by Eric Dabbs
Alex shrugged his shoulders. "Guess I should get ready."
"Bet I could do better." Samantha raised a brow with a hint of a smile.
"I have no doubt about that, but I'm not the one calling the shots."
39
Alex watched from behind the two-way mirror as Agent Baxter continued his line of questioning.
"So Air Marshal, did you get something to fill the ole tummy?" Baxter said, rubbing his stomach. He sat on the end of the table. "Wouldn't want the collywobbles to get the best of you."
"My nerves are as calm as a sunny day, thank you very much."
"Splendid. Let's commence questioning. Shall we?"
Air Marshal Winslow nodded.
"What we need to look at is the evidence itself," Baxter said.
"Yes." The air marshal smirked. "You've been babbling on about this so-called evidence, but you haven't provided one shred of it. I'm beginning to believe you’re stringing me along for nothing."
"You're correct. If we have any cards, we should reveal them straightaway. No need to waste everyone's time."
"Unless you have nothing but hot air."
"What we have is extremely incriminating, but I don't think I should be the one to present it. There's someone else who needs to speak with you. And if I were you, I'd tell the ole chap what he wants to hear. You'll come out much better in the long run."
"Are you threatening me, Agent Baxter?"
On cue, Alex entered the room with a folder in his hand.
"This is Alex Banks," Baxter said, "visiting us from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security."
Air Marshal Winslow gave Alex a once over look and then directed his gaze to the reflection of the two-way mirror.
"You gents have a jolly ole time," Baxter added as he departed the room, closing the door behind him with a click.
Alex set the folder down on the table and removed his suit jacket. He tossed it to land in front of the air marshal, their eyes meeting in a steely standoff—a staring contest of sorts. The next thing to go was Alex's tie. It landed on top of the jacket. Then he rolled up his sleeves to his forearms in two folds. As he finished the second sleeve, he let a lopsided grin surface that was more of a sly smirk than anything else.
He waited in silence.
"If you think you can intimidate me with your—”
"Air Marshal, I'll shoot straight with you." Alex glared like he'd been a fierce interrogator all of his life. He'd been shot at in Afghanistan, shot at in Marbella, and a few other places that came to mind. He'd probably be shot at again before it was all said and done, so he had no intention of backing down from a verbal altercation with the good air marshal.
Alex traced a slow and casual path to one side of the room, and then walked back to stand in front of the table again where he stopped.
"We don't have time to play games," he said with an icy edge to his voice.
"Excuse me?" Winslow shifted in his chair.
"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about." Alex retrieved the folder from the table.
The air marshal's gaze locked on the folder as Alex opened it.
"Take a look at these." Alex tossed three photos across the table, barely skimming over the pile of his jacket and tie.
Winslow stuck his hands out to make sure none of them hit the floor. He pinned one with his forearm and quickly arranged the photos in front of him.
"Recognize any of those men?"
"One is Alfred Coraco. The other two, I don't know."
"That's good. We’ll get to Coraco soon enough. First, let’s take a look at the other two men.” Alex leaned over and pointed at one of the photos. “That’s Zjing Lee. He’s a North Korean spy. We identified him as having been involved in stealing nuclear secrets from the United States. The guy you know, Alfred Coraco, paid him twenty-five million dollars recently for an unknown transaction. I believe Coraco was buying nuclear secrets from Lee.”
“But you don’t have proof,” Winslow said.
“Not directly, not yet, but we’re connecting the dots, which seem to include you.”
Winslow’s jaw twitched. “If you have anything that’ll stick, let’s hear it.”
“It’s coming,” Alex replied. “But before I go there, I’d like for you to take a look at the other photograph. That’s Hakem al Mushaf Raziz. He’s a terrorist. Leader of The Crescent Moon. You might be interested to know he had been staying in Alfred Coraco’s plush guesthouse recently. Now, he’s left Spain with Coraco. Wonder where they went?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Now, back to Alfred Coraco.” Alex inched closer. "Would you like to know what I discovered in a warehouse on Alfred Coraco's property?"
"Not really, but I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway."
Alex placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, invading Winslow's personal space. "A nuclear bomb, that's what I found. Not a pipe bomb, or a fertilizer bomb, but an honest to God nuclear bomb." Chills swept across his forearms at the thought of a mushroom cloud obliterating a major U.S. city.
"That has nothing to do with me."
"It has everything to do with you." Alex jabbed a finger in the air marshal’s direction. "Alfred Coraco has plans to use your stealth bomber to drop the weapon on U.S. soil. Millions could die. So don't tell me for one second that it has nothing to do with you."
Winslow wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead.
"Play the audio feed," Alex said.
Recessed speakers in the ceiling hummed with the sounds of Coraco's party. The air marshal’s eyes lit up.
"Mr. Pennington, Mr. Winslow, come in," Alfred Coraco's voice said, filling the four corners of the interrogation room. "I hope ten million pounds will help you sleep better at night, Mr. Winslow."
At the sound of his name, the air marshal sucked in a raspy breath.
"This is you," Alex said. "Pay attention."
"I'm sure it will," Winslow's reply came over the speakers.
Then came Coraco's line about the flight lieutenant receiving his share of the payday.
"Stop the feed." Alex turned on Winslow. "Should I bring a TV in here and show you the video of that conversation?"
"How...how could you possibly..."
Alex slammed a fist on the table top with enough force to silence the air marshal's pathetic babbling. The bang reverberated off of the walls. "Are you going to risk the lives of millions of innocent people—men, women, and children—to save your own hide?"
“I don’t know what you’re—“
“What’s it gonna be, Air Marshal?”
“I...”
“Blood will be on your hands.” Alex drove his fist into the table one more time. “That blood will run deep, Air Marshal.”
"I had no idea what he was using the plane—” The air marshal’s face flushed red, eyes large and round, oozing with humiliation and regret.
Alex took a step back, swallowing the tension in his dry throat. He had actually gotten the air marshal to confess.
He turned to the mirror. "You get that?"
Baxter burst into the room. "Every bit of it."
"Good." Staring at the air marshal with triumphant eyes, Alex folded his jacket and tie over his arm. He wanted to say something savvy and smart, but all that came to mind was the next step in the process. "Now that we have record of your involvement with Scepter One’s theft, we'll need to find out where Coraco took the weapon, and the plane."
Baxter had a piece of paper in his hand. As he approached the air marshal, he pinched the top corner of the sheet between his thumb and forefinger.
"You heard him," he said. "Where did Coraco take the bomb? And where is our plane? Where's he hiding them both? And when does he plan to strike?"
"You have to believe me, I knew nothing of his plot to detonate a nuclear weapon in the United States. I thought his plan was to sell the plane on the black market."
"The more you talk, the better off you'll be," Baxter said.
"At the party, in private," Winslow said, "he mentioned a trip to Iceland, but I assumed it was a business venture."
"Where at in Iceland?" Alex asked.
"I don't know."
"Lies will get you nowhere, Air Marshal."
"I swear, I don't know. On Her Majesty's life."
"Then I need you to fill out the details of your statement, and sign this confession." Baxter pushed the paper across to the air marshal who stared at the sheet for a long moment, and then accepted a pen from Baxter. With great resignation, Winslow began scribbling out the details concerning the theft of the stealth bomber.
After a few minutes, he glanced up and said, "What about Sir Pennington?"
"If you cooperate and help us nail him to the proverbial wall," Baxter said, "then you might escape with a lesser sentence."
"Lesser than what?"
"Life imprisonment, Air Marshal Winslow. You're guilty of treason. Only be glad we can't hang you from the gallows like in World War II."
40
Sir Helmsley said that MI6 had a field agent in Iceland, but they wouldn't hear back from him until sometime Monday morning. The British spy had to wait until the country's land records division opened up in the nation's capital of Reykjavik. At hearing the name of the capital city, Alex's initial reaction was that Sir Helmsley was joking.
Helmsley replied by saying, "The ole chaps have a way with words. But seriously, Mr. Banks, they have less than four hundred thousand citizens. The fewer that have to pronounce their vocabulary, the better." He threw in a wry grin.
Due to Iceland's small population, there wasn't a lot of action going on up there. As a matter of fact, the other MI6 agents classified the country as an easy posting for rookies, or those about to retire. Alex imagined someone similar to Randall Grant working the Iceland gig, definitely not a seasoned spook. Today's assignment was probably the agent's most exciting endeavor in some time. But hopefully checking the land records might reveal a list of properties owned by Alfred Coraco. It was a long shot, but worth the time.
For Alex, the delay meant much needed sleep, but first came dinner and a moment to unwind in their two bedroom flat-style room. He still found it difficult to call an apartment or condo, a flat. But while in Rome, do as the Romans do. Or better yet, while in England, there was nothing wrong with relishing in the culture. The Cheval Three Quays at The London Tower provided luxury at its finest. The concierge recommended a number of restaurants in the vicinity, but Samantha wanted room service, which suited Alex fine. But come to find out, the Cheval didn't provide room service after all. Of course, he had mistakenly mentioned that they did at the airport.
Samantha accused him of once again making assumptions without verifying the facts. Fortunately, there was a bakery next door to the London Tower called, the Paul Three Quays.
While Samantha relaxed in a chair near the picture window with a magnificent view of the London Tower Bridge, Alex hit the Paul Three Quays up for a chicken and bacon sub sandwich for himself, and a grilled chicken salad for Samantha with balsamic vinaigrette dressing. So as it turned out, because of his miscue, he got to provide room service himself, even with his eyelids drooping heavily.
Back in the room, he placed the food on the glass table and pulled up a chair to eat, the city lights sparkling in the night. For a moment, he forgot about the world's troubles and just sat and stared.
"You gonna eat?"
"Huh?" Alex snapped out of the peaceful moment. "Oh...yeah. Sorry. Just got lost for a second."
Samantha opened a pouch of dressing, drizzled it over her salad, and then chewed with her mouth closed. After she swallowed her first bite, she said, "Do you remember the time we went fishing with your Dad?"
The mention of his father felt like a shock to the heart. He recovered, trying not to appear miffed by the question. "How could I forget? You caught the biggest fish that day. A red snapper, if I remember correctly."
A warm smile grew on Samantha's face. "It was a snapper, but I also remember that no one caught much that day. So, I don't think it was saying a lot to say, 'that I caught the biggest fish,' but...we had a lot of fun that day. Actually, the fun part was watching you. You did your best to top my catch, but you couldn't."
"What made you think of that?"
"The water under the bridge."
Samantha's clear blue eyes were particularly captivating at the moment. He'd forgotten what it was like to get lost in them.
"Those were the days," he said with a wide grin. Luckily, he hadn't taken a bite of his sandwich yet, so he didn't have to worry about food stuck between his two front teeth. A warm fuzzy feeling swept over him. "We can do it again, when this is all over."
He made sure to say it as a statement, not a question, which might reveal weakness. There could be none of that.
"That would be good." As soon as the words left her mouth, her smile faded and her eyes darted to the window view, back to Alex, and then to her salad.
She took another bite.
Samantha looked like she was caught between the possibility of opening up to him and the vulnerability that came with leaving the security of their current relationship status, which was distant at best. All of the sudden, Alex felt like he was staring at a coworker.
The warm fuzzy feeling vanished.
He took a bite of his sub sandwich.
Samantha stuck a fork in her bowl and continued to eat in silence.
The rest of dinner went by fast because Alex was hungry and tired. He tossed the sandwich wrapper in the garbage and walked over to the window, allowing himself to take in the view once more before retiring to his room. He glanced over at Samantha as she finished her salad.
A smile creased the corners of his lips.
She was still lovely to behold, even with the cut under her eye and the bruise across her nose. She swiped several strands of her sandy hair and tucked it behind her ear.
"Good night, Sam."
And with that, he left her there alone as he entered his room and fell into a hard, deep sleep, his troubles fading until the morning light.
41
"Our source in Iceland has reported back, and I don't think you'll like his findings," Sir Helmsley said. "It seems that Alfred Coraco has never owned a parcel of real estate in that country." He sat on the edge of his desk, bright rays of sunlight shafting through the window at the back of his office. Alex and Samantha sat in the guest chairs, and Agent Baxter leaned against a wall.
"We ran other checks for credit cards and the like," Helmsley continued, "but nothing turned up. If he's in Iceland, we have no way of knowing where."
Alex had hoped for something. Anything. But this...no. He thought for sure they'd find a trace of something, considering Air Marshal Winslow's stormy confession. But somehow, he still believed the traitor was telling the truth…if a traitor could tell the truth.
"Any ideas on where to turn next?" Helmsley said.
"I'm not sure," Alex replied.
"Baxter, got any thoughts?"
"We could talk to Winslow again. See if we can yank some more out of him."
"He knew he was done for," Samantha said. "I think he was telling the truth. Coraco likely played everything close to the vest. He probably only told those he trusted most about his next move."
Baxter twirled the fan of a miniature windmill on top of Helmsley's bookcase. "You'd be surprised how few people there are that he trusts. Likely, only a select few. But then again, the ole air marshal may be capable of more than we think. The criminal mind can manage quite efficiently, even under adversity. He didn't rise the ranks in the Royal Air Force without smarts and savviness."
"Baxter's right on," Helmsley said. "The air marshal may have been trying to send us on a wild goose chase out of fear of Coraco. Rumor has it the filthy rich tycoon has ways of silencing those who spout off at the mouth."
"Samantha may be right," Alex said, breaking his silence.
"I appreciate the vote of confidence." She purs
ed her lips. "But if that's the case, it still leaves us nowhere."
"No. What if he was telling the truth? What if he was only telling what he overheard?"
"Go on." Helmsley seemed curious.
"Well. What if Coraco was talking in some kind of code when he mentioned a trip to Iceland?"
"I'm not following," Baxter said.
"Yeah." Samantha cocked her head to the side. "Where are you going with this?"
"Do any of you remember a guy by the name of Erik the Red?"
"The Viking?" Sir Helmsley said.
"He's the one. Erik the Red set sail in the northern Atlantic and eventually discovered an uninhabited land. It was cold, icy most of the time. It was a harsh place to live, but he wanted to encourage other Vikings to migrate there for trade. So he came up with a brilliant plan. In order to allure others to his new found home, he decided to name it..."
"Greenland?" Baxter perked up.
Alex nodded. "It worked to attract settlers the same way the people of Iceland used their country's name to keep barbarians away."
"When did you become such a history buff?" Samantha asked.
"It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for you." Alex tapped a finger to his temple. "And I paid attention in school. And I like the History Channel. Don't you?"
"HGTV is more my style.”
“Figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
"Are you suggesting that we run a check on Greenland?" Sir Helmsley said.
"Yes, exactly. Baxter can see what else he can get out of Winslow if he wants to, but I think we should check out Greenland...while we wait. Does MI6 have a field agent there?"
"Why would they? But I may be able to maneuver a few chess pieces and get someone over there straightaway."
"How long will that take?"
"Maybe this evening, maybe tomorrow morning. I'll get with the director of MI6 at once."