Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

“Good question,” Jackie said. “Besides Riley, we had two undercover field officers looking for her. They spotted her standing on a bridge, then they observed her exiting the grounds and getting into a taxi. Unfortunately, the driver of the taxi made sure they wouldn’t be easily tailed. Of course, this riot doesn’t help. The police are blocking off streets and redirecting traffic.”

  Altan stared at the unbelievable scene being shown on the television.

  A Volkswagen parked in the middle of a street had been set ablaze and was surrounded by crazed young men jumping up and down, and shouting incoherent words that were no doubt expressions of hate and revolution. Charming London had morphed into the violence of Baghdad at the height of the Iraq War.

  Altan ran his fingers through his hair. What had happened to cause this horrible chaos? The media was still unsure. He decided it didn’t matter. The only important thing was rescuing Portia. “Who’s the driver of the taxi?” he asked. “Could he be a member of the People’s Revolution?”

  “We don’t know,” Jackie answered, “but we haven’t ruled out any possibilities. And it gets worse.”

  “How? It’s pretty damn bad right now.”

  “We tapped into a telephone conversation between Portia and Dr. Thoms.”

  “So Imma is still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s at least good news. What did they say?”

  “Dr. Thoms told Portia that Stanislaw Jager believed there was a mole in the CIA who’s working for a global criminal network based in Russia that wants the schematics for the polonium-210 device as badly as the People’s Revolution.”

  “What? Who?”

  “We lost the connection just as Dr. Thoms was about to give the mole’s name.”

  “That was no coincidence.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We’ve also learned that Chessa Marsik has been recaptured by the PR. Our source tells us that they want to make an exchange with Bovra Marsik at a fashion show.”

  “They’ll give him his daughter if he gives them the memory stick containing the schematics of the dirty bomb.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why make the exchange at a fashion show?”

  “I wish I knew. We’re working on figuring it out, but our security protocols and clearances have obviously been tightened, given that we may have a traitor in our ranks. The members on this mission have been changed, and a special internal operations unit has been assigned to find the mole.” She paused. “You no longer have a security clearance.”

  The palms of Altan’s hands went clammy. “They think I’m the mole?”

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you about this, Altan.”

  “But you don’t believe I’m the mole, do you?”

  “No and don’t prove me wrong.”

  “Thank you.” He exhaled forcefully, as though he’d been holding his breath for over a minute. “I can’t leave Portia or Imma. You have to help me, Jackie. I can’t save them alone.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “I’m helping by doing my job. You should do the same. Come home to Chicago as Director Saxe instructed. Once you’re here, you can prove your innocence. I’ll assist you in any way I can.”

  “Turn myself in? I can’t do that.”

  “I know you’re innocent. You’ll be cleared, but you have to come home first.”

  Altan shook his head. “Tell me where Portia’s located.”

  “What you’re asking me to do is against orders,” she said. “You’re asking me to go rogue.”

  “Jackie, think about it: the mole may be someone on our team. Countless innocent lives are at stake. We’ve got to get ahold of the design for the dirty bomb before the People’s Revolution or this Russian crime syndicate, and I’m in the best position to make that happen.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You know it’s true.” The stillness crackling through the invisible phone line almost caused Altan’s heart to stop. Use honey, he told himself, not vinegar. “Please, Jackie. I need you. We don’t have a lot of options or a lot of time.”

  “I’m looking at your location,” she said, her voice masked with professionalism. “Portia is about ten blocks north of you, moving quite slowly. She’s still in the taxi, but they won’t get far.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re headed toward a street that’s been barricaded and blocked off by the police. Before you go after them, you’ll need to take off your wristwatch and remove the GPS tracker from the heel of your shoe. We don’t want the mole following you.”

  “Agreed. I’ll also need to find a car.”

  “That’s a negative.”

  “Why?”

  “Trying to drive through this uprising is useless. You’ll need to stay on foot and don’t hang up. I’ll guide you to her.”

  “I owe you, Jackie.”

  There was a long moment of silence over the phone line. “I’ll find some way for you to pay me back.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Portia sat in the backseat of the taxicab as it inched along a busy two-lane street. The traffic was irksomely heavy and an unexpected hindrance that was slowing their progress to a snail’s pace. She nibbled her lower lip, not liking her predicament. The taxicab driver had correctly answered the question Imma had told her to ask him. That gave her confidence she could trust him, but thereafter, he was as stiff and silent as wood, refusing to tell her where they were headed.

  Portia looked out the passenger window and surmised they were somewhere in southwest London driving north. Generalities, though, weren’t good enough. She needed to know where they were going not merely for curiosity’s sake but for her safety. If anything went wrong, she’d need to find a way to contact Altan for help, and he’d be at a loss to provide any assistance if he couldn’t pinpoint her location. She carefully studied the surroundings hoping to figure out exactly where they were.

  Unfortunately, this block had no signage that revealed the name of the area’s district or neighborhood. Square-and oblong-shaped buildings were nested next to each other. All were modest in height, no more than six stories tall, with textured, stucco sidings; rectangular, fixed windows; and low-sloping roofs. Some were painted blue, while others were simply painted a boring gray.

  Portia sighed and fidgeted with her wool scarf. These structures could be found in most London districts. That bad news gave her little choice but to press the MI6 agent for answers. “I don’t recognize this part of London,” she said. “Where are we?”

  Her question was met with an annoying silence.

  She needed another tack. “I know about the People’s Revolution,” she said, “and that they’ve developed a dirty bomb. I know that Bovra Marsik has a flash drive containing the schematics for the bomb. Stanislaw Jager gave it to him.”

  She took a deep breath. Was her rambling working? “I know that the PR has kidnapped Chessa Marsik again and that there’s an exchange planned for tonight. They’ll hand her over if Mr. Marsik gives them the memory stick.” She halted her long-winded recitation and thought about what else she could say. “And you’re taking me to a place where I’ll be safe. So, thanks.”

  The agent appeared to look in the rearview mirror at her, but it was hard to tell. He wore gray-tinted aviator sunglasses. “What else do you know?” he asked. His accent was one that only a native Briton could own.

  “Riley Saxe may be working for a Russian crime syndicate,” she said.

  “Bloody hell,” he said. “Dr. Thoms told you quite a bit.”

  “She didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Alec Stanton.”

  “Where are we, Agent Stanton?”

  “Colliers Wood. It’s a district in the London borough of Merton.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “A flat just north of here. You’ll be safe there. We’ll get you to the United States as quickly as possible.”

  “Will Imma be there?”

 
; “Eventually. Dr. Thoms is a bit stubborn. She’s determined not to leave the country until she’s sure Ms. Marsik is safely returned. But I wouldn’t worry about her.”

  “That’s not possible, I’m afraid.” Portia absentmindedly twirled her engagement ring with her right forefinger and thumb. “Is it true that Riley Saxe is working for a Russian crime syndicate?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Alec said. “You fought with him in Iraq, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. We were in the army together. He was an outstanding soldier.”

  “Riley and I go back a long way as well. I first met him when he became a CIA officer, and I was working as an agent for MI6. We worked several joint missions together and became as close as brothers.”

  “So you know that he’s honest and loyal. He’d never work for a criminal organization, particularly one that’s based in Russia.”

  “I understand your disbelief. I was shocked when I learned he was a mole.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “I am.”

  “How?”

  “Given my close relationship with Riley, I was assigned to find out if the allegations against him are true. It’s a dual operation with the CIA.”

  “How could you investigate him? He knows you’re an MI6 agent, so he’d be suspicious of you.”

  “I led him to believe I had a gambling addiction and was heavily in debt and desperate for money.”

  “But he’d do a background check to see if you were telling the truth.”

  “You’re right and he did, but my cover included losing a home I supposedly had, showing a large debt on credit cards in my name, and—”

  “I get the picture. You completely fooled him.”

  “It took a while, but he eventually decided to help me, and he connected me to his contact at the Golden Triangle.”

  “That’s the criminal organization he works for?”

  “Yes, although a lot of people think the members are heroes.”

  “Why?”

  “They traffic illegal weapons throughout the world to rebel groups, many of whom are fighting corrupt governments that oppress their people.”

  “So Riley thinks that arming them is a just cause?”

  “He thinks people have a right to overturn cruel regimes. He likes to use Iraq and Syria as his favorite examples.”

  “What does he do for the Golden Triangle?”

  “He sells confidential information to the Golden Triangle, which in turn sells the information to its customers as a way to make money.”

  “If that’s true, he’s committing espionage. Why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “We want him to lead us to the syndicate’s Pakhan and other high-ranking officials. They want the design for the dirty bomb as badly as the People’s Revolution.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  “Certainly not. That’s why—”

  Without warning, Alec slammed the brakes. The taxi stopped within a nose of a red Fiat that had abruptly come to a halt.

  Portia jerked forward and bounced back against the backseat, held by the seatbelt she wore. She looked out the window.

  The pedestrians on the sidewalks, all dressed warmly for the cold, rainy weather, were swiftly walking in the same direction—south. They appeared nervous and fidgety, looking over their shoulders as if they expected to see an invading army bear down on them. One man, older with white hair and dressed in a long raincoat and business shoes, began running. The blare of car horns burst the silence into an unnerving racket.

  “What’s going on?” She cupped her right hand over her bad ear. “Something bizarre is happening out there.”

  “Is your ear all right?” Alec asked, as though he were a close friend.

  “Yes.” She glanced down. Her messenger bag was on the floor behind the driver’s seat. With her left hand, she reached inside the bag to retrieve her earplug. “I’m just covering it to be cautious.”

  “Ménière’s disease can be debilitating.”

  She found the tiny device and sat back. “How do you know about my…never mind. You must know more about me than I know about you.” She lowered her right hand, and, to her relief, her hearing was fine.

  “Bloody hell.” He slapped the steering wheel with a whack of irritation. “We’re in trouble.”

  An icy chill of unease prickled Portia’s neck. She inadvertently dropped the earplug, which rolled underneath the seat in front of her. She started to reach for it, but the helter-skelter spectacle occurring outside grabbed her attention. Looking out the passenger window, she could hardly believe what she saw.

  Traffic had come to a complete standstill. People on the sidewalk were now sprinting like herds of elephants trying to escape poachers. Drivers and their passengers began popping out of their cars to join the chaotic getaway.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “The police must’ve blocked off the street,” Alec said. “This bloody riot has gotten out of control.”

  “What riot?”

  “Earlier today, the police killed a teenager during an arrest. A group of young people started protesting against police violence. Their rally must be spreading south. Come on. We can’t stay here. We’ll go on foot.” Alec turned toward her, his gray-tinted sunglasses hiding his eyes. “We’re not far from the flat where you can hide.” He bolted out of the taxi and opened the passenger door.

  Portia grabbed her messenger bag and jumped outside into the wet cold. The rain had stopped falling, so the air should’ve smelled fresh. Instead, it stank of heavy smoke and fire.

  “We waited too long,” Alec said, his forehead creases of concern.

  Not far away from them, a herd of hostile young men and women, wearing blue jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes, swaggered along the street with the bravado of a victorious army. They smashed windows by throwing bricks and rocks. Their indiscernible shouts were battle cries rather than civil chants against police misconduct. Behind them, a car had been set on fire in the middle of the street and was now black-and-gray scrap metal. Farther away, red-and-gold flames engulfed a four-story building.

  Portia’s stomach burned. She tightly gripped her scarf and wondered if they should run south. Glancing in that direction, she realized the answer was quite clearly a negative.

  A wall of police, fully outfitted in riot gear, their shields and batons held in the ready position, marched toward them. Their pace was slow but assured.

  “We’re between the protestors and the police.” She turned to face Stanton. “Where should we go?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Wanting to feel comfortable before beginning the night’s endeavor to rescue Chessa, Imma had put on a V-neck cardigan sweater and Lucky blue jeans. She sat cross-legged on a maroon chair in Robert Montgomery’s apartment sipping a strong cup of coffee. A happy thought crossed her mind. Portia should be with Agent Stanton heading toward safety. She could hardly believe that she and Portia might be together again. Their reunion had been the only dream that kept her spirits alive in prison.

  “These militants are lunatics.” Robert Montgomery sat on the couch across from her, his suntanned face knotted in fear and his eyes, the color of jade, a whirl of unease. Usually an immaculate dresser of his own fashion designs, he wore a faded T-shirt and thin, cotton sweatpants that appeared to have been bought from a thrift store. “They could kill everybody at my show.”

  Robert’s gloomy tone shook the joy right out of Imma. She sipped her coffee, commanding herself to stay calm and positive and to remember that she’d made it this far, which meant she could go further. “MI6 will have undercover agents surrounding the building,” she said. “They’ll intercept Chessa and whoever is with her before they go inside.”

  “The People’s Revolution isn’t stupid.” Robert rubbed his perfectly shaped bald head and leaned forward. “Don’t you think they suspect something?”

  Imma shrugged. “We’ve been careful. They don’t know we’re in touch with MI6. Bovra
and I will be there, as they instructed. They’ll think everything is going along as they planned.”

  “I hope you’re right, doc.”

  “About what?” Bovra asked, marching into the living room like a tall Napoleon with silver hair. He sat on the couch next to Robert.

  “Don’t you think that the People’s Revolution will be suspicious of a trap?” Robert asked him.

  “They’ll be on their toes, but so will we,” Bovra said, with a surprisingly cavalier attitude that shimmered in his light blue eyes. “Given that those bastards killed Stan, we have to trust MI6.”

  “You’re right.” Imma could hardly believe what she had just heard. When Agent Stanton told them that the People’s Revolution had killed Stan, Bovra’s reaction was such a mix of grief and anger that she wasn’t sure what side of him would emerge—the emotional or the rational. “Agent Stanton—”

  The ring of her cell phone interrupted her. She picked up the phone, which was lying on top of the arm of the chair, and looked at the screen to see who was calling. All that flashed was “Unknown.” She had to answer; the caller could be Portia.

  “Hello? Por—”

  “Dr. Thoms, plans have changed,” the caller said, as though he were the weatherman predicting warm temperatures rather than cold.

  Imma lowered her head and closed her eyes. Of course plans had changed. These bastards thought that civilized rules were only for the stupid. “Tell me what you want us to do.” She looked up and stared at the gold walls.

  “The exchange will happen at a charity event for African children,” he answered. “If you inform MI6 or any other law enforcement about the new location, Ms. Marsik will be killed.”

  Her heart rate spiked. “I understand. Where and what time is the event?”

  “Eight o’clock at Smyth Square. Two tickets will be at the roll call for you and Mr. Marsik. Go inside. The exchange will happen in the King Charles Banquet Hall. You’ll give Ms. Marsik’s escort the flash drive, and he’ll give her to you. Understand?”

  “She’ll only have one escort?”

  “Yes, but eyes will be everywhere.”