21
LIZ LUDLUM’S APARTMENT
Ludlum had exhausted all of the channels at her disposal. All, that was, that wouldn’t get her flagged by the system. It had amassed quite a body of material and evidence, but so far it just wasn’t enough.
She had managed to convince several local bodegas to give her any security footage they had from the date and time she was abducted. Many of them kept archives of video going back weeks, thanks to inexpensive digital security systems. Hard drives were cheap these days, and many security companies encouraged their clients to upgrade as much as possible. Ludlum appreciated those upsells, at the moment.
It was easier to get footage from these little storefronts, rather than try for traffic and ATM footage. Those took court orders. Bodegas took kind words, a little flirting, and the occasional twenty. It was a lot of work, canvassing the area, and then expanding as she got more leads. But it was paying off.
From the footage she’d gathered so far, Ludlum was able to piece together the path that Ryba had taken after leaving FBI headquarters. It had started as guesswork, casting around the building block by block until she spotted an image of the truck she recognized from the construction site. It wasn’t a perfect shot—it came from an interior camera that happened to have a view of the front window of the bodega. But the truck had stopped for a light there, and she could make out enough details to be convinced that it was the one.
That gave her a direction and an area. The timestamp on the video gave her an exact time.
She had noted these details on her whiteboard—a new purchase that she’d set up in her living room. It blocked one entire wall, including her television, but it helped her to sort all the details she was finding.
The board was slowly filling as she went. From that first bodega, she was able to narrow her search, and she visited even more storefronts asking for video. She used her FBI credentials to grease the wheels, which helped. She could get into serious trouble if that came out, but she wasn’t being belligerent about it. She was always sure to be kind, to ask politely, and to be as non-threatening as possible. If it ever came up, she hoped she could mitigate it by saying she was only identifying herself, not abusing authority.
She had about an eighty-percent success rate, which was enough. She could work with the results she was getting.
With the general direction and location established, as well as the timeline, she started making some educated guesses. She knew where they had ended up, having ridden Cameron Ryba’s motorcycle from that location. It took time to work out the path that Red Ryba had taken, with her in the back of the truck, but soon she had that all mapped out.
Tracing that route had given her multiple angles of the truck, including the plate numbers and recognizable markings. She could recognize it now, which made it easier to spot.
The real work began then.
She started from FBI headquarters once again, and now she approached stores that lay in the opposite direction, along what she hoped was the path the truck had taken before parking near FBI HQ. To park where he had, Ryba would have had to come from a specific direction, and that helped Ludlum narrow the number of streets he would have used.
It took time, but she finally spotted the van in some of the footage, from a bodega a few blocks away. In the video, the truck was heading in the right direction. A good sign.
She placed it again, on the same street, still further out. And then another.
Block by block, street by street, Ludlum rolled back time, giving bodega owners a timeframe that became more refined as she went. Over the course of days, she traced Ryba all the way back to a specific block. The truck disappeared from all footage in that area, prior to the timeline Ludlum had established. There was no trace of it from any footage she managed to retrieve from the rest of the neighborhood.
That had to be the area where Ryba had first found the truck.
She used her contacts with the NYPD to search for any reports of a stolen truck matching that description, but if Ryba had taken it, no one reported it. It was possible he’d bought it, probably for cash, to keep it off the books. There were plenty of unregistered vehicles on the streets of Manhattan, moving around freely, without much worry about being spotted. As long as the drivers kept their speed down and didn’t cause problems, they could get away with it indefinitely.
The plates on this truck were from out of state, but that didn’t make them unusual. It mostly made them invisible, especially on commercial vehicles.
She’d convinced one of her NYPD friends to run the license plate, and it had come back registered to a leasing company in Philadelphia, though the plates were from Florida. The vehicle had been initially purchased in Detroit and had passed through three different owners in New York, Boston, and Mississippi. She called the leasing office and was told that the truck had been sold as part of a liquidation. Bought at auction. No record of who had taken it. The whole thing was paid for with a cashier’s check. Untraceable.
In other words, this was a dead end. There was no way to know for sure who had owned the truck before Ryba had gotten his hands on it, and so there was no one for her to question. For all she knew, Ryba may have been the one to buy it from auction in the first place.
This wasn’t helping.
Ludlum spent a day canvassing the area where the truck had first appeared on video. She walked ten blocks in a circumference around the first bodega, stopped to ask questions at a couple of potential spots, and walking away with nothing. By the end of the day she was exhausted and hungry, and she found a café where she could get a cup of tea and a sandwich and just sit with her thoughts for a while.
She took out her phone and opened her growing file on Red Ryba.
He was a scary man. Even without the suspicion of being an international “mechanic”—an assassin and fixer-for-hire who took care of problems for the wealthy and unscrupulous—Red’s background made it clear that he was both capable and dangerous.
The oldest of three brothers, raised in Russia, Red had left his family to join the military the moment he was old enough to do so. He had trained as a Morskov Spetsnaz “frogman”—the Russian equivalent of a US Navy SEAL—and by all publicly available accounts had served with distinction during two tours of combat. And then, for reasons not explained in his public record, he received a discharge.
Ludlum suspected she knew what that meant.
Upon leaving the Russian military, he’d been employed by a security service catering to diplomats and high-powered executives doing business in hotly contested regions. His work was not limited to Russian officials, but extended to anyone who could pay the exorbitant rates of the agency. Ryba excelled at this work and had become a client favorite for his dedication and commitment, as well as his track record.
Over the next few years, Ryba served as a bodyguard for several CEOs and other executives before becoming embroiled in a bit of intrigue. One of his clients had been kidnapped and tortured in Afghanistan.
Reports on this were also vague, but Ludlum had managed to piece the story together through a variety of news accounts and declassified military documents, mostly from US operatives.
The client had been taken while Ryba was charged with escorting the man’s young daughter out of the country. That mission went off without a hitch, but in the meantime, the facility where the client had been living was raided by insurgents. The man, a high-level Russian diplomat, was abducted, and almost immediately there were photos and video of him being tortured, broadcast over live television.
Upon learning of the abduction, Ryba returned to the region, apparently commandeering a private plane to get there. Despite a US lockdown on the area, Ryba snuck behind enemy lines and penetrated the compound where his client was being held. In a single-man operation that took only 24 hours, Ryba rescued the diplomat and returned him to Russian soil.
By the news accounts and the diplomat’s own profuse public gratitude, Ryba was a hero.
Ludlum
suspected, though, that there was a lot more to the story than what the press had been allowed to cover.
And she wasn’t alone. Though she hadn’t been able to gain access to Ryba’s full FBI file, she’d seen enough of it to know that he had a twisted code of honor. In the years since that rescue, his reputation had grown to legendary status. There were whispers and rumors about him. A mythology grew around his skills and his exploits. He was known to have a 100% success rate, and the rumor was that he would do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep that perfect score.
At some point, he had gone freelance, shifting his business model to a referral-only system. This had only enhanced his reputation and garnered an impressive level of loyalty from his former clients.
Ryba had created a closed system of sorts, letting his happy and satisfied clients take a cut of his fees in exchange for well-vetted referrals. It was a lucrative business for everyone, especially Ryba. His clientele trended toward the uber-wealthy, who had specialized needs. Any former client could refer a new client to Ryba and receive ten percent of the fee. It wasn’t a bad deal.
The catch was responsibility—if a job went bad, if Ryba found himself betrayed, the referring client would pay the price. And the coin was skin, blood, and bone.
There were very few examples of this, though a couple did come up in Ludlum’s research. There was far more information about Ryba’s targets. She had a collection of crime-scene photos, victims splayed in all manner of grotesque and obscene poses. They’d all been tortured, that much was evident. And the work had been done with efficiency, if not elegance. The results seemed dependent on Ryba’s goal. Pain, if pain was required. Or a quick death, if the client had asked him to supply that small mercy.
That was the story for each method she could spot. There were commonalities, but each victim’s corpse revealed subtleties that hinted at more than routine and process.
Ludlum studied these photos, comparing them, and came away with signs of commonality between each murder. Ryba did have a signature. It was subtle, but she had studied enough of his victims to recognize it.
The trouble was, it was only assumed this was Ryba’s work. There was no substantial evidence linking him to any of these crime scenes, and so everything she was learning was tinged with conjecture. Thinking of this as “Ryba’s signature” was a convenience.
So far, nothing she’d uncovered could hold up in a court of law. She needed more.
As Ludlum dug further, however, she began to find his signature in things that could be tied to him. His early work, in Afghanistan, the way in which he’d taken out enemy combatants. His interrogation methods. She could see the patterns.
Blunt force injury to the skull, to incapacitate the victim. Ryba was using his physical strength and imposing build to take the enemy by surprise.
Strips of cloth to gag the victim. Silence was key. He was exerting a sort of psychological power over them, by removing their ability to speak.
Hands and feet tied with something difficult or even impossible to snap by brute strength, and something tough to cut—like electrical wire. More incapacitation, more control, more dominance.
Abduction and relocation to remote sites. Isolate the victim, disorient them, surround them with the unfamiliar, so they lose hope of rescue or escape. Make their dominance complete so they will be compliant.
All of it was familiar. Ludlum had lived it, only a few days ago. She’d been part of a story Ryba could weave like a master. Her abduction had his fingerprints all over it.
This was him.
She’d never be able to use that in a court of law. A good defense team would chew through it like it was cotton candy. But it was a start. It settled the question for her, at least. Red Ryba had been the one to abduct her.
The trouble was, none of this helped her to find him.
She’d sipped her tea, and stared out of the window of the café, watching the light fade as evening approached. She’d need to catch a cab or an Uber home. She’d rest and start again tomorrow. Though she was out of leads, at this point. She didn’t know what to do next. Ryba was a ghost. He was going to get away.
Maybe she needed to change her perspective.
She’d been searching for Ryba like a detective, finding his last known location, tracing his route backward, trying to track him using the clues she could identify. This wasn’t her specialty, though. She was a forensic anthropologist. She specialized evidence she could find on a body. Evidence that wasn’t always apparent.
How would she approach this, if it were a murder? If she were examining a corpse and was having trouble finding the cause of death, what would she do?
She turned back to the autopsy photos.
They all shared commonalities, and Ludlum had been able to find Ryba’s signature, tracing it from victim to victim, back to his early days. There were only a few autopsy reports showcasing his work at that time, but the roots of his methods were there. He had learned his craft there. Perfected it.
What else had he learned from that training? What other skills had he been taught, that might still be part of his patterns today?
His file hinted at some of what she needed, but there had to be more.
Ludlum called for an Uber, and when it arrived, she left the café and made her way home. Before she’d reached her apartment, however, she’d already made travel arrangements. She needed to talk to someone who knew how men like Ryba were trained. And she had someone in mind.
She’d just have to convince him to talk to her.
22
TARGET LOCATION
Kotler and Coben were en route to the location that Denzel had provided. It had been a long, quiet, and admittedly stressful car ride so far.
Rather than drive to the site, Coben had arranged for a car, and the two of them sat in the back seat as they passed through New York streets. Kotler tried to take some comfort in the everyday details of the world streaking past his window, but he had to admit that the silence was starting to get to him. Which may have been the NSA Agent’s intention.
Kotler smiled to himself and shook his head. He was letting paranoia have a say, and that would only lead to heightened anxiety. If he had questions about Coben’s agenda, and about his presence here, then there was only one practical way to get answers.
He turned to Coben, who was reading something from his phone.
“You said you want my help. What exactly are you expecting me to do?”
Coben continued reading for a moment, then clicked off the phone’s display and slid it into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He turned to Kotler, and wove his fingers together, cupping them over one knee as he crossed his legs.
“You did an impressive job of cracking multiple cyphers in that manuscript. Not to mention the cylinder. The step rotor keypad. Quite a bit of cryptological work. Is codebreaking something you practice regularly?”
A game. More games. Coben was deliberately orchestrating his body language, taking a pose that was intended to put Kotler at ease, while keeping his facial features and micro expressions under perfect control. It was all meant to manipulate Kotler. And to some extent, it was working.
The NSA would have a file on him, Kotler realized. They would know his skills, as well as his history. They would know things about him that, conceivably, Kotler didn’t know himself. So the game was rigged. Kotler couldn’t win this.
But winning and losing weren’t the only two possible outcomes. There was also playing to a draw.
Kotler wouldn’t be able to read Coben, as he could most people. But maybe he could use that as an advantage. Maybe he could learn something from the way Coben masked his body language—learn what he needed from what Coben wasn’t saying and doing.
“I’ve dabbled with it as a hobby,” Kotler said. “ From time to time. It’s not all that dissimilar to my actual work.”
Coben nodded, allowing a tight smile. “Anthropology. You study ancient cultures.”
“Among other things,�
�� Kotler smiled back.
“Quantum Mechanics,” Coben nodded. “You have an impressive academic background, Dr. Kotler. Multiple Ph.Ds in multiple disciplines. And not easy disciplines at that.”
“I have a wide range of interests, and I enjoy learning,” Kotler said. “I was encouraged to explore my interests.”
“Your education goes well beyond your university career, though, doesn’t it? You’ve evidently studied psychology, forensics, body language ... and now codebreaking.”
Kotler shrugged and smiled. “I’ve also studied where to find the best brisket in Manhattan and how to make the perfect cup of espresso. I have a wide range of interests.”
“Very wide,” Coben said. “That list doesn’t even include the military training.”
Kotler sighed. “I wouldn’t exactly call it military training. I never served.”
“No, that’s true. You were never officially part of any branch of the military. Though you were courted.”
“I had a few offers.”
Coben smiled, laughing lightly. “More than a few. Every branch of the US military.”
“I never should have taken the ASVAB,” Kotler said.
“And, more recently, offers from government agencies,” Coben continued. “What made you decide to work with the FBI?”
Kotler shrugged. “Agent Denzel,” he said. “He saved my life, in Pueblo.”
“He also helped you to remain involved in a joint action against a terrorist threat. The events in Pueblo have put you on an interesting path, haven’t they?”
Kotler considered this. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve been involved in some harrowing events, but sure. After we recovered the Coelho Medallion and stopped Anwar Adham’s attack on NORAD, I’ll admit that things picked up for me. The details that were released to the public helped to get me more invitations to speak and to participate in research and dig sites around the world.”
“And the classified work,” Coben said, “put you in a high-level position in a brand-new division of the FBI. You gained access to a whole new world of information and resources.”
The Stepping Maze Page 13
