The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  The sight pushed her to rage, but Alex focused it. He couldn’t have killed him yet; that would make no sense. He’d have done that back at the house and then riddled the ceiling with bullets to kill Alex. No, he wanted Jack alive for some reason.

  Yet he kept coming. Fifty feet. Thirty.

  Alex downshifted to third and then second, and jerked the wheel to the left again, avoiding the Rover’s bumper by maybe a foot. The other SUV screamed past her and she kept veering until she made a wide arc, driving into the wet snowy field. She hammered the accelerator and pushed the engine as hard as it would go. All the way to sixth gear and a hundred and thirty kilometers per hour.

  She turned back toward Lockard and the Rover and steered the nose, directing it at the driver’s side.

  Fifty feet. Thirty feet. Ten.

  Holding the wheel with one hand and the hand stabilizer with the other, Alex slammed the front of the Porsche into the side of the Rover, sending both SUVs catapulting into the water and activating both vehicle’s airbags. Hers exploded from the steering wheel, a stiff, white, nylon pillow punching Alex in the face and deflating in under a second.

  The Rover launched upward and plowed into the far edge with the force of a tank, and the Porsche pounded into the stream’s bottom with a jarring crash and loud crack.

  Alex looked up to find the Rover jammed into the muddy bank, Lockard already flinging open the driver’s door.

  She slammed on the accelerator, intent on running the bastard over, but the back wheels just spun, sending a spray of water high into the snowfall and driving the limp Porsche deeper into the streambed. The SUV was all-wheel drive, but all the wheels were dead.

  Shaking his head as he walked toward Alex, Lockard took aim.

  Jack willed his eyes to open, his arms to move. His limbs felt heavy and numb, as if their circulation had been cut off in a poor sleeping position. Whatever Lockard had drugged him with was pulling him under. Edgar had warned Jack about this man, saying he was as ruthless as any Edgar’d ever met.

  Blinking and flopping his head to the side, Jack saw the driver-side door open, the airbags hanging limp from the doorframe, and a blurry vision of Lockard tromping into the water.

  This would be his last chance.

  Jack fumbled the phone from his pocket. The numbers on the keypad swirled and doubled, then tripled. He blinked hard. Focused. He had to enter the code.

  Staring at the keys with all the concentration he had left, Jack pressed the first number and the second and the third. He heard a gunshot, and another, and pressed the last two numbers with his eyes closed, hoping he’d hit the proper ones.

  Then the phone dropped from his grip and the world fell black.

  Ducking, Alex heard the bullets ricochet off the windshield. She turned her head to see three small dents in the glass. Nothing else. The glass was bulletproof; the vehicle was armored.

  Jack and Hanna were just full of surprises.

  Alex jerked the slide of her SIG, kicked open the passenger door, and took aim, but Lockard had already retreated and was climbing into the Rover as he yelled, “Tell your father I’ll trade.” He slipped inside.

  As Lockard pulled the Rover free of the bank, Alex stumbled through the freezing water, gun aimed at the driver’s side as she fired.

  Two chips off the back corner of the vehicle, but nothing more.

  The fucking Rover was armored, too.

  Water and mud sprayed from the back of the vehicle as the Rover climbed the bank in victory. In a matter of seconds, it disappeared over the lip, leaving Alex breathless and knee deep in the frigid water.

  She bent forward and looked under the front of the Porsche. The wheels lay in awkward positions, unconnected and unmoving. The front skid plate had dented, causing the axle to collide with a single boulder in the middle of the stream, breaking the axle and chipping the boulder. Moving the Porsche from the stream would be like trying to push a field plow through rocks.

  Standing there, still out of breath and somewhat dazed, Alex heard the trill of a phone ring. “What the hell?”

  She hurried back to the Porsche and peered under the driver’s seat. Nothing. Then the passenger side. There, strapped to the leather bottom, a small cell phone was plugged into an alternative power source. She unplugged it and checked the caller ID. Blocked. No surprise.

  Alex answered anyway. She expected to hear Lockard’s voice, demanding. Or maybe even Jack’s, begging. This was neither.

  “Alex,” her father said.

  And suddenly it all made sense. Jack, Edgar, Lockard. And the briefcase with the hand.

  Tell your father I’ll trade.

  “Where’s Jack?”

  Twenty-Six

  Walking along the stream, soaked and freezing in a wind that swept the icy snow sideways, Alex’s hands shook as she said, “Who is he, Dad? And who the fuck are you?”

  “Calm down.”

  “How did you even know to call me?” She glanced around, half-expecting to see Edgar peering at her from a distance.

  “Jack activated the kill code. It sends an SOS and destroys the phone.”

  “So he works for you? Through CIA, MI6…what?”

  “Officially? Neither. But yes, he was there to watch over you. For me.”

  Alex pushed through the thicket of brush and trees that she’d avoided a few minutes earlier, and stepped over the Porsche tracks leading into the stream.

  “Gee, Dad. I don’t know if I should feel heartened by that or offended.”

  “Darling…”

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare call me that. You gave up that right a long time ago.”

  He stayed quiet.

  She started walking again.

  “We need to get him back,” he finally said, “He’s valuable to me.”

  “It must feel like having the son you never had. The son you always wanted.”

  “Alex.”

  “Tell you what. He’s yours, he works for you, he’s loyal to you. So go find him yourself.” She hung up.

  Alex squeezed her eyes with a free hand, as her shoulder wound burned. She knew the jab at her father about feeling more attached to Jack than her was untrue. In reality, he didn’t care about either of them. All but void of emotion, the man spoke of Jack as if he were an object, something that belonged to him. A mere item on a balance sheet. If removed, if abandoned, it would simply free up space for other ventures, different assets, new interests. The man was not tied to anything in this world but himself.

  A serial narcissist to the end.

  That meant Alex was all on her own for this one. Again.

  Standing there, in the wet, cold air, Alex shook with a mix of anger and frustration. She’d allowed herself to let emotions interfere with judgment. Only a fool would have ignored the clues that Jack was more than he’d claimed. Like a silly schoolgirl, though, she’d allowed herself to believe he really liked her. For what? Her bristling personality and propensity to keep everyone at arms-length? Oh yes, she was about as charming as an injured bobcat.

  Alex laughed sarcastically and the chalk stream trickled coldly in reply.

  She stood still for a few moments, both hands on her hips, staring up at the shreds of snow leaking from the grey clouds like nuclear fallout. And then she remembered. Jack said he had found something in the freezer a few minutes ago. It probably wasn’t more money; that would not have produced a reaction like that. You ought to have a look at this.

  Was it the hand?

  She trudged through the thick, frozen grass and, stopping at the barn, she peered inside. The walls were lined with various tools for gardening and house maintenance, nothing electric. Quite a contrast to what sat in the center of the dusty concrete floor. Black cobalt, sleek, and looking brand-new. She’d never even seen one before.

  The Mansory BMW 760Li. “Freakin’ land-jet.”

  Not exactly low profile, she added silently, but at least she had a ride back to the city.

  Returning to the house,
Alex entered where Jack had broken the back door and headed straight to the kitchen where she pulled the cold SIG from the small of her back and placed it on the table next to the package he’d found.

  It wasn’t a briefcase, and there was no hand.

  The thick wrap of tin foil was thoroughly wrinkled and torn at the edges, as though it had been opened and re-closed many times. The package lay peeled open now, and the contents—dozens of photographs; color, black-and-white, large and small—spilled over the sides.

  Alex in high school, being handed a blue and yellow jacket by the track coach after being named as a member of the varsity team. In a cap and gown, walking across the stage at high school graduation. With Ginger, unloading a few suitcases and a trunk in front of a dormitory, her first day at Yale. Four years later, another cap and gown. Alex’s graduation at Langley, no ceremony, but a sit-down meeting in the office of the DDO—deputy director of operations—now known as the director of the National Clandestine Service, or DNCS. This photo looked to have been taken through the office’s windows. How the hell did he get that shot? And lastly, Alex dressed in a wetsuit during training with the Talonstrike class. This was taken from out in the Pacific somewhere, with the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado in the background.

  Alex stood still, numb, wondering about the man who’d chosen the life of secrecy and travel over a lifetime with his daughter. Gritting her teeth, she shook her head, though she was alone in the room. He’d abandoned her, no other way to put it.

  But as she stood there, staring at the moments before her, a small wave of comprehension moved through her. Like a curator trying to extrapolate and interpret an artist’s message, it was impossible to do with just one piece of work, from one angle of view. She needed to pull back, see the gallery of works, the layers of individual interpretations and conveyances of the artist. The mere existence of these photos forced her to see more than before. Allowed her to see the whole of it and not just the part that she’d been obsessing over: herself.

  In that moment, in some strange way, she understood why he’d done it. Was it reasonable to expect the super spy to switch to a desk position just because he had a kid? Leave the field and become an operator? Or what, leave the Company altogether, work nine-to-five somewhere? Please.

  Alex herself had vowed never to be faced with the same choice herself.

  As she placed the photos in a neat pile at the center of the wrinkled foil, tucking the memories back away, she spotted one last photo. Different, more recent, and one that raised a new set of questions. Alex was leaning up and kissing a man good-bye at the airport in Geneva. He was tall, broad of shoulder, with short blond hair, striking in jeans and that charcoal Harrington jacket.

  She took the photo and stared at it for a while, wondering who Jack really was. Why Edgar had used him to watch over her. Whoever he was, Jack was the real deal. He was as good as either one of them.

  And he was in deep trouble.

  Alex drew the cell phone from her pocket and held it out for a moment. Then she pressed the numbers and waited.

  Her father answered on the second ring.

  Alex said, “Where do we meet?”

  Twenty-Seven

  Bern, Switzerland

  Swiss Federal Council President Karl von Zeller stood before his window and stared at the snow-dusted cobblestones below. Many people braved the cold this time of year, running from shop to shop, buying trinkets and perfumes, perhaps even jewelry. Definitely toys.

  Zeller turned to the minister of finance, Stefan Lory, who was seated in a tall leather-backed chair, legs crossed, hands resting on a folder in his lap. Seemingly at ease.

  Not for long.

  Zeller asked in German, “Have you finished your Christkind shopping? The children all ready for baby Jesus?”

  “Mostly,” Lory answered. “But my twins want the latest gaming system for the television. A Nintendo or X-something. I don’t know. They’re impossible to find.”

  “Yes, yes. I remember those days. Except my boys wanted a Rubik’s cube. They were sold out, across the city, the whole country. And this was before that wonderful eBay.” He smiled. “But you can always count on ringli in my house.” He loved those huge doughnuts his wife made each year. The savory sweet taste of potatoes and honey.

  Lory nodded without emotion. He was clearly on edge, despite his relaxed posture.

  Von Zeller switched to French, a tactic to put the other man at ease, show him von Zeller was working with Geneva’s interest on this one. “And how is Mrs. Lory? Enjoying life as the finance minister’s wife?”

  “It is more stressful than either of us expected.”

  “Ah, yes.” Von Zeller squeezed under a low-hanging painting of himself and sat down, pulling his chair to the desk. “With responsibility comes pressure.”

  Lory stayed quiet, and von Zeller decided to get right to it.

  “Do you have the reports?”

  Lory held up the folder. “I do.” He handed them to von Zeller.

  “Don’t make me read all this. Just give me the highlights…or lowlights, as they may be.”

  Lory said, “The program has accelerated. The Treasury is struggling to keep up.”

  “How bad?”

  “We’ve spent thirty-seven billion so far.” Lory glanced away. “This week.”

  Von Zeller sat stunned. “The Serbian Whale?”

  “It seems he has a syndicate, a consortium of players. Hedge funds, I’d say, with deep pockets.”

  “How deep?”

  “Our estimates say they could have borrowing power of up to a trillion francs.”

  Von Zeller placed a hand to his forehead and fell back into his chair with all his weight, causing it to roll backward a foot. “That could break us.”

  “It could.”

  “It would be Black Wednesday all over again. Except the British would be the ones laughing to the bank on this one.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “How?” Von Zeller tightened his brow.

  “We don’t have to act. We just need to threaten action, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  “The Euro.” Lory was stoic, staring back at von Zeller, taking a good three seconds between blinks.

  Von Zeller sat forward. “Are you suggesting we say that we are joining the European Union? Abandoning our own currency? They would have our heads!”

  “Not joining, of course not. That is ridiculous.”

  “Then what?”

  “Considering.”

  Von Zeller pushed from the desk, the chair rolling back and smacking the bottom of the painting. “It is our duty to consider all options.”

  “That is all we have to say.”

  “And what, the consortium backs down? They walk away from the trades?”

  “The bulk of the trades were made through options.”

  Von Zeller slapped the desk and said, “They’ll expire!”

  “Worthless.”

  Von Zeller felt the flush of a smile burn into his face. If Lory weren’t a man, he would kiss him.

  Instead, he rounded the desk and slapped the man’s shoulder, a hearty thump. “Arrange a press conference. Right here at Bundeshaus.” The Federal Palace. “That will get people’s attention before the announcement. Then, Stefan, I would start looking for a new house. A larger one.”

  “Why’s that?” Lory asked.

  “Because, my dear friend, with your genius…” Von Zeller slapped his hands together and then held them wide. “You will be president one day.”

  Randeep refreshed the screens, which showed the chart of that day’s move in the Swiss franc.

  Brilliant.

  Not only had he stemmed the losses from earlier, but with several key phone calls, he’d turned the entire market. All in mere hours. It was like that within his circle of colleagues. People thought hedge funds were some sort of fellowship or brotherhood, something born out of the Ivy League like Skull and Bones, but that wasn’
t quite true. Hedge funds were the purest of meritocracies in the working world. Each hedge fund’s allegiance was to itself. Eat what you kill.

  Yet hedge-fund managers were also the smartest investors in the world, and they knew that power came with size, and that working together could often be the difference between a successful trade and a failure.

  The self-allegiance becomes an alliance.

  Still, the franc had not moved as much as Randeep had anticipated. It needed to rise another three percent for most of his trades to be in the money. He expected the momentum to build and the trades to work, but he may have to give the market a push at the end of the day.

  Randeep tapped the keyboard again. He had a choice to make. Because the futures and options would expire in two days, the leverage he’d assumed—the loans he’d taken on the cash in the bank—would be outstanding for less than seventy-two hours. A lot of money, but not a long time.

  He could stomach even more.

  Staring at the price on the screen, Randeep took a deep breath. What was another billion? When his colleagues saw the trade print, they would follow. He was sure of it. In twelve more hours, they would break the Swiss National Bank.

  He pressed the button and made the trade.

  Ten seconds later, he saw the announcement.

  Sitting in the corner of Le Bar du Grill of the Gstaad Palace Hotel, Draganic waved the white-coated waiter to him and ordered a Russian Standard Imperia martini, straight up, three olives.

  “I apologize, but we do not carry Russian Standard.” The waiter gave a smirky frown with his perfect English. “Perhaps Belvedere or Chopin would do?”

  “Give me Belvedere.” Draganic waved the man away.

  The drink took almost five minutes to serve, ridiculous considering Draganic was one of only three other customers that morning. He took a sip—it tasted as boring as ice water, no bite at all—just as Greta Muller arrived.