The Witness

by Jack McSporran

  “Well,” said Maggie, prickling at the idea of someone breaking into her apartment and rummaging through her belongings. “I guess I’m all set to go then.”

  Bishop got up and walked her to the door. “Once you land, you are to report to the British Consulate.”

  Maggie shot him a raised eyebrow. “This is all very cloak and dagger. Even by our standards.”

  “Agreed,” said Bishop, a little weary now. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet and Maggie would bet the man had been at the office for hours already. If he even went home the night before.

  “Thanks for the tea,” said Maggie, placing a hand on his shoulder before turning to leave. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Ring me if you need anything,” Bishop called as she stepped into the elevator to take her down to the awaiting car. “Oh, and Maggie?”

  “Yes?” she asked, as the cart doors began to close.

  Bishop’s face hardened, his eyes troubled. “Watch your back on this one.”

  Maggie nodded. “I always do.”

  Chapter 3

  New York City, United States of America

  * * *

  Maggie left London from Heathrow at eleven in the morning and touched down at JFK International Airport a little after two in the afternoon, thanks to the five-hour difference between time zones.

  The flight went by without incident, the routine of hopping on a plane at a moment’s notice and flying across the world was as normal for Maggie as taking the tube to work. Jetlag was never really something you could avoid, but over the years she grew used to the lethargic sluggishness that came with it.

  As tired as she was, catching some sleep on the way was out of the question, given her morning revelation. Talk about a wakeup call.

  Wheeling her carry-on suitcase that had been packed for her, Maggie made her way through security, putting on the show of an excited tourist for customs. A driver stood outside the arrivals terminal carrying a little whiteboard with her name scrawled on it.

  “Ms. Black?” he asked, no doubt having been provided a picture of her beforehand.

  “The very one,” said Maggie, following him out to his car. She swung open the passenger door of the Escalade and got inside, the Cadillac about as inconspicuous as a fox in a hen house among the rows of yellow cabs, with its V8 engine and tinted windows.

  The driver placed her case in the trunk and they set off. “I’m to take you straight to the consulate.”

  Maggie suppressed rolling her eyes. It wasn’t the driver’s fault, but the babysitting was getting a little ridiculous. She didn’t need to be carted around like a package on priority shipping. While she may be a government asset, they could at least be somewhat confident that she could make it from the airport to the inner-city without getting herself killed.

  Situated in Manhattan, the British Consulate General resided in the Turtle Bay neighborhood of Midtown East. The trip from the airport should have taken thirty minutes, but thanks to traffic, the journey stretched towards an hour.

  Stopping at a toll plaza, they paid to cross the East River through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. The Empire State Building poked out from the skyline beyond, waving at them across the way before the view vanished and was replaced with the mouth of the tunnel.

  Phosphorescent lights glowed above them and guided the way through the underwater highway before it finally opened out into Manhattan. Taking the Downtown exit, they merged onto East 37th Street and turned right onto 3rd Avenue.

  Maggie craned her neck to get a view of the towering buildings which loomed over them from every direction, their postures dominant and proud. There was something about the city that always made Maggie pause. She had travelled the world twice over working for the Unit, spent time on every continent and experienced the cities each of them had to offer.

  New York didn’t have the gilded statues and ornate facades of Paris, or the ethereal decaying beauty of Venice. It didn’t have the tranquility of Kyoto, or the deep-rooted history of Edinburgh with its castle perched on top of an ancient volcano.

  Yet it had something.

  A presence that could be felt more than seen. A confident energy that lived and breathed through the gridded streets and skyscrapers. It could be found in the people who stomped the sidewalks, from hard-nosed construction workers to high-end businesswomen in expensive heels. In both the old-timers who watched the city grow and polish itself over decades, and the new arrivals fresh off the bus with big dreams and a determined grit to succeed.

  It was heard in the voices of performers in Harlem’s Apollo Theater. Tasted in the dirty water hotdogs from the cart vendors around Times Square. Witnessed in the cut throat world of the stock market on Wall Street. Experienced through the actors on the legendary stages of Broadway.

  The city held no pretenses, and living there wasn’t for the faint hearted. The old adage of being able to make it anywhere if you could strive in the Big Apple stood true, and it was the very thing that made the place special.

  It was what attracted tourists from every corner of the globe, each of them wanting to experience that special, intangible something, even if only for day.

  New York City was unlike any other place in the world.

  The car pulled up at 845 3rd Avenue and Maggie stepped out into the street. A British flag swayed in the breeze, hung on a pole at one side of the front entrance of the large, modern office building, with the American stars and stripes at the other.

  The driver led Maggie inside, saying hello to two guards who manned the doors. They had Maggie walk through a metal detector and passed her luggage across the conveyor belt of an x-ray machine before allowing her entry. Once satisfied she wasn’t carrying a bomb or packing a gun, Maggie was granted access to the consulate.

  To the untrained eye the foyer appeared pedestrian, with clusters of people sitting around as they waited for their appointments and filled in forms. A loud and exasperated man at the front desk explained how he lost his passport.

  Maggie spotted the cameras positioned throughout, some obvious and on display as a deterrent for misbehavior, others hidden and focused on strategic points. While consulates acted as safe havens for nationals, they were also potential targets, and the New York location wasn’t taking any chances.

  Security may appear lax on the surface, but a trained and armed detail of marines or private contractors would be standing by, ready to act if the time came.

  A woman spotted Maggie and approached.

  “Maggie Black,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Danielle Hawkins.”

  Like her demeanor, Danielle’s shake was firm and professional. She nodded to the driver who took that as a sign to leave, having passed his charge onto someone else.

  “I appreciate the escort, but I could have made it here myself,” said Maggie, as they watched him go.

  “Just giving you a warm welcome,” replied Danielle, herding her over to the elevators.

  More like keeping an eye on her.

  No older than thirty, Danielle kept her mouse-brown hair pulled back from her face, the spray of freckles across her nose giving her a juvenile appearance. She tried to mask it with thick mascara and a tight-fitting suit which hugged her athletic body, but it didn’t quite achieve the desired effect.

  Six stories up, Maggie trailed her case behind her and walked through a busy cubicle-filled floor decorated with an art installation of the British flag running along one of the walls.

  “Sorry for the lack of a proper welcome, but I’m afraid time is of the essence.” Danielle led her into a small room in the back where two other stiffs in suits waited on them.

  Danielle shut the door behind her and closed the blinds of the glass office.

  “Ms. Black,” said the eldest of the two men with a tight smile from his position at the top of a mahogany conference table. “We weren’t told you were coming until this morning.”

  “Maggie, this is the Consul-General, Jonathan Cole.”

&n
bsp; The other man at Cole’s left wasn’t introduced, leading Maggie to conclude he was the Consul-General’s secretary or personal assistant. Hierarchy was king in places like the consulate, and Cole wouldn’t even think to introduce someone with such a low position.

  Danielle sat by Jonathan’s right hand side, leaving Maggie to sit at the opposite end of the table like she was a schoolgirl sent to the headmaster’s office to be told off. A deliberate move on their part, she was sure. Not that it intimidated her in the slightest.

  “I understand the situation is time sensitive,” said Maggie, uninterested in introductions. She had been sent there for a reason, and it was about time she learned why.

  “Indeed,” said Jonathan. His assistant passed over a document and he scanned it over through rimless glasses which rested on the end of his hooked nose. “Which department did you say you came from?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Jonathan Cole leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his ample gut, the buttons of his shirt struggling against the pressure.

  “Look,” said Maggie, struggling to grasp the last of her patience. “I’m here because the higher ups feel you need my help. Clearly you aren’t happy with an outsider coming in to whatever operation you have going on here. I can’t say I’m particularly thrilled, either, but given how tight-lipped everyone is about the situation, I assume something major has happened. So why don’t we stop this little power play before it starts, and you tell me what I need to know?”

  A moment of silence fell over the room before Danielle eventually cleared her throat. She looked to her boss and Jonathan nodded his permission.

  “The sole witness to the murder of a UN official has been abducted,” said Danielle. “We need someone to get them back.”

  “Which is where I come in, I presume,” Maggie said. “Where are they being held?”

  “The Russian Consulate.”

  Maggie did a double take. “Excuse me?”

  Danielle fidgeted in her chair. “The Russian’s got to the witness before we could and are holding her inside. Our sources say they plan to move her tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And you expect me to infiltrate the consulate and what? Break the witness out?”

  “We were told you’re the best,” said Jonathan, like it was nothing.

  Like accomplishing what they asked of her was as simple as a walk in Central Park. As if Maggie could just waltz up to the Russians and ask if they would be so kind as to go fetch the witness and hand her over.

  “Who is the witness?” Maggie asked.

  “Her name is Emily Wallace,” replied Jonathan.

  The name didn’t ring any bells. Danielle passed over a photo and the face of a young black girl smiled up at her. She was dressed in a school uniform, braces covering her white teeth, with long braids that fell past her shoulders.

  “She’s just a kid.” Maggie held out an expectant hand for the rest on the intel and the three of them blinked back at her. “There’s no file?”

  Jonathan considered his words before responding. “Due to the nature of the situation, we’re not at liberty to disclose more about the witness.”

  “Fine. Who was the UN official?”

  Again, neither of them jumped to answer.

  “You’re not going to tell me that either?” Maggie shook her head and laughed with chagrin. “I get it. The less I know, the less the Russians can torture out of me if I get caught trying to save Emily Wallace.”

  “If you are caught, the British government will not claim you as their own,” Jonathan warned.

  Maggie knew the drill. The chances of her succeeding in the monumental task they asked of her was slim. Slim enough for them not to tell her anything other than the bare minimum.

  “When did the Russian’s kill the official?”

  They didn’t have to say it, but Maggie surmised the UN official was British. Had it been someone from another country, they would be the ones left to deal with the Russians. Instead, she had been sent for, making it clear in her mind what the gist of the situation was.

  “The incident happened last night,” said the Consul-General. “The American’s are helping us to suppress the news around the death, but it’s only a matter of time before it goes public.”

  “Emily Wallace is the only person who saw the assassination,” Daniele added. “Given the method used, there is nothing else to prove the death wasn’t due to natural causes.”

  Maggie nodded. Without Emily, the Russians would get away with it. They needed her to help prove that Russia had arranged the murder of an official from a member state in the United Nations. Emily was the only link to prove their guilt.

  Jonathan sat up straight, his defensive guard gone and replaced with grave authority. “It is vital the witness makes it back here alive. Failure to do so could result in the highest threat level to national security in years.”

  No pressure then.

  Maggie frowned. “Why haven’t they killed her already?”

  “The Americans are working towards entering the Russian Consulate,” said Jonathan, exposing dark circles under his eyes as he removed his glasses. “We think the Russians don’t want to risk killing Ms. Wallace inside the building as it could incriminate them. Especially with the US watching from outside. Better to slip her out unnoticed, take her somewhere unrelated, and kill her there.”

  Most people were under the assumption that the land consulates and embassies were built on was foreign soil. Maggie blamed the movies. While the diplomats and ambassadors benefited from diplomatic immunity, the Russian Consulate was on sovereign territory belonging to the US.

  The trouble came with entering the building itself. Strictly speaking, the authorities required permission from the one in charge. Barging in without consent from the Russian Consul-General would lead to a political nightmare and could have serious repercussions to foreign relations.

  The Russian’s wouldn’t be quick to open their doors with Emily Wallace inside. By the time the Americans got in, the witness would be long gone. Meaning Maggie was the only person who could save Emily now, and help prove that the Russian’s were the ones responsible for the murder of the UN official.

  Maggie hesitated in her chair, hand hovering over the picture of Emily Wallace.

  The Russian Consulate was a fortress. It would require more than a little breaking and entering to reach the witness. Assuming she even got that far. The Russians would be on high alert, and were already planning on killing one person. They wouldn’t think twice about adding Maggie to the list if they caught her.

  Could she risk it? If she failed, it wouldn’t just be her life forfeited. She had more than herself to think of now.

  Maggie picked up the photo and stared at the girl’s innocent face. Emily was someone’s child. Someone’s baby. Maggie couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like knowing your daughter had been taken. Stolen from you with no way to get her back. Standing helpless by the phone and unable to do anything.

  Maggie wasn’t helpless. She could do something.

  She could get up and leave. Return home and forget all about it. It would be the smart thing to do. She ran an absent hand over her stomach and averted her eyes from the photo.

  If she walked away now, there would be two dead bodies this time tomorrow, and no one would be brought to justice for either of them.

  Maggie caught Emily’s kind eyes from the photo and sighed. Sometimes the right thing to do wasn’t always the smart thing.

  “Well, you’ve all been a wonderful help,” she said, her words dripping with sarcasm. “Do I at least get a weapon, or is that too much to ask?”

  Jonathan’s assistant handed Maggie a rucksack.

  She dug inside and brought out a 9mm Glock 19, extra magazines and rounds, and a foreign passport with her picture inside. Just another day at the office.

  “You’ll find a full biography in there as well,” said Danielle. “I hear aliases are your specialty.”

&
nbsp; Maggie closed the Russian passport. “You heard right.”

  Chapter 4

  The thirty-five-story condominium was just as Maggie expected: a lavish residence in the Upper West Side complete with a host of amenities, including its own swimming pool, basketball court, yoga studio, and sauna.

  The glass tower lay on West 59th Street, in the heart of Lincoln Square, and Maggie unlocked the door to the apartment on the twenty-eighth floor.

  Maggie let out a whistle as she took in her digs, dumping her suitcase in the corner along with her new backpack and the supplies she stopped to collect on the way there. Ashton had called earlier with orders for the doorman to hand over the spare key when she arrived, her best friend refusing to let her stay in a hotel while she was there.

  “It’s not like I’m using the place,” he’d said on the phone that morning before she left.

  Ashton had several homes scattered around the world, all of them owned but none through legitimate means. Maggie may carry out illegal acts for the government, but Ashton preferred to do his nefarious business on his own terms, having up and left the Unit years ago without ever looking back.

  Her friend had done well for himself since then, most of his fortune coming from ripping off criminals without them even knowing it. Maggie wandered around the two-bedroom apartment, everything furnished like a showroom, from the four-poster bed in the master suite, to the plush suede couches in the living-room which led out into a wide corner terrace, offering views of the Hudson River.

  Maggie stepped outside and let the cool breeze sweep over her face. It had been a long day, and tomorrow was fast approaching.

  After a while, she returned inside and ran a hot bath, filling it high with bubbles. Steam rose from the water as she got in and lay down, letting the heat seep in and loosen her tense muscles.

  She hugged her arms around her stomach and closed her eyes.

  The peaceful silence broke when her phone buzzed against the tiled floor. Maggie groaned and reached over the edge of the bath to put the caller on loudspeaker.