The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  Rolf glanced back at his team and raised his hand in a fist.

  Be ready.

  Draganic closed the drapes, walked back to the bed, unpacked the change of clothes from his duffel, and laid them out neatly on the coverlet. Then he placed two long bath sheets on the floor between the door and the bathroom. Finally, he kicked off his shoes and set them out of the way.

  He drew the Sea Shark from the sheath and held it against his leg as he peered through the peephole toward the Monte Rosa Suite. Lory would approach the suite, perhaps with a day bag. Then he would hold the magnetic key to the doorplate, wait for it to click, and push the door open. At that moment, Draganic would yank open his own door and spring the man from behind, slitting his throat and pushing him into the suite in one fluid motion.

  Draganic would then retreat back into his room. He would remove his own bloodied clothes, wrap them in the two towels, and stuff them into the duffel. Then a quick wash of his hands and maybe his face, and he would be on his way.

  But as he stood there, waiting by the door, Draganic smelled the faint scent of almond butter, making him hungry again.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  He felt a warmth surge through his body. Not a comforting warmth—quite the opposite. Like a feeling that something was up, something was wrong here. He turned his head and stared at the window to the courtyard. When was the last time he’d heard the elevator move? Had he heard the voice of any another human in the hotel yet?

  Odd.

  He walked to the bed, placed the knife on the pillow, and approached the window. He looked out to the courtyard.

  Quieter than a church on Monday.

  He walked back to the door and peered through the peephole. Nothing but a distorted view of the door to the Monte Rosa Suite.

  Draganic eased open his own door and peeked out into the hallway. Not a single sound in the entire hotel.

  Pondering that, Draganic jolted when his cell phone rang from inside the room. Jesus Christ. He’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off.

  Shutting the door, he hurried over to the duffel bag, pulled out the phone, and checked the caller ID. Lockard. Draganic forced himself not to yell as he answered.

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Where the fuck are you?” Lockard asked. Staring out the window and across the street again, he began counting cobblestones that were peeking from below the snow.

  One. Two. Three—

  Draganic began to yell and Lockard struggled not to smile. Poor man had become unnerved. It happened to even the very best of them. Everyone had a breaking point. Better yet, everyone had a weak spot, useful for exploitation. For most, it was family. Threaten the safety of a beloved wife or child, and you could break most anyone. For others, it was more complex, like integrity. Threaten their reputation. Or freedom, their ability to make free choices.

  Hell, Lockard had seen SEALs who’d never displayed a weakness in any exercise or mission break on the strangest things. One guy had no family—wife or children—to threaten. No obvious interests or needs. No habits or addictions. Yet this man broke because he’d lost a teammate in an operation. Blaming himself for the misstep, for having led the downed man into a firefight, the SEAL claimed he could no longer command. It was all his fault. So he stepped down and out, dropped off the face.

  Strange.

  Tuning back to the tongue-lashing that Draganic was giving him, Lockard heard him say, “…money has all been pledged. It will be seized by the authorities.”

  This moron didn’t know the cash would disappear today anyway. What did Lockard care about the trades?

  “And then I’ll find you,” Draganic said. “I will have two billion dollars at my disposal to hunt you down and give you exactly what you deserve.”

  Lockard would yawn, but he wasn’t tired. He walked back to the window and put Draganic on speakerphone. “Zoran, are you listening? I want you to hear this.”

  “Hear what?”

  Lockard typed the text message, then poised his finger above the send button.

  The mic man nodded at Rolf and drew a circle with his finger.

  Draganic was contained and not currently a threat.

  Rolf pointed at the battering ram, drew a swift line with his hand to Draganic’s door, and held up three fingers.

  He dropped a finger. Two.

  Then another.

  One.

  He nodded.

  The two men moved silent and quick, like stags in a forest. They drew back the ram. Rolf and his team followed in formation, stopping just to the side of the door. The shield at the front, Rolf to his direct left, the others drawn and ready to fire.

  And then the man at the very back coughed.

  “Hear what?” Draganic yelled at Lockard. He felt his face burn and his vision turn blood red.

  As he was about to throw the phone at the wall, he heard it. Muffled but distinct.

  A cough.

  Right outside the door.

  He hurried across the room and looked through the peephole.

  What in God’s holy hell?

  It was not Lory. It was an army of men, all dressed in black riot gear, at least ten of them standing there. The Swiss SWAT team. Two were drawing back a battering ram.

  “You son of a bitch!” Draganic yelled into the phone.

  The ram battered the door once.

  Draganic backed away and yelled again. Then he smelled that stupid almond butter. Stronger than before. Like it was all over his hands. Like the goddamn phone had been dipped in it.

  He was going crazy. Lockard had fucked him over so badly, he’d lost his mind!

  He yelled, “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch! I will slit your throat!”

  Lockard just whispered to himself as he sent the text. “Boom.”

  The two men with the battering ram looked to the back of the team, then to Rolf.

  From inside the room, the suspect yelled, “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch! I’ll slit your throat!”

  The mic man nodded furiously while patting his hands in the air. Movement inside the room.

  Son of a bitch is right!

  An instant of hesitation, but it was enough. As Rolf rolled his hand, signaling for the men to continue, a blast sounded from inside the room, shattering glass and thumping the door.

  “Go! Go!” Rolf yelled.

  After swinging the ram and hitting the door one last time, the team rushed into the room in perfect formation, guns at the ready. But the man was on the floor. Not moving.

  The team scanned the room, checking for booby traps but finding none. They finally eased their guard and flipped up their masks.

  “Sir?” the mic man called to Rolf. “I believe I’ve found what hit the door.”

  He pointed to the floor. A flap of skin, a half-mangled ear, and the once pristine half of Draganic’s skull.

  Thirty-Seven

  It took Alex and Burke eight and a half minutes to enter Hatton Garden Safe Deposit and retrieve the attaché.

  As they were leaving the facility, the tall security guard glanced at them and Alex smiled as casual as a Sunday jogger, but then looked past his shoulder.

  A television on the far wall was showing the news, and a reporter stood in front of what looked to be some sort of federal building. Scrolling on the bottom of the screen were the words Breaking news: Explosion in hotel across the street from Federal Palace in Bern...One confirmed dead…A photo of Zoran Draganic flashed on the screen.

  The reporter said, “Police believe this man was plotting to assassinate a Swiss council member, perhaps the president, at today’s press conference. Authorities have postponed the event until further notice, but indicate that it may take place in a secure location later today. That’s all we have right now…”

  “Let’s go. We have work to do,” Burke said.

  Exiting the building and ducking under a long tail of Christmas garland that had come unhinged from the top of the entry, Alex thought of
the trail of bodies this operation was leaving behind. The crossfire of all these spies, her included. Killing each other for the pot—no, the swimming pool full of gold at the end of the soiled rainbow.

  Back in the Range Rover, Grant shook his head. “Took long enough.”

  Alex nodded back at Burke. “Sergeant Pepper here almost blew it, refusing to remove his shades for the guards.”

  “Shut it,” Burke said, pushing her into the backseat.

  With Inspector Wainscott behind the wheel now, Burke joined Alex in the back while Grant inspected the contents of the attaché. “This should do it,” he said, then nodded at Burke. “Call Evan.”

  Burke made the phone call. “Package secure. ETA, one hour.”

  So Lockard and Jack were in the UK somewhere, not far from the city. It would take a good three or four hours—maybe more with the snow—to get anywhere like Manchester. Assuming they were driving, that was.

  They wound their way out of downtown London and into East Finchley. Maybe Lockard and Jack were right there in London after all. But that would be nowhere near the money, which had been stashed in Draganic’s bank in Isle of Man. That much Alex was certain of. But how did these three come into play? If she figured that out, maybe she could use the information to turn them against each other somehow, incite more infighting. There was clearly no shortage of greed around here, and that was enough to bring down a whole team.

  Alex turned to Burke and said, “Military Intelligence, CIA—what are you?”

  He tilted his head toward her. “Former Company man.”

  “Why former?”

  “Are you kidding?” He snorted. “A billion, cold. Do the math.”

  Though the idea seemed foreign to her, Alex knew money could intensify an already simmering problem, drawing someone to the other side. But it wouldn't be the only reason. There had to be a trigger to make someone vulnerable for defection.

  Perhaps sensing her skepticism and maybe a bit of disgust, he gave Alex an irritated look. “The first time the White House blamed the CIA for inciting violence in the Middle East with our interrogation tactics, I laughed.” He laughed to emphasize the point before continuing. “Then the podium-jockey press secretary started talking about failed intelligence missions in Pakistan and Afghanistan. I brushed that off, too.”

  Burke’s face darkened into a scowl. “But then the president himself blamed us. My team, for losing that drone in Iran. It was bullshit. We’d warned him against entering that airspace, but he didn’t listen. Hell, POTUS didn’t even have the respect to attend the goddamn intelligence briefing three days before it happened. The guy was too busy making his NCAA Final Four picks.” Burke waved a hand and looked out the window. “And we were demoted.”

  After a minute or so, he said, “So now I work for myself.”

  Alex waited, then said, “The Arsenal game. You set me up, knew what you’d feed me all along, and what I would ask for.”

  He shrugged. “We needed to get you on Draganic’s tail. Distract him while we took the cash from the vault.”

  She tipped her chin to Wainscott. “And what about her?”

  Burke smiled and said, “Valerie? We’re a team.” He laughed again and looked at Alex like she was the last one in on the joke. Then he emphasized each word. “She’s my wife.”

  And there it was. Grant, Lockard, Burke, and Wainscott. The Dream Team. Alex let it drop and turned back to her window.

  It all made sense. Rookie spies were taught that disillusion often led to defection. People worked for money, but labored for a sense of accomplishment; long-term loyalty to a job required it. Otherwise, the worker eventually left the position or betrayed his boss with embezzlement of money or secrets or even outright sabotage. It was the same for grade-school teachers and engineers and bankers. The pay might differ from profession to profession, but everyone needed to be treated fairly and with respect. Period.

  Alex had to admit, the same held true for her.

  Of course there are other reasons, too; money wasn’t the be all, end all. Alex believed Lockard fell into the defect-for-revenge category. He wanted the CIA to pay for his own father dying in Spain, too. A billion to be exact. As Burke had said, do the math.

  And Grant? Well, she figured he wanted his share of a billion, too. Maybe MI6 didn’t pay well in retirement. Or maybe he was just sick of the endless red tape choking the agencies these days. A shame because, as they pulled into what she recognized as Grant’s estate, it was clear that he already lived like a Fortune 500 CEO. What else did one man need?

  “Go around back,” Grant said. “There.” He pointed at a white stable gate that sat half open.

  They rounded the mansion, and the grounds came into view, acres and acres of it, stretching on in one long, billowing sheet of snow. The white was broken only at the center by an idle, bright-silver helicopter. As they neared, Alex noted the piano-gloss-black trim and tinted glass. An EC145s Eurocopter, interior like a Mercedes S class.

  Damn.

  The snow around the helicopter had been blown aside, showing sprouts of grass underneath and suggesting a recent arrival. Wainscott navigated the Range Rover to about ten yards from the helicopter, tires crunching over icy gravel as the SUV tilted and bounced on uneven terrain.

  Alex looked around but didn’t see anyone else, a good sign. If there were others waiting, the prospect of the Dream Team killing and leaving her for a cleanup crew was higher. That said, these people were acting with reckless abandon, ready to give up every ounce of life they had here in the UK for whatever life they expected to have with their new riches.

  Alex could not assume rational thought.

  When the vehicle stopped, Burke removed a Beretta M9 from his shoulder holster and pointed it at the door. “Get out.”

  Three on one. They all had guns.

  Nodding, Alex simply shifted in her seat.

  Burke turned to her. “I said get out.”

  And she acted.

  Alex thrust an elbow into Burke’s solar plexus then took hold of his wrist and forced the pistol up. A shot fired into the roof and she wrenched Burke’s wrist, causing the gun to drop behind him. Then Alex wrapped her left hand around Grant’s seatbelt. He yelped as she wound the nylon strap around his neck then yanked down and anchored it around the metal tines of the headrest. Meanwhile, Burke had found the gun, so she lunged to pull it from him.

  Burke pushed into Alex and her door popped open. They tumbled out into the snow and gravel—both their hands wrapped around the pistol. She moved fast in order to immobilize him before Wainscott had a chance to round the car. Easily wrenching her leg around his—Burke had not taken his judo training seriously—Alex gained advantage and pressed the side of his face into the gravel with her shoulder.

  His street fighting was sufficient, though, and he head-butted Alex in the cheek, causing her to fall to the side.

  Right onto her bad shoulder.

  Their hands shaking on the gun, the barrel pressed straight upward between their faces, Alex used all her strength to angle it back toward his chin.

  Gritting his teeth and staring into her eyes, Burke did not give.

  Neither did Alex. But, just as she was about to win the battle, forcing the barrel into the soft flesh of Burke’s neck, she felt the cold metal of another pistol press into her skull, right behind the temple.

  “Let it go,” Wainscott said.

  “Will someone detach this? I’m strangling here,” called Grant from inside the Range Rover.

  Poor execution on my part, Alex thought. If he was strangling, he couldn’t talk.

  She said, “I’m not afraid to die.” And she wasn’t. Pressing the barrel deeper into Burke’s throat, Alex was ready to shut this operation down for good.

  Burke squeezed his eyes closed and kept stone still.

  “I’m certain of that,” Wainscott said. She tilted her head and continued, “But give it up now. You need to save your energy. It’s going to be a long day for you.”
>
  Staring into Burke’s face, Alex considered pulling the trigger. Releasing one of them from their materialistic bondage for good. But then she thought of Jack, held captive somewhere in a makeshift death row. And she thought of her father, considered what he would do. He would stay alive. He would finish the job.

  Alex let go.

  She was curious to see what these turncoats had planned for her anyway.

  The Benz-outfitted Eurocopter lived up to the expectation of its luxury, with white leather seats, wood trim, and all the amenities, including a flat-screen television and a full wet bar, complete with tall crystal decanters and thick crystal highballs.

  Alex half-expected someone to offer her a cocktail with her handcuffs.

  Burke piloted while the rest of them sat in the back. Alex was the lone lady without a pistol to point at anyone, so she spent the time watching the landscape pass … and preparing herself for the battle of her life. Breathing slow and steady, she slipped into a near-meditative state and imagined drawing the scenery as they passed over it.

  An ancient snow-draped cathedral edged London, its cross-shaped structure spread wide and its steeple spearing the sky, like a giant stingray half buried in bleached sand. A dormant horse farm at the edge of the city was marked with the thick line of a meandering stream slicing through the property, like the black ink of a child’s angry scribble. Finally, the edge of the snow-covered UK isle drifting and disappearing into the Irish Sea, like a spoiled watercolor, the drawing’s details dissolved by an errant spill.

  They landed in the middle of a field somewhere south of Douglas, Mann’s capital city, where another Range Rover awaited. The interior held the strong smell of new leather.

  Luxury helicopters, luxury cars. Alex couldn’t wait to see the safe house at the end of the line.

  With Burke driving the Rover, they weaved their way through the mostly empty snow-covered streets of downtown Douglas. The city celebrated Christmas like the rest of the Western world, so it looked like any small European city at this time of year. Mr. B’s Deli was strung with colored lights, and Lucinda’s Hairstylists sported a small Christmas tree in the window.