Afraid of the Dark js-9

by James Grippando

  He returned the photograph to the file and removed another. “This is the last person we sent to meet Olga.”

  Andie tried to show no reaction, but the difference between her level-one activation and level five was more dramatic than she’d thought. Olga appeared to be removing the man’s pubic hair with her teeth.

  Littleton closed the file and put it aside, but he laid the last photograph faceup on the seat, where Andie could still see it.

  “We can go one of two ways here,” he said. “You can tell me who you are and what you’re doing here. Or we can put you on that airplane, you can meet Olga, and you can tell her.”

  Andie glanced at the photo, then back at Littleton. “I told you the truth. Would you like me to tell you again?”

  Littleton’s smile was even more condescending than the last one. “Yes, tell me again,” he said as he switched off the light.

  The partition behind her head slid open and Bahena grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back. Andie was staring up at the base of his chin. Even in the darkness, she could tell that he was enjoying himself.

  “But this time,” said Littleton, “Danilo will make sure you don’t lie to me.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” said Andie, her heart pounding.

  “No,” said Littleton. “You made the mistake.”

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Poplar is the nearest tube station to the Billingsgate Fish Market, but with a quarter million pounds in her backpack, Shada sprang for a cab. The market complex covers thirteen acres, and the driver dropped her as close as he could to the trading hall. Doors opened at four A.M., and as Shada approached the entrance, buyers were already walking out with fish. The surrounding neighborhood wasn’t the Cockney crime scene of Hawthorne’s day-“a dirty, evil-smelling, crowded precinct, thronged with people carrying fish on their heads.” But it was still the East End before dawn, and the shadows were plenty dark. Shada tried not to look paranoid by checking over her shoulder too often as she hurried into the building.

  Habib had called it the busiest place in London before sunrise, and once inside, Shada found that was no exaggeration. Billingsgate merchants sell over twenty-five thousand tons of fish and fish products annually, much of it straight out of ice-packed coolers at one of ninety-eight booths in the trading hall. The floors were wet, the noise was constant, and with open warehouse doors inviting January inside, Shada kept her coat on. Porters wore traditional white sailcloth smocks, and salesmen didn’t just sit on their coolers and wait for the fish to go bad. Like the fishmongers of old, they made sales by pulling people in and outshouting one another’s claims of freshness-most with civility, a few with the age-old flair that put the second definition of “Billingsgate” in the dictionary: coarse, vulgar language.

  “Best halibut in the world right here, ma’am.”

  The porter’s Scottish accent brought Shada to a stop. “I’m looking for the cafe,” she said.

  “Straightaway,” he said, pointing.

  She looked ahead, then checked over her shoulder. It felt like she was being watched, and she didn’t think she was paranoid.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving on toward the cafe.

  Jack was trying to keep a safe distance, watching from behind a merchant’s signage for FRESH PRAWNS. A borrowed winter coat and knit cap from Reza made him less recognizable. Shada was wearing a yellow scarf that made her easy to spot in a crowd. She was in his sights, and he could see her conversing with a porter, but Jack wasn’t hearing any of it over the borrowed cell phone. Too much background noise in the hall, perhaps. Jack continued to follow her down a long and crowded row, passing booth after booth, cooler after cooler. Halibut from Scotland. Trout and salmon from Norway. Lobster and eel from New Zealand.

  I wonder where they keep the psychopaths from Somalia.

  From just beyond a booth offering smoked fish, he watched as Shada entered the cafe, bought a cup of coffee, and took a seat at an open table. She looked around, and Jack tried to remain inconspicuous by moving to another booth and feigning interest in a cooler of tuna steaks. A man entered the cafe and approached Shada, which caught Jack’s attention. Jack put Reza’s phone to his ear, trying again to eavesdrop, but he heard nothing, even though the man was clearly asking a question. Shada answered him-something along the lines of “this seat is taken,” Jack surmised. The man left her alone. A false alarm-but there was still reason for concern. Jack made a quick call to Chuck.

  “She’s at the cafe, but I can’t overhear anything with this phone Reza gave me.”

  “He should have known better,” said Chuck. “The spyware won’t pick up conversations if she has her cell phone tucked away in her purse or her pocket.”

  Great, thought Jack, and then an idea came to him. “Can you make her phone ring without displaying an incoming number?”

  “I can make her phone sing ‘God Save the Queen,’ if I want to.”

  “Then make it ring.”

  “What for?”

  “Just make it ring, but hang up and don’t let her know where the call came from.”

  Jack ended the call and watched. Thirty seconds later, Shada dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket and answered it. From her reaction, Jack knew it was Chuck’s prank ring. She looked around, a little nervous. Jack crossed his fingers.

  Don’t put it away.

  She laid the phone on the table in front of her, as if waiting for it to ring again.

  That’s it, Shada. Leave it right there.

  The crank call left Shada a little jittery. It was odd that no incoming number had flashed on the display. She kept one eye on the phone and one on the active trading hall as she waited for the cell to ring again.

  Her feet hurt and she needed sleep, but she wasn’t sure how long she could sit and wait. She was too on edge to stay in one place. The knots in the back of her neck were like golf balls, and if she came through this ordeal without a stomach ulcer, it would be a miracle. No one would ever understand. She had no one to talk to about it anyway. She certainly couldn’t tell Chuck or Jack everything there was to tell about Habib and her.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Shada looked up, ready to shoo away another unwanted visitor, but she recognized the pretty face. They’d met once before. It was a hookup that Shada had arranged for Habib over the Internet, but Shada had cut it off because she was too young-just a girl, not a woman.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Shada.

  The girl stood there, silent, the expression on her face a whirl of angst and confusion. Perhaps there was some fear, too, but Shada didn’t have enough time to read every emotion. Without invitation, the girl took a seat, leaned on the tabletop, and broke her silence.

  “What do you think I’m doing here, Maysoon?”

  For no apparent reason, the girl dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket and laid it on the table between them. Shada had learned enough about computers from her husband to understand what that meant: Someone was listening to their conversation. The girl had activated the spyware with typical teenage awkwardness, which made Shada wonder about the crank ring right before the girl’s arrival. It hardly seemed like a coincidence that it had prompted Shada to lay her own cell on the table in front of her, where the right spyware could pick up her conversations.

  Shada removed her cell phone’s battery and tucked the separated components into her pocket. Then she leaned into the table, choosing her words carefully, speaking not to the girl but to the girl’s phone-and trusting her instinct as to the eavesdropper’s identity.

  “Habib,” Shada said, “let’s talk.”

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Shada is sitting with the girl!” said Jack.

  Jack was speaking into his cell phone, pacing back and forth in front of a crowded merchant booth. He had Chuck on the line.

  “What girl?” asked Chuck.

  “The one who called me yesterday after Jamal’s uncle rescued her.”

  �
�Are you sure?”

  A couple of restaurant owners were haggling with a South African lobster salesman, and it was getting loud. Jack stepped away.

  “I’m sure it’s her,” Jack said. “I recognized the voice right away. Then I lost audio. I’m still in the trading hall about two hundred feet away, but I think I saw Shada take the battery out of her phone.”

  “That’s the one way to deactivate the spyware,” said Chuck. “What can you see now?”

  Jack’s gaze shifted back to the cafe. “They’re still sitting at the table talking to each other. No, wait. The girl just answered her cell phone. She’s handing it to Shada. Shada’s talking to someone. This is getting really weird.”

  “Agreed, but the possibilities are limited.”

  A forklift with bags of ice rolled down the aisle. Jack dodged out of the way. “Limited in what way?”

  “Only two ways for that girl to have known how to find Shada. Either Shada made contact and told her where she was going. Or she’s here on behalf of the same lunatic who kept her in a cellar.”

  Jack thought about it. “Like I said: This is getting weird.”

  “Don’t call the police just yet,” said Chuck. “Let’s see where this leads. As long as they’re in the building and in your sights, the situation is under control.”

  “Will do,” said Jack.

  “I’m sorry,” Shada said into the phone, pleading. “From the bottom of my heart, I want you to know that.”

  “You had no right to copy files from my computer,” the Dark said.

  “I should never have listened to Chuck.”

  “You screwed up everything, Shada.”

  “No, listen to me. I never gave the flash drives to anyone. Definitely not to Chuck. I haven’t even looked at all the video.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  There was silence on the line. The girl sat all the way back in her chair, arms folded tightly, as if trying to figure Shada out. Shada avoided making eye contact.

  “Habib, are you still there?” There was just enough noise around to keep Shada from distinguishing dead air from the sound of Habib mulling things over. Finally, he answered.

  “Tell me why I should believe you, Shada. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  Shada tried to stay cool, especially in front of the girl. But it wasn’t easy, knowing that the wrong words could be fatal. She cupped her hand and covered her mouth-an extra precaution against being overheard.

  “Because I have a quarter million pounds in my backpack for you,” she said.

  “That’s a good start,” he said. “Give the backpack to the girl.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said.

  “Give it to her.”

  “Wait,” she said, a bit unnerved by his tone. “You need to know that there’s a tracking chip embedded in one of the bills. Chuck can follow the money wherever it goes.”

  “Do you have any idea which bill?”

  “Yes. Chuck told me this morning. But knowing Chuck, I’m sure there’s more than one.”

  “Is there someplace you can go to check the other bills?”

  Shada lowered her voice further, increasingly nervous about holding so much cash. “Even if I had the time to do that-there are five hundred notes here-it’s a microchip I’d be looking for. It isn’t easy to see, unless you know it’s there.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  “If your personal assistant here brings the money to you, the police are sure to follow.”

  “That’s an even bigger problem.”

  “I can fix it,” said Shada. “Let me come with her. I’ll bring the money to you personally.”

  “That doesn’t fix anything.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Shada.

  “What difference does it make if you come or not?”

  Had the girl not been watching her, the cell phone would have been shaking in Shada’s hand. She kept her nerves in check.

  “All the difference in the world,” said Shada. “I have a plan.”

  Chapter Seventy-five

  They’re leaving the cafe,” said Jack. He still had Chuck on the line.

  “Together?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “They’re heading for the main exit.”

  “Perfect. As soon as they leave the building, I’ll be able to pick up the tracking chip in the money. Stay with them, but keep your distance. If I lose the GPS signal for some reason, my backup is you.”

  “Police officers are much better at this than I am.”

  “We can call the police as soon as these two lead us to Vince. Just stick with the plan a few more minutes.”

  It was after six A.M., a full ninety minutes before sunrise, peak hour for the fish market. The crowd around the exit was almost double what Jack had seen on the way in. The men walking out with coolers on their heads were especially hard to see around, so he closed the gap to under a hundred feet in order to keep a bead on Shada’s yellow scarf. He phoned Chuck with an update.

  “They just left the building.”

  “I have them on my computer now,” said Chuck. “You can drop back a little farther out of sight. Stay on the line and I’ll tell you where to go.”

  Jack pushed through the north exit doors, and a gust of cold air welcomed him to the parking lot. Security lights cast a yellowish glow around the loading docks, but most of the lot was dark, which was to Jack’s advantage. Still, he walked on the other side of a long line of refrigeration trucks to make sure he remained out of Shada’s sight. Chuck fed him almost step-by-step instructions past the loading docks to the fenced walkway along Aspen Way, a busy divided highway. It was the early phase of the morning rush hour. Six lanes of commuters, three in each direction, whizzed by at speeds that would have made hopping the iron fence and crossing the road suicidal.

  “They’re on a pedestrian bridge across the highway,” said Chuck.

  Jack looked up at the suspension-style bridge and saw them. It led directly to Poplar Station. “I think they’re getting on the underground,” said Jack. “That will kill your GPS.”

  “My computer says it’s DLR-Docklands Light Railway. I’m pretty sure that’s aboveground. But they might switch over to the underground. Stay with them.”

  A train was pulling into Poplar Station. Shada and the girl made a run for it, and their lead on Jack was at least a hundred yards.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said as he tucked away the phone and sprinted toward the station.

  The Dark was playing mind games. Vince was sure of it.

  Vince was seated on the floor, his hands tied to an old steam radiator. The Dark had just gotten off the phone, and Vince had been able to hear only one side of the conversation-the Dark’s side. The Dark was filling in the other half-the half that Vince refused to believe.

  “Amazing, isn’t it, Paulo? McKenna’s mother begging me for forgiveness.” The Dark stepped closer and grabbed Vince by the jaw. “So where’s your apology? Can I hear you say you’re sorry for what you did to me?”

  Vince still had no idea what injuries the Dark had suffered in the same explosion that had taken his own sight. It took all his strength not to ask, but expressing any desire to know would only have given the Dark more power over him.

  “Nothing to say for yourself, huh?” The Dark was squeezing hard enough to break Vince’s jaw, but Vince took the pain in silence.

  “Fine,” he said, pushing Vince’s head away. “I’ll let your wife apologize-when she spreads her legs for me.”

  Mind games, Vince told himself, but he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Every word out of the Dark’s mouth, every punch to the jaw or the solar plexus, every crack about Vince’s wife, only served to remind him that the last thing he remembered seeing-really remembered seeing-was McKenna Mays dying in his arms. Vince knew it would all come down to the next few minutes. He needed a plan, and he was glad he had one: six steps at eleven o’clock to the
suitcase filled with weapons; three steps, nine o’clock to the Brainport.

  Now, all he needed was a break.

  Jack pulled his black knit cap down to his eyebrows, but he wasn’t sure how much good the lame disguise was doing.

  He’d been the last person to board at the Poplar Station before the doors closed and the train pulled away. His car was nearly full, and he found an open seat about halfway down. Shada and the girl were in the lead car-there were only two-and Shada’s was standing-room only. Ten minutes into the ride, his heart was still pounding, but not from the chase.

  He was almost certain that Shada had spotted him.

  Jack glanced out the window of the speeding train. Chuck had been right: The tracks were aboveground-so far, at least-which meant that Chuck’s GPS was working. Jack’s cell phone worked, too. The stations all along the line were elevated, and with each stop Jack got a postcard view of London in the morning twilight. He was westbound, and based on how the passengers were dressed and what they were reading, Jack’s quick take was that the train was headed toward London’s financial district.

  “Tower Gateway,” the mechanized voice announced.

  Jack leaned into the aisle and peered ahead through the windows in the emergency doors between cars. Shada was moving toward the exit doors. Jack gave Chuck another update.

  “She’s getting off.”

  “Did you see The French Connection?”

  Of course Jack had, and he didn’t want to be the idiot left standing on the platform as Shada jumped back on the train and waved good-bye to him. “Got it covered,” said Jack.

  “The train goes into a tunnel after Tower Gateway,” said Chuck. “All Shada has to do is ride through to the next station, and she’s in the underground. You’re the only set of eyes we have if that happens. Keep me on the cell as long as you have service. I want to hear from you in real time while the situation’s fluid.”

  “Understood.”

  The train stopped, the doors opened, and Jack moved with about six other people toward the exit. He let them get off first, and by the time he stepped onto the platform, Shada was heading for the stairs.