by DV Berkom
“No, no, that’s fine. As you can see, there was indeed an accident.” Leine lifted her cast for effect. “I must have forgotten he’d done that.” She smiled an apology and shrugged. “The painkillers they give you these days.”
The clerk nodded in agreement. “They can be very strong, can’t they?”
“Yes, they can. Would you mind calling me a taxi?”
“Of course.” Obviously relieved she wasn’t in trouble for giving away Leine’s passport, the clerk picked up the phone and made the call.
Leine curled her fingers around the damp passports and the gun in her coat pocket. Whoever her “husband” was had effectively made her disappear. The only people who knew the name on the passport she’d used to get into the country were Eric and Mindy, but Mindy wouldn’t have left her without a way home. Obviously, this was Eric’s handiwork.
And now he thought she was dead.
Ten minutes later, the taxi arrived.
“Schiphol, please,” she told the driver and settled back in her seat. If Eric believed that she’d died from the bomb at the café or the Frenchman had killed her, then she had the element of surprise. She felt safe in assuming Eric wasn’t privy to the name on the passport that Sparky created, so she wouldn’t be flagged when she boarded her flight or when she went through customs back in the States.
If Eric was behind the attempt to eliminate her, and it certainly looked as though he was, it was going to be a challenge to find out Carlos’s location. If he was still alive. She could try to enlist Mindy’s help, but Leine assumed Eric would have already informed her of Leine’s untimely death. As loyal as Mindy was, there was a risk that she would alert Eric to Leine’s presence in the States, even when asked not to. No, she would have to go the direct route.
The driver glanced in his rearview mirror and muttered something under his breath. Leine turned to look out the back window just as a dark SUV surged forward and slammed into them, throwing her against the front seat.
“Merda,” the driver yelled, and stepped on the brakes.
“No! Keep driving,” Leine shouted, bracing herself.
“What? No, no. There is accident. I must stop,” he replied in broken English and started to pull over.
Leine glanced at the name on his taxi license. “Nicolau—listen to me. If you stop, we will both be killed. Now move!”
Eyes wide, Nicolau visibly swallowed, gripped the steering wheel, and floored the accelerator. The taxi surged forward, followed closely by the SUV.
Leine twisted in her seat in time to see the passenger window roll down and a gun appear. She ducked as the back window shattered. Nicolau screamed and hunched low in his seat, praying aloud as he swerved wildly through traffic.
She pulled out her pistol and inched up far enough to catch a glimpse of the SUV. They were two car lengths behind but gaining. Nicolau was doing a good job of keeping them at bay, but it was only a matter of time before either traffic or circumstances slowed them.
“We need more distance,” she yelled.
“I am trying.” Nicolau glared at her in the rearview mirror.
“If you can manage at least a block between us and the SUV, then take the next side street and let me out. I’ll have time to set up, and you’ll have time to get the hell out of here.”
Apparently, Nicolau liked the idea. He straightened in his seat, leaned forward, and stomped on the gas. Leine managed to remain upright by bracing against the backseat with her feet on the floor. Her left arm throbbed, but she pushed the sensation away. There’d be time to deal with that later.
How did these guys track me to the hotel?
The most feasible explanation was the burner phone Sparky had given her. Her chest tightened at the thought of his betrayal.
A large delivery truck trundled into the intersection they’d just gone through, blocking the SUV’s way. She reached in her pocket, removed the phone, and hurled it through the shattered window as Nicolau swerved onto a narrow side street. They flew past trees and parked cars and centuries-old buildings before turning again onto an even narrower street with several commercial-sized trash bins. It was here that Nicolau brought the taxi to an abrupt stop.
“Get this car out of sight. If they see you, they’ll assume I’m still inside.” Leine tossed a hundred-euro note onto the front seat and got out. Without a backward glance, Nicolau gunned it. The tires chirped as the taxi shot forward, squealed around the next corner, and disappeared.
Sliding the gun into her waistband, Leine ducked behind the closest garbage bin and waited.
She didn’t think the gunmen in the SUV would be able to find her now. Not after getting rid of the phone and Nicolau’s evasive driving. But she needed to be certain.
A few minutes later a car turned into the alley. Leine’s heart rate skyrocketed.
She peered around the edge of the bin. The black SUV coasted slowly toward her down the narrow street. Flattening her back against the brick wall, she drew her gun. She was going to have to take them out one-handed with a pistol. Did they just get lucky and pick the right alley? There was no way they could still be tracking her, unless…
Leine closed her eyes. Of course.
The agency-issued phone.
Eric.
Balancing the gun on her knee she shoved her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out the other cell phone. Anger at her boss’s betrayal swept through her. With the SUV still several meters away, she hurled the mobile into the next bin over. Then she moved behind the dumpster. Moments later, the front end of the SUV rolled into view.
The man in the passenger seat was looking ahead at the next bin and didn’t notice Leine. She fired. Two rounds hit the gunman in the side of the head, and he slumped forward. His weapon fell from his grip and clattered to the ground. The driver swiveled in his seat, his weapon pointed at Leine. He was dead before he could pull the trigger. His hand dropped. His chin hit his chest. The SUV rolled to a stop.
Leine waited in case there were more inside. When no one else appeared, she made sure both gunmen were dead, and pocketed their ammo. She didn’t bother to check for identification. There was no suppressor on her gun, and the shots had echoed in the narrow alley. It wouldn’t be long before someone called the police.
Still jacked up on adrenaline, she followed first one street and then another until she came to a metro stop where several people were preparing to board a tram. Leine melted into the crowd and rode the tram to the city center. There she transferred to a train going to the airport. She had to get back to the States and confront Eric.
It was a safe bet he wouldn’t be happy to see her.
Chapter 17
San Francisco, California
“What happened to your arm?” the man in the seat next to Leine asked.
“Cycling accident,” she answered. Damn thing ached like a bitch. The doctor who set her arm had told her to curtail strenuous activity. Like that was going to happen.
“Ouch. That’s tough,” the guy said.
He’d tried to engage her from the moment the jet had taken off from Amsterdam, but Leine had ignored him and he’d given up. She glanced out the window to watch their approach to San Francisco International. The scenery always reminded her of Italy. The dark green of the oak trees and scrub, rolling brown hills, and steel-blue ocean gave the area its distinctive Mediterranean look. It was late afternoon and the usual coastal fog had already burned off, leaving bright sunshine in its wake.
Once more, the man attempted to prompt her into a conversation but Leine continued to ignore him by gazing out the window. It didn’t take long before he realized she didn’t want to talk and returned to his magazine.
She’d managed a few hours of sleep on the flight from Amsterdam, even though she’d been peppered with dark dreams that wouldn’t let her rest. The Frenchman’s last words kept playing through her mind.
Even your own government wants you dead.
Carlos had been right. Eric was trying to kill her. After y
ears of working for him on highly sensitive jobs and developing what she thought of as a working level of trust, the possibility that Eric was specifically targeting both her and Carlos was difficult to wrap her mind around.
Robicheaux had known she was coming. Only Eric and his Russian counterpart knew of her involvement in the operation. Eric had been monitoring her whereabouts remotely and was aware she’d survived both the café bombing and the Frenchman. Even though it would take time for news of the gunmen’s deaths to reach him, alerting him to her survival, she had to play it like Eric was already aware she was still alive.
Shards of worry etched her mind. Their own boss was targeting them both.
Carlos was missing.
What had Eric done?
Exhausted as she was, incendiary anger at her boss burned through her, giving her clarity and purpose. As soon as the plane landed, she caught a cab to the Tenderloin and Carlos’s place.
Half-expecting to see him, she took the stairs two at a time. The door had been left partially open. Heart thudding, she paused to listen before entering. Not hearing any activity, she eased into the apartment.
Kitchen cupboards gaped open, their fragile contents smashed on top of the granite counters and across the floor. The door to the refrigerator was ajar. Whatever food had been left on the shelves now trailed along the tile. Stuffing exploded from jagged cuts in the couch cushions and throw pillows. Carlos’s collection of movies had been ripped apart and the DVDs thrown across the room, scattered like silver fish scales.
A knot forming in the pit of her stomach, Leine moved through the chaos, headed for the bedroom. The mattress had been tipped onto the floor to give access to the frame, a jagged slice splitting the entire length and width. The painting Carlos purchased in Hong Kong lay on the floor beside the bed, its canvas punched through. Leine scanned the spot where it had hung, searching for the faux brick. It blended perfectly with the others around it—from a distance she couldn’t tell which one it was. She climbed over the wreckage and ran her fingers along the wall. She found the brick and shook the key from its hiding place, relief surging through her.
Grabbing one of Carlos’s backpacks, she exited the apartment, closed the door behind her, and took the stairs to the storage room on the lower level. She found locker number nine near the back, inserted the key, and opened the door.
Inside was a loaded 9mm pistol, a large sealed envelope with the word “Razorback” hand printed on the front in black marker, two false passports with Carlos’s picture, money, and a black laptop. Using her teeth, Leine ripped the top of the envelope off, revealing several photocopies and two CDs in jewel cases. Each had a date and time written on them. She stuffed the laptop and the envelope inside the backpack and left the building.
She found a quiet café a few blocks from the apartment, with only one other customer occupying a table. Leine chose a booth, booted up the laptop, and slid the first CD into the tray. The waiter came over, and she ordered an espresso and biscotti. She then returned to the files on the screen.
The first file she opened was a spreadsheet simply titled Accounts. Each tab represented consecutive years. She clicked through the current year and skimmed the entries. There were several columns to each. The first column listed operation codenames followed by a start date, completion date, and a place for comments. The last few columns were dollar amounts. The first of these was titled Gross. The rest were various headings accounting for expenses, followed by a column labeled Net.
A typical spreadsheet keeping track of income and expenses.
She recognized several dates that corresponded with jobs she’d carried out, as well as those that Carlos had done. The bulk of expenses included the operative’s payouts along with costs associated with the job such as transportation, hotel, meals, and weapons.
So far, nothing damning. The files appeared to be accounting spreadsheets for Eric’s personal use. What had Carlos found that he thought would implicate Eric in using the Agency’s operatives off-book? She checked the other entries but found nothing unusual.
She ejected the CD and slid in the second one.
Another spreadsheet. This one was named Razorback. Leine checked the dates and stopped at October 29, the day she’d been ambushed on the Glushenko job. The start date was correct, but the codename read like gibberish, and the completion date had a minus sign instead of the actual date she’d completed the mission. A separate entry had been added in the comments field that read, OpS-RS. She assumed the RS was similar to the shorthand Eric used when an op had to be rescheduled, but she wasn’t sure what OS meant. The Op could mean Operation or Operative or something else entirely, and she had no idea what the S stood for. She skimmed some of the other codenames and came to one where the operative had died in action. OpD had been typed in the comment section. Operative died?
So OpS meant Operative Survived?
Leine checked the date she’d completed the Medina job, but the entries ended the day before her trip to Campeche. Which probably meant Carlos hadn’t been back to download more recent information. She glanced at her phone, but there was still no message from him.
Pushing away dark thoughts that threatened to derail her, she downloaded the information from both CDs to the laptop’s hard drive and put them back inside the envelope. The papers turned out to be black-and-white copies of photographs taken from a distance showing Eric with various people. She stopped at a series of three pictures with the same man.
All three were taken from a high vantage point with a long lens—probably a rooftop. The first showed Eric standing next to a black limousine, shaking the other man’s hand—Adrian “The Wolf” Volkov—the largest black market arms dealer in the world. In the second photograph, Volkov was handing Eric a large briefcase. The third showed Eric in the driver’s seat of a different car with the case open on his lap. The case was filled with cash.
Never mind the myriad questions raised by Eric’s connection to Volkov, not to mention the conflict of interest that connection represented, but Leine knew for a fact that Eric did not use currency in the Agency’s transactions. Transacting business in cash was far too risky given the nature of the Agency’s work. If word leaked of a payout, theft was a real threat. Not only that, but Eric didn’t like to micro-manage his operatives, and if money was involved, there was a possibility that it might disappear in-house. Eric preferred labyrinthine offshore transfers using shell corporations within shell corporations.
Plausible deniability.
The Frenchman was Volkov’s direct competitor. If Carlos’s suspicions were right, then Eric’s cash exchange with the arms dealer pointed to securing an off-book contract on Robicheaux’s life. Volkov was rumored to be in bed with high-ranking members of the Russian government who had a huge stake in the Frenchman’s death.
She thought back to Ilya and the café bombing. Eric strongly suggested she take Robicheaux out from close quarters, but Leine had nixed the idea. Had Eric somehow set in motion Ilya’s ill-conceived attempt on the Frenchman’s life? Ilya said he didn’t know the name of his uncle’s friend, but it was obvious the young Russian’s contact had access to real-time information that could only come from high up within the Russian government. Or possibly the Russian mafia.
What if the friend was Volkov?
Leine slid the pictures back inside the envelope and powered down the laptop. She stood up and shrugged on her jacket, the weight of the gun reassuring. Eric had answers, of that she was certain. Her boss would need convincing.
And Leine was just the woman to do it.
Chapter 18
By the time Leine arrived at Agency headquarters, she’d gotten control of her anger, replacing emotion with the calculating, pragmatic side she used in her work.
The side that won.
The elevator doors pinged open, and she stepped onto the marble floor of the reception area. On first impression the surroundings gave off a formidable law firm vibe. No sign or logo graced the wall behind the re
ceptionist’s desk—just a huge flower arrangement that was changed daily. The expensive furnishings were all dark wood and gleaming surfaces, suggesting old money and old boys.
Ignoring the receptionist’s request to sign in, Leine bypassed the front desk and headed straight for Eric’s corner office. When she walked through the double doors, Mindy looked up from a stack of papers on her desk, her welcoming smile replaced by a look of astonishment.
“Leine.”
“Is he in?” Leine asked.
“My God, we thought you were dead…” Mindy rose from her chair and came around the desk toward her, relief etching her face. She stopped short of contact and frowned, apparently unsure of Leine’s mood.
“Is he in,” Leine repeated, her voice cold.
Mindy seemed flustered at the unfriendly tone but soon recovered. “He went home early. He didn’t say why.” She returned to the desk and picked up the phone. “He’ll be so relieved you’re okay.”
“Put the phone down, Mindy.”
Mindy glanced at Leine, wariness obvious in her eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, she replaced the receiver. “Is this because of Carlos?” she asked. Her expression softened as tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Time ground to a halt. Leine stopped mid-breath, a dense pit forming in her stomach.
“Carlos?” She took a step toward Mindy, but ice-cold dread blocked her from further progress. “What about Carlos?” she repeated, louder this time, the emotional walls she’d constructed against the inevitable collapsing around her.
Mindy’s face paled and she shook her head as she moved toward her.
“I—I thought you knew,” she said, her voice catching. “Oh my God, I thought you knew.”
Leine allowed Mindy to guide her to a chair and she sank onto the cushions, the finality of Mindy’s words searing a path through her heart. The sunlight from the window dulled, and the shadows around her seemed to deepen until there was only a pinpoint of light before her. Soon, even that disappeared. She closed her eyes against Mindy, against the agency, against Eric and everything he represented.
