The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  PRAISE FOR THE SHADOW ARTIST

  “THE SHADOW ARTIST is a classic spy story wrapped in a contemporary thriller and driven by a modern-day female protagonist. An artist by nature and a skilled operative by training, Alex Winter could step into the ring with Reacher, Rapp, or even Rambo, and I give even odds as to who would come out alive. Winter is exactly the sort of female hero I love to read, and I can’t wait to see what Grayson tests her with next.”

  —VICKI PETTERSSON, New York Times Bestselling author of SWERVE

  “A plot that Nelson DeMille would kill for, complete with propulsive action and twisted by secrets—both private and all-pervading—as heroine Alex Winter walks a high tightrope over order and obligation. Winter is an eidetic artist, but it is James Grayson who draws a memorable picture of greed and treachery. I couldn't put it down. Twice.”

  —THERESA SCHWEGEL, Edgar Award winning author of OFFICER DOWN

  THE SHADOW ARTIST

  JAMES GRAYSON

  Alistern Press, LLC

  For my wife, V.

  You believed from the start.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for THE SHADOW ARTIST

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Author’s Note

  One

  THERE YOU ARE, BEING CHASED BY SOMEONE, and along comes a river or canal or something—so you keep going, you dive right in. Your pursuer, though, likely slows down as he approaches the water, maybe even stops. It’s human nature. He thinks: Is it cold? Will the current wash me away? Or, this goddamned suit cost me a thousand dollars. Who knows what he’s thinking, but he’s standing there. Perhaps he’s pulled his gun. He’s aiming it, drawing a bead on you and thinking of shooting you in the back.

  Meanwhile, you’ve already started swimming. If you’ve timed it right, you’ve taken a breath and gone under, making it harder for him to get that bead. He used to be mere yards from you, but now he’s back there. Sure, he can jump in, start the chase again, but unless he’s a better swimmer than you, you’ve created distance, gotten the edge.

  Chances are, you’ve gotten away.

  In forty minutes and for the first time in her career, Alex Winter will be the one all dressed up and left standing at the edge of an icy river. She’ll be cursing herself for stopping.

  She’ll be wishing like hell that he hadn’t gotten away.

  The river was the Thames, and Alex had chosen the perfect view through the floor to ceiling windows of the chic Café Martin, the location of tonight's event. She tricked her subjects into sitting long enough to be sketched by having them stare outside where, with London anticipating its first white Christmas in over a century, the river’s surface had congealed into an icy slush. The city’d had a handful of technical white Christmases before—the definition being a single snowflake falling on the roof of the queen’s palace—but the last Christmas that snow actually blanketed London was in 1895. The mere chance of witnessing history had mesmerized most of her models all evening.

  It also kept their gaze off of Alex in the little black dress.

  Her employer, a master at exploiting the particular skills of each agent, had booked Alex for the black-tie event as a Royal College of Art graduate student working on her PHD. As one of the entertainers celebrating the homecoming of a Royal Air Force pilot, she was to make simple sketches of the patrons, focusing on the exaggerated features of each person and re-creating a likeness that would be suitable for amusement, elicit a few laughs.

  Everyone loved a caricature. Even when it was of them.

  Who knew how the operators managed to gain these entries or validated the credentials of the aliases, but The Company was able to put someone just about anywhere these days. The CIA had installed chief level executives inside foreign companies, servers within hostile government cabinets, and even a chef inside a certain Saudi royal family member’s home. Gaining attendance to an event, even as posh as this one, was run of the mill.

  As for this evening, outside of drawing, Alex’s instructions were straightforward: Enter the UK as herself, Alex Winter, a US citizen from DC spending Christmas in London. Stay in a regular hotel, play tourist. On the second night, assume the identity of the budding artist until the right moment presented itself. Then slip away and intercept an attaché from slot number forty-four of the coat-check closet. Leave through the front entrance and deliver the attaché to a predetermined dead-drop. Do not contact anyone from the CIA, the US consulate, or any other bureau or agency until the drop is made.

  No exceptions.

  Simple enough, though those instructions included a few details she wouldn’t think significant until later.

  With party chatter and soft jazz echoing throughout the contemporary steel and glass restaurant, Alex motioned for her next victim to take a seat. Then, amidst a good deal of laughter from those crowded behind her, she elongated the poor chap’s nostril holes to the shape of canoes and tightened the sprout of hair at his forehead to rise into a tall horn. Alex added the remaining features, a little texture to his pressed tuxedo shirt and shiny silk bow tie, and signed it. Then she nodded him over to have a look.

  “Well,” he said, “You’ve made me into something of an inquisitive unicorn.”

  More laughter behind Alex, and she said, “All in good fun.” She winked, tore the sheet from the pad, and held out the souvenir to him.

  He eyed her for a moment, long enough for it to be uncomfortable. Then he nodded, took the sketch, and folded it into his tuxedo pocket. As he strode off, Alex seized the opportunity to case the now-full room, allowing the images to etch into her memory like still lifes.

  Two dozen guests gathered in several spots beside the main entry, straight across the floor, while another group had gathered behind a shiny black grand piano adjacent to the bar, though the pianist was still nowhere to be seen. A tall woman in gold sequins moved from group to group with the ease of a politician—the hostess of the event and mother of the soldier. The room was balanced in both groupings and gender, with half women and half men, almost to the number. Average age in low fifties. Considering the number of tailored tuxes, designer dresses, and gemstone necklaces in the room, most were in possession of the kind of wealth that gave way to the softness of affluent excess.

  Good, she thought, no real opposition to her objective.

  Assuring herself that she wasn’t disappointed wi
th the lack of challenge, Alex turned back around as a man wearing an RAF black tie and tailored coat approached the easel. “Time for one more?”

  Angus, the returning pilot and guest of honor.

  “Of course.” Alex sat back down and reached up to begin, but then held her hand steady for a moment as she studied Angus’s face. The first stroke was the most important as it became the foundation of the study, initiating a conversation for the artist. Not unlike first impressions, the opening line was also the most difficult to correct.

  Angus had no extraordinary features, no wild hair or imperfect teeth. And though she could create a comical likeness of him, and as the gathering crowd behind her waited for just that, Alex changed her mind at the last second. She would let the veracity of Angus’s face take over instead.

  She opened her satchel, drew out the leather fold of pencils, and chose three, placing them aside. She would use the pencil with hardest lead to form outlines, edges, and then later, the tiniest of details. She would use the softest lead for the heaviest blacks and the need for dark expression in a single stroke. The semi-soft lead would act as something of a connector, blending the stark differences in each of the other pencils’ depths. She closed her eyes for a moment, seeing the finished product before she had even begun, and then she went to work.

  As Alex stroked the page, she blocked out the praise and the exclamations behind her and dove into the work until she found that place. There, she could not be disturbed. The safety and sanctity of creation, where the only voice she could hear was that of the self-critic. She knew she’d captured Angus’s handsome likeness when she reaffixed her attention and realized the gathering behind her had fallen silent.

  “For you,” Alex said. Then she slipped a small knife from her pocket and slit the page from the pad.

  “Truly amazing,” Angus said. “Almost a photograph.”

  “Better than that,” another said.

  “Thank you,” Alex said, even as she admonished herself for eliciting the extra attention.

  Taking her satchel, Alex begged away from the circle of people inspecting the work. She swiped a flute of champagne from a passing server’s tray and slipped across the room, changing her view. As she leaned against the enormous piano, Alex sensed a presence approaching from seven o’clock.

  “The name’s Patrick Donning.”

  Alex glanced back at the man she’d made into a unicorn and gave a flat smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  “A black-haired beauty with all that talent.” He leaned close, sliding his hand across her bare shoulder so that the tips of his fingers were under the lip of her dress. His mouth touched her ear as he said, “I find you exquisite. And I wouldn’t mind seeing what other talents you may have.”

  Alex pulled away, allowing the urge to reach for her knife fade as she searched her memory for Mr. Donning’s details included in her pre-op packet.

  Recalling the juicy snippet, Alex turned, leaned to his cheek, and whispered, “From what I hear, I’m almost ten years older than you like them. Schoolgirl anime, isn’t it?” She lifted her glass, tilted it toward his precious bow-tie, then back to her mouth.

  Mr. Donning’s face flushed to the color of a deep bruise and he mumbled something unintelligible, then walked off. In his wake was the sudden and almost cloying scent of almonds. At first Alex thought it was his cologne, but the scent remained as he disappeared into the bathroom hall. She swirled her champagne, but the drink was crisp, stars on the tongue and all that—no almonds—and she didn’t see a bowl anywhere nearby.

  Strange.

  Pushing from the piano, Alex decided to edge all the way around the back of the crowd until the entry popped into view again, then nearly dropped her glass when it did.

  A man stood centered in the doorway, holding a metal attaché. He made no attempt to hide, and even gave her a slight nod. She almost shook her head, but afraid to ruin the illusion—because that’s what it had to be—Alex stayed as stoic as she could, her next breath lodged in her throat like a swollen balloon. He couldn't be here, not now. Not ever.

  This man had died decades ago.

  He tilted his head in a follow me motion, pivoted, and nearly knocked into the incoming piano player as he strode back down the narrow hallway.

  Alex dropped her glass to the floor, evoking gasps, then kicked off her heels and avoided the piano player as she hurtled the corner of an empty table. By the time she reached the hallway, the man with the attaché was already down the stairs and heading out the front. Alex slowed long enough to peer into the coat-check closet—sure enough, slot forty-four sat empty—then raced down the marble steps.

  She punched the doors open, and caught sight of the man directly ahead, running now and a good half block away. The large metal attaché thumped his leg between strides.

  Alex darted forward just as a piano key chimed faintly behind her. Later she’d realize how dull and out of tune it’d sounded, but the thought was lost in the deafening boom that instantly followed tossing it from her mind and hurtling her forward. A searing blast bellowed above her as she tumbled across the cobblestones, one arm twisting below her. Her head cracked against the stones with an unheard grunt.

  From a half-curl, Alex squinted back at the broiling flames now swallowing the restaurant behind her.

  Whirling around, she saw that the fleeing man had also been thrown forward, but farther away, and already rising. Without a hitch, he picked up the metal case, lumbered a few steps, and began running again.

  Ears buzzing from the explosion, Alex crept to her feet, holding her wrenched shoulder as scream-filled smoke and crackling flames billowed behind her. The fire roared and emergency sirens wailed, but the man never turned. She paused only to seize her satchel before racing after him.

  He veered right, disappearing onto the next block just as she hit her stride. Gambling, Alex cut down an alley, thinking to head him off at the street parallel to the river. Twenty yards on, just as her thighs began to burn, she bolted from the street’s end, and barreled into him full force, almost sending them both into the water. The attaché skittered and struck the railing with a clank, then popped open as it fell.

  Laid out on her stomach and gasping for air, she found herself squinting at a translucent pouch encased in foam. A dark red passport that read British Isle of Man was cradled inside … next to a man’s severed hand.

  A clack sounded behind her, and cold steel stung the soft skin behind Alex’s ear.

  Gun pressed tightly to her head, the man leaned to one side and gathered the case with his free hand. His movements were fluid but tense, professional but deadly, and she followed his progress with her eyes alone. When he knelt in front of her, eyes darting back and forth as he worked, he didn’t look at Alex once. She saw him, though, and other than the lightest toll of years, he hadn’t changed a bit.

  “They will have questions for you. Answer them all honestly, except for one.” He snapped the case closed and moved behind her again. “You never saw me.”

  His words clouded in the cold air above her shoulder, his warm breath—and that voice, his voice—sent chills up Alex’s spine. It was really him.

  “Where have—?”

  But he just strode past and climbed over the railing, attaché in hand.

  Alex scrambled. “Wait. What—”

  He leaped into the river with the case and quick-stroked to an idling jet boat lurking in the darkness. He never glanced back.

  Alex gripped the railing, chest heaving as a cacophony of sirens and flashing red lights swarmed the roads behind her.

  And she watched her father disappear.

  Two

  Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina

  Ninety-three kilometers north of Sarajevo

  Standing between the rented jeep and the door of a plaster-walled hillside mosque, Evan Lockard tucked the Ukrainian passport back into a fold in the suitcase and removed the last of his clothing. Bosnia was much colder than London, but Lockard was relishing th
e moment. It reminded him of the dark mornings in Coronado, when the crash of the frigid waves sounded like Mother Nature’s laugh, an invitation to an evil dare. Those were the moments when his fellow classmates had dropped out. They just couldn’t bear another frigid four-a.m., five-mile swim, a main component of BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALS training. In reality, it wasn’t Mother Nature that beat them. It was their own minds.

  Knowing this, Lockard stood there for an extra few moments, staring up at the mosque’s wooden minaret, and concentrated on controlling his mind. Not that he was a masochist or anything. Quite the opposite. He liked pleasure as much as the next guy, and standing naked in the dark recess of a worn country, sucking on a fistful of snow, Lockard felt alive.

  Twenty minutes later, geared in cold-weather-white, Lockard blended in better than a wolf against the shoulder-high snow drifts. He checked his watch. Josef Faris would retreat to his home office in twenty-six minutes and make the appointed phone call to his new Swiss banker. It would take Lockard sixteen of those minutes to navigate the hill and a small patch of woods before reaching the house. Three minutes or less to enter. A single minute to settle into Josef’s office. At worst case, that gave Lockard six full minutes to spare.

  Plenty of time.

  He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of cheap burning firewood. He wondered if he should feel bad for what he was about to do. After all, Josef had been a critical piece to the success of the take. A Customs officer in charge of private plane arrivals at Tuzla International Airport, Josef had provided them simple and seamless entry to Bosnia and Herzegovina. Lockard could not have succeeded without Josef.

  But then Josef made a major mistake and threatened to expose them all. The likelihood of fallout was not enormous, but the degree of violation did not matter in this instance.

  Lockard remembered finding Josef injured and trapped on the Sarajevo street nicknamed Sniper Alley over a decade ago. He’d bought the man’s loyalty with a pocketknife and four strips of black duct tape. Funny how money could make any man betray his loyalties.