The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way

by David Leadbeater

  Silk did. It had been his own mantra for some time now.

  “All right,” he said, a tone of disappointment in his voice. “Nothing about the killer? The scene? Suspects? Anything at all?”

  “Rage,” Mitchell said heavily. “That Hansson dude, he did something major to piss off a really bad man. The rage—it was overwhelming.”

  Silk thought, it still is, but held his tongue. After another moment he stood up. One more dead end, and Tanya’s killer was no closer to being brought to justice. Maybe Silk would have to wait for the face to face.

  “There is one thing,” Mitchell said, as Silk prepared to leave.

  “What?”

  “You know Hansson was under surveillance, right? Well, those cops keep diaries too, separate to their reports. I bet no one thought about checking those?”

  Silk stared Mitchell right in the eye. “You bet your ass they didn’t.”

  The old cop grunted. “Cops don’t think too straight these days, boy. Brains are rotting. Too much technology.”

  27

  By the time Silk crossed back into central LA the afternoon was waning. He started by calling Brewster and wasn’t surprised when she didn’t answer. But he left a message explaining that he might have unearthed a lead, meagre fare though it might turn out to be. Should he just call it in to the task-force? But no—Brewster deserved the credit and so did he. After performing several tail-spotting maneuvers that were second nature to him, he again determined that he wasn’t under surveillance.

  Not even by Trent and Radford. Not by Collins. Those guys had soon changed their tune. What’s going on with them?

  Silk was about to hit the call button to Trent’s cell when his own rang. The little icon he’d assigned to Brewster flashed up. “Hi.”

  “So what’s this desperate lead?”

  “I didn’t say it was desperate.”

  “No, but you sounded it.”

  “Fine. If that’s how you like it. You recall that Jimmy Hansson was under surveillance by the narcotics squad? They were using him to move higher up the supply chain.”

  “I recall.”

  “Well, has anyone thought to check their cop books? Not their reports, but their actual day books?”

  Brewster’s silence, this time, was a good sign. “Not sure. I’ll check.”

  “Thanks. Let me know.” Silk was about to jab the connection to an abrupt end when her voice, soft and edgy, stopped him. “And you have no idea how I like it.”

  Then she ended the call, leaving him staring at the satnav-cum-phone screen and almost driving into a mini-bus.

  *

  As the sun set in the west, a waning picture-postcard bloom of fire and shadow, spread so wide it might encompass the entire world, Silk’s cell rang again. He was in the process of finding a random hotel, so pulled into the nearest parking lot to talk. Looming directly before his front window an enormous donut sat on the top of a little shop, dwarfing it. Kids and adults alike were queuing out the door. “Hi.”

  “Hi again. I’m bogged down here, Adam, but I’m trying. Rosenthal’s got the case running slow, getting us all caught up in useless stuff. Paperwork and pointless leads. The suits don’t see it ‘cause he’s pushing all the right buttons for them. Essentially, he’s running this case into the ground.”

  “He wants one more murder,” Silk murmured. “Can I help in any way?”

  “I don’t think so. I couldn’t smuggle all this crap out even in a sports holdall.”

  “He knows how to play the system,” Silk continued. “All the old cops do. Be careful, Susie. He may be a dumbass but he could still bury you.”

  “You called me Susie.” It was a statement.

  Silk nodded at his own reflection. “I guess so.”

  “Look, I got nothing here. If you wanna move forward you need to make something happen.”

  Silk paused before answering. Was she talking about the case or something else entirely?

  “You hear me?”

  “What do you propose?”

  “For the case? Talk to the FBI. They have men on this too and the feebs ain’t exactly famous for their caring and sharing. For anything else—I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Silk put all other thoughts aside for the time being and picked up his cellphone. Now was a good time to draft in a little extra assistance for the leg work. Trent, Radford and Collins would all help. Quickly, he dialed into his answerphone recording and listened to the messages Trent had left.

  “Call me immediately.” Trent’s voice was even harder than normal. “The shit has pretty much destroyed the fan, Adam. Our disavowal was based on bullshit. Maisie Miller is alive in Monaco and we’re heading out there right now to finesse her extraction. Buddy,” he sighed, “we could do with the help of the best in the business. Please, just call me. This is the biggest job of our lives.”

  Silk flung his head back against the headrest. Shit! How could he have missed this? He’d missed his goddamn redemption. And if Trent and Radford were really away that meant Silk had no backup and should lay low.

  Maisie Miller? Silk’s heart leapt. They’d found her and that was huge in itself. But to be the team chosen to save her. That was sheer salvation. The guys deserved it and now Silk had to make sure he held up his end.

  But what to do next?

  Silk started up the engine and proceeded to seek out a hotel. With all angles exhausted there remained only one thing to do.

  Start again from the beginning. Start from when he and Tanya and the other three guys got together and examine everything they’d done.

  It occurred to him then. The little cell had only been together for three months.

  28

  Monaco was a principality, the second smallest and most densely populated country in the world. More importantly, for some, it was home to the highest number of millionaires and billionaires in the world. Ever wondered where Roger Moore ended up? Shirley Bassey? Ringo Starr? Look no further.

  The gambling industry actually began in the nineteenth century and, like that other world-infamous casino resort, Las Vegas, began by attracting some less than savory sorts. But by the late eighteen hundreds, Le Grand Casino de Monte Carlo had been opened and was making vast sums of money, enough in fact that the principality could afford not to collect taxes from its locals; a stroke of genius that would attract affluent new residents from across Europe. The tax haven and Monte Carlo was born, and with it an endless display of excessive exhibitions of wealth.

  The early morning sun threw shadows across the pedestrianized street; red, yellow and multi-hued canopies darkening the entrances to parallel rows of exclusive shops. The walkways were clean, seemingly washed with sunshine. Above the shops, balconies overlooked the globe-topped lampposts and verdant trees. Wooden benches with intricately carved supports stood around in haphazard fashion, as if waiting to catch the wife overloaded with shopping bags or a case of heatstroke. A gleaming metallic gray scooter sat behind one pot planter. Rows of bicycles were discreetly hidden away further along. Beyond the street and above the city’s high-rises rose the high, curving mountains that acted as a natural barrier and, along with the sweeping expanse of sparkling Mediterranean, kept the lesser hordes at bay.

  Trent, Radford and Special Agent Collins had managed to catch fitful catnaps aboard the CIA jet during its twelve-hour flight to an airfield near Monaco. By the time they arrived, adding jetlag to the mix, Trent was glad the team on the ground had sent a man to meet them. The city streets were winding and narrow, and God only knew how they managed to stage a Grand Prix here.

  “What the hell time is it?” Collins had asked irritably. “My body says it’s time to hit the town whilst my head just wants to hit the sack.”

  During the drive Trent, hardworking as ever, leaned forward and addressed the driver. “Tell us about the ops center first. What setup do you have?”

  “All the usual toys. Secure comms with satellite. Live intel via hacked
CCTV cameras. We can cover 80 percent of the city. Ears are the only problem. We have to wait for them to leave and then get close. But we have them. Number of guards, routines, weapons, the men and routes they use for excursions. Identities and background of staff allowed to leave and return. Places they shop, pick up parcels. We have everything.”

  Radford leaned forward. “Do you have their network?”

  “Computers?” The driver didn’t take his eyes from the winding, hilly road. “Not so much. There’s a truckload of encryption.”

  “Better than the CIA?” Collins barked.

  “Give us a break, lady. We’re a two-man team and we’ve been concentrating on the physical aspects of this thing, not the digital. Maisie Miller ain’t gonna be extracted through an iMac.”

  Radford stifled a laugh. Collins half turned to stare at him. “You think that’s funny, Dan?”

  “Ah, no. It’s the fresh air makes me cough. I’m used to LA smog.”

  Trent’s voice hardened. “And Davic’s home?”

  “We got a wall full of photos. Aerial and satellite. Even tourist snaps. Truth is, the tourist snaps are better. We took them from a helicopter.”

  “You’re allowed to do that?” Collins sounded dubious.

  “Of course not. But helicopter tours of the French Riviera are as popular here as they are anywhere. We offered the company a week’s earnings and wandered in too close for a few minutes aboard their chopper.” The driver shrugged. “It happens.”

  “So Davic wasn’t alerted?” Trent pursued the concern like a dog worrying a bone.

  “Nope. We’re all good. Not even a sniff from the authorities.”

  Trent held onto the grab handle as their driver negotiated a sharp bend. He preferred that to ending up in Collins’ lap. Her eyes said the same thing.

  But after the lights go down, Trent thought. Who knows?

  “Tell us about Davic’s patterns.”

  “Only that when Davic is in the country he takes various men and women, including his guards, out to the Monte Carlo casino once or twice a week, spends big, makes a spectacle of himself, and heads home. Big entourage. No hangers-on though. We’ve seen people drawn to his antics, wanting to play along, and physically removed from his side.”

  “And the casino accepts him?”

  The driver inclined his head. “Seems that way. We’re here. You ready?”

  Trent looked around as the driver pulled up. The pedestrianized street was a little slice of heaven, full of sun traps and shade, small eateries, and prestigious boutiques. “You have an HQ here?”

  The driver opened his door. “Sure do. Cool, huh?”

  Trent shook his head. Collins put it into words. “Don’t know who you guys shafted to pull this little number but I bet it sure pissed you off when its importance went through the stratosphere.”

  The driver stopped and turned to her. “Agent Collins, this is a nice little number I’ll admit that. But nothing is more important to us than bringing back Maisie Miller. Nothing.”

  The FBI agent smiled. “Just call me Collins.”

  “And I’m Jones. Ken Jones.” Their driver was a tall man with pitch-dark eyes and day-old stubble stretching from his sideburns to his chin. The rugged canyons that marked his face and straight-set mouth spoke more of the things he had seen than any words ever could.

  They turned after a coffee shop, entered a narrow paved alley, and stopped outside a recessed door about halfway down. Jones pressed a buzzer and moved into view of a hidden camera. After a second the door clicked and the four of them trooped up a steep set of stairs, eventually coming out into an airy, sun-filled room.

  “Not bad.” Collins looked around. “I could live with this.”

  Trent strode immediately to the far wall and its patchwork pattern of notes, photos and routine movement trees.

  “So what else does Davic do in Monaco?”

  The second CIA spook came up to them and shook hands. “Will Howe. And as for Blanka Davic, well he does little else. That’s the trouble. He sits in there and—” the man shrugged his thickset shoulders. “Plots? Plans? Counts his blood money? Who knows? Maybe he hatches plots around a war table. We can’t tell. The only other movement comes from his staff who leave for a few hours and run errands. Sometimes it’s the guards. Other times it appears to be a maid or some other kind of help. Bastard’s confident enough to send ‘em away from his influence and expect them to return and not burn him.”

  Trent licked his lips. “That’s our gain. We wouldn’t have gotten the snap of Maisie if he hadn’t taken her to the Monte Carlo.”

  Radford headed towards a table. “Is this the blueprint of his place?”

  “Yes. Everything up to date, far as we know, but he’s also having some building work done on the east wing.”

  Radford stopped and studied the blueprint layout in conjunction with the real-time photos. Trent and Collins drifted over to him. Blanka Davic’s house sat on the outskirts of Monaco facing the Mediterranean and was set into a winding street at the top of a hill, immediately overlooked by nothing and surrounded on three sides by open-plan grounds and, on a fourth, by the mountain. With all-white walls, a sprawling, open glass frontage, and two pools at the front it looked like Davic had little to hide. Of course the back part of the house was built up against the mountain and could hide any number of rooms. The plans showed four on each of the two floors; bedrooms and private rooms all.

  “That’s two floors. Six bedrooms. Kitchen. Storage rooms. Den. Games room. Another four living areas. A wraparound balcony. Two pools. Two double garages. And the roof has a recessed pool and garden area. The pool can be seen from underneath, in the living area.”

  Radford nodded. “Anything underground?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Too many variables for a small-scale assault,” Trent said with a grim smile. “We’re going to have to finesse this.”

  They sat down, ordered coffee, croissants and snack food, throwing ideas around faster than grand slam winners hit tennis balls. Some, at first, seemed like aces, but flaws were found and they moved on. The sun passed its zenith and began to wane. The tourist buzz drifting in through the open window grew quiet. By the time Trent looked up, satisfied, the sun had begun to set across Monte Carlo.

  They moved to the window.

  “I could get used to this,” Collins said, almost wistfully.

  Trent nodded. “If it weren’t for Mikey I could live here.”

  “Amanda would love this,” Radford added. “Imagine the mischief she could get into.”

  “I meant to ask about your wife.” Collins turned an eye on him. “Rumors back home have her as being a bit . . . promiscuous.”

  “We have a mutual open relationship,” Radford said a little too quickly. Both CIA agents pricked their ears up and stared.

  Collins baited it. “Really? How open is she?”

  Radford concealed his pain by playing the clown. “Well, now you mention it, Collins, I heard a pretty marked rumor about you.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  By now both CIA agents were practically pulling up seats to the show. Trent walked away.

  “Don’t go there? Really? Well, you brought the whole thing up, lady.”

  “And I’m finishing it. Right now.”

  Radford’s childish side shone through again. “Says who?”

  Collins blinked. “Jesus, are you for real?”

  “All night and all day.”

  Collins broke eye contact and studied the darkening street below. “Okay, okay.” She turned to Trent. “Finesse starts tomorrow, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then tonight there’s only one thing to do.” She grabbed hold of Radford’s hand, sending his face into confusion.

  “What?

  “We dance.”

  29

  Trent knew that, when visiting Monaco for a few days, there really was only one place to start: Le Grand Casino de Monte Carlo.

>   He also knew that Collins would not be dissuaded from her decision. And, truth be told, it wasn’t necessarily a bad idea. The group was wound tight. The biggest op of their lives would start tomorrow, no sooner. Letting their hair down for a few hours might help them gain better focus.

  They chose to walk, not taking to the idea of pulling up outside the legendary casino driving a hastily rented Mondeo, and joined the crowds of partygoers, onlookers and gawkers who lined the streets. The approach to the casino was spectacular. Trent shifted a little uncomfortably in his rented suit, taking in the tumbling fountain and casino’s golden exterior, all strategically lit to make the jewel in Monaco’s crown sparkle even brighter and, like all diamonds, attracting the curious, the wealthy, the greedy and the unwary.

  Radford gasped aloud at the accumulation of supercars parked all around the circular fountain. “Am I dreaming? Shit, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Well, that depends how you like it,” Collins said, hair down and clad in a knee-length little black dress. “Grand tourer? Speed king? Eye candy? If you plan on coasting the Riviera you’ll want something smaller with less power. Maybe that Mini Cooper GP over there. Or, if as I suspect, this is ole Dan Radford chasing some Monacan skirt,” she looked around, “I’d boost the Veyron Grand Sport Vitesse to the side of the casino doors.”

  Radford’s mouth fell open. “You’re a motoring enthusiast too?”

  Trent tried hard not to let a grin creep across his typically stern features. “I forgot this is the first time you’ve experienced Collins outside the job. That should make this night interesting.”

  Collins absorbed the tableau, letting her eyes wander across the entire scene. “If I’m being honest, guys, I’ve never see anything so snobbish in my whole life. Not the cars. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate huge torque as much as the next girl. But Monaco? A yellow sweater that cost a thousand bucks tied around my neck? Not saying my pleases and thank yous to the valet service? Sipping my champers and trying to look aloof, tanned and thin in my old age? Well, fuck that.”