Authors: Alan Jacobson
“If our people have done their jobs over the years, no. But after that business at our hotel, if we were captured on film, they’ll eventually start putting a face with all the forensics I’ve left behind. I’ve been sloppy.”
They slipped into a Starbucks and moved to the back of the crowded café; surprisingly, there was no wait at the counter. Vail bought a couple of espresso brownies and handed one to DeSantos.
“You gonna tell me what happened back there?”
DeSantos took a large bite. “I had to get creative. And I left behind more than just some forensics.” He whispered by her ear, “Another body or two.”
“That’s becoming a habit.”
“It became a habit a long time ago,” he said, staring off at the busy streetscape through the storefront windows.
“In another context, I’d be drawing up a profile on you.”
DeSantos frowned, then watched as another police cruiser sped by the café. “We shouldn’t stay here. Let’s get moving.”
They left Starbucks and started down the street.
In a low voice, Vail said, “How did that happen? Rudenko showing up.”
“You mean because Reid was keeping tabs on him.”
“Exactly.”
DeSantos chewed on that one—his jaw muscles literally got busy working. “Let’s go find out.”
29
V
ail and DeSantos emerged from the Bond Street tube station and headed up the busy avenue.
“Before I leave England, I’m going to buy a pair of boots in that shop,” Vail said, nodding at the Russell & Bromley store across from Turner’s gallery.
DeSantos did not reply. Vail knew that his mind was on Reid’s failure to warn them that Rudenko had left the store. Vail had the same thoughts, but had a difficult time believing that Reid’s screw-up was an intentional act. Then again, what did she really know about him? She knew what he told her, so if his intent was to deceive, other than her ability to evaluate violent human behavior, she was not in a strong position to determine his veracity.
As they ascended the steps, Vail silently hoped that they’d walk in and see Rudenko busying himself in the gallery, as if nothing had happened.
No chance of that.
When they entered, Reid was seated on a chair in the office doing paperwork.
“Just about to call you,” Reid said. He slid off his seat and glanced at the back room.
“Where is he?” Vail asked.
Reid frowned, clearly realizing that something was wrong. “In the other room working on a restoration. Why?”
Vail held his gaze a long moment, but got nothing from his expression. “Let’s go see. We’ve got some questions for him.”
“Mr. Paxton,” Reid called as he led the way down the short corridor. He pushed open the door from its half-closed position and stepped into the long, narrow room. He continued toward the far wall, passing rows of canvases propped at random angles. “Mr. Paxton,” Reid called again, his pace quickening.
When they reached the last easel in the room, where a large oil painting was resting, Reid stopped short. The stool was empty.
“Oh shite.” Reid’s head whipped from side to side, eyes scanning the space in front of him. “He’s not here.”
“No,” Vail said, “he’s not. In fact, he and his goons just tried to kill Hector.”
Reid’s eyes shifted to DeSantos.
“What the hell happened? You were supposed to—” DeSantos lowered his voice. “Is Turner here?”
Reid wiped at the flop sweat on his forehead. “He left. Had a meeting with a dealer.”
“You were supposed to keep an eye on Rudenko, let us know if he left the building. And give us a heads-up.”
“Bollocks.” He rubbed his temples. “I—I fucked up.”
“Did he just walk right past you?” Vail asked. “I mean, really, Reid, what are we supposed to think?”
Reid’s eyes shot over to Vail. “What the hell does that mean?”
Vail stared at him. “You know what it means.”
The inspector shuffled his feet. “I’m less concerned with assigning blame than I am with figuring out how he got past me. I rather think that’s more productive.”
“I’m interested in both,” DeSantos said. “You don’t want us questioning your veracity, but a highly prized asset walked out of this place without you seeing him. That requires an explanation—because right now, you’re looking like a conspirator.”
Without a word, Reid walked toward the opposite end of the restoration studio. He weaved past a number of easels that held large canvases in various stages of repair. His voice suddenly emerged from behind one of the paintings. “Oh shite.”
Vail folded her arms across her chest. “I’m getting tired of hearing you say that.”
“Come see for yourself.”
Vail and DeSantos joined Reid along the side wall beside a gray metal emergency fire door.
Vail frowned. “Oh shite.”
“That’s what I was saying. He must’ve slipped out the back.”
“And you didn’t know about this door?” DeSantos said, making no attempt to mask his incredulity.
Reid’s face shaded red. “Not this one, no.” A moment later, he said, “Still, it’s alarmed. How’d he get out?”
“Rudenko disabled it,” DeSantos said. “Who knows how many times he slipped out without you knowing?”
“You think he made you?” Vail asked.
“Made me?”
“Realized that you were watching him, that you’d figured out who he really was.”
Reid thought a moment. “I gave him no reason to suspect anything. I did nothing different.”
Vail glanced around at the easels, cleverly arranged to provide an effective screen to the emergency door from multiple angles. “This was purposeful, the way he’s positioned everything. It’s a shield.”
“So he did know something was up,” Reid said.
“Not necessarily,” Vail said. “When the gallery exploded, with law enforcement now all around him, he made sure he had the ability to slip away for a while without the police knowing, to conduct his real business. No prying eyes and ears.”
DeSantos lifted one of the paintings from the easel and examined it. “And he created this ‘screen’ in case one of the cops keyed in on who he was. He had an escape route planned.”
“Sounds right to me,” Reid said.
Yeah, no shit. Of course it would. And it better be right, ’cause if I find out that you’re screwing with me, I’m gonna kick you in the bollocks.
DeSantos set the canvas back on its stand. “When we got here, you said you were about to call us. What about?”
Out of habit, Reid glanced around the empty room. “The director general wants to see you. Do you know where the Aldwych tube station is, in the Strand? The sign now actually says, ‘Strand Station.’”
DeSantos squinted. “Near the London School of Economics. Yeah. But that station’s been decommissioned, or whatever you call it.”
“Disused.”
“Disused?” Vail asked.
“When they stop using an Underground station,” Reid said, “they just lock down the doors and shut off the power. Otherwise, the thing’s intact, like a time capsule. You’ll be meeting Director General Aden Buck in a little known part of the station that was never actually opened.”
“Where’s the entrance?” Vail asked.
“There isn’t one, not really. Not to this part of the station. Sometime after they buttoned the whole thing down, they filled the old entryway with cinderblocks to prevent people from getting in. But there’s a way in if you know about it.”
“And you know about it.”
“The director general uses it for highly sensitive meets. There are only four of us who’ve been read in.”
“Where’s the entrance?” DeSantos asked.
“A local pub.”
Vail canted her head. “Come again? A local pub?”
“It’s well disguised. The George IV, it’s owned by the school. Mostly grad students use the place. Go in, hang a left in front of the bar, through a side door, and down a few steps. Next to the loo you’ll see a short brown door marked “private.” There’s a keypad on the knob. Enter 938483. One of his men will fetch you there and escort you the rest of the way. It’s dark and the stairwell’s in a bad way, so it can be a bit dangerous.”
“Why don’t you just take us?” Vail asked.
Reid consulted his watch. “Can’t. Have a meeting with Grouze at the station.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. “Take my car.”
DESANTOS GAVE A LOOK AROUND from a second floor window before they ventured to street level. Although he told Vail that he couldn’t be sure their hit squad would not be waiting for them, he was trained to pick out covert operators, particularly professionals.
As they walked toward Regent Street to pick up Reid’s sedan, Vail turned to DeSantos. “He said ‘us.’”
“Can you give me an idea of what you’re talking about? You’re the one who reads minds, not me.”
“I don’t read—You’re just trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“Trying.”
“Reid. When I asked him if he knew where this secret Underground meeting place was located he said, ‘There are only four of us’ who know. But that makes no sense.”
DeSantos did not respond.
No, it doesn’t make sense. And if Hector’s not talking, it means I’m on to something.
“Because,” she said, “Reid’s a Scotland Yard detective and he was talking about a place that the director general of MI5 uses for clandestine meets.”
“Why is this important?” DeSantos asked as they approached the car, his head rotating in all directions, scanning the area.
“I knew he was MI5.”
Satisfied it was safe to approach, DeSantos extended a hand. “Keys?”
Vail stopped a few feet short of the car. “It’s important. You know it is, which is why you’re not answering me.”
“That’s right. Keys?”
“Who said you’re driving?” she asked as she hit a button on the remote and unlocked the door.
“You’re punishing me because I’m not telling you what you want to know.” He sat down in the passenger seat.
“Not at all.” She turned over the engine and pulled away from the curb. “I just want to drive. I need to be in control of something on this mission.”
“You realize you called this a mission.”
“What should I call it?”
DeSantos grinned. “Mission’s fine. I just—It’s just that you’re usually parked behind a desk. It’s been so long since you’ve been out in the field on a tactical op that I didn’t think you even still remembered the lingo.”
“Haven’t you learned by now that using diversion doesn’t work with me? Tell me about Reid. He’s not really an inspector with the Met, is he? He’s MI5.”
“I’m not sure how to answer that.” He glanced around. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Not at all. I figured I’d just drive and you’d get around to directing me sooner or later.”
“I have a new appreciation for Robby. You’re exhausting, Karen.”
“
That
,” she said, “is something you already knew. Now, about Reid.”
“Take this to Haymarket and hang a right.”
Instead, she hit the automatic door lock and pulled to the curb. “We’re not going anywhere until you answer me.”
He craned his neck in all directions. “We shouldn’t stay here, out in the open. Keep moving.”
“Tell me what I want to know.”
He unlocked his door, but Vail immediately locked it.
“Damnit, Karen.”
“Tell me!”
“Fine. You’re right. He’s MI5. But he’s also with the Met.”
“Scotland Yard’s his cover?”
“Get moving, will you? You’re putting us in jeopardy. If you know
anything
about running covert ops, you know I’m not bullshitting you.”
Vail pulled back into traffic and resumed their heading.
“It’s kind of screwy,” DeSantos finally said. “And irregular. But MI5 has their reasons—which, by the way, they haven’t shared with me, because I don’t need to know. What I do know is that he’s been with the Security Service a long time, one of their most trusted agents. But he ‘left’ about seven years ago so he could have deniability and operate out in the open, even though he’s working covertly.”
Vail turned onto Haymarket as she thought through Reid’s cover. “Actually, that’s kind of brilliant.”
“Whether it is or not doesn’t matter much. Important thing is that you keep it to yourself.”
Following DeSantos’s instructions, she turned left on Pall Mall East and followed it around Trafalgar Square onto Strand.
Once she was through the complicated maneuvers, DeSantos said, “Let’s park. Over there.” He pointed to an empty curb space on the left, along Melbourne Place, and Vail pulled into the spot.
“That was very disorienting. Driving in London, I mean. On the wrong side of the road.”
“You’re actually driving on the right side of the road.”
“Don’t start with me.” She chirped the remote to lock the doors, then joined DeSantos on the sidewalk. But she realized his body had tensed, his eyes suddenly scanning the area.
He grabbed Vail’s arm and pulled her left. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Where?”
“Behind us, five o’clock. Don’t look. A man in a suit, blue tie.”
“Suit? Who the hell are these people?”
“Professionals. Most people tend to trust well dressed businessmen.”
“There’s only one?”
“Hard to say. Right now, that’s all I see. But if I’m right, there are others. Do you know where we’re going?”
“I’ve got the address.”
DeSantos released his grip. “Go there. Not directly. Think angles, diversions, and distance.”
“What about you?”
“I’m good with diversions, remember? I’ll meet you there.” He turned and met her eyes. “Be careful. Stay in populated areas and—”
“I know how to do this.”
DeSantos’s look suggested that he doubted her statement. But that only made her more determined to prove him wrong.
30
V
ail continued to the corner of Melbourne and Strand, crossed Strand, and then turned right. To her left was apparently one of the old entrances to the disused tube station in Aldwych—where she would be ending up, though she would be accessing it from a different location. A metal gate with a Squire padlock prevented entry; an adjacent cinder block wall abutted a portion of well preserved tile and the first couple letters of the old “Strand Station” sign.
As she casually checked over her shoulder, she saw a suited man who looked like a run-of-the-mill banker—with one exception: the handgun-sized bulge beneath his lapel.
Hector said there’d be others.
Vail continued down the street past a series of windows filled with portraits of what appeared to be scholars, artists, or luminaries of some sort: they were emblazoned with the likes of Morpurgo, Ramphal, Owen, Auld. She kept the same pace, not letting on that she had seen the man following her.
To her right, a narrow church building—St. Mary le Strand, according to the sign—split the avenue on a traffic island, a wrought iron fence rimming the front.
The sound of a revving motorcycle snapped her head away from the structure and toward the entrance to King’s College, where a couple of London’s ever-present closed-circuit cameras were supplemented by a guard dressed in a short yellow fluorescent jacket. He stood behind the security gate, a woefully inadequate red-and-white striped beam blocking the driveway.
Wonder if the campus cop sees the assassin who’s following me. Probably doesn’t know a suited killer from a foundation donor.
Vail passed the steel-gray metal gate that proudly displayed the King’s College crest and continued down the block until reaching the majestic arched entryway of Somerset House. Closed circuit cameras stared down at her from above. She turned left through a blue pedestrian gate, daring the man following her to continue his pursuit under the watchful eyes of Big Brother.
She emerged in a voluminous cobblestone quad bounded on all sides by sizable, columned, Portland Stone-and-brick buildings. On her left was an A-frame sign with arrows pointing toward The Courtauld Gallery. Vail knew The Courtauld was famous for, among other things, its collection of Impressionist paintings—something that figured prominently in her Dead Eyes case.
Vail thought of exploring the courtyard’s nooks for an alley where she could disappear. She didn’t see anything promising, so she stayed in the open, walking straight ahead toward a large, raised sculpture of a man and a lion, headed for the glass-domed building directly in front of her.
After coming around the other side of the charcoal-colored, platformed statue, a concrete courtyard came into view, with dozens of rows of fountains spurting tall streams of water. A few people were walking among them under umbrellas.
Great place for kids—in bathing suits—during the summer.
It was not summer, Vail was not wearing a bathing suit, and she was not concerned about getting her clothing wet. But the suited man behind her might look a tad out of place if he followed her in, and whatever drew attention to him was to her advantage. There had to be CCTV cameras recording their movements in here.
Vail jogged forward, her boots sloshing through the puddles, eyes squinting as the joltingly cold water struck her hair and scalp.
She planned to go through the building and exit onto a street that would take her back toward the George IV pub, her destination. She needed to lose the thug along the way—not an easy task, since she was certain he would not break off pursuit until he finished his job: eliminating her.
But as Vail approached the entrance, she saw the reflection of the suited man behind her, no more than fifty yards away, walking determinedly, and confidently, through the sprouting fountains.
DESANTOS CROSSED ALDWYCH and neared the London School of Economics, or LSE, a limestone-fronted edifice with four massive Ionic columns at the corner entrance and a number of smaller ones abutting the building’s face. A couple of classic London-red phone booths poked out at him against the gray facade. Two naked, helmeted warrior figures stood poised to strike above an arched, secondary doorway bearing the sign “Clement House.”
He continued along the block-long LSE structure, toward Columbia House. The man jogged across Aldwych thirty seconds behind him.
DeSantos hung a right on Houghton Street in front of the “Pedestrian Zone” sign and stepped onto the cobblestone road. He walked past the line of bicycles on his left, cutting through the campus in the direction of the overhead bridge.
DeSantos continued past the Old Building and hung a left at Clare Market in front of St. Clement’s. He turned right and right again, down a narrow alley, headed toward John Watkins Plaza. If memory served, that’s where the LSE library was located.
He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. His pursuer was a few dozen feet behind him.
He quickened his pace and walked up the plaza’s ramp, past a number of students seated at the aluminum tables to his right. Ahead, as he had thought, was the entrance to the library.
Knowing it would be more difficult for his adversary to take out his target in a building with an open floor plan and many people present, he pulled on the handle of the glass door and walked inside
.
VAIL EXITED THE MUSEUM and looked out across a four lane divided road, beyond which the choppy River Thames flowed, tour boats moored along its edge and pedestrians strolling along the tree-lined frontage. The posted sign told her this was Victoria Embankment, and she turned left, down the sidewalk that ran along the Courtauld Gallery buildings and art institute.
Vail passed a worker in an orange maintenance vest who was pushing a broom along the pavement and saw, up ahead, an archway of some sort. She thought of ducking in, but a bit farther down was a street that led in the direction that she needed to go.
But as she approached, she realized it didn’t make a hard turn, as she had thought. It more or less curved left off of Victoria Embankment; the street sign indicated it was Temple Place. She followed that until it crossed Surrey Street. She hung a left again and within about fifty yards the area turned into mixed residential and commercial. But there was no one in the vicinity—not even the suited man.
Vail wanted to think that she had lost him, but she knew that his drive to kill her was as powerful as hers was to stay alive.
She continued along Surrey, past an aging, once-elegant apartment building with bay windows and faux terraces. A few hundred feet later, as she approached a striped rust-colored brick and cream-toned block edifice, the suited man stepped out from a fenced-in alley.
And he was ten feet away.