by Dc Alden
Or had been.
‘What about the city’s surveillance network? The MTA systems?’
Josh shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’
Beeton ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘Help me understand all this, Keyes. One of our most senior security guys bolts from a highly sensitive installation, flies back to the States, disappears in Texas and then stages his own suicide. A couple of years later he waltzes into a downtown bank, helps himself to the contents of an undeclared strongbox, then disappears like a ghost. Two questions; how did he stay off the grid that long and why is he back?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Real helpful.’
Lund said, ‘Tell us about Marshall’s suicide.’
‘Three days after Frank landed at San Antonio, his clothes, wallet and driving licence were found on the shores of the Amistad Reservoir. His RFID implant went cold about the same time. He was presumed dead after the subsequent investigation.’
‘You failed to notify your superiors that Marshall had absconded from his post in Iraq. Why?’ Lund tapped her pen on the table like a schoolmistress. ‘His seniority and deep involvement with Messina should have prompted your immediate action.’
Josh shifted in his chair. ‘Like I told the inquiry, ma’am, Frank was upset. I figured he’d calm down, call me from Kuwait. It was a mistake.’
Lund brought the lights back up and scribbled a few more notes on her pad. Then she leaned back in her seat and fixed Josh with cold eyes. ‘I’m finding it difficult to understand how we got here, Mister Keyes. Specifically, how you were unaware of Marshall’s mental state prior to his disappearance.’
Josh glanced at the wall, at the frozen image of Frank Marshall. The compound at Al-Basrah was the last place he’d seen Frank, alone in his office, mumbling incoherently, cuffing tears from his eyes. While Josh had wrestled with his conscience Frank had left Iraq without warning.
‘I worked closely with Frank Marshall for many years. In all that time his conduct and behaviour never gave me any reason to doubt his mental health. In my view he was a highly professional, dedicated and respected leader. I trusted him completely.’
Lund arched a pale eyebrow. ‘A misguided trust, it would seem. Perhaps you were too close.’
Josh recalled the impossibly blue sky, his pale reflection in the elevator doors as it transported him far above the streets of Manhattan. ‘I was twenty-eight years old when I was assigned to the New York office. My second op put me in the North Tower on the morning of Nine-Eleven. I was in a washroom on the hundred and seventh floor when we got word the planes had gone dark. The truth? I was terrified; every fibre of my being screamed at me to get the hell out of that building. But Frank was in my ear, coached me all the way. He got me through that morning, and every operation after that. Do I feel a sense of loyalty towards Frank Marshall? Sure I do. Does that loyalty extend to covering the ass of a man who has betrayed me? Who has undermined The Committee’s confidence in me? No, ma’am, it does not.’
Lund made a hmmm sound. ‘Is there anything else about Marshall you can tell us? His motivations, intentions, anything?’
Josh shook his head. ‘No, ma’am. If Frank Marshall had secrets he didn’t share them with me.’
Lund put down her pen and leaned into Beeton’s ear for several moments. Beeton, his eyes never leaving Josh’s, nodded in agreement.
‘Marshall’s intimate knowledge of Messina poses a considerable risk,’ Lund announced.
‘I doubt Frank would do anything to expose us, ma’am. In my estimation—’
Beeton rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘This isn’t a debate, Keyes. We’re not asking for your opinion here.’
‘Your concern is noted,’ Lund continued, ‘but Marshall has the potential to hurt us.’
‘With all due respect, ma’am, how? He can’t stop the Transition.’
‘You’re missing the point, Mister Keyes. Before or after the Transition, it doesn’t matter. What is troubling is the message that Marshall’s continued liberty sends to others in our organisation. Word has spread—we’ve lost a senior figure, a man who has intentionally deceived us, who has managed to avoid detection and capture for some considerable time, despite our vast resources. He has challenged our authority and in the process made us look vulnerable. This is unacceptable. Do you understand?’
Josh did. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘This is a critical period for our organisation. As the Transition approaches some people may begin to question their faith in Messina, their role in its implementation, or indeed their very humanity. These are natural reactions, but doubt and uncertainty can do great damage to us. What is needed now is stability and, more importantly, unswerving conviction in the path we’ve all chosen. We must be as one, Mister Keyes. Marshall’s continued autonomy jeopardises that.’
Lund gathered her notes. ‘You are to track Marshall down and return him to us for evaluation.’
Josh raised his eyebrows. ‘You want him alive? All due respect, I don’t think—’
Lund silenced him with a raised hand. ‘Marshall’s capture will send a strong message. Fears will be calmed, faith restored.’ She tapped her notes on the table. ‘A replacement has been found and your FEMA workload reassigned. A field team, plus any additional resources, will be made available to you. Is this understood?’
Beneath the table Josh balled his fists. This was a demotion, plain and simple. He was out of the loop. He wanted to punch the walls. Instead he remained poker-faced.
‘Of course.’
Beeton leaned forward in his chair. ‘You know the sonofabitch best, Keyes. We don’t care what you have to do, just find him. Right now Marshall’s a goddam tumour that needs cutting out. Quickly.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Josh assured them.
‘Do that. And after he’s been wrung dry you can drop the bastard back into that goddam lake. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal.’
‘Good. The clock’s ticking. Any more fuck ups and it’s on you.’
Lund picked up a telephone, signalling the end of the meeting.
Josh got to his feet and headed straight for the car park. He had to swallow his anger, focus.
Outside the sun had set, the eastern slopes shrouded in a cold grey blanket. Josh steered the Grand Cherokee down the twisting dirt road, headlamps slicing through the mist. Did they really think Frank would be picked up that easily, confess his crimes and cheerfully place a noose around his own neck? The Committee wasn’t stupid, no sir, but they had to know that an experienced field operative like Frank would be an extremely hard target to hit. And where to begin? Like all operators Frank’s real identity had long been erased; birth certificate, medical records, even his social security number. Frank Marshall did not exist, period.
In fact, there was never any Frank Marshall in the first place.
Nor a Josh Keyes.
What was real—and wholly dangerous—were the lies he’d told to Lund and Beeton.
He’d not only respected Frank Marshall, he’d felt a deep sense of loyalty to the man. Frank had taken him under his wing from the very beginning, fast-tracking his career, promoting him to trusted lieutenant, anointing Josh with authority, responsibility, praising him to others in the organisation. He owed Frank everything.
Later, when the anxiety attacks began, the secret boozing and erratic behaviour, Josh had covered his boss’s ass as much as he could. He’d pleaded with Frank to get help, got him prescription drugs, cleaned up his puke, dry-cleaned his suits and faked his emails and text messages. Yet even in his darkest moments Frank had never confided in him, not once. Josh figured it was some kind of delayed post-traumatic stress. Whatever it was, it had turned his former mentor from a stone-cold killer into a pussy-ass cry baby. If Josh delivered him to Lund and Beeton in one piece, Frank would probably spill his guts about his breakdown. They would discover the extent of the lies and cover-ups that Josh had committed to save Frank’s drunken ass. If that happene
d, Josh was finished. The Committee demanded loyalty from its people. Anything else was simply unacceptable. And unforgiveable.
And there was something else too, something that Frank was keeping from everyone, something that made them all nervous.
He recalled the surveillance footage, the field craft that had fooled the cameras, that familiar posture, the loping stride, the resolve in those watchful eyes. Whatever mental hellhole Frank had descended into, he’d managed to claw his way out, and now Frank was back.
More than that, Frank was on a mission.
Before Josh killed him, he would find out what it was.
Chapter Five
‘Sit down,’ Roy mouthed through the glass partition.
‘Please, boss, my brother, he wait for me in Arrivals. Give him message, yes?’
‘That’s not possible. Take a seat. Someone will see you shortly.’
He waved the man away and flopped down into a chair. Beyond the security glass the holding room was populated with seventy or so new arrivals seeking refuge in Britain. Roy knew that most would now be rehearsing stories of torture and persecution for his colleagues in the processing team, but he didn’t blame them. He’d probably do anything to escape whatever Third World shithole they’d flown in from, a recent and vocal observation that had earned him a written warning.
The blot on his copybook had worried Roy; there wasn’t much work out there, and the irony was if he ever lost his job he’d probably end up competing with someone on the other side of the glass. He’d done well to get this far, Assistant Immigration Officer. He just had to tread a little more carefully.
He thought of Sammy and checked his messages. Nothing. There’d been no contact since their run-in at the school. Maybe there’d been a change of plan. Whatever the reason, Roy was glad. As each day passed he began to relax a little.
Another new arrival tapped on the security glass. It was a woman this time, Somali or Sudanese Roy guessed, wrapped in a red and green silk gown. There was a vague beauty about her, the light brown eyes, the high cheekbones, perfect white teeth. She held a screaming child up to the glass like a trophy. ‘Baby sick,’ she mouthed.
The kid wailed like a banshee. Roy punched the intercom button. ‘The doctor will be here soon.’
‘Baby sick,’ the woman repeated.
‘Won’t be long,’ Roy smiled, ending the conversation.
The woman stared at him for a moment then turned away, heaving the child onto her hip. He heard the door behind him click and he sprang out of the chair. His team leader Yasin marched in. He raised a suspicious grey eyebrow at Roy.
‘Any problems?’
‘Possible sick child. The woman in green.’ Roy pointed through the glass.
‘Okay.’
Yasin clutched a sheaf of folders to his chest and walked along the row of interview booths, placing one at each station. Roy trailed behind him, eager to please. The stench of his written warning followed him like a bad smell.
‘Need a hand, Yas?’
‘No.’
Yasin snapped on booth lights as he went, creating a stir on the other side of the glass. He doubled back along the booths, tapping microphones, straightening chairs. A young Asian man approached the glass. Yasin raised his hand and leaned into a microphone. He spoke rapid-fire in one of his many dialects. The man hesitated, then stepped back. Yasin nodded his thanks.
Roy was impressed. That’s why Yasin was a team leader; a stickler for the rules and the command of several tongues ensured his rapid rise up the promotion ladder. His appearance helped too, the bald dome and large grey beard a magnet for those of the faith who felt they might get a sympathetic ear. Instead they got the same rigorous interrogation that everyone else got, regardless of race or religion. Yasin was an equal opportunities bastard, but the man was tough on his troops too. They’d been sort-of friends once, during probation.
The door opened again and a line of tired-looking immigration officers filed into the room. They took a booth each as Yasin briefed them. Roy’s phone chimed and he stepped out into the corridor. Vicky was downstairs, in Arrivals. Could they meet? Roy frowned; she never texted him unless it was to berate him about something, usually Max. He ducked back inside the interview room.
‘Yas, can I take my break early? My ex-wife is here.’
The team leader glowered at him. ‘I told you before, it’s Mister Goreja. Remember, you’re already on a warning. You want to return to the ramps?’
Roy shook his head. He’d worked airside at Gatwick for several years, loading and unloading baggage in long, backbreaking shifts and in all weathers. He’d hated it.
The older man checked his watch. ‘Thirty minutes, no more.’
Roy mumbled his thanks and tapped out a reply to Vicky. He took a back staircase down to the Arrivals concourse.
The coffee shop was tucked between a newsagent and a currency exchange kiosk. Roy ordered a white coffee. He searched for a table and swore under his breath when he saw another colleague sitting nearby. Colin Furness was in his early sixties, a widower, and a heartbeat away from retirement. Any conversation with the terminally dismal Colin depressed Roy. He didn’t want to end up like that, miserable, embittered by his job yet fearing the emptiness of retirement. The older man saw him and waved.
‘Hi, Colin.’
‘Roy. What brings you over to the dark side?’
‘Meeting the ex. You?’
‘Chemist. Bowels are playing me up something chronic today.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Roy smiled, moving all the time. ‘See you later.’ Colin looked disappointed.
He found a table at the back of the room and sat down. He sipped his brew and watched a gaggle of new arrivals filing past the shop. Many were loaded with luggage and duty-free bags, and almost all of them were woefully underdressed for the March weather waiting for them.
He saw Vicky approaching and waved. She bought a coffee and weaved through the maze of tables towards him. She wore a fawn raincoat belted tightly around her waist, her dark hair heaped stylishly upon her head, a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses clamping it all in position.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to sit in the storeroom?’ Vicky chided, dropping breathlessly into the chair opposite Roy.
Roy bristled. Even her accent had changed, far more cultured than it used to be.
‘I’m on a break and I don’t want to get hassled. What are you doing at Heathrow?’
Vicky looped her laptop bag over the back of her chair and swiped a few stray hairs off her forehead. ‘I’m doing a human-interest piece, a working mum who happens to be a pilot.’
Roy chuckled. ‘Not exactly the investigative journalism you imagined, is it? Still, I guess it’s the best you can hope for at that rag of yours.’
‘The West London Herald has a circulation of over a hundred thousand. That’s hardly a rag, Roy.’
‘Whatever.’
Roy simmered. Unlike him Vicky was ambitious, determined. She’d just got her degree in journalism when they’d first met, during that long, hot summer of love. A year later and they were married, with Max already on the way. Roy was happy. Vicky, on the other hand, had begun to regret her recklessness. Five years on and Vicky had her Masters, a good job, and a smart flat close to the River Thames. They were worlds apart, always had been. Roy knew that from the moment he’d met her. He was still in love with her, he knew that too, but her success intimidated him. And when Roy felt worthless he usually went on the attack.
‘I thought you were a senior reporter? Isn’t that the sort of fluff they give to a work-experience kid?’
‘Everyone mucks in at the Herald. George needs copy for the online edition. I said I’d cover it.’
‘Hardly the big break you’re looking for, is it? Must be killing you.’
Vicky sipped her coffee, wiping lipstick marks off the rim of her mug. ‘It’ll come. One has to be patient, that’s all.’
‘One does,’ Roy mocked. ‘Then again there’
s always Jimmy. There’s a story, right there.’
Vicky hesitated. ‘Please, not again.’
‘That’s it, just keep ignoring it. It never goes away for me.’
She glared at him. ‘I don’t need reminding, Roy. It’s what broke us, remember?’
‘I don’t get you. It’s an important story with local interest. Right up the Herald’s street.’
‘It would smack of a personal crusade.’
‘It is.’
‘Yes, for you.’ Vicky sighed, nursed her coffee. ‘Maybe you should face the truth. Jimmy’s been gone for three years. No one comes back alive after that, especially in Baghdad.’
‘How many fucking times do I have to say it? He wasn’t in Baghdad. You heard his voicemail.’ He took a breath, swallowed his frustration. ‘Jimmy was working at some installation near the coast when he went missing. The only thing I can find on the Internet is the ABOT, the Al Basrah Oil Terminal, where they load the tankers. It’s a story, Vicky, a big one. You could speak to George, get the Herald to demand answers. No one’s talking to me anymore.’
‘Lots of people go missing in Iraq, Roy. Not just westerners.’
‘So use that angle then.’
Vicky didn’t answer. Instead she finished her coffee and scraped the cup to one side. ‘I need to talk to you about something else, Roy. Something important.’
‘More important than Jimmy?’
She gave him a hard stare. ‘At this moment in time, yes.’
Roy bit his tongue, checked his watch. ‘Make it quick. I’ve got to go soon.’
Vicky cleared her throat. ‘Well, as you know things between Nate and me are going well. We’re serious about each other. And he cares about Max, too.’
Roy boiled with jealousy. Nate Anderson, a big shot hedge fund manager, son of a wealthy New York financier. Roy had taken an instant dislike to the man, not just because he was sleeping with his estranged wife, but also because he was taller, better looking and infinitely more successful. He had lots of money, nice cars, and a penthouse apartment that overlooked Hyde Park. Vicky had once said the view was magnificent. Roy had remarked that the view she was probably more familiar with was that of Nate’s bedroom ceiling. He’s better at that too, Vicky had smiled.