“The night we met at the club, she says to me she grew up in Springburn, see? Then she asks me where I’m from. When I told her Springburn was my hometown too, she says, oh yeah, she ken me from way back when we were bairns. It was odd, like. But who’s gonna question a bonnie lass like Shauna, right?”
“Where does Virginia come in?”
“Well, we started seeing each other, right? While I was letting a flat in London. And we’d get to talking in bed.”
He shuddered, searched my eyes but I assured him it was all right.
“Just go ahead.”
“Anyway, Springburn starts sounding more like a cover, right? Then one night, we sees something on the telly, some spy show set in Virginia—or wherever those CIA blokes are located—and she talks about the area like she’s been there. When I ask, she lets slip that she’s done part of her primary schooling there. In Virginia, I mean. And…”
“And what?”
“And she told me something about her mother.”
“Tasha?”
“She didn’t tell me her mother’s name, right? She just told me that she offed herself.”
Chapter 31
They’d found Kinny Gilchrist.
“That was Gavin Kerr,” the Chairman said when he hung up the phone. “Kinny’s with him at our safe house in North Kelvinside. Badly beaten, but he’s alive.”
He stepped around the dining room table and approached me. Quigg moved off.
“My boy was set up,” Gilchrist said to me. “By his own best mate, Raymond Aiken.”
My eyes narrowed. “The kid from the pub?”
“The one you knocked unconscious with a Glasgow Kiss.” He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “After some enhanced interrogation, Kerr got a full confession from the kid. He’d planned on killing Kinny last night, as soon as they left the Old Soak. The SUV you encountered was just backup in case Raymond botched the job.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, if you hadn’t intervened at the pub, there is naw question, my boy would have been killed last night.”
I bowed my head. Stared at his hand until he removed it from my shoulder.
“Well, he’s alive,” I said. “And according to Quigg here, there’s a chance my daughter is too.”
Ashdown lifted his head. He was in bad shape but nothing that appeared life threatening.
According to Quigg, Shauna had stopped by to see him just a couple of days ago on her way to Dublin. Said she was running an errand for her father. Something of vital importance. She was in a rush, only stayed with Quigg in Edinburgh the one night after hitting a pub called Bishop’s in Quigg’s hometown of Springburn.
Quigg knew little about her father. Only that he was a businessman. And that he was an older man. In Quigg’s own words, “More like a grandfather, right?”
“And how about her?” I asked with a lump in my throat. “How old is she?”
“I don’t ken. I have a ‘naw ask, naw tell’ policy, see.”
“But could she be eighteen?”
He considered this. “She’d have to be an auld soul, I think. Because she’s smart. Like, street smart, see. Worldly, I guess is the word I’m looking for.”
He hadn’t heard from her since she’d left Edinburgh. She’d had no phone and gave Quigg no contact number.
She’d told him that she only meant to stay in Dublin a night or two before returning home.
“Where’s home?” I’d asked.
“Liverpool.”
“Where in Liverpool?”
“I don’t ken exactly. I’ve never been there, have I?”
“Why not?”
“Because she lives with a fella.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Some bloke her auld man don’t approve of, right?”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. “Well, ’cause he’s a Yardie an’ all.”
“A Yardie? Part of a Jamaican gang?”
“British Afro-Caribbean is the politically correct term, innit?”
“A drug gang?”
He shrugged. “Few years back they were selling crack, right? But the Liverpool Yardies have moved on since then.”
“Moved on to what?”
He lowered his voice. “Gun-trafficking, far as I ken.”
* * *
“You’re gonna need assistance getting out of Glasgow,” Gilchrist said when I told him I was leaving for Liverpool.
“I can make it out,” I said. “I’m just going to need transportation.”
He nodded. “I own a dealership next town over.”
“You have bikes?”
“Dozens of them.”
Chapter 32
Twenty minutes later Gilchrist, his men, and I were standing in his pitch-black showroom. Outside there was little wind and it had stopped snowing. Still, a three-hour motorcycle drive would be risky. I needed a solid bike with exceptional handling.
My eyes immediately fell on fifteen-hundred pounds of perfection.
“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Gilchrist said.
“But a half-million-dollar beaut,” I said.
“My boy’s life is worth at least that much, I think.”
I looked at him. “I couldn’t.”
“You could. And you will. Otherwise, I’d be insulted. And the one thing you’ll learn about Scotland, you never insult your host.”
Especially one who’s good with a shotgun, I thought.
“Is she street legal?” I said.
“Do you care?”
“No.”
“With a top speed of over four hundred kilometers an hour, the filth won’t be able to come near you anyway.”
As we circled the machine, he said, “The Dodge Tomahawk was built as a concept vehicle. Dodge called them ‘rolling sculptures’ never meant to be ridden. But who the hell are they to tell us what to do, right?”
“Right.”
The five-hundred horsepower, 8.3-liter, V10 SRT10 engine, he said, was borrowed from the Dodge Viper.
“Zero to sixty?” I asked.
“From a standing start, two and a half seconds. At least in theory.”
The bike had two front wheels, two back wheels pressed together for extra stability.
“I may not be able to return her to you,” I said.
“I should hope not, Simon.” He rested a hand on my shoulder again. “You find your daughter, I trust you’ll throw her on the back of this beast and blow the bloody hell out of Great Britain for good.”
* * *
A half dozen of Gilchrist’s boys were straddling lesser bikes, ready to ride out of the dealership’s massive garage as decoys.
“I’ll get your sister and Mr. Ashdown safely back to London in the morning,” the Chairman assured me.
The garage door started to open, letting in the cold.
I zipped up the black biker armor jacket Gilchrist had given me, adjusted the gloves, and lowered the helmet onto my head.
“And you’ll have Kerr check in on the Tuckers in Edinburgh, right?”
“You have my word as a Scotsman.”
I thanked him.
“Thank you for saving my boy.”
I started the engine.
“And remember, Simon,” he said over the roar, “be vigilant. Tavis Maxwell’s reach extends far south of Glasgow. Perhaps even far south of London.”
I lowered the face shield.
Nodded my head.
Then rode out of Glasgow as though my little girl’s life depended on it.
Part Three
THE LOVERS OF LIVERPOOL
Chapter 33
“His name is Lennox Sterling,” I said into the phone.
It was dawn. I’d reached Liverpool less than an hour ago and hidden the Dodge Tomahawk in an abandoned three-story car park on the outskirts of the city.
On the other end of the phone, I could hear Kurt Ostermann trying to kick the sleep from his voice. “And the girl’s name again?”
<
br /> “Shauna Adair.” I spelled the surname for him.
As he tapped away at a keyboard, I took in my surroundings. Although the port city was steeped in eight hundred years of history and boasted one of England’s more diverse populations, Liverpool remained best known for its title as the birthplace of the Beatles. I’d always been more of a Stones fan myself, but Tasha absolutely adored the lads from Liverpool, and by her sixth year of life, Hailey had come to love them too, especially the song about the yellow submarine. On road trips, she’d have me play it on a loop for hours on end. Drove me absolutely nuts.
But damned if I ever even considered refusing her request.
“Should be easier to find the guy than the girl,” Ostermann said after several seconds. “There are about a half-million people residing in Liverpool and ninety percent of them are white. And the majority of black Liverpudlians are of African descent. Only five thousand or so are of Afro-Caribbean origin.”
“He’s a Yardie,” I said, “so I’m hoping he has a sheet. You might want to check with the Merseyside Police first.”
“I’m on it.”
“Any luck tracking down the identity of Eli Welker’s client?”
“Not yet. But I’ve tossed a few lures in the water. Magda spread word over the Internet that current clients of Eli Welker should contact me here in London, or something to that effect. She provided a phone number and an e-mail address to head off any privacy concerns. No bites yet. But I’m hopeful.”
“All right, then.”
“What do you intend to do first?”
“I’m going to find myself an espresso. Then I’m going to go looking for Sterling.”
“And how do you intend to go about that?”
“By shopping for a gun.”
* * *
I started in Everton, an inner-city district just north of the city center. After fueling up with a couple espressos at Smokin’ Joe’s on South Pine Road, I took a walk down White Street toward Teralba Park, where I hoped to find some of the city’s homeless—a few trampled souls down in the mouth and eager to sell their sole asset: information.
But the weather was working against me. A hard Atlantic wind was blowing in over the River Mersey, and it was still too early for the shelters to have let out. So I finally hopped aboard the Merseyrail and headed west to Vauxhall then north to Kirkdale and east to Anfield.
No luck.
Although the streets by then were beginning to spark to life, I continued to meet with limited success. For some peculiar reason, your average Liverpudlian was reluctant to engage in conversation with a caffeinated stranger dressed in full black biker armor enthusiastically seeking out illicit firearms.
Go figure.
But as far as the biker armor went, I was unequivocally impressed.
“Designed by Miguel Caballero in Bogota,” Gilchrist had told me back in Glasgow. “Not just to spare you from road rash either, mind you. It’s bloody bulletproof. Can withstand a fifty-caliber round, if I’m not mistaken. Caballero has designed clothes for Prince Felipe of Spain, President Uribe of Colombia, the late Hugo Chavez, even President Barack Obama. Not just motorcycle gear, of course, but topcoats and blazers. Tuxedo shirts, if you can believe it. I think it’s safe to presume that were James Bond not merely a fictional character, Miguel Caballero would be his personal tailor.”
Bulletproof and all, the biker armor afforded me a full range of motion and was so comfortable it felt like a second skin. Dressed head to toe in such expensive and exquisite gear, it seemed almost criminal not to get myself shot.
* * *
Ten minutes before noon, I was about to call it a morning and grab a quick lunch when Ashdown called.
“Zoey and I are going to meet you in Liverpool.”
“Not necessary,” I said. “Besides, the Chairman promised to send you straight on to London.”
Zoey apparently snatched the phone from him.
“We’ll be in Liverpool in a few hours, little brother. Are you going to tell us where you are or are we going to have to come looking for you?”
No use, I thought. She’s a Fisk, right down to the bone.
“Call me when you get here,” I said. “I’ll be in a different district by then.”
I pocketed my phone. I hadn’t yet puzzled out whether Damon Ashdown was helping me because he possessed the heart of a good cop or whether he was just aiming to get back into my sister’s good graces. A bit of both, if I had to bet.
And I wasn’t sure whether it should matter to me anyhow. Ashdown had gotten me into the Stalemate to view the crime scene, and gained us access to Eli Welker’s room at the Radisson. He’d gotten me a look at Welker’s hotel file, which netted me the passport picture, which Ostermann used to identify Welker and ultimately led to his sending me the photos of Shauna with Angus Quigg in Glasgow.
If not for Damon Ashdown, I might still be running around Dublin, trying to discern the identity of the dead man in Temple Bar.
Kurt Ostermann’s callback came a few minutes after Ashdown’s.
“No sheet on Lennox Sterling,” he said. “But I have a good idea where you’ll find him. Know a district called Toxteth?”
“Of the Toxteth riots? Sure.”
“A friend of mine contacted a Merseyside cop. There’s an open investigation into a group believed to be trafficking in firearms there.”
“Are we talking about a crime firm,” I said, “or a street gang?”
“A hybrid, it sounds like. Since the Yardies have a reputation for cold-bloodedness and resorting to extreme violence at the slightest transgression, crime firms are apparently quick to adopt the moniker. Scares off the competition and throws off law enforcement in the same breath.”
“Do you have an address?”
“I’m afraid not. That’s as far as he would go.”
“Well, it’s a start. Thanks.”
“Before you thank me, please carefully consider what you’re about to walk into, Simon. I’m only four hours away in London. How about you find yourself a local library and read some Bukowski until I can get there?”
“Not necessary,” I said. “I have Ashdown and my sister on their way down from Glasgow.”
Following a significant pause, he relented. “All right, Simon. Remember, though, I’m here if you need me.”
“I know.”
By the time I ended the call I was already standing at the entrance to the Anfield Merseyrail Station.
Slipping my hand into my jacket, I surreptitiously moved the HK to my waistband for ease of access.
Then I descended the steps to board the next train south to Toxteth.
Chapter 34
TWELVE YEARS AGO
I’m staring out the living room window. The press is parked outside our home and I can’t decide whether they’re friend or foe. Oh, I know they’re far more interested in ratings and selling newspapers than in finding my six-year-old daughter. What I don’t know is whether all the attention is helping or hindering the investigation. Or whether it’s having no effect whatsoever.
Rendell is ambiguous on the matter. “The best thing we can do at this point, Simon, is forget they’re there. You and Tasha have done what needed to be done. You’ve made an appeal to the public. You’ve spoken directly to any potential kidnapper. And you’ve instructed Hailey on what she needs to do if she’s watching. That’s about as much as we can control with respect to the media.”
I nod and close the drapes. Turn toward the kitchen where Tasha is seated with her best friend from college, Aubrey Lang. Aubrey has been in D.C. since the day Hailey was abducted. Flew all the way up from Costa Rica where she works as a nurse to provide Tasha some moral support. We offered her a room but she insists on staying at the Georgetown Best Western in order to remain out of the way. She drops by every morning to keep Tasha company. And I’m grateful beyond words. Because at this point I find myself unable to talk to Tasha at all.
She blames me, she says. Blames me for going o
ff to Bucharest and leaving her and Hailey at home alone.
“Yes, I was in the kitchen,” she shouted at me early this morning. “I was in the kitchen while Hailey was out in the backyard. And where the hell were you, Simon? On a goddamn plane somewhere over the Atlantic. At least I care enough about my daughter not to take off for the other side of the world.”
When I argued that it was my job, she became hysterical.
“Why is it your job? Why, Simon? Because you requested the assignment. You weren’t content escorting prisoners to and from FCC Petersburg. You weren’t content chasing down federal fugitives here in the metropolitan area. You wanted to work abroad.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you weren’t content with us, Simon. You wanted more. Your request for overseas assignments had nothing to do with advancing your career. Finding a federal fugitive in D.C. or Maryland is just as goddamn important as finding one in Lisbon or Madrid. But you wanted to be away. You wanted to be away from us.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because you were bored.”
“The hell I was.”
Even as I said it, I wondered whether she was right.
Is this all my fault?
I had told myself I was bored with my job at the D.C. field office. But was it more than that? Was I bored coming home to Tasha and Hailey every night? Bored watching the same inane television shows and Disney DVDs every evening? Was I bored with the same damn dinners night after night? Was I bored having sex with my wife even though I’d never so much as considered having an affair?
It’s true that I requested the assignment shortly after Hailey was born. At the time my world had been changing so drastically, I’d figured one more modification wouldn’t upend it. But had I ever really reflected on why I wanted to work abroad?
It’s not as though extraditions are exciting. It’s all waiting around and paperwork. It’s working with foreign law-enforcement agents who resent your very presence. And in the nearly two years since September 11, air travel has become a living nightmare.
So why was I so insistent on leaving?
Christ, am I just like my father? Did I make a calculated decision to spend as much time as possible away from my wife and daughter without resorting to divorce? Did I find a way to walk away from my marriage without forcing Hailey to endure an ugly and protracted legal disentanglement? Am I just like Dr. Alden Fisk, abandoner of wife and daughter, callous breaker of lives?
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