The Export

  “So you said this was one of yours, and that means a member of staff or one of the intelligence services or police?” Matt stated.

  “Yes,” Charlie responded.

  “Only someone with a decent clearance and access to this intel would know which cameras were dead?”

  “Right again.”

  “Was there any connection between the victims?”

  “They all worked within government, either in Parliament or intelligence, but we’ve found no connection between them other than employment and being female. As for appearance, they each are different in looks but all considered attractive. Personalities and ambition very different, too.” Charlie leaned forward and handed Matt five folders, the CVs of each of the victims, and sat back in his chair to check his emails while the American consultant dove in, scanning every line of every page for something that would jump out at him.

  “So how did you arrive at this suspect you can’t pin the crimes on?” Matt asked, tossing his copy of the report onto Charlie’s desk. He kept the CVs, hoping to use them later to track social media accounts, cross reference friends, and whatever techniques he could bring to bear to get more out of the intel.

  “Believe it or not, an anonymous tip after the last incident on the bloody crime stoppers hotline,” Charlie said in a surprised tone.

  “That’s funny. Bloody crime,” Matt laughed but then brought his focus back to the felon. “So there’s a tip stating this guy Rogers committed the crimes?” Charlie nodded and then played the recording of the call. They locked eyes from across the desk as they both listened.

  “Yes,” Charlie acknowledged. The voice was computer generated and gave the suspect’s name, address, and claimed that he was the one killing women in London. The police brought him in for the 24 hours of questioning allowed, but without anything actionable to hold him, and with firm alibis on where he was at the time of the crimes, they had to cut him loose. They surveilled him for two weeks but came up with nothing, so they pulled their assets and kicked it upstairs to us.”

  A moment later, Charlie’s assistant knocked at the door and then entered, excusing the intrusion. He reminded his boss of the working lunch meeting he was scheduled to attend down the hall in five minutes. Charlie thanked him, and Matt gave the assistant a smile as the man pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  What Charlie proposed sounded a bit daft to Matt, but he didn’t want to insult his friend. He wanted to help.

  “Okay, I’m in. I’m not fully confident that your plan will work, but I’m in. If you’re sure he’s the guy, you do know he could be taken out with the trash as easily as he took out his victims, right?”

  Charlie nodded. He knew what Matt was capable of but wanted the legal system to work, if it could, before asking for a black op to eliminate the killer once and for all. Matt had seen the same hesitation in others. Setting a trained killer on someone, off the record, was risky, a double-edged knife that could cut both ways. Without strict regulations and oversight of some kind, what was to stop the person ordering such a move to they themselves becoming someone’s target?

  “I feel your pain, Charlie. I get it, brother.”

  Matt sat quietly, staring out the window, watching as yet another train rolled to a stop in the station across the road from them.

  “You think he’s working for someone, don’t you?” Matt said, surprised that he hadn’t at first considered this himself.

  “That’s why I get the big office!” Charlie said, a look of disappointment across his face.

  “Give me the when and where, and let’s get started.” The two stood up and shook hands before Charlie escorted his guest past the assistant’s desk and down the hall to the bank of elevators.

  “I’ve arranged for you two to meet at St. Stephen’s Tavern on Canon Row near the bridge,” Charlie told Matt in a whisper as they waited for the elevator to arrive and return him to the lobby. “Be there at seventeen-hundred,” Charlie continued. “He’ll be standing at the bar in the second room and wearing a brown North Face wool cap if you’ve managed to forget his face by then.”

  As the elevator doors spread open, Matt stepped in among the men and women, all focused on their cellphones. He turned and reminded Charlie about the promised dinner plans.

  “Lois will be pissed if we’re late for dinner tonight,” he stated.

  “She’ll be fine,” Charlie responded. “She’s used to my odd hours and our late-night rendezvous.”

  With that, the doors closed, and soon Matt was outside breathing in the cool London air. He had a few hours to kill before the five o’clock meeting at the tavern.After spending a half-hour enjoying an order of fresh cooked fish and chips, halibut not cod, at a local restaurant, Matt looked through his phone in search of historic or touristy areas he had not yet visited on his many trips and stays in the area. Once he found two such locations within walking distance, he headed back toward Big Ben and the massive Parliament building.

  He surprised himself that he had never toured Winston Churchill’s war room. It was actually a massive bomb shelter in a full basement of meeting, sleeping, and communicating rooms located beneath a government building within walking distance of Parliament, the Prime Minister’s residence at 10 Downing Street, and Buckingham Palace. After spending 10 pounds sterling, about 13 U.S. dollars, on admission, he spent the next hour reading the posters, examining the historical documents, medals, and other artifacts from a time gone by. World War II had ended 75 years ago, but as a history buff, he relished the time spent scouring the museum.

  I’ve seen all the movies and read all the books, he thought to himself as he peered through the protective glass that kept the various historic rooms intact from touchy tourists, sticky fingers, and those in search of a great selfie. Standing here where history was made, where the great men and women of our past made decisions that kept the world free is awesome.

  For him, when it came to history, he was like a kid in a candy store.

  Once he finished the self-guided tour, he ran up the steps to embrace the fresh air once more. The next stop would be Westminster Abbey, just a short walk from the war room. It had rained while he was deep inside Churchill’s now-famous wartime hideaway, and the air had become even cooler. He grumbled at having to pay an admission fee to enter a functioning cathedral. In all the times he had tried to enter before, the facility had either already closed for the day, or there was an event that prohibited entry.

  Walking alongside, and often inadvertently directly over the gravesites beneath the stone floor of notables like Sir Isaac Newton, Charles Dickens, and many of the country’s royalty, he recalled the famous weddings that had taken place there, but then remembered the somber day of Princess Diana’s funeral mass. Before exiting the front of the Abbey, he turned and took one last look at the magnificent interior of the building.

  I wonder how many of the people buried here plotted against someone or died as a result of foul play. He stood there for a short time until a group of German tourists asked him to move away so they could take a photo standing inside the massive doorway.

  Okay, enough of this dead stuff, he said to himself, let’s go catch a killer.

  Heading for the tavern, Matt walked between the statute of Winston Churchill to his left and Parliament to his right. Big Ben was still standing straight up into the sky, but the bells were silent and the façade covered as they underwent a massive restoration. Minutes later, he was standing at the back bar inside St. Stephen’s, a pint in his hand, waiting for the brown cap to appear. Right on time, at what American civilians would regard quitting time, five o’clock sharp, in walked Billy Rogers.

  Matt watched as the Brit claimed an open spot at the bar about four feet from where Matt stood, ordered a Coke, no ice, and checked his watch. As Rogers looked up, Matt moved to stand in front of him, hand extended.

  “Billy Rogers, I thought that was you,” Matt exclaimed. The expression on Rog
er’s face went from surprise to guarded.

  “Let’s grab a table and catch up.”

  They’d started with small talk about soccer, rugby, and American football, but their focus slowly moved to what they had most in common – government work. Rogers knew nothing about the man he was sitting across from other than he worked for the U.S. government in some unofficial capacity, might have a job opportunity for him, and came highly recommended by Charlie.

  Mostly, Rogers spoke about being a former member of the Royal Marines, highly respected Mountain Leaders, an elite group of experts in long-range reconnaissance, arctic warfare, and mountain climbing. He had served two tours of duty in the mountains and peaks of Afghanistan, but a devastating injury suffered in a fall during a mission there ended his career and hopes of ever chasing a soccer ball again. Both legs had been shattered as he bounced off a jagged rock face and landed hard, but four surgeries and a long convalescence back home in England made him as well as he could ever hope for. He said he couldn’t run at all, had to take stairs slowly and methodically whether going up or down, and relied on prescription meds when the intense pain returned.

  Matt seized the moment to attempt to build camaraderie between them by sharing his exploits at the base of Mount Everest just a week earlier.

  “I’ve seen her from the air,” Rogers said as his expression saddened. “Wanted to give her a go at some point but not now. Not with these damn legs. They function, but the cold would lock them in place, and I’d be nothing more than a frozen popsicle with two sticks up there.”

  The waiter brought them a round of beer, Rogers willing to move from cola to something stronger as their discussion continued.

  “So let’s get to it, mate,” Rogers said, Matt noticing the tone in his voice clearly preparing to address the elephant in the tavern.

  “Before we get down to what you’re really here for, could I see some ID?” Rogers requested.

  Reaching inside his right jacket pocket, Matt removed the same FBI identification wallet he had displayed at crime scenes around the world and, most recently, to the police on Everest and at the airport in Doha. “Here you go, Billy,” Matt responded as he passed the credential across the table to him.

  “I’ve only seen these on the telly,” Rogers remarked and handed it back. “Someone at MI5 has set you on me, some sort of a Hail Mary, as you say in America, to sort me out.” He took a long draw on his beer and put the mug down hard on the table. “They’ve told you they think I’ve stabbed five people, but they can’t prove a bloody thing, so you must be the specialist here to drag me into the alley and beat a confession out of me.”

  Matt smiled. He took a first and then second long drink from his mug, watching Rogers’ face, breathing, and body language the entire time.

  “Not really,” Matt finally answered. He stared at Rogers for 15 seconds, continuing to study the Brit. No tells, nothing sending off a sign of any kind. Matt leaned forward again, this time pulling another wallet, a blue one, from his pocket. He reached across the table and flicked it open for Rogers to see closely.

  “I’m here to recruit you for the CIA.”

  “Well, that’s a big bag of shite,” Rogers replied angrily. “First an FBI ID and now a CIA one? Bollocks! You’re here to entrap me in some way.”

  Matt smiled. “Look at me, Billy,” Matt said in a tone he hoped would allow Rogers to breathe a bit and relax so he could begin to enact the plan Charlie had laid out to lure Rogers into a mistake or a confession.

  “I shit you not,” Matt said. “Personally, I don’t give a crap if you stabbed a hundred people. London is too damned crowded anyway!”

  Rogers let out a laugh. Matt’s tactics were working. The laugh would cause the suspect to breathe in more air and relax, hopefully enough to follow the conversation to where Charlie and Matt wanted it to lead.

  “I’ve got to go use the loo,” Rogers said almost apologetically. As he stood up from the chair, Matt saw firsthand how much the man had to struggle with his damaged limbs.

  “Once we get the blood flowing…” Rogers stopped mid-sentence. “Once the circulation in my legs gets going, they’ll loosen up, and I’ll be right as I’m gonna be.”

  “You coming back?” Matt asked.

  “If I do, we’ll have the CIA to talk about. If I don’t, you’ll know to sod off.”

  Matt nodded and then smiled to himself, noticing Rogers had left his brown beanie behind on the table. A short time later, Rogers returned, moving much more quickly than when he left the table.

  “Okay, so tell me about the CIA.”

  For the next hour, Matt described certain elements of the clandestine world that were so secretive only nameless stars for each of the fallen were placed on the hero’s wall at CIA HQ in Langley, Virginia.

  “But what I want to talk to you about are the black ops.”

  Rogers leaned in, as did the American.

  “Whether you killed those five people or not, your military background, the training you received, and the experience you have most certainly qualifies you for the work.” Matt finished his beer and waved to the server for more.

  “On top of it all, you’re already a UK government employee working in the intelligence service. So you have a taste and an understanding of how things work in this world.”

  “Go on,” Rogers said.

  Matt was watching the suspect’s face as he continued to describe the sort of work that could be had if he was indeed interested.

  “The fact that you are not an American would allow our side to disavow any knowledge of your behavior and would give us full deniability and be able to say under oath before congressional hearings, or the court, that no American was involved in unlawful behavior.”

  Matt’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket. It was the alarm set for 18:00, six o’clock local time. Charlie would be pulling up out front of the tavern at any minute, and the meeting, the interview, needed to conclude for now.

  “Put your number in my phone,” Matt requested of Rogers as he handed him the device. “Think about this for a day or two, and then I’ll call you to see if you want to discuss this further, okay? My ride’s picking me up for another meeting.”

  Rogers typed in his number and then added a second one, returning the phone as Matt stood up from the table.

  “One is work, the second is personal.”

  Rogers had stiffened already in his chair but slowly mustered the strength to get back up and thank Matt for the beer and the talk.

  “You going to pay for the pints?” Rogers asked politely, and in no time, Matt pulled two 20-pound notes from the wad he’d had in his back pocket and dropped them on the table.

  “Hate to run, but I think there’s more to talk about. I hope you pick up when I call you in two days.”

  Matt knew it had gone well, better than he had expected, but wasn’t sure if terminating the meeting as suddenly as Charlie had suggested was a mistake or not.

  “Very sorry to have to cut this short, Billy,” Matt offered as he extended his hand across the table. Minutes later, a black BMW sedan pulled up curbside in front of the tavern, and the passenger side door flew open in front of Matt.

  “Let’s go, mate, Lois is waiting, and she’s going to be pissed!”

  On the ride to Charlie’s, Matt didn’t have much to say.

  “You okay over there?” Charlie asked, taking his eyes off the road for an instant to check on his passenger. There was no response.

  “Matt, you good?”

  His American friend and colleague turned to respond, but the expression on his face gave Charlie a dire read.

  “This guy’s good,” Matt offered. “Scary good. Nobody would ever suspect a guy slowed down by those damn legs to be a threat. If he’s a killer, then he’s going to be a very successful one.”

  Thirty minutes later, their journey slowed due to the heavy rush-hour traffic, they finally arrived at Charlie’s modest home in nearby Highgate. He stuck his key in the fron
t door lock and gestured for Matt to enter first.

  “Could have walked here quicker,” Matt joked.

  But before he even had a chance to laugh, he was suddenly knocked hard to the floor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Stunned and lying flat on his back in the entry hall, Matt could feel his attacker’s hot breath on his face.

  As Charlie flicked the light switch, he yelled for Lois to get off their guest.

  “Bloody dog walker was supposed to leave her in the backyard!” he protested as Matt laughed and fought off his assailant. Finally able to get up on one knee, he began wrestling with Lois, the 170-pound Mastiff that he had known since she was a pup.

  “Lois, what the hell have you been eating!” Matt said, his face displaying a look of disgust but his voice full of affection.

  “Don’t ask, Matt,” Charlie answered as Matt and Lois continued to wrestle. “You don’t want to know.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Charlie asked when Matt was finally able to rise to his feet while still roughhousing with the massive dog. “I told her you were coming, and she’s been excited ever since.”

  “Damn, Charlie, she’s gotten really big!” Matt declared as the dog’s enthusiasm switched from their guest to her empty food bowl on the kitchen floor. Once it was filled, Charlie and Matt were able to uncork a bottle of wine and hope the Chinese food delivery would arrive soon. As Charlie set the table, Matt wandered into the living room and smiled, admiring the massive bookshelves his friend had filled from floor to ceiling on two of the four walls. The dimly lit aquarium remained absent of any fish.