Rules of Vengeance

by Christopher Reich

  “We were at Robert Russell’s apartment when you made your last call.”

  “But Robbie promised me that no one could ever track our messages.”

  “He was telling the truth,” said Kate. “Despite our best efforts, we haven’t been able to track where the message came from. His web security was quite elaborate.”

  “Then how?”

  “Your university signet ring,” explained Kate. “When we studied the transmission, we observed that the ring bore the Oxford crest. We found your photo in the yearbook.”

  “And from there? It was my ma, wasn’t it?”

  “Your mother was no help,” said Graves. “But next time you decide to run and hide, I’d caution you not to be so free with your credit card.”

  “But they’re not allowed to share that data. It’s private.”

  Graves gave her a look to suggest that that wasn’t remotely the case.

  “Have you come to protect me, then?” she asked. “It wasn’t a suicide, you know.”

  “We’re taking the view that Lord Russell’s death was a homicide,” agreed Kate. “But we have no reason to believe that you’re in any danger. Just in case, we’re leaving you with two policemen for the next several days.”

  Graves cut in. “If you don’t mind, we’ve traveled quite a long way to ask you some questions.”

  “Certainly.” Bella clasped her hands, the picture of cooperation. “How can I help?”

  “To begin with, what can you tell us about yesterday’s attack on Igor Ivanov?”

  “Who?” Bella looked between them, confused.

  “Igor Ivanov,” Graves repeated. “The Russian interior minister who was attacked in London yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes. Now I know,” came the annoyed response. “Why are you asking me about him?”

  “You alluded to the attack in your message,” said Kate. “You informed Lord Russell that someone named Mischa had come to London for a meeting that was scheduled to take place at eleven-fifteen yesterday morning. You even gave a clue as to the location. Victoria Bear.”

  “But I’ve no idea what Victoria Bear means. I told Robbie as much.”

  “He knew already,” said Kate. “He visited the site shortly before he was murdered. It referred to the headquarters of the Department of Business, Enterprise, and Regulatory Reform, at One Victoria Street— the precise location of yesterday’s attack against Ivanov.”

  “But Mischa isn’t Russian,” said Bella.

  “He isn’t?” said Graves.

  “Not he. She. Mischa’s a woman. Her name is Michaela Dibner. She’s German. She works for the International Atomic Energy Agency. It was Mischa whom Robbie and I were afraid for. Not Igor Ivanov.”

  Graves looked at Kate, who appeared to share his consternation. “I think it best if we start from the beginning,” he said. “How did you come to know Lord Russell?”

  “We were friends,” said Bella. “Colleagues. We met six years ago at an event at Chatham House, a think tank in London. Mostly they work on national security issues. They publish papers, give talks, organize symposiums, that kind of thing. At the time I was with British Petroleum, working as an engineer designing rigs and other power installations. The talk that night was about the true level of world oil reserves. He bought me a drink and chatted me up a bit. He was very charming.”

  “And what did he want to know?”

  “Nothing. Actually, he gave me a bit of information. He told me that there might be a new field worth exploring in the North Sea. He didn’t tell me how he knew, just that it might be worth our while to stake a claim to a certain quadrant in international waters.”

  “And was it?”

  “Do you mean was there oil there? Quite a bit. But at the time oil was going for forty dollars a barrel. At that price, it was too cheap to be extracted profitably from such a difficult spot. The boys in exploration didn’t want to touch it.”

  “But the price went up,” said Kate.

  Bella smiled knowingly. “That’s why BP has a rig up and running on those exact coordinates.”

  “That’s some information,” said Graves.

  “Five billion euros’ worth.”

  He whistled under his breath. “And so?”

  “And so,” Bella continued, “when Robbie asked for my help, I gave it.”

  Graves crossed his arms, assuming the inquisitor’s stance. “What exactly did he want to know?”

  “He wanted me to put him in touch with some of my contacts at the IAEA,” responded Bella Lauren, answering his stare with one of her own. “I left BP years back. I design nuclear plants now. He said he had information for them.”

  “What kind?”

  “He was worried about an accident at a power plant. A nuclear plant. He wasn’t specific as to what kind of accident or where, but he seemed to believe that something might happen soon.”

  “In your message you said, ‘Seven days isn’t long enough for them to unpack their bags,’” said Kate, hoping to prod her. “That soon?”

  Bella nodded. “It’s scary, I know. He asked me lots of questions about security measures and that kind of thing. I put two and two together. If Robbie wanted to talk to the IAEA about a possible ‘accident,’ and he was interested in how well or poorly guarded the plants were, then I just assumed he had wind of something bad. I mean glow-in-the-dark, hair-falling-out-of-your-scalp-in-handfuls bad.”

  “So you put him in contact with the IAEA?”

  “Yes.”

  Kate consulted her notepad. “You also asked him if you needed to leave. Did he ever indicate that the ‘accident’ might occur on British soil?”

  “Never. I can’t think it was, or he would have warned me.”

  “Can we talk about Mischa?” inquired Graves. “What exactly does she do for the IAEA?”

  “She’s director of S&S at their headquarters in Vienna. That’s the Department of Nuclear Safety and Security. She’d come to London to meet with the UK Safeguards Office. They help manage security protocols for the EU.”

  Graves exhaled loudly, then turned away and planted himself by the window, where he stood gazing at the sea. “Safety and Security,” he said, his voice wrung out. “They’re the IAEA’s watchdogs.”

  “What do they do?” asked Kate.

  “A lot of things,” said Bella. “They set up procedures for safeguarding plants, of course. Handle vetting of employees. Standardize training of plant workers.”

  “And watch over the illegal trafficking of radioactive materials,” added Graves from across the room. “It’s up to them to make sure that no one is selling weapons-grade uranium on the black market.”

  “Is that what you think Russell was worried about?” asked Kate. “A weapon?”

  “If it were a weapon, Robbie would have gone directly to the police. I know that much. This was different.”

  “How?”

  “He was primarily interested in learning how people got into and out of the plants. Who was granted admission, who wasn’t. If all vehicles were searched. If the plants maintained paramilitary forces to protect them. I couldn’t answer half of his questions. He was upset that he wasn’t able to figure things out. That’s why he was so desperate to speak with Mischa Dibner.”

  Graves crossed the room and sat down facing Bella Lauren. “But how did Russell come to suspect an attack in the first place?”

  “It’s what he did. He gathered information.”

  “Yes, but from whom?” asked Graves.

  “Who told him about Victoria Bear?” pressed Kate.

  Bella Lauren looked up. “I don’t know, and I knew better than to ask. All Robbie said was that he’d been asking questions where questions weren’t appreciated. He told me not to worry. He said he’d done everything he could to make sure he was safe, but with these people there was always some danger.”

  “Just who in the world are ‘these people’?” demanded Graves.

  “I don’t know,” said Bella, looking into her
lap. “But whoever they are, they killed him.”

  35

  Den Baxter’s day was picking up.

  At 9 a.m. a section of the axle bearing the vehicle identification number of the BMW housing the explosives was found. The VIN was sent to BMW Headquarters in Munich, Germany, together with a second, different, and presumably false VIN recovered from the engine block the night before, to determine where and when the car had been manufactured and sold. Both numbers were also forwarded to Interpol headquarters in Luxembourg to be checked against a registry of stolen vehicles worldwide.

  At ten, the Laser Transit Surveying team completed their initial mapping of the crime scene. Using an electrodigital theodolite, a telescope mounted within two perpendicular axes—the horizontal, or trunnion, axis and the vertical axis—the team plotted the grid points of all evidence, creating a three-dimensional picture of the crime scene. Among other things, the electrodigital theodolite measured the volume of the bomb crater, compared it to the distance and location of the blast debris (including the scattered remains of body parts), and determined the weight and distribution of explosives used in the device.

  Initial measurements indicated that 20 kilos of plastic explosives had been packed into the BMW and that a significant amount of unmixed cement used as a tamping agent had ensured that the charge was directed into the passing vehicle. Conclusion: the device was hand-tailored to destroy a specific target while causing limited collateral damage. As such, Baxter could assume with a high degree of certainty that the bomb maker had at some point received an advanced course in military explosives training.

  At eleven, Interpol called back to report that the BMW had been reported stolen from Perugia, Italy, three months earlier. From Italy, the car had been shipped to Marseille before entering the United Kingdom in Portsmouth. It was the firm of Barton and Battle LLC, registered automobile importers, that had cleared the stolen vehicle two weeks before and released it to the custody of a Mrs. K. O’Hara, resident of Manchester.

  And at twelve, Baxter received a call on his two-way radio that would significantly alter the pace and direction of the investigation.

  “Boss, this is Mac. Have a minute?” Alastair McKenzie was one of his up-and-coming stars, a twenty-four-year-old bloodhound with glasses like Coke bottles and intuition that couldn’t be taught. “I found a little something at the site.”

  “But we already covered the crater,” said Baxter, playing devil’s advocate. “We didn’t find spit.”

  “I decided to have another look anyway,” said McKenzie. “Thought I’d give the Microviper a go.”

  “Of course you did, lad. That’s why I love you. Stay put. I’ll be right there.”

  Baxter dumped his piss-warm coffee into the trash and hurried down the street. He found McKenzie standing waist-deep in the blast crater. In his hand, the gangly policeman held a metallic cable running to an aluminum suitcase that sat open at his feet. At one end of the cable was a miniature camera that broadcast its images on a high-contrast screen set inside the suitcase. The device was called a Microviper, and was in fact a portable, nearly indestructible microscope capable of magnifying images up to 1000X.

  “Have a look,” said McKenzie. “I found a piece of something fused to the underside of the asphalt. I’ve got it up on the screen.”

  Baxter hopped into the crater and knelt by the Microviper.

  “It’s a circuit board,” said McKenzie, pointing to the jagged piece of sky-blue plastic filling the screen. “Part of the phone used to detonate the bomb. I found other pieces here and there. I scanned them all and rearranged them so they fit together. Mind you, some pieces are still missing, but I think we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Are those the serial numbers?”

  “Four-five-seven-one-three,” said McKenzie. “We’re missing a few at the beginning. That piece must have been obliterated. Sorry ’bout that.”

  “Got a maker?”

  “Not yet. We need to send it to the lab. They can run it against their samples for similarities.”

  To each phone a circuit board, and to each circuit board a serial number. Further study of the circuit board’s architecture would pinpoint the manufacturer. From there, it was a matter of tracking down where all phones carrying circuit boards with the last five digits 45713 had been distributed. The goal was to ascertain where the phone had been sold, the SIM card or phone number assigned to it, and, if you were lucky, the name of the villain who’d purchased it. It was no different from following a wounded animal back to its lair, thought Baxter.

  “I want you to deliver all the pieces you’ve tagged and bagged to the lab,” he said. “Stay on them until they come up with something, then call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”

  Baxter stomped off toward the mobile HQ. For the first time in twenty-four hours, he had a smile on his face. It was an ugly, pained smile, but nonetheless, it counted.

  Den Baxter had the scent of his prey.

  It was only a matter of time until he found them.

  36

  The truck had come to a halt. Jonathan lay still, listening to the hiss of air escaping the brakes and the low-throated rumble as the engine quit and died. The window was open and Jonathan could hear the growl of cars and trucks arriving and departing around them. He waited for the driver to climb from the cabin, but the man remained stubbornly at the wheel, arguing with his dispatcher over a change in his routing. To Hamburg now, farther north than Berlin.

  Jonathan edged the blanket from his face. Blinking back the light, he raised his head in order to catch a glimpse of the outside world. He needed to situate himself on a map. They’d been driving for over two hours at what felt like a rapid speed, and he estimated that they’d traveled 200 kilometers at the very least. From his position behind the driver’s seat, he spied the corner of a Shell Oil placard, and beyond it a highway sign offering the distance to Brussels as 16 kilometers. Aachen, in Germany, was another 74, and Cologne, 201. The distances reinforced his impatience. All were too far in the wrong direction. With a full tank, the driver could make it another 600 or 700 kilometers before having to refuel.

  Jonathan’s hands twitched with the need to move, yet he forced himself to remain still. He couldn’t afford a confrontation with the driver. Not here, where a dispute would be witnessed by dozens and the likelihood of a policeman’s being nearby was high. He would have to keep hidden longer.

  Just then the driver ended his call. But instead of climbing down from the cabin, he turned in his seat and lunged toward the bunk. Jonathan yanked the blanket over his head and held his breath as forceful hands searched among the books, magazines, and papers littering the bed. Finally there came a grunt of satisfaction as the driver found what he was looking for: a logbook barely an inch from Jonathan’s head.

  The driver’s door opened and he descended from the cab. Jonathan threw off the blanket and sat up. Gasping, he crawled across the bunk to the passenger door. In the side mirror, he watched the driver unscrew the gas cap, insert the fuel nozzle, then move to the rear of the truck, where he knelt to check the tires’ pressure.

  This was the time.

  Jonathan moved into the front seat, and opened the passenger door and jumped to the ground. Parked adjacent to him, no more than 2 meters away, was a Peugeot sedan painted with the orange-and-blue insignia of the Belgian police. An officer sat at the wheel. Another uniform was standing nearby, pumping gas and blocking passage toward the front of the truck. Jonathan hesitated, his hand still on the door, then walked in the opposite direction. A moment later the driver rounded the rear of the truck, effectively boxing him in. He looked at Jonathan and said loudly in Italian, “Hey, what are you doing?”

  Jonathan approached, smiling. He was aware of the policemen’s gaze and knew that he held their undivided attention. The driver was a grizzled man, fifty or more, and in bad humor after the drawn-out arguments with his wife and his boss. Jonathan thought of the academic tomes, the newspapers. The driver was an int
elligent man, to be sure. Only the truth would do.

  “I hitched a ride in your truck from England,” he answered, his Italian fluent, if workmanlike. “I apologize. I should have asked, but I was afraid you would say no, and I couldn’t take that chance. I’m broke and I’m trying to get to Rome to see my girlfriend. I saw your plates, so I took a chance.”

  “I’m going to Hamburg.”

  “Yeah, I heard. That’s why I thought I’d get out here.” Jonathan let his eyes gesture at the police. “Prego, signor.”

  “Where are you from?” the Italian asked in a quieter voice.

  It was the defining question. Funny that a man effectively without a country should have to answer it. “America.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw a policeman approach. “Ça va, monsieur?” he asked the driver.

  The driver sniffed, his eyes never leaving Jonathan’s. “Tout va bien,” he responded finally.

  “Vous êtes certain?”

  “Oui.” The driver knelt and unscrewed the tire pressure gauge. As Jonathan passed, he glanced up. “Your Italian’s not bad for an American,” he said in English. “Now get lost.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jonathan continued toward the kiosk. With each step he expected the police to call out. They would ask to see his identification papers and discover that he had no passport. They would take his driver’s license instead, and ask him to sit inside the police car while they checked him out. That would be that.

  But the policemen said nothing. Jonathan was still a free man. For the time being.

  Inside the kiosk, Jonathan purchased a razor and shaving cream, two oranges, a salami sandwich, mineral water, a toothbrush and toothpaste. The kiosk was part of a larger shopping gallery that spanned the highway. There was a Mövenpick restaurant and a clothing store, some tourist shops, an electronics shop, and several tobacco vendors. He passed from one to the next, purchasing a new pair of pants, a button-down shirt, a windbreaker, and a baseball cap. There was a single-user bathroom. It took him ten minutes to cut his hair and shave it down to a stubble. At last the gray was gone. He applied a self-tanner to his face, careful to blend it naturally with the lighter flesh tones of his neck and chest. Finished, he found a pay phone and called for a taxi.