Authors: Alan Jacobson
“Of course you did.”
“I thought we first have to confirm that Paxton’s Rudenko.”
DeSantos slipped on his leather jacket. “Already done. I got a DNA sample when I shook hands with him. I had a special coating on the palm of my hand. The lab analyzed it and compared it to a DNA exemplar we had from Rudenko’s younger sibling who was killed in an explosion when MI6 raided one of his weapons storage warehouses. We got a 76 percent match.”
“Good. Then tomorrow.”
DeSantos pulled a Manchester United baseball cap onto his head. “Tomorrow.” He reached forward and gave her a hug. “Remember, you’ve got my word. And I’ve got your back.”
24
V
ail feared that she would either lie awake all night—what was left of it—or awaken with terrifying dreams of being imprisoned in the iron cage. She took a Valerian root capsule, hoping it would prevent both, and a short time later fell into a deep sleep. When her alarm rang five hours later, she swung her legs out of bed and felt surprisingly decent.
Later that morning, she met DeSantos a few blocks from Rudenko’s apartment. DeSantos had surveilled the building, secured a couple of baby blue British Gas windbreakers, and worked out a plan with Reid.
Owing to the way the building was wired, they had decided against shutting down the electricity because two entire floors would have lost power, which would invite calls to the utility. At the very least, it would attract attention and, if Rudenko found out, it would raise his suspicion.
DeSantos explained that he could enter the flat and remain in the hallway, which was blocked from the view of every room except the kitchen. Before exposing himself, he would use a fiber optic snake to take a good look around the apartment’s interior to check for surveillance cameras.
Reid’s text message arrived a few minutes before noon indicating they were clear to enter the flat.
Vail and DeSantos had already begun their charade, starting at the apartment several units down from Rudenko’s, knocking until they found a renter at home. They went through their spiel of looking for the cause of a gas leak, but once they received Reid’s signal, they moved directly to Rudenko’s unit. DeSantos picked the lock with efficient ease; an onlooker might think he had a key.
They were careful to avoid any potential issues and made sure no one had eyes on their activities.
DeSantos entered while Vail stood watch out front. Although Rudenko lived alone, there was no stopping an accomplice from coming by. She stood three doors away, down the hall, pretending to take notes on her clipboard.
INSIDE, AFTER CLEARING THE FLAT with the fiber optic kit and finding no cameras, DeSantos searched in a grid-like pattern, taking everything in, absorbing it for future reference. The place was well appointed, with sculptures and paintings that either belonged in Turner’s gallery or had once been on sale there. There were two furnished bedrooms, but only one had a lived-in appearance.
He looked for anything that might disclose the location of the chemical weapons or provide indications of who Rudenko was liaising with in London. He was particularly interested in smartphones, tablets, laptops, desktops—anything that might store data he could access.
Problem was, he could not remove devices from the premises. Any investigation had to be done onsite, without leaving trace that he had been inside. Since they had almost zero usable intel on Rudenko’s personality, there was no way of knowing if he was a detail person, the type who would notice items slightly out of place. They could not take the risk, so unless DeSantos had reason to suspect that an item could bear fruit, he would leave it untouched.
VAIL CASUALLY CHECKED HER WATCH and then continued to make notes. DeSantos had been in Rudenko’s flat for nine minutes—an unusually long period of time given the circumstances. She texted him to hurry up; she was getting nervous standing there in the hall. The longer she remained there, the greater the chance she would look like she did not belong. While it did not seem like Paxton had watchers, the risk grew that someone, a vigilant neighbor or delivery person, would see her—and remember that she was there.
DeSantos responded that he was almost done, that he had found Rudenko’s PC and was going to take a look through it.
As Vail was replacing her phone, it vibrated—Montero. Again.
Crap, not now.
She ignored the call, and as she shoved the handset into her pocket, her finger bumped up against the COFEE device she carried on her keychain. Developed by Microsoft, COFEE—short for Computer Online Forensic Evidence Extractor—was a tool kit on a USB thumb drive that she always had with her, alongside a tiny LED flashlight and her Behavioral Analysis Unit office key.
When plugged into a computer, the COFEE automatically downloaded data stored in that PC’s temporary cache, or memory, that was lost when a system was powered down. She had forgotten she had the device with her, but the potential benefit was too great to pass up the opportunity.
Vail took the chance of knocking on the door of the flat. DeSantos answered and she told him to switch places with her. He started to object, but she grabbed his jacket collar and pulled him toward her.
“Just do it,” she said. “I’ve got an idea.”
He reluctantly took the clipboard and moved outside. Vail stepped in, found the computer, and inserted the drive into a USB port. Ten minutes later, DeSantos texted her:
we have to get out. whats taking so long
She wrote back:
taking a coffee break. be out asap
When the device had finished copying the temporary files, including Rudenko’s internet history, she opened Windows Explorer and dragged as much of the data from the documents folder as she could fit onto the COFEE.
Vail pulled out the device and shoved it into her pocket. She had been at it for eighteen minutes and they had already pushed their luck well beyond reasonable boundaries. She gave one last look around the flat, then joined DeSantos in the hallway.
“Was it worth it?” he asked as they descended the floors in the elevator.
“Won’t know till we can get the data to someone who can make sense of it.”
The lift doors slid apart and DeSantos led the way out. “I think we know just the person.”
25
T
he image of Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Uziel infused Vail with a sense of calm and warmth, even though he was 3,500 miles away. Based on DeSantos’s expression, it was clear that Uzi had the same effect on him.
They were seated in the back of a cab, DeSantos having palmed the driver a £20 note as he told him he needed some privacy for ten minutes. The driver smiled slyly—an attractive couple wanting to be alone in the backseat of his taxi conjured only one image for him.
But DeSantos and Vail had something else planned.
DeSantos held his Nokia between them, and the Skype connection was clear and stable.
“Santa,” Uzi said. “Long time no see—gotta be, what, five days?”
DeSantos tilted his phone a few degrees and caught the edge of Vail’s cheek.
“Hang on a minute—I know that red hair. Karen?”
Vail moved DeSantos’s hand to get a more flattering angle on her face.
“Good to see you, Uzi. You have a minute?”
Uzi tilted his head. “I have to say it looks strange seeing you two shoulder to shoulder.”
“It’s a bit of a story,” Vail said. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my idea.”
DeSantos chuckled. “Wasn’t mine, either.”
Vail leaned back and gave DeSantos a look.
By the end of this mission I may actually figure out who’s responsible for getting me into this mess.
“So how’s England?”
Vail didn’t quite know how to respond. “Let’s just say it’s been a blast, and leave it at that.”
“We’ve got this thing we need you to analyze,” DeSantos said.
“I’m generally good at analyzing ‘things,’ but can you be a little more specific?”
“COFEE,” Vail said. “Ever hear of it?”
“I assume you don’t mean the drink.”
Vail smirked. “It’s a USB device that’s used for—”
“Capturing all the data stored in a computer’s cache, encrypted passwords, all that fun stuff.”
“Exactly.”
“We’ve got one, and we need the data from it ASAP. Can I upload it somewhere and you can look it over?”
“Won’t work, Santa. I need the drive. Some data’s hidden.”
“Even if we overnight it to you, you won’t get it for three days.”
“Bring it to the embassy,” Uzi said. “If you’re lucky, they’ll get it on the next military transport and I’ll be able to pick it up from Andrews tomorrow.”
Vail gave DeSantos her BlackBerry. “See what you can do.”
He handed over the Nokia, took her phone, and started dialing.
“Whose data are we looking at?” Uzi asked.
“Can’t say over an open line. But put it this way—it’s right up your alley, if you get my drift.” Vail was certain that Uzi, head of the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force in Washington, understood clearly.
“Next time when you go off on a mission like that, give me a heads-up,” Uzi said. “I can do things for you like I do for Santa—hook you up with all sorts of cool gadgets. We’d be able to communicate without worrying about eavesdroppers.”
“I appreciate the offer, but there won’t be another mission like this for me.”
“Then I’d better deliver on this now, huh?”
“Hey, you owe me one.”
Uzi grinned. “That I do. No worries—I’ll get to work on it as soon as I have the flash drive in my hands.”
Vail thanked him, hung up, and then turned to DeSantos, who was in the process of ending his own call.
“We’re going to meet an embassy messenger. He’ll get it over to RAF Mildenhall, the air force base. We keep a large military presence there. It’ll be on the next flight out.” DeSantos popped open his door and flagged the driver. “Grosvenor Square. Pronto.”
The man looked at him.
“It means fast.”
The driver’s eyes moved from DeSantos to Vail, as if trying to determine what lascivious act this man and woman had done in the backseat of his cab while he was standing a block away.
Vail leaned forward. “What part of ‘fast’ don’t you understand?”
26
V
ail stood in front of the bronze statue of General Dwight Eisenhower as she waited for DeSantos. Eisenhower, portrayed in a military uniform with his hands on his hips in an authoritative pose, looked out from atop a tall cement pedestal.
Vail had decided not to accompany DeSantos to the embassy security booth, wanting to stay off the radar—and security cameras—of Jesus Montero, the FBI Legal Attaché who had taken such a liking to her on their first visit.
Montero had told her to keep in contact with him, something she had not done. She was surprised she had not received a more urgent message from him when she ignored his calls. Perhaps whoever had put the crunch on his balls when she was in his office had also told him to give her space.
Unlikely. I’m not that fortunate.
“You ready?” DeSantos asked, coming up behind her. He considered the sculpture for a second and then said, “Not a bad likeness.”
“I’ll make sure you’re bronzed when you finally bite it.”
DeSantos swung his gaze over to Vail. “You’d do that for me?”
“Don’t tempt me. Or that day may come sooner than you’d like.”
THEY WALKED TO THE NEAREST tube station and descended the escalator. DeSantos glanced around at the handful of passengers milling about, then said, “Are you ready for the next part of our mission?”
“
Our
mission?”
“Let’s put it this way, Karen. You’re still here. You now know the purpose for your visit to London was a crock. So you could’ve just gone home.”
“I go home when my ASAC tells me to go home. Or the Legat. Not to mention that I haven’t gotten my revenge yet on whoever put me in that dungeon.”
“I’d be the last one to deny your quest for revenge. But are you ready for me to read you in on the next chapter?”
‘You’re reading me in?”
“We need to find a guy by the name of Vince Richter.”
“And why do we need to do that?”
DeSantos stopped at the edge of the train platform and gave Vail a look. “How about we just say that he’s got something to do with…our man?”
“So you’re not really reading me in.”
“It’s need to—”
“Hector, this ‘need to know’ bullshit is starting to get under my skin.”
“Starting?”
“Fine, it burrowed in when we were at Garfunkel’s. And it’s dug in deeper since then, like an itch that can’t be scratched.”
“Are you with me?”
Vail closed her eyes. She knew she should beg off this, call Gifford and tell him the entire case was a sham.
I’d leave feeling empty, used. But if we catch Hussein Rudenko and recover those chemical weapons…that’d be a major score.
“I’m in.”
“Great. Next stop: Vince Richter’s house.”
THEY GOT OFF THE UNDERGROUND at Liverpool Street station and ascended to the drizzly, windy streets of East London.
“Which way?” Vail asked.
DeSantos chuckled. “I don’t actually know where he lives. We’ve got a last known address, which I’m pretty sure won’t still be good. If it ever was.”
“So we just start knocking on doors?”
“Not exactly. Reid gave me a pub and a few names we could start with. We’ll lay down some bread crumbs and see what it gets us.”
As they walked along Brushfield Street, the rain picked up. DeSantos donned a baseball cap and pulled up the collar on his leather coat.
Lacking an umbrella and getting rained on, Vail asked, “Who is this guy we’re looking for?”
“An assassin affiliated with the scumbag responsible for my partner’s death.”
Vail stopped. “Anthony Scarponi?”
DeSantos whipped his head around. “How do you know that?”
“After our first case together, I looked you up.”
“Looked me up? Where? I’m not Google-able. Is that a word?”
“I asked around.”
DeSantos nodded slowly. “Uzi.”
Vail started walking again, passing the Spitalfields Market on the left. “Yeah. And I know a thing or two about Scarponi. When he was released from prison—”
“That’s when Brian and I were brought in. And that’s when he got killed. And that’s when I made it part of my life’s mission to exact revenge. Any other questions?”
“Just what Vince Richter has to do with all this. And what Hussein Rudenko has to do with Vince Richter.” She said this in a low voice, though it did not matter; there was no one nearby.
“Reid said MI5 doesn’t have a file on Richter, but they do on Scarponi. And there was a known associate whose initials were ‘VR,’ so I’m hoping they’re one in the same. Scarponi had a base of operations for a couple of years in this neighborhood.”
“Wait, didn’t you mean Scotland Yard has a file on Scarponi?”
“MI5.”
“But Reid’s with the Met, not the Security Service.”
DeSantos crossed Commercial Street but did not reply.
“Hector, answer me.”
He stopped on the corner, outside an aged pub sporting rose granite columns. He snagged a look at the sign above him, and pulled the brass handle to open the door. He stepped up to the bar and ordered two real ales.
“I don’t want a beer,” Vail said.
“Yes, you do. When in Rome…”
“But we’re in London.”
DeSantos looked at her. “Beer in England dates back to about 100
AD
, when Roman soldiers in England relied on Celtic ale to sustain them.”
Oh
. “I still don’t want a beer. I need to keep my head clear.”
The bartender filled two glasses from a traditional hand-pull, set them on the counter in front of them, and then moved aside to wipe down the counter.
“Take it, Karen,” DeSantos said in a low voice. “Drink it.”
She took a taste and drew her mouth back. “It’s not cold.”
“Real ale is cask-conditioned beer, made right here. It’s served cool. Not cold, not warm. Tastes good, don’t you think? Much better than those processed commercial abominations most people call beer.”
Vail held up the glass and examined it against the light. “It is.”
DeSantos settled himself on his stool, his back to the bartender, and said, “Anyway, like I was saying before, that wasn’t Richard, it was
Vince
.” He winked at her.
It took her a second to process DeSantos’s intentions. “It wasn’t Vince. I specifically remember Richard pulling out his…his big thing and waving it at all the women.”
The bartender glanced over at them, listening but trying to appear busy with some other task.
DeSantos cringed, as if to say, “Really? That’s the best you could come up with?” Instead, he laughed loud and long. “I remember that too. And I’m telling you, it was Vince. Vince was circumcised. Remember now?”
Okay, this is my fault. I started us down this path.
“I know a circumcised penis when I see one. And this definitely was not one of ’em.”
DeSantos took a long drag from his beer, then pulled open his zipper. “Well, have a look, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
“Whoa,” Vail said, jumping off her stool, “what the hell are you doing?”
The bartender came closer. “You two okay?”
“We’re fine,” DeSantos said, zipping up his pants. “I just—Hey, maybe you can help. Used to be a guy lived around here. Vince. We were buddies with him, partied a lot, but we lost touch a few years ago.”
“Don’t know a Vince.”
“Yeah,” DeSantos said, drawing it out, as if he
had
to know the man. “Vince. Vince Richter.”
The bartender’s face went slack and his eyes widened. “Haven’t seen him for a while.”
“Vince was like that,” Vail said. “In and out of our lives. But we always somehow found each other again. Still owe him some money for a job. A lot of money, come to think of it.” She turned to DeSantos. “You remember which one—”
“Hey—quiet. Yeah, I remember.” He threw a cautious look at the bartender, then shook his head at Vail before turning back to the man. “Know where we can find him? Anyone who might’ve seen him lately?”
The bartender busied himself with wiping his hands on a wet rag. “Maybe.”
DeSantos deftly placed two £50 notes on the counter. “How about now?”
The man’s eyes canted down toward the bills. He palmed them and slipped them into his pocket. “I’ll make a call.”
DeSantos lifted his ale in a gesture of thanks, then took a pull from it. A few moments later, the man hung up the wall phone and faced them. “Go out, make a left, go one block, turn left on Wilkes. It’s a narrow road. Go halfway down and you’ll see an alley. Wait right there. Jack’ll be on about four.”
Vail checked her watch: they had fifteen minutes. They left the pub and followed his instructions, but instead of turning down Wilkes, DeSantos kept walking.
“You’re not taking any chances,” Vail said.
“This guy is an assassin, Karen. If Vince is ‘Jack,’ or if Jack’s a friend of his, we could be walking into a trap. I want to make sure there’s only one of him when we get near.”
The rain had stopped, but the charcoal gray miasma was rapidly turning into darkness.
“It gets dark so early in England in the winter,” Vail said. “Really shortens the day.”
DeSantos did not reply; he was scanning the area, no doubt searching the shadows for nefarious types who could be accomplices of Richter.
They circled back. It was now straight up four o’clock, and DeSantos felt it was safe enough to walk down Wilkes. “Wait here, let me take a look-see.”
“Shouldn’t I come with you?”
“All eggs in one basket? Nope. Keep your back against the building and your eyes moving.”
He proceeded down the narrow street, his footsteps crunching the wet, dirty pavement. She watched as he slowed by the opening to the alley.
“Jack?” he asked as he walked.
Nothing.
He checked in on Vail, then continued on to the end of the block. He gave a look around, turned and headed back.
Ten minutes passed, then another five. Finally DeSantos joined Vail and they returned to the pub. Inside, a different bartender was polishing the glasses.
“The other guy,” Vail said. “The one with the beard. He around?”
“Went home. Quits at four.”
DeSantos said, “I haven’t been in the UK for a few years. I’m looking for a couple of old buddies. Harlan Landley and Pete Aynsley. Seen ’em around?”
“Harlan comes in once a month or so. When, I’m not sure. He just kinda pops in. Pete, haven’t seen him in a while. Who should I say is askin’?”
“Rick Trainor.” DeSantos pulled over a bar napkin and wrote down a phone number. He slid it over with a £20 bill.
“I’ll make some calls.” They ordered another couple of ales while the bartender pulled out a cell phone, walked to the end of the bar, and dialed.
“Rick Trainor?” Vail asked.
“One of my cover names. You don’t like it?”
“Not sure it fits. Hector Cruz has more style.”
“Yeah,” he said with a chuckle, “I’m kind of fond of that one, too.”
A moment later, the bartender told them he was expecting a return call from one of Landley’s friends. Twenty minutes passed before his phone rang.
“No luck,” the barman said.
They thanked him and left, headed for the Underground station.
“Well,” Vail said. “That was a waste.”
DeSantos jerked on her elbow. “Hang on a second.” He swung his head left and right, searching for something.
“I know that look. If I had my Glock, I’d have pulled it by now. What do you see?”
DeSantos, keeping hold of Vail’s arm, pulled her forward, toward the bright mouth of the tube station. “We’re being followed. Keep going, I think we can get inside before they do—and then we can lose them in the maze.”
They entered, swiped their Oyster cards, and hung an immediate right down the escalator. They pushed a few patrons aside, weaving their way to the bottom—but the two men DeSantos had seen were keeping up with them, now only thirty feet away.
“Those the guys?” Vail asked. “Gray sweatshirt and black windbreaker?”
“That’s them.”
They turned left down a narrow tiled hallway, past a tube route map showing the local stops on the line, then right through a short corridor and onto the platform. A train was waiting with its doors open.
“In here,” Vail said, pulling DeSantos into the car and then down, below the padded seats.
A second later, the train started moving, the pull of inertia sending them sprawling backward. They steadied themselves, waited until they cleared the station, and then got up onto the plush, thickly padded seats.
“Anything?” she asked, looking over his right shoulder while he peered over her left.
“Nothing. Yet.”
An emaciated woman wearing leather pants and a silver ring through her nose had an iPod in her hands and headphones over her ears. She glanced up at them, didn’t see anything worth watching, and refocused her attention on the music player.
Once Vail felt confident their pursuers were not on the train, she leaned back in relief. “So what the hell was that back there?”
“Can’t be sure,” DeSantos said, his glance still sweeping the car from left to right, clearly not as convinced as Vail that they were out of danger. “Asking for those guys certainly triggered a response, though.”
“Reid gave you those names.”
Keeping his head moving in all directions and not bothering to make eye contact, DeSantos said, “Yeah.”
They changed trains twice onto different lines and finally arrived at Charing Cross.
“How do we know that Reid didn’t set us up?”
DeSantos rose from his seat, eyes once again working the landscape. “We don’t.”
THEY EMERGED FROM THE STATION at York Place, past the orange and white striped tiled walls that lined the staircase. There were considerably more people in this area of London—commuters and tourists were buzzing about.
As they turned left around a high stack of bundled
West End Final
newspapers, Vail gestured at the Bistro restaurant off to her left. “We’ve gotta eat. How about Café Rouge? Or is it safer in the hotel restaurant?”
“Honestly, safest place may be your room. Controlled area.”
“All these great restaurants in London and I get meals locked away in my hotel.”
“Tell you what. Go get take away in Café Rouge and I’ll stand watch.”