The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  Pausing at the high backed chair next to him, she scowled. “I thought we were having tea.”

  “I needed something stronger today. Perhaps you do, too.”

  “I’m the minister of foreign affairs. I can’t be seen drinking alcohol during council hours, and certainly not with the likes of you.”

  Draganic took a long drink of the martini, held it in his mouth for a few seconds, swallowed, and then glared up at her. “Sit.”

  She stared back, then with tight lips, she glanced around and sat. “I’m not staying.”

  Ignoring that, he said, “You were supposed to feed me information on the program. That is what I am paying you for.”

  She whispered, “Keep your money. I don’t want it anymore. It has become too risky.”

  “Tell me about the Swiss Federal Council’s announcement planned for tomorrow.”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “You are crossing the line here.”

  Draganic tapped the metal of the Sea Shark blade that was sheathed against his hip. “Is it about the Swiss franc intervention?”

  “I’m not playing this game.”

  He stopped tapping and snarled, “I’ve already wired the money to your account, and I have clear records of the transaction…start to finish. What we are playing, minister, is not a game.”

  Greta stared back, contemplating her situation, and finding no solution. Once inside, there was no way out of Draganic’s den.

  The waiter approached again and asked Greta if she wanted a beverage as well.

  “Get her one of these.” Draganic pointed at his martini.

  “No, no!” Greta said. “Just…bring me breakfast tea, please.”

  “Very well.” The waiter nodded and strode off.

  Greta crossed her arms and looked away. “I told you it is foolish to take on the Swiss government.”

  “Stop with the lecture and tell me what the hell is going on in Bern!”

  She hissed. “They are fighting dirty. They will crush you.”

  “How?”

  “Think, Zoran. What would wipe out the gains in the Swiss franc in one minute? A single stupid proposal by a reckless president and an eager finance minister?”

  Draganic fell back in his seat, stared at the crystal chandelier above the bar. He imagined the chain snapping and the chandelier crashing down. Shards of glass exploding onto this woman’s head.

  He shook his. “They wouldn’t.”

  “They are!”

  “The people would never allow it. The mere thought is absurd.”

  “They don’t have to join. They only have to say they are thinking about it.”

  Draganic traced the thick scar up his neck and to his ear, then pulled his hand away. “Then you will stop the announcement.”

  “This is not possible. It is already set for tomorrow at the Federal Palace, three p.m. There is no stopping it.”

  Tempted to stab the useless hag in the face, Draganic stood. “Find a way.”

  He exited the hotel and climbed into his BMW. Now, his own foot soldier had double-crossed him, his inside source at the Council had failed him, and his currency genius was set to fuck him good. Because of Randeep’s idea—one that would enable the greedy little man to have his own payday—Draganic was to be left with nothing.

  Taking one, long and deep breath, he drew out his cell phone and dialed the number to the trading floor.

  Randeep picked up on the first ring. “I know, Zoran. I am trying to unwind them, but nobody will take the other side! They know about the announcement, and the currency has already fallen below our strike. What do you want me to do?”

  “Pachai. I am going to tell you a story.”

  “Zoran, I—”

  “Shut up and listen.”

  The line went quiet.

  “I once accepted unique payment for a special financial service I provided a man in the northern hills of what is now known as Macedonia. He did not have cash money, but he had other assets. Three daughters, aged eleven to fourteen.”

  Randeep sighed and Draganic continued, “The smallest of them was too young, even for me. So I accepted the middle child. She was old enough to know certain things, how to do them. With proper instruction, how to do them well.”

  “Zoran, this is not—”

  “This good man showed me to the girl’s bedroom, he put her to her knees, and he shut the door as he left.”

  “Being a patient man myself, I removed my jacket and gave the girl detailed instruction. I told her exactly what to do and how. I let her know that if she performed well that her father would earn great rewards. And in turn, so would she.”

  Randeep gulped audibly.

  Draganic continued, “Truth be told, she was surprisingly proficient in her service. It was clear I was not her first. In fact, she was to be one of the best payments I had ever received. But then she did a thing that not only spoiled the release, but it ruined the entire experience.”

  Draganic sat quiet, waited for Pachai to ask. They always did. He said, in a sullen but curious voice, “What did she do, Zoran?”

  Draganic said, “At the moment of ejaculation, she tightened her mouth and pinched the shaft so hard that I fell off the bed. Then, not only did she spit my seed out, she dumped it onto my brand new suit jacket.”

  Pachai coughed, though it almost sounded like a laugh.

  Draganic said, “She apologized, but the damage was done. I took her hand, dragged her back down the hallway and told her father of the horror of her actions. The humiliation she had caused him.”

  “This good man asked what he needed to do to set things right for us and I gave him two clear options. One would be financial ruin for his family. Then I unsheathed my blade and handed it to the man. Gave him a single nod, as he would know what to do next. The girl, screaming and begging as he poured a full inch of cooking oil into the iron skillet. After turning the gas on high, he commanded her two sisters to hold her arm steady on the butcher block. Lucky for the girl, I keep a sharp knife.”

  Randeep remained quiet, and Draganic thought he heard him gag.

  He continued, “A single slice removed the disobedient thumb. Right through the soft flesh and cartilage of the joint. The father, being a compassionate man, immediately cauterized the wound in the smoking oil and saved the rest of the girl’s hand. But she would never pinch another man in that place again. Do you see?”

  Randeep vomited on the other end of the line.

  When he was through, Draganic said, “Pachai?”

  The man coughed and then he came back onto the line. “Yes, Zoran.”

  “I tell you this story for two reasons. First, don’t ever pinch me.”

  “Yes, Zoran.”

  “And second, because if you do, it won’t be your thumb that succumbs to the blade.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Jack woke feeling cold and sluggish, a migraine throbbing from the base of his skull all the way to his face. He felt sharp pains in his wrists and ankles, and realized his arms were pulled above his head. His legs, too, were spread wide with restraints, and he lay naked in a cold pool of water within a cast iron bathtub.

  Evan Lockard stood over the tub, staring into Jack’s eyes. He had a cut across his nose that was scabbing over, making him look like a boxer after a solid bout.

  “There we are,” he said. “That’s a good boy. Wake up.”

  The words echoed off the tall ceiling of the small bathroom. No windows, so Jack guessed it was at the center of the house or apartment—wherever he was—well insulated from sounds echoing into other flats or apartments.

  Lockard, the stalker-agent from Tangier. The same bloody psychotic bastard who had followed Winter for nearly a mile before she’d shaken him off. The madman was so brazen that he’d tipped off Alex to his presence before she’d even left the bar. It’d also forced Jack to take the most aggressive of approaches and actually meet Alex during her next operation. After that night in Tangier, she’d become hyper-aware of an
yone within a thousand feet of her. No way Jack could stay in those shadows for long. It’d pissed off Edgar, but he got over it, requesting only that Jack keep his feelings in check on the assignment.

  Something he’d been unable to do.

  And now here was psycho-macho-SEAL boy Lockard, and the bastard was smiling.

  Lockard said, “I’ve administered a dose of Flumazenil. It is a benzodiazepine receptor antagonist. An antidote to what you received before.” He tilted his head from side to side. “This will wake you for a bit, but when it wears off, you’ll go back to sleep. And I can do whatever I like to you again.”

  He leaned close to Jack’s face and said, “So I suggest you cooperate.”

  Jack tried to gather enough saliva to respond, but his throat and mouth were kiln dry. He pulled at the restraints, but with his wrists wrapped tight in thick black nylon straps, his fingers were already purple.

  Lockard followed his gaze. He said, “I’ll loosen those after you help me.”

  “Fuck off,” he managed.

  “I’m not that kind of boy.” He tilted his head to look between Jack’s legs. His ankles were held out of the water and anchored to the tub’s feet, forcing his hips to tilt up. “But I might make an exception for such a specimen.”

  Jack tightened his jaw but stayed quiet.

  “Yes, maybe later. But first.” Lockard held up a device. Jack’s phone.

  He turned it in his hand as he said, “You’ve made it difficult for both of us, see? When you destroyed this.”

  Jack stared straight ahead. Destroying the phone was simple protocol for an agent in his situation. He had to close all avenues, erase any information that could lead to Edgar. Lockard would threaten Jack, but he knew that torture was an ineffective way to get information from someone, as the subject often gave up any answer, even a wrong one, to make the pain stop. So the most effective way to get the right answer was to use the threat of torture instead. Bend the subject just enough. Make the person just uncomfortable enough. Give the captive just enough pain.

  “You are in a very bad position, Jack.”

  “I see.” Jack glanced around. “It’s not exactly The Dorchester, is it?”

  Lockard frowned and looked from wall to wall. “It serves its purpose.”

  “What purpose is that?”

  “Well that depends on you, doesn’t it? Your attitude.”

  Jack continued staring straight ahead. It was coming, the threat. Maybe some pain. The start of it, anyway.

  “All you need to do is tell me where Edgar is.”

  “I’ve no idea,” Jack said in a flat voice.

  “Tough boy. Or should I say man?” He circled the tub, stopped, and leaned down to whisper in Jack’s ear, “Either way, you are a beautiful one.”

  Jack turned away slightly and then slammed the side of his head into Lockard’s cheek.

  Lockard stumbled back and then darted forward like a cobra and struck Jack with the back of a hand across the mouth.

  Jack felt the trickle of blood form at the corner of his lips.

  “Bad little boy,” Lockard said, then he smiled.

  “You like that, role-play? Or perhaps you like real schoolboys.”

  “I’ll like it better if you tell me what I want to know.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know.”

  “Then where is the briefcase?”

  “You’re a fool if you think Edgar would tell anyone.”

  “He would tell you.” The snarl turned into a growl.

  Jack gave his best shrug within the restraints.

  “Have it your way.” Lockard tossed the phone into the tub. It swirled then clanked at the bottom.

  He walked forward and loosened the lead above Jack’s head. This gave him a longer tether, but Jack’s hands remained cuffed tight by the nylon.

  Jack sat forward, gathering his energy as fast as he could, readying to dig his fingers into Lockard’s eye sockets the moment he got near enough.

  But the man took three quick strides to the end of the tub and grabbed Jack’s ankles. And now Jack knew why he’d lengthened the tether.

  Lockard said, “This little technique is called The Slide. And I’m proud to say that I invented it.” He yanked Jack’s feet toward him, pulling his hips out of the water and his head into it.

  Jack gasped for a single breath before he went under, and took in half a mouthful of water.

  Jack pulled at the tether on his wrists. He tried to fight him, haul himself back up and out of the water, but Lockard was too strong and with both feet anchored against the tub, his entire weight leaned back, Lockard had all the leverage. He pulled Jack further under.

  Eyes bulging and lungs tightening, a rush of blood surged through Jack, making him lightheaded. He willed himself not to breathe, not to give in. Then, unable to take any more, he pulled with his arms as hard as he could, forcing his head up and mouth out of the water. Fighting for a single breath.

  He took a gulp of air, and Lockard yanked him under again.

  This was no threat. A single breath underwater would fill Jack’s lungs. Another would drown him. The son of a bitch would kill him.

  No.

  Jack pulled back against him, but Lockard wouldn’t give. Jack’s elbows banged against the tub, echoing in the water.

  He fought back as hard as he could, pulling as the nylon dug into his wrists, so hard that he risked dislocating a hand. Still, Lockard didn’t move an inch. Jack thrashed and pulled and yanked and willed himself.

  Do not breathe.

  Jack’s vision blurred and the light above squeezed into a pinpoint and then blackness as he lost the last gasp, the last energy, the last ounce of oxygen in his lungs. His chest tightened and the needles spread from his feet and hands up his legs and down his arms and across his torso and numbed him. He had nothing, no more. He needed another breath. One more.

  So he fought for it.

  Jack pulled and yanked and thrashed, hauling himself against the weight and force of Lockard, and just as he was about to give, Lockard dropped Jack’s feet.

  Jack raised his head above the water and gasped for air. He coughed and sucked water into his mouth and nose as he breathed. He found the oxygen. He gave his body life again.

  Lockard circled the tub and stopped above Jack. Palming the top of his head, he pushed Jack back under again. Lockard gripped Jack’s hair and held him down as Jack pushed back and yelled underwater. Lockard yanked his head back out and he breathed, and he thrust Jack back under, yelling back at him, “You will submit!”

  Out of the water. Thrust back below. Out of the water.

  “You will submit to me!”

  Out of the water and back below.

  “You will submit!”

  And then he dropped Jack’s head, banging it against the side of the iron tub. He reached between Jack’s legs, into the water, and groped deeper until he pulled the plug, draining the tub in glug glug glugs, as Jack gasped and leaned backward. Away from Lockard and into the empty cold air.

  Shivering, exhausted, Jack watched as Lockard pull the straps of his arms tight again, and left him there, in the cold tub. As he walked out the door, he said, “You will tell me.”

  But they both knew. Jack had just won the first round.

  Moss stared at the snow-dusted trees in St. James’s Park from the backseat of his SUV. Dusk had come earlier than normal with the storm, and few pedestrians braved the cold. The park was almost empty, and those who ventured out walked with one hand fisting their overcoats closed over their faces, leaving the mood of the streets sullen.

  As for Moss, he was royally pissed off, but he’d gotten himself into this mess and could only blame himself. Though he hated that bastard Lockard, Moss would have done the same thing. After all, the question wasn’t: What would you do for a billion dollars?

  It was: What wouldn’t you do?

  His phone chirped and Moss checked the ID.

  Damn.

  He tapped on the
driver’s shoulder and pointed to the curb, then snapped his fingers once. This call required privacy.

  The driver exited the vehicle and walked to the front bumper.

  “Mr. President.”

  A millisecond of hang time, the tiniest clue that the signal had just traveled across the Atlantic. Moss hoped the man didn’t notice.

  “Director Moss, it took my gal almost a full minute to reach you. Are you not on our fertile shores?”

  Moment of truth. Or not. “I’m at the ranch, sir. You know what Jackson is like this time of year. We’re buried in snow.” Moss winced as he said it, and watched a lone man walking a little white dog wearing a sweater enter the park. The damn dog turned in circles, sniffing the snow and snorting it from its nose. Stupid animal couldn’t hunt down a bowl of kibbles in its own kitchen.

  “Yes, we all need a break once in a while, don’t we?”

  Moss knew why the president was calling, but he wasn’t going to bring it up. That would just make it easier for the ivory tower to scold him. He said, “I suppose, Mr. President.”

  “Yet now’s not the time for a holiday, is it?”

  Well, well. The slick bastard knew he was in London. That’s why he used the word holiday and not vacation. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Good. Now, I’m up for reelection this year. Do you know what that means?”

  “Sir?”

  “It means you’re up for reelection too.”

  “I suppose it does, sir.”

  “Damn well right, it does. And that means we can’t have another CIA scandal. Not with all these people out of work and looking for handouts. We’ve come too far, done too much with this cabinet of mine. We can’t be seen as poor stewards of the Treasury, can we?”

  Moss was smart enough to shut up and just regurgitate. “No, sir. We’ve come too far.”

  “That’s right.” He stopped for a moment and Moss let the silence sit between them, the pause between lightning and thunder. “The bottom line, Director, is that we cannot have you and your spies settling old scores at the expense of my administration.”