They were doing a stellar job on the naval contract. Delivery early and under budget—that was always her goal, and her success had made her shipyard renowned throughout the world. When this contract was done, she knew the navy would come begging for more. And she whispered, as she always did, “You taught me well, Father.”
She’d loved the shipyard from the moment her father, Sir Atlas Giltrow, had carried her on his shoulders when she’d been a little girl of five. Even now, as she looked out over what her father had built and what she’d added to their legacy, she felt humbled. After that first day, her father had brought her with him every day. She remembered so clearly that first steel monstrosity, the skeleton of a monster, she’d whispered to him and he’d laughed and told her to keep watching. And she had. Every day the skeleton added flesh, larger and larger, until she believed it would reach the sky. And when she’d seen that incredible ship sail out of dry dock, she’d known she wanted to be like her father. She wanted to build ships.
By the time her father died, Paulina had earned an engineering degree, married Paolo Vittorini, an Italian shipping magnate, thus combining the power of their two families, and was on her way to leading one of the most successful shipbuilding firms in the world.
Her son and daughter would follow her. She whispered into the furious wind, “You would be so proud, Father, I’m going to help save a country.” Well, she would, once she helped deploy into Africa the drone army Roman Ardelean had built. Her name would go down in history as a visionary, a patriot, a humanitarian.
She already had supplemental arms on board the ship to accompany the drones, ready to go. But where were her drones? She’d paid Barstow months ago, two massive installments, 150 million each time. He assured her the drones would be coming, several times, telling her Ardelean had run into a few design problems but not to worry. But they still weren’t here. She would call him again, and this time she wouldn’t accept any more of his excuses for Ardelean.
Her assistant, Sabriel Coes, came to her side. “Ma’am, we have to go. You’re speaking at the Women in Engineering awards luncheon in an hour. I have seen to your luggage on the plane. Following the luncheon, you will fly to Rome.”
She took one last glance at the frigate, wondered once more, Where are my drones?, and started for the car.
The sting in her neck was brief, and she swatted at it. “Ouch! What was—”
Sabriel watched her boss go down, hitting hard on her side, her hair whipped loose by the wind, now covering her face. What had happened? She ran to her and went down on her knees, suddenly afraid. She smoothed the hair from her face and screamed when she saw the froth coming out of her boss’s mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MI5 Headquarters, Home Office
Thames House
12 Millbank
Westminster, London
Nicholas carefully put the bug on the desk.
Mike eyed it, gave Nicholas a small salute and a grin. She said in a laughing voice, “You know, I haven’t had anything to eat for hours. And Adam certainly hasn’t had a chance for anything healthy. You promised you’d find me pizza. Let’s eat. Harry, do join us.”
Harry said, “Pizza, or curry? I think we know where I stand on this.”
“Curry it is, then,” Nicholas said, winding his finger in the air. “Let’s go.”
Harry shut and locked his door, wrote a note—DO NOT ENTER, COMPROMISED—and another for Ian, whose face went white—FOUND ANOTHER BUG, GET IT HANDLED. GOING OFF-SITE TO DISCUSS—and they headed out into the street.
“We’d better follow through,” Nicholas said. “There’s an excellent restaurant, Millbank Spice, down the way. They usually need reservations, but with you with us, Father, I’m sure we can get in.”
At the restaurant, they were immediately seated at a table for four by the window. They placed orders for samosa, chicken tikka, and tandoori prawns, which Nicholas knew were his father’s favorite.
When the waiter weaved off through the tables, Adam was the first to speak. “Any idea what happened? How did a bug get through the sweep?”
Harry was already shaking his head. “Impossible. Simply impossible. A bug like that, I’ve never seen anything like it. The technology we have isn’t capable of detecting it.”
“Which means everything we spoke about with Ardelean is in our enemy’s hands. This isn’t good. First, Ardelean’s company is hacked, then someone listens in on our conversation.”
Harry said, “I need you to figure out who’s behind the three assassinations, Nicholas. My group will handle investigating Ardelean and his possible enemies.”
Nicholas fiddled with his napkin. “I have a feeling they’re tied together somehow. I’m willing to bet someone was using MATRIX to spy on the Security Services and the victims. And if they’re using Radulov software to do it, then Ardelean is a target, as well. We need to make sure he isn’t murdered before we figure all this out.”
Mike said, “We need a safe place to meet. If MI5 is compromised from within—”
Harry nodded. “Should it become necessary, we have a safe house that will do. It’s in Bayswater. I’ll have it prepared.”
There was a television in the corner of the bar, and Mike sensed rather than saw heads begin to turn. A jolt of adrenaline went through her. Not again.
She pointed to the television, where a red bar along the bottom screamed News Alert.
The TV was closed-captioned, so they read the words: Shipping Magnate Dead in Glasgow, Possible Assassination.
And then: Does Britain Have a Serial Killer on the Loose?
Adam said, “Who is Paulina Vittorini?”
Nicholas said, “She’s one of the foremost shipbuilders in the world. I believe her shipyard is currently building the latest warships for the British navy.”
Mike leaned forward toward Harry. “Sir, does she have ties to Terry Alexander?”
Harry nodded. “He was the Secretary of Defense. No way she wouldn’t have had contact with him since the naval contract was awarded. The media isn’t stupid. They’re going to go ballistic.”
Like Mike, Nicholas leaned toward his father, his voice low, “Did Heinrich Hemmler or Donovan Chapman have anything to do with the British military?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “But we’ll certainly have to find out.”
Adam chewed on his samosa. “Sir, this is very good. I don’t guess we’ll be having more lunch now, will we?”
* * *
Nicholas rose. “Everyone stay and eat. I’ve got to call Penderley. Don’t eat it all, Adam.”
Penderley answered immediately. “I know why you’re calling, and I don’t know. This belongs to the CID blokes in Glasgow. If you can get on-site quicker than my people, let me know.”
Nicholas said, “Copy that,” and hung up. To his father, he said, “Any chance you can get us on a chopper to Glasgow?”
“I can. Is that the best use of your time, though?”
“I’ll go,” Mike said. “You and Adam need to work on fixing the code.”
“I’ve got the code,” Adam said, forking down a prawn. “You two can head north. Trident and Clancy are still at Northolt. They were going to stick around in case we needed to send messages back to New York, but I think Trident really wanted to visit the Tower of London. The G5 will be faster than a chopper.”
“Mike’s right, Adam, this job needs both of us. We’ve got to restore secure comms to Security Services, and that will take a while.” He sent a quick text to Clancy. It was Trident who texted back immediately:
We’re still here, we’re gassing up.
“Mike, they’re with the plane, not off at the Tower of London. Take Ben, I’ll have him meet you at RAF Northolt.”
“If I recall, the last time we flew to Scotland, we had to take the prime minister’s Hawker.”
Nicholas gave her a smile. “As I recall, we had quite an adventure,” which made her roll her eyes.
She looked at the t
elevision again. “Whoever is doing this is showing off, or it’s a massive payback.”
“Payback?” Harry repeated. “Why do you think that?”
She shook her head. “It just popped out.”
“Or maybe revenge,” Adam said, and ate another prawn. “If it is revenge, it’s mighty harsh.”
“Well, whatever,” Mike said, “it’s high time to stop them.”
Harry said, “Michaela, you must promise to be careful. Scarves around your neck, no exposed skin. And I want you in protective gear. Please make sure the pilots have everything before you take off.”
“Don’t worry, Harry. I’m not in the mood to be attacked again. I could go the rest of my life without seeing another drone. But we do have all the proper gear on the plane. As for you, Nicholas, finish your lunch, and as Superintendent Penderley says, you and your dad get this sorted. I’m calling Ben, time to get him in on all this.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
RAF Northolt
London
Forty-five minutes later, Mike met Ben at the private terminal at Northolt. Ben was admiring the lineup of jets on the tarmac. “This place is certainly convenient. They fly private jets and their military Typhoons out of here?”
“They do. They keep the Royal Squadron here, too, to fly the Queen and other VVIPS.”
“VVIPs?”
“Very, very important people.”
Ben laughed. “Fitting.” Across the tarmac Mike saw Trident walking around their G5 with its American flag on the tail. Clancy was inside, sunglasses on, readying the flight plan.
Mike gave Ben a hug. “Sorry to pull you away from vacation. Melinda doing well?”
“No worries. She said four assassinations in three days justifies it, so I’m here with her blessing and her warning I’m not to get myself dead. Seriously, she’s really worried about what’s happening. Do we know what the link is between the victims, yet? And how this Vittorini woman in Glasgow fits?”
“No, not yet. I’m hoping we will have a better sense of what’s happening once we get up there. Someone’s trying to spy on MI5, and it has to be connected to all of these murders. I’ll brief you on the plane.”
Trident met them at the bottom of the stairs. “Good timing. I’m finished up. We’ll have you to Glasgow in a heartbeat. Climb aboard.”
* * *
The shipyards reminded Mike of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, one of her favorite distance running paths. She loved running through the yards, looking over the river, at Manhattan. But it had been decommissioned for actual shipbuilding sometime in the sixties, she knew, while the Govan Shipyards was one of the premier shipbuilders in the world.
A partially assembled Type 26 frigate sat in dry dock, cranes draped over it like metal blankets. The entire shipyard felt empty and quiet, eerily so. Mike knew they’d closed down to honor their owner, and she could see the devastation on the faces of the workers as they hung together in quiet knots.
She also saw a similar group of people twenty feet away, on the edge of the water, outfitted in the now-familiar fluorescent yellow POLICE reflective vests. Two plainclothes cops stood with notebooks open. A crime-scene photographer snapped shots from all angles, and, unlike the scene in Notting Hill, Mike could easily see the long hair of their victim spread across the dirty ground.
They walked to the detectives focused on a young woman who was crying. As they approached, Mike heard the detective saying to her, “Ms. Coes, run us through it again, if you please.”
She said low to Ben, “Let’s listen.”
The young woman’s voice was high-pitched and shaky, her accent deeply Scottish. “She—Mrs. Vittorini—was standing there on the edge of the dock with her eyes shaded, looking at the naval ship we were building. I had to remind her it was time to leave for a luncheon. We started toward the car, and—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, gulped. “She went down. It’s so windy today, well it usually is here, and I saw the wind had tossed her hair across her face. I didn’t know what had happened, so I went down on my knees beside her. I pulled her hair back, and I saw the froth on her mouth. She was dead.” She drew a breath, and tears trickled down her face. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see anything, hear anything, but it’s loud here, as you can imagine. Who’s that now?”
The group turned to see Mike and Ben standing some six feet away, listening. A young detective stepped toward them.
“Ah, you must be the folks from Scotland Yard. Got here quick. I’m Chief Inspector Graham Mackenzie, head of CID for Glasgow.”
Ben stuck out his and Mike’s creds. “Special Agent Ben Houston and Special Agent Michaela Caine, American FBI. Superintendent Penderley sent us here. We’re working the case with a special team.”
“You’re Yanks then. Well now, we’re not adverse to having Yanks on our soil. Welcome aboard. We hope you know something we don’t.”
Mike said, “Chief Inspector, we need everyone to stop exactly where they are. We need a magnet.” She saw him blink and added quickly, “We’re looking for a needlelike object. We believe this murder is tied to three others in London over the past couple of days.”
Mackenzie said, “Let me find a runner, have them bring a magnet.”
“There’s no need for a magnet,” Sabriel Coes called. “I saw something metal in her scarf.”
Mackenzie said, “Shall we have a look? We’re still waiting on the coroner.”
Mike and Ben followed Mackenzie into the perimeter. The dead woman wasn’t beautiful, not anymore, but Mike could see she had been, high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips, now drawn back in a rictus smile.
Mackenzie said, “Paulina was a popular lady around these parts, grew up in Glasgow, was passionate about the shipyards from the time she was a wee lass. She had great civic pride, was generous with her donations. But most of all, she gave jobs to those who might have gone without. She’s famous, you know, throughout the world. Word had it she was going to try a political run, try to reboot the Scottish independence vote, especially now we’ve seen the back end of Brexit. It’s a profound loss to us, a bitter loss, since it appears she was killed.”
Mike put on nitrile gloves, leaned down, and gently moved the scarf. She saw the tiny red puncture on Vittorini’s neck and the needle lying in a fold of the scarf.
Mike looked up. “We believe she’s been shot with a drug called epibatidine. Tree frog poison. We think the needle is the delivery mechanism.”
Ben said, “Did anyone around see or hear a drone flying overhead before or after the murder?”
“A drone? We’ll canvas the scene and see, but no one’s mentioned it. You mean someone flew in a drone with a poisoned needle, shot it into her neck, and killed her?”
“It’s how the last three murders were committed in London. Do you have an evidence bag for this needle?”
Mackenzie snapped his fingers, and a crime scene tech in a white Tyvek suit appeared.
“We’ll take care of it. Sorry, I can’t hand a murder weapon to the FBI and let you walk off with it.”
Mike grinned. “If you did, I’d report you to your boss. But we do need it sent for analysis immediately. Scotland Yard has the information. You can get in touch with Superintendent Hamish Penderley—he’s the head of London CID—and he’ll give your lab instructions.”
Mackenzie relayed this information, and the chain of custody was established so they could rush the needle to the lab. That done, he said, “Walk with me.”
He led them downriver twenty yards, back into the silence of the shipyard. When they stopped, Mike said, “If you’re about to tell us something important, you need to turn off your phone.”
Mackenzie didn’t hesitate, turned it off, and shoved it back in his pocket, then asked, “Why?”
Ben said, “Comms in London are compromised. We can’t take any chances that yours are, too.”
A dark eyebrow went up. “This sounds like a right proper cock-up. Now, given this is clear-cut murder, we had a look
around. There’s a warehouse on the edge of the shipyard locked up tight. Ms. Coes told us no one was ever allowed in there but Mrs. Vittorini. I believe you should have a look.”
CHAPTER FORTY
MI5 Headquarters, Home Office
Thames House
12 Millbank
Westminster, London
We’ve swept everything again, sir, and there’s nothing else.”
Harry dismissed the aide and shut the door. As Nicholas watched, his father walked to the bar and poured a small finger of Scotch. Harry tipped the bottle at him in question. Nicholas wasn’t used to seeing his father drink during the day but was perfectly happy to join him. Adam had no choice but to agree. With three drinks poured, they took their spots at the table and sipped, Adam making faces as he sipped the Scotch.
Harry stuck out his glass. “Come on, lad, puts hair on your chest. Drink up.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Adam said, then brightened. “I wonder how Scotch tastes with Red Bull in it.” He poured the rest of his can in the glass while Nicholas and Harry looked on in horror.
Adam took another sip, and a big grin came across his face. “Much better.” He opened his laptop, “I’m going to keep working our patch so we can get comms up and running. I don’t like being blind, deaf, and dumb with the rest of the team.”
Nicholas nodded. “Mike and Ben should be in Scotland shortly. With luck, we’ll have things working by the time they’re ready to report in. Now, how did your people miss the bug earlier, Father? Was it different than the earlier listening devices?”
“It was. Much smaller. Ian told me it was a different technology. We weren’t equipped to find it. No excuse, I know.”
“Are there cameras in the office so we can see who might have placed it?”
“No. We’ve never spied on ourselves, which means we’ve created a perfect system for someone to infiltrate. They know they won’t be seen.” Harry rested his forehead in his hand for a brief moment. “Either way, I believe it’s time for me to report to the home secretary and explain our vulnerabilities. You’ll excuse me?”
The Sixth Day Page 18
