Kane shook his head. “Motherfucker.”
“Already established,” Farrell said.
“You do know I could have you arrested right now — and Jenna, too.”
“Anyone who comes for Jenna isn’t going to make it out of here alive.” Farrell’s voice was low and dangerous, and Jenna had to swallow the fear that rose in her throat. He was a man who would burn the world down to keep her safe — even if he burned with it. It's not what she wanted.
“The people who are behind this are powerful,” Jenna said. “We don’t know for sure who they are, but we’ve made some connections, and they’re not people who will give up easily. They’ve spent a lot of money — taken a lot of risks — developing this virus. That means it’s important to them.”
“So I gather,” Kane said.
“They’re not going to stop coming for her,” Farrell said. Kane glanced at Jenna, and Farrell continued. “They don’t know how much she knows, but they know it’s too much.”
Kane sighed. “How does my working with you mitigate that danger?”
“It gives me one more gun,” Farrell said. “One more man. And it makes Jenna more high-profile. Coming after a fugitive trying to live under the radar is one thing — coming after a woman protected by the governments of three major countries is another.”
“I can put her in protective custody while my office works the problem.” Kane said. “And you, too.”
Farrell smiled at the suggestion. He wasn’t a man who trusted the protective custody of anyone but himself. It was the perception of protection he wanted. The visibility that working with Kane would give them would make it riskier for the people behind the bioweapon to come after her.
“I think we both know protective custody is only as good as the security of the date and the trustworthiness of the people doing the protecting.”
She was surprised Kane didn’t try to refute the fact that there might be moles inside the offices of Homeland Security, MI6, DGSI. “You’re asking for a lot,” he said.
Farrell met his eyes. “I’m offering a lot.”
Something dangerous and complicated moved between them. Kane stood up.
“I need a minute.”
He crossed to the terrace and stepped outside, then shut the doors behind him and put his phone to his ear.
Jenna turned her eyes to Farrell. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should go in. Or maybe I should go in, at least.”
His gaze hardened. “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t trust your safety to anyone but me.”
She nodded, knowing he was right. And she didn’t want to leave him. Not now. Not ever.
Kane opened the doors and stepped back into the room. “We have forty-eight hours to come up with something solid, something credible. After that, you and Jenna are back in custody until it’s resolved.”
Farrell nodded, but Jenna knew it wasn’t any kind of agreement. It was simply an acknowledgement that he’d heard the terms. He would never let them take Jenna in again — or him either.
“Good,” Kane said. “Let’s get to work.”
Eighteen
“We’re missing something,” Farrell said, setting down his fork. “I know I’m stating the obvious, but maybe stating it will shake something loose.”
“I’m willing to try just about anything at this point,” Kane said, waving the waiter over. He asked for more coffee and sat back in his chair, his gaze traveling along the Seine. “Too bad we don’t have a crystal ball.”
They were at an outdoor cafe on the Right Bank, the moist, marshy scent of the Seine a backdrop to concrete, coffee, and somewhere, the yeasty scent of rising bread. They’d been working all day, trying to connect the dots of the pieces they had into something more coherent than a conspiracy theory that wouldn’t hold water with Kane’s boss or anyone at the CIA. Now one wall of the living room was covered in pieces of paper and photographs linked by kitchen twine, tenuous connections made between people and places and data that were too random to stand on their own.
But it wasn’t enough. In fact, six hours of brainstorming, of combining everything Farrell and Jenna knew with the little information picked up in surveillance by Homeland Security, hadn’t produced a single, tangible lead. Jenna ran through it again in her head: her father’s death, the development of the virus at Stafford, Alex Petrov, Adam Denman and possibly Bernard Morse which meant also possibly Clive Hewitt, money transferred in Paris through Helene Chevalier.
Helene Chavalier. She and Alex Petrov were two of the biggest wildcards. Alex worked at Stafford and had killed her father. They’d been shot at while visiting La Maison des Chevalier, and only after Helene disappeared from the tasting room. Both were involved somehow, but more than anyone else, they seemed at the fringe of the conspiracy. Adam Denman and Bernard Morse were politicians. It wasn’t as surprising as it should have been that they were somehow involved. But what did an executive at a bio-tech research firm and a vintner have in common with the two politicians? And if they were involved, who else was out there, seemingly apart from the world of terrorist attacks and plots to weed out entire populations?
“It’s Petrov,” Jenna murmured aloud.
“What is?” Kane asked.
“I don’t know… everything started with him. With Stafford. But he’s the one we know the least about. Actually, we don’t know anything about him. Stafford is shut down, and Petrov is a ghost.”
“Petrov…” Farrell repeated the name, but when she looked at him, she had the sense that something was happening behind his eyes.
“What is it?” Jenna asked.
He stood so abruptly he almost knocked over his chair. “We have to get out of here.”
He threw money on the table and started for the door. By the time Kane and Jenna caught up with him on the street, he was already on the phone.
“This will be the last time,” he said into the phone. “You have my word.”
He waited a few more seconds, then disconnected the call. “Let’s go.”
“Care to fill me in?” Kane asked as they hailed a cab.
Farrell didn’t answer, and Jenna didn’t bother explaining that Farrell only talked when Farrell wanted to talk. Five minutes later they were heading toward the 13th arrondissement. They rode in silence, but Jenna could tell from the set of Farrell’s jaw that his mind was working a problem. He still hadn’t spoken when they got out in front of Christophe’s cyber lab.
The sky was darkening overhead as they made their way around the building to the side entrance. The security camera scanned their faces, and a moment later they were let into the reception room. This time Julie was waiting.
“Monsieur Black. I must confess that I’m a bit surprised to see you again.”
“You and me both,” Farrell said.
She sighed. “Come along. Sebastien is expecting you.”
She led them back upstairs to the second floor, past the glass walled offices to Sebastien’s work space. He was sitting in the same chair in the same position, wearing an almost identical tunic. It was the only thing even remotely different from the last time they’d visited. Without it, Jenna would have been sure he hadn’t moved.
“Sebastien,” Farrell said. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m wondering if you can help me with something new.”
“I can try,” the other man said, his eyes still on the screen in front of him.
“Can you look up images for the Stafford Institute outside London? Company gatherings, financial reports, promotional photos, anything at all.”
“Timeframe?” Sebastien asked.
“Last five years,” Farrell said.
Sebastien’s hands seemed to skim the keyboard, his fingers tapping lightly on the keys as images populated the screen. When he was done, he sat back. “This is everything.”
Farrell gestured to an empty chair next to him. “May I?”
Sebastien nodded, reluctantly turning his computer toward Farrell. Jenna and Braden stood behind t
hem, watching as Farrell started scrolling through the photos. Jenna didn’t know what he was looking for, but he was intent on the mission, and she watched as he moved past marketing photos for new drug launches, employee fundraising and charitable efforts captured on camera for prosperity. He stopped briefly at a picture of the Stafford Board of Directors, and Jenna leaned in looking for Alex Petrov.
He wasn’t among the suited men — and one woman — in the photo.
She felt vaguely nauseous as her stomach did a little flip. Had Alex really been an executive at the company? Or had he only told her that so he could get close to her? Find out if she knew about the papers her father had smuggled out of the Institute? He had been at the funeral with other employees from the company, she was sure of that much. But that didn’t prove anything. The others could have been in on the research, or they might even have known Alex in another capacity at the company. The truth is, she’d never checked up on him and his position at Stafford, not when it mattered.
Farrell kept scrolling, stopping at a grainy newspaper image that looked vaguely familiar. In it, several suited men stood with their heads bowed, arms crossed in front of their bodies. She read the caption.
Funeral services were held for John Carver, a long time employee at the Stafford Institute, at Croydon Cemetery. Carver was killed in a mugging on Boston Road late last Thursday. The assailants are still at large.
Jenna fought the urge to look away. She was doing this for her father. He hadn’t flinched when he’d taken the risk that had led to his death, and he’d left it to her to finish what he started. She wouldn’t flinch either.
Farrell was still staring at the photo, and she looked more closely, trying to see what he was seeing. She spotted it a moment later: Alex Petrov, one of the suited men, his face barely visible as he bowed his head near her father’s casket.
“I’m assuming you have facial recognition software?” Farrell asked Sebastien.
Sebastien smirked at Farrell before turning his face back to the computer screen. He tapped away, and a moment later, a new screen appeared next to the old one, this one with an area for facial mapping.
Farrell pointed at the picture of Alex. “Can you search for this man? We don’t know his name.”
“What am I looking for?” Sebastien asked.
“Anything. But mostly, we want to know who he is.”
Sebastian nodded, then dragged the image of Alex into the mapping software. It didn’t work. Not at first. Alex’s face was too obscured, and Sebastien played around with the image, turning it, tipping it up to get a better angle on the face, even allowing the computer to make assumptions based on Petrov’s bone structure. A digital wheel spun at the top of the computer screen while he worked, the computer’s way of saying it didn’t have enough data to complete the calculation.
Jenna watched as Alex’s face became sharper, the features more pronounced. Finally the wheel stopped turning, and the mapping software honed in on the middle of the man’s face, lines radiating outward, then around like a spider web as it mapped the key contours of the face.
Another screen appeared to the side of the mapping screen. Faces flashed in the mini-screen so fast Jenna only had time to form impressions: red hair, strong jaw, dark hair, beard, blond hair, mustache…
And now Jenna understood what Farrell was doing.
If Alex Petrov was an alias — and it almost certainly was since previous searches hadn’t turned anything up on the man — the only way to discover his true identity was to look for his face.
A full minute passed as Jenna watched the mapping software scan face after face, each one only appearing on the screen for a fraction of a second before another appeared. She was beginning to wonder if they were all crazy. Maybe Alex Petrov was a ghost. Maybe he wasn’t named Alex Petrov or anything else. Maybe he’d disappeared into thin air.
But then a face appeared on the mini-screen and the software stopped scanning.
“Fucking-A,” Kane muttered.
A set of statistics was listed next to the man’s face.
DENYS LEVCHENKO
Birthdate: 1980, May 10
Place of Birth: Kiev, Ukraine
Current Citizenship: Unknown
Current Residence: Unknown
It wasn't very helpful, at least on the surface. Jenna turned her attention to the photo. The man depicted there didn’t look like Alex Petrov. His hair was darker in the photo, a mustache and beard covering a good portion of his lower face. He looked heavier than the man Jenna remembered as Alex Petrov, cheeks fuller, neck thicker.
“Is it him?” Kane asked.
“Of course it’s him,” Sebastien said. “The software isn’t subjective. It takes key points of the facial muscular-skeletal makeup and matches it. Or not. This is a match.”
Jenna looked more closely. It wasn’t the Alex Petrov she remembered, but the eyes… They did look familiar, the irises a pale shade of cornflower blue.
“Thank you,” Farrell said, relief evident in his voice. “Thank you.”
Sebastien nodded. “Of course.”
Jenna assumed he knew better than to ask questions. Christophe Marchand’s business must be every bit as sensitive as Farrell's, the people who worked for Marchand equally trained in the merits of discretion.
“Let’s go,” Farrell said, already heading for the door.
They were back in the hall when Kane spoke. “Shouldn’t we ask him to run background on Denys Levchenko? Assuming of course, that you still don’t trust the Bureau’s people.”
Farrell shook his head. “Not here.”
They made their way back down the hall to the staircase, then waited by the locked door to the reception area. Julie appeared a moment later with a set of keys in her hand.
“There you are.” Her tone was slightly scolding, and Jenna was momentarily glad Farrell was distracted. Farrell wouldn’t normally stand for being scolded by an underling — and any underling of Christophe’s was an underling of his according to the hard-and-fast hierarchy of the mob.
He didn’t say anything as she unlocked the door, and they stepped into the foyer and waited again as she opened the outer door. Then they were in the alley outside the building, the door slamming behind them without a word.
Kane ran his hands through his hair, shook his head like he was in some strange new world. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you guys.”
The statement didn’t seem to bother Farrell. He wasn’t looking to be understood.
And Jenna already knew why they hadn’t asked Sebastien to run background on the man named Denys Levchenko. Marchand had helped them, but on some level he was still a rival to Farrell. He had no idea what was going on, why Farrell and Jenna had been named persons of interest in the deaths of Mrs. Hodges and Erik Karlsen.
It was how Farrell liked it, and he didn’t want to pique Sebastien’s interest — or Julie’s if she should ask Sebastien what he’d been working on. There was always the possibility they would find their way to the details of the situation themselves, become curious about Farrell’s reasons for seeking out Denys Levchenko, run a background on the man themselves.
But there was no reason to hand it to them.
They were back on the street when Farrell spoke again. “We need to get back to the apartment. We have work to do.”
Nineteen
“Do you have another laptop? I could use the extra screen.”
Farrell took his laptop off the coffee table and handed it to the woman at the kitchen table. Bringing Briony Fowler into the mix wasn’t ideal, but it was the kind of acceptable risk they were forced to take. Time was running out, and while Marchand’s hackers were good, he was no longer to risk intervention from the Paris organization.
Briony had been working in his cyber division for almost a year, and she was one of the best they had. After getting Petrov’s real name from Sebastien, he’d contacted Leo through secure channels and arranged for Briony to get to Paris ASAP. She’d arrived shor
tly after nine pm and had immediately gone to work, setting up her computer equipment at the kitchen table and tapping away at the keys as furiously as Sebastien. Over two hours later, and she was still mum about her progress, but a steady stream of code was scrolling across her screen behind several other tabs open to websites ranging from the Ukrainian Consulate General to the UK Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency.
“Can I get you anything else?” Jenna asked her.
They’d ordered takeout shortly after Briony arrived and briefed her while they ate, and Jenna had made a fresh pot of coffee. She’d accepted Farrell’s explanation of the other woman’s presence without question despite the fact that Briony Fowler looked nothing like a stereotypical hacker. In fact, Farrell was willing to bet her willowy figure, long blond hair, and sharp cheekbones would more likely have her pegged as a model, which was probably just fine with his no-nonsense employee.
Briony looked up and smiled warmly at Jenna. “No, thank you.”
Jenna nodded and went to the living room to tidy up, removing styrofoam containers and dirty coffee cups from the coffee table.
“How long will this take?” Kane asked.
“As long as it takes,” Briony said, obviously distracted.
The answer was met with a look of annoyance from Kane, but he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t been at all thrilled with the idea of bringing in one of Farrell’s people, but Farrell had pushed back, reminding Kane that he had given Farrell and Jenna forty-eight hours to make a break on their own. Farrell still wasn’t ready to trust anyone else. Not until they had so much evidence that catching the people behind the virus was inevitable.
And it would become inevitable. Everything had a tipping point. A point at which the momentum was so strong, there was no stopping its forward progress. He would wait until they reached it to give what they knew to Kane’s people.
Eternal (London Mob Book 3) Page 10
