The Black List

by Robin Burcell

  “What sort of overlap?” she asked.

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this,” he said, getting up and walking her to the door. “We have a lot of things going on right now, and it would take way too long to go into it. Do you need an escort to the lobby?”

  He was teasing her, and she was glad to see that his mood was improving. “No. I think I can manage. Assuming you can trust me to get from here to the elevator on my own.” She started to walk out but then stopped, realizing there was a big unanswered question. “Back in my apartment when we first learned Trip flew to England. Why were you so adamant that I shouldn’t go?”

  He drew her in, closed the door, then kissed her, just like he had on New Year’s eve. “Does that answer your question?”

  A knock on the other side of the door startled her.

  “Griff?”

  He took a deep breath, stepped back and allowed Sydney to move away before he opened the door. “Yeah?” he said.

  Tex looked up from some piece of paperwork. “Here’s the—” And then he saw Sydney standing a few feet away. “I’ll, uh, come back later.”

  “I was just leaving,” Sydney told him. She walked out, Tex moving aside to let her pass.

  “Syd?”

  She stopped at the sound of Griffin’s voice, turned, hoped she looked more composed than she felt.

  “Call Carillo and tell him that one of us will fly out with him to help.” He was pointing toward Tex.

  She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  20

  Eve unwrapped her scarf, then sat at the table, across from Lou, the one man in England she could trust. He was the one who had helped her arrange the last-minute ticket for Trip. “Sorry I’m late,” she said.

  “Do you think he suspected you?”

  “Trip? Not a chance. All he wanted to do was get out of the U.S. and away from his girlfriend. Fool that he is, I think he’s more worried about Sheila’s FBI husband stirring things up than any threat that might come on this side of the Atlantic.” She leaned back in her seat, grateful to have a moment to relax, no matter how brief. “I have Sheila’s husband to thank for being brought in for questioning at the D.C. event, something that was not on my agenda. Apparently he or his wife called in a couple reporters to look into Trip’s embezzlement charges.”

  “And Micah?”

  “I’ve got to finalize a few arrangements later this afternoon at the hotel where his event is taking place. But I can tell you this. If Micah ever comes up for air and notices anything he shouldn’t, they’ll probably kill him. Right now, he’s so busy patting himself on the back, he hasn’t a clue what I’m doing. He sure as hell didn’t notice when three gunmen—” Her gaze caught on Lou’s watch as he lifted his cup to take a drink. “Oh, crap. Is it really that late? I have to go.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll call you the moment I hear anything.”

  Eve rushed out the door, then down the street, weaving through the pedestrians who had just disembarked from a double-decker bus, all of whom seemed to be going in the opposite direction. She pushed through them, reached the corner. The light was red and she looked to her left, saw no cars, then stepped from the curb, only to be pulled short when the man next to her grabbed her by her arm.

  “Careful, miss. Traffic comes from that direction,” he said, nodding to her right just as a black taxicab zipped around the corner, proving his point.

  “Thanks.”

  This time she looked to the right, saw it was clear, then darted across the street and on around the corner toward the Tube. She rushed down the stairs, slapped her fare card against the reader, pushed through the turnstile, then hurried to the platform, breathing a sigh of relief that she made the train. She walked toward the front, took a seat by the door so that she could exit the moment it stopped. As long as there were no unexpected delays, she should only be a minute or two late.

  Hardly enough to warrant a second look. She hoped.

  The train stopped and she let herself be carried by the forward momentum of the exiting crowd, then hurried up the steps, dodging passengers descending from the street above. In less than five minutes she arrived at the A.D.E. building in the financial center of London. Clayton Barclay, CEO of A.D.E., maintained an office here, as well as in the United States. American by birth, he’d lived in Great Britain these past three years but traveled extensively between the two countries to run the worldwide organization that collected, accounted for, and disbursed the money from a number of different charities beneath the A.D.E. umbrella.

  The warm air from the lobby washed over her as she pushed through the rotating glass door, and once inside, she removed her gloves, grateful to be out of the cold. Barclay’s office was located on the third floor of the four-story building, a quick elevator ride up. She entered the offices, greeted the receptionist, then walked back to the meeting room, where she saw him seated at the conference table through the open door. She entered and smiled at him, even though inside she had nothing to smile about. The entire operation was bungled from start to finish.

  “Eve. Good of you to make it.” Barclay gave her a cold look as she sat down, and all she could do was take it. He was the man in charge of the money. The man in charge of them all. “Now that everyone is present,” he said, “we can get started on the progress report.” He looked right at her. “Eve?”

  She hadn’t expected to go first and wasn’t prepared. “The book’s still missing.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I can’t say, primarily because the person I was supposed to get it from is dead.”

  “Dorian Rose?” Barclay said. “He was talking to reporters.”

  “You were supposed to give me a chance to talk to him. What’d you think he was going to do? Just hand the thing over to a couple thugs who show up at his door?” she said, nodding to Willis, one of the gunmen seated across the table from her.

  Willis smiled. “You seem on edge.”

  “Could it be because you and your idiot partners almost ruined the fund-raiser and all the work I’ve done so far?”

  Barclay slammed his hand on the table and she nearly jumped from her seat. “A couple reporters showed up asking questions after talking to Dorian Rose. What did you think I was going to do? Let them have free rein?”

  Two reporters and an FBI agent, she amended silently. Not that she was about to correct him. The last thing she needed was to end up dead because he mistakenly believed the FBI involvement was her fault. Trip was the one to blame for that, and she knew his life wasn’t worth a whit once Barclay learned the FBI was snooping around and he had anything to do with it.

  That wasn’t her concern at the moment, and she took a calming breath as she wracked her brain, trying to think of a way to spin this. Somehow she needed to smooth it over before Barclay lost his temper and decided she was more of a liability than an asset. She had no intention of ending up dead like the others. “I can understand your concern about the reporters showing up. But sending someone to the hotel after them was a mistake. Do you have any idea what Micah would have done if he’d learned that a few reporters were kidnapped from his event and later killed?”

  “Shed a few tears and order you to send flowers?”

  “The man lives and breathes his charity, as long as he feels it is doing more good than harm. I’ve worked with him on a daily basis these last six months. I know him, his mental fragility. If you send him into an emotional roller coaster over a few reporters who don’t have a clue what’s going on, you’re going to shut down your biggest cash cow.”

  “And how would you know they have no idea what’s going on?”

  “Because they think this is one big giant embezzlement case stemming from money Trip allegedly stole. Every question that they asked was directed to that. And since their star witness, Trip, has fled the country, I seriously doubt a two-bit paper like the Washington Recorder has the resources to track him down.”

  Barclay stared at her for several
seconds, and she was certain her heart was beating loud enough for him to hear. Finally he relaxed, sat back in his chair, offered something akin to a smile. He turned his gaze to Willis. “Tell me more about Dorian Rose. You were the one following him before his unfortunate demise. Surely you have some idea about what he told the reporters.”

  “Don’t think he said much at all. They weren’t together long enough on the first contact, and since we were listening in on the phone for the second, we know nothing was said.”

  “Then where the hell is this missing book? Why hasn’t anyone found that for me yet?”

  The man shrugged, and Barclay turned his gaze back to Eve.

  As much as she’d hoped to hold this card close, she realized she had no choice but to state what now seemed obvious.

  “I don’t think it ever left the country, as we were led to believe. I think it’s right here in London. Why else would Trip return, except to retrieve it?”

  21

  Tex sat down at the table inside the tavern near Mayfair, monitoring the numbers they’d copied from Sheila’s phone back in the States, while his partner in the case, Donovan Archer, ordered their lunch. The number Trip called about twenty minutes before Sydney had seen the limo pulling out of her apartment complex belonged to a cell phone with a U.S. number, registered to a name and address they determined were fraudulent. That, however, wasn’t what intrigued him. What made it the number to watch was that it was currently here in London. Tex was tracking it in real time, which is why they settled in the pub about a block from the phone’s location.

  Donovan walked up a moment later with two mugs of beer. “Any luck?” he asked, sliding one of the mugs Tex’s way.

  “Still sitting in the same place. You get ahold of Carillo?”

  “Yeah. He says Sheila’s number still hasn’t shown up on the monitor. He’s sitting tight.”

  “Good thing Trip isn’t the brightest bulb, using Sheila’s cell phone to make his getaway . . .”

  “Unless he did it on purpose . . .”

  “I like my theory better.”

  Tex set the phone on the center of the table and they watched the small screen while waiting for their order. The phone hadn’t moved for the last twenty minutes, showing a steady signal coming from the same area. The moment the waiter appeared with their lunch, it changed. “We might want to get that to go. It’s finally moving.”

  “Which direction?”

  “South.”

  Unfortunately, the signal ended somewhere in the vicinity of Claridge’s Hotel, when its owner apparently decided to shut it off, or the signal was lost due to the building’s infrastructure. They walked up and down the block, hoping to pick it up again, but no such luck.

  “It would be nice to know whose phone it is,” Donovan said.

  “Have you tried Sheila’s cell again?”

  “Voice mail. And to quote Carillo, ‘Knowing her, she probably let the battery die.’ ”

  And suddenly Tex’s phone pinged, as the signal came back to life. “It’s here,” he said. And they looked into the glass-fronted lobby area of Claridge’s Hotel, only to see Eve Sanders standing just inside.

  They entered, and she looked over, saw Tex and froze, her expression moving swiftly from confusion to something Tex thought might have been a mix between shock and anger. And then, recovering quickly, she walked over, her brows raised as she said, “Why are you here?”

  “Told you,” Tex said. “I’m writing a story on Micah.”

  Donovan added, “Are you staying at this hotel? Pretty posh place.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Sorry,” Tex said. “My new photographer. Donovan Archer.”

  “Seriously?” She crossed her arms. “You followed us to London just for a story?”

  “You know editors,” Tex said. “They’re sticklers when they want something done.”

  “A five-page nothing paper like the Recorder can afford to send two guys to London to follow up on some fluff piece, when every other paper in the U.S. is going bankrupt?”

  “I’d think the answer is obvious,” Tex said. “Rich owner.”

  “Very rich,” Donovan added. “And he’s taken a liking to your boss. Must be all that charity work he does. So here we are, doing what we get paid for.”

  “What the hell did you guys do? Call every hotel until you found me?”

  “We’re tenacious when it comes to following up a story,” Donovan said. “In fact, we have a lead on some guy whose wife ran off to find Trip. You know anything about that?”

  She looked away, clearly upset by this turn of events. But then she turned back to them, her face the epitome of calm as she said, “His girlfriend, I expect. They’re quite the pair. I haven’t seen him since we got here. And I definitely haven’t seen her. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Where are you staying?”

  “Haven’t decided yet,” Tex replied. “It was sort of a spur of the moment assignment when our boss found out Micah’s next tour stop was in London.”

  “I suppose if you’ve gone to this much trouble, you might as well stay here.”

  Tex looked around. “Thanks, but no thanks. Our boss might be rich, but I’m pretty sure he’d draw the line at a five-star hotel. What we would like is an interview with Micah, then we’re out of your hair.”

  She seemed to think about it for a moment. “Fine. I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning. But rule number one, no more showing up at his events. Not after what happened the last time.”

  “Not like we invited the robbers.”

  “No. But apparently they zoned in on you over this thing with Trip’s friend, Dorian, and my duty is to protect Micah. Whatever Dorian and Trip were involved in, I don’t want anything to do with that. Are we clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Tex said, then tipped his finger to his forehead. “Appreciate your offer, ma’am.”

  “I’ll call the Dorchester to let them know you’ll be by tomorrow, say ten?”

  “You’re not staying here?”

  “No. This is where Micah’s event is tomorrow night.” She took out her cell phone. “It is just the two of you, right? Your FBI agent friend isn’t here with you? What was her name?”

  “Sydney Fitzpatrick. And no, she’s apparently done with the case.”

  Eve moved off to make a call, and Donovan leaned toward Tex, asking, “You think she’s really calling the hotel?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care,” he said, his gaze firmly planted on her backside as she walked toward the front desk.

  Donovan eyed Tex in disbelief. “You talk about Griffin with Fitzpatrick? You’re scaring me.”

  “No harm in looking, Donnie boy. Besides. What’s not to like?”

  Tex’s phone rang and he answered the call.

  It was Griffin, saying, “I have some intel.”

  Eve walked up at that moment, so Tex said, “Can I get back to you? Reception’s a bit spotty.”

  “Call me when you’re in a secure location.”

  Eve smiled at them. “Everything’s set for tomorrow at ten. I don’t suppose the two of you have a couple business cards? I’ll make sure they get to Micah so he knows who to expect. And if I hear anything on Trip’s girlfriend, I’ll call.”

  Donovan and Tex both pulled a card from their breast pockets and handed them over, and Tex followed it with, “Looking forward to tomorrow.”

  Carillo glanced up from the computer monitor, a look of hope on his face, when Tex and Donovan returned to the safe house.

  “Eve hasn’t seen them,” Tex said. “Or so she says.”

  “Now what?”

  “Do what you’re doing. Watch for Sheila’s cell phone to pop up on the screen, or Trip’s if he happens to ever turn his on. Start calling hotels she might stay at. In the meantime, we’ll keep looking.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Donovan added.

  Tex returned Griffin’s call. “You rang?”

  “Two things. Lisette’s flying into London to help. I w
ant her to connect with you first in case you’re able to find any other threads we might have missed.”

  “You said there was something else?”

  “Confirmation that Fitzpatrick’s assessment of Eve was spot on. There’s more to her than meets the eye. We’ve got visual intel showing Eve talking to known arms dealers outside of the capitol. On more than one occasion. Just want you to know what you’re dealing with. I’m faxing the photos to you now.”

  22

  Eve stood at the corner waiting for traffic to clear, this time making sure she looked to the right before she rushed across the street. Lou was inside the pub when she got there, at a table in the corner near the window overlooking the quiet street near Paddington Station.

  “You’re not going to believe who showed up here,” she said when he handed her a beer. “The two reporters.”

  “I thought you weren’t worried about them.”

  She slipped out of her coat and hung it on the back of the chair. “Not when I thought they were on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  “Any idea what they’re doing here?”

  “If they’re to be believed, chasing after Micah for a story.”

  “You don’t believe them?”

  Eve sat back, eyed the thin head of foam at the top of her beer, then took a long sip. The slight bitterness was refreshing after her hurried trip out here. “This has turned into a goddamned nightmare, I’m not sure what to believe. They’re staying here in London.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Trip swears he told them next to nothing, and since he knew next to nothing, I believe him. But the fact they’re even here is scaring the crap out of me. I do not want to end up in a body bag because two Clark Kent wannabes are searching for clues to a Pulitzer pipe dream—assuming they really are reporters. There’s something about them that’s not quite right.” She reached into her coat pocket, pulling out their business cards. “See what you can find on them.”