vigilant.” More nodding. “Yup, that’s right. Stay where you are. Don’t go anywhere.” He listened. “Yes, I will come and collect you tonight and you will move back in with me.”
Ingrid wanted to butt in, to say something, but she was wary of inciting Marshall’s wrath. She let him finish the conversation without interruption, only exhaling when he’d put the receiver down.
“Carolyn’s not seen anything, then?” she asked nervously.
He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”
Never had such venom been conveyed in a single syllable. Now was not the time to tell him she loved his sister almost as much as he did. She sat on the couch next to the coffee table in his meeting area, clenching her toes inside her boots, steadying herself for the onslaught. “I’m so sorry, Marshall. I had no idea.”
He pushed his hair back from his face and flared his nostrils. “When”—his voice was taut and carefully calibrated—“did you receive this USB stick?” Each word was individually delivered.
Ingrid looked down at her hands. Her balled fists pressed painfully down into her knees. She had to concentrate. It was before the fire. “Last Thursday.” She resisted the urge to elaborate. The way to contain his fury was to be obedient.
“And when—” he sniffed “—were these photos taken?”
She struggled to think clearly. “The Tuesday before that.”
The muscles in his neck were like steel cables. “So, for almost a week my sister has been in danger, and firstly, you did not spot you were being surveilled, and second, you did not check the USB stick when it was given to you.” He paced around his office. “When someone like Nick Angelis hands you information, why would you not look at it, Agent?”
Ingrid tried to locate her sunshine switch. “You may remember that immediately after I met with Angelis, my priority was shutting down Natalya Vesnina’s operation. And the following night, you may also remember, I was in a house fire.” She inhaled slowly. “I know I’ve fucked up, but the most important thing now is working out who took the photos.”
He stared out the window, his chest heaving with each murderous breath. “Surely it’s the Moldavians? The money launderers? They want to harm you for the same reason they killed Rennie.”
Ingrid made an effort to keep her voice calm. “I don’t think so.”
He turned to face her but kept his arms folded in front of his chest. “What’s your theory?” His tone betrayed his contempt for her.
“Because someone already tried to do me harm—” Ingrid spread her fingers and gripped her knees. “The man who was pulled unconscious out of my apartment identified me as Natalya, remember? The Moldavians, I’m presuming, have not heard of Natalya. So what I’m saying is—”
“Whoever wanted to kill Natalya is… unlikely to be a firm of Balkan money launderers?”
Well done for joining the dots, Marshall. “Precisely.”
“So who would want to kill Natalya?”
Ingrid stood up. “My guess would be someone who presumes she stole his Picasso.”
“Shevchenko?”
She nodded. “And I don’t think I’m the only one. The brother in Berlin? The yacht in Tunisia? My guess is Shevchenko thinks Natalya was working for Rybkin, and he’s getting his revenge on any target associated with his old rival.”
He uncrossed his arms and glowered at her like a bull before it charges.
“The important thing, Marshall, is that Carolyn is safe. But she’s also going to be scared after that call. You should go to her, reassure her.”
He did not like being told what to do. “You think she needs protection?”
Ingrid audibly exhaled. “You think I do?”
He said nothing.
“Don’t worry. I can handle myself.”
She opened his door and made a point of leaving it open before striding through the bull pen to her own office. Jen was absent, her screen black. Ingrid checked the time: she was probably getting lunch.
Ingrid sat down with a thud, leaned back in her chair and knitted her fingers behind her head. She got a whiff of her armpits. She definitely needed to buy some more clothes. Jen had left a stack of printouts on her desk with several Post-its on top. It was the ISP logs from the Current Bun and Starbucks highlighted with a rainbow of colors. It was a record of every site visited by patrons of those establishments while logged into the wifi.
Cross-reffed both logs. Think you want to look at the purple lines. J
Ingrid wasn’t capable of doing much more than taking instruction, so she did as Jen suggested. She flicked through until she found the lines highlighted in violet. They were Google searches leading to news sites. And there was one particular news story that had been looked up on both days, in both locations. It would be too far-fetched if it wasn’t the same person searching for it, wouldn’t it? Ingrid moved her jaw from side to side. And that had to mean the hacker was the one doing the searching, didn’t it?
Ingrid’s breaths became shallow. Her heart fluttered. She checked the purple lines again. The news story the hacker had searched for had the headline Billionaire’s Wife Collapses on Kings Road.
Her whole head was moving from side to side now. This wasn’t making sense. The Met had just established Yelena Rybkina was murdered by Moldovan money launderers. So why did a Russian hacker need to know about her death?
She let out a long, hard breath that fluttered the printouts: somehow, this went back to Rybkin after all. She just had to figure out how.
Ingrid stared at her office. The computers were like something from a sitcom on daytime repeat. There were two missing ceiling tiles. The carpet was threadbare. For years they hadn’t replaced anything because they were on the verge of moving to their shiny new building south of the Thames, and so the greatest democracy in the world had a shabby HQ in the territory of its greatest ally. She sighed heavily: would she still be in London when they moved offices? Hell, would she still be working for the FBI? If Shevchenko sent another assassin, would she even be alive?
She had taken orders all her career. It’s what you sign up to when you join an organization like the FBI, but taking orders from Marshall was starting to feel impossible. She’d tolerated his presence in London for almost two years, but she despised him now more than ever.
“Fuck you, Marshall Claybourne,” she said. “Fuck you.”
She didn’t know why he had stopped being the idealist she’d fallen for at Quantico, but perhaps it wasn’t just him who’d changed, maybe it was the entire organization. With Leery’s interference in the election, and the willingness for everyone to shut down the investigation into Rybkin on the basis of… what? Fear of the incoming admin
istration and what it might do to the Bureau?
Rybkin had corrupted the values of the Republic, the values they put on a badge for, took bullets for. Why were they so relaxed about him getting away with it? Why was she the only one who wanted him in handcuffs? What had happened to the organization she loved?
She thought about calling Sol, her old boss, to find out why he’d warned her about the Russian investigation. What else did he know? And who had he learned it from? Maybe he could explain why the Bureau was rolling over. Just about the only thing she was sure of was she wasn’t going to follow suit: they would have to make her roll over.
Ingrid had an idea. “Yes,” she said out loud, then louder, “Yes.”
She sat upright with a sudden burst of energy. She still had a way of getting to Rybkin, didn’t she? Her Apple Watch said it was two o’clock. Nine a.m. in New York. The skin prickled on the back of her neck. It could work, couldn’t it?
She picked up her phone and called Aslan Demir, head of the FBI’s art fraud unit.
“Hello, this is Aslan Demir…”
“Hi, Aslan, this is—”
“… I can’t take your call right now, but if you please leave a message, I will call you back just as soon as I get the chance.”
After the beep, Ingrid began to talk. “Aslan, hi, this is Ingrid Skyberg in London. I thought you would like to know I have reliable intel that a stolen Picasso will be offered for sale at Blackbushe Airport in England tomorrow. The buyer is arriving from New York and will be paying cash. I trust this is of interest to you. Should you require assistance on the ground, you know where to find me.”
47
Ingrid spent the rest of the day liaising with the art team before attending her final session with Dr Ives. The therapist mostly wanted to talk about how Ingrid felt about being exposed, and if she’d worked out how her real identity had leaked. She had kept going on about it, intent on exploiting Ingrid’s insecurity about fucking up. And when she’d pressed that button enough times to have left a patch of Ingrid’s soul permanently raw, she wanted Ingrid to reflect on coming so close to death in the fire.
