by Brett King
Angelilli glanced at airport personnel. “Thank you for your help, gentlemen. You may go.”
“You sure?” the shorter of the two asked. “Because we—”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Angelilli said, stepping aside so they could leave the room.
Rickerson escorted them out into the hallway. Waiting for the door to close, Angelilli eased into a chair opposite the suspect.
“What’s this guy’s name?”
The man started to answer, but Langston blurted his name. “David Ronnestrand.”
Angelilli stared at the man, letting the seconds roll into an unnerving silence. He waited until that first bead of sweat traced down the man’s forehead and curled toward his chin.
“Mr. Ronnestrand, I have a question,” he said in an even voice. “Any idea what I’m about to ask?”
The man looked at the phone on the table. In a strained voice, he said, “Something about the cell?”
“Something about the cell,” Angelilli repeated. “Nice job. So, tell me. You got an answer?”
“Swear to God, I never saw the thing until that one agent—the Asian guy who was in here first—pulled it out of my messenger bag.”
“Is that right? You have no idea how it came into your possession?”
“No, sir. None at all.”
“I see.” A pause. “See, that’s a bit of a problem for us. That phone belonged to a murdered government official. Somehow it ended up in your possession, Mr. Ronnestrand.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Look, I’m a former broker at Sachs, Kidder, and Carnegie. I’ve had high-profile clients, but I’ve never worked with the government.”
“Former broker.”
He frowned. “I was fired last week. Anyway, I don’t have connections to government people. I mean it when I say I’ve never seen this phone before. I can’t explain it.”
Angelilli motioned at Langston. He said, “Picture.”
The officer stepped forward, reaching inside a folder for an eight-by-ten glossy. Langston held up the photograph for the man’s inspection.
“Recognize this woman?”
“Don’t know her.” He squinted, adjusting his glasses. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“I saw her in the city. I think it was her. Yeah. Perky little thing. Short blonde hair. Looks like a cheerleader or something. That’s her.”
“Where in the city?”
“Upper East Side. Outside my apartment building.”
“Address?”
“Uh, 1111 Park.”
Langston pulled out his phone.
“What was this woman doing?”
“Getting in my cab.”
“You shared a cab with her?”
“Not exactly.” He looked down. “I sorta took her cab. Cut her off before she could get in.”
“You’re such a gentleman. So, she never entered the vehicle at any time?”
He shook his head. “She stood there on the sidewalk while I loaded my stuff into the taxi.”
Angelilli played scenarios in his head, imaging Cori Cassidy slipping Jason Drakos’s phone in this guy’s suitcase.
“Was anyone with this woman?”
“A kid.”
“What kind? Boy or girl?”
“Girl.”
“How old?”
“Don’t know. Skinny kid. About this tall.” He waved his hand about four feet above the floor. “Give or take a little.”
Langston ended the call and returned to the table.
“Kid’s hair color?” Angelilli asked.
“Beats me. The woman was a blonde. I know that.”
Langston held up another photograph, this one of Shayna Brynstone.
Ronnestrand frowned. “It could be. Like I said, I didn’t pay much attention to the kid.”
“You saw them on the sidewalk outside your building. Where did they go?”
“Don’t know. I was in a hurry to get to the airport.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m still in a hurry.”
“Yeah, I sorta got that impression.”
Langston came over. “Sir, can I talk to you?”
Angelilli moved away from the table. “What is it?”
“Interesting connection,” the officer said in a low voice. “One of the women injured at the shooting today at the Brandonstein Center lives in the same building as this guy. She’s a researcher at Shayna’s school.”
“Which one?”
“Tina Resnick. She’s in intensive care right now.”
“Ronnestrand saw Cori Cassidy in the vicinity,” Angelilli said. “Maybe Cassidy was trying to contact Resnick, only she wasn’t home.”
“Might be worth checking Resnick’s building.”
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
“What about me?” Ronnestrand asked, standing up.
“We’ll need to detain you, sir.”
“I’m heading to a job interview in Chicago. A big meeting at Mesirow Financial. I have a flight to catch.”
“Not anymore. I may need to question you again.”
“I answered all your questions.”
Angelilli shrugged and headed for the door. “Maybe I’ll think up some new ones. I’m creative like that.”
Chapter 17
London, England
11:36 p.m.
John Brynstone batted open his eyes, finding little to see in the darkened room. Rope bound him to a chair. His head was heavy and thundering. He recalled Nessa Griffin’s men Tasing him back on the boulevard, but the haze inside his head felt drug-induced.
His arms burned. Both wrists were pulled behind his back in a handcuff knot.
Before Brynstone had been a Ranger, he’d overheard a grunt telling how he’d tied up a girlfriend with this kind of modified clove hitch, the man bragging about his skill with a “bitch hitch.” The comment hadn’t endeared the guy to the female soldiers in the room.
“Do you happen to be awake over there?” a voice asked in the darkness.
Eyes adjusting, he looked across the room, trying to see the shadowy figure. The phrasing revealed a distinct alveolar trill, marking the man as a speaker of Scottish English. Educated. Sounded like he was middle-aged or older.
“Who are you?” Brynstone called to the darkness.
“A fellow prisoner.”
“Where are we?”
“I’ve not been outwith in some time, but I believe we are inside a factory. It must be near west Kilburn.”
“Kilburn?” Brynstone shook his head, trying to make sense of it. He thought he was in Paris.
“We’re in London?” he asked.
“We are, actually. You are unaware of the city you are in?”
He puzzled it over. Why did Griffin bring him to London?
“Did you see an Irish woman when they brought me here?” he asked.
“You mean Nessa Griffin?”
“You saw her?”
“A short time ago. Her men abducted me while I was on holiday with my sister.”
After the accident back in Paris, Brynstone had taken the facemask from Kane. No doubt Griffin had the Roman artifact now. That didn’t make him happy.
“I know you, Dr. Brynstone,” the stranger called from the darkness.
“You know me?”
“Aye. And I can’t say I care for you. Not at all. Perhaps, though, we should labor together if we are to escape this dreadful room.”
“How do you know me?”
“Only through reputation. I knew Edgar Wurm for a time. What a detestable sort he was. I know of your association with Wurm. If he was your friend, then you are my enemy.”
A Scotsman who hated Edgar Wurm? He searched his memory for a conversation from years back. He flashed back to a tapas bar in ce
ntral Madrid. Wurm had been cursing a blue streak during sangria and fried chorizo, his wrath focused on the actions of a Scottish professor. What was the guy’s name?
He had it.
“Math McHardy,” Brynstone said. “You the guy I’m talking to?”
“What a perfect delight that you know me.”
Brynstone had heard stories about the man. McHardy was a historian as well as a collector of antiquities. Independently wealthy, he had retired at age sixty from the School of Classics at the University of St. Andrews. Wurm claimed the man had retired too soon and was looking for some way to recapture academic glory.
McHardy said, “I knew you were an associate of Wurm’s. For the longest time I thought your name was John Brimstone, as in fire and brimstone. Your name sounds a little like it, you know?”
“I’ve been told.”
“Back to Edgar Wurm. I felt great cheer when I learned about his death.”
Brynstone didn’t deliver the news that Wurm was still around.
“Tell me,” McHardy asked, “how do you know Nessa Griffin?”
“I knew her brother, Reece Griffin.”
“Aye. My former student. That’s another reason I loathe you.”
“I don’t get it,” Brynstone said.
“You killed Reece years ago at his flat in Cork.”
“Who said that?”
“His sister.”
“Nessa Griffin told you that? She abducts you and you believe her about that?”
McHardy remained silent for a beat.
Finally, he said, “As you Americans say, Nessa has been dealing with some issues. Like Reece, she was my student. Never as brilliant as her brother, although a great deal tougher.”
“Ever hear of a man named Torn Kane?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“He’s the man responsible. Kane killed Reece Griffin.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I was there. Nessa Griffin lied to you. She hired Kane to kill her brother. I discovered Reece inside his flat in Cork and threw Kane out a window.”
“Did you?”
“You wanna be angry at someone about Reece’s homicide? Be angry at his sister.”
“I see.” He thought it over. “I remember Nessa saying you stole her brother’s kitten.”
“Yeah, well, that part is true.”
Brynstone had adopted the orphaned cat. Banshee had saved his life that night.
“Well then,” McHardy said, “if you took his kitten? I still loathe you.”
New York City
6:37 p.m.
Viktor Nebola knew how to play it cool. It came naturally to him. Early on in his life, he had learned the art of making the other guy panic. Now he was behind his desk, staring at Markus Tanzer. Silently, Tanzer stared back at him. Guy was made of steel.
“Take a seat.”
Tanzer shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“Do it anyway.”
Tanzer glanced around, then pulled back the chair. He looked crisp in his gray suit, with his head shaved to perfection. He glanced out the window, taking in the view, the ugliness of the city spread out to bake in summer swelter. Bored with the sight of traffic clogging the street, the slender African American man looked back into the room.
“Didn’t realize the Shadow Chapter had a Manhattan office.”
“It wasn’t necessary for you to know.” Nebola rose from behind his desk. “I’m troubled.”
“I know.”
Nebola straightened his tie. “I gave orders for the operation at the Brandonstein Center today. I made it clear I wanted Shayna Brynstone brought to me.”
“You did.”
He turned with a clenched fist. Growling, he said, “You assassinated a CIA officer. I’m fine with that. You shot Brynstone’s wife. No problem. But you allowed a little girl to escape? That’s unforgivable.”
“We made a mistake. We know it.”
“Stop the we. You were the team leader, Mr. Tanzer.”
“Still am. That’s why I need to get out of this office. We’re going to find that kid for you.” He rose from the chair. “Get me back on the street.”
“You haven’t asked about your father. Have you lost interest in the old man?”
“What have you done to him?”
“See for yourself.”
He handed over a tablet computer. It streamed video from a California nursing home.
Tanzer looked up. “I don’t get it. He’s back in his room.”
“We returned Martin Tanzer to San Bernardino, safe and sound.”
The man bit his lip. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your not hurting him.” Tanzer handed back the computer, then held out his hand.
Nebola looked at it, but didn’t budge. “Get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” He pulled back his hand. “I’m not doing you any good in here. I’ll find Shayna Brynstone for you.”
Markus Tanzer headed for the door. As the man reached for the knob, Nebola pressed a button on his desk.
A crackle of electricity. A thousand volts rifled through Tanzer’s body, rolling him off his feet in a violent twist. He gurgled before falling into a crumpled heap on the floor.
His charred hand twitched beside him.
Nebola stood over the dead man, taking in the stench of seared flesh.
“You were right when you said you’re not doing me any good.” He shook his head. “You thought Shayna Brynstone was just a child. That was a fatal mistake, Mr. Tanzer.”
London
11:40 p.m.
Tied to the chair, Brynstone stared into the darkness. He couldn’t see Math McHardy.
“Nessa Griffin abducted you. She still here?”
“How should I know?” McHardy snapped.
Brynstone had another question, but the door opened before he could ask it.
A swath of light cut across the darkened floor.
Véronique stepped inside, looking around. She ignored McHardy and walked to Brynstone. It was the first he’d seen her since the cavern beneath the Paris cemetery.
She knelt beside him, no apologies. She held up the Roman facemask.
“Why are you interested in this thing?”
Wrists bound in rope, Brynstone stared at the woman without saying a word.
“You study old bones. Mummies. Ancient diseases. You don’t collect antiquities.”
“And you’re not the historian for Père Lachaise Cemetery. How long have you been working for Nessa Griffin?”
“Long enough to know she regards you as a worthy rival.”
This brought a snort from McHardy. Her eyes darted in his direction, but she didn’t turn her head. Véronique brought her gaze back to Brynstone.
“Annoying, isn’t he?” Brynstone asked.
She smiled.
Then the unexpected happened.
There was a whirling sound. Véronique screamed and then seemed to shudder. She looked down. A round silver object with daggerlike edges was embedded in her hand. She dropped the Roman facemask, the scream trapped in her throat.
On instinct, Véronique ripped the throwing weapon from her bloodied hand and dropped it. The weapon landed at Brynstone’s boot.
Breathing hard, she turned.
Dressed all in black, an Indian woman ran at her from the doorway.
Véronique prepared to defend herself, swinging out to strike the intruder. But before she could connect, the Indian woman dropped into a crouching surprise attack, her hand anchored on the floor as she twisted her body into a roundhouse kick. The woman’s execution was flawless. Brynstone recognized it as a capoeira move, an Afro-Brazilian method blending disguised martial arts with dance. Compressing her body like a spring, the woman swung up with a payload kick. Her foot blast
ed into Véronique’s stomach, probably rupturing internal organs while also snapping a rib or two. Flipping in the air, Véronique went down hard, the whole thing over before it started.
On the floor now with her head turned to the side, Véronique lay still—her eyelids fluttered, then closed.
Was she dead?
Doubtful, but not out of the question.
Unconcerned, the Indian woman glanced at Brynstone. She had piercing eyes and a stunning body. Keeping her cautious gaze trained on him, she knelt and took the Roman facemask.
He didn’t say a word to her.
From across the room, McHardy spat, “Who in God’s name are you?”
The woman reached down to an ankle holster. She stood and unfolded a knife, keeping her gaze fixed on Brynstone before turning away to see the professor.
As she stalked closer to him, still holding the weapon, McHardy closed his eyes.
Brynstone glanced at the stainless-steel disk on the floor where Véronique had dropped it. From the chair, he stretched his long leg and trapped it beneath his foot. He didn’t want the woman to see him make a move for it. Keeping it quiet, he dragged the weapon toward him.
Holding the knife, the woman sliced ropes around McHardy’s wrists. His hands snapped free.
“What do you want with me?” He tried to sound intimidating, but apprehension shadowed his voice.
She grabbed the man’s rumpled dress shirt, then raised McHardy straight against the wall. They were the same height, maybe five nine.
“You’re coming with me,” the woman demanded, speaking for the first time. Her English was flawless.
“Under no circumstances,” he announced with sudden defiance.
Brynstone drew the woman’s throwing weapon toward him. Sensing movement, she glanced back.
Brynstone froze, making it look like he was watching Véronique. She hadn’t moved since absorbing the devastating kick.
“Do you know who I am?” McHardy asked.
Turning back to the man, she directed her fist into his mouth. His head recoiled and struck the wall, silencing him.
