“Folks, can we all take a deep breath and remember why we’re here?”
Slowly, the tension drained from the room, and before anyone could stoke the fire, Jack changed the subject.
“I understand that there is no talking Shada out of making this delivery,” Jack said. “I can also understand why she feels the way she does. But I’m here for a reason, too.” He paused as thoughts of his friend caught up with him. “If Shada is going to put herself at risk, I want to provide backup.”
“No,” said Shada.
“Why not?” asked Jack.
“It’s better that you don’t,” she said, glancing at Chuck’s image on the screen while parroting his words. “It’s for your own safety.”
“Now we’re getting petty,” said Jack. “I’m sure everyone is overtired.”
“I agree with Shada,” said Chuck.
“What?” said Jack.
“There’s no reason for you to tail her,” Chuck said. “We’ve got the GPS tracking embedded in the bills. If something goes wrong, we’ll call the police.”
It didn’t sound like Chuck-taking the safe route and suggesting that they call the police in a pinch-but Jack was getting too tired to argue. “We have a little more than two hours until the call,” said Jack. “Let’s all try to get some rest.”
Reza said, “There’s a two-bedroom flat upstairs that you can use.”
“Works for me,” said Shada.
“Me, too,” said Jack.
“Shada, no hard feelings?” said Chuck. It was the first bone he had tossed since finding out about the Dark, and it seemed to take Shada by surprise.
“Whatever,” she said.
“Good night, everyone,” said Chuck.
Reza logged off the computer and led them from the storage room, locked the door behind them, and reset the alarm. A back stairwell led them up to the second-floor flat. Reza directed Shada to the bigger of the two bedrooms, and Jack took the small one with the twin bed. He needed sleep, and he hoped his mind would shut off and let him rest.
“I’ll wake you at five,” said Reza.
“Thanks,” said Jack. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and even though it was lumpy, all worry about falling asleep vanished. One shoe was off when his phone chimed with a text message. It was from Chuck: Just between u and me, it read, and the last two words were in all caps: FOLLOW HER.
Jack pulled off his other shoe, typed a response, and hit SEND: Do you trust her?
He settled back onto the mattress, exhausted and staring at the ceiling, his phone resting on his chest. Chuck’s response came sooner than he’d expected: Would you trust your wife after she cheated?
The question hit Jack hard. Shada had been so contrite that he’d actually let himself believe that Chuck should be more like those I-love-you-no-matter-what guys who forgive and forget. But when the question was turned around on him-would you trust your wife?-he realized that this was the real world, not Lifetime TV or the Oxygen Channel. Jack typed out his response, then rolled over and turned out the light as he hit SEND once more:
OK. I’ll follow.
Chapter Sixty-nine
Sid Littleton watched from his office window as the snow fell on the illuminated buildings and monuments of the capital.
The phone call from London had been unsettling, but Littleton always had a backup plan. The plan’s name was Lisa Horne-or whatever her real name was-and he just hoped the weather wasn’t going to screw things up and keep her from coming to the office on short notice.
“She’s in the building,” said Bahena.
Littleton turned away from the window and saw his right-hand man standing in the doorway. Danilo Bahena had been with Littleton since the formation of Black Ice. Most of the company’s four hundred employees didn’t know him. Very few knew he was the mastermind of the black sites that the company ran for the CIA. Only Littleton knew him as the specialist who would do anything to see a mission succeed.
“Good,” said Littleton. “Go down, take her to the limo. I’ll meet you there.”
“You sure? I could just take her for a ride. Very treacherous roads tonight. Accidents could happen.”
“No,” said Littleton. “We need to know who she is first.”
“Her name is not Lisa Horne, that much is for sure.”
“If she’s an investigative journalist chasing rabbit holes, that’s one thing. If she has some other agenda, I want to get to the bottom of it.”
“Whoever she is, she knows too much.”
“That may be,” said Littleton. He turned back to the window, thinking. The gist of the warning from London replayed in his head: I have my exit strategy. You need yours.
“Get the limo,” he said, watching his own reflection in the window. “And let’s be quick about this.”
Chapter Seventy
Jack lay awake in the glow of his smart phone.
The text message from Chuck had made it impossible to sleep, and Jack made the mistake of surfing the Internet to numb his brain. For the heck of it, he followed up on Andie’s conversation with Grandpa Swyteck and searched “General Petrak.” He could have spent all night reading about the daring plot of the Czech resistance to assassinate Reinhard Heydrich, Hitler’s planned successor, and how the general in exile coordinated it from the U.K. It didn’t make them Jewish, but Jack hoped that there was something to his grandfather’s ramblings, that perhaps they were somehow related to this Petrak-but that was for another day.
He put the phone away and closed his eyes. He wasn’t dreaming-sleep that deep didn’t come so soon-but in his mind’s eye he saw himself at Brookfield Zoo with his grandfather. He was five years old and enthralled by the polar bear exhibit. Suddenly, Grandpa was gone. Jack was alone and surrounded by strangers.
He shot up in bed and grabbed his smart phone. Jack had been getting lost in strange places since childhood. Tailing Shada would require a working knowledge of the area, and Jack spent the next hour studying maps of the East End. In Miami, the rule was CRAP: Courts, roads, avenues, and places flowed north and south-top to bottom-like the stuff we get from our bosses. As best Jack could tell, the only way to make sense of London was to ask, “Which way to the nearest tube?”
“It’s five o’clock,” said Reza. He was outside the door.
Jack couldn’t believe it. “Be right down,” he said.
Jack went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He’d had no sleep in the last twenty-four hours and about five hours total-thankfully, he’d slept on the flight from Miami-in the last thirty-six. He’d tried murder cases on less rest. Another two hours tonight would have been just enough to revive the jet lag. A quick shower brought him to life, and he was downstairs in fifteen minutes.
The kitchen was already bustling. The Banglatown Curry Shop was a traditional Bengali restaurant where spices were ground by hand and mountains of vegetables were chopped with pride and precision. One team filleted the morning’s delivery of fresh fish, while another cut whole chickens into parts. Two men by the wood-burning oven were arguing in their native tongue, and Jack guessed it had something to do with the cooking temperature.
“Hungry?” asked Reza as he handed Jack a plate. It was fruit, a multigrain bread, and yogurt. Jack thanked him as they headed down the hall, but before they reached the locked door to the storage room, Reza pulled him into a tiny office and closed the door. “Shada is already inside,” said Reza, “so let me be quick. Chuck is going to extend an olive branch and tell her which bill has the GPS in it.”
That didn’t jibe with last night’s text message from Chuck, but Jack kept quiet, not sure if Reza knew about the exchange.
“Of course, there will be a second bill that we don’t tell her about.” He handed Jack a cell phone. “As for the backup, use this when you follow Shada.”
“My cell works fine here.”
“This one is linked to Shada’s cell. Chuck and I installed spyware last night while she was asleep. It allows you to
hear what she says so long as she has her cell with her, even if she’s not talking on the phone.”
“How close do I have to be?”
“Technically, it’s supposed to work up to six or seven kilometers. But wireless can be dicey in urban areas, especially if she goes indoors. To be safe, Chuck wants you to stay within two hundred meters.”
“What if she sees me?”
“That’s more than likely, but it doesn’t matter. Chuck played it perfectly last night, and telling her where the GPS chip is this morning will reinforce the trust. The important thing is that she thinks it’s your idea to follow her, not Chuck’s. People get nervous when Chuck has one of his men on their tail. No offense, but you’re an amateur. She might get her knickers in a knot if she sees you, but she won’t abort the mission.”
Jack tried not to feel insulted.
“I’ve also programmed a panic button,” said Reza. “Just hit the star key if you want to call the police. For all other calls, use your own cell.”
Jack tucked the spy phone into his pocket. Reza unlocked the desk drawer and removed a pistol. “Chuck also thinks you should be armed. I have a Glock nine millimeter. Do you know how to use it?”
“No gun.”
“Chuck thought you might know how to use it, being engaged to an FBI agent.”
“Andie has actually turned me into a pretty good shot. But this is the U.K., not Texas. Not the place to risk arrest for carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Suit yourself.” He put the pistol away and locked the drawer. “Any questions about the cell phone?”
“Just one,” said Jack. “How long has Chuck had that same spyware on my cell?”
“Good one, Yank,” he said, smiling and shaking his head as he led Jack out of his office. “That’s a real good one.”
Chapter Seventy-one
The Dark slept not at all, which was a normal night for him. He would sleep on the plane to Hong Kong after the money was in hand and Paulo was dead.
Last-minute changes to the plan had necessitated another trip to the storage shed. That little unit would have been the envy of al-Shabaab, had he still been loyal to them. Somewhere down the road, when the bodies were recovered and the Dark was on the other side of the globe, Scotland Yard would uncover the cache, and the Western media would report that another Muslim was preparing for jihad. As if every jihad involved war and violence. As if this struggle had anything to do with Allah.
The Dark stopped at the corner. Sunrise was still hours away, and it was cold enough to see his breath. Morning rush hour was just barely beginning, a few cars streaming by. A man and a woman huddled beneath the shelter at the bus stop. The nearest tube station didn’t open until five thirty A.M., but an hour from now waves of commuters would flood into the underground like water into a storm sewer. The Dark was eight blocks from the abandoned hotel, just in case anyone was triangulating his wireless call and trying to pinpoint his location. Chuck Mays’ cell was on his speed dial. He punched “8” and waited.
“I’m here,” said Chuck.
“Is Shada in or out?”
“She’s in.”
The Dark smiled thinly. “I knew she would be. Now listen closely, because I’m not going to repeat this. Shada must come alone. Tell her to take the money to Billingsgate Fish Market.”
“The fish market?”
“Just listen. I know Shada a hell of a lot better than you ever did, and I’m being very reasonable about setting up the exchange in a public place. The fish market is probably the busiest place in London this early. Hundreds of people around, so there’s no reason for her to get scared of her own shadow and freak out. The ground floor has two cafes. Shada is to find the one nearer to the shellfish boiler room, take a seat, and wait.”
“When do we get Vince back?”
“When I get the money. Understood?”
“Yes, but-”
“No ‘buts.’ ”
“But you-”
“Quiet! Do you want your friend dead or alive?”
“You said I could talk to Vince in the morning.”
The Dark gripped the phone, angered by the audacity. “There’s plenty of morning left,” he said, seething as he ended the call.
For some of us.
He tucked the phone away and started back to the hotel.
Jack’s cell rang as he stepped out of the Curry House’s storage room.
The Web conference following the Dark’s ransom demand had gone exactly as Chuck and Reza had choreographed it. Shada was ready to make the delivery. Jack would tail her-after he took this phone call.
He ducked into Reza’s office and answered it.
“It’s me,” said Andie. “First thing I want to say is that I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For pressuring you to drop the Jamal Wakefield case.”
There was a knock, and then Jack heard Reza’s voice on the other side of the closed door. “We have to go, my friend.”
“Andie, don’t worry about it,” said Jack. “We can talk when I get home.”
“No, you don’t understand. When I found out that you were trying to prove the existence of a black site, I had no idea that I was investigating the same black site that was at the end of your trail.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“It’s complicated, and I’m so angry with the bureau right now that I can hardly stand it. But you were representing Jamal ever since he was Khaled al-Jawar, Prisoner No. 977 at Gitmo. Obviously, the FBI knew he was really Jamal Wakefield, which means they knew his lawyers would eventually get into the issue of black sites in Prague. It was no coincidence that I was given this assignment. Someone high up thought they could play the national security card and pressure me into compromising your case. Or at least throw you off the trail of the black site in Prague, if need be.”
Jack lowered himself into the desk chair. He was having trouble getting his head around this one. “Wow. Andie, it’s five thirty in the morning here, I’ve hardly slept, and… just, wow.”
There was another knock at the door. “Jack,” said Reza, “we really have to go.”
“Andie, this is all good to know,” said Jack. “But I-”
“Good to know?” said Andie, incredulous. “Jack, I could be fired for telling you this. But here’s the point. I don’t know what exactly you’re doing over there in London, but you need to know that the people who ran this black site are beyond evil. Don’t kid yourself into thinking otherwise. Please, please, don’t take unnecessary chances.”
The door opened, and Reza stuck his head into the room. “Hang up the phone. We’re leaving.”
Andie asked, “Who was that?”
Jack hesitated too long, but Andie’s tone changed abruptly. “I gotta go,” she said. “Be careful, Jack. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said, and the call ended.
Chapter Seventy-two
The Black Ice limo cruised through the night at forty miles per hour, top speed in a snowstorm like the one that was slamming the Mid-Atlantic region. Andie glanced out the dark-tinted windows. She’d seen few cars on the road tonight, virtually none since they’d exited the expressway. Bahena had told her that they were headed for the airport, but she had her doubts.
“Doesn’t look like a good night to fly,” she said.
Littleton didn’t answer. He was seated across from her, facing forward. Andie was in the other bench seat with her back to the cockpit. The chauffer’s partition behind her head was closed, leaving her and Littleton in privacy. They were forty minutes into the drive, and he had yet to speak a word to her.
Not a good sign.
Andie had ended the phone call with Jack in the nick of time, before Bahena had come around with the company limo. She’d made riskier calls while working undercover, and this one should have gone undetected. But she was beginning to have doubts.
The limo slowed, then pulled off the road to a stop. Andie glanced out the window. They w
ere outside the glow of city lights, nowhere near an airport-nowhere near anything she recognized.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
Littleton stared at her, his face illuminated only by the dim, blue glow of the liquor cabinet to Andie’s right.
“Who are you?” asked Littleton. His tone was not cordial.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Who do you work for?”
“Vortex,” she said.
“I mean who do you really work for? Amnesty International? Some other NGO with a left-wing agenda?”
“I work for your company,” she said.
Littleton tightened his stare, saying nothing, or rather letting his silence do the talking. Andie didn’t flinch, but she noticed the file folder on the seat next to him. Littleton picked it up, opened it, and said, “Bad weather or not, there’s a plane waiting for you.”
“Yes, I understand I’m being activated.”
He smiled sardonically, then shook his head. “You’re not being activated.”
“What’s the problem?”
Littleton pulled a photograph from the file, switched on the interior spotlight in the ceiling, and held the before her eyes. “This is Olga,” he said.
Olga looked to be at least six feet tall and about 180 pounds of solid muscle and steroids. The tight black hot pants, studded leather jacket, and black lipstick were straight out of Capital Pleasures. Her head was shaved, except for a single wisp of red hair that hung in her eyes. Her nose, lips, and ears were pierced with multiple metal rings, and she had her mouth wide open to reveal the tongue piercing. Tattoos covered her neck and right arm, mostly Chinese characters and random figures that vaguely resembled them. Andie took special notice, but she didn’t recognize any gang symbols.
“Olga is one of our most successful level-five activations,” said Littleton.
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