by Eva Hudson
“Rennie’s dead,” Ingrid said.
He ran a hand over his chin. “What?”
The intern turned away, busying himself in endless clicks.
“He was run over,” Ingrid said. “A little over an hour ago.”
“Oh.” Marshall’s eyes darted left to right as if reading an imaginary script. “Oh. Well.”
What kind of response was that?
“I suppose that makes things a bit easier.”
Ingrid wanted to shove him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, um, the investigation… Operation Dovetail… It’s been shut down.”
“What do you mean?” Ingrid said, her voice wavering. Her knees buckled. “By whom?”
Marshall pushed his shoulders back. “The transition team. In Washington. The White House transition team.”
Ingrid’s face crumpled. “I don’t… I don’t get it. They can’t do that, can they?”
“I just spent the last twenty minutes on the phone with Usher. It’s too political. They’ve decided to leave it to the incoming administration.”
“You’re kidding me?” Ingrid’s breaths deepened. “They can’t do that,” she repeated, “they just can’t.”
Marshall bit his lip. “It seems they can and they have. It’s over.”
35
Ingrid’s thoughts were swirling, her vision slipping in and out of focus. Marshall didn’t even look apologetic. Usher says stop and he says how soon? Marshall Claybourne, always shimmying up the greasy pole.
“I know that look, Agent,” he said. It was never good when he called her ‘agent.’ “But it’s over. You stop this today, understood?”
Ingrid leaned against the doorjamb, reeling from the news. “But we’re so close, Marshall. Give me a day at least.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Well, then turn a blind eye. Write me up. Another disciplinary, I don’t care.”
Jen was hovering, a few sheets of hastily printed paper in her hand.
Marshall glowered at her. “Not this time. We do this by the book.”
Exasperated, Ingrid slapped the wall. “Jeez, Marshall, somebody has interfered with the election of the president of the United States. He’s also just killed one of our own—”
“You said Rennie was run over.”
Jen thrust her paperwork a little closer.
“He was. Deliberately.” Ingrid slumped and propped herself up against a file cabinet. “Almost certainly by someone hired by Rybkin.”
Marshall looked doubtful. “How do you know that, Agent Skyberg?”
“I was there. I saw it. Someone killed him—” Marshall wanted to interrupt her, but she plowed on. “And, yes, I know it isn’t protocol to start with a suspect and find the evidence, but one of my lines of enquiry is that the man he was investigating also happens to be real good at murdering people on the streets of London and, oh, I don’t know, it’s just a guess because I’m an idiot who doesn’t have your rank, but I think it’s pretty reasonable to question whether he’s been killed because he was getting close.”
Marshall sniffed. “Can you smell smoke?”
Ingrid sighed. “No.”
Marshall stepped closer. “That’s because it’s you.”
“I thought I smelled smoke too,” Jen said, still holding the paper.
The intern stopped clicking. “Me as well.”
Ingrid, now sitting on the file cabinet, unable to support her own weight, shrugged. “I burned my apartment.”
“What?” Jen shoved the paperwork at Marshall and stepped over to Ingrid. She cupped Ingrid’s drooping head and lifted it. “Why didn’t you say?”
She didn’t have the energy to answer. Because it wasn’t the worst thing that happened today.
“You okay, Ingrid?” Marshall asked grudgingly.
Now she was off the case, it wasn’t even the second-worst thing to have taken place.
“Yup, fine.” Her posture suggested she was anything but.
“You need somewhere to stay tonight?” Jen offered.
She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. She only wanted to get Rybkin. She wanted justice for the colleague whose body was still warm in the back of an ambulance. And that meant she had a phone call to make. Two. She needed to speak to Leo Marx, and she also needed to call the Berlin police. If she didn’t return their message soon, they’d send someone to interview Natalya, and that would be more than a little awkward. Where she would sleep that night was irrelevant.
Marshall looked at the printouts. It was Rennie’s personal file. “He got a Medal of Valor. For that Fisher Krupps fraud case.” He shifted his weight onto the other foot. “He’s really dead?” He sounded as though he’d only just taken the idea seriously
Ingrid turned her head toward him. “Yes.” Her voice was weak, listless. “And I can catch his killer. You just gotta let me.”
“You don’t look like you’re going anywhere,” Jen said.
Ingrid raised an eyebrow. Oh yeah?
“Not today anyway,” Jen said. “You’ve been through too much.”
“Yes,” Marshall said, “take the rest of the day off.”
The intern shifted in his chair. “Does this mean I should stop?”
“What are you doing in here?” Marshall stumbled over his words as he realized he didn’t know the intern’s name. “Aren’t you supposed to be in CT this week?”
“Miss Rocharde asked me to do this.” He gestured toward the laptop case.
“That Rennie’s?” Marshall asked.
Damn.
“Yes,” Ingrid said wearily. “I have good reason to think Agent Rennie had identified a suspect in our investigation this morning.”
“We have an IT department for that sort of thing.”
Ingrid sighed. “Believe it or not, I already know that. But they take days and—”
Marshall stopped her. “The investigation has been closed down, Agent.”
Ingrid got to her feet and faced up to him. Jen took a step back. “You already said that.”
Neither of them blinked.
“Oh, come on, Marshall! You didn’t join the FBI to be a total dick.” She’d overstepped the mark. “I apologize.”
“Good.”
“But I remember when you wanted to get to the truth like every other eager beaver in the class of 2006—”
“Agent Skyberg, shut the heck up.”
People in the bull pen turned to gawp.
“I am going to put your outburst down to the obvious emotional stress you are under today.” He turned to the intern. “You’d better give me that.”
“Marshall!”
“Agent Skyberg, there are consequences to calling the boss a dick and this is one of them. Suck it up.”
Marshall took the laptop case and walked out into the bull pen. He turned and shouted so everyone could hear, “And don’t forget to see your therapist. You miss another appointment and I write you up.”
She had never despised him more. Ingrid stormed over to her desk, picked up her new sheepskin coat and grabbed David Rennie’s bag. She pulled out his phone and handed it to the intern.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Abel.”
“Abel, hi, I’m Ingrid and I want you to do some work for me. Are you up for that?”
“I, er—”
“I need you to figure out the code to Agent Rennie’s phone—”
“But I thought—”
“Abel, you want to join the FBI one day?”
“No, ma’am. The State Department.”
“Even better. So you care about American ideals, right?”
“Sure.”
“You unlock that phone and you will never give greater service to the Stars and Stripes. Even if you end up as Secretary of State.”
“Um—”
“Someone hacked the US election, Abel, and that phone can help me find who did it. Are you with me or not?”
He looked scared
.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He smiled. “But only because he really is a dick. Everyone says so.”
“I could kiss you.” She turned to Jen. “You call me the minute he cracks it, okay?”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“To get some answers for a five-year-old girl in Nebraska.”
Jen winked at her. “And if anyone asks where you are?”
“Tell them I’m getting a coffee.”
36
Ingrid couldn’t work out which she needed more—caffeine or alcohol—but she definitely needed one or the other before calling Leo Marx in New York.
She passed a Starbucks before she came across a bar, so that made the decision for her. A double-shot espresso and a raisin swirl to go. She stood in the doorway, Rennie’s bag slung over her shoulder, looking at the rain. She bolted down the Danish and let the crumbs fall over her new coat. Her hangover needed feeding. It was three thirty and the light was fading under the dull, gray clouds. Another hour and it would be dark.
Her phone rang. She balanced her coffee on a windowsill and answered. “Cath, hi. You got any news?”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“Mayfair. You?”
“Work. Listen, we need to get a witness statement from you. You kinda ran off earlier, but as you were with Rennie when the car hit, we need to talk to you. Can you come in?”
“Sure. Of course. I got some calls to make, but I can be there.” She stepped to one side to let a customer through the door. “You found the driver?”
“Wish I could say yes, but we have several very clear images from traffic cameras.” She paused. “We’ll get him. I promise. What time should we expect you?”
Ingrid picked out a flake of pastry from her teeth. “When do you finish?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll be there before you leave.” She hung up, grabbed her coffee and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Taxi!”
A black cab pulled over. The driver lowered the window and Ingrid leaned in. Affecting a Russian accent, and sounding just like her mother, Natalya asked him to drive round.
“You want to see some sights?” he asked. “Buckingham Palace ain’t far.”
“Sure,” Ingrid said, settling into the backseat. “Thank you.”
Modern taxis were virtually soundproof booths on wheels. She pulled out Natalya’s phone and listened to the messages again.
The first was from Leo Marx, though he didn’t actually leave his name.
“This is a message for Natalya Vesnina. I understand a new and rare painting has come up for sale. Please call me to discuss. I am reachable on…”
Marx certainly sounded like the Ivy League prince Rennie had described. Ingrid visualized him standing on a penthouse balcony overlooking Central Park.
The next two messages were from the Berlin police. The initial one was a perfunctory ‘please return my call,’ the second was a little more urgent. Ingrid pressed the dial symbol.
She always found speaking English with a Russian accent unnerving. It was just too simple to slip into her own voice, and besides, she couldn’t shake the fear she sounded like the school friends who made fun of the way her mother spoke. Svetlana’s accent had been much stronger back then.
“This is Natalya Vesnina.”
“Einen Moment, bitte.”
With the phone in one hand and her coffee in the other, Ingrid couldn’t pinch her thumb and forefinger. Without the perfume and the heels and the nails, she needed something to anchor her performance as Natalya. She placed the coffee between her feet. She couldn’t tell how much the driver was eavesdropping, but it didn’t really matter: Natalya had already been unmasked.
She kept the conversation with the German officer as brief as possible. No, she hadn’t called him back. No, she had never spoken with Aleks Rybkin before. Yes, she was an art broker. No, such calls were not unusual. No, she did not know which artwork he was interested in. She could let them have a recording of his message if that would help.
She ended the call and yawned. Then yawned again.
“Tough day?” the driver asked.
Ingrid didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation. “Yes,” she said, then reached down for her coffee.
“Be home time soon. Least it feels like it when it gets dark, doesn’t it?”
Ingrid gave him the briefest of smiles and then turned her attention to the phone.
“Buckingham Palace will be coming up on your right in a sec.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Anywhere else you want to go? Big Ben?”
“Surprise me,” she said.
Ingrid took a deep breath. The taxi’s windows had steamed up. She wiped away the condensation and looked out as the cab swerved round the Victoria memorial and up the Mall toward Trafalgar Square. She pressed dial.
“This is Natalya Vesnina in London,” she said.
“Who?” He sounded annoyed.
“Natalya Vesnina. You left me a message.”
“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“About a Picasso.”
“Ah.” He paused. “Give me a minute.”
Ingrid stared out through her condensation porthole at a sidewalk laden with lethargic shoppers. She could hear a muffled conversation through the phone, but wasn’t able to decipher any words.
“What did you say your name was again?” Marx asked.
“Vesnina. Natalya Vesnina.”
“Okay, Vesnina, tell me about this Picasso.”
She gave him the spiel. Painted in 1952 when the artist lived in Vallauris, it was one of a handful of increasingly more political pieces by the master from this period. It was smaller than most Picassos, but that meant it was easier to hang in a domestic setting.
“And how much is it worth?”
She told him it had sold to an anonymous buyer at auction for $210 million two years ago.
“So it’s stolen, right?”
Ingrid’s stomach lurched. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“But that’s why it’s cheap, am I right? Some guy’s had his prize possession stolen and now the thief wants to unload it, get what he can, correct?”
Ingrid closed her eyes. “I believe the seller is under considerable stress and willing to accept an offer substantially below its real value.”
“So it’s stolen?”
“Sir, I am not the person offering it for sale, I am merely looking to match a buyer with the seller.”
“But you’ve seen it yourself?”
“I have.”
“And it’s the real thing?”
Ingrid explained the provenance, how the stamp on the back of the canvas was used by the art supplies store Picasso frequented in the relevant period, and the brushwork bore the hallmarks of the man himself. “And is this purchase for yourself?”
“That’s for me to know and you never to find out.”
“But you are interested?”
“I’m going to give you an email address, and you’re going to send me everything you got. Photos, reports, whatever, all of it, and you will do it in the next ten minutes.” He gave her an untraceable hushmail address.
“Of course. I will also send you the instructions for making your offer, which I suggest you do within twenty-four hours.”
“We’ll have to see about that. The way I understand it, you’re gonna have a helluva time shifting it, so you’ll need your patience while I make up my mind.” She pictured Marx walking round a glass office, speaking into a Bluetooth headset.
Ingrid pressed her fingernail into her thumb. “I appreciate that, but I am only the messenger, the middleman. These things I do not control. I suggest if you are interested, you submit an initial offer by return before it disappears. What is that phrase you Americans have? No one can hold a hot potato?”
“Something like that.” He hung up.
Ingrid pawed at the condensation, enlarging her view of storefronts twinkling with Chr
istmas lights. She slipped Natalya’s phone into her pocket and took another gulp of coffee. It wasn’t enough to stop her yawning. She could use whatever McKittrick always had in her bloodstream. She blinked slowly, then deliberately widened her eyes and stretched her cheeks, trying to wake herself up.
“Thought I’d show you the real London,” the cabbie said. “The backstreets. Going to take you to a bit that looks like the set of Mary Poppins.”
Ingrid rubbed the condensation again. The streets were looking familiar. Horribly familiar.
Chills spread over her skin and her jaw flexed. They were coming up to the place where Rennie had been killed. The coffee swirled in her stomach.
“Please. Stop here. Please.”
“What, right here?”
“Yes. Now.”
Shaken, Ingrid paid and got out. She tossed her coffee cup in a trash can and walked back to the spot where the accident had happened. The rain had washed away the blood, and there was no yellow ‘Incident’ sign, no uniformed officer keeping watch, no flowers. No trace.
Ingrid stood on the sidewalk and watched as people marched past. She wanted to stop them, shake them and ask them ‘Don’t you know what happened here?’ but they all parted round her, like a boulder in a stream, and carried on with their journeys.
A car revved loudly and she spun round. Her skin trembled. Her heart froze.
Just a clunky gear change.
She exhaled. She was close to collapse. She needed to sit down. She needed space. Somewhere to think.
And that was when she remembered Rennie’s room key was in the bag over her shoulder and his hotel was right around the corner.
37
Ingrid slotted in the key card, and the lights in David Rennie’s hotel room flicked on, revealing the standard mid-range interior of beech-colored furniture, dark carpet and a patterned bedspread designed to repel and disguise staining.
It didn’t appear the Metropolitan Police had been in, and Ingrid took that as a sign they were focusing their resources on finding the driver of the black BMW. The room had been cleaned, the bed was made, and his personal belongings were stacked neatly on the bedside table. It wasn’t a crime scene, so it was unlikely the cleaners had destroyed vital evidence, but the Met would still want to check the room. They might even get lucky and CCTV footage from the lobby would show the driver had been following Rennie for days.