by Adam Hamdy
The industrial achievements stretching as far as the eye could see took on a different complexion as he followed her down. He could taste pollution in the air and wondered just how much had leeched into the water.
He thought he could feel the waves burning his skin as he joined Brigitte in the surf. They waded up to their shins.
‘It’s cold,’ she remarked.
‘Freezing.’
‘Now we know we can’t be heard,’ she nodded towards their distant clothes. ‘We can talk freely. We don’t have long.’ He followed her gaze and settled on two police officers who were watching them from the promenade. ‘Echo is clearly working for someone. If it’s the government, they may just be curious about what we’re doing here. If it’s someone else, she may pose a threat.’
‘I thought you said she was a friend.’
‘I said we were friendly,’ Brigitte replied. ‘You know there are no friends in this business.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We have a listen.’ She opened her hand to reveal a couple of earpieces and a new version of the Ghostlink, a satellite communicator Leila had developed. Brigitte handed Wollerton an earpiece. She switched on the other one and put it in, and he did likewise.
They stood quietly for a moment, listening to the sound of the waves breaking around them. Gulls called above, and cries of children drifted across the sand, but Wollerton’s earpiece was silent.
‘I’m not getting anything,’ Wollerton said.
‘She found them,’ Brigitte replied.
‘It could be a faulty—’
‘She found them,’ Brigitte cut him off. She glanced over her shoulders at the police officers who were now on the beach, heading for the pile of discarded clothes. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Wollerton the Ghostlink. ‘Call Scott. Tell him our situation. Let him know it may take us a while to get any useful intel because we’ve got to be careful.’
She started up the beach towards the police officers. ‘Bonjour messieurs. Y a-t-il un problème?’ she began in the brightest, most vacuous tone Wollerton had heard from her.
He activated the Ghostlink, which looked indistinguishable from a cell phone, and his call was answered within moments.
‘Go ahead,’ Pearce said.
‘We’ve arrived, but we’ve got eyes on us,’ Wollerton replied.
‘Who?’
‘We’re trying to work that out. It may take us a while.’
‘OK. Be careful,’ Pearce said. ‘And stay in touch.’
‘Will do,’ Wollerton responded. ‘Over and out.’ He ended the call and looked up the beach, where Brigitte was playing the part of an indignant tourist perfectly. She had an angry expression pinned to her face as she reluctantly pulled on her clothes under the close supervision of the two police officers. Wollerton couldn’t help but admire the diligence and resourcefulness of this impressive woman. He put on his own game face – bewildered foreigner – and headed up the beach.
Chapter 30
Pearce hung up. The improvements Leila had made to her Ghostlink communicator meant they could use them in public with little fear of anyone realizing they weren’t mobile phones. The devices permitted encrypted satellite communication almost anywhere in the world, and Pearce was certain Leila could have made a small fortune if she’d sold the technology, but she’d opted to keep its existence secret. The Ghostlinks were for their exclusive use.
‘Mr Martin will see you now,’ the receptionist said.
Pearce was in the lobby of the Seattle Port Authority building, waiting to see Richard Cutter’s boss, Harry Martin. Pearce followed the receptionist out of the charmless corporate waiting area, through a security door into the corridor beyond.
Small offices lay either side. Most featured an administrator at a desk, surrounded by stacks of paperwork. The receptionist led Pearce through the building, up a couple of flights of stairs onto the executive floor. The Director of Operations’ office was located in the north-west corner of the block.
‘Mr . . . er?’ Martin asked, rising from behind his large desk.
‘Samuels,’ Pearce replied. ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he added, shaking the man’s hand.
‘Thanks, Ken,’ Harry said to the receptionist, who shut the door behind him when he withdrew. Harry turned his attention to Pearce. ‘Have a seat. What can I do for you, Mr Samuels?’
‘I’m with the Daily Star in London,’ Pearce lied. ‘I was hoping to talk to friends of Richard Cutter.’
Harry immediately became defensive and his smile dropped. ‘You told Ken you were here to talk about the port.’
‘Would you have agreed to see me?’ Pearce countered.
‘We’re all saddened by what happed to Richie. Most of us just want to move on,’ Harry replied.
‘I understand, but this idea of a Midas Killer, well, it’s captured our readers’ imaginations. I’d like to talk to people who might have seen Mr Cutter that day.’
‘I don’t think anyone here will have anything to say to you,’ Harry said flatly. ‘We’re all pretty grossed out by the tabloid sensation. Let me show you out, Mr Samuels.’
Pearce felt sorry for Harry Martin. He could sense the man’s anger at being deceived and his disapproval of the salacious angle Pearce was taking over his colleague’s death, but he was still managing to be cordial. It showed real character, and Pearce didn’t want to cause a good man any more pain. He’d try the bar where Richard Cutter died and canvas the staff and patrons for anything on who might have killed him.
‘Sure,’ Pearce said. ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’
He followed Martin downstairs into the ground-floor corridor. His heart pounded out a couple of thunderous beats and it took every ounce of discipline to control the fight or flight response provoked by what he saw ahead of him. There, coming along the corridor, was one of the men who’d escaped from Al Aqarab prison.
‘Hey, Harry,’ the man said as he passed.
‘Hey, Zee,’ Harry replied. ‘You got a minute later? We need to talk about the Elite.’
‘Drop by anytime,’ the escapee said. ‘I’ll be at my desk.’
The man walked on and so did Harry. Pearce hesitated, his mind a jumble of questions. The most pressing was why this dangerous wanted man was working in the Seattle Port Authority.
‘You OK?’ Harry asked, waiting for Pearce by the lobby security door.
‘Yes, sorry,’ Pearce replied, hurrying on. He took a deep breath and tried to calm the rising sense of excitement.
He’d just caught a huge break.
Chapter 31
Leila shifted uncomfortably. She’d been waiting outside Seattle South Precinct for almost two hours. Evan Hill, the detective in charge of the investigation into Richard Cutter’s death, had refused to see her, and the duty sergeant had forced her to leave the building, so she’d picked a spot on Myrtle Street by the car park gate that allowed her to keep an eye on the building’s entrance and the vehicles coming and going. She leaned against a sign protruding from the verge, which read ‘Police Only’, and tried to take the weight off her legs. It was an uncomfortably humid afternoon and she was feeling the full effects of her journey and her long vigil outside the station. She paced every few minutes in a vain attempt to shake the pain and fatigue from her legs, and tried to keep her mind occupied by watching the children’s soccer match being played on the pitch opposite the station.
South Precinct was located in a residential neighbourhood that made Leila think of England. The pitch was a rich green and was surrounded by large trees. Through their branches, heavy with golden leaves, Leila caught glimpses of charming New England-style houses on the other side of the pitches. When she grew bored of watching the game, Leila counted birds flying overhead, kept a tally of red cars versus blue, and tried to guess the life stories of the people filing in and out of the modern precinct building. But the distractions always led to the same place: Hannan. No matter what Leila did, she always found herself thinking about her old
er sister, wondering whether she was still alive, where she was, and who she might be with. And when those questions had been dwelt on, and finally passed through her mind unanswered, Leila always wound up at the same low place, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt that she was here on Huxley Blaine Carter’s errand, rather than on the trail of the last surviving member of her family.
Movement caught Leila’s eye through the high perimeter fence and she was grateful to see Detective Evan Hill emerge from the precinct building and cross the car park to a dark-blue SUV. She recognized the grizzled, experienced police officer from a photo in a newspaper report about a prior investigation. She pushed herself off the ‘Police Only’ sign, limped over to the sidewalk by the gates and waited patiently as he reversed his car out of its space and drove towards her. As he slowed to a stop and waited for the gate to retract, he caught sight of Leila and eyed her with unmistakeable suspicion. When he drove through the gate and stopped at the intersection with Myrtle Street, Leila approached the car and tapped on his window.
He lowered it.
‘Yeah?’
Up close, Leila could see the grey-haired man had the hard eyes and palpable cynicism of someone who’d seen too much of life’s darkness, and when she looked down, she saw his right hand was wrapped around a pistol that rested on the passenger seat.
‘My name is Maria Grattan. I’m foreign correspondent with Il Giustizia, we’re an Italian security publication.’
‘I know who you are,’ Hill said. ‘I didn’t want to see you before, and I don’t want to see you now.’
‘I’m interested in the Richard Cutter investigation,’ Leila pressed.
‘There is no investigation,’ Hill replied. ‘The chief got some faulty intel and I got bounced into paying lip service. Richard Cutter died of natural causes. This Midas thing is pure sensation to sell newspapers.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Leila said. ‘I thought we might be able to share information.’
‘I know how that plays. I give you information and you don’t share jack shit with me.’
‘We could—’ Leila began, but Hill cut her off.
‘Save your breath, lady.’ He pulled onto Myrtle Street and sped away.
Leila cursed inwardly, doubly angry at the pain she’d endured waiting for a man who’d given her nothing. She heard a low tri-tone and pulled her Ghostlink from her pocket.
‘Go ahead,’ she said.
‘I’m going to give you an address,’ Pearce told her. ‘Get here as soon as you can.’
Chapter 32
Less than an hour later, Leila turned onto Kenyon Street, a run-down road in a rough neighbourhood called South Park. She found Pearce near the corner, crouched beside his motorbike. He had the seat off and looked as though he was making repairs. Leila parked behind the R1 and lowered the window as he came over.
‘Fifty metres up, on the right,’ Pearce said. ‘Small wooden house. Green paint.’
Leila glanced along the street. Poverty wasn’t hidden here. It was evident in the old rusty cars, missing roof tiles, broken guttering and overgrown yards. She spotted the house Pearce was referring to – one of the most derelict of all.
‘Got it,’ she said.
‘Our target is inside.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
‘I saw him at the port authority. Walked right past him. He works there,’ Pearce said. ‘His real name is Ziad Malek. He’s a shift supervisor. Replaced the guy who died, Richard Cutter.’
‘You think they killed Cutter? Why would anyone murder someone to get a job like that?’ Leila asked.
‘He’s in there with the getaway driver from the prison break.’
‘We should bring them in,’ Leila said, suddenly thinking about her own sister. If the man they were looking for was in that house, her work was done. They could apprehend him and extract whatever information Blaine Carter needed.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Pearce replied. ‘If we bring them in, who knows what we’ll get? But we can be certain that any network around them will pack up and disappear. If we keep them in play, we might get to whoever’s pulling the strings.’
Leila felt her stomach tighten with frustration. ‘We should take them now. There’s no guarantee anyone else is involved.’ Her words carried no conviction. Leila knew Pearce was right, that there were others, not least the man who’d broken out of Al Aqarab with Ziad Malek, but she was desperate to get on her sister’s trail.
‘Any sign of the other escapee?’ she asked.
Pearce shook his head. ‘We need to stay on these two until we know more.’
Leila nodded grudgingly.
‘Have you got any gear with you?’
Pearce was referring to the equipment that had been in the flight cases Robert Clifton had delivered to their unusual apartment.
‘Just a basic kit,’ Leila replied. ‘A couple of cameras, trackers and bugs.’ She climbed out of the Yukon and went to the boot. She opened it and showed Pearce the contents of a Peli Storm flight case that wasn’t much bigger than a shoebox. The electronics gear she’d mentioned was encased in laser-cut foam.
‘Can you set the camera for motion?’ Pearce asked.
Leila checked for any passers-by, but the street was deserted. She switched on the tablet that controlled the devices and adjusted the camera’s settings, while Pearce pocketed a tracker and a bug.
‘We’ll have to come back to rig the house,’ Pearce said. ‘But I can set up the camera to let us know when they’re out. It will also pick up any visitors. I can rig the car to give us ears on them and tell us where they go.’
Leila handed Pearce the tiny buttonhole camera. ‘Do you need a mount?’
‘Some putty,’ he replied.
Leila handed him a tube of fast-drying modelling cement, and he set off down the street. She shut the boot, climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. She watched him intently, ready to step on the accelerator if anything went wrong.
Chapter 33
Pearce walked down the street, careful not to move too fast or too slow, both of which would have made him memorable for any casual observers. He squeezed a pea-sized quantity of modelling cement and shaped it around the base of the buttonhole camera. He was about twenty metres from the house where Ziad Malek and Narong Angsakul were holed up when he saw movement at the window. The Thai man crossed the front room and crouched down for a moment before returning to wherever he’d come from. His baggy shorts, vest and wild long hair marked him out as a climber or surfer. Only the tattoos that covered his muscular body hinted at villainy: Pearce recognized one, a spider’s web, as a Thai time-served marker.
Pearce kept walking until he was almost directly opposite the house. There was a telegraph pole on his side of the street and he crouched beside it and pretended he was tying his laces. He pushed the buttonhole camera against the wooden pole, above a metal junction box, and positioned it to face the small green house opposite. Satisfied it was secure and no more noticeable than a bit of dirt stuck to some gum, Pearce got to his feet and hurried across the street towards a Buick that was more relic than car.
The tracker was easy. Slightly larger than a ten-pence piece, he slipped the magnetic wafer inside the rear wheel arch and felt it stick to the chassis with a satisfying click. The listening device would be more difficult. Pearce was reaching for the nearest door handle when he quickly crouched. Angsakul was moving again. He must have sensed something, because he came to the window and looked at the car. Pearce chanced a look towards the house, and saw the grim-faced killer scan the front yard. After a moment, Angsakul turned his attention to something else – possibly the TV – and then receded from sight.
Pearce was in a risky position and wanted out quickly. If he was discovered, there was a real likelihood of violence and he also risked blowing the investigation by alerting Angsakul and Ziad to the fact they’d been found. Pearce tried the nearest handle – locked. The Buick was old enough not to have central locking, so h
e moved round the car, trying the others, and discovered they were all locked, but he was relieved when the boot popped open. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He put the listening device beneath the oily carpet, positioning it as close to the rear seats as possible. He replaced the carpet, closed the boot and quickly moved away from the house, continuing his walk west, away from Leila.
Pearce glanced over his shoulder every so often, but saw no sign his presence had been detected. A couple of dishevelled-looking men staggered out of the house opposite and slumped on the porch steps, clutching half-drunk bottles of beer. Pearce had been lucky with his timing.
When he was out of sight of the house, he picked up his pace and within five minutes had circled the block and was reunited with Leila. She was in her large SUV and had the engine running, and didn’t notice him approach from behind.
‘We won’t need that quick getaway,’ he said, startling her.
‘Ya hayawan!’ she exclaimed, calling him an animal in the most affectionate tone.
‘We’re set,’ Pearce said. ‘Let’s not push our luck here. I’ll see you at the flat.’
He jumped on his motorbike and pressed the ignition as Leila pulled away. The bike roared to life and within moments he was speeding west.
Chapter 34
Few can see beyond the edges of their own experiences, Elroy thought as he sat in the back of the police car parked on Horton Street. It was how he and the people he worked with thrived, by operating outside the margins, doing things most would consider impossible. Scientists spend years searching for cures. Politicians devote decades to attaining power. Artists a lifetime pursuing success. Why did so few realize that same dedication was applied to what he did? If a prize was sufficiently big, someone would invest the time and effort required to attain it.
The plan was unfolding better than expected. Ziad Malek, the second-generation immigrant, had been easy to radicalize. The setbacks he’d experienced had left him vulnerable, and his heart had hardened against the people who had betrayed him. As always, the petty criminal with a flexible approach to morality had quickly accepted the logic of stepping outside the law for retribution. Elroy had been surprised by how untroubled Ziad had been by murder. Either he was hiding it well, or his hate and anger had silenced his conscience. Elroy’s initial assessment of the man had been of someone more humane, softer, and he’d expected to have to do more coaxing.