by Eva Hudson
“May I?” Ingrid asked, leaning for a blue folder.
“Just keep them in order, okay. I know it doesn’t look like a proper filing system, but I can take you to any document, in any folder, so don’t mess it up.”
Marsha cut him a look.
“Sorry,” he said. “But, please, respect the piles.”
Marsha kept up the pressure while Ingrid flicked through the dead journalist’s research, her mind wandering to thoughts a little closer to home. “I just want to check I understand you correctly,” Marsha said. “You believe your friend and mentor was killed, what, five years ago, in Melbourne by Russian assassins because she got too close to knowing something about an arms deal?”
“Broadly, yeah, that’s right?”
“Then why are you in London?”
He leaned back and put his arms behind his head to reveal two enormous sweat patches. “Because I’m a bloody good journalist and I need to prove it. I used to work for the ABC, I was on their nightly news, I worked for the Herald, but the last time I made the national news it was because I was the story.” He ran his tongue over his gums. “‘From the headlines to the bread line’ was the angle the tabloids took. They had a photo of me living under the boardwalk looking like Robinson fucking Crusoe. My life had fallen apart. I’d started gambling, my wife had kicked me out, my kids were ashamed of me, and the only work I could get was freelance, and that doesn’t pay like it used to.” He took his specs off again and rubbed his eyes. “So, I’m a failure, right? My wife hates me, my kids are ashamed of me I’m as broke as quadriplegic’s spine—” He stopped suddenly. “I’m guessing from your faces that was poor taste? Anyway, I’m here for the scoop of a lifetime and I’ve got a wonderful feeling that you lovely ladies are going to help me get it.”
Ingrid looked up briefly from one of Cole’s notepads. “Lovely ladies? Really?”
“What, that’s bad taste too?”
“Yep,” Marsha said. “So, if you’re so broke, who paid for your flight?”
“Saskia’s dad.” McAvenny seemed quite pleased to have a comeback. “I want answers, but that poor bugger needs them. He’s given me ten thousand dollars and, in exchange, I’m going to get him the truth. Several other people have tried, but I promised him I’m going to deliver.”
Ingrid’s attention was divided between watching Marsha get the upper hand over McAvenny, Saskia Cole’s notebook and a nagging feeling that was tugging at the edges of her brain. If Saskia Cole’s murder was somehow related to Skylark, it was a completely different MO from pushing DeWalt off a balcony.
The corners of spiral-bound pad were worn and torn and some of the pages had press clippings and business cards stapled into them. Ingrid flicked through them, unsure what to make of them or the disheveled man who had brought them to her.
She thought back to the woods in Richmond and imagined David Steiner, a fit man in his sixties, being frog-marched to the place of his execution. Whether Steiner was forced to pull the trigger himself, or the gun was placed in his hand afterwards, it was likely the work of a killer working alone. Saskia Cole’s murder, on the other hand, was a team effort. Ingrid wasn’t sure there was a connection. She studied McAvenny. He was simultaneously cocksure and desperate. For a man with a gambling addiction he totally lacked a poker face.
“Who else has looked into this?” Marsha asked.
“When the police gave up, old man Cole was sure Saskia’s notebooks would identify her killer. And they did.” He took a gulp of water, some of which dribbled down his chin. “A couple of journos at the Age, ex-colleagues, identified the Russia thing, found Polinin and Poliakoff on flight manifests. That’s pretty much proven now. What no one’s figured out is why.”
Ingrid leaned forward and picked up a ring binder marked ‘interviews’.
“Let me guess, except you?” Marsha said.
“I reckon I’m close. Reckon I’m a damn sight closer since you sent that car for me.”
He was laying all his cards on the table face up. Now they just needed to find out if he was holding an ace.
“And you dialed my number because…?” Ingrid tapped a pen as she scanned a list of interviewees.
“I’m looking for Skylark.” He stifled another yawn.
“And what is Skylark?” Marsha asked.
“Oh, you’re being cute, aren’t you? You mean who is Skylark.”
Marsha narrowed her eyes. “Okay then, who is Skylark?”
“Someone who must work in this building, given this is the number Saskia had for him.”
“Him?” Ingrid said without looking up from the notebook. A name on Cole’s list was leaping out at her. Sidney Baxter.
“Or her.”
“It’s an unusual name, Skylark,” Marsha said.
“Well it ain’t a real name, is it?”
“What sort of name is it?”
“Well, duh, obviously it’s a code. And it’s one you bloody well know because you sent a car for me. So, you tell me, who is Skylark?”
Ingrid had turned to the transcript of Sidney Baxter’s interview. The moment she started reading, she understood why his name had rung a bell the size of the Big Ben: Baxter was the real name of a man she had helped arrest when she first arrived in London. An arms dealer she had known as Greg Brewster. Ingrid blocked out the discussion between Marsha and McAvenny as she tried to remember everything she could about Brewster. Arrogant. Red faced. Boorish. Pompous. But the real reason she hadn’t taken to him was because he insisted on dealing with the agent he was familiar with: Dennis Mulroony. Ingrid’s vision started to swim. The sounds of Marsha’s voice drifted like fog through her ears.
Everything came back to Mulroony, didn’t it?
She was snapped back into the room by the harshness of Marsha’s voice. “Mr. McAvenny, let me ask you again, why are you looking for this Skylark?”
“Because he knows why Saskia was killed.”
32
James McAvenny didn’t snore, but he did dribble. He lay with his head on the table, his glasses askew on his face. Marsha and Ingrid pored through his treasure trove of documents.
“What do you think?” Marsha asked, her chin propped on a palm. “If these papers identify the person who ordered Saskia Cole’s murder, will it be linked to whoever pushed DeWalt over his balcony?”
Ingrid grunted rather than answered. She was too deep inside the transcript of the interview with Sidney Baxter to form any actual words. It was dated November 16, 2011. That meant Saskia Cole had interviewed him before his arrest in 2012, when Mulroony still worked at the embassy. As best she could tell, Cole interviewed Baxter thinking he was a legitimate arms dealer to get his insights into the illegal trade.
SB: It usually starts with blackmail. They find some dirt on you, ask for a favor to keep things quiet, then threaten to tell your embassy, or your rival’s embassy, if you don’t do them another favor. Suddenly you’re five indiscretions down and you’ve got no way out.
SC: And you know this because?
SB: You hear stories. At conventions and conferences.
SC: So you don’t have any proof?
SB: No, just twenty years in the business. Trust me, that’s how it happens. They get you to supply arms in breach of sanctions, or share technology.
SC: You mean—
SB: Or, alternatively, they show you pictures of your kids or your wife at the shopping mall. They can be pretty persuasive, and of course the first thing they ask you to do seems trivial. [throat clearing] Blackmail and persuasion is a heck of a lot cheaper than the kind of R and D operation we have.
SC: And this is state sponsored?
SB: Hell yes. The Russkies, the Koreans, Chinese, the Iranians, of course. Now, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, how could anyone fall for it. Let me tell ya, it’s because the guy who approaches you doesn’t look Chinese, he doesn’t sound Russian. They’ve recruited sleeper agents. He’ll have an American accent, maybe he’ll be an Aussie like you. Cha
nces are, he’ll be a Brit.
SC: Why’s that?
SB: Oh, no reason, just, you know, experience. [Pause.] And I tell you what, he won’t be working for the intelligence services, at least not directly. He’ll be a middle-ranking official somewhere, so you think, ‘What harm can this do? It’s not like he’s one of the swinging dicks or he works for the Kremlin or anything.’ But one way or another, he does. He was probably blackmailed, too. It’s a goddamn pyramid scheme.
Baxter was describing his own recruitment. Ingrid walked over to a console desk in the corner and picked up the phone.
“Criminal division, Libby Greenwood speaking.”
“Libby, hi, it’s Ingrid. How are you doing?”
“Okay. A bit shaky.”
Ingrid wished that Zeke was still her assistant. Or Jen. But Libby was who she had. “You up for some work?”
“Will it help figure out who killed Jacob?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then fire away.”
Ingrid asked her to find out everything she could about Sidney Baxter. The transcript proved that Baxter liked to talk. She couldn’t get his sentence for breaching sanctions reduced, but she hoped the promise of a transfer to a prison closer to his family would make him want to carry on the conversation with her.
“You’re quiet,” Ingrid said to Marsha when she finished the call. “Finding anything interesting?”
Marsha looked up at her with bleary eyes. “There’s too much here. We need to impound this cache. I’m trying to work out under what law we can seize an innocent man’s assets because,” she tapped her watch, “I need to put in an appearance upstairs.”
“He’s a journalist,” Ingrid said, thinking of Angela Tate. “He’ll do anything for a scoop. What he wants is to get his old job back and make his kids proud. So, we let him sit in on a few meetings. Promise him something on the record. I bet you he’ll play ball like a trained seal.”
Marsha glanced over at him. “Do we wake him up?”
“No,” Ingrid said. “Let’s leave instructions with the receptionist outside. He can come and find us.”
They were collecting up the folders when the phone rang on the console desk. McAvenny briefly stirred.
“Skyberg.”
“It’s Libby.”
“That was quick.”
“It’s because I have a definitive answer for you.”
That didn’t sound good. “Go on.”
“Sidney Baxter died in December 2012 in the federal penitentiary at Allenwood.”
Ingrid blew out her cheeks. “Let me guess, it wasn’t natural causes?”
“Suicide. Hung himself.”
Ingrid’s cell vibrated in her pocket. “Okay, thanks Libby. We’ll be up soon.” She switched phones and saw that Nick Angelis was calling. “Nick, hi.”
“How marvelous to hear your voice.”
Why was he always so over the top? Surely part of the job description for work in the private security services was the ability to blend in? “Likewise,” Ingrid found herself saying. “What can I do for you, Nick?”
“It’s rather what I can do for you. I have some information that I’m not sure you’ll like.”
Ingrid gestured to Marsha to stop packing away McAvenny’s files. She needed to concentrate on what Nick had to say. “Sounds ominous.”
“I’m afraid to say it’s not good news.”
Ingrid’s brow knitted. “Go on.”
“I’ve heard from my source with eyes inside the Black Dolphin.”
A shudder of dread scattered over Ingrid’s skin. He wasn’t about to tell her about another prisoner suicide, was he? “Mulroony?”
“He’s been moved.”
“That’s bad news?”
“Yes, I fear it is. He’s been moved to their pūkūl block.” He paused. “No one ever leaves pūkūl. I don’t need to tell you what it translates as.”
What was he trying to say? “It’s an extermination camp?”
“Oh, gosh, I wouldn’t have used that phrase, but I suppose in its own sick way, it is. They barely feed people. They don’t let them wash. The conditions are horrific. Skin crawling with lice, perpetual dysentery, untreated wounds from all the fights that break out.”
Ingrid was still trying to process her last conversation while taking onboard what Nick was saying. “Do you know why they’ve moved him?”
He sniffed sharply. “I think I do, yes. He’s no longer useful. If they were keeping him to trade with your Skylark, then they no longer feel they need the leverage.”
Marsha could see the consternation on Ingrid’s face and was looking puzzled.
Ingrid’s brain tried to compute the new information. “They think Skylark’s dead?” Was it DeWalt after all?
“That’s not what I’m hearing. They think Skylark’s been compromised and they’re planning an extraction.”
She scrunched up her face. “Why? Why do they think he’s been compromised? What’s he done?”
“It’s not entirely clear,” Nick said. “I hear that the Russians feel either the stress or the power has got to him. There aren’t many who can handle it. And before he melts down and exposes their entire operation, they are going to quietly make him disappear.”
“How?”
“Lord alone knows.”
“Will he know? Will Skylark know he’s being recalled?”
Nick made a tutting noise. “I don’t have that information.”
“What’s your hunch? Is that usual practice?”
“It can work both ways. If they tell him, they risk him unraveling in position as he tries to prove them wrong. If they don’t, they risk him not covering his tracks and leaving unnecessary loose ends.”
Ingrid placed a hand against the wall and closed her eyes as she took in Nick’s revelations. “Let me get this straight. To free an FBI agent from the ‘hell’ block of the Black Dolphin prison, I have to find Skylark so I can trade him for Mulroony?”
“Yes, yes, I think so. I am, of course, willing to help.”
“So.” She sighed. “I need to get to Skylark before the Russians do.”
“I’m rather afraid that’s the case, yes.”
“Okay,” Ingrid exhaled loudly.
“Listen. This is highly confidential. I shouldn’t really have access to this, but…”
“But what?”
“We have been monitoring Spetsnaz activity—”
“Special forces?”
“They’re planning something in London. Ingrid, it’s got to be the extraction.”
Ingrid’s skin turned cold. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
33
“I have about sixteen meetings I need to be in,” Marsha said outside the door of the Criminal Division. She passed the files she’d carried up from the immigration suite to Ingrid.
“Understood.”
“I’ll swing by the moment I get a chance.”
Ingrid bobbed her head. “Thanks. Um. Listen, can you spare Penny?”
“My PA? On my first day?”
“It’s just,” Ingrid lowered her voice. “Libby. I’m not one hundred percent there with her. I just don’t feel comfort—”
Marsha raised a hand. “Say no more.” She popped her head into Ingrid’s office. “Libby, right?”
Libby looked up from her screen. “Hi.”
“Congratulations, Libby, you’re now the executive assistant to the SSA.”
Libby stood up. “Okay.” She sounded uncertain.
“You want to gather up your things and come to my office?”
God, Marsha was magnificent. No dilly. No dally. Just action.
“Sure, I guess.” Libby looked confused.
“In five?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll be there.”
Ingrid mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Marsha.
“Keep me in the loop.”
“Of course.”
Ingrid avoided looking at Libby as she entered—she felt awkward ab
out kicking her out—and dumped McAvenny’s notebooks and folders on the spare desk.
“What are all those?” Libby asked.
Ingrid explained about Saskia Cole.
“And you don’t need my help to go through them?”
Ingrid took a centering breath. “I think I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure, because the Met’s info dump just landed.”
“The crime scene stuff from Century Mills?”
Libby nodded.
“That was quick.” Ingrid wrinkled her nose. “It’s almost like Paphides wants me to investigate this.”
“And I want to help you. If someone killed Jacob, I’m onboard.”
Ingrid plunged both hands into her pants pockets. She didn’t want to sound too hostile, but she really didn’t want to be working with Libby anymore. “I know. But today, the best way you can do that is by running Marsha’s desk. Stall as many people as you can, reschedule everything that isn’t level five, and let her come back to me as soon as possible.”
Libby looked dubious. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
Libby scooped a few things into her leather tote bag. “You need anything before I go?”
Ingrid thought for a second. “You’ll only be on the other side of the bullpen. But can you ask Penny to bring DeWalt’s desk diary, any unfiled expenses, receipts shoved in bottom drawers, anything that isn’t on the system.”
“Yes, of course.”
Libby had reached the doorway when Ingrid turned to her. “I will find who did this, I swear.”
Libby managed something approaching a smile and slung her bag over her shoulder. Ingrid sat down at her desk and logged into the system. She stared blankly at the screen, then closed her eyes. Think. Prioritize. She only had a day before Skylark was extracted so she couldn’t waste even a minute on the wrong path.
She got back to her feet and pulled a sheaf of copier paper out of the printer’s feeder tray and took it to the empty intern’s desk. She picked up a pen and sat down. At the top of one sheet of paper she wrote the heading, Things we know about Skylark.