The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  Dearest Charles,

  Your last letter was beautiful. I cannot wait for us to finally be together in Paris. For us to walk along the Seine, finally holding hands, feeling your warmth, finally seeing your face with my own two eyes! I was in Paris once as a young girl. Did I ever tell you that? I hardly remember anything. But I’m sooooo excited to discover it all over again. With you, my love.

  :-{} xoxoxo

  I’m so grateful for the money you sent, my savior Charlie! Thank you! thank you! Fortunately, the doctor accepted cash this time. But the bill was higher than expected. I hate to ask :((( but can you possibly send another $5,000? I promise this will be the last time I ask :))). I’m sooooo sorry to ask you again, but I won’t be able to fly to France to meet you until I get the all clear from the hospital. Soooooo many tests! Dr. Menendez swears this is the last round.

  Can’t wait to see u. Je t’aime Charlie <3 <3 <3

  With sincerest love,

  Penelope xoxoxoxo

  PS—I still owe you a nude picture. I’m working up the courage to take it. Next time! xoxo

  Kayode had gotten his own start ten years earlier when he, like Femi, had been given an unimaginable offer he couldn’t resist. A schoolmate had shown him how to use a computer to trick gullible foreigners out of a few dollars and invited him to join her crew. Kayode’s English wasn’t very good and his spelling was awful, but he quickly learned that these didn’t matter. In fact, typos and mistakes could be an asset, an easy way of filtering out only the most susceptible. He learned that the key to success in this business, one of the lessons that he now passed to Femi and the others, was to find just the right target. Errors and inconsistencies were simple ways to finding the most vulnerable mark at just the moment of maximum weakness. Finding that sweet spot was essential to any con.

  Of course, Kayode was torn about his career as a Yahooze Boy. Convincing weak foreigners to send you money in exchange for false promises was hardly the honorable life his parents had imagined for him. They wanted him to go to school, to become an accountant, but he had always loved computers. His profession was technically illegal, as per Section 419 of the Nigerian Criminal Code. The police regularly raided the Internet cafés and underground centers, rounding up the teenagers and holding them until a bribe was paid for their release.

  So who was the more corrupt, the Yahooze Boys or the police? The big men who took the largest cut from any 419 earnings or the bigger men who lived in mansions on Victoria Island paid for with the stolen proceeds from Nigeria’s oil?

  On the streets of Lagos, the opportunities were few, and working at a computer, making real money, was infinitely better than hawking fruit or gum at bus depots. It was mind-numbingly frustrating to spill your blood and sweat to make a few naira, only to have most of it disappear into the pockets of a neighborhood boss man.

  Being a Yahooze Boy was a creative outlet, using your wits and guile to make a living. It was a natural, even inevitable reaction to the lack of other options, the incessant power cuts, the lack of jobs, the crushing corruption that was keeping so many down.

  Fortunately, Kayode learned quickly and was soon earning plenty of money to support his whole family. Eventually he had saved enough to launch his own crew and build Wall Street.

  Now, at twenty-four years, Kayode was the eldest of his team and the boss. Or at least he was the boss until one fateful day when he received another offer he couldn’t refuse.

  Now Kayode and his team worked for the secret big boss, the Oga.

  Kayode watched Femi finish his letter and hit SEND.

  “Well done, eh,” he said. The boy opened a new window and kept typing.

  Dearest Andrew,

  I miss u too! . . .

  With the new Oga came new territory, new responsibilities, new opportunities for Kayode. And a slightly new name, better suited to his new role: the Coyote.

  35

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  THURSDAY, 7:58 A.M. MOSCOW STANDARD TIME (12:58 A.M. EST)

  Jessica climbed the narrow stairwell to find a reinforced steel door at the top. A tiny black bubble camera in the upper corner told her whoever was inside knew she was there. No turning back now.

  With both hands, she shoved hard on the door, which to her surprise gave way and swung wide open. They’re expecting me.

  Jessica burst into the lair to find a broad-shouldered man in a heavy wool coat sitting at a chunky wooden table. He was holding a fork in one hand and a large steak knife in the other, a steaming plate of brown flesh in front of him. The man, wearing wraparound sunglasses with his long hair slicked straight back, looked up without alarm and leered directly at Jessica. The Bear.

  She said nothing and glared back.

  The door behind her suddenly slammed shut, revealing the bald man in the suit she recognized as the one who had recently arrived in a Range Rover.

  “Ooh da fuck do you fink you is?” he snarled in a thick accent from London’s East End.

  Jessica turned her back on the bald man and faced the Bear with a cold stare.

  A few seconds of silence that felt like forever were eventually broken by a familiar metallic click-clack. Jessica felt the cold butt of a handgun against the back of her neck.

  “Do you know who you’re messin’ wif? Let me off this bitch right now, boss.”

  Jessica didn’t flinch and her eyes never moved.

  The Bear set down the knife and fork. Jessica’s heart stopped. She braced for her next move. She counted down: three, two . . .

  The Bear’s shoulders shook. Jessica stopped counting. The Bear’s rumble grew from a hollow chuckle into a crescendo of full-bellied laughter.

  “You saw what this daft cow did to me boys!” the bald man whined.

  The Bear snorted again with glee, then stopped abruptly. “Did you see it, Mikey? Put the gun away. For your own safety.”

  Mikey hesitated for a moment, then shoved the pistol inside his jacket. “Who da fuck are you?” he hissed.

  Jessica ignored the question.

  “Would you like breakfast, my beauty?” asked the Bear, nodding toward the plate where blood pooled around a slab of overdone beef and boiled potatoes.

  “I’m not your beauty.”

  “That was quite an entrance,” said the Bear.

  Jessica shifted her weight. “You asked me to come here,” she said.

  “I asked you?” he shrugged. “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am,” she said.

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. If you won’t eat, my beauty, how about a drink?” he said, unscrewing a bottle of high-end Yamskaya vodka and pouring two generous glasses. He held up one glass and slid the other across the desk.

  Jessica caught the glass and cupped it. “Nostrovia,” she said and downed the vodka in one motion.

  “Nostrovia,” he laughed, and did the same. The Bear wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then announced, “Enough games.”

  “You called for the Queen Sheba,” Jessica said. “I am here.”

  He sat back and studied her face, stroking his beard. “How do I know you are the queen?”

  Jessica nodded toward the security monitor on the wall showing his three goons out on the street, still recovering from her ass-kicking.

  “Impressive.”

  “I didn’t come here to impress you.”

  The Bear jabbed his fork into the meat and watched the juices flow. “When you cut Valderrama’s throat in Bogotá”—he took a bite—“did he scream?”

  Jessica glared at the Bear for moment. “Valderrama didn’t make a sound.”

  “That’s disappointing.” The Bear chewed aggressively as he looked Jessica up and down. “He deserved to suffer.”

  “It wasn’t a knife and it wasn’t Bogotá. Valderrama was Barcelona. Two shots to the back of the head. You know tha
t.”

  “What about Goldstein?”

  “Johannesburg. Car accident,” Jessica said. “That’s what’s in the police report.”

  “And Zhang-tao?”

  “Poison in his martini. Manila. Body dismembered and dumped at the port.”

  “She’s takin’ the piss.” Mikey shook his head. “Zhang-tao is well enough alive. Evgeny just seen him on Monday.”

  The Bear cut another large piece of meat and forced it into his mouth.

  Jessica plucked a small blue velvet ring box from her pocket and set it on the table.

  “She givin’ you a ring?” Mikey sneered.

  The Bear swallowed hard, set down his utensils, and pried open the box. Then he met Jessica’s gaze.

  “Wot is it, boss?”

  “Yes, my beauty,” he said, spinning around the open clamshell, showing the severed human finger inside. “What is this?”

  “Zhang-tao,” she said.

  “Zhang-tao?” Mikey erupted. “That’s bollocks.”

  “Check the fingerprint,” she said, gesturing toward the finger. “And then you tell me who it is.” A good question, Jessica thought to herself, not wanting to know whose digit she’d carried in her pocket and hoping that the CIA’s new synthetic fingerprint overlay technology would prove good enough for the Russian.

  “Zhang-tao,” the Bear muttered.

  “That’s all that’s left of him,” she said. “The rest is in small pieces at the bottom of Manila Bay.”

  “Zhang-tao,” he said again to himself.

  “Enough. Why am I here?” Jessica demanded, trying to turn the tables. “Did you call me here because of one dead Chinese?”

  The Bear didn’t answer.

  “I’ve delivered proof of death. Now pay the bounty and give me my next assignment,” she insisted. “Or I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see me again.”

  The Bear met her gaze.

  “I don’t care why you want to kill Chinese businessmen,” she lied. “Just give me my money and my next target.”

  Jessica knew the next few seconds were crucial. Either the Bear would accept her and expose his strategy, and she’d gain critical intelligence to bring back to Langley, or he was going to give her nothing. If she walked away empty-handed, she realized, then she’d be burning Queen Sheba’s deep cover forever, losing her chance to ever get the Bear. Time to find out, she decided.

  “You have ten seconds,” she said, clearing her throat. “And then I’m gone.”

  If I reach ten and the Bear doesn’t blink, she thought, then I will have no choice but to kill him and his idiot Cockney sidekick. Right here, right now.

  She counted in her head, ten, nine . . . the bald asshole has a sidearm and is closer . . . eight, seven . . . I’ll grab the steak knife with my left and take him first, then . . . six, five . . . I just have to convince the Bear I am Queen Sheba . . . four, three . . . that I don’t have a tell that gives me away . . . two . . . that the Bear can’t read my tell . . . one . . . like Judd did.

  36

  U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THURSDAY, 1:02 A.M. EST

  Dr. Judd Ryker is on it.” Landon Parker spoke confidently into the phone, hiding his irritation at yet another call from Capitol Hill. “I don’t have an update from Ryker for you yet, but he’s only just landed in-country. It’s early tomorrow morning over there. . . . No, Congressman, don’t mention it. It’s no trouble at all. The State Department is open 24/7. . . . Yes, of course I’m still in the office.”

  Parker glanced at the clock on his wall, just above the photo of him posing with the Secretary of State and Bruce Springsteen.

  “Yes, I’ll keep you informed,” Parker said. “Yes, I know we only have until Friday morning. . . . I’ll send someone over to brief you first thing tomorrow. . . . No need to thank me, Shepard. That’s my job. . . . I told you already that Ryker is my crisis specialist. He’s the firefighter of Foggy Bottom. Our best man for the job. I told you that these kidnappings are always high-risk. Things go wrong all the time. We can’t make any promises when it comes to these situations. But if anyone can bring Tunde Babatunde home safe, it’s Ryker.”

  Parker set the phone down and his assistant’s head immediately appeared in the doorway.

  “Would you like me to reach Dr. Ryker?”

  Parker stared at her as he tried to organize his thoughts. Truman seemed convinced that State was doing everything possible to find Babatunde. That was success right there. Ryker was on the ground doing . . . whatever he did. It didn’t really matter. If Ryker saved Babatunde, great. Parker would get credit with Truman and pocket a major favor for later. If Ryker failed, then Truman would believe that Parker had done everything possible. The chief of staff had just told the Congressman he’d sent our best man for the job. What more could Truman ask? If it ever came to the worst possible outcome, a congressional inquiry, Parker could simply tell the truth. A Washington win-win.

  Parker smiled at his assistant. “Not necessary.”

  “Should I call Embassy Abuja, Mr. Parker? Maybe our ambassador in Nigeria will have some information?”

  “No,” he said, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbing his eyes.

  “How about I call the motor pool and have a car take you home, sir? You look like you need some sleep.”

  Parker shook his head. He had spent enough time on Shepard Truman and his kidnappings. He had real work to do.

  “It’s already after lunch in eastern China. Their foreign minister should have landed back in the capital by now,” he announced, without having to check his watch. “I’ve got a long list of follow-ups from his visit. Get me Embassy Beijing.”

  37

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  THURSDAY, 8:04 A.M. MOSCOW STANDARD TIME (1:04 A.M. EST)

  Jessica felt the adrenaline surge from her toes up through her thighs, hips, chest, biceps, and out to her fingertips. Time slowed as she prepared to launch a lethal attack on the mafia boss and his henchman.

  Then the Bear blinked. “It’s not one dead Chinese,” he said.

  “What?” Jessica’s body froze.

  “It’s not just one,” he said. “We’re going to eliminate them all. The whole list. Everyone standing in our way.”

  Jessica didn’t move or say a word. She was trying to maintain peak fight intensity, but she felt the tension in her muscles retreating.

  “You are central to our business plan,” the Bear continued. “Queen Sheba, our entire expansion depends on you.”

  “I don’t want to be part of any plan,” she insisted. “Just give me my target.”

  “Transfer the money for delivering Zhang-tao,” the Bear ordered to his sidekick, Mikey. “And give her the judge.”

  “That target’s a cock-up, boss,” Mikey said. “Remember, the Yanks.”

  “Not a problem,” the Bear said. “Queen Sheba, you don’t have a problem killing Americans, do you?”

  Americans? They want me to kill an American judge? Maybe this is why the Deputy Director was so anxious. She shook her head. “I’ve done it before.”

  “Of course you have, my beauty.”

  “But the price is higher.”

  “Of course it is,” said the Bear.

  “Twice my normal fee,” she said.

  The Bear nodded without hesitation.

  “Who’s the target?” Jessica asked.

  “The new war is over oil, my beauty,” he said. “And we are in a fight to the death.”

  Oil? she thought. Since when are Russian mobsters in the oil business?

  “The battleground has shifted. It used to be the Persian Gulf, Saudi Arabia, Iraq. That is now past history. The new battlefront, where the new money is going to be found, is in the corners of the western Pacific, of central Asia, in the waters
off West Africa. That is where we know how to operate. That is where we have friends. That is our turf. And that is where we are building our new oil empire.”

  Where is this going? Jessica kept a poker face.

  “Standing in the way,” the Bear said, “is China.”

  China? That’s why he’s been targeting Chinese oil executives?

  “There’s a judge that has been making trouble for one of our business partners. That judge is your next target. He must be eliminated.”

  Jessica nodded.

  “No quiet disappearance this time. It has to be public. It has to be spectacular. We need to send a message.”

  Jessica nodded again.

  “And it has to be done . . . tomorrow.”

  “That’s not much time.”

  “If you can’t do it—”

  “I can do it,” Jessica snapped. “The target is a Chinese judge. You want it in all the papers. I can be in Beijing tomorrow. Or Hong Kong or Shanghai. Not a problem. But you just said”—Jessica narrowed her eyes—“Americans.”

  “The judge is working closely with the Americans. They are his unwitting accomplices. Helping the Chinese. Like fools!”

  The United States is assisting the Chinese?

  “The Americans will need to be eliminated, too,” he said. “It’s unavoidable. Call it collateral damage.”

  She nodded.

  “But the judge is not in China,” the Bear said.

  “He’s not even a bloody Chinaman,” Mikey squawked.

  “So, who is my target?” Jessica asked. “And where is he?”

  “Nigeria.”

  38

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  THURSDAY, 7:20 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (2:20 A.M. EST)

  You wan jollof rice, eh?” Mama Oyafemi said. “Oyinbo, they always eat the jollof.”

  Judd and Isabella looked back at her, confused. They had followed Bola’s clear instructions to come here to make contact with the Yahooze Boys, one of the organized criminal rings running online scams. Bola assured them that the Coyote was an up-and-coming player and could provide a window into the inner workings of international fraud. Bola didn’t ask Judd why exactly he wanted to peek into the 419 underground. Judd started to explain about the missing Jason Saunders in London, but Isabella cut him off.