by Eva Hudson
Ingrid considered hanging up.
“And that is something else that man is responsible for. Ever since Megan vanished, you have never been the same.”
Ingrid inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She held her phone away from her face and silently screamed at it. “I have to go, Mom. I need to fit in a run before it gets too hot.”
“That is also his fault. All this running.”
“Mom. I have to go. Give my love to Kathleen. And get some sleep.”
On her five-mile run around Hyde Park, Ingrid relived her mother’s words. She was right of course, that’s why Svetlana’s words always stung so much. Ingrid had taken up running because of Megan. They had been the two heaviest girls in their grade at school, and if Megan had been a little faster, he would have grabbed Ingrid instead of her. ‘Do you think you run because you are still afraid?’ How many therapists had asked her that over the years? Svetlana was right about trust, too. When your dad dies when you’re ten, and your best friend disappears when you’re fourteen, you go out of your way to protect your heart from pain. Ingrid accelerated, trying to outrun Svetlana’s judgment while knowing that she never would.
Just before eight a.m., Ingrid took the five flights of stairs to the Legat’s suite of offices in the US embassy on Grosvenor Square, one of Mayfair’s best addresses. She pushed through the door from the stairwell just as several people noisily exited one of the elevators.
“I thought we were never going to get out of there.” A woman theatrically fanned her face.
“I’m not getting back in,” her friend said. “Come on, let’s take the stairs.”
“They still haven’t fixed it?” Ingrid asked them. The elevator had been acting up for weeks.
“When do they ever fix anything round here?”
The other elevator dinged and its doors slid open. “Sam!” Ingrid said. “Just the man I need to speak to. U tebya yest’ pyat’ minut?”
“Da. For you I might even be able to spare six minutes.”
If it was possible to lay a bet on who would be the first Black director of the FBI, Ingrid would happily wager a hundred bucks on Samuel Sherbourne. He was serious and hard-working while being friendly and cooperative, the perfect characteristics for someone to rise through the ranks without making enemies. Although he was in his thirties, he gave the impression of not quite being fully grown. His features were still a little too large for his face, and his shoulders were permanently slouched.
Ingrid followed him into the office used by the counter-terrorism squad. Five agents made up the CT unit, three of whom monitored the threat from Islamist cells, one China, and Sam who managed the Russian threat. Ingrid and Sam had worked closely on several cases. In another office, in another part of the world, Ingrid would be the Russia expert, but her time undercover monitoring Putin’s allies in the UK precluded her from that role in London. Instead, she fed intel to Sherbourne, and he sought her out for advice and guidance.
He slung his messenger bag under his desk. “What do you need?”
He looked tired. His boyish features were starting to sink behind dark circles and crow’s feet. “You okay?”
He inhaled deeply. “I’m fine. Baby was awake the whole night. Nothing three triple espressos won’t fix. What do you need?” he repeated.
“Who’s our far-right specialist?” Ingrid asked.
His mouth crumpled. “In London?”
She nodded.
“We don’t have one. We should have, though, don’t you think?”
“After what happened in Oslo, it does seem a little near-sighted.”
“Why are you asking?”
Ingrid paused, unsure what to say. “I’ve got this weird case. It may be nothing, maybe big. I need to find a copy of a book called National Affront, which seems to be out of print. I certainly haven’t found it for sale anywhere. Anyway, I’ve got a couple of loops a far-right expert might be able to close.”
“I’ll keep my ear out,” Sherbourne said.
“Spasibo.”
“You’re welcome.”
The clock on the wall said 07:55 when Ingrid switched on the lights in the Criminal Division office. Maintenance hadn’t been to repair the fluorescent tube above her desk. She didn’t expect it to ever get fixed. A permanent reminder of the fact that someone once saw fit to hide a disposable camera behind the stained and chipped ceiling tiles.
Out of an abundance of what she was calling caution, but what was really paranoia, Ingrid had locked her desk drawer overnight. She grabbed the pens out of her black mesh penholder, tipped it upside down, and the small silver key tinkled onto her cluttered desk. For some reason, she had half expected that the green and yellow wallet from Snappy Snaps would have disappeared from her locked drawer, but it was just where she had left it.
She flicked through the wallet and selected the photo of the small brown bird, before putting the rest away and closing the drawer. The photocopier grumbled into life and she placed the photo on the scanner bed.
“Good morning!”
Ingrid turned. “Hey there. How are you feeling this morning?”
“Much better,” Zeke said. “This still my desk?”
“Most certainly is.”
He dropped his satchel on to his desk and unbuckled it. He pulled out a gift wrapped in vivid geometric paper. “This is to say thank you. For yesterday.” He handed it to her.
Ingrid’s head tilted. “For what?”
His hand was still outstretched. “For not making a scene. And being so nice.”
Ingrid moved away from the photocopier. She was always wary when people called her nice.
“It’s nothing, really. To be honest, it’s more a joke.” He waggled the gift until she took it from his grasp. Ingrid tore off the paper and smiled: it was a first aid kit.
“I thought after yesterday, with me having a fit and you falling, we might need it.”
Ingrid’s eyes brightened and she handed it back to him. “Good thinking. You better keep it in your locker because I will forget where I put it. If you stick around, it’s something you’ll learn about me. I am terrible at filing.” Ingrid glanced at the photocopier, then at the clock. She had time to brief Zeke before her meeting with the Met. “You drink coffee?”
“You want me to get you a coffee?”
Ingrid’s mouth widened. “No, God no. I’m not the ‘go fetch’ kind of boss. At least I don’t think I am. I certainly don’t mean to be. But I need a long black and you need a notebook and pen. I’m going to show you the commissary in the basement.”
Ingrid briefed Zeke on her caseload and brought him up to speed with Operation Pinball at Tilbury. Three coffees later, he put down his pen. “So, what are my priorities for today?”
Ingrid didn’t have to think. “I need you to get me a copy of National Affront by David Steiner. Obviously, I’ve tried all the online shops and databases. Maybe the British Library has a copy––”
“You don’t need to tell me where to get a book. I’ll get one for you.”
Ingrid smiled an apology.
“Anything else?”
Her phone rang. A forwarded call. They were never good news.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Andrews?”
Ingrid took a beat to remember who that was. “Ah, yes. Speaking.”
“This is ATX Security. The alarm has been set off at your property in Tilbury.”
6
“Could you come back in an hour and collect me?”
The black cab driver glanced round at the industrial park. “Where am I going to get another fare round here?” He had a point. The only people within a mile radius were truck drivers and warehouse workers. “I’ll keep the meter running if you like and wait for you.”
Ingrid weighed up the risks of him sticking around. “I’ll pay now, thanks. I’ll call when I need picking up.”
“Fair enough. Seventy-three sixty, then.”
Ingrid was a little taken aback by the cost. She nor
mally rode her new Ducati in London, but the bike wasn’t on brand while she was posing as the director of a medical supplies company. As soon as Ingrid stepped onto the cobbled yard, she realized the cab’s air conditioning had been far better than she’d given it credit for. The blanket of humidity reminded her of getting off the plane in Charleston when she used to visit Marshall’s family in July. It was like a furnace.
Ingrid watched the cab driver leave, then delved into her shoulder bag for the key to the padlock. Several of the buildings in the Napier Yard complex had, one way or another, been leased by Operation Pinball over the past year. A collection of Victorian and early twentieth-century architecture, they were no longer big enough for the major importers who now used the new hangar-like metal sheds on the neighboring land. Most of the Napier warehouses surrounded a central yard, but behind them, down narrow alleys, were a haphazard cluster of buildings that predated the invention of forklift trucks.
The ‘yellow’ warehouse—so called because it had originally been built of yellow London bricks, although they looked brown to Ingrid—had only recently become vacant. The Pinball team decided to rent it, thereby extending their control of the yard and reducing the risk of anyone finding out about their operation. The best way to do so without alerting anyone about Pinball, was for a legitimate company to rent the warehouse and make use of the landlord’s existing security arrangements. Ingrid—under the guise of Jayne Andrews—had been made the keyholder and security director of Shoreham Medical, a cover company that exported used medical equipment for recycling. If anyone ever told her that working for the FBI must be glamorous, Ingrid made a mental note to tell them about her knowledge of used bed pans and specimen bottles. She wended her way through a network of thoroughfares just wide enough for a horse and cart, crouched down and inserted the key into the padlock. With effort, she pushed up the metal roller shutter, rattling it skywards, to reveal the building’s original Victorian facade.
The ATX patrol had inspected the property and found no sign of forced entry, but they needed Mrs. Andrews to reset the alarm as it required a key and a code. A constant beep beep beep pulsed in her ears as she fiddled with the lock on the sliding gate, followed by the final lock on the door. If someone had broken in, they definitely hadn’t done so via the main entrance.
With Pinball just days away from completion when the MSC Laussat was due to dock and unload its cargo of cocaine, they decided not to send the Met to investigate the alarm. It was unlikely, but just possible, that whichever officer they sent would be recognized by a docker they had previously arrested or pulled over, and months of planning would have been for naught. And just in case the smugglers had Napier Yard under surveillance, it was felt a woman arriving alone to reset the alarm wouldn’t frighten anyone off.
Ralph and his team had checked the security cameras remotely, and they hadn’t seen any nefarious activity. It was probably just the heat. Several alarm systems had malfunctioned in the past week, and the Pinball team was relatively sure the heatwave was to blame. Nevertheless, Ingrid kept her phone in her hand, ready to call for backup.
She closed the door behind her, locked it and slipped the keys into her bag. After a couple of steps, she changed her mind. She scooped out the keys and put them in her pants pocket. That way, if anyone separated her from her bag, she could still escape. Her nostrils stung: the heatwave clearly hadn’t agreed with something that Shoreham Medical was storing.
The interior of the old Victorian warehouse was filled with aisles of brand-new cobalt blue metal shelving. Her footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as she marched quickly between the shelves. A rivulet of sweat tadpoled its way from her collar to her waist. The further she got from the front of the building, the darker it got and the more the odor intensified. Ammonia. She fought the impulse to gag. A buzzing sound joined the pulse of the alarm, making her wince. A single bee flew past her head.
“How did you get in?” she asked out loud.
The office was up a flight of metal stairs. She pulled hard on the handrail and took the steps two at a time to arrive on a metal walkway that ran along the entire back wall of the warehouse. Between her clanging footsteps on the stairs and the rattle of the shutter, there was no way she hadn’t announced her arrival to any trespasser. She unlocked her phone, ready to make a call.
At the end of the walkway was a door. It was open. Was it meant to be shut? The constant pulse of the siren chased away her ability to know the answer. The bee accompanied her as she walked through the open door into a short corridor that was lined on one side with half-glazed doors. The alarm was even louder now, making her screw up her face. Nervous, she fumbled with the keys, looking for the one that unlocked the office door. She couldn’t do it one-handed. After checking left and right, Ingrid pushed her phone into her pocket and selected the right key.
Take a deep breath, kiddo. There’s no one here.
Ingrid pushed open the door. There was no evidence that the office had been violated. Her sweaty palm slipped on the handle as she opened the alarm’s cover panel. She stared at the control, wincing as the alarm repeatedly assaulted her ears.
Something made her turn sharply.
Another bee? No, it was something else. Footsteps? She crept toward the open office door and stood behind it. She strained to hear over the siren. A loud clatter. Ingrid poked the keys between her fingers and formed her hand into a fist. Definitely footsteps. Someone was on the metal walkway. She reached into her pocket for her phone. It slipped from her sweaty hand onto the floor.
Govno.
The floor moved with the heavy stride of whoever was approaching. She glanced down at her phone. She didn’t dare bend down to pick it up. She tightened her hand around the keys as a figure stepped into the open doorway, obscured by the frosted glass. Ingrid held on to her breath. She didn’t even blink. He strode out from behind the door and into the office.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She hyperventilated. “Ralph! You fucking moron!”
“Hi.” He smiled at her and stuck a finger in both ears. “Sorry I’m late.”
Ingrid raised her fist and showed him her impromptu knuckle-duster.
His eyes widened. “What?”
Ingrid pushed him to one side and punched in the code to the alarm panel. She fell against the wall with relief when the pulsing stopped. She hauled air into her heaving chest. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I sent you a message.”
Ingrid scooped up her phone from the floor and showed him the screen. “Well, I haven’t got it.” She had a sudden flash of one of the training courses at Quantico and her instructor telling the class ‘What’s received is what’s communicated.’ A fundamental maxim that prevented fuck-ups.
Ingrid’s chest hurt. She started shaking her head, and then a smile started to stretch its way across her lips. The idea that anyone would find Ralph Mills scary was hilarious.
“Are you laughing at me?” Ralph asked.
“Maybe.”
He checked his fly. “Have I got paint in my hair? What? What is it?”
Ingrid had never understood why laughter was a response to discomfort, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“What have I done?”
Dear sweet wonderful Ralph Mills. The nicest, kindest, dumbest fool she’d ever dated. Her shoulders hurt with the movement. She couldn’t stop, and he couldn’t stop from joining in.
“I have no idea what I’m laughing at,” Ralph said, a minute or so later.
“I know.” Ingrid just about managed to get her words out. “That’s what’s so funny.”
Ralph shook his head suddenly. He slapped his cheek. “Jesus. What’s a bee doing in here?”
Ingrid’s hearing was recovering well enough for her to realize the sound she could hear wasn’t just one bee. She stepped out into the corridor. Now the alarm had stopped, there was a persistent buzzing, simultaneously high and low pitched.
“What is it?” Ralph asked, stepping out behi
nd her.
“You hear that?”
“What is it?”
Ingrid had a pretty good idea. “I think it’s what set off the alarm.”
They walked down the corridor, and the hum got louder as they reached the final door. Ingrid looked down at the floor, her eyes distracted by the sight of two honeybees crawling through the gap. She placed a hand on the doorknob.
The second she opened the door, dozens of bees escaped. Ralph waved his hands in front of his face. “What the—”
“Don’t flap. You’ll make them angry,” Ingrid said.
In the far corner, under a broken skylight, a seething, surging mass vibrated. Thousands of bees. Maybe tens of thousands. The swarm was massive enough to have triggered the motion sensors.
“What’s that?” Ralph said.
“A swarm. Looks like the queen has found a very inconvenient new hive.”
“Ow!”
“You been stung?” Ingrid asked.
“Yeah, the little––” He looked up at her with his puppy dog eyes. “You can’t really call a bee a fucker, can you? Even if it does bloody hurt.”
Ingrid thought of Zeke’s seizure and wondered if she was about to see a second medical incident in two days. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
Ralph turned to her. “Wha?” He couldn’t make the T sound because his tongue was swelling up. His eyes enlarged even further.
“Ralph?” Ingrid took a step toward him. “There’ll be a first aid kit in the office somewhere.” She pushed past him but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. She turned and saw that he was smiling.
“Fooled you.”
Ingrid looked down at their hands, then back up at him. They both pulled away at the same time.
“Now we’ve both laughed at each other,” he said, slightly pleased with himself. “It’s only fair. What are we going to do about those?” He pointed a thumb in the direction of the bees.
“Well, back home, I’d call a local beekeeper. Maybe animal protective services. Don’t you have some sort of Royal Society for Animals, or something? Or, like, the Department of Agriculture?”