Authors: Alan Jacobson
20
H
ector DeSantos checked his watch one more time, then lifted his coffee cup and took a drink.
He dialed Vail, but it went straight to voice mail. Again. Something was not right.
In the States, he would have assets at his disposal to locate her based on her BlackBerry’s GPS signal. Hell, he could call people who knew her and ask if they’d heard anything. Here he was running blind. Actually, he wasn’t running anywhere. He was stuck waiting in the café in case she showed up, a scowl on her face complaining that she didn’t have mobile service in the tube and the train had broken down and it was hot and—
Any number of scenarios could explain why she was late. But it was now approaching an hour past her expected arrival, and there weren’t many things that could be responsible for detaining her that way without contact of some sort.
If she had been delayed, or if something had come up regarding her case, she would have texted him. His cell phone number was now in her call log.
But his attempts at contacting her went directly to voice mail. Her BlackBerry was likely turned off.
He had drained the third cappuccino when his Nokia rang. “Karen?”
He closed his eyes as soon as he heard the voice at the other end of the line. It was not Vail.
“Yes. This is Cruz.” He listened a moment, then said, “Yeah. I got it…No, I know where it is…Fine.”
He slammed the phone down, eliciting looks of dissatisfaction from the other patrons tapping on their laptops and iPads. He rose from his chair and began pacing, his heart rate fast and forceful.
Seconds later, the phone rang again, and he stared at it a long second before grabbing it up.
“Cruz.”
He turned toward the window, his eyes scanning Piccadilly, looking for someone watching him.
“No, I heard you. I’m on my way.”
DESANTOS MET THE MAN at the M&M’s World Store in Leicester Square. It was not a typical low-key location for a meet between two covert agents. But that’s what made it safe: no one would expect such a rendezvous to take place here.
The building that housed the store was a block square, an all-glass contemporary design with bright lights spewing purples, pinks, yellows, greens, blues—almost the entire rainbow was represented.
DeSantos walked in the entrance, at the curved corner of the building, and was greeted by two man-size M&M mock-ups. The interior did not disappoint. It consumed multiple levels, a red staircase spiraling to the lower levels, where he saw four large M&Ms striding in a crosswalk against a facsimile backdrop of what appeared to be the Beatles’
Abbey Road
cover.
Any other day, DeSantos would’ve at least smiled at the sight of the diorama. But right now he wanted answers.
He walked to the back room where M&M teddy bears were stacked on racks wearing clothing bearing the classic candy’s colors. DeSantos picked up a red-shirted teddy bear—his signal for the contact to approach.
“Where is she?” DeSantos asked in a low, measured tone.
From the adjacent rack, the man said, “You should know that you are responsible.”
DeSantos fought the urge to turn and get in the man’s face. Wrap his fingers around his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean? I told you I’d take care of her. You should’ve trusted me.”
“You didn’t, she was out of your control and was headed into very dangerous territory. Now, I’m afraid, there have been consequences that you will have to deal with.”
“Where is she?”
“I am not responsible for the state she is in.”
“Where is she?” DeSantos repeated, louder than he intended. But at this point he did not care.
The man gave him the location, and DeSantos left the store on the run, the red M&M bear flying from his hands, landing harmlessly on the floor.
21
D
eSantos arrived in Oxford ninety minutes later. His phone’s GPS took him to the address he had been given, and despite the darkness that had settled over the town—which was always bleak, even on bright days—he recognized parts of it from a prior trip here years ago.
He knew the general area: one of England’s most visited and historically important churches, the University Church of Saint Mary the Virgin, erected in the thirteenth century—and looking every bit its age. The exterior was in desperate need of retrofitting and refurbishment.
DeSantos drove down Catte Street and took it to the end, then parked his Peugeot—illegally—and took to the pavement with an old-fashioned incandescent Maglite that was woefully underpowered.
A few university students walked briskly past, probably en route to their dorm rooms, an evening party, or the library to study.
DeSantos started in Radcliffe Square and moved slowly around the several centuries-old circular Radcliffe Camera building, checking the crevices, alcoves, and doorways.
But there was nothing.
He returned to his car and then backed out of Catte Street, about to pull out his phone and ask what the hell was going on—when something caught his eye. He grabbed his flashlight and jumped out of the vehicle.
Beneath the archway of the Bridge of Sighs—an ornate covered connector ramp between two buildings—DeSantos saw three young men gathered in the darkness. Two items protruded from beneath the youths—women’s black boots. He knew those shoes.
As he stepped onto the cobblestone gutter that paralleled the curb, he brought his Maglite up and splashed it across the backs of the men. They turned—and DeSantos’s forearms tensed. These were not youths—certainly not the innocent type out for a night on the town. These were troublemakers: hooligans, in the local vernacular.
“Get that light the fuck out of my face,” the older one said, a roughness to his skin and a squint in his eyes.
“What do you got there?” DeSantos asked.
“None of your business. Do yourself a favor and move on.”
If he had his Desert Eagle, he would have pulled it by now. Its impressive mass would’ve been enough to give these shitheads a case of urinary release.
The hoodlums shifted position—as they prepared to do battle. In that moment DeSantos realized that he had been wrong. There were four of them, and they were larger, and not nearly as young as he had estimated at first glance.
Behind him, his car idled. The street was otherwise empty.
“Move away from her,” he said.
The leader stepped forward. “Yeah? I think you need to do some arithmetic. There be four of us and only one ’a you.”
DeSantos detected a Northern Ireland twang in his accent. These men were hardened veterans, likely brought up during the brutal and bloody conflict.
As if on cue, he flicked his right wrist and unfurled a long-bladed knife. Its bright chrome glinted in the yellow beam of DeSantos’s Maglite. It looked clean and sharp.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” DeSantos asked, taking a step forward, followed by another. First rules of close quarter combat: take an attack mode—a fuck you stance. Show no fear. Control the situation. “I’m not gonna tell you again. Move away from her. Now.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll kill you.” He said it with a cool casualness that lent credibility to his claim—no hyperbole; a statement of fact. He continued to advance on them; the thug’s comrades shuffled position in response. “That woman means a lot to me. You’re gonna have to go through me to get to her. And trust me. You don’t want to have to go through me.”
DeSantos had stepped within three feet of the man and had started moving laterally, his body squared up and his right hand extended, pointing at him.
The thug jabbed the knife toward DeSantos—who deflected it with a sweeping downward motion of his hand against the man’s elbow, locking it and driving it backward, breaking it with a satisfying snap while simultaneously jabbing the edge of his right hand into his throat.
The man stiffened, and DeSantos yanked down on his attacker’s left wrist, the pain from the fractured joint forcing the knife to drop from his hand. DeSantos snatched it up, swung it around, and sliced at the guy’s abdomen, opening the flesh and releasing a line of bright red blood. He slammed the point of his elbow into the man’s chest and he went down hard, back first, to the pavement.
DeSantos brought the knife up and prepared to take on the next banger. With two swift, continuous movements of his hands, he slit his adversary’s bicep, then brought the blade down across his stomach and finished him with a quick stab into his groin. He dropped to the ground in writhing pain.
“C’mon,” DeSantos yelled, facing the third criminal. “Let’s go, asshole!”
The other two took a step back, eyes locked with DeSantos’s.
“Last chance. Come at me or get the hell out of here. Three. Two. One—”
They brought their hands up and backed away, revealing his unconscious colleague, a rag stuffed in her mouth.
“Karen!”
He tossed the gag aside and moved the damp, matted hair off her face. He stroked her cheek gently, then checked her pulse: fast and thready.
He hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to his car.
Goddamn it. He told them he would deal with her. Son of a bitch.
22
D
eSantos stood in the treatment room next to the examination table where Vail was lying supine. He had burst into the quick care facility with her in his arms, telling the staff she had been attacked by street thugs.
“Do we need to do a rape kit?” the doctor asked.
“No, I got there in time. But it looks to me like she was given some kind of sedative.”
After finishing her exam, the doctor slid her penlight back into her breast pocket. “Your friend’s in shock and she’s sustained some contusions to the face and head. But I’m not seeing evidence of a concussion. She’s fortunate that you came along when you did. We’ll infuse her with some fluids and let her rest for a bit. She should be well enough to leave in a couple of hours.”
DESANTOS HELPED VAIL back to the car and fastened her seatbelt. She was more lucid now, and her disoriented questions of “What happened?” and “Where am I?” transformed into more forceful demands to know why she was taken and how DeSantos knew where to find her.
“Where are we?”
“Just outside Oxford, about an hour and a half from London.”
“How’d I get here?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to him, intensity in her eyes. She was clearly feeling better. And that meant the questions were going to get tougher, more pointed. Anger would set in shortly after that.
VAIL RUBBED AT HER TEMPLE. The headache was subsiding, but bits of memories of being confined in a dark area flashed through her thoughts.
“I was in a dungeon,” she said, staring at the dark road ahead. She hugged herself and shivered. “I was chained inside an iron cage.”
“Sure it’s not some kind of drug-induced dream?”
“No. Not a dream.” She looked at her wrists and saw abrasions from the iron restraints. “Arabs. They were speaking Arabic.” She turned to DeSantos. “What the hell? Does that make any sense to you?”
He blew some air through his lips. “Arabs. You sure you’re not mixing this up with some other case you had?”
Another image. “Bright lights. They were wearing black masks.”
“This is sounding more and more like a dream.”
That doesn’t make any sense. None of this is making sense.
“It wasn’t a dream.”
DeSantos leaned forward to check an approaching road sign. “I don’t know what to tell you, Karen. Someone grabbed you up. That’s about all you know for sure. Everything else, well, sounds like a really intense nightmare.”
“Nightmare for sure.” She stared out at the dark roadway. The vivid, blue-tinged headlights of an approaching vehicle made her squint.
Lights
. “They were filming—there were movie lights. No, they were making a video. Of my death, my decapitation.”
She realized DeSantos was looking at her strangely.
“I’m not making this up.”
“Did I say you were?”
“That’s what you’re thinking.”
“Look, Karen. I have no doubt something traumatic happened to you. But Arabs threatening to decapitate you? Taking revenge on you for Uzi’s case?”
Vail looked down at her legs, pulled up her pant cuffs, and saw bloody scrapes all across her shins and knees.
Definitely not a dream.
She turned to DeSantos. “Stop the car.”
DeSantos checked his mirrors. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Stop the goddamn car, Hector. Now!”
“We’re in the middle of the motorway.”
“Pull over.”
“Why? What’s got into you?”
She reached over and unlocked her door and then grabbed the handle.
“Okay, hold on.” He swung the car left onto the shoulder and stopped.
Vail popped open the door and walked around to the driver’s side, where DeSantos was getting out. The Peugeot’s headlights shone into the dew-heavy distance; the engine purred.
“You mind explaining what the—”
She grabbed hold of his collar. “Tell me what the fuck’s going on! No more bullshit.”
“What? Are you talking about our lunch the other day?”
“What the hell happened to me in that dungeon? Who was behind it, and why?”
“What makes you think—”
“All I said is that there were Arabs. You said they were taking revenge for Uzi’s case. But I never mentioned that.” She let go of his collar and slapped his face. “Goddamnit, Hector. I thought we could trust one another.”
DeSantos’s eyes narrowed, darkened. “I save your life and I get a slap in the face as thanks?”
Vail took a step back. “How do I know that you’re not responsible for putting me in that situation to begin with?”
DeSantos tensed his jaw. “Hold on right there. How dare you? Do you really think I’d do anything to hurt you?
Anything
? Ever since I met you I’ve tried to keep you out of trouble, to watch your back, to make sure no one hurt you.”
“Then what the hell is going on? You owe me an explanation—full disclosure.”
DeSantos leaned his buttocks against the car door. Finally he said, “Why don’t we get you a shower, grab some food somewhere, and talk this through.”
“No. I want to know now. No more deceptions, no more half-truths.”
He chewed on that a moment, then said, “Ever hear of Hussein Rudenko?”
Vail tilted her head. “Of course. Long and impressive résumé—if you’re a criminal bent on wreaking havoc in the world. We’re briefed on him once a year or so. I can’t tell you what he’s done, but I know he’s number three.”
“Number three?”
“FBI Ten Most Wanted list.”
“Brief rundown? He’s the world’s most prolific weapons dealer and money launderer. He’s sold deadly weapons systems to militias in the US, to the Taliban, the Northern Alliance, Hezbollah, and terrorists in Africa, the Congo, Sierra Leone. You get the point. But he made one mistake. He fucked with the wrong people: when he sold those surface-to-air missiles used against an Israeli passenger jet in 2002. Mossad’s been looking for him ever since. Problem is, he’s a tough guy to find. Interpol’s been searching for him for two decades. But it’s hard to find someone when no one knows what he looks like. And that’s why I’m here.”
“Here, as in England? I thought you were on a diplomatic mission.”
“I never said that. I mean, really. Me? A diplomat?”
Vail looked at him.
“Okay, fine. That’s my cover story. Repping the State Department and assisting the diplomatic attaché. That said, about three years ago, the CIA got intel that Rudenko was getting involved in planning and carrying out terror attacks. Some in The Agency felt he was trying to expand his business by stoking the embers, creating greater demand for his weapons. Others thought his sibling’s death set him off.
“Whatever it was, Mossad stayed on Rudenko’s trail. Two years ago they intercepted a shipment of chemical weapons that Hezbollah was transporting out of Syria, bankrolled by Iran and facilitated by Rudenko. But instead of confiscating it, they decided it’d be more valuable for them to see where it was going—because where it’d end up, there’d be a much larger cache. That was the Holy Grail. So to speak.
“They embedded electronic tracers and let the cargo go through. They were able to get actionable intel on the weapons depot in Libya, where it ended up. They weren’t sure they’d be able to go in without being detected, so they watched it for movement. But they were bumping up against a deadline—they were worried the power source on the electronic beacons would run down. The tracers had been sending back signals for two years and the desert heat and dust are killers for electronics. And if they were stored in some kind of hardened bunker, that requires more power to get the signal out. Mossad couldn’t risk losing track of the weapons.
“So they started prepping a mission to capture Gadhafi’s chemical weapons stash when his government was overthrown. The cache wasn’t being guarded, and munitions of all kinds were open to terror groups and weapons dealers. You name it—they had it. Bad shit when you’re talking about it falling into the hands of bad shit
heads
.
“A huge red flag went up when the Israelis tracked a large shipment of weaponized ricin to the UK. London, specifically. They alerted MI5 immediately.”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“That,” DeSantos said, “is why I’m here.”
“But why would MI5 need your help? They’ve got their own agents and informants. They can execute a black op as well as we can.”
“They do have skilled operators. Or they did. Past tense. There was a cyber-attack during a mission six weeks ago and the identities of all of their operatives were potentially exposed. There hasn’t been enough time to sort it out and figure out who’s safe and who’s not. Two have already been assassinated.”
“How could something like that happen?”
“By exploiting the one and only weakness in the system. Someone figured out—or knew—which bank the Security Service and MI6 use to pay their operatives and they accessed its system. Hacked it, or got in through the normal portal, they don’t know yet. It looks like the system was
not
hacked, which would suggest someone on the inside. A mole. But they don’t know if that’s really the case or if it’s been made to appear that way.
“Point is, the identities of all their domestic and foreign agents are at risk. When Mossad sounded the alarm, the Brits had a huge problem. They couldn’t send in some junior agent in training. And until they figured out who did it—mole or not—they couldn’t risk using a compromised agent. He’d be killed—and the op would fail. Rudenko would take off, vanish into the wind. Again. And one of his compatriots would launch the attack. So they sent me here.”
“Because no one here knows who you really are.”
“Let’s hope not. The MI5 director general had the idea of using an American black operative who was unknown in London, who had no known affiliation with the security service or with the CIA.”
“And you fit their needs.”
“Apparently. Director General Aden Buck called Knox, his counterpart, and my boss signed off on it.”
“I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”
“There was that, too. I was happy to get back out in the field, prove myself. They didn’t need to ask twice. Actually,” he said with a chuckle, “they didn’t ask once.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me this when we first met?”
“Because then I’d have to kill you.”
Vail smirked. “Now there’s the Hector DeSantos I know and despise.”
“Ow. That’s not fair. Without people like me doing what we do, lots of innocent people would be blown up by terrorists, racially cleansed by despots, raped and dismembered by warlords. You don’t want to know the entire list.”
Vail stabbed at the dirt with her left shoe. “I know that. I just have a hard time with killing in cold blood. Circumvents due process.” She held up a hand. “But I understand where you’re coming from. And I appreciate your putting your life on the line. So what’s this got to do with me? And why are you suddenly leveling with me? Or are you about to stick a knife between my ribs?”
“First of all, that’s not how I’d kill you. Too painful. And despite what you think, I’m fond of you, Karen.”
Vail tilted her head. “Thanks. I think. This conversation is not instilling a whole lot of comfort.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“Right. The truth. So what’s this got to do with me and my time locked away in a dungeon?”
“We believe that Gavin Paxton is Hussein Rudenko.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“When did they zero in on Paxton?”
“In retrospect, it looks like he started using Turner Gallery as a ruse, a front, for his weapons deals about a year ago, when Turner’s former curator ‘died’ in a car accident.”
“They think Rudenko cleared the way—or created a need—for himself to get the new job opening.”
“Right. But MI5’s only got a skeleton crew digging into it, because until they figure out if they’ve got a mole, they don’t know who can be trusted. So what they know is not super useful—yet. It’s like the polls on election night. The early returns are interesting, but they may not mean a whole lot.”
“When Mossad’s tracking signal ended up at the gallery, they didn’t know who the recipient of the ‘package’ was. Turner and his family have a solid, long-standing history in England, very philanthropic. The gallery’s been around for ninety-eight years. Paxton’s history, however, was a lot more suspect.”
“So if they knew where the ricin ended up, they secured it.”
“They were preparing an op to search the place and replace the ricin with an inert substance, but it took time to plan because the gallery has video surveillance and they didn’t want to spook Paxton in case he was Rudenko. A few days before I got here, it looked like he had started moving the ricin stores when the beacon finally crapped out. So, no. It’s still out there. Somewhere.”
A chill wind blew, and she wrapped her arms around her body. “You should’ve leveled with me.”
“That’s what I’m doing now—I’m telling you the truth—because I need you to back off. Leave Paxton alone.”
“Back off? I’ve uncovered some things about him—”
“Exactly. Because there’s a high probability he’s a notorious weapons dealer, a cold-blooded killer, and the most prolific bankroller and enabler of war, mass atrocities, and terrorism in the post-Cold War era.”
Vail ground her molars. “Did you have anything to do with my kidnapping?”
“Of course not.”
She stood there observing him for a moment. “But you knew about it.”
“Only after the fact. They told me what they’d done, and why. And where to find you.” DeSantos turned away. “There’s a lot to this, Karen. A lot you don’t know about.”
“Damnit, Hector. They scared the crap out of me. I thought they were going to chop my head off!”
DeSantos shook his head. “I didn’t know. Honestly—I never would’ve allowed them to do that. I told you, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
That’s a nice thing to say, but—
“Who’s behind it?”
DeSantos shifted his weight. “You know how this shit works. Need to know. And all
I
apparently needed to know is that they were concerned you’d fuck everything up. Scare away Paxton. Once he’s gone, he’s gone. The stakes are very high. Obviously.”