Blowback

by Valerie Plame

  Vanessa felt abruptly deflated. The meeting was over. She glanced to Chris and then back to Hall, who was nodding at them even as she backed toward the door. “Thank you both again for your cooperation. But if you will excuse me, I can’t stay.”

  “Good luck at the conference,” Chris said. It took Vanessa a moment to register that Hall would soon be addressing members of the international intelligence community at the Conference on Terrorism and Cyber Security in Sydney.

  “Thank you, Christopher,” Hall said. “I’m on a plane in less than three hours, and I still have a rather unique gift to collect for my host. Trevor?”

  Trevor, already up, moved with her toward the door. As she stepped out, he said, “The chap at the flea returned our call to say the map is ready and he will close his doors at six p.m. sharp.”

  The door clicked shut behind the Director-General.

  Chris pushed out his chair, and Vanessa stopped him with one arm. “It’s still early, and we have more to talk about—”

  “We’re done here,” Chris said, gathering up his jacket. Vanessa heard the finality in his words.

  After the briefest hesitation, she nodded. Her reconnection with Chris was still fragile, and there would be nothing gained by pushing for more time after they’d been as much as dismissed by the Brits.

  As Howard gathered up the file, Chris said, “Will we have access to the complete file?”

  Howard blinked. “I’m certain that can be arranged.” But his tone said otherwise.

  Now Howard focused his pale blue eyes on Vanessa. “We have a full team tracking the Chechen. As the Director-General emphasized, it is one of our top priorities. The other is working with your agency to apprehend Bhoot.”

  Vanessa nodded. But she couldn’t repress a sigh of resignation even as a raw energy coursed through her. In her mind she saw the Chechen in all his guises, eerie in his ability to change his appearance. She couldn’t shake the sense that he was here to do a job—a job he would complete very soon.

  “What’s wrong with this picture?” Vanessa followed Chris down the faded steps of the old red-brick building that housed MI5’s centrally located Headquarters. All the way down the elevator and while they retrieved their cell phones from the security desk and Vanessa grabbed her small roll-aboard, she’d been mentally turning the encounter with Alexandra Hall and the MI5 operatives.

  She pulled her slicker tight around her shoulders, chilled by the now-steady drizzle. The darkening of the late-afternoon sky and the icy wind that whipped down the narrow, deserted street made it seem even colder.

  “One minute they’re talking about the PM and the president, and the next minute they’ve got it handled, and Hall can’t give us the time of day because she’s going shopping?” She powered up her cell phone, searching automatically for messages and finding none.

  “It’s very British, you know,” Chris said, sounding distracted.

  “What’s very British, the flea?”

  “The gift—and what the hell? Didn’t they say there’d be an assigned car waiting at the corner by now?” No-parking signs covered the entire block.

  “That’s what they said.” Vanessa turned back toward the building’s unassuming side entrance, but Chris didn’t move.

  She said, “I’ll tell them we’re—”

  “Let’s get a bloody taxi,” Chris said, grinning like a kid about to pick out a familiar and favorite treat. He took the steps quickly, and she followed him, moving briskly down the narrow street to the corner, where they stood beneath the shadow of one of the building’s numerous security cameras.

  Within seconds, he’d hailed a shiny, black London cab.

  He held the door and Vanessa climbed in first, sighing at the familiar, delicious roominess.

  “Head us in the direction of Charing Cross,” Chris told the cabbie, who looked as if he could be Dev Patel’s twin.

  “Right you are, guv,” the cabbie said, with a perfect Cockney accent. “A good night for you two to stay inside nice and cozy.”

  Chris and Vanessa looked at each other, exchanging a smile.

  Chris peered out at a world slick and gray as the rain settled in. “I’m guessing you don’t have a hotel yet,” he said. “I know a great pub at Charing Cross.” He raised his voice to be heard above a sudden cloudburst. “We can talk more—and also figure out logistics—”

  He broke off speaking while the cabbie executed an abrupt and tight U-turn and quickly cut over to the steely gray chop of the River Thames. When they were heading north, Chris touched Vanessa’s arm lightly. “You did good in there. And here’s what’s wrong with the picture—you don’t have it. Or not all of it.” He paused to watch a tugboat disappearing under Westminster Bridge.

  Then he surprised Vanessa by whispering in her ear—“Alexandra Hall and MP Smythe—he’s her ex but not completely ex. It’s one of those relationships.” He leaned toward the seat divider to tell the cabbie which pub, and the cabbie retorted, “Already knew which one was the best, guv.”

  Chris returned his attention to Vanessa. “You’re very quiet.”

  She frowned, twisting her mouth, still turning over mental stones. She looked toward the window, but she was picturing the fire in Alexandra Hall’s eyes when she said, We are as interested as you are in catching the Chechen, and ultimately Bhoot. Believe me when I say that is one of my top priorities.

  “It’s not adding up.” She looked intently at Chris. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “So . . . this is one of your aha moments? Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I’ve been focusing on the pattern, and that’s led me to the Chechen—but there’s a whole new level to the game when we factor in Bhoot’s motivation.” Vanessa pulled up straight, as if she might see over something blocking her view.

  “This is about retaliation for actions against his network. MP Smythe makes a logical target. He’s sponsoring an antiterrorist bill. But what I keep thinking—he’s too high-profile. The other targets have been practical—eliminating my assets—or they’ve been intelligence officers, a prosecutor, or someone looking to sell black-market nukes to the competition.”

  Chris tipped his head. “He could be using a higher-profile target to divert attention from his travel to Iran, the facility . . .”

  “Maybe.” Vanessa nodded.

  “But I’ll tell you one thing,” Chris said. “It’s not Smythe who got the antiterrorist bill through to legislation, it’s Alexandra Hall; she’s the powerhouse—”

  A shrill beep sounded over his words—the alert on Vanessa’s cell. She had a waiting text message. She made a face. “Sorry.” She gazed down at the phone as she worked her way to the message. After a moment, she sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

  “What is it?” Chris asked sharply.

  She held the phone so he could see the text: E250,000.

  “From Lee in forensic accounting—nevermind, I’ll tell you later,” she said quickly. “But I asked him to tag the account that holds the money transfers between Bhoot and the Chechen. A deposit just set off the alert.”

  Chris’s eyebrows rose above the frames of his glasses. “If that’s only the first half of the payment . . .”

  “Then this new target is worth five hundred thousand euros to Bhoot,” Vanessa finished.

  She shook her head in frustrated excitement and alarm. “What if the target was never the MP? What if it’s Alexandra Hall? They’re sort of a couple; you just told me so yourself. So the Chechen could just as easily have been tracking her. You just said Hall is a powerhouse, she pushed the antiterrorist bill, and she’s not leaving for Australia for another three hours—so the Chechen’s still got a window.”

  Chris was staring at her.

  Vanessa shook her head impatiently. “She said she and Bhoot are old enemies. If I’m wrong, bad on me, I’ll end up in Montevideo. If I’m
right, then this is it. I’m willing to place that bet. The Chechen’s window is now. And she’s already on her way to the flea market—a public place where she’s off her guard. The flea market has to be Portobello, they have at least half a dozen antique-map shops.”

  Chris went still for a moment. Vanessa felt him deciding. He pulled out his cell phone, and then he leaned forward, sliding the small window open to tell the cabbie, “Portobello, the flea market.”

  The cabbie braked hard at the wooden barricade. “Far as I can get you, guv! Sorry, luv, can’t squeeze any tighter! They block off the market—”

  “Which way?” Vanessa asked, already half out the door and into the drizzling rain—at the same time Chris peeled off several ten-pound notes into the cabbie’s hand. She’d already pulled her gray cap low around her face and zipped her slicker to her throat, but the cold cut through to her skin.

  “Should be on your left,” the cabbie shouted, caught up in their urgency, flapping the money at the rain-spattered windshield. “Straight ahead about two blocks up!”

  Bracing with both hands, Vanessa jumped the barricade, almost going down on the slick pavement. She heard Chris close on her heels. He called after her, “I’ll try to reach the Station and MI5—but I’m right behind you.”

  “Got it,” Vanessa called out, as she scanned the street. At least two years since she’d been here, but she recalled a colorful, international wall of makeshift booths lining both sides of the street and, behind those, old shops filled with dust-coated merchandise sold by equally dusty proprietors. Now, as the market loomed, the colors blurred through the constant drizzling rain. Where the hell were the street numbers?

  Vanessa looked toward the row of shops on her left. It would be one of those—

  The main street was crowded and noisy—two drummers carrying their doumbeks out of the rain while a third musician wailed away on a saxophone. And a few booths beyond, a guitarist and a singer performed a folk song. On top of all that, canned music. And the babel of languages matched by the heavy and exotic smells coming from an equally international array of food vendors.

  She stepped wide around a mother chasing two toddlers and a Scottie dog. She scanned the market and the street, evading what was right in front of her, while she strained to catch a glimpse of Alexandra Hall or the Chechen.

  She pictured the latest CCTV image, jacket and hat and the way he held his face at an angle. But she registered her silent question: What do you look like today?

  “Map shop!” Chris said, startling her—and she felt his hand gripping her elbow for an instant before he let go. Then she saw the shop almost hidden behind a booth draped in brightly dyed fabric covered with African designs and its sign: Map of the World, number 118 in print barely large enough to read.

  Chris entered, leaving the door ajar. Vanessa stood outside, splitting her focus between what was happening on the street and Chris. He talked animatedly with the proprietor, a stooped elderly man.

  “Yeah, Miss Alexandra was here, but she left,” the man said, and Vanessa heard his sharp, nasal complaint clearly through the open door.

  “Said she wanted to look at my competition, even though I sell the best and been here the longest and she knows that.”

  “Who’s your competition?” Chris barked. “We need an address.”

  Vanessa tensed at a sudden spurt of rapid-fire percussion—but almost instantly she identified the sound as drums, not firearms.

  The old proprietor shook his head.

  A tiny dog pulled its leash taut, walking its short, obese owner.

  A boy kicked at bits of trash stuck to the dark, wet pavement.

  Several men caught her eye because they were slender and wearing hats—but not one of them was the Chechen.

  “Show us!” Chris almost shouted, stepping out of the shop. The old man stopped at the door, shrugging, pointing, “Open your eyes! She didn’t say which one!”

  Vanessa stared at the line of shops, squinting at their signs closely now, as if they had just sprung out of nowhere.

  Rare and Vintage Maps and Charts.

  Ye Old Mappe Shoppe.

  Here Be Dragons.

  “Damn.” Chris was beside her, trying and failing to wipe rain from his face with the wet sleeve of his overcoat. “Who knows how many there are?”

  “I’m on this side,” she said, already moving. “You take that side.”

  They split up, and she hurried to a shop, peering in to find it empty. When she tried the door, it was locked. As she dashed to the next shop advertising antiques, books, and maps, she caught a glimpse of Chris on the other side, heading for a shop with a great pink sign: Antiquarian Maps.

  When she reached the door to Ye Old Mappe Shoppe, she noticed movement, and she stuck her head inside. “Have you had any recent customers?”

  A round woman in a housedress dashed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Come on in, darling, you’re soaked—”

  But Vanessa was already moving on.

  A flash of dark blue caught her eye when she stepped from behind a booth. A man in a blue raincoat. Walking away and up the street. Right height. Hat pulled low. Carrying a pack slung over one shoulder.

  For a startling instant the sun appeared from behind clouds, skies drizzling and the light suddenly blinding. Vanessa blinked to adjust her eyes. But she didn’t see Chris anywhere, just the blue raincoat moving farther from her, and she couldn’t afford to do nothing. So she followed.

  • • •

  He waited up the street three hundred meters from the map shop, inside which his target now shopped. Leaning with his weight on his good leg against the small counter at the food stand. The hip of his injured leg propped against the stool reserved for customers. The wound burned like hell. A sudden ray of sun oddly illuminated the bratwurst and roll on a paper plate in front of him. Coffee steaming from a paper cup. His Dragunov carefully assembled and pressing against his right side, beneath the overcoat.

  A young woman passed so close he could reach out and touch her wet, dark blond hair. A shudder ran through him—it had to be her.

  But the woman put her arm out for the black man walking with her, and they laughed and kissed quickly before breaking into a run.

  With his left arm, he reached for his coffee, shocked to notice a slight tremor as he sipped. The anxious fluttering in the pit of his stomach, the rock-hard knot between his eyes, the unsteadiness when the pain became almost unbearable—all of this so completely foreign, a feeling heightened by the strange, underlying sense of the inevitable.

  He drank more coffee, spilling this time so the dark liquid stained the left cuff of his dark green Crombie overcoat. He dabbed with a napkin, forcing himself to take care. All the while his rifle pressed hard against him. Then, when he dropped the napkin into a trash can, he let his gaze slide to the shop—number 121—and the clear signs of movement behind windows. She’d been in there for the past seventeen minutes. So she was buying. As he set the coffee down again, he surveyed the street, the flea-market vendors and their customers—always with 121 in his peripheral vision.

  Vanessa lengthened her stride to gain on the blue raincoat. If it was the Chechen, she needed to make the identification now.

  But crowds had thickened here, and rain made the oily street slick and slowed everyone. She slipped once but caught herself and kept moving. Staying parallel and gaining on him a bit at a time.

  What the hell would she do if she verified it was him? Should she call Chris? Her almost-numb fingers reached for speed dial. Had he gotten through to the COS London?

  She hesitated when he turned away suddenly, down a small alley.

  Damn. It looked like a dead end, but it might cut through. Follow?

  She did for roughly half the block—until he raised his head, as if to check his surroundings, and then he pivoted abruptly in her direction.

&
nbsp; It’s not the Chechen—not him—

  Adrenaline ripped through her, trailed instantly by knife-sharp frustration and a deep sense of relief.

  So maybe she was wrong about all of this, and that was fine, that was good . . .

  She turned, checking for Chris, retracing her steps along the alley. But at the intersection, all she saw was another map shop down the street—number 121, windows smeared with a film of dust and rain that made it impossible to see anything or anyone inside, at least from this angle.

  She started toward the faded blue doors, inset with frosty glass panes, stopping mid-street to pull up abruptly as a skateboarder raced past.

  Someone yelled, “Get off the street!”

  Someone else—“Cuidado!”

  Vanessa turned her head, drawn toward the voices.

  That’s when she saw him.

  The Chechen.

  Standing beneath an umbrella at a food-stand, maybe two hundred meters from her.

  He wore a dark green overcoat, his right sleeve tied off as if he only had use of his left arm—so he was holding his weapon in ready position under the coat. He’d tugged his hat low across his brow. As he surveyed the scene, apparently casually, his attention kept returning to the blue shop door down the street.

  The moment froze for her, the world reduced to a triangle with the Chechen at one point, the door to 121 at the other, Vanessa in between, at the apex.

  Also present—the ghostly sense of Arash and Sergei and Penders pulling the air from her lungs.

  Chimes rang out, and Vanessa caught the flash of movement as the faded blue shop door pushed open—roughly seventy meters to reach it.

  • • •

  The door opened, and Pauk readied himself for the unfolding. The black-suited bodyguard glanced out the doorway, checking the street, while the woman who ran MI5 waited a few paces behind, still sheltered in the shop. Pauk’s target.

  Beneath his coat, his right hand gripped the Dragunov’s trigger frame, his right index finger on the trigger. As soon as his target stepped into the doorway, he would swing his rifle up and onto his shoulder in firing position.