The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  Angled so that it appeared she was watching the players on the field, Alex took out the binoculars and began scanning the crowd for Wainscott.

  Alex’s choice of tickets had given the Inspector only two strong vantage points to view the seat she’d saved for her, and she scanned those for a woman looking in that direction or just above. It took less than five minutes. Wainscott’s chosen seats were close to the tunnel—easy exit, Alex thought. Smart—and as predicted she did not come alone. A tall man dressed in a tan trench coat sat with her, scanning the crowd like a nervous gull. He wore black Lennon-style sunglasses, and as Alex watched him tap the back of his gloved hand with the palm of the other, “Lonely Hearts Club Band,” chorused through her head.

  Sergeant Pepper leaned over and whispered something to Wainscott, who nodded. Then the two of them stared directly above Alex. She resisted the urge to turn, that would have been a tell, and kept the binoculars pointed straight ahead. Wainscott whispered something to Sergeant Pepper and they looked back to the field.

  The seat Alex had left for her still sat empty.

  Pressing her cell phone’s call button, Alex placed an earbud in one ear and leaned to the microphone clipped to her lapel. When Wainscott answered, Alex said, “One minute after halftime, be in the seat I left for you.”

  “And where will you be?”

  “Where I am now. Watching.” Alex hung up.

  The match started with a roar, fans immediately on their feet, singing and cheering and yelling at good or bad plays. Arsenal took it to Liverpool, scoring twice in the first twenty minutes, sending the home fans into an absolute frenzy.

  Playing the part, Alex stood and swayed with the crowd as they sang, while keeping her eyes on Wainscott and Sergeant Pepper, and glancing at Jack every now and then.

  Standing and cheering with the best of them, Jack could’ve passed for an Arsenal lifer. Then, four minutes before halftime, as planned, Jack left his initial spot and exited the tunnel.

  Two minutes before halftime, Wainscott followed.

  Sergeant Pepper stayed put. So did Alex.

  At the three-minute mark of the second half, Wainscott climbed the five rows to her appointed seat. Jack followed one minute later. Wainscott made a move to get back up to allow Jack to continue down the row, but he took her forearm, and guided her back down into her seat. He whispered the words Alex had told him, and Wainscott unhooked her necklace. Jack inspected it, ground it under his foot, then kicked the debris beneath the seats in front of him before settling next to the Inspector.

  Alex smiled.

  Leaving Wainscott looking appropriately sullen next to Jack, Alex went up to visit her friend.

  Sixteen

  “Don’t get up. Don’t turn your head.” Alex settled next to Sergeant Pepper, eyes trained on the yellow-jacketed policeman at the bottom of the section looking up at their area. “Your partner believes my partner has strapped a bomb to the bottom of her seat.”

  The Sergeant jerked his head across the pitch at Jack sitting next to Inspector Wainscott.

  “Seven pounds of it. What do you think—Section Five would probably disappear, yes?” A bomb threat was a dirty trick, but they had a scarcity of options here. “I’m going to reach into my pocket now. Don’t panic.”

  “Righto, love.”

  Alex took a laminated, blue-bordered ID card from her wallet. Reserved for diplomatic officers, the card granted full criminal immunity. The revered Get Out of any Jail anytime Free card. It meant she either worked for the State Department or that other little agency in DC.

  She let it sink in for a moment. “Do you understand?”

  “You’re CIA.”

  She settled back into her seat now that that was out of the way. It didn’t matter if he was the top of his division, a Company agent outranked him in political and military cover. “Tell me your role in the investigation of the Isle of Man murders.”

  Incredulous, he looked at her. “I’m the JTAC Lead Intelligence Officer on the case. I answer to the Director General himself.” Joint Terrorism Analysis Center. Alex had been right; he was MI5 and the head of the investigation. Wainscott was basically in charge of arrests and detainment, nothing more.

  This was good.

  “You have your warrant card?” Like a badge, it would show his name and division, as well as his warrant number. MI5 personnel were required to have it on them in street clothes.

  Grunting, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. After flipping it open, he showed Alex the ID with his photo, overlaid with a gold and blue holograph. Sergeant Pepper’s real name was Rogan Burke, not that she cared. She just wanted to see where he put the card.

  He flipped it closed after Alex nodded, slipped it back into his chest pocket, and closed his coat.

  “Okay, Agent Burke. Open your mobile phone, call your assistant, and tell her to e-mail the digital files you’ve compiled on the Isle of Mann case to an address I give you.” Before he refused, she added, “You’ll do this to save your own ass, and avoid public humiliation not just for your unit, but all of British intelligence.”

  “Rubbish,” he scoffed.

  “Or else WebLeaks will print a fascinating story about the Café Martin bombing.”

  Tightening his lips, Burke shrugged, as if to say, What story? He’d also kept his shades on, which made Alex want to put her fist through the black lenses and split open his unibrow. Instead, she hit him with, “You know that story, right? The one about British military explosives being stuffed into a piano and killing over fifty civilians, two foreign diplomats, and a decorated Royal Air Force intelligence agent.”

  He laughed. “Preposterous. How would you even—”

  “I was there.”

  His face drained of color.

  “Despite what you have released to the papers, you and I both know it wasn’t C-4.”

  Only blackness through the depths of his sunglasses, but Alex sensed the poor man’s pucker factor had skyrocket to about frog’s-anus level.

  “All C-4 is primarily composed of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, also known as RDX, grade B; and pentaerythritol dioleate, or PEDO.” Alex was pleased she’d paid attention during explosives month in training. That shit was confusing as hell, and you had to know it inside and out if you were to ever use or defuse it. She had been on the defusing side twice in her career thus far and was compelled to keep brushing up on the latest as well as the basics.

  “But you probably already know all that.” She doubted he did, but flattered him anyway. What was the saying? It’s easier to win over someone with sugar than vinegar? Maybe Alex was only dissolving a pinch of sugar in the vinegar, but what the hell. “Here’s where it gets interesting. Most developed countries use C-4 or some variation thereof for military purposes. Developers and private enterprises use Semtex, somewhat of a variation of C-4. Either way, both compounds have high amounts of plasticizer for malleability. This makes them smell like…?”

  “Plastic,” Burke said, looking dumbfounded. Alex took that to mean he’d guessed where she was going with this.

  “Right. But an early type of explosive used by the military was composed of something entirely different. The Brits tried to assassinate Hitler with it, in fact.”

  Burke’s pucker tightened a couple more notches, to about gnat’s-ass level now. “Nobel 808.”

  Alex nodded. “Made of primarily nitroglycerine and nitrocellulose, it’s cheap and easy to manufacture. Perfect for hard times. Eight-oh-eight, as you know, also has a distinctive scent, doesn’t it?”

  He stared at her, unmoving.

  Alex continued, “So, when I was standing there at the party, leaning on the edge of the piano, I thought I smelled almonds. Not roasted, not bitter, just strong. Almost overwhelming. But there wasn’t an almond in sight. Not a bowl, not a plate, nothing. The chef confirmed, not a single hors d'oeuvre or dish served that night contained almonds. Yet the piano reeked of it.”

  He smiled. “8
08 has been out of production for half a century, love.”

  “Officially.” Patting his leg, love, Alex leaned closer. “But you and I know different, don’t we? The British military manufactured over three tons of the explosive for the war in Iraq. Easy, quick, cheap. Perfect for a bottom of the barrel war.”

  “Doesn’t mean British military was involved.”

  “Stolen, then. What’s worse, involvement or incompetence?” Smiling, she sat back just as Arsenal scored a third goal The crowd erupted, singing “God Save the Queen” while waving scarves and spreading them wide, showering the stadium in white and red stripes. “You have five minutes to send the files.”

  “We don’t keep them on digital,” he tried. “They’re recorded on paper first, then scanned later.”

  “Bullshit. Now you have four.”

  He stared Alex down and finally said, “Bollocks.”

  He stood and reached for his phone. Alex listened from her seat. When he asked for an e-mail address, she gave him a Hushmail reserved for a digital drop she’d never used. She could tap into it anywhere fast, and it was secure from message recalls or tampering. Even MI5 would need a warrant for access, and that would take days at least.

  “It’ll be there in three. A zip file. It’s rather large.”

  “I expect so.”

  They waited about two minutes as she watched Jack. Using his cell, he checked the account. No signal from him meant nothing yet.

  Three minutes.

  Jack checked again. Still nothing.

  Alex looked at Burke. His ridiculous hippie shades. “You are cutting it awfully close.”

  “It’s on its way, I assure you.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Alex glanced to the bottom of their seating section. Two policemen had suddenly appeared, one whispering to the other, both looking up their way. When a third policeman joined them, she looked back at Jack to find he’d stood and shrugged off his jacket, showing his Arsenal colors.

  He had received the file.

  A fourth policeman sidestepped the front of the stands, and began making his way over to the gathering artillery.

  Alex looked back at Burke, who wore an I just ate a shit-stuffed crumpet grin.

  Turning, she saw more officers hurrying down the stairs toward them, hands on their batons. Then another one on the other side. All headed her way.

  Alex pulled the Arsenal flag from her coat and fished around her pocket for the lighter.

  “What are you—”

  Before he could finish, she lit the flag, thrust it into his hands, and yelled in a throaty cry, “Die Arsenal!” as she let her coat drop.

  Burke held the flaming flag high and away from his body, a natural reaction, as Alex ducked and bumped him under the immediate swell of fans around them. Dressed in Arsenal red now, she pushed past Burke, up through the chaos, and into the far aisle as she sneaked a look back at the riot erupting below her.

  Police charged the stairs on both sides, batons out and swinging, pushing through the gathering fans in the aisles.

  On the other side of the stadium from the melee, Wainscott was hurrying up the stairs. Jack was gone. Burke was buried by the masses.

  An Arsenal fan powered through the crowd and pushed past Alex with a knife, his eyes like lasers on Burke. “Die, Arsenal? Die, Liverpool! Die, you!”

  She turned and twisted his arm until she heard a pop and he dropped the knife. Then she pushed him in the path two officers bounding down the stairs toward the melee.

  The entire section Alex had been sitting in turned into a full-fledged riot before she reached the tunnel, consuming every effort of the police to contain the crowd. She felt a momentary regret, but then noted two policemen had already reached the center of the action and were pulling rabid fans backward. Burke would be fine.

  Whistling “Helter Skelter,” Alex exited the tunnel, headed straight down the stairs, two at a time, and out through stadium’s turnstiles. By the time she reached the mouth of the Tube a block and a half away, Jack was already there. He looked winded.

  “I got something for you.” Alex slipped the leather billfold from her pocket, flipped it open, and showed him Burke’s MI5 warrant card. “Now you have some cover.”

  “Yeah?” Jack slipped a hand in his jacket and came out with another card, this one labeled Metropolitan Police and sheathed in a clear plastic and nylon case. Wainscott’s ID.

  “How did you…?”

  “You should know.” He winked at Alex. “You’re not the only one with skilled hands.”

  Seventeen

  Randeep paced in front of the screens, watching the trade signals, ticking off each purchase of Swiss francs as JONAH automatically sent the orders to the futures exchange and they were completed.

  Bending to the keyboard, Randeep typed the shortcuts to bring up the Prince Alexander Capital accounts. He had spent over two billion dollars that morning, and it was having no effect on the price of the franc. The trades were not only not making a dent, they were effectively being swallowed by the markets.

  It was as if JONAH wasn’t in the markets at all.

  Randeep had underestimated the Swiss National Bank’s resolve. It was selling as many francs as Randeep was buying, and more. Perhaps it was willing to make unlimited trades to keep the currency below the 1.20 level.

  Randeep slammed a hand on the keyboard. “Impossible!”

  Running his hands through his hair, he stepped away from the computers. He needed a minute to breathe. He needed a moment to think. He walked to the glass wall at the front door and picked up his blue canvas backpack. Found the Nestlé chocolate bars.

  Swiss chocolate. Fitting.

  He stripped off a wrapper and ate half the bar in two chomps.

  Pacing around the half-circle control station, Randeep formulated a strategy. As the steps solidified in his mind, he let the trades play out in his imagination, visualizing his success, reveling in his genius. Not like Newton or da Vinci. More like Sachin Tendulkar seeing the cricket pitch and the players and all their positions on the field, visualizing the bat slapping the ball into the open space. Seeing the score hit the board.

  And just like that, within one minute, Randeep had organized the list, cross-weighing the rankings of the most influential with the wealthiest with the most trustworthy of his colleagues. He saw them make their trades. He saw the franc spike in value, breaking through the Swiss National Bank’s resistance level, forcing it into submission.

  He paused for a moment.

  Draganic would be infuriated if he discovered the plan. He’d made it clear that the trades needed to be discreet, that Prince Alexander needed to stay hidden this time around. But what Draganic didn’t understand was that there was an ocean of money sloshing back and forth throughout the markets these days. Heaves of movement no longer created opportunity at the fringes. No, this day and age had brought sloppiness and danger with the movements. Instead of traders picking off inefficiencies caused by the money ocean, they were being swallowed by it.

  But not Randeep. He would ensure that never happened. And this plan, as angry as it may make Draganic, was necessary. Randeep had to enlist financial heavyweights to help take on the Swiss National Bank.

  First on the list would be Paul Gott, Connecticut’s original hedge fund manager. Worth seventeen billion, he could pile onto this trade without mercy. Then Randeep would call Xin Cheng in Hong Kong, the animal FX trader for Shanghai Trust. The man had control of almost a trillion dollars in assets, if you included fixed income. Then Randeep’s double contact in Chicago, the Craig twins, owed him for his last tip to them, the mortgage trade that netted their derivatives fund almost four hundred million in profits. In a single day. Finally, he’d call Ivan. Awash in over thirty billion dollars of Russian oil assets, the man was struggling to put his money to work. This trade would solve that and make him a killing at the same time. Ivan would owe Randeep after this tip.

  All in, these five could source over one hundred billion dol
lars.

  Before leverage.

  Randeep settled back into his seat and slipped on the headset. He swallowed the last of the Nestlé bar. Then he started dialing.

  Bern, Switzerland

  The Federal Palace

  The seven members of the Swiss Federal Council entered the private meeting room in a single file. Paneled in dark walnut, with seven matching walnut desks and a maple floor, the room exuded the opulence one would expect for the presiding entity over Swiss government and affairs. The overhead lamps humming overhead was loudest noise in the room as the six heads of each federal department—nicknamed ministers—waited for Karl von Zeller to read the agenda.

  As president of the Federal Council, von Zeller was in charge of the weekly meetings but not the governing. There was no single president or prime minister in Switzerland. Members were elected to four-year terms by the Swiss Federal Assembly, and the council itself was the governing body.

  The minister of finance, Stefan Lory, anticipated a grilling of his recommended policies. The other five ministers sat silent, like a pack of lionesses waiting for the signal to feed.

  Von Zeller picked up the agenda from his desk, crumpled the single sheet of paper into a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket below. A significant physical statement in this non-confrontational state.

  All six ministers stared as it bounced within the metal can.

  Von Zeller raised his brows as he looked around. All three native languages of Switzerland were represented in the room—German, French, and Italian—so it was up to von Zeller to decide which one to use. To facilitate easy communication, he chose English, as usual. “We shall discuss the franc situation, yes?”

  Shifting in his seat, Lory said, “The intervention is still working.”