by J. R. Wolfe
“Is this Bovra Marsik?” she asked.
“Yes,” Riley answered. “He wouldn’t tell me where he’s keeping the flash drive, but he will eventually. Now sit down.”
She clamped her hands into fists and wondered if she could strike Riley before he knew what happened. Altan would certainly help bring him down, but she decided that such a move was too risky. Riley was quick and agile, and an expert marksman. He’d get off at least one good kill shot, directed either at her or Altan. They needed to be patient and wait for the clear advantage.
“Sit down,” Riley said. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”
She didn’t hesitate. She sat on the couch next to Altan and absorbed her surroundings.
The colors of the living room were strikingly masculine: blends of deep tones of maroon and black. A retro-style crystal chandelier with icicle lights that fell below a braided chrome shade showcased the middle of the room. The furniture was sleek and modern, and the hardwood floor, with a fresh shine, had wide oak planks. Large windows, with satin curtains that were pulled to the side, overlooked a busy street below. On top of the coffee table was a photograph of two men, both with shaved heads and handsome dark features. They smiled broadly, seeming not to have a care in the world.
One of the men was surely Robert Montgomery, she thought, since this was his apartment. How sad. His life was tragically over and for what?
Riley sat in a wingback chair and pointed the automatic pistol at them with the confidence and ease of a pro. “So, was Alec killed?” he asked, with the casualness of inquiring about the score of a football game.
Portia felt her eyes widen despite her best efforts to portray a poker face. She realized she shouldn’t be shocked by Riley’s knowledge of the attack on Agent Stanton. He probably knew more clandestine information than even top officials at the White House, given his job at the CIA and his contacts within the Russian crime syndicate. Still, she was surprised. “A protestor tried to stab him, but Alec grabbed his wrist. He was sliced, but he’ll be fine.” Then, Alec’s warning reverberated in her ears: He only cares about the memory stick. “My God, Riley. He wasn’t a protestor, was he? You hired him to kill Alec.”
“Yes,” Riley said, “but I’m somewhat relieved he’s not badly hurt. He’s a good man and agent. Unfortunately, he played me for the fool.”
“How did you know where Alec and I were?” she asked.
Riley stared at Altan, his almond-shaped eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth raised in a smug smile. “You haven’t told her?”
Altan ran his fingers through his brown hair. “I told her but not every detail.”
“The wristwatch that Altan gave you,” Riley said, “contains a GPS tracking device. I worried you might not wear it or lose it, but I was wrong. We’ve been following your every move since you left Chicago.”
That revelation wasn’t really a surprise to her. On the way to the apartment, Altan had told her the truth about his CIA career and Fox Hunt. She hated being exploited, but she forced herself to remember that he was doing his job and wanted to help them. She couldn’t say the same of Riley. “What do you plan to do with us?” she asked.
“Dr. Thoms told you about me, didn’t she?” Riley asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “How do you know?”
“I listened to your phone conversation when you were at the Tower of London.”
“Of course. I should’ve realized that the wrong people would sooner or later intercept my cell phone calls.”
“That’s what we do,” Riley said.
She sighed. “I didn’t know you were the wrong people.”
“I know.” Sadness softened his dark eyes.
“Where’s Imma?” she asked.
“I wish I knew,” Riley said, “but Mr. Marsik has refused to tell me so far. My suspicion is that the PR has changed the location of the exchange for his daughter without MI6 or CIA knowledge. Imma is likely at the new site trying to figure out how she can save Ms. Marsik without agency assistance. She’s smart, but she’s in over her head.”
“Whom are you working for?” Altan asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Riley answered.
“If it doesn’t matter, tell us,” Altan said. “You’ll kill us regardless. At least let us know our real enemy before our death. You owe us that, Riley.”
He looked hard at Altan, as if he wanted a fight. “I work for the Golden Triangle,” he finally said. “They deal primarily in selling weapons to rebel groups throughout the world.”
“You mean terrorists,” she said.
“I mean rebels,” Riley said calmly. “Everyone has a cause. We learned that in Iraq.”
“But why become a traitor to our country?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not a traitor.” Riley’s voice dripped with annoyance. “I’ve been able to assist the Golden Triangle and legitimate militant groups without compromising the integrity of any US operations or interest. If the truth is ever told, what I did benefited our country.” His eyes closed as if dragged down by an anchor. “Unfortunately, this assignment was different.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The Golden Triangle wants the schematics to the dirty bomb developed by the People’s Revolution.”
“So they can sell the bomb to the highest bidder,” she said.
Riley shrugged. “Arming militant groups with traditional weapons and intelligence is one thing, but selling them a viable dirty bomb, even if it’s not a weapon of mass destruction, is a game I wasn’t willing to play. So, I initially refused to cooperate.”
“What changed?” she asked.
“They threatened to kill my wife and baby boy.”
“You had alternatives,” Altan said in a raised voice. “You could’ve sought help.”
“I thought I could contain the problem,” Riley answered firmly, “but I miscalculated. Originally, I had no idea that Imma had survived and escaped from prison with Chessa Marsik. Stanislaw Jager planted false intelligence that included a bogus video of Imma’s execution. It was well done, I must say. It wasn’t until you told me about your contact with Jager that we reevaluated our assessment. The determination was that the video was a fake, and she had escaped from prison with Marsik.” He touched the scar on his cheek. “I admit that the situation spun out of control, but you must believe me. I regret how things have turned out.”
“Jager knew that you were a mole for a criminal organization, didn’t he?” Portia asked, not caring that Riley professed feelings of guilt. She and Altan were only minutes from an undeserved grave. Worse, he was depriving her of seeing Imma again.
Riley nodded. “Somehow he found out that I worked for the Golden Triangle. Stan was damn clever that way. He could find out anything, even if it was buried under a rock. It’s funny, but I don’t think he cared that I moonlighted for an arms trafficking group, until they wanted the memory stick he had stolen from the People’s Revolution. He didn’t want that type of destructive technology falling into the wrong hands.”
“There are no right hands for such a weapon,” Portia said.
“No,” Riley said, “I suppose not.”
The poor man imprisoned just feet from her moaned in pain. She refused to let her gaze rest on him. The wild fear she’d seen in his light blue eyes when she had first entered the living room had unnerved her. She couldn’t let that happen again. “It’s not too late to correct this,” she said. “Please believe me.”
“Listen to her,” Altan said.
“Look on the side table, next to the couch,” Riley said. “There’s duct tape. Take it and tie Altan’s wrists behind his back. I’m going to watch carefully to make sure you do a good job. If you don’t, you know I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”
The thought of protesting crossed Portia’s mind, but she decided against it. She just needed the opportunity to reach the little Ruger that was waiting patiently at her ankle. Grabbing the roll of heavy-duty tap
e, she said, “Altan, let’s get this over with.”
Altan’s eyes enlarged. He slowly rose and put his hands behind him. Staring at Riley, he said, “You’ll regret this. I promise.”
“I already do,” Riley said.
Portia wanted to tell Altan that she had a shrewd strategy to get them out of this trouble, but the truth wasn’t so grand or immediate. All she had was a shaky hope for the right time to strike. She began lightly wrapping his wrists in a figure-eight pattern, so that he could easily free himself when the time came. “Are you going to kill us?” she asked.
Riley’s expression was kind, even worried, not that of a cold-blooded killer. “Hurry, Portia, you must be quicker.”
What was he thinking? Could he be serious? Should she be quicker to hasten her death? Of course not. If she could keep him talking, an opportunity to take the upper hand might arise. “Can’t we change course?” she asked. “It’s not too late.”
Riley closed his eyes, as if the effort hurt. “You’re done tying Altan’s wrists,” he said. “Now secure his ankles.”
She ripped off a section of the tape and knelt down on one knee, not bothering to look at him or at Altan. She didn’t want to see anything. She didn’t want to feel anything. She needed to act. That was all. Just act. No. Not just act, she needed to kill him. Didn’t she?
Slowly, she began softly binding Altan’s ankles together. She edged her right hand downward. With just one swift move, she could grab the handgun and shoot. It was simple. She had a clear shot at him. He was so close, so near to death. Do it. Aim firm with a steady wrist and pull the trigger smoothly and quickly. The dreadful, but necessary, deed would be done. This was so simple. Do it.
“Don’t play games, Portia,” Riley said.
An ill-timed clamminess wet her hands. She looked up, focusing on Riley’s automatic pistol. He was right. The time for playing games was over. Clenching her jaw tight, she ripped the Ruger from the ankle holster. Instinctively aiming, she fired.
The gun blast shredded the air with a thunderous bang. Riley’s right hand fluttered as his handgun fell to the carpet. He howled and held his injured hand against his chest.
Blood should’ve spattered in a thousand artful directions. Yet, the spill was light, and not as gruesome as she expected it would be or as she wanted. The lackluster showing meant only one thing. Riley’s wound was superficial. The lucky bastard. She pulled the trigger again.
The blast of the gun was again monstrously loud. But this time, the bullet spiraled on course and ripped through Riley’s forehead, as if his skin were paper-thin. He collapsed to the floor in a mound of outstretched limbs. He didn’t move. Seconds passed like hours. He remained still and clearly dead.
Altan bounced up. “Great shot. Untie me.”
Disbelief clouded her vision followed by a bone-chilling reality. She’d killed a man who’d fought bravely in the Iraq War. He was also a father with an infant son, and her friend. What had she done? Still pointing the Ruger at his lifeless body, her hand began to shake. Worse, her ear throbbed with a shrill, unbearable buzzing noise. She dropped the gun and pressed her hand against her ear.
“Portia,” Altan said. “Are you all right? Untie me.”
She tried to stand, but the room began to spin around her. All she could do was close her eyes.
CHAPTER 34
“Are you feeling better?” Altan asked.
Portia sat on the couch with a bath towel wrapped snuggly around her head like a scarf. She’d learned that applying pressure against her ear could help stop the ringing and relieve the dizziness. “I think so. The room isn’t spinning anymore.”
“Good,” Altan said.
“I see you were able to free yourself.”
“Yes. It wasn’t hard thanks to the light wrapping you did.”
“Riley must’ve known I wasn’t securing the duct tape tightly.”
“I wonder.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Where did you put him?”
“I covered him with a bed sheet and placed him in the tub in the guest bathroom.” He glanced down at the blue towels he had used in a vain attempt to clean the carpet where Riley had fallen. The towels were now thoroughly stained with blood. “That was a hero’s shot.”
She didn’t respond. She felt too sad and shaken to celebrate her marksmanship. Nor did she want to stare at the mess on the floor. It made her stomach curdle with guilt. She turned her attention to Bovra.
He was slumped in a maroon chair pressing a wet washcloth against his left eye. Sticky sweat dampened his gray hair. His lips were inflamed and reddened from what must’ve been savage blows. His collared shirt was spattered with blood. The only relief to his heartbreaking appearance was that a sock was no longer stuffed into his mouth. “Thank you for killing that son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” she said. “There was little choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Bovra said, “but you made the right one.”
She shrugged her shoulders. Was he right? Had she made the right choice? She wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t help the sense of relief that Riley was permanently out of the game. “So, what’s happening?”
“The exchange of Chessa for the flash drive will no longer happen at the fashion show,” Bovra said, “but at a gala auction for Food for African Children Today. Imma went there early to survey the building.”
“Have you contacted MI6 about the change?” Altan sat on the couch next to Portia.
Bovra removed the washcloth from his eye, which was tightly shut as if stitched to his face. His eyelid was black and painfully swollen. “No,” he said. “We were told if we did that, my daughter would be immediately killed. Saxe arrived shortly after Imma left. I wouldn’t tell him about the flash drive, though. It’s the only thing that will guarantee Chessa’s safe return.”
“Where’s the charity event being held?” Altan asked.
“At Smyth Square,” Bovra said. “It used to be a library, but it’s been converted into a commercial building with banquet rooms, restaurants, and lecture theaters.” He took a deep breath. “It’s one of these highbrow affairs that the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge will be attending. We were surprised they didn’t cancel the event due to the riot, but apparently that area of the city is safe.”
“This makes horrible sense.” Altan stared at Portia with wide, cat-like eyes. “After recovering the flash drive, the PR will use the dirty bomb to assassinate the duke and duchess.”
“And in the process, they’ll injure or kill all the guests,” Portia said, “but how will they get in? Security will be tight and the auction must be by invitation only since the royals will be there.”
“To be invited,” Bovra said, “guests had to donate several thousand dollars.”
“The PR could manage that sum easily,” she said grimly, “but how will they get a bomb inside the building?”
“There are a couple plausible answers,” Altan said. “The PR has either infiltrated security, or the dirty bomb they developed must be as we feared—relatively small, lightweight, and stable, making it easy to safely transport and hide.”
Bovra nodded. “If this bomb goes off in an enclosed area, the death toll and injuries will be high.”
“Those bastards must be quite proud of themselves,” she said. “They’ll be sending a clear message that no one is safe, not even a beloved royal couple. We can’t let this happen. What time does the auction start?”
“In a few hours,” Bovra said. “The PR left us two tickets at the door.”
“Is the event sold out?” she asked.
“No. I don’t think so.”
She looked at Altan. “We can contact MI6 or the CIA and let them know—”
“The People’s Revolution will kill Chessa,” Bovra shouted in a hoarse voice.
“There’s another complication with contacting the authorities,” Altan said, “particularly the CIA. They think I’m a traitor.”
; “What?” she said. “Why would they think you’re a traitor?”
“My best guess is that Riley set me up, but whatever the answer, I’m afraid we’re on our own.”
Portia rubbed her engagement ring with her left thumb. “Bovra,” she said, “what’s the plan for the exchange?”
“Prior to the auction,” he said, “there’s a reception in the King Charles Banquet Hall. The swap is to happen there. Chessa will have one escort. We planned to give him a data stick that contains a fake blueprint of the dirty bomb.”
“Good,” Altan said. “We can’t let those bastards have the real one.”
“They couldn’t have the authentic blueprint anyway,” he said. “I destroyed the data stick it was saved on. I’ve been making them think I still had it so they wouldn’t harm Chessa.”
“You did the right thing,” Portia said.
“Even if they believe you, there’s still the problem that the PR will detonate the dirty bomb they’ve developed,” Altan said.
“Quite right,” Bovra said. “Once we have Chessa, she and Imma were to leave the building. I was going to stay behind, tranquilize the escort, and notify security about the bomb so they could evacuate the area and hopefully find the bomb without anyone getting hurt. I’d rejoin Chessa and Imma, and we’d leave the country.”
“How are you going to tranquilize the escort?” Portia asked.
“Stan gave me a special gift before he left for Zimbabwe,” Bovra said. “He called it Dolgaya Noch’.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Long Night,” Altan said. “I’ve never heard the drug called that, but he must’ve been referring to a sedative that was perfected by the KGB to work almost instantly on the victim.”