She dialed Ben's burner phone and fitted the Bluetooth earpiece into her ear while she walked out of the well-lit car park.
The drive had taken longer than she liked, but it gave her time to think. Time to evaluate what was happening. Everything was leading back to Zelig. From the moment Zelig had sent Barratt and his team to kill her after she had stolen the data from Bill Civic, all roads led back to Zelig. But why?
Was he the one responsible for her husband's death? Or was he just covering it up? Her thoughts kept gravitating back to Gerald Maier, the accountant. He must have found something.
And yet, what occupied most of her thoughts was the heavy understanding that what had happened to him, to Ben, Robyn, and Barratt were all a direct consequence of her actions. A clear path of destruction lay behind her. Lives ruined, lives changed forever, lives lost…
She was a killer. She had been for many years, but she took pride in taking the lives only of those who were enemies to her country, and by extension, enemies to her moral code. The death of innocents was definitely in violation of that code. And yet innocents were being affected because of her vendetta.
In the moments between her anger and her distractions, the consequence of her life and the loss of loved ones threatened her psyche with a melancholy she found unpalatable and embarrassing.
Sex was her distraction. Rage her best friend. In those moments, she was focused, effective, empty.
Ben's voice through her earpiece brought her thoughts back to the present. She needed to find a way into the operating theater. That was where Barratt was most vulnerable. That was where she would take him out, if she had been sent after him.
"I just arrived," she said, approaching the east block entrance of the large hospital.
"You need to get to the north entrance."
Shirin could feel the shortness of his voice. He was still upset. On the drive, he had called her, shocked at his sister's injuries and the abuse she had been victim to. He was furious, and she didn't blame him. He hadn't openly blamed her, but she could sense he believed some blame should be hers to bear.
"I still don't understand how you're going to be able to help him once you get in there."
Shirin wasn't sure either, but she knew she'd figure it out. Years of training and success in an unforgiving business brought with it an undeniable confidence. She knew she would find a way.
"I'm at the north block entrance." She could see the swipe pad to the side of the main double sliding entrance doors and a single, locked, hinged door to the left of it. She assumed the swipe pad was for the single door. "The single door leads to the operating suite change rooms?"
"Yes. But without a swipe card, you could be waiting a while before anyone opens it."
Shirin was thinking more of smashing the unit off the wall, hard wiring it open, then sticking the panel back on the wall.
"There's another way," Ben said as she approached the panel while digging through her backpack, looking for something hard to hit it with. "Go in through the public access double doors."
Ben led her through a labyrinth of corridors, mostly accessed by domestic services, but which also functioned as the unofficial "back way" for nursing staff who didn't want to walk through the east block to the main entrance of the operating suite.
She reached the female change rooms and noticed the similar magnetic swipe card panel beside the locked door. Ben told her to ignore the female change room, but to continue along the corridor until she got to the male change room.
As he had said, the lock on the male door was broken, and someone had laid a rolled towel on the floor to prevent the door from closing completely.
Shirin smiled. It didn't matter which organization or facility she infiltrated, if she took the trouble to look, she could usually find signs of laziness, shortcuts, and ineptitude. The operating suite was technically the most secure of all hospital units, and yet a simple towel had let her walk straight in.
According to Ben, it was not uncommon for females to visit the men's change room in search of scrubs. The female change rooms were notoriously under-stocked. She kept this excuse on the tip of her tongue in case she needed it.
Once inside, she disconnected the call to Ben, took her bag off her shoulder, and quickly searched for unlocked lockers. There were several, but they were all empty, or held only shoes and clothes. Next she chose the lockers locked only by the generic prefab locking mechanism, leaving the padlocked units until last.
By her calculations, she had been in the change room for fewer than four minutes, but each minute seemed like an hour. Two more to check before she had to start picking padlocks, and that would take a lot longer than jimmying the default locking mechanism with a credit card.
Bingo! She found what she was looking for. It was a senior consultant surgeon's locker. As Ben had suggested, some of them tended to keep student ID cards in their locker in case they wanted to get a star pupil or sales rep into one of their operations without going through proper channels.
Shirin left the male change room quickly and entered the female room using her newly acquired student pass. Once inside, she changed, hid her cell phone in her pants pocket, donned a green disposable hair cap, shoe covers, and facemask.
She dialed Ben's number again, tucked the Bluetooth earpiece under the green hair cap and tested to make sure Ben still heard her talking.
She followed the internal corridor to the body of the operating suite. With the student pass swinging from her hip, no one paid her much attention. She was inside.
Ben guided her to the front reception of the unit, where the ward clerk sat, and coached her through the conversation. Operating suite staff had a language all their own, one that made it clear very quickly when an outsider was asking questions they shouldn't.
Barratt had been admitted under his alias, John Smith. He was under the care of a general surgeon and allocated to OR8. She thanked the clerk for helping and left.
With Ben in her ear, she was able to navigate the halls as though she belonged there. Did Barratt somehow know she would come after him? Is that why he chose this hospital, because he knew Ben worked there?
Outside OR8, Shirin adjusted the facemask and peered through the window overlooking the operating arena. The room was full. She hadn't seen the inside of a real operating suite before.
She was standing in the scrub bay now, where the surgeons and nurses scrubbed and gowned in their sterile attire. She angled for a better view of the patient being operated on, but couldn't see much beneath the blue and green drapes.
"Tell me what you see," Ben said.
Shirin looked around her to be sure no one could hear her before replying. "Not much. There are a lot of people in there. Is that normal?"
"How many?"
"Seven."
"Two or three at the head, two or three at the body, and another one walking around?"
"Exactly."
"That's normal."
Shirin watched the participants in the room, almost as though they were fish in an oversized fishbowl. They seemed to move with purpose, but there was no real rhythm to it. She was too far to see the person under the drapes, but she quickly knew it wasn't Barratt. They were operating on the leg. From Robyn's story, his leg was not injured.
"It's not him. Where would he go from here?"
"They'd take him to Recovery, or to ICU if he needed to be ventilated."
Shirin thought about it for a moment, then moved away from the window and walked out of the scrub bay. "How do I get to Recovery?"
"Forget it," Ben said with certainty. "You'll never get away with walking around in there. They're a close-knit group. No one unknown lasts long in there. They'll spot you in seconds."
Shirin didn't like hearing she couldn't do what she wanted. Hated it, actually. But Ben was the expert. He worked there, he knew the people. She had to trust him.
"So what next, then?" she asked.
"Head back to the front desk clerk again. Tell her you're
following the patient John Smith through for the surgeon and would like to know where he's going after Recovery."
"Is that normal?" she asked.
"Very."
19:53:49
Shirin wore the theater scrubs but tossed the mask as she left the department and found her way to the ICU. She found the clerk there also to be very helpful in identifying which bay Barratt would be taken to, once he was released from Recovery.
Bay 5 was not really a bay; it was a private room with frosted glass for privacy and a personal toilet. Ben hadn't worked in the ICU before and couldn't help her much more, but still, she didn't disconnect the line and neither did he.
The door to the bay was closed. A police detective stood outside the door. What was going on? Had they identified Barratt already?
Fight or flight instincts started ringing in her ears. If they were onto him, they would have to expect she might try to get to him. Meaning, they might be waiting for her. It could be a trap.
Shirin stood still at the nurses' station, evaluating her options. Only one detective, no constables or security. If they truly knew who he was, there would be a crowd of people guarding him. If they were waiting for her, she would have noticed something sooner, surely.
"What's happening?" Ben asked through the earpiece.
Shirin went back to the clerk and asked what the story was with the guard outside John Smith's room, and was it okay for her to still follow the patient through for the surgeon.
"I think he must be someone important," the clerk said conspiratorially, "because police don't usually wait around to question ordinary stabbing victims. And there's some bigwig man in a fancy suit waiting in the room for him, too."
"There's someone in there?" Shirin said, surprised.
"Yeah. Don't know who he is, though."
"Interesting," she mused out loud. "Thanks. I'm going to go introduce myself. See if we can find out more." Shirin smiled a wicked smile and winked at the clerk. "I'll let you know what he says."
Shirin walked to the bay with a lazy confidence, like she had done it a thousand times before and knew she would do it a thousand more times. The officer saw her coming, looked her up and down but paid little attention to her.
His stance remained neutral. There were no indications he saw her as a threat. She flashed her student pass in front him, offered a small nod, and pulled open the door.
Inside the bay was a freshly made bed, one chair on either side of the bed, a standing wardrobe, and the door to the en suite.
An old man, maybe in his seventies, sat in the chair farther from the door, his legs crossed at the knee. He was reading something on an iPad and barely looked up when she came deeper into the bay.
"Hello, Shirin," he said matter-of-factly. "I was wondering how long it would take you to get here."
19:55:12
Shirin ignored the man's comment, ignored that he knew her and had used her name. She scanned the rest of the room, found herself wishing she had her gun with her, and checked the en suite. The old man was alone.
"How do you know who I am?" she asked him pointedly.
"I think it's important to understand who all the major players are in our business. Wouldn't you agree?" he said casually as he placed the iPad on the bed and raised his wily eyes to look directly at her. "I have been a fan and benefactor of your services for quite some time. I'm almost embarrassed that you don't know who I am. Although, if you did, I would also be very concerned that my considerable expense and effort to remain anonymous were in vain."
Shirin walked back to the door, slipped the locking mechanism into the engaged position, and carefully reviewed the room again as she dragged the second chair around the bed to face the old man.
"Feel better?" the old man asked.
"You know who I am," she said, unimpressed. "That means you know what I'm capable of."
"I assure you, Ms. Reyes, there will be no need of threats here. I'm here to help you. If I had any other intention, we would not be meeting like this." The old man raised his hands slightly, his palms open, his body language relaxed, self-assured.
In Shirin's world, very few things were as they seemed. If her gut told her to be careful, it was usually right. To say she didn't trust this man would be a statement of the obvious, but more concerning to her, she found this old man to be too comfortable and too familiar in the company of someone of her reputation. It was disquieting.
"So why are you here?" she asked with a hint of annoyance.
"To see you, of course."
Shirin didn't respond. Her face expressed her growing impatience better than any words.
"Very well." He acknowledged her silent message. "You and I share a common…interest. Director Zelig. We would both like to see him brought to account for his actions."
"I want to see him dead," she said with venom. "Screaming. Then dead."
"Indeed. Your enthusiasm is infectious." The old man adjusted his cuffs just so, before he continued. "I would like to use the word 'justice,' although your way lends a more permanent implication. One that is probably justified once you know the true extent of this man's corruption."
Shirin offered no response. She still didn't know who this man was, what he wanted, and how he knew she would be here.
"Get to the point," she said bluntly.
"The point is that I have something you want. Information."
"And what do you want in return for this information?"
"For you to provide 'justice'…with permanency."
And there it was, she thought. "So you want me to kill Director Zelig?"
"I didn't say that," he said, putting his hands up in a mock surrender.
He spoke like a politician. Dressed like one, too. She wished she had her gun, or a knife, or anything sharp.
"Three minutes," she said firmly.
"Excuse me?" He seemed genuinely confused.
"Three minutes. You have three minutes to convince me not to snap your neck like a twig and walk out of here like nothing happened."
19:59:47
The old man swallowed hard. He tried not to, but his body understood the threat better than his mind allowed. It was involuntary, and he hated himself for that moment of weakness, but at the same time, he knew Shirin Reyes. If she said she would do something, she would.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Maybe he had miscalculated this woman.
He watched her look meaningfully at the clock on the distant wall. "Two minutes, forty-five seconds," she said, before looking back at him.
He had definitely miscalculated. He wished at that moment that Smith was with him, that his normal entourage of security was with him. But they weren't.
The old man delivered his best smile, and with a practiced arrogance, he lifted his chin slightly as though brushing off her idle threat. He let himself believe he was beyond her primitive intimidations, and yet a part of him understood too well―Shirin Reyes never bluffed.
"I knew your husband," he blurted out, hoping for an interested response from her. Instead, he noticed her eyes grow more intense, her body coil, ready to strike. "I was on the advisory board that gave approval for his final mission."
Shirin looked him up and down.
"I believe he was killed because he uncovered something no one was supposed to uncover." He waited for her response.
"Go on."She glanced again at the clock.
"He was on his way to interrupt the transfer of national secrets to a buyer when he was ambushed."
"I know. I was there," she said sharply.
"I believe the seller was Director Zelig. He wasn't the director back then, of course."
"Do you have proof?" she asked.
"Of course not. If I did, I'd be dead or Zelig would be in jail. But you have to read between the lines. He was able, he was definitely capable, he was in a position to cover it up, and he had everything to gain."
Shirin curled her upper lip.. She looked at the clock. "Two minutes," she said simply.
>
"Selling government secrets is only the beginning for him! He has something far more sinister in mind. One of my agents was able to obtain a parcel, for a short time, which, under specialized investigation, revealed state secrets pertaining to security council actionables. In the wrong hands, the parcel could open several severe national security risks. It was secured in a diplomatic pouch, bound for the Minister of Foreign Affairs Jordan."
"So?"
"So?" he mimicked incredulously. "Haven't you been watching the news?" He handed her his iPad, locked onto the latest newsfeed from the BBC.
"I've been busy." She took the iPad and scanned the article.
The old man didn't wait for Shirin to read the piece.
"Minister Jordan was arrested hours ago on charges of treason, charges based on carrying these documents through airport security with the intention of delivering them to a buyer abroad. Anonymous photos of her husband have surfaced, suggesting she was being blackmailed into giving away state secrets. The thing is, I know Minister Jordan! She is not capable of such a thing. She has been a staunch adversary of Zelig for years. It all makes sense."
"And the photos?" Shirin asked.
"Faked," he said too quickly. "Possibly. I had dinner with her and her husband last week. If she knew about his transgressions, there is no way she could have hidden it from me."
"She's a politician. That's her job. To lie."
"She is my goddaughter, Ms. Reyes! I know her!" he said with such force, his temples throbbed. "She is not a traitor!"
The old man took a deep breath and calmed himself as much as possible. It riled him to no end that he found himself having to justify his opinions to her, but for the moment, he needed her more than she perceivably needed him. He would have to change that.
"You have to understand," he said impatiently. "This is more involved than just my goddaughter. The diplomatic pouch was addressed from her to Senator Biella, another staunch adversary of Zelig and the Convener of Covert Appropriations and Expenditures Committee."
The old man could see Shirin's mind working, gluing the pieces together, making the links that told a story that would eventually guarantee her commitment.
Against the Clock Page 19