Yuelin ignored the question: ‘I’d like to talk to you about the Lanyon Project.’
Another long pause. Then, with his voice steeped in fear, McVries said: ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Unless you want to talk about this on your doorstep, I suggest you open the door.’
McVries cracked the door. He was in his robe. He looked terrified – like it was the day of reckoning.
‘Listen carefully,’ Yuelin said softly but firmly. ‘I’m holding a walkie-talkie, and am ready to signal my backup in that car on the curb. And there’s multiple copies of the dirt we’ve got on you. So lay a finger on me, you’re screwed. Got it?’
McVries gave an agonized nod. Yuelin stepped into the lobby and shut the door.
‘Okay, here’s the deal. We know about the Lanyon Project – your little business venture on the side, selling US intelligence secrets to Russia. Last time I checked, that’s enough to earn you a life sentence at a supermax.’
Yuelin let this sink in. And it did: McVries looked like he was ageing years by the second. Yuelin went on:
‘However, we’re not unreasonable people. If you’re willing to cooperate with us, we’re willing to make this all go away…’
‘Yes,’ he choked. ‘Anything.’
Yuelin smiled a business-like smile. ‘As I understand it, you’re back to work tomorrow – a Security Detail is coming from Washington, and you’re going to be co-running the Command Center with the Security Detail’s head, and thus effectively joint in-charge of the whole visit. That, of course, is a bread-and-butter task for a Deputy Head of Field Office.’
McVries shook his head. ‘You can’t be serious.’
Yuelin went on:
‘What we would like is some details about how things are set to go down tomorrow; the itinerary. I know a bit about how these Command Centers work: a bunch of you sequestered in a computer-crammed hotel room where the only means of outside communications are specially fitted secure phone-lines and direct radio links to agents in the field; where you’re not allowed to bring in any other means of contact with the outside world. So, since I won’t be able to communicate with you tomorrow, I need to give you a comprehensive run-down now.’
McVries was still shaking his head. ‘This is madness. Who are you people?’
‘The choice is yours, Toby.’
At that, Yuelin smiled leisurely. She wasn’t going to rush him. McVries groaned. Then finally, looking like a wounded dog, he met Yuelin’s eye. ‘Fine. We got a deal.’
Yuelin grinned, and stepped into the living room.
‘Let’s take a seat.’
Chapter 13
Saturday, December 12, 10:45 a.m.
We sat in silence as the van hurtled noisily along what must’ve been an Interstate. And I was lost in thought.
Briefly, I pained over how I’d managed to slip up so badly. Then the survival instinct kicked in, and I started assessing the situation. Started contemplating what direction we might be heading in; where they could be taking us; how we might escape…
Maybe twenty minutes later, I was jogged from these thoughts by Ellen.
‘So are we fucked, or what?’
I looked at her. It was clear that, though pessimistic, she’d not lost her head.
I was impressed. Such composure was unheard of from someone without training.
I shrugged. ‘We’re up shit’s creek, but not without a paddle. Yes, we’re at their mercy, and I don’t doubt they’ll kill us if we antagonize them. But I do believe they’d rather wait till tomorrow morning for this death-by-fire business.’
‘But why not just shoot us now?Just to make us suffer?’
I shook my head. ‘If suffering was their only concern, they’d do it as soon as we get to where we’re going. This isn’t James Bond. In the real world, people don’t delay unless they’ve got good reason.’ I thought a moment. ‘They’re planning on burning us, but not incinerating us. That says to me that tomorrow there’s going to be a separate fire somewhere, and they’re planning to plant our bodies at the site to make it look like we were caught up in it. So our execution has to wait till tomorrow, because though it’s hard to pinpoint the time of death of a burnt body, if they do it too soon, it’ll be clear our bodies were planted.’
‘So their plan’s to make it look like they didn’t murder us? Like something else was responsible?’
‘Bingo.’
‘But if they want to cover their tracks, why not just incinerate us?’
‘Well, while that may cover their tracks, it also leaves a giant question mark over the affair. You’re an American citizen – if you go missing, folk will eventually investigate. And that means there’s a possibility things will eventually catch up with them. Whereas if they can pin it on someone – or something – else, they shut down questions. Case closed.’
Ellen absorbed this slowly.
‘But it’s got me thinking about their previous killings,’ I continued. ‘As far as the authorities are currently concerned, those deaths are unexplained. But since these guys are clearly concerned with tying loose ends, and ensuring their mess is pinned on someone else, maybe they’re planning – or have already organized – for those deaths to lead back to a third party – and that part of their plan simply hasn’t come to light yet…’
Ellen clenched her jaw. ‘So you reckon they’ve got patsies lined up?’
Again, I shrugged. ‘We know there’s a trapdoor in GhostWallet. If they can use it to track down people they wish to target, it seems possible they could use it to find dirt on folk and blackmail ’em. Good way to source patsies.’
We mulled this over. Ellen said:
‘So this fire you reckon they’re planning to throw our charred bodies in – well, what sort of fire could it possibly be?’
‘Way I see it, there’s two possibilities. One: they’ve found out that a third party is planning a fire – perhaps as part of a demolition, an industrial process, a goddamn theatre show – and they’re hoping to make it look like this third party’s responsible for our deaths. ‘Possibility two – and this is the one I fear – they’re planning an attack that involves either an accidental-looking fire, or blackmailing someone into starting a fire – and they’re hoping to throw our bodies in with that, so we look like casualties.’
I paused a beat.
‘Either way, it would offer an explanation for our deaths. And that sort of thing is a hallmark of a tight, professional operation. An operation you’d expect from a foreign power.’
‘So these guys want to punish their enemies, but not have anyone realize?’
I nodded.
Ellen inhaled deeply, then glanced at the three stiffs sharing our ride. ‘So what now?’
‘We keep calm and see what happens. In a way, we got lucky: their plan involves keeping us alive. So let’s use this time, and wait for a window of opportunity. That said, we need to be careful. Because even though they seem to be delaying our execution, they may still decide to disable us – the fire would almost certainly purge any evidence.’
‘Calm? No problem,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Whenever folk say “picture a happy place,” I always imagine the back of a van with three corpses.’
I half-grinned.
‘You know what’s keeping me calm?’ I said softly, staring at my handcuffs. ‘The prospect of getting my hands on Manek when we’re outta here. I’d sure as hell like to know why that chicken-shit lied.’
Ellen closed her eyes. ‘It’d still be better to turn the table on these fuckers.’
I hummed. Of course, she was right. But now that these guys had the upper hand, the truth was, this was ambitious. As a result, I knew our priority simply had to be extricating ourselves. Survival.
My stomach seized with tension: there was a real chance we would die at their hands… And if their plan went smoothly, it wasn’t gonna be pretty.
But I didn’t want to say this to Ellen – didn’t want to spook her. And in fact, she no
w seemed to be drifting off, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to disturb her.
I leaned back, and idly studied the face of the guy with the broken neck: his high cheek bones, large teeth, and distinctive, round chin scar. Then a few seconds later, with my heart beating suddenly faster, I leaned closer…
I recognized this guy, too. Had seen his face before. And I believed I knew where.
Chapter 14
Saturday, December 12, 2:03 p.m.
‘Out,’ said Pockmark.
Jowls had opened the van’s door, and Pockmark was standing a short way off, covering us with the MP5. We’d been on the road at least three and a half hours, and about fifteen minutes ago, we’d joined what had felt like a dirt track. And though I’d no clue where we were, I reckoned we’d driven at least 150 miles, which left room for speculation. If we’d gone south, we’d be near Mexico. West, back in LA. East, Arizona. North, Death Valley.
I let Ellen hobble out first, then stepped out.
I was confronted with a sterile landscape of dunes and rocks, and knew we’d gone north. There wasn’t a jot of fog, and dead ahead was an abandoned lime quarry behind a fairly large, horse-shoe shaped temporary office structure – the only sign of civilization in sight. And perhaps a hundred yards to the left was a particularly large dune – perhaps 400 feet long, 150 high – which, because the dirt track went round it, blocked the quarry from view of anyone who might get near.
‘Scream all you like, nobody’ll hear,’ said Jowls, noticing my gaze.
The van’s passenger door opened, and the third man – the sniper – appeared, carrying my valise, the rucksack from LA, and a metal suitcase that I knew contained the sniper rifle. He was lanky, serious-faced; but while I wanted to get a closer look to see if I recognized him, he headed straight for the temporary structure.
His shirt clung sweatily to his back. It was hot for December. Maybe sixty-five degrees.
‘Follow him,’ said the more professional Pockmark, nodding at the sniper. Ellen and I started for the office.
As we did so, my eye was drawn to five steel barrels at the corner of the building, next to which was a large fuel canister. These were tools with which to incinerate a body: shove the body in the barrel, douse with fuel, and you’re good to go. And if that was jet fuel, it’d take no more than a couple of hours to reduce the teeth themselves to dust.
This was what they were planning to use to dispose of their accomplices.
We walked through the front door, and entered a rectangular reception space, with solid metallic interior walls, and sleeping bags off to one side, as well as basic furniture: chairs, a sofa, a table. This team had been using this place as an out-of-the-way pit-stop.
While the sniper settled on the sofa, Pockmark and Jowls herded us through a thin yet sturdy door, with two dead-bolt locks, to the right-hand side. We entered a windowless room at right-angles to the first, with six small office cubicles – three against one wall, three against the opposite one, a corridor down the middle – separated by six-foot plastic partitions. And immediately I was struck by the smell of sweat and shit and fear: they’d used this room as a holding pen before. Perhaps even for some of the previous victims.
I was led into the cubicle nearest the door, and Jowls cuffed my wrist to a pipe that went from floor to ceiling. A pipe that wasn’t about to come loose any time soon.
I was like a mutt chained to a stake. I couldn’t even reach the partitions.
I scanned the cubicle, but could see nothing to use to break the handcuff – it was empty. But then I turned my gaze to the two men, and suddenly I caught a glimpse of something: a small, decorative metal bit on the front of Jowls’s loafers.
The two men, turning their attention to Ellen, led her to the cubicle furthest from the door, on the same side of the room as mine, and secured her in place – though, because of the partitions, I couldn’t see how.
Then they headed for the exit.
I had to act. But it had to be done carefully.
‘So you’re not going to tell us where we are?’ I said calmly.
They had to think my plan was to glean information, not antagonize.
They didn’t reply.
‘Why the hell are you waiting for tomorrow to kill us?’
Still, they said nothing. Just continued for the door.
‘Fine then, go incinerate your buddies – I’ll enjoy the thought of their flesh burning as much as I enjoyed blowing their brains all over the garden.’
Even Pockmark flinched at that. But I had to go further. Had to get Jowls to come for me physically.
‘And once their faces have melted, you’ll no longer have to feel quite so self-conscious, eh, Jowls?’
Jowls looked at Pockmark. Pockmark gave a nod, and Jowls started in my direction.
My heart was in my throat. I was playing a dangerous game. I needed him to lay into me, but prayed to God he wouldn’t go too far—
His fist jabbed my neck and his leg swept both my ankles and I fell hard on my right shoulder with a gasp of dizzying pain. Next thing, he was kicking the shit out of me: blows to the chest, midriff, legs – and my eyes went hazy with screaming agony and lack of air…
But I had to concentrate; had to make this punishment worthwhile—
His foot struck my stomach again, and I shot my hands there, as though reacting to the pain, and clutched pathetically to his foot, and then—
Then he tore it away and kept on pounding…
Eventually – an indeterminate time later – he gave up, and they left.
But though I hardly registered them do so, there was one thing I did register: the cool metal bit clutched in my palm.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the pain had subsided enough for me to take a mental inventory of my state. My chest was worst off: possibly a broken rib. And my left leg was in fair amount of pain. But then, beyond that, I was largely okay. Bruised and tender, but okay.
The blow to my neck had been the most dangerous thing: if the guy’d weighted it any different, I’d have been a goner. But I’d got lucky.
In fact, I’d got lucky all round. I’d survived, and I’d gotten the little piece of metal.
Ten minutes later, I shifted into a sitting position. And no sooner did my shackle clatter against the piping than Ellen whispered: ‘What the hell was that?’
She wasn’t concerned: she was pissed. This was understandable: her survival depended on my wellbeing, and I’d put it at jeopardy.
I waited a moment to see what I could hear of the men. Then, since their voices were faint, and they seemed to be a good distance from the door, I judged it safe to whisper.
‘The metal bit on his shoe – I needed it. And couldn’t think of a better way to get it.’
Silence. ‘Did you get it?’
I grunted.
‘I don’t understand: are you planning on picking the cuff? Surely it’s not flexible nor small enough to fit in the lock.’
‘Not pick the lock. Shim the lock. Thrust something this size into the gap where the bow slots into the shackle arm, and you can force apart the teeth and ratchet. Makes it tighter at first, but does the trick.’ I paused. ‘Once they left the room, did you hear how long it took for them to lock the door?’
‘Maybe ten seconds. Fifteen, tops.’
‘So that’s how much time we have to put the cuffs back on again if they come back.’
Groaning with the exertion, I pincered the metal bit between thumb and forefinger and started working it into the gap. As I did so, I said:
‘What you secured to? Is there anything in your cubicle?’
‘A radiator. And yes, a metal table, though it’s well beyond my reach. But I can see the legs aren’t soldered: they’re bolted. So if we can unscrew one, it could be handy.’
I grunted, and continued coaxing the metal into the gap. Ten seconds later, the bow tightened, then suddenly popped out the shackle arm.
I paused, straining to hear the goings-on in
the next room. The voices were still faint.
I got quietly to my feet; then I limped to the door: both bolts were engaged.
I hobbled to Ellen’s cubicle. Sure enough, her left wrist was secured to a radiator, and there was a metal table by the cubicle’s entrance.
Ellen gave me a look that said “you look like hell,” and I crouched, and examined the table’s underside.
The legs were affixed to the table with bolts and wing nuts. And though three wouldn’t yield to my sweaty fingers, the fourth shifted slightly.
‘Undo my cuffs. Then I can unfasten the leg, while you stay in your cubicle.’
I nodded, approached Ellen, and started shimming her cuffs.
‘The leg nearest to you – its wing nut’s loose. I reckon we could remove the nut, but leave the leg in place, propping up the table. That way, it’s a concealed weapon. The important thing is to bide our time and wait for the perfect chance.’
Ellen’s cuffs came loose, and she rubbed the flesh where the shackle had been.
Almost in the same moment, there was the sound of a key working one of the dead-bolts in the door.
‘Put the cuffs back on,’ I hissed, and painfully hobbled out of the cubicle – hobbled along the central area on my screaming leg. The sweat rolled from my pores as I heard him move onto the second bolt. Then I ducked into my cubicle, and, as the door handle shifted, I clicked the shackle onto the pipe and sat on the floor.
Had Jowls realized the metal bit still in my hand was missing from his shoe?
Keep calm. You need to look like you’ve had half an hour to recover.
One pair of footsteps. Then the sniper, Lanky, entered my cubicle, the MP5 in his arms.
I stared at him. He was distinctive-looking – sharp features, severe eyes, slicked back hair – but I wasn’t sure I recognized him in the same way I did the others.
‘Agent Saul Marshall of the FBI?’ Like the others, he had a neutral American accent.
I gave a non-committal shrug. But I knew what this meant: they’d found the secret compartment in my valise and the defunct FBI ID. And of course, deep down, I’d known they would. It’d been a precaution against a cursory browse, not a careful examination.
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