by Mari Hannah
‘Exactly what am I looking for?’ Jo asked.
‘If my theory is correct—’
‘You have a theory?’ Jo gave a wry smile. ‘Outstanding!’
‘Don’t take the piss. Torres and I may have missed a trick. It’s not something I’m proud of. So far, we’ve been concentrating our efforts on men who either arrived on feeder flights from the North-East or who had some connection with areas associated with the drug trade.’ She let the sentence hang, though the implication was clear.
Jo’s smile turned to a grimace. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. Nine times out of ten, drug cartels are run by men. It’s the same in any illegitimate economy. Historically, women have held auxiliary roles: cultivating crops, acting as mules, stashing drugs, street-level tasks – you could say the risky stuff that leads to imprisonment. I can’t imagine that Homeland Security technicians won’t have passed the images of all adults through facial recognition, regardless of gender—’
‘Yes, but don’t believe the hype. Artificial intelligence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Race and gender play their part in skewing the results. The darker the skin, the more the accuracy drops, particularly in women. We’re white, so we’d have little chance of escape, but a woman of colour could probably sneak through at a push.’
‘Back up, you’ve lost me.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Kate explained. ‘Our suspect is foreign, Hispanic or Portuguese, Marr said, but I did wonder if he might hail from Central or South America. That’s where the DEA’s focus is. Ninety-five per cent of drug imports reach the US via Mexican cartels. I suspect that our guy may be a lieutenant sent here about three years ago to muscle in on Nikolaev’s drug-trafficking operation. If his boss was on that plane, he may even be the shooter who took Nikolaev out, though I can’t prove it yet. If I’m right about this, we should concentrate our efforts on non-white females.’
Kate pulled the images of all non-white female passengers up on her computer screen, asking Jo to look at those listed on the DEA report. It was good to be working together again, as they had on many occasions in pursuit of the truth. They ploughed on for a good hour, Jo making occasional observations on the information she was reading, the sheer numbers of killings carried out by those who made their money from smuggling narcotics to major cities across the globe, the US being the largest consumer.
‘Do you have a digital copy of this file?’ she asked.
‘Can’t you read it?’
‘Yeah, but I’d like to blow up the images. These are too small.’
Preoccupied with what she was doing, Kate pushed a laptop Jo’s way. The profiler already knew the password.
‘That’s strange,’ Kate said.
Jo looked up. ‘What is?’
‘There’s a first-class female passenger here for whom there’s no next of kin listed in Casualty Bureau records – suspicious, don’t you think? She’s not been reported missing either.’ Kate was asking herself why. The passenger’s name was Maria Alexander.
This needed looking into.
Kate stopped what she was doing and rang Bright. An early riser, he was up and eating, a fry-up, he said, guaranteed to last him all day. She had a feeling he was going to need it. ‘Guv, I might be on to something. I know we are time-limited, but is there any possibility we can delay the interview with the man we have in custody?’
He didn’t ask and she didn’t offer any more detail.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the incident room.’
‘And Jo?’
‘With me.’ She glanced at the floor. ‘And we have a guard dog.’
Nelson wagged his tail. Bright and the rest of the team loved him. Jo often brought him to work. Kate was about to throw her a smile but she was otherwise engaged, staring at the image on Kate’s computer, comparing it with one she’d found in the digital version of the DEA report, her eyes flicking between the two. Kate couldn’t see the laptop screen – it was at an angle, turned away from her – but hope and intrigue reigned. Transfixed by the expression on Jo’s face, she almost forgot that she was still on the phone when her guv’nor spoke again …
‘What was it about “go home and get some kip” you two failed to understand?’
Jo didn’t react, though she couldn’t fail to hear him.
‘Your breakfast is getting cold, guv.’ Kate wanted him gone. ‘Tell me, yes or no, can we delay the interview?’
‘No, but keep working. I’m happy to pit my wits against your man’s poncey legal counsel and buy you some time. I live with Ellen. She can argue for England, but I can still get the better of her.’
‘Hey!’ Ellen’s voice made itself heard in the background.
‘Ouch.’ Bright laughed. ‘I have an audible witness to that assault.’
Kate disconnected, emailing her interview notes to him, then reached out for the laptop, bringing two images side by side, zooming in on each in turn. The one on the left was a passport photo of the dead woman, Maria Alexander, a Kensington resident who, bizarrely, no one seemed interested in; the one on the right, an American police mugshot. There were differences – the subject had paid a lot of money to change her appearance – but there was no disputing her identity.
87
As their MIT colleagues drifted into work, Jo and Kate moved into the privacy of her office. With Bright busy interviewing their suspect at a secret location, he wouldn’t need to commandeer her space. Time to do more digging. When they were finished, Kate sent three images to Torres: one of the unidentified suspect Kate had in custody; the passport photo of Alexander and the police mugshot Jo had found in the DEA’s report, explaining the whys and wherefores of what they had found. Maria Alexander had been passing herself off as a legitimate businesswoman, though in reality she was one of the richest, most dangerous women in the world. Her real name was Maria Jiménez.
Minutes later, Torres arranged a conference call. This time, Garcia and Jo sat in, four minds preferable to two. Kate took care of the introductions and the meeting got underway.
Torres didn’t often look rattled.
She did now.
Jiménez was a relation of the late Margarita Montoya, a Mexican drug trafficker whose cocaine distribution network once spanned the US; a woman alleged to have ordered multiple assassinations that ran into the hundreds while shipping cocaine from her home country to New York, Miami and New Orleans. Despite the notoriety of these two women on the other side of the world, Kate had never heard of either before today.
Kate told the Americans what she knew: ‘According to the DEA report, Montoya groomed Jiménez to take over the organisation, but she was caught and locked up. In 2008, four years before Montoya’s death, Jiménez was released from prison, more powerful than when she went in, thanks to corrupt law enforcement. Until she got on that doomed flight, she was very much alive and active.’
Jo had read that she’d settled in Venezuela, using it as a base for her operation, shipping cocaine through Mexico. She had several aliases, including Mujer Malvada (evil woman), and within her organisation was known as La Madonna Negra – the Black Madonna – and Kate passed that on. ‘She married an Englishman, Terence Alexander, a male version of herself, an organised crime syndicate leader, someone with a legal team whose bill would make your eyes bleed. They lived the good life in Kensington, London and yet he never reported her missing. It seems my informant was right. These people are in a different league. Nikolaev picked a fight he couldn’t possibly win.’
Torres, Garcia, Kate and Jo spent a lot of time discussing how an IED might have been secreted aboard 0113, whether in the hold or the cabin. In either scenario, given strict security procedures, enhanced state-of-the-art scanners and X-ray machines capable of screening for explosive chemicals, metals or radiological materials, any attempt to get one through represented a huge risk.
‘No system is foolproof,’ Torres said. ‘Modern technologies can only go so far. You go clean through security and get dirty at the ot
her end. Travellers are only scanned once.’
‘An inside job?’ Jo queried.
‘It happens,’ Garcia said.
‘More wreckage is what we need—’
‘Talking of wreckage,’ Torres interrupted. ‘If we find proof that the explosion occurred in the hold, I’ll need you back at Heathrow and the search will go on.’ She stopped talking as the door behind Kate and Jo was flung open.
Carmichael arrived in the room like she’d been shot from a cannon. She pulled up sharp, her face going red when she realised that Kate and Jo were in conference with Homeland Security personnel.
The expression on her face was one of horror.
Torres was staring at her from the screen.
Stifling a grin, Kate said: ‘Special agents, meet Detective Constable Lisa Carmichael, who will undergo additional training on how to enter a room as soon as this call ends.’
Carmichael didn’t know where to put herself. ‘Sorry, guv. I was expecting the chief super.’
‘Evidently. There’s been a change of plan. He’s with our suspect. Can you give us a moment?’
‘I’ll wait outside.’
‘No need, we’re done here.’ Buoyed by a breakthrough in the case, Torres was keen to put the wheels in motion with the DEA to establish the identity of the man Kate had in custody. ‘Congratulations, everyone. The Phoenix is rising.’
‘It sure is!’ Carmichael had come with good news.
Torres was intrigued. ‘You have something to add before I go, Detective?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Kate gave Carmichael the nod to proceed.
She spoke directly to Torres. ‘Rubbing shoulders with Marr paid off. We won the jackpot, so to speak. We might not know our suspect’s name yet, but forensics found minute traces of blood in the strap of his Hublot watch.’
‘Do you have a match?’ Kate asked.
‘It’s Robbo’s, guv.’
‘So it wasn’t Marat Nikolaev as we first thought.’
‘No …’ This was a difficult conversation for Carmichael but she recovered quickly, her focus back on Torres. ‘The even better news is, CSIs have finished their examination of Jackson’s flat. My guv’nor asked them to take it apart and they have. In the living room, they found a burner phone hidden beneath the floorboards and lifted prints that match the man we currently have in custody. There’s no match with our database, but perhaps there will be on yours. I’ll send them to you in a moment, but you all need to see and hear this.’
Carmichael slid a thumb drive into Kate’s computer and pressed play. Kate angled it so the special agents could view it, too. The video clip showed the interior of what resembled an old barn or storage facility, long abandoned by the looks of it. Rusting farm tools were propped up in the background. It had been filmed from the outside looking in, jagged glass visible around the edges of the window frame, every surface covered in dust, cobwebs and dead flies. The camera, obviously handheld, wobbled slightly as it zoomed in on two men engaged in an angry exchange.
Whoever was holding the device was breathing heavily enough for it to register.
The clip was shot from over the left shoulder of a well-built man who was facing away from the lens. Clearly this was not the lowlife Kate had in custody. His accent was unmistakably Russian. The other man’s hands were tied together above his head by wire that bit into his wrists and was looped over an industrial hook, the type used for lifting heavy weights, suspending his body about two feet from the ground. Dripping blood had covered his face and clothing. He was pleading for his life …
On both sides of the Atlantic, detectives, special agents and criminal profiler collectively held their breath. They all knew what was coming. The standing man turned, a sinister sneer on his face as if playing to an audience. He spoke in Russian to someone who was out of shot, then threw his head back, laughing.
For Torres’s benefit, Kate paused the tape, identifying him as Nikolaev’s son, Marat – a man who had been, and, as far as she knew, was still under surveillance.
She pressed play …
On screen, Marat was clearly enjoying himself.
‘You make mistake, Stu.’ Marat spread his hands wide. ‘Your name is short for stupid, no? You kill eeeeverybody on plane. My papa paid many bucks for good job, but you fuck up. He is dead because of you. How we blame Americans now?’
The hanging man was begging to be spared, mumbling about a faulty timer, trying to explain what went wrong.
‘What kind of bomb-maker you are? You don’t tell time too good.’ Marat laughed again. ‘As enforcer, is my job to punish.’
‘Please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry about your father—’
‘He was piece of shit. You think I care about him?’ Marat pointed at his chest with both hands. ‘I am big boss now.’
He screwed a silencer to his weapon.
Carmichael looked like she was about to vomit. Kate didn’t feel too good herself. It was one thing turning up after the event of a violent death, but witnessing a life taken took things to another level. There were six thuds as Marat emptied his gun, five to the torso, one to the head. The bomb-maker’s body jerked and swayed like a macabre puppet. The place, should they ever find it, was now a crime scene.
88
So many people had lost their lives on Flight 0113, a sudden and cataclysmic event that had sparked a wide-ranging investigation involving law enforcement across the globe. Many theories had been raised and discounted. Terrorism had led everyone down the wrong road, but Kate had lots of people to thank for their contribution in the battle against organised crime. Her guv’nor, Detective Chief Superintendent Philip Bright, was top of that list for having turned a blind eye to so many indiscretions; Hank, her 2ic, a close second for shadowing her and keeping her sane. There was her friend, Air Accident Investigator Rob Clark, who’d managed to circumvent red tape – when no one else could – so she could join the inner circle of top-level investigators. Kate had been proud to collaborate with Homeland Security’s SAC Torres, Special Agent Garcia and their Homeland Security and DEA colleagues. She was proud of the Murder Investigation Team who had worked round the clock to bring about a resolution – such as it was – off-book in the case of Carmichael who, at one point, Kate feared might have been spirited away by underworld figures and executed. Then there was Brian Allen, without whom she’d have remained undercover in the baggage shed as Lou Paige with nothing to show for it.
The DEA were able to provide fingerprint identification and a name for the ‘piece of shit’ Bright had in custody. Raúl Rodríguez had coughed under interrogation – it was almost impossible to get blood out of a watch strap – but then he made the fatal mistake of offering the head of Northumbria CID a bribe that would make him a rich man if he buried the evidence. He was told in no uncertain terms that he was wasting his breath, that British coppers were different from those in Mexico, that they couldn’t be bought. Rodríguez was charged with Robbo’s murder and, on Rossiter’s evidence, the abduction of Jackson, arguably now missing presumed dead. They hadn’t managed to pin Yulian Nikolaev’s murder on Rodríguez yet, but that still might come. It mattered not in the scheme of things. He’d go down for life, and that was good enough for Kate.
Marr’s evidence had proven useful. She’d led detectives to Jackson. In turn, the burner CSIs recovered from her flash Jesmond apartment turned the investigation on its head, the video clip providing irrefutable evidence against Marat Nikolaev for the cold-blooded murder of an unknown man. As suspected, the offence had been filmed by Rodríguez as insurance and stashed at Jackson’s place for retrieval and use when it suited him. Fortunately, he was arrested before that could happen, but what better way to get rid of an arch-enemy than to catch him in the act?
Kate suspected that Rodríguez had followed Marat, hoping it would lead him to the bomb-maker – both sides were gunning for him – and just happened upon the brutal murder taking place, saving him the bother of killing the man himself. Rodrí
guez would not admit it to police, but that was their take on it. In the absence of prints on the mobile, there was no evidence to suggest that Jackson handled or had any knowledge of it before her sudden disappearance.
It was clear from the dialogue on the clip that Marat Nikolaev had taken over his father’s illegal drugs empire. Obvious too that his argument with the bomb-maker concerned the death of Maria Jiménez-Alexander and the subsequent backlash that had triggered a bitter turf war, and the death of his father, who he hated with a passion.
Enquiries revealed that Jiménez-Alexander had a regular arrangement with a Heathrow worker to exchange her bag once she was through security with an identical one that contained money, jewellery and fake passports she knew wouldn’t get through airport security. Having got wind of it, with or without his son’s help, Yulian Nikolaev had paid the worker even more to substitute the bag for one containing an explosive device.
You go clean through security and get dirty at the other end.
Travellers are only scanned once.
Torres had summed it up perfectly.
Nikolaev’s plan – that the detonation should not take place until after the plane touched down in the US, laying the blame elsewhere – was perfect but for one small matter: human error. The Heathrow worker claimed he knew nothing of what was contained in the bag he switched, but was now on remand facing trial for conspiracy to murder Jiménez-Alexander and, by extension, the manslaughter of three hundred and fifteen innocent civilians and crew en route to JFK.
These same charges were levelled against Marat Nikolaev when arrested by an armed response team within minutes of the video falling into possession of police, the clip providing conclusive proof that he’d also shot dead an unidentified male with the first name Stu, without blinking. As soon as Kate had viewed the footage, she’d ordered his immediate detention. He hadn’t been ‘big boss’ for long, and would spend the rest of his natural life behind bars.