The Spy's Daughter

by Adam Brookes

  “Who we chasin’?” said the husband. Hopko had them pore over the photographs, gave them a spare briefing. She sent them out to buy new clothes and to hire a car. The Paulson woman sat Patterson down and produced a small black plastic case.

  “I’m to give this to you, apparently,” she said. She opened the case, and there it was, the little black tile. Patterson was no stranger to the use of vehicle trackers. She’d used them in Iraq. And she knew that the consequences of detection were operationally catastrophic.

  “They’ll sweep for trackers, surely,” she said, incredulous.

  “Not sure they will, actually.” Hopko was standing behind her. “Given their tradecraft thus far.”

  “Val, we risk total compromise,” she said.

  “Total compromise? Sounds like a movie,” Hopko said. “Total Compromise. Starring the entire leadership of British intelligence.”

  Patterson sat in stunned silence.

  “I have weighed the risk against the benefits accruing,” Hopko went on. “And I’ve decided we will go ahead.”

  And Patterson once again detected in Hopko’s calculation some set of variables to which she was not privy.

  Patterson left shortly afterwards, in a rental car, driving south towards Richmond, muttering imprecations that the HAMPERs would stay put, at least for now. The Paulsons hovered behind her, watching her back. It was getting dark and the traffic on I-95 was sluggish as the suburbs fell away and the highway was lined with scrubby forest swathed in vines. As she left Washington behind, she wondered if she’d ever get to the life that, just for a second, had beckoned her: barbecue in Shaw, glasses of wine with Emily and Esteban on the fire escape, runs along Rock Creek. People to talk to, know—befriend, even.

  The tracker lay on the seat next to her, in its case. And her every glimpse of it brought back the Iraqi boy on the moped, put-put-puttering across her mind in the gathering dark. She’d put a tracker under his rear mudguard. A small one, state-of-the-art, with a powerful battery. He was a courier for the insurgents, local Sunni nasties, but she’d turned him, promising him the moon. And over a few weeks—or was it days? She couldn’t really remember—the tracker had given them the location of every insurgent safe house in the area, as he put-put-puttered between them in his flip-flops and his dishdasha, dropping off messages and money.

  And then the tracker disappeared from the screen, and so did the boy.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the road, changed lanes, sped up, gave the Paulsons something to do.

  She made Richmond in two hours and ten minutes, where, it transpired, HAMPERs 1 and 2, the German and Beautiful Man, were holed up in quite a nice hotel just outside town—no shitty safe flats and takeout for them, Patterson noted—presumably awaiting instructions, or perhaps awaiting metadata gleaned from the grid that would point them towards the girl.

  Harker, yawning, rambling, exhausted, met them in a coffee shop, briefed them on the position of the car, then staggered away to sleep. It was a blue Acura, nose out, close to the exit of the hotel parking lot. The Paulsons took a stroll in the Virginia evening, hand in hand, and confirmed it was there. They confirmed, also, the existence of two surveillance cameras covering that area of the lot where the Acura now resided, but Patterson knew there was nothing she could do about that.

  She opted for a tracksuit and running shoes, and jogged from half a mile away towards the hotel. The adrenalin was running far too strong in her; her heart rate was up and her mouth dry, her thoughts skittish. Get a grip, she thought, furious with herself. She was approaching the parking lot. The blue Acura was still where it should be, HAMPER 2’s vehicle, Beautiful Man’s. She thought again of the Iraqi boy, his eyes, the dust in his hair, the horror of what happened.

  Focus, for Christ’s sake.

  She was coming up on the corner of the parking lot. The Acura was perhaps five spaces in, and to its rear lay a grass verge. She slowed a little, veering off the sidewalk onto the grass. Walking now, she came up on the car. She stopped, looked at her watch as if checking her time, and then went into a stretch, bending double, coming back up. She let her gaze flicker across the parking lot, looking for movement under the street lamps. Nothing.

  She moved towards the rear of the Acura, felt in her pocket for the black tile, turned it on. She knelt, her face level with the tail lights, to tie her shoe. Nothing to see here. She reached under the rear bumper, feeling for the chassis, the steel to which the tracker’s magnet would adhere. Was that it? She leaned in with the tracker, but the thing wouldn’t stick and clattered to the ground. Jesus Christ, now where is it? She couldn’t see where it had fallen and ran her hands over the asphalt under the car, hunting for it.

  And that was when the rear lights flashed, half-blinding her, and the car emitted an electronic yip and she heard it unlock. Frantic, she felt for the tracker.

  Footsteps, and a voice.

  He was at the front of the car, and she could hear the jangle of his keys. He was talking on a cell phone in quiet Mandarin. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his speech was fast, his tone urgent. Where the hell was the bloody tracker?

  He opened the driver’s door, and she heard the thunk of a piece of luggage landing on the passenger seat. She felt the car lurch as he got in.

  Desperate, Patterson reached for her own phone, fumbling it out of her pants pocket. The screen lit, and she flung herself down on her stomach, pressing her face to the asphalt. She reached under the car with the phone and the screen glow cast a feeble light. She moved the phone around. Where in Jesus’ name is it?

  A deafening bark as the car started.

  And there it was, the tracker, lying flat next to the rear right wheel, a tiny glint in the glow. She lunged, rescued it, but where the hell to put it? Dear God. Hopelessly, she rammed the tracker up towards the underside of the car, searching for anything it might stick to, running it along what she thought was the cross member. The car’s engine shifted register as it went into gear. And, in a sensation that would live in her fingers for minutes afterwards, the tracker was sucked out of her grasp. She thought she heard a snick sound as its magnet snapped onto steel, but she couldn’t be sure.

  And then the car was pulling out fast, leaving her lying rigid on the asphalt, her arms extended, one hand clutching the phone. The Acura bolted for the exit, pulled out on to the street and took off at speed, while Patterson lay stock-still, praying that he wouldn’t look back.

  And then there was just stillness.

  She hauled herself to her feet, looked around.

  The Paulsons were on the opposite side of the street, watching. The woman had her hand to her mouth, and they seemed to be laughing.

  But on her phone, when she opened the app, the little red orb was bright as a button on the screen, making its way west.

  By the time she raised Hopko, the tracker showed that HAMPER 2’s vehicle was heading west out of Richmond on I-64 at a blistering pace. To Charleston? Into Kentucky? Or up into Ohio? Cincinnati? Columbus?

  Something had got the HAMPERs’ attention.

  Hopko was bleary. Patterson pictured her sitting up in bed, in a hairnet, scrabbling for her glasses on the night table.

  “What? What is it?” she said.

  “HAMPER 2’s vehicle is moving.”

  “Moving where? How?”

  “Moving very fast, out of Richmond, west on the interstate. They’ve got a sniff of something.”

  “Have you told Harker and the others?”

  “They’re on standby.”

  “Well, for God’s sake get them moving.”

  “I was waiting for—”

  “I don’t care. Get them moving in pursuit. Now.”

  “So, I’ll head off with them.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Get back here immediately.”

  The line went dead.

  45

  HAMPER 3, Nicole Yang, got to Columbus first. She pulled in at midnight in the silver Camry and parked outside a clapb
oard house on a gritty side street near Ohio State. The boy at the lab in Baltimore had given her the city, Beijing had confirmed it with an address and a phone number gleaned from an online purchase made by the target three days previously. Home furnishings, a beanbag or something. And some vinegar.

  The house was dark, but for one window.

  She sat in the car for a while, smoking a cigarette. The others wouldn’t be there for hours, that psychotic German and the other boy, the one with the looks, the fair skin and sweet eyes. Bambi, she called him, to herself.

  She debated whether to wait and watch, whether to go in. The girl would be incapable of serious resistance. She’d watched her in Beijing, this frog-like creature, sitting there offering up her earnest answers.

  And yet. The girl had shown enough wit and fortitude to up and leave. And to take her father’s laptop with her, the little shit, with God knows what on it, enough to roll up a network twenty years in the making. Enough to force all of them to abort and run or face a lifetime of concrete toilets in Colorado, probably. All of which left Nicole sitting out here in the middle of a cold, fall night, contemplating her next step.

  Fuck it. Let’s go and get this over with.

  She stepped from the car, closing its door quietly, and crossed the street. She stopped outside the front door and listened. Nothing but the night insects’ rustle in the scrubby bushes, distant traffic, a siren somewhere drifting through the still air. She climbed onto a peeling porch, opened the screen door, pushed the buzzer and waited.

  Silence for a moment, then the thumping of feet on the stairs. The door opened and she smelled damp, and burned food. A girl stood there: short, Asian, a little overweight. She wore a T-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms and slippers, her hair in a ponytail.

  “Uh, yeah, hi?” said the girl.

  Wait, was that her? Pearl?

  “Hi,” said Nicole.

  “Yeah, hi,” said the girl.

  “Pearl, it’s me,” Nicole said. “You remember? We met, a little while back.”

  The girl looked at her with an expression of total incomprehension for a moment, then a smile spread over her face.

  “Oh, right, you’re looking for Pearl.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m not Pearl.”

  “Of course not, I’m sorry. Is Pearl here?”

  “Oh. Right. Uh, no, she moved out.”

  “She moved out? When?”

  “Uh, like, yesterday?”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, really. Sorry. So. Goodnight.” The girl moved to close the door. Nicole put a hand out, kept it open.

  “Look, I’m really sorry. But do you know where she moved to? It’s kind of important.”

  “Um, no. Sorry. Goodnight.”

  Nicole was still holding the door open.

  “Can I come in, just for a minute?”

  The girl was starting to look alarmed.

  “It’s kinda late, so—”

  “Yeah, I really won’t be long.” And with that she gave the door a hard shove and it caught the girl on the cheek, quite hard, and she shrieked and sprang back. Nicole stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “Wait, why did you do that?” The girl was close to tears.

  “Let’s go up to the apartment.”

  “Don’t hurt me, okay? Please. We don’t have anything.”

  “Just take me up to the apartment, and this will be over soon.”

  “What … what do you want?”

  Nicole didn’t answer, just grabbed the girl by the shoulder and pushed her towards the stairs. The girl gave a little wail, stumbling up.

  “Is there anyone else here?”

  “My roommate. She’s in bed. Don’t hurt us.”

  “Wake her up. Go and sit in the kitchen.” But the other girl was awake, peeking with terrified eyes from behind her door. Nicole reached for her and she gave a shocked screech, dodged around her and ran into the kitchen.

  Nicole stood over them.

  “Where did Pearl go?”

  “To her boyfriend.”

  “What boyfriend? Where?”

  The two girls looked at each other, petrified.

  “We don’t know. She just said she was moving …”

  “ … somewhere near campus.”

  “How do you contact her? Come on, think.”

  The girls looked at each other again, silent.

  Nicole walked over, looked from one to the other, calculating which of the two was the stronger. The first girl, the one in plaid pyjamas, marginally. Nicole reached over to her, and grabbed her ear, pressing her thumbnail hard into the ridge of cartilage. The girl breathed in sharply, grimaced with the pain, then began to moan, the moan rising towards a scream. Her hands began to flail and she knocked a cup from the table. It shattered on the floor. The other girl had her hands at her mouth, tears on her cheeks. Nicole jammed her nail into the cartilage, increased the pressure, and the girl was twisting her torso towards Nicole, her face contorted, her breath coming in gasps and sobs.

  “How do you contact her?”

  “She left a number. There’s a number.”

  “Get it for me.”

  The second girl stood and ran to the fridge, unfastened a magnet, took a piece of paper and held it out, her hand shaking. Nicole snatched it away, releasing her hold on the ear.

  “Give me your phone,” she said.

  Both girls were in tears now, one holding her ear with both hands, her body heaving, while the second walked abjectly to her room, coming back with a phone. Nicole dialled the number. It went to voicemail—Pearl, sounding chirpy. Leave a message, peeps.

  “Stay there,” Nicole said.

  She walked around the flat, taking in what she could. She opened drawers, pulled clothes out, threw them on the floor. She opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but it was empty. She went to the trash in the kitchen, pulled out the white plastic trash bag and emptied it onto the floor: tea bags, a half-eaten slice of pizza, apple cores, a used sanitary towel.

  A receipt. Itemised. From a big box store.

  She picked it up.

  “Is this yours?”

  The girls shook their heads.

  She’d bought a bra. A camisole. Hair dye. Make-up.

  “What’s the name of the boyfriend?” she said.

  “We don’t know.”

  Nicole switched to Mandarin now, barking at them.

  “Nimen bu yao ti zhei jian shiqing.” Don’t talk about this.

  The girls blinked.

  “Don’t talk about it; don’t raise it with anyone, not your teachers, not your friends, not the police. This is a matter of state. Do you understand?”

  The girls sat, silent, unmoving.

  Nicole walked over to the second, smaller girl. She stood there for a moment looking at her, while the girl shrank under her gaze. Nicole made her right hand into a claw, leaned down and took the girl by the throat, her fingers probing, searching for the trachea. The girl’s face was a mask of shock and terror and her hands came up, pawing at the air. Nicole held her there, let the seconds tick by as the girl jerked and thrashed. Eventually she released her, and the girl fell to the floor, a weird animal noise coming from her.

  “If you speak to anyone, I will know, and I will be back, and your families in China will receive a similar visit. Do you want that?” she said.

  The girls just sobbed.

  Nicole left them, went to the car and pulled away fast. She drove to a motel off 270, where she sat in the parking lot for a while, thinking. She lit another cigarette. They’d have to use the number, track the phone, search for the boyfriend. It could take days. And the little bitch had changed her appearance. Still, at least she was here.

  Pearl woke at 6 a.m., the morning chill and dark. She wrapped the tablet and phone up in their foil sleeves, packed the backpack.

  In the bathroom, she used a pair of clippers purchased at the drug store to cut off nearly all her hair. She
left about an inch. It made her look a bit punk, a bit rough, she thought. She rubbed in a thick mousse-like dye that she’d hoped would turn her blonde. But after an hour, she was a dirty brown, with patches of orange. Whatever.

  She took thin adhesive strips and applied them to her eyelids for a second fold, and her eyes immediately changed shape. She put in green contact lenses, thinking of the English guy—his look, his eyes, her own urge to trust him.

  The make-up was difficult. She was trying to contour her cheeks and nose, but she wasn’t sure how well it worked, if at all.

  Last, she blew up the beach ball to about half its capacity, and taped it to her pale belly. She put on a padded bra which made her small breasts appear larger, heavier. Over it she put a tight camisole, and then a loose, shapeless cotton shirt and a black wool beret.

  She hadn’t lost all her girlishness, but the face that looked back at her from the mirror was that of an older, less predictable soul, one of indeterminate ethnicity. The silhouette was that of a pregnant woman. And there was no sign of the stubby Ruger in her waistband.

  It just might be enough for the cameras, enough to deflect the gaze of a bored spook scrolling through hours and hours of surveillance footage. But enough to fool an algorithm? Unclear.

  Before she left the apartment, she took the burner phone and called a doctor’s office, asking what insurance they took. She called a random number with a local area code, and left a voicemail message. Hi hon, see you later, what can I bring? She called a handyman and made an appointment for him to come to the apartment in four days’ time.

  By nine, Pearl was gone. She bought a sausage muffin and a coffee from a convenience store, and walked as she ate.

  As she approached the bus station, she crossed the street to where a homeless woman sheltered in a doorway. She was in her fifties, perhaps, draped in a checked blanket stained with age, her face collapsed, skin like sandpaper, a shopping cart next to her.

  “Do you need a phone?” said Pearl.

  “A what now, sweetheart?” said the woman.

  “A phone. I have this phone that I don’t need any more. It has, like sixty dollars on it. You can have it if you want.”