by Adam Hamdy
“So, why don’t we forget our prejudices?” Bailey suggested. “Just be people. Two strangers who know they’ve only got each other and that if they don’t work together, there’s a good chance they’ll wind up dead.”
Melissa nodded slowly.
“You want to start?” Bailey said.
“Sylvia was approached about a month ago,” she began. “She received an email threatening to expose her.”
“Expose what?” Bailey interrupted.
“I don’t know,” Melissa replied with a shake of her head. “She never told me. It must have been bad, because I’ve never seen her so rattled. The next email offered her a deal: silence in exchange for Sylvia’s support of the Online Security Act. She was to have the paper present the initiative in a positive light and promote the cause at every opportunity, not just with our readers, but with politicians and decision-makers. That’s when she came to me.”
“She put you on the story?” Bailey asked.
Melissa nodded. “She told me she was being blackmailed. She wanted me to dig into the initiative, to find out who was behind it and why someone would go to such lengths to ensure it passed. She also suspected she wasn’t the only one being blackmailed. I was to find out if there were any other victims.”
“Were there?”
Melissa shook her head. “Not that I could see. But something was going on. We found rumors of an operation on the dark web. A post on a hacker board referred to something called Freefall. That symbol we saw in Harris’s hotel room was on the post.”
“Why didn’t you say you’d seen it before?”
“Trust,” she replied simply.
She hesitated, and for the first time Bailey saw her strength waver and her mask slip. Her eyes filled with tears, but she quickly wiped them away.
“Sylvia was tough. The toughest person I’ve ever met. She refused to give in to their demands and we ran articles questioning the legitimacy of regulating the internet. Whoever was blackmailing her found out she’d launched an investigation. They threatened her family, the one place they knew she was weak. She never told me what she had planned, but she said she’d come up with a way to get out of the trap. An escape trick, she called it.”
“Suicide would have neutralized the threat,” Bailey began. Melissa was about to protest, but he continued, “But Harris didn’t kill himself, and Sylvia probably didn’t either. My guess is that Sylvia pushed the right buttons, maybe threatened to expose the blackmail, and allowed herself to be murdered to stop them going after her family.”
Melissa’s hand went up to her mouth.
“She obviously didn’t tell them you were working on the story, otherwise you’d already be dead, but once they had the note she left me and broke the code, well, given that they’ve killed Harris, we should assume that they suspect you were the one working with Sylvia.”
“God, I hope Francis is OK,” Melissa said.
Bailey eyed her sympathetically. “If he’s lucky they’ll keep him alive until they confirm you’re the one working on the story. My guess is that David Harris was killed because he was going to talk to you. How did you arrange your meeting?”
“In person, right after the last negotiation session ended,” Melissa replied.
“So no emails to intercept. Where were you? Could you have been overheard? Were there any bugs?”
“We were in a corridor in the UN building. We were alone.”
“Maybe he told someone?”
Melissa’s face suddenly animated with inspiration. “His boss, Diana Fleming, she’s the ranking civil servant from the Department of Trade. She’s leading the British delegation. David hero-worshipped her.”
“You think we can talk to her?” Bailey asked.
Melissa’s vulnerability vanished and her mask of bravado returned. “Getting access to the rich and powerful is what I do.”
54
Diana Fleming was staying at the Four Seasons with the rest of the British delegation, but returning there was out of the question. Melissa had been given the negotiator’s schedule and knew Fleming was due to dine with the head of the American delegation at Le Chat-Botte, a Michelin-starred restaurant on the Quai du Mont-Blanc, less than five minutes’ walk from the hotel. She and Bailey knew that there was every chance Fleming’s schedule had been changed as a result of Harris’s death, but he’d suggested they stake her out anyway. It would be too risky to attempt to reach her inside the hotel, and they didn’t have any immediately obvious alternatives.
Melissa believed the dinner was scheduled for seven o’clock, so they left the Café Art’s at quarter to six and made their way through the city.
They hurried along the Place des Alpes, a broad, quiet street, past souvenir shops and high-end boutiques. A park lay to their left, its pristine lawns encircling a high gothic monument. When they reached the river, they turned right on to the Quai du Mont-Blanc, joining the crowds of locals and tourists who were enjoying the warm evening. Couples meandered along the riverside, holding hands, heads bowed like cooing doves. Bailey tried to recall the last time he’d shared a moment like that.
“Over there,” Melissa suggested, interrupting his line of thought.
She was pointing toward a pier complex that was an embarkation point for the pleasure boats that cruised the lake. There were two sets of steps leading down to the riverside path, separated by a raised platform that was approximately one hundred feet long and five feet high. The top of the platform was a patio overlooking the river and lake. One half was covered with chairs belonging to a little café, and the other was bare. A glass ticket office fronted the pavement and bisected the two halves of the patio behind it.
“The far stairs,” Melissa suggested, pointing to the furthest set of concrete steps, which dog-legged down toward the river.
Bailey nodded, and they weaved through the evening traffic to cross the road. He followed her along the pavement, past the ticket office and the bustling patio, to an information sign that stood beside the western steps. He leaned against the wall, and Melissa took up position next to him. She was smart: the restaurant lay a quarter of a mile to their east, and from their vantage point, they could see the corner of the Four Seasons, the riverside path below, and both pavements that flanked the Quai du Mont-Blanc. If Fleming passed them, they’d see her.
He shifted his weight, aware that he was starting to feel his nagging injuries. He reached into his pocket and freed another two pills from the blister pack. He couldn’t be sure exactly how long it had been since the ones he’d taken in the lobby of the Four Seasons, but the returning pain indicated that they’d worn off, so he popped the liberated co-codamol into his mouth and crunched them down. Melissa watched him, clearly curious, but she was sensitive enough not to pry.
He swept the street, looking for any sign of police, while Melissa kept a keen eye on the Four Seasons. The nagging pain subsided and was replaced by dreamy warmth, which flooded his body and made his head feel heavy. He found himself staring at a couple seated on the pavement outside the Restaurant Casanova, a small place across the street. Both were in their late twenties, the man with the chiseled good looks of a sixties movie star, and even at this distance Bailey could see that his watch was worth more than most cars. The woman was catwalk gorgeous, with long brown hair that rippled over her shoulders in beautifully set layers. She wore a short white lace dress, which reminded Bailey of the girl in the fairy-tale painting in the café. Her companion wore a double-cuffed tailored shirt and slacks. They held hands and talked while they waited for their food to arrive, smiling to reveal their perfect white teeth, gazing at each other with eyes full of love.
“Are you OK?” Melissa asked.
Bailey was startled by a sudden change in light. The street lamps were on, and the sky was dark purple, colored by the fading sun. He could see Melissa staring at his mouth and reached up to find himself drooling.
“You’ve been looking at them for ages,” she continued.
He w
as grateful when Melissa returned her attention to the Four Seasons, giving him the opportunity to wipe his lips. He might have misjudged the timing of the pills, or was suffering their cumulative effects. Either way, he suddenly felt light-headed and unsteady, and when he looked at the couple outside the Casanova, the movie star was on his feet putting a jacket around the fairy princess’s shoulders. They’d finished their meal and were on their way to paradise. It seemed like only a moment ago they’d been waiting for their food to arrive, and as he watched the waitress clear away their dishes, Bailey grew unsettled at the apparent lost time. Was it possible to black out without even realizing?
“What’s the time?” he asked.
Melissa checked her watch. “Five-to-seven.” Almost an instant later, she whispered, “There she is.”
Bailey looked across the road and saw a tall woman in her mid-forties, her haircut into a bob. She wore three-inch heels, beige tights, and a dark skirt suit.
“Who’s he?” he asked, indicating the suited man who accompanied Fleming.
“Scott Barnes,” Melissa replied. “Her assistant. Come on.”
She grabbed Bailey’s arm and pulled him away from the wall. His legs felt weak and slow, but they kept him upright, and he allowed himself to be steered across the street on an intercept course. They stepped on to the pavement directly in front of Fleming and Barnes.
“Ms. Fleming,” Melissa began. “I need to talk to you.”
Fleming looked around nervously. “The police want to question you,” she revealed. “They say you were in David’s room.”
“We had nothing to do with his death,” Bailey protested.
“Come on, Diana,” Barnes urged, taking her by the hand.
He tried to pass, but Bailey squared up to him. “David was murdered, but not by us,” he assured them.
“Murdered?” Fleming was genuinely surprised. “The police say it’s suicide. They’re under the misguided impression that you and David were having an affair,” she told Melissa.
Melissa shook her head and snorted in derision. “It’s a set-up. David was going to share some information he had about a blackmail plot.”
Even through the haze, Bailey saw Fleming stiffen. “You know about it?” he observed.
“Can you give us a moment, Scott?” she asked her assistant.
Barnes hesitated, before backing away to take up position near the Casanova, his eyes watching them the whole time.
“I know about the blackmail,” Fleming revealed. “David told me he’d been threatened by someone who was going to expose his homosexuality if he didn’t ensure the British delegation advocated the Online Security Act. It was ridiculous, David’s sexual preferences were well known and were neither here nor there. It’s not the bloody sixties. David needed my authorization to initiate an investigation.”
“The Box?” Bailey asked.
Fleming nodded. “Who are you?”
“It’s better you don’t know.”
“Yes. I asked MI5 to look into it. They’re investigating as we speak. If you want to know more, talk to them.”
“Who’s leading the investigation?” Bailey inquired.
“A man called Samuel Mayfield,” Fleming replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t be seen with you.”
She waved to Scott, who hurried forward, and the two of them were about to leave when Melissa touched Fleming’s arm.
“I’m sorry about David,” she said. “He was a good man.”
Fleming nodded somberly before heading east.
“Shit,” Bailey muttered as he watched them go. He couldn’t believe the mess he’d made. Bomber jacket, Sam Mayfield. Bailey had been to hell and back, when all the answers might have been found in an interview room in Heathrow Police Station.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“I know this Mayfield,” Bailey replied. “I’ve fucked up. He tried to help me, and I wouldn’t listen.” He looked around, suddenly alive with adrenaline. “We need to get to London.”
55
Tears ran down Ash’s face not as a result of the unbearable pain, but because her own screams sounded so distressing. They were loud and raw and bristling with despair. She could tell that the agony and desperation were genuine because she could feel nothing but fire in her bones and anguish in her head. She knew they’d broken her because she was crying, and only the defeated showed weakness. It was as though she was looking down at herself, watching through her father’s eyes, seeing the feeble wretch he’d tried to save her from becoming. The power of the divine would go nowhere near such an abject excuse for a human being. She was a failure on every single level and all she wanted to do was die. To be rid of it all. To end the pain. The suffering. Even if she survived, she couldn’t cope with the burden of these memories. What these men had done to her combined with the suffering of her childhood would be too much to bear.
Better an ending.
Release.
Freedom.
These men would give it to her. These men in masks. The leader, or Drawl as she’d thought of him before the pain had started. It had been a way of remembering his identifying accent in case she escaped. But she now knew there was only one way to escape. She was to die here in this rotten room, at the hands of these evil men.
“Tell us where he is,” Drawl yelled above her screams as he increased the severity of the device attached to her head.
All she had to do was give them an answer and it would all end. Just words. Air. Nothing really. It wasn’t a betrayal. It was freedom. For her, and for Wallace.
“Stop,” she pleaded, her voice hoarse.
The pain subsided instantly, but echoes of it coursed throughout her being.
“I’ll tell you what you want, on one condition,” Ash said, gulping in air. “You make it quick.”
Through her tears she saw Drawl nod. She couldn’t shake the feeling that behind the Pendulum mask, he was smiling.
56
The call came when night was at its darkest. Good news was never delivered at this hour, and it was with a sense of dread that Reeves answered the phone.
“Reeves,” he said.
“It’s Harrell.” His boss’s voice was leaden. “We’ve found Christine.”
The journey from his small Brooklyn apartment to the promenade beside John Lindsay Park took a little over twenty minutes. Reeves felt empty when he saw the flashing blue lights lining the access road north of the tennis courts. There were four NYPD cruisers, a couple of unmarked sedans, and, most disturbing of all, a coroner’s truck.
Reeves bit his lip as he parked behind the truck. He felt the suffocating weight of sadness as he climbed out of his car. He ran his hand over his face and started walking toward the East River. To his right, the 3 a.m. traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge emitted a steady, pulsing rhythm, as people went about their lives, unaware that a short distance away people were mourning the loss of a colleague and friend.
Reeves followed a path which traced a circle around some trees, and he was soon confronted by the sight of half a dozen uniformed NYPD officers conducting fingertip searches near the edge of the promenade. Silent and somber, they eyed him warily. As law enforcement officers, these men and women were used to the horror of losing one of their own, and Reeves could sense their sympathy as he walked toward the river bank.
A lone figure stood at the very edge of the promenade and looked over the barrier toward the river below. Reeves recognized Harrell’s silhouette, but the man looked smaller somehow, more tired and frail. Reeves took a deep breath and joined his boss.
“Agent Reeves,” Harrell observed. “Miller and Romero are on their way.”
Reeves steeled himself, taking a moment to try to bring his emotions under control before he peered. It was useless, and when he put his head beyond the railing, looked down, and saw what Harrell had been watching, he couldn’t stop the tears forming in his eyes. A few feet below him, a pair of police divers corralled a body that was floating face up in t
he cold, dark water. Her head had been shaved and her throat cut, but the thing that upset Reeves most was that even in the dead of night, he could see that she’d been badly beaten. Her face was a bloody mess of cuts and bruises, the swelling turning her into something unrecognizable. Reeves felt pure rage as he thought about her suffering, and swore that those responsible would pay for what they’d done.
“NYPD got an anonymous call from someone who says they spotted the body. Male caller,” Harrell said. “They’re trying to trace him. You worked with her. Is there anyone we should call? Friends? Family?”
“I don’t think so,” Reeves replied slowly. “Her mother’s dead, and her father, well . . .”
“I know,” Harrell interjected. “Even if we could find him, she wouldn’t want him involved.”
“There’s no one else. Just us,” Reeves responded, suddenly struck by the tragedy of Ash’s life. She was truly alone. He wiped his eyes and looked away from her body, concentrating on the jagged outline of the buildings on the opposite bank.
“They found Agent Ash’s ID stuffed in her mouth,” Harrell said after a while. “I know how hard this is . . .” He hesitated, marshaling the composure to continue. “But it’s a murder investigation now. I want you to take all that grief and anger and find the people responsible. NYPD are putting Saul Oriol on this. He’s a good man and we should give him all the help we can.”
Reeves found himself backing away before he’d even registered the decision to move.
“Agent Reeves?” Harrell queried.
“There’s someone I need to talk to,” Reeves replied before he started running toward his car.
I didn’t see anything wasn’t good enough. I didn’t get a look at their faces wouldn’t cut it. Alejandro Luna was the only direct link to the men who’d abducted Ash, and he had to give them more.
Presbyterian Hospital was a short drive from the park and Reeves shot through the city at speed, caring little for lights or traffic. When he got to the hospital, he bounded into the building and, lacking the patience for the elevator, ran up the stairs, emerging on to Luna’s ward angry and breathless.
