by Adam Hamdy
‘Leila, how long have you been here?’
‘Two days. You?’
‘Three.’
Leila turned to ask her guide some harsh questions, but she caught a flash of him hurrying down the stairs. ‘Hey!’ she yelled, limping after him, but by the time she reached the top of the stairs he’d slipped through the security door.
Had she been lured here with a lie? Was the stuff about her sister simply part of a ruse? If it was, Huxley Blaine Carter would regret ever having pulled such a stunt.
‘What do you think this is about?’ Wollerton asked.
‘I thought it was about my sister,’ Leila replied.
‘Leila, I’m so sorry,’ Wollerton said sympathetically.
She didn’t need pity. Not now.
She heard footsteps coming up the staircase and hurried over to see her friend and former colleague, the man who’d saved her life: Scott Pearce.
Chapter 10
‘Lyly,’ Pearce said fondly, using her childhood nickname. ‘You didn’t tell me she’d be here,’ he remarked to the woman who was coming up the stairs with him. Brigitte Attali, a former French DGSE agent with albinism who’d been on the other side of the Black Thirteen investigation.
‘You didn’t ask,’ Brigitte replied with a wry smile.
Wollerton embraced Pearce. ‘Good to see you, man.’
‘I was—’
‘He decided to be a hero,’ Brigitte interrupted. ‘And blew his only lead.’
‘Thank you all for coming.’ Blaine Carter’s deep California drawl filled the room.
Leila turned to see the American emerge from a doorway that had appeared in what had previously seemed to be an unbroken interior wall. As he stepped into the room, a door slid across the opening behind him and slotted back into place. Now she knew where it was, Leila could discern the line of the opening, but it was cleverly designed to be part of a pattern that ran along every interior wall. She wondered how many other secret doors were concealed about the place.
‘Good to see you again, Scott,’ he said as he approached Pearce and offered his hand. ‘Athena, go secure please,’ he said to no one in particular.
‘Going secure, Mr Blaine Carter,’ a synthetic voice replied.
Leila looked up at what she’d assumed was a decorative grille that ran along the perimeter of every ceiling in the building and realized it could conceal any number of sensors, cameras and speakers. The massive windows started to darken and the lights came on. Soon the mountains were gone, replaced by black screens.
‘Athena, bring up the photo of Hannan Nahum,’ Blaine Carter said, and an eight- by six-foot section of the window displayed a photograph of a crowd of people clustered round a UN World Food Programme relief truck. Aid workers were distributing food to a desperate group of Syrian refugees whose gaunt, weary faces and dirty, tattered clothes spoke of long hardship. ‘Athena, zoom in on the top right-hand corner.’
Leila gasped when that section of the image was magnified and she saw her sister. Hannan was part of a group that spilled into the photo from round the side of the truck, but her face could be clearly seen in the crowd. She was wearing a hijab, something she swore she’d never do, and Leila didn’t recognize the ragged dress she was in. Her olive skin was covered in dirt and she looked as though she’d lost a lot of weight. Tears of joy sprung in Leila’s eyes and she staggered back, unable to cope with the sheer weight of hope. Pearce caught her arm and offered her his support. She tried to talk, but the words choked in her throat.
‘The picture was taken in the Zaatari Refugee Camp in Jordan three months ago,’ Blaine Carter said. ‘I didn’t want to share this until I had more, because, well . . .’ he tailed off. ‘Hope and grief are too powerful to toy with. But if you want proof of my bona fides then here it is. My people have checked with the camp authorities and your sister left the camp six weeks after this photograph was taken. They believe she used a false name to register.’
Leila was reeling. She’d spent years searching for the one surviving member of her family. When she’d been contracting for Six, she’d used their systems to run image searches and checked the records of every refugee camp, police report and record in the countries neighbouring Syria. She’d set up a border alert on Hannan’s passport and photograph. Leila knew she was very good at her job and she could not help but look at Blaine Carter in awe. How had he managed to do what she had found impossible?
‘If you help me, I will use all of my resources to learn what happened to your sister,’ Blaine Carter said. ‘If she’s alive, I can help you find her.’
Chapter 11
Pearce saw clouds of emotion sweep over Leila’s face and her whole body trembled. She was reeling. The guy was clever. Pearce had refused him, and now he was back with an offer so alluring it would be almost impossible to resist. How could Leila pass up the opportunity to find her sister? How could Pearce or Wollerton say no to helping her?
‘How did you get this? Why are you interested in her sister?’ Pearce asked Blaine Carter.
‘I told you before, I keep tabs on people with certain backgrounds. I hear things from the ether. You turned me down, Mr Pearce,’ Blaine Carter replied. ‘You refused to work for me. Fine. But if our interests align, perhaps we can help each other. You have spent more than two years hunting the people who are connected to the Thai man you killed in Islamabad. You don’t even know his real name.’
Pearce was surprised Blaine Carter knew so much about his mission.
‘You know the man you killed as Chao Fah Jan, but his real name was Chatri Angsakul,’ Blaine Carter revealed. ‘Athena, please show the Scorpion footage.’
Another section of the window displayed security camera footage of what looked like a prison gate. A Thai man with long hair sat in a car parked on an access road near the prison. Two men in prison uniforms stepped through the gate and got in the car before it drove away.
‘Two weeks ago, his brother Narong Angsakul, a man known to be connected to the smuggling network you’ve been tracking, helped two men escape Al Aqarab, Scorpion Prison, in Cairo,’ Blaine Carter said. The footage switched to a shot of a cafeteria full of corpses. ‘The men he helped used some kind of chemical weapon to facilitate the escape. It killed everyone in the cafeteria, but autopsies found no trace of any harmful substances in the victims’ bloodstreams. Whatever it was leaves no trace. Three more guards were killed when the two men escaped. Once again there was no toxin found in their bloodstreams and no obvious cause of death.’
‘And the prisoners?’ Wollerton asked.
‘One was serving seven years for attempted drug trafficking,’ Blaine Carter replied. ‘The Egyptians had identified him as Ibrahim Mahmood based on the Kuwaiti passport he had on him when he was arrested, but that identity is false and his real name is a mystery. Athena, please show the arrest photograph of Ibrahim Mahmood.’
A section of the huge screen displayed the image of a dejected man with minor injuries, looking directly at the camera. He looked Middle Eastern; the man’s large round eyes, dark skin, and black hair gave away that much.
‘Surely you can run an image look-up?’ Wollerton suggested.
‘I can and have,’ Blaine Carter replied. ‘All digital records of this man’s true identity have been erased. There is no trace of it anywhere. Whoever he’s working with doesn’t want him found. The second man was an American. Arrest records show his name to be Elroy Lang, but that’s a false identity. We don’t even have an arrest photo of him. Someone has erased all visual records of his existence.’
‘Erased?’ Pearce said. ‘That would mean—’
‘Government involvement?’ Blaine Carter interrupted. ‘Did you think your old boss Dominic McClusky was the only corrupt bureaucrat in the world? You might not want to work for me, Mr Pearce, but for now it seems our interests are aligned. I’d like you to go to Cairo and learn the real identity of the men Angsakul helped escape. You will get the next link to your Thai smuggling network, and I wil
l find out what he and these unknown men have planned.’ Blaine Carter approached Leila, who was starting to regain her composure. ‘If you help Mr Pearce, I promise to do everything I can to find your sister.’
‘What about me?’ Wollerton asked sourly. ‘You’ve found the levers you need to manipulate these two. What’s in it for me?’
‘You need to feel good about yourself,’ Blaine Carter replied. ‘Your wife left and took your children. That’s a profound loss. It can’t be easy being alone. I don’t need any leverage, Mr Wollerton. You need to feel part of something.’
Pearce knew his old friend and mentor well enough to see beyond his attempt to conceal his hurt.
‘You’ll all be paid,’ Blaine Carter said. ‘Just for as long as our interests coincide. Miss Attali will be your liaison and can provide you with whatever resources you need.’
Pearce glanced at the Frenchwoman. He didn’t trust her. It wasn’t just her allegiance to Blaine Carter; when Pearce had first met her, she’d been on the verge of killing an innocent man. She was ruthless and pragmatic. A dangerous combination.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Pearce asked.
‘What do you know about my family?’ Blaine Carter responded. ‘Specifically my father?’
Pearce had researched Blaine Carter before their encounter in San Francisco. There were acres of newsprint on the man’s rise to fortune, and the tragic story of his father’s demise was well known. He’d died of a heart attack when Huxley was twenty-six, a newly minted PhD. He’d taken over his father’s successful data-mining business and had turned it into one of the most successful digital payments platforms in the world. ‘He died of a heart attack twelve years ago.’
‘That’s what they say,’ Blaine Carter replied. ‘But what if he was murdered? Would that be an honourable reason for a rich man to play the game?’
‘You think his death is connected?’ Pearce asked.
‘All I’ve ever seen are wisps of smoke. I need people like you to help me find the fire.’
Pearce studied the charming, eccentric man and saw vulnerability beneath the carefully cultivated veneer. Blaine Carter must have realized he’d shown too much because his demeanour shifted and he slapped Pearce on the back. ‘So what’s it to be, bud, you in or out? You want to answer the question that’s been keeping you awake at night? Or do you want to go back to sleep?’
‘I need to go to Zaatari,’ Leila said. Pearce saw she’d recovered her composure and her familiar steel had returned. ‘If my sister is out there, I’m the one who needs to find her.’
‘And how will you do that on your own?’ Blaine Carter asked. ‘Even if the three of you go, how far do you think you’ll get without the intel I’ve gathered?’
Leila shuffled forward menacingly, and Pearce sensed Brigitte tense.
‘I’ll take it,’ Leila said. ‘And I’ll make you suffer for keeping it from me.’
‘You could do that,’ Blaine Carter replied, ‘and we both lose. Or you could spend a few weeks helping me and in return I’ll give you whatever you need to find her. We both win.’
Leila took another step closer and gripped the top of her walking stick so hard her knuckles turned white. She stared at Blaine Carter with a ferocity that would have made most people wilt.
‘I don’t like playing hardball,’ he said. ‘It’s not my style, but I’ll do whatever it takes. Angsakul is a bad guy, but he’s working for people who are worse. You saw the people killed during the prison break. I need to know what they’re planning. It’s important.’
Pearce could feel Leila bristling with anger and he was convinced she was going to hit Blaine Carter. He placed a hand on her forearm and squeezed gently. She looked at him with fire in her eyes and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the savage anger horror had spawned in her. Then it was gone. She looked for confirmation, and Pearce nodded. He wanted to find Narong Angsakul, and if it meant they’d get the billionaire’s help locating Leila’s sister, so much the better.
‘Three weeks,’ Leila said as the fire within her abated. She turned to Blaine Carter. ‘You have three weeks. After that, I’m gone.’
Chapter 12
‘I was worried it might be the corona. The last thing we need is another outbreak round here, but they say it was a heart attack. Too much coke. That’s what I reckon. Keeled over like a falling cedar and died in a puddle of beer,’ Harry Martin said. ‘God rest his soul.’
Harry Martin was the bombastic Director of Operations for the Port of Seattle. He was a man of fleshy folds, from the rolls that clung to his wide neck to the creases at his wrists and elbows. His bulbous pot belly strained the buttons of his short-sleeved white shirt and even in the air-conditioned office his face was crimson and his bald head was beaded with sweat. The guy devoted his every waking hour to ensuring the port ran smoothly and spent most of his life trapped at his desk guzzling sweet black coffee and donuts. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but Ziad had always liked his direct no-nonsense style. A person always knew where they stood.
‘I was there,’ Ziad revealed, and Harry’s eyes widened.
‘Really? Was it as bad as people say?’
Ziad had tried not to think about Cutter’s ugly death. The satisfaction he’d felt on the night had given way to waves of guilt and pangs of regret, and Cutter’s face now mingled with those of the men in Al Aqarab, haunting his memory, plaguing his nightmares.
‘It was horrible,’ Ziad replied.
‘What the heck happened to you anyway?’ Harry asked, leaning back in his large leather chair. ‘One moment you’re signed off for a two-week vacation, the next you disappear.’
‘I was in a car accident,’ Ziad lied. ‘They put me in an induced coma.’
‘Shit,’ Harry sighed. ‘Sorry to hear that. Are you OK?’
‘I think so. Few broken bones, a bleed on the brain, but they’ve given me the all clear.’
Harry nodded sombrely. ‘Well, like I said, your timing couldn’t be better. Richie’s death means I need a new shift supervisor. You were always a good worker, Ziad,’ he said, and he cast his broad arms into the air and gestured expansively at the mass of papers on his desk and the schedules pinned to the walls. ‘And we’re busier than ever. We’ll have to go through the formalities, but if you want your old job back, it’s yours.’
Ziad stood and offered his hand across the cluttered desk. Harry rose and clasped it warmly.
‘Thank you, Mr Martin,’ Ziad said. ‘It’s good to be home.’
The 1988 Buick Electra rattled and spluttered at every intersection and the tan bodywork was marred by dents and rust, but Ziad didn’t care. The car got him around and his image wasn’t important to him anymore. When he’d first come to Seattle, he’d stretched himself to buy a used BMW M5 in an attempt to give himself cred. He’d never been able to understand Deni Salamov’s low-key approach to life. The Chechen had unimaginable wealth, but the world only ever saw a pious man who ran a handful of small businesses. The passing observer would have no idea Deni controlled the supply of drugs into the western seaboard.
The Buick made a horrible crunching sound as Ziad turned into the parking lot on the corner of 140th Street. Most of the eighty or so spaces were empty and Ziad chose one near the converted mini-mall. Occupying an entire city block, the broad, low building was home to the Salam Islamic Centre, a large civic hall in the heart of the complex. There were four businesses in the building, two either side of the Islamic Centre. To the north were Sunshine Bank, a Sharia financial institution that enabled neighbourhood Muslims to invest according to scripture. Next to it was the Salamov travel agency and currency exchange. To the south of the Islamic
Centre were the Haqeeq Bookstore and, on the very southernmost corner of the complex, the Al Jamaea coffee shop. The parking lot that lay to the south of the building had been closed and converted into a makeshift soccer pitch. Men sat at tables outside Al Jamaea, dragging on cigarettes and drinking coffee as they watched two teams of boys in
salwar kameezes battle over a flat soccer ball. The men were first- and second-generation immigrants drawn from all over Asia, North Africa and the Middle East and Ziad recognized a few familiar faces. He felt a pang of nervous excitement at the prospect of stepping back into his old life. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. None of the men outside the cafe were dangerous. His biggest concern was that Deni would realize the threat he posed and have him fed to the gulls. Ziad’s stomach flipped again, but he turned his attention away from the men and reminded himself why he was here; to avenge himself.
To the east of the makeshift soccer pitch was a smaller standalone building, the Salam Mini-mart, a convenience store that specialized in Middle Eastern produce. Few people knew that all the businesses, the community centre and most of the surrounding residential buildings belonged to Salamov.
As he got out of the car, Ziad saw a man he recognized emerging from the goods entrance of the mini-mart. Abbas Idrisov, also known as Abacus, was Deni’s human calculator. The Chechen never kept a record of any of his dealings for fear of prosecution, so every transaction he’d ever made was stored in the eidetic memory of this wizened old man. No one was sure of Abacus’s age, but he moved with the aching hesitancy of a septuagenarian. He had a long white beard, a craggy face with drooping eyes and a bulbous nose that had lost the battle with gravity a long time ago. Even though it was a warm autumn day, Abbas wore a thick full-length wool coat and a traditional ushanka fur hat. He carried a paper bag in one hand and muttered words under his breath as the fingers of his other hand worried a set of red misbaha prayer beads. His eyes lit up with surprise when he caught sight of Ziad.