by Jay Stringer
Officially, Egypt’s National Security Agency was headquartered in a sleek new building in the heart of the city. The agency had been formed after the revolution, as one of the many reforms intended to clean up the image of the country’s government and security services. The previous agency, the SSI, had been hated and feared in equal measure, known worldwide for its use of torture and detention without trial. Nash was old-school. He’d been in the CIA while the SSI was at its height, and he still had many of the contacts he’d forged during that time. As a result, he knew the NSA was also still using this old SSI facility, a converted hotel, on the western edge of the city.
The siren cut out after three minutes. Someone had figured out it was a false alarm. Nash estimated about half the staff were outside. The prisoners, and their guards, would still be in the holding cells. They didn’t get taken out unless it was 100 percent guaranteed the alarm was genuine. Once the cops were sure, the prisoners would be led out to a secured pen in the old courtyard.
Nash watched as the staff started to file back into the station before, on cue, the alarm went off a second time. He loved alarm systems in old countries. Retrofitting buildings that had stood for centuries, trying to fit modern, computer-controlled systems onto existing networks of wires and junction boxes. Nobody would ever sign off on the money it would take to strip everything out and start again, so they ended up with hybrids, new systems trying to control old networks. And the security services of all countries were sometimes the easiest to hack. They were complacent, and so sure that their secrecy had people fooled.
This second alarm rattled the staff. They were nervous. This had to be genuine, right? The crowd down below split visibly into two groups. Some hanging back, others insisting on reentering the building, to get out of the cold.
Nash started to move, crossing over to an alarmed skylight. He did one last check on his equipment, slipped a lockpick out of the case, and paused, ready. The alarm stopped a second time. It was only off for thirty seconds before starting again. Nash smiled. He didn’t know how long the next step would take, but it was inevitable. Someone inside the building, blaming the equipment rather than the compromises behind it, would swear and shut off the system. As the sound drilled out around them, Nash turned to stare at the large, dark outline of the Great Pyramid. It never failed to surprise him just how close the ancient monuments were to town. As a child, seeing them in movies and on postcards, he’d imagined the Giza Plateau to be in the middle of the desert, surrounded by sand for miles around. But the modern Cairo was built right up to the enclosure. You could sit in a Starbucks and look out, through the green logo on the window, to one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
The siren died abruptly, like it had lost its voice mid-shout. This was the moment. Someone had made the executive decision to kill the alarm. Whether it was with wire cutters or throwing the breaker switch, the result was the same. All the building’s systems were wired through the same controls, including the security alarms.
He had the lock on the skylight open in seconds and lowered himself down into the stairwell below. From surveying the building’s plans, he knew this central stairwell was originally a fire escape in the days of the old hotel. In refitting the building, the security services had built a modern, more efficient series of exits. The bottom floor of this stairwell was still in use, as the route for taking prisoners out to the secured pen, but the top two stories had become storage space. It was piled high with desks, boxes, and filing cabinets, making it easy for Nash to climb down. He took the stairs to the floor below.
He pulled his specially adapted Glock and opened the disused emergency door. The hallway beyond was dark. There were no windows. He could hear people arguing in staccato bursts. His Egyptian Arabic was pretty basic, but he could get the gist of it.
Who cut the power?
No, the alarms.
Then why are the lights out, too?
Shit.
That was an unplanned bonus. Nash now had the cover of darkness. At least until someone figured out how to fix the wire or circuit breakers. Could be seconds, could be an hour; best not to rely on it too much either way. He stepped slowly along the corridor, pausing at open doors, waiting for any sign of trouble before continuing. The room he wanted was at the end of the hall, but he had to go past one more office and a break room. The conversation he’d been listening to was coming from one of those doors. He stopped next to the office, pressing himself to the wall. Someone was coming his way. His eyes were already adjusted to the gloom and allowed him to make out a tall shape, a little over six feet. Nash held his breath and didn’t move. The shape turned his way but didn’t seem to be as accustomed to walking in darkness. Whoever it was, they hadn’t yet sensed Nash’s presence. The shape was saying something about calling down to the basement, but the tone was sarcastic, weary. A deep male voice. The shape turned back toward the doorway, and Nash heard the other person, a woman, with the same bored tone but more of an edge. As the shape replied, Nash started to make out features. The man was broad, with a flat nose and a beer gut. The words trailed off, and even without knowing what they were, Nash could tell the sentence was incomplete. The man hesitated; then the head turned toward Nash.
He was blown.
Nash struck hard and fast, slamming the heel of his palm upward into the nose to stun the larger man, then slipped around behind him and wrapped his right forearm around the man’s thick windpipe. He pulled his arm inward, fast, finding a pressure point with the fingers of his right hand and pressing home the advantage. The man sagged and became a heavy, unconscious weight, but not before letting out a choking sound. Nash heard the woman shout, then movement that sounded like she’d pushed up from a chair.
Nash let the man fall to the ground and ran along the corridor. He heard a shout from behind and turned, seeing the outline of the woman bending over her fallen colleague. She was looking his way. Nash couldn’t make out any features at this distance. He pulled his gun and fired, hitting home somewhere in the middle of her outline. She grunted and fell to the floor.
The bullets were custom-made. A small rubber outer shell, wrapped around a needle suspended in a fast-acting sedative. On impact, the needle would push through the rubber, injecting the toxin. There was still a chance a shot could be fatal. Rubber bullets had been known to kill, and that was even without the combination of a sharp needle and a toxin. But most of the time they would have the desired effect, and the victim would simply keel over, down for the count. Nash had no problems dropping bodies, but these were spooks, and he wanted to avoid the hassle that would come with killing an official.
More shouting came now, this time from the break room. Nash shot each shape as it filled the doorway, felling three people. He found the door at the end of the hall, the one he needed. It was locked. The mechanism would only have taken him a few seconds to open, which was his original plan, but now he didn’t have time. The evacuees would all be back soon. Nash kicked through the door handle, taking the flimsy lock with it. The door hit something solid as it gave inward, and Nash heard a grunt. Light spilled out into the hallway from a streetlamp visible through a window in the room. Nash could see the person who had grunted. She was a few inches shorter than him, with dark hair cut short. She rolled with the movement and turned back to face him, adopting a fighting stance, squared out and hands up. From the speed of her recovery, Nash could see training and experience. He shot her twice, just to be safe.
The lights flickered on overhead. With them came an alarm. A new one. Someone had finally flicked the breaker switch back on, and with it, they’d been told about the intruder. He had seconds, if that.
Lenny Arno was in the middle of the room, hanging upside-down from something resembling a large coatrack. There was a blowtorch on a table beside him, but it hadn’t been turned on. Lenny’s face, already flushed red, twisted first in surprise, then relief.
He opened his arms as wide as the handcuffs would allow. “Hey, Augie. How y
ou doin’?”
Before he started selling weapons on the black market, Lenny had been a con man and lawyer in his native New Jersey. He used his accent to full effect whenever possible; the role suited him. He managed to react to every situation as if it was something he’d planned for, even though half of everything he touched seemed to turn to crap.
“Better than you,” Nash said.
“This? Just a misunderstanding. They’re writing an official apology. Say, uh, while we wait… could you maybe let me down?”
“I need a name.”
“I got loads, as many as you want.”
“Lothar Caliburn.”
Lenny rocked back and forth a little, then looked down at the woman slumped on the floor as if to say, You believe this guy? “What, the walls have ears here?”
Nash pointed the gun at him. Arno had no way of knowing the bullets were rigged.
“I need his real name, Lenny. And I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Take me with you.”
Nash knelt down and pressed the gun to Lenny’s temple.
Lenny held out his hands, showing his cuffs. “Look, there’s no win for me with these guys. I offered ’em Caliburn’s name as a deal, but all they’re offering is a blowtorch. You get me out of here now, I’ll give you the name.”
FIFTEEN
On the mezzanine floor of her penthouse apartment, Lauren Stanford relaxed into the plush leather of her office chair and looked out at the neon Dosa sign. Beyond it, across the East River, she had a view of the Con Ed towers. It had never impressed her much. People all around the world dream of waking up to a view of the Manhattan skyline, but the version they think of was the one from the movies and postcards. There she was, in an exclusive apartment on the riverfront, and she had to live with a view of the power plant.
To her left was the Williamsburg Bridge. An ugly metal thing. Another frustration. Years before, when her parents were still running the company, they’d looked at buying Brooklyn Bridge Park and relocating the whole Dosa operation down there. They’d gotten as far into the project as having architects draw up plans. It was going to be a campus, with educational facilities built in, and a tour of the plant for the hipsters. Lauren was to have her own space, with a hot tub, staring out at the famous bridge and the gleaming towers of the Financial District.
Her parents had changed their minds at the last minute, deciding that it was more important to keep the company rooted here, behind the neon sign that had become a famous landmark. Her father had argued that companies would pay millions to have the history and the brand recognition, and why should they throw it away just for a better view?
She turned to the wall beside the desk, where two large framed portraits of her parents hung. “You should have listened to me.”
Lauren had arranged her office in a very specific way. In the middle of business meetings, she could feel her parents watching over her. Each time she made a new million-dollar deal, she could look up at them, show off in front of them, for all the doubt they’d shown in her abilities. And the pictures also lined up with her bedroom door, on the other side of the mezzanine. On quiet nights, when she felt alone, she could leave the door open and have her family with her as she fell asleep. On other nights, when she had company in bed, she could smile, and watch her mother judging her as she closed the door.
Ted said it was creepy.
That one time she’d let him into her room, let him think they had something more. This whole Ted situation was a mess. She should have known that from the start. Hell, she did know that from the start. Why had she gone against her own instincts?
She sighed, looked up again at her mother. “And I shouldn’t have listened to you.”
The Stanford family always had to be careful who they trusted. There were so few people who really shared their dream. And even fewer who were worthy of it. Each generation, the parents would cast around, looking for a son- or daughter-in-law from a family they trusted. And Ted was the only son of her mother’s best friend. Her mother had worked hard to set them up, always taking them places together, always pairing them off on family vacations. But to Lauren, all he’d ever been was an annoying younger brother. An obligation. The way he followed her around. The way he constantly screwed up.
But the way he looked at her was fun.
Her cell rang. The secure one, used only for private projects. The caller ID showed it wasn’t Ted. Instead, she saw two letters. CT. Carina Texas. She let the call ring for a few more seconds, letting Texas know who was in control, before pressing the green button.
“Carrie, babe.” She stretched the words out. Full high-society schmooze. “It’s been a while. Give me good news.”
“I have some information that might be useful to you, if you’re buying.”
“Of course.”
“If you’re still interested in the Fountain of Youth, I had someone in here earlier asking about it. Marah Chase. I remember you asked me about her once, too? I can set up a meet, if you like.”
“Already done.”
There was a pause on the other line, then, “You hired her. That makes sense.”
“Were you able to help her?”
“We didn’t talk about it, actually. She asked about something else.”
Interesting. Lauren had talked to Texas many times. But the black market and relic running weren’t her worlds. She didn’t know the right questions to ask. Someone like Chase would. Best to hire her to do the legwork. Ask the right questions to the right people. But it was annoying that one of the answers had been here, in New York, the whole time.
“And did you manage to help her on that?”
“I introduced her to someone who could. A data guy. He’s got a large gambling debt to the house, so I used that as leverage, told him the debt would be wiped.”
“I’ll cover that. How much did he owe?”
“Nine hundred K.”
“Ouch.” Lauren smiled. The figure was pocket change. “I think I can handle that. Usual account?”
“That would be perfect.”
“I’ll do it immediately. Did you find out what information she was given?”
“He sent her to London, to meet some government agent they both know.”
“Do you think he held anything back?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows everything she needed, but that’s the game. He’s protecting his own reputation.”
Lauren paused, thinking it through. She knew the underground was a whole different world, with its own rules and customs. But this wasn’t so different from mainstream business. You never tell the whole truth, just what’s needed to give the other person what they want. Or what they think they want. But she was a public face. She graced magazine covers and was on to her third TED Talk. Someone else needed to do the black-market work, and she knew Ted wasn’t up to it.
“Excellent work, Carrie. And what do I owe you?”
“Just the usual. A favor.”
Lauren’s day-to-day phone dinged, and she looked at the notification. Someone had used the electronic key pass to enter the building via the private entrance. It would be Ted, on his way back. Finally. A second message told her he was in the elevator, on the way up from the garage. This was the route they both used, almost all the time. The only reason they’d brought Chase in the front way was for the show of it, part of the game to convince her to take the job.
“Now,” Lauren said, lowering her voice, “if I’m counting right, I seem to owe you a number of favors. Maybe if you were to come on over”—she stretched out—“I could start finding ways to pay you back.”
“Just the facts, ma’am.”
Lauren sighed theatrically. “Understood.”
She killed the call and looked out again at the skyline. On the floor below, there was a soft electronic beep as the elevator door opened. Footsteps padded across the thick carpet, then up the stairs. Ted nodded as he walked into the office. He was still wearing the chauffeu
r outfit. It suited him and made Lauren feel like old-time royalty with her own manservant. She was toying with the idea of making him wear it full-time.
She turned in her seat. “How did it go?”
“Perfect.”
“Who did you use?”
“Some bike courier. Like you said, I found someone who doesn’t know anything about you. Ordered food to be delivered through an app. When the guy turned up with it, I paid him two hundred to do the job, an extra hundred after to keep him sweet. He thinks it was some weird sex thing.”
“He remember the lines?”
“Yeah, made it sound like he was warning her off, mentioned the Fountain.”
“Think it worked?”
Ted nodded. “I could see it, yeah. She’s interested now.”
Lauren gave him the big eyes and full-beam smile. “Well done. Good work. You gave her the tablet?”
“Yeah, just like you said.”
Lauren flicked through the apps on her phone’s screen. It loaded a map of New York, with a small blue dot pulsing on the Upper West Side, where the tracker they had just planted on Chase was sending out a signal.
“She’ll be heading to London next. Carrie Texas just told me. Put in a call to the London office.”
Ted nodded and started to turn away. Lauren put her hand up. “Oh, and transfer nine hundy to the Texas account, and then monitor her account, see where she sends it on to?”
Lauren turned her focus back to the app. As she watched, the dot changed to a light amber, which meant Chase was using the tablet. She was reading the files.
Game on.
SIXTEEN
Chase absolutely wasn’t reading the tablet. She kept telling herself that, as she clicked every page on the screen. She was settling down to sleep. That made far more sense. Getting some rest before another long flight halfway across the world.
She was not going to keep reading.