The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  She picked up the battery and replaced it as fast as she could. She snapped the back cover on as Zoran mumbled “idiot” again. Watching him from the corner of her eye, she quickly picked up the replica and switched it with the other phone.

  “What is that?” he called, pressing his face and finger against the glass.

  “What is what?” Natasha said, kneeling over Zoran’s phone, not sure how he could have seen it.

  “That! Right there! Did you move my razor? Leave it where it was!”

  “I have never touched that razor,” she said, relieved, but wondering if she should stand or wait until he turned again.

  “Put the phone back and leave me in peace in here.”

  “Whatever.” Natasha stood, placing the replica next to the razor while gripping his phone against her leg.

  “Good girl,” he called from the shower.

  Natasha felt his stare on her as she walked out of the bathroom, covering the real phone under her hand at her side the best she could, hoping it would not ring as she fled.

  When she made it into the bedroom, Natasha finally exhaled, ran down the stairs and into the kitchen while thinking, Who is the idiot now, Zoran?

  Thirty-Two

  Still damp and shaking under her overcoat, Alex had used most of her remaining strength to trudge along Victoria Embankment and down Strand to the Savoy Hotel. Convincing the front desk clerk to give her a room at three a.m. consumed the rest of her depleted energy. Money talks, though, and with the Amanda Carr credit card as security, the clerk found it within himself to let her pay with cash a full night’s fee for the eight hours she needed.

  What a gentleman.

  In the shower, hands still blue and stiff, Alex contemplated losing her father again. She found it difficult to grieve for him a second time. Alex figured she was suppressing her true feelings about the situation. In a sense, lying to herself. Or maybe she had just shifted into pure survival mode.

  Alex checked her phone, but there were no messages from Jack or Lockard. So, after finishing her shower, she dried her clothes with an iron and lay on the bed to collect a couple hours of fitful sleep, enough to be able to think again.

  But all her mind did was spin. She climbed back out of bed, slipped the passport case out of her overcoat, and looked at the pocket litter Edgar had given her. Cash, passport, and a Barclay’s ATM card, along with a stash of receipts, as if she’d been actively using the cards and identity.

  If something happens here…you don’t know where the briefcase is.

  Her first thought was that the Barclay’s card was not just for cash. Maybe her father had also rented a safe deposit box under the Amanda Carr name. But British banks had all but given up on maintaining safe deposit boxes, and Barclay’s was no exception. A quick phone call to the branch nearest the hotel confirmed the bank had not accepted new safe deposit box clients in over two years.

  Alex slid the archaic phone book from under the night table and opened to the Security section. She scanned the page, looking for any identifier, any detail at all, and stopped on a firm called Hatton Garden Safe Deposit, Ltd.

  Hatton Garden.

  Alex fingered the receipts one by one: a few restaurants, a clothing receipt from Debenhams, Starbucks, Prêt A Manger, and then the one she was looking for, Hatton Garden Jewelers. A receipt for watch repair. Son of a bitch—the address was 90 Hatton Garden. Right next door to Hatton Garden Safe Deposit at 88 Hatton Garden.

  It took Alex just enough time to walk the fifteen blocks to reach Hatton Garden at opening time, where she was buzzed into a small, marble-walled receiving area. The entrance was lined with thick black iron bars behind a glass plate. After another buzz, Alex was received by a tall, humorless English man in a thick-knotted tie and hard-creased suit.

  In the administrative area, a place that could double as a Customs and Immigration center, the man verified her identity as Amanda Carr. Then, with the same skepticism that a Royal Guard might use on a palace visitor, he said, “Follow me.”

  He led Alex down a double staircase into the basement, where another man used a key and a retina scanner to unlock a large, thick vault door. The humorless man ignored the security guard stationed next to the vault door as he led her into the chamber. They walked along the wall of numbered safe drawers, and he stopped when they reached a line of vault doors.

  “There is a viewing room located behind us, if you require privacy in your review.” He pointed to an open door and walked away.

  Standing before the six-foot-tall door, Alex stared at the keypad. It was electronic and required five numbers. Her father wouldn’t just lead her to this spot to allow Alex to fumble around with birthdays or phone numbers or other significant sequences in her life. That would draw attention from the security guard watching from the small, purple-glassed ceiling dome. No, her father would have laid it out for Alex, clear and concise.

  She opened her passport case and fished out the Hatton Garden Jewelers receipt. The ticket had an identifier number at the top, but it was only four numbers and a dash, then a letter. No good. But there, at the bottom, the cost of the watch repair was 112.97 pounds. She placed the receipt back into her wallet, pressed 1-1-2-9-7, and a moment later, the vault lock clicked.

  Smiling up at the eye in the sky, Alex pulled open the door.

  Sure enough, the only item inside, sitting on the floor in the center of the safe, was an aluminum Zero Halliburton attaché. She took it to the viewing room, and closed the door.

  Heart thumping a bit harder than it’d been a few minutes earlier, Alex flipped up the thin panel under the attaché’s handle and looked at the three-number combination. It was set to all zeros. She pressed the button and two more buttons popped up along the front of the attaché’s seam. No guesswork here. Alex was the only one who could have gotten this far.

  She pressed those two buttons and the case eased open.

  Staring at the contents, she realized she’d been holding her breath the entire time inside this little room, an absolute violation of standard operations—a good way to become lightheaded or weak in a life or death situation, and a bad habit otherwise. So Alex forced herself to breathe easily. Not that anything was easy about looking at a dead man’s severed, and strangely hairless, hand.

  Logistically and medically, it didn’t make sense. The briefcase was not refrigerated. And what she had taken to be some sort of cryogenic preservation packaging, when the hand fell from the attaché the night of the bombing, was nothing more than a thick, vacuum-sealed, translucent plastic sack. A medical version of a Ziploc baggie.

  Alex sniffed around it. Nothing but the scent of plastic.

  Why was it not decaying?

  She touched the hand with a single finger. The skin had a hardness to it, unlike either bone or frozen tissue. It was like a plastic of some sort, with a bit of give.

  Alex pried it from the foam casing and turned it over.

  The hand, she realized, was not human at all. It was some sort of replication of a human limb. A Hollywood special effect or something. The consistency was like a hardened silicone.

  Quite impressive. It even had fingerprints.

  Leaving the hand in the bag, Alex wedged it back into the foam casing and shut the briefcase. She closed her eyes and pressed both thumbs into her aching eyes.

  This was the Isle of Man banker’s hand. Draganic’s banker. It didn’t really matter who’d killed him—though her money was on Lockard—but this was why Lockard and Moss were desperate for this attaché. This hand was literally the key to a hidden a billion dollars of US cash currency.

  How else could Draganic have started a new hedge fund? Trades required collateral. The chart in Edgar’s office connected Draganic to a fund in the UK, managed by superstar trader Pachai Randeep. But after being sentenced at The Hague and banned from securities activity in Europe, that would be all but impossible for Draganic. Unless that fund was domiciled offshore. Maybe the Caymans or Bermuda.

  Either
way, it would have been created with—collateralized by—the money stolen in Iraq.

  Alex gathered the briefcase and deposited it back into the safe, then pressed the exit button to be released from the vault. She needed to hurry. An offshore account would have to be handled by a prime bank—the hedge fund’s bank—that housed the collateral in order to make trades. There was no other way. So…locate the prime bank, locate the money. That was the only way to help Jack.

  Alex knew how to do it, too. She just needed a drawing to help her get inside.

  Lockard stared out the window at the street below. Muddied from passing cars, and with cobblestones breaking to the surface, the snow looked more like shit-stains than winter wonder.

  And the crap kept spewing from the sky.

  He raised his hand before him and tried to flex it against the duct tape he’d used as a makeshift bandage. He had loosened the wrapping twice, but still no give. Unable to close his hand more than half an inch, Lockard couldn’t grip a plastic cup, much less his HK45. He certainly couldn’t pilot a plane. The whole goddamn hand was numb.

  Still, that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The bastard had fucked him up something good. Pope must have hit the median nerve that ran up the center of the wrist. Severing that would prove problematic in more ways than one. It would require surgery to fix, and that meant finding discreet medical care. That was not about to happen any time soon. Nor was getting into the damn vault.

  Well, that was a bridge to cross later, so to speak.

  As for now, he was lucky he had learned to shoot equally well with his left hand. No, that was bullshit. It wasn’t luck. It was a calculated decision to enhance that skill. Plus, the HK45 Tactical came with an ambidextrous mag release. Good planning on Lockard’s part. You never knew when you may need to be ambidextrous. He glanced back at the closed door.

  Pope hadn’t made a sound since their last “interaction.” Fucking blond wolverine was what he was. He hadn’t dreamed pretty boy would fight back like that. And it downright turned him on. Gave him a fucking boner just thinking about it.

  Before he could take that thought further, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Pulling it out, he checked the caller ID. About damn time.

  “Lockard,” he answered.

  “I suppose you haven’t had the pleasure of viewing the morning’s media as of yet?” Grant’s British accent seemed thicker today.

  “No telly here.”

  “Well, suffice to say that there was a murder last night on the Millennium footbridge. It’s been reported that an unidentified American businessman died from a single gunshot wound. I’ve had the site cleaned, and the police have classified the event as a mugging gone wrong.”

  “Moss?”

  “You are a smart one, indeed.”

  “What about Edgar Winter?”

  “Reports tell me that he won’t be giving us any more troubles.”

  Lockard believed that like he believed a fat old man with a white beard was going to bring him a sack of presents tomorrow night. No, he’d have to find his own sack of presents. Like always.

  “I’m assuming we didn’t recover the attaché, then.” Why else would he call?

  Grant said, “Just sit tight. I’m telling you, this Alex Winter is smarter than you realize. She’ll fall right into it. And when she does, we’ll be there. We have many eyes in the city.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Not quite sure, but she’ll turn up.”

  Translated to American English: Not enough eyes.

  Lockard said, “You understand this is all over by tomorrow.”

  Either the announcement about the Swiss franc will have collapsed the franc by then, destroying Draganic’s trades and causing the collateral to be seized, or the announcement was prevented, the franc emboldened, and the trades would go through. In that case the collateral would disappear into the vault of some Third World bank to be retrieved later by Draganic.

  Either way, Lockard would be left with nothing.

  “Don’t worry, old boy, we’ll lock down the entire block if we must. We’ll get the money.”

  An absolute last resort for them. Things were always better accomplished from the inside out. No witnesses, no additional heat from authorities. As for Draganic, Lockard had to assume the man was desperate to disrupt the Swiss council’s announcement. But it was difficult to enjoy your earnings when you were on the run. Guys like Draganic never understood this. He did things the hard way.

  Fool.

  With a little help from the inside, that battle would be over before it ever began.

  Grant said, “We’d better clear the line, then. Relax and remember, I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have, son.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Lockard said and hung up.

  Then he dialed the number to his key contact in these final tactics.

  She answered on the third ring. “Evan?”

  “No names, remember?”

  No apology from this one. She said, “Yes, yes.”

  “Did you replace the phone?”

  “This morning. He is already gone to Bern.”

  “Good. And the jet?”

  “It is on the way. Unless delayed by the snowing, it should arrive any minute.”

  “You did the right thing. I will contact you soon.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting.” She hung up.

  Lockard stared back out the window. All the idiocies and failures around him still paled in comparison to a billion dollars. Sure, some things had occurred that he hadn’t orchestrated, hadn’t expected, but it was like that with any mission.

  Shit happens.

  Lockard raised his arm and tried to flex his hand again.

  Nothing.

  Shifting only his eyes, Lockard stared back at the door where Pope still waited. People would die in the next few hours—people always did in war—but Pope, he would suffer.

  And Lockard would soak up his blood with a billion dollars in cold, hard cash.

  Thirty-Three

  Alex stared up through the snowflakes at the monstrous steel office tower, its mirrored glass reflecting the buildings and concrete sky around her. At the edge of the reflection sat the half-finished high-rise where she’d fought Lockard only two days ago.

  It’d been a long week.

  She glanced back at the construction site, noting there wasn’t a crime scene cordoned off where Aaron had fallen. The police would normally conduct an on-site investigation, suicide or not. Unless the body had become buried in a snowdrift before anyone noticed.

  But this body had disappeared long before that. Cleaned up and covered up.

  Turning her attention back to the matter at hand, Alex skirted around a white Bentley parked in front of her. A small man sat in the driver’s seat, talking on a cell phone. She couldn’t hear him, but he looked pretty heated. Not recognizing him, and confident he was not surveilling her, Alex moved along the narrow stone plaza then entered the building.

  Black marble floors stretched from corner to corner in the gaping lobby, and a curved black marble desk blockaded six elevator banks. Computer screens embedded the front of the desk, a uniformed guard standing behind it, and Alex tried to decide if it looked more like the USS Enterprise or the Death Star.

  Alex approached the guard. About the size of a UPS truck and with a chin as wide as a ski lift, he wore a small brass badge that read Gabriel.

  Blinking once, and without the hint of a smile, Gabriel raised the ski lift and said, “Business?” His voice echoed in the cavernous space.

  “I’m here to visit Prince Alexander Capital.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” He reached for the phone and readied himself to dial.

  Alex drew out her—Agent Wainscott’s—wallet, and showed him the Metro Police ID card. “I have this.”

  “Do you have a written warrant?” Gabriel asked, folding his giant hands across his chest.

  “I’m here for unoffic
ial questioning.” Alex tilted her head like she was on the same team as he, the good guys keeping the peace. Casual.

  He smirked and raised a coil of an eyebrow. “Strict orders from the penthouse. No official business, no access.”

  “Look, Gabriel,” she said, reaching into her jacket and taking out a fold of papers. “I believe a man named Zoran Draganic is upstairs and I’d like to see him.” Alex flashed the first drawing she’d made from memory of the CIA file she’d seen in Edgar’s house. To enhance authenticity, she had forged the drawing with stencil-type Metropolitan Police letterhead and fax codes.

  “You can believe he’s there all day, you’re still not going up.”

  Alex deadpanned him. “Have you seen him entering or leaving the Prince Alexander offices in the last two or three days?”

  Gabriel glanced at the drawing and said, “I can’t say.”

  The door opened before she responded, and the man who had been on the phone in the Bentley entered the building and strode across the lobby. He was wearing a light blue and white striped scarf and a camel-colored overcoat, and his lips were pursed tight, like he’d just tasted a turd.

  Ignoring Alex, he walked right up to Gabriel. “Well?”

  Gabriel bent behind the desk and came up with a solid, leather-bound, tan briefcase, the kind Wall Street types carry in movies.

  The man flared his nose. “You left it out all day? Are you some sort of nitwit?” Then he looked Alex up and down. “Stop staring.”

  Willing herself to not bury a boot heel in his mouth, Alex smiled. And kept staring.

  He huffed and turned back to Gabriel. “Well? Did you?”

  Gabriel said, “I never left my post. It was safe, I assure you.”

  Looking behind Gabriel, he said, “Back there?.”

  “You have it, right?” Gabriel crossed his forearms that were like two Christmas hams. Not a snowball’s chance that Alex would win a physical confrontation with this guy. She’d need a bazooka to get past him.

  “Perhaps you should have used your brain.” The guy tapped his own forehead to emphasize his important point while jutting out his chin toward Gabriel. He was lucky the big guy didn’t wrap the little man’s lower jaw up over his forehead.