Counterfeit Conscience

by Helena Maeve

  “What do you have on Macias?”

  “He took a recent trip to Cuba, where he met with a couple of members of the Politburo. Nothing spectacular there, except then he flew to Moscow.”

  “Does London know?”

  Flor gave a minute headshake. “Private, chartered flight. You won’t find it logged anywhere… I thought Jennings would’ve said something.”

  The blood drained from Will’s face and relocated somewhere in the vicinity of his liver. “What did you say?”

  As Flor’s handler, Will had always acted as a go-between, ensuring her cover and keeping Uncle’s hands clean should she somehow be exposed. Flor didn’t know the folks upstairs. She wasn’t supposed to.

  “Jennings,” Flor repeated, enunciating slowly. “That is your superior’s name, right? He contacted me… I thought you gave him the code.”

  It was just as well that Will was already sitting down. “Flor? Tell me everything.”

  * * * *

  The black Bentley that had had transported Will to Ignacio’s home near Peruibe was once again parked outside his modest apartment building. At first he suspected it was a mistake, just another car waiting for someone else in the neighborhood. But the engine hummed to life as he approached, chassis shaking off the misting raindrops that clung to the burnished paint job.

  It wasn’t until the chauffeur slowly rolled down the window that Will felt his pulse throb in his neck. Not a coincidence.

  “Mr. Macias would like to see you, sir.”

  “Why?” The question tore from Will’s lips before he could swallow it back down. Relief was slow to follow. If Ignacio was asking for him, then Karim’s plan B had yet to be set in motion. “Never mind.” Will cleared his throat. “How long have you been waiting?”

  The driver squinted down at the dashboard. “Three hours and a few minutes.”

  “I see.” Whatever Ignacio wanted with him, it was worth stranding his driver for. Interesting. Will tapped a hand against the roof of the car. “Did he say where he wants me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you won’t tell me.”

  The driver smiled apologetically.

  Of course not. I haven’t agreed to come with you yet.

  Will shot a glance up and down the street. Whether his home was under surveillance or he’d effectively lost his tail leaving Ibirapuera Park, it made no difference. Section had trained him to see a mission through from the moment the POIs went up on the whiteboard to the sealing of case files and the termination of compromising evidence.

  He slid into the back seat with a ball of guilt simmering in the pit of his stomach and Karim’s parting shot echoing in his ears. This wasn’t about sentiment. He just wasn’t ready to have Ignacio’s blood on his hands.

  “I’m ready,” he told the driver, anchoring a hand around the wooden inlay of the door handle. “Let’s see what o hefe has to say for himself this time.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Bentley wasn’t built for speed. It glided through city streets like a whale, slow around corners, ponderous to lurch into motion at stoplights. As traffic thickened around them, Will found himself detaching from the precarious situation into which he’d been thrust and admiring the scenery instead. Billboards flashed on the sides of buildings, advertising this perfume, that new electronic gadget. Another brand of mobile phone to tempt those who’d already tested the latest models.

  Rain and mist softened the glare of so many backlights into a hazy landscape. There was nothing gentle about stepping out of the car at the rear entrance of the Blue Dragon, though. His inner calm promptly took a nosedive as Will finger-combed his hair into place and rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks. He stepped into the lions’ den on feet that didn’t quite feel like his own.

  Ruben was waiting for him just inside the metal back door, hip cocked and arms folded expectantly across his skinny chest. He slanted a smile, rosy lips slashed open around a flash of bone-white teeth. A mint crunched with a sideways slide of his jaw. “Mr. Bond, we meet again…”

  It was easy to ignore the moniker. Will had been called much worse.

  “Please tell me you’re here to offer me another drink.” After the day he’d had, he wouldn’t hesitate to accept.

  Ruben sneered. “One-time offer. And you blew it. Man your age should be used to that.”

  He pushed away from the cinder block wall with his shoulder, leather trousers squeaking when he moved. A flash of bare skin peeked beneath the edge of his tight, white shirt. The effect brought to mind early nineties’ gay bar fashion, but not to the point that Will minded. He had a feeling Ruben could don a potato sack and still look desirable. He’d lucked out in the genetic lottery, an accident of birth that no doubt opened some doors.

  Sweeping a slow, measuring glance over Will’s rumpled suit and five o’clock shadow, Ruben seemed beyond contemptuous. “Come along,” he said, rallying. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  No need to explain who he was.

  Will fell into step behind his guide, nothing but the squeak of their shoes on bare tile to disturb the silence. It was a long moment before the low droning of music and raised voices became a cacophonous din.

  The soundtrack of all nightclubs was the same at this hour—with liquor flowing freely, men and women milled around on the dance floor, grinding in a suggestive, simulated mating dance.

  Had he been a decade younger, Will might have been tempted to join in.

  He expected Ruben to take him to the VIP area where they’d gone the last time, but just before the stairs, Ruben veered right, weaving between thick crowds to a nondescript door set into the far wall.

  Rather than security guards stationed outside the entrance, the thugs waited just inside the door, lounging on low couches with holes in the upholstery, or playing cards around a cheap metal table. Cigarette smoke eddied in the closed-in air.

  Ruben waved a hand when they made to stand. “Carry on, boys. He’s with me.”

  Whatever his position in Ignacio’s empire, Ruben’s word was enough to convince his bodyguards to sit back. Hostile stares tracked Will across the room, but no bullets flew. No one demanded proof of intent.

  As far as Will could tell, this part of the club was reserved for the staff. He noted a coffee maker, a sink, a couple of desks packed with paperwork. The Blue Dragon’s back rooms were as unexciting as the offices where he worked. There were even some similarities in the decor.

  Before Will had the chance to pick apart the scenery, Ruben knocked on a wooden door and boldly leaned on the handle. In all the years since he and Ignacio had parted ways, Will hadn’t spent much time wondering what running a crime syndicate entailed.

  The answer lay before him on the computer screen on the corner of Ignacio’s desk, spreadsheets openly on display.

  Ignacio swiveled his chair around when he heard them enter. He wore reading glasses.

  Will hadn’t known that, either.

  “I nearly gave you up for dead.”

  I was busy meeting my informant. Will rolled his shoulders. “Oh, ye of little faith… You might have warned me that we were meeting tonight.” After their last tête-a-tête, he hadn’t expected that they would meet at all, for any reason, ever again.

  Ignacio wasn’t the type to take well to wounded pride and Will had just about bludgeoned it to a pulp to soothe his own ego.

  “We are,” Ignacio said and glanced meaningfully to the side of the room. “At Mr. Jennings’ request.”

  All at once, the blood in Will’s extremities rushed to his head. His breath caught.

  The figure seated on the leather sofa beneath the Van Gogh reproduction stood ponderously. He was mousy-looking and balding, and he was hefting a voluminous briefcase in his veined hand.

  Most importantly, he wasn’t Karim.

  “Jennings…” Will cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you were in town.” In other words, that information had been withheld deliberately. Section didn’t trust him. Th
e bugged office suggested as much.

  “Last-minute decision from up top,” Jennings said, offering his hand. “Rowe.” He had a weak grip, his fingers stubby and uncomfortably clammy.

  He was one of the oldest agents at headquarters. He’d been there before Will and it seemed likely that he would be there after him. Will faintly recalled talk of his having a son in the business, but nepotism was hardly rare in the service.

  “We thought it best to organize a meeting to nip this in the bud.” Jennings turned to Ignacio. “Since we’re all here, I trust we may start?”

  Ignacio delicately plucked off his reading glasses. “Have a seat.” He flicked a glance at Ruben, who departed without a word.

  Will couldn’t help wishing he’d stuck around. His heart pounded a vicious tattoo, dread mixing with suspicion in a potent cocktail. Paranoia was never far from reach for a man in his position, even when he lacked such excellent proof.

  “To nip what in the bud?” he asked, going on the offensive.

  If Ignacio had gone to Section with the proposed deal, there would be hell to pay. But Jennings wouldn’t bring them together for a face-to-face confrontation if that were the case. He’d simply order the closure of the South American desk as soon as possible and apprehend Will once he returned to home soil.

  He would arrange a direct transfer from Heathrow to holding cell in some local prison. Case closed.

  “Then I will get straight to the point,” Ignacio said, anticipating Jennings. “Our relationship with SIS ends here. The Macias family no longer feels that its interests are best served by our mutual cooperation.”

  Will fought to keep his bemusement in check. “That seems…imprudent.”

  “We are aware of the risks.”

  “Are you?” Jennings wondered. “Deportation, prosecution… Thirteen different warrants for your arrest alone, in as many countries. To say nothing of the cost to your legitimate businesses…” Will caught him slanting a meaningful glance to the computer screen. Even though the display had dimmed to a rainbow flare, the ledgers were hard to forget.

  Ignacio joined his hands over the leather desk mat. “I have lawyers of mine to advise me on all these counts.”

  “Lawyers who work for themselves first and foremost,” Jennings countered.

  “And you do not?”

  “Britain’s interests are my concern. Our long and fruitful relationship with your family has allowed me to shore up that objective,” Jennings replied primly. “May I ask what brought this on?”

  A vein throbbed in Will’s temple. He resisted the urge to press his fingers to it. The slightest twitch could give him away. Like him, Jennings was trained to read and interpret body language. He’d started out as an analyst in the Cold War. He also knew Will too well not to notice his unease.

  Ignacio took no such pains. He shrugged, baldly lying to Jennings before he’d opened his mouth. “Times change.”

  “Not in the threats you face, not in the protection we can offer.”

  “Would this be the same protection you offered to Manuel Sosa?” Ignacio asked sharply.

  There, behind clipped words and artfully crafted indifference, Will recognized the man who’d recently slammed him into a door and had his way with him. He recognized the barely restrained fire that Ignacio had brought to a slow simmer over the years so as to seize control of his clan.

  Flor had been right to warn him. Ignacio was a dangerous man.

  Jennings didn’t miss a beat. “Mr. Sosa came to us because he feared for his life. We did not offer any incentives, he simply turned himself in.”

  “You interrogated him. You tried to find out what he knows about my operations in Cuba… Don’t patronize me,” Ignacio spat. “I’m well aware of your methods.”

  Will felt Jennings stiffen beside him and knew that at least some of his reserve was owed to suspicion. Karim’s attempts to infiltrate the Macias family through Ignacio were ancient history, relics of a different world, but Will had been complicit at the time. That Ignacio had requested his presence at this meeting when, as far as Section knew, he’d had no contact with the clan since his return to the South American desk was some happenstance.

  Spies were predisposed to believe that all coincidences were fiction. Jennings had every reason to doubt. In his shoes, Will would have been on the phone with London as soon as he touched down.

  “Manuel Sosa was a candidate for extradition,” Will pointed out. He’d read up on the events in Dorset after Karim’s visit. He knew how any willingness to cooperate had gone up in smoke when the safe house where Sosa was being held came under attack.

  “Was,” Ignacio echoed, as though that change of plan somehow proved MI6 wasn’t sincere in honoring their end of the partnership.

  “Was, yes. We cannot extradite a man who has reason to fear for his life.”

  “I hope you are not accusing me of—”

  Will scoffed insincerely. “No, of course not. We’d never assume a loyal ally would turn against us without proof.”

  Ignacio’s denials aside, the record of his past ruthlessness turned the inference into something of a no-brainer, but they hadn’t gathered in his office to witness a confession.

  “Section has many enemies,” Will added. “And I imagine even some of our mutual friends would be none too disappointed to hear we’ve severed ties over a misunderstanding.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s all it was.” However incensed and rash to act, Ignacio was still a far cry from the average despot. He had too much to lose if Section took its toys and went home. Will sat back in his seat, his smile tepid. You’re strong-arming us. Why?

  Jennings hummed absently. “I also considered that possibility.” From his briefcase, he produced a photograph. “This is the man we believe attempted to assassinate Sosa.” A blond boy, too young to be out of school, gazed straight at the viewer from the glossy printout. There was something hostile in his eyes, as though he found the lens threatening.

  Ignacio snatched the snapshot in a loose grip, his hand steady. “Hmm. We’re familiar. Arthur Foley, he said his name was. I expect it is an alias…” His lips curled in distaste, he swung his gaze from Jennings to Will and back. “If you’re asking if I commissioned him to kill Manuel Sosa, then the answer is no.”

  It might have been the truth. It probably wasn’t. Either way, Will was glad to hear the subtle nuance. To his ears, it made the lie more palatable. Jennings had surely investigated the would-be assassin and his ties to all the relevant players—just as he had surely investigated Will before descending on Sao Paolo unannounced. But he hadn’t asked Ignacio for confirmation.

  “Regardless,” Ignacio went on dispassionately, “Section appears to be retreating from South America. I’m sure you have more important interests elsewhere. Whatever may become of Manuel Sosa and Arthur Foley…how long can it really be of any concern to Britain?”

  “Where did you get the idea that you are being abandoned?” Jennings scoffed.

  Ignacio sat back, bemused. “You are closing the Sao Paolo office, are you not? I assumed that this was why I have had no contact with Mr. Rowe. No point, is there, if he’s to be removed from his post?”

  An icy blade stabbed between Will’s ribs, stomach plummeting into his knees. It wouldn’t have been a parley with Ignacio if the stick didn’t join the carrot.

  “If you are displeased with our logistical arrangements,” Jennings replied, “we can certainly discuss that. I have no doubt that Mr. Rowe would be only too happy to work with you directly.”

  “Over the moon,” Will agreed, tasting bile.

  “We simply thought you would prefer dealing with our staff at headquarters,” Jennings went on. “To cut out the middleman, so to speak…”

  And to avoid involving your resident whore.

  Will swallowed back the bitter assessment. He’d brought this down on himself. It wasn’t Jennings’ fault he’d grown attached to his informant.


  It wasn’t even Karim’s.

  Ignacio’s high-backed chair creaked as he tilted back. A pensive moue hovered on his dusky features, careworn lines etched into crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “I will hear a proposal by the end of the week and make my decision then.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to come to an agreement,” Jennings countered, reserved but brimming with confidence that Will did not feel.

  Handshakes exchanged, Ruben led them out of the club—through the back, naturally, just as they’d come in. Two indistinct black cars were already waiting to take them away.

  “What a bloody tyrant he’s grown up to be, hmm?” Jennings murmured, and shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. Steam from two nearby air vents misted the air and clung to his round spectacles. He pried them off the bridge of his nose to wipe the lenses on his shirtfront. “Have something ready by tomorrow.”

  “Macias said the end of the week…”

  Jennings was a head shorter, but when he turned to Will, he might as well have been a giant. “Your proposal still needs validation, doesn’t it? He may think dealing with you is easier, but he’ll see.”

  You have no power. He didn’t have to spell it out for Will to hear the subtle rebuke.

  “Do you know why he asked for you specifically?”

  “Did he?”

  “Don’t play me, Will.” Jennings didn’t need to raise his voice to make a point. He was like Karim in that respect, but infinitely more dangerous. He had the combined might of the SIS to back him and he was well-connected outside the service. He could put word out that Will was not to make it home tonight and he would simply disappear.

  It wasn’t so long ago that an SVR agent had disappeared in Italy under similarly suspicious circumstances.