The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  “It’s perfect,” Alex said, choosing some pencils from her satchel and then settling onto the stool across from a wall of edge-to-edge Polaroids of fishermen proudly posing with catch. She closed her eyes and began to block out the sights and sounds around her, replacing them with the stimuli of that day—the last time she went fishing with her father. The process was easier than it otherwise may have been since she’d already created the drawing so many times, even with Rebecca the complete stranger standing behind as Alex worked her pencil across the page.

  The first lines, the most daring and sweeping, flowed from her like simple sentences, long and curving and fluid, just like the chalk stream they would soon represent. Alex remembered the emotion of her father’s words, his hand on her shoulder, the sparkle of the water’s surface, and the glitter of the trout below. The blue-gray sky stretched to the horizon behind the fields, and the small stone bridge joining the two sides. The scent of the tall grass mixed with wildflowers and the rust, the aging metal of the waterwheel at the side of the mill.

  She couldn’t smell rust that day, but the image—the imprint burned into her mind—gave Alex the lasting memory of the feeling of the wheel, the shape of the curve in the bank, the smell of the tall grass along it, and the water. The clear, cold water of the chalk stream.

  The mill, with a steep-pitched roof and walls of aged red brick, stretched along the stream’s edge. Almost out of place in such a calm and peaceful setting, the building emerged from the grass as a solid structure, one that could not be negotiated, one that would always remain at the stream’s edge. Yet the bridge, made of brick and cement, had forfeited the fight to span the water in one solid piece, and had crumbled in spots where it met the stream, leaving hiding places—small nooks for grass animals, and larger underwater caves for trout.

  The clouds stretched above in gray smoke, hiding a good portion of the sun and keeping the water cool from the midday burn. The shadows on all the structures, all the shapes, all the images remained soft and true to the muted light.

  “My goodness.” Rebecca stirred Alex from her drawing trance. “You are quite a talent.”

  Studying the work, Alex decided she was almost finished. Just a few more details. Not photographic quality, but close enough for today.

  Jack stood above and behind her still, and Alex could feel him studying the image, studying her perhaps.

  Rebecca walked behind and leaned into the page. She stared hard at the drawing. Then she turned her head and stared into Alex’s eyes. “Truly amazing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you a prodigy?”

  Jack said, “I assure you, she’s not.”

  Alex elbowed him in the gut.

  Rebecca snapped her fingers, sending the fly stuck in her thumb high into the air and then onto the floor. “Blimey, that’s the Century Mill off the River Kennet in Marlborough. A historic landmark.”

  “This drawing looks more of a stream,” Jack said.

  Rebecca said, “The Kennet’s considered a river, but it’s hardly rushing. Wide, yes, but more of a trickler, really.”

  Alex said, “Do you know where it is?”

  “Of course, but it’s off the path, love. A good bit west of here.” She gestured for the pencil, and then began jotting down the directions. Alex rose and stretched, and wandered to the wall of Polaroids while she waited. There must have been over a hundred of them, but she scanned each one quickly, for the hell of it. After a few minutes, she’d been through all of them with no luck.

  Of course he wouldn’t allow his photograph to be hanging in a store. Or anywhere else for that matter.

  She said, “Rebecca, is this the most popular shop for fly fishermen in the city?”

  Rebecca smiled, “Not to bluster about, but it’s known as the enthusiasts shop. People come from all over the UK to visit. Men and women alike.”

  “Do they?” Alex pulled the sketchbook out and flipped it open to the drawing she’d made of Edgar’s three-quarter profile the night of the bombing. Pointing to the sketch, she said, “Tell me. Has this man even been in?”

  “Of course! That’s old … well, I don’t know his name, but he’s been in the shop numerous times. Though it has been a while.”

  “Really?” To hide her nerves, Alex bent down to pick up the nymph that had fallen from Rebecca’s thumb, and said, “Has he been in recently, by chance?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Rebecca nodded a thanks to Alex as she handed it to her. “But I remember him because he always paid cash. I admire that in a person.”

  No chance of snagging an alias from the credit card records, then. “Did he say where he lived, or maybe where he liked to fish?”

  “Not that I recall, no. But I reckon he was looking for fly patterns that would work west of here. Why?”

  West. Like the River Kennet.

  “Because in that case…” Alex turned back to Jack, who was already nodding to her as she said, “We’re going to need Hanna’s car again.”

  Nineteen

  “This man,” Natasha Draganic said, her hand shaking cigarette ash onto the floor while she circled the living room of the two-bedroom villa. Dragging on the last of the butt, she flicked it out the door toward the powdered white sand and endless blue ocean.

  She turned and picked up the case of Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes. They came in five different colors and with a gold band on each of them, but none fit her mood. She chose red—it was the closest she could get—lit up, and took a long suck.

  Better.

  At least there was Swastikman, she thought, as its club hit “Basstards” vibrated from the bedroom sound system.

  The violent electronica matched her state perfectly.

  “This man.”

  She picked up her phone and stared at the image one more time. Zoran, his head tilted in a way that showed that hideous scar, and the child-stewardess naked in his lap. Her face was contorted in a twisted show of pleasure with her arm outstretched.

  A god-damned selfie.

  Natasha flung the phone across the room, where it got tangled in the mosquito netting of the poster bed and slid to the floor. She picked up the sweating Mai Tai from the sideboard and downed the last of it.

  What a basstard.

  She wondered how the man who had forwarded it to Natasha had tricked the stewardess into giving him the image. And why he had sent it on to Natasha. He claimed to be a partner of Zoran’s, someone who could help her get what she wanted, if she would help him.

  Perhaps he just wanted to fuck Natasha. Didn’t they all?

  So maybe she would do that to get back at Zoran. Plus, she appreciated the gesture and needed to pay the man back accordingly. After all, with this photograph, Natasha could get quite a nice settlement from a divorce court in Switzerland.

  It would make him pay for the grievance.

  Taking a drag from the Sobranie, Natasha picked up the phone. She rang for her appointed butler. It took almost seven minutes for the lazy island man to find his way to the villa. And he was sweating when he arrived.

  She opened the door a little wider than a crack, and appraised him fully. Tall, dark and shiny skin, healthy, an attractive smile. Perhaps a little young, but she wouldn’t ask about that.

  Studying his jacket, she said, “Where is it you are coming from…Ano?”

  “From?” His eyes widened.

  “Your country.”

  “Oh.” He smiled with a bright white grin. “Mo’orea, Ms. Draganic.”

  “I am Natasha, please.”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where is this Mo’orea?” She looked him over again, this time tilting her head when she got to his groin.

  Shifting his feet, he said, “It is near Bora Bora.”

  “Mmm…” She licked her lips, feeling the first of the Mai Tai’s effects. “Perhaps I should…see this soon, yes?” She blinked up at him.

  If his skin could show it, Natasha would have guessed he’d blushed.
>
  “Mrs…Natasha…I should tell you that there is no smoking in these villas. There will be a charge for this.”

  “I don’t care.” She waved a hand, then extinguished the butt in an empty glass.

  “Are you ready for these?” He held up the tray with two more Mai Tais.

  “Of course. Please, I am being rude. Come.” She opened the door wide, and let her robe fall open just enough as he passed her for him to get a good look between her breasts. After spending the day at the pool yesterday, she’d decided her breasts were the finest set on the whole resort. Even better than those belonging to the American actress staying in the neighboring villa.

  Turning to watch him pass, Natasha bent her head a bit to check out his ass in those white trousers. Yes. Unlike the troll she was married to, this man stayed in shape. Very good shape. She could imagine bending over for this man.

  She shut the door.

  Smiling back at her, Ano placed the drinks on the table and glanced at the bedroom as he handed her the folder with the tab. Perhaps the music was not to his taste.

  “Why is it you are rushing? Sit for a moment, please, I beg of you…” She checked the name tag again. “Ano?”

  “I really must—”

  “You are seeing me for two days now. I am no stranger. Do you not like me?”

  “You’re very nice, Mrs. Natasha. Yes.”

  “And I ordered two drinks. This is for reason.” She walked a few steps and stood before him. “Plus, you are my butler, and I insist you are staying with me for a while. Just a little while, yes?”

  Sensing his urgency to flee, Natasha knew she had to pin him with an offer he couldn’t refuse. In other words, give him a taste of what would come, so to speak, if he did stay with her. She turned to pick up her drink, and let her wrist and hand brush against the front of his trousers.

  To her pleasure, she found his interest in her had begun to solidify.

  He glanced at the door.

  She picked up the drink and held it high to him.

  He tilted his head. “Mrs. Natasha.”

  “Please. No more of this Mrs. On this island, I am not married, da?”

  Natasha’s phone buzzed on the table, making the second drink vibrate, its sweat pooling to the bottom of the glass.

  She read the caller ID. It was him, Zoran’s partner.

  Ano, thinking he was saved by the bell, made a move to leave.

  But Natasha caught his wrist and said, “Please, one moment. I must answer this.” She pulled him to the chair in the corner of the villa and urged him into the seat.

  “Natasha,” she answered.

  Ano looked uncomfortable.

  The partner said, “Are you ready to make a deal?”

  “More than ready,” she said, easing down to her knees before Ano. “What is it you are needing?” She licked her lips and stared at the beautiful black man before her as she said it. He looked away as she placed one hand on his belt buckle. She took that as a yes.

  The partner said, “I’ll need the use of Zoran’s jet.”

  “This will not be a problem,” she said, Ano arching as she freed him from restriction. “When will you be…riding it?”

  “In two days, three at most. I will let you know.”

  Natasha’s mouth watered when she saw the sheer size of Ano as he grew to her touch. He must have been twice as large as her husband. “Perfect,” she said.

  “You’ll want to help me with one other minor thing.”

  “More? I’m not sure I can do any more than this.” Her mind had become clouded for a moment and she fought to focus again. Ano had pushed deeper into the seat and his eyes were closed. Natasha stood and slid her panties down.

  “I am sending you a new phone for Zoran. This will help record conversations he is having with these women. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” She turned, widened her stance, and eased back until Ano’s large hands were on her hips to guide her. “He will be in Gstaad tomorrow. There, I will do this thing.”

  “Good.”

  Natasha waited a moment, her eyes sleepy with anticipation of Ano. She said, almost slurring, “Maybe I can join you on the jet, yes?” then glanced back at Ano. “We could have some fun.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” the partner said.

  “Yes,” she answered, easing herself onto Ano, and dropping the phone to the floor.

  You most certainly will.

  Twenty

  They bought Alex a new disposable phone to replace the phone she’d used with Wainscott. Alex bent that phone’s SIM card in half, crushed the phone’s body under a boot heel, and tossed it in three separate trash bins. Then they returned to Hanna’s.

  “I have a couple of calls to make before we leave,” she told Jack.

  Smart enough to know she was asking for space, Jack muttered an excuse about needing to call into work himself, and disappeared into the home office in the back of Hanna’s flat.

  After changing her shirt, Alex dialed the number to Legoland and asked for Denise, an MI6 counterpart who had worked multiple cases with her on this side of the pond and could be trusted. Maintaining a strong network of female relationships in this business had proven beneficial in her young career, and helped offset some of the Boy’s Club attitude that was prevalent in certain divisions of the agencies.

  No surprise that Denise sounded happy to hear from her.

  Alex gave her the quick rundown of her blackout situation with the Company. “I’d appreciate your discreteness on this one.”

  “Seems to me I owe you for that little tip you’d given me in Copenhagen last year. What do you need?”

  “A check on major cash purchases in the UK over the last ten years—houses, cars, land. The purchaser will be Caucasian, mid-fifties, and a UK resident. See if you can isolate or track the purchases back to the Marlborough area specifically.”

  “What are we looking at here, a launderer? A drug op?”

  “It’s more like a…rogue agent.”

  “Bloody hell, Alex, I’m sorry I asked. One of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll keep it on the down low all around, then,” she said. “Give me a bit and I’ll ring you back. Until then, keep smart.”

  And toasty, Alex thought, as she hung up.

  Twenty-One

  When they’d arrived at the townhouse, Jack told Alex he needed to make a phone call to work, explain that he would be out for the rest of the week and back after Christmas.

  With no reason to expect otherwise, she bought it.

  Jack peeked back into the living area once more before closing the office door to be sure Alex was occupied. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

  Yet when he caught sight of her, he let his gaze linger, watching Alex’s movements as she changed her shirt. Even without knowing he was watching, she moved with the fluid efficiency of a leopard. Pair that with the analytical intelligence and that insane drawing ability and you had the makings of a Renaissance woman. Perfectly imperfect.

  Jack took a deep breath, eased the door closed, and bolted it.

  “Pull it together, lad,” he muttered to himself. If he didn’t his employer might yank him back off the case. Jack retrieved the cell phone from his pocket, considered his options for a moment, and then exhaled as he dialed the number.

  A man answered in the middle of the second ring. “Yes?”

  “She’s even better than we expected.”

  “I was afraid of that.” The man clicked his tongue. “And now?”

  “We’re in the nest, but you should know—there was an incident yesterday.”

  “I heard. How bad?”

  “Not that, Hanna fixed her all up. But then we had a run-in, evening last. The man escaped.”

  “Who?”

  “No idea.” He peeled back the rug to expose the floor safe. “I’ll see if I can get her to draw a sketch.”

  “Yes, do that.” He paused for a while and then said, “Can you
stay at Hanna’s?”

  Jack placed his fingertips to the biosensory lock guarding the weapons beneath. “Doubtful. She’s quite determined.”

  “Fine.” For a moment, Jack thought he heard a smile through the response. “Then let’s see how far she gets.”

  And Edgar hung up.

  Lockard sat in the tan Range Rover, parked in a street space around the corner from Hereford Square with a clear view of the front of the building between the trees. Edgar wouldn’t likely just stroll up to the front gate, so Lockard had pointed a simple surveillance device at the underground garage in the back of the townhouse. The device broadcast images, twenty-two per second, to a similarly modified smartphone in his hand.

  Having sat in the cold for almost five hours—couldn’t have a car running in this weather, its exhaust too obvious, and had to keep the windows cracked open to prevent them from fogging up—Lockard had spied no activity in the house all day. Drinking a thick, green protein shake, he held the binoculars steady, then glanced at the screen. He drained the drink, looked again, and froze.

  Two people, a man in a faded black jacket and a woman in a long overcoat, had stopped at the front gate. The man, as blond and handsome as an Aryan son, looked mildly familiar but Lockard couldn’t place him without better seeing his face. The woman, however, was none other than Alex Winter, the woman he’d fought the other night.

  So Alex had joined Edgar’s little operation. Interesting, though not shocking. The Aryan man was likely Edgar’s go-between, taking her in from the exposure of the last few days.

  Smart operator, that Edgar.

  But now Lockard had a dilemma. Should he enter the house, layout unknown, and try to take on the two, possibly three, of them? Or he could wait. His gut told him Edgar wasn’t there yet, and if they were there for a meet, Lockard could take him before he ever entered the house. Because, though he’d like to see this Aryan man up close, Edgar was who Lockard really needed.

  Fuck it. He’d waited long enough. The snow was increasing, decreasing the probability of Edgar traveling the streets by foot, anyway. Besides, he wanted a closer look at Alex Winter, the adult, too. One without her fists or feet in his face.