The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  “This is not why,” Randeep said, sounding hurt.

  “Never mind that. We have good news.”

  “How good?”

  “We are ready to invest again.”

  “It is done, then?” Randeep sounded excited. “I can start?”

  “Not yet. Soon. I have to make another call.”

  “What amount is it that we are talking about?”

  Draganic turned back to see one of his teammates approaching. He held up a hand, stopping the man a good thirty yards away. Draganic smiled as he said, “More than before. And this time, it is protected.”

  “This is quite fortuitous, as I have just finished the model.”

  Draganic tapped the horse with a heel. “Of course, the model. Is it finally working?”

  “Zoran, it is not only working,”—Randeep almost sang the last words of the sentence—“it is alive.”

  Six

  One thing that Alex’s father had taken the precious time to teach her: much like trout finning the deep shadows of a grassy riverbank, spies were most difficult to find when they were hunkered down—hidden in a safe house, unplugged from the world. Rather than trying to stir them up, it was better to wait them out. Watch for when they disturb the surface, because sooner or later, they always did.

  And that’s when they got caught.

  After taking a scalding, if quick, shower, Alex changed into the suit that’d been left for her—a tailored fit, of course—pinned up her hair, and headed back downstairs. As she re-entered the black-and-white-checkered marble lobby, Alex was even more aware of the clerk’s considering eye than before. Hotels like this one were found next to embassies and consulates because dignitaries and diplomats liked to stay near their respective home-bases, same as agents. The employees at these hotels were often used by the host government to monitor guests’ comings and goings. Even allies like the UK and US play this little game with each other. As this clerk had allowed someone carrying a dry cleaning bag access to the upper floors, Alex figured she was on Scotland Yard’s dime.

  Which she immediately disproved by brightening as Alex approached. “Excellent. You’ve received it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The suit. And he was quite right … you needed it.” She gave Alex a playful wink.

  Alex crossed to the desk, eyeing her carefully. “The deliveryman.”

  “You mean your brother?” she said, then leaned forward and whispered, “Truth be told, he was a bit cross with you. Out so late on your own and all. But I assured him that’s it right safe around here.”

  “My brother…” Alex nodded as she eyed her. “The short, dark-haired one? Rough looking?”

  She gave a look of confusion. “No. He was tall, though I couldn’t see his hair. He was wearing one of those ball caps.”

  “My stepbrother, I have five of those. Same height as me?”

  “Taller by a few inches, I’d say over six feet. And, if I might say so…he was a bit of alright. Though a spot old for my liking.”

  Maybe Edgar. “How old?”

  She twisted her mouth. “Thirty-five, I’d say.”

  Scratch that. Alex leaned forward. “Did he have an accent? Or maybe a tattoo?”

  “English accent, but not the Queen’s. And no, not a single tattoo on his neck or face.” She raised her brow and gave Alex the eye. “I fancy that these days.”

  Alex refrained from pointing out the row of stars tucked behind the lobe of the clerk’s right ear, or the ankh tagged at her wrist. They’d become snapshots of memory as soon as she’d approached the desk. Alex would be able to return to this moment in her sketchbook without even concentrating.

  “Tell you what, ring me if he shows again and I’ll be sure to get him your number.” Alex nodded.

  “Count on it!” She beamed like they were bosom friends.

  The cold, damp air rushed her as Alex exited the lobby, but she kept her hands free, both at ease and at the ready as she scanned the early morning faces around her. With temperatures dropping and the threat of snow later today, most people were bundled under dark trench coats and hats.

  Edgar could be anywhere among them.

  Having made a quick check on her phone’s browser, Alex knew Palace Gates Dry Cleaners opened at seven a.m. With almost an hour to kill, she decided to take the Tube, then double and triple back to be sure she wasn’t tailed. The habit had saved her hide more than once—most notably last year in Tangier when an over-zealous and under-savvy military type shadowed her following a small altercation in a local bar.

  Another warm professional memory.

  Alex headed north from Grosvenor Square toward the Bond Street station, but noted a couple reversing direction to pass her again. She canvassed their features with a quick gaze, locking in the shape of the man’s bulbous bottom lip and the long curves of the woman’s neck. Alex had not seen them before this day. Their body language was relaxed, and when they passed the second time, the man nodded at Alex and made solid eye contact. Alex was just about to nod back when a car screeched behind them. Alex leapt aside, grabbing the wrought iron park gate, ready to hurdle the fence and run.

  A tall black carriage taxi sat ten feet away, wedged between two cars, with only inches separating all four bumpers. The couple who’d just passed Alex looked bemused by her reaction, but made no move toward her. She gave a flat smile and continued on, picking up the pace.

  She reached the Bond Street Tube station three blocks later, and made her way underground. Though not yet mobbed with the bustle of rush hour, the station was already hot and smelled like animal sweat. Lots of damp wool around. She located the right tunnel and platform, and stepped onto the Tube without incident.

  A dozen seats remained open, but Alex stood at the front of the train where she could survey the entire car behind her. The majority of passengers were barely present at all, either reading eBooks or texting or social networking on phones. The rest stared into space, maybe dreading the long day of ahead or still trying to wake to face it. The real activity came from a group of punks a few feet away, voices escalating as they spoke in Serbian, feeding off the other commuters’ silence. They moved up the car and toward a young Indian couple seated across from Alex who had been whispering about student loan payments, as well as the man’s final interview for a potential accounting job. The only interview he’d found in months. The woman wore a silk head scarf above the red bindi on her forehead, and man wore a semi-expensive looking suit. He had extended himself for a good impression at the interview.

  The Serbs glanced around and spoke loudly as they edged closer to the couple, all but blocking their exit.

  With a working knowledge of five of the major European languages, and having studied a few Eastern European ones as well, Alex understood exactly what they’d planned to do to them.

  The woman gripped her purse tight to her stomach, and her companion put his arm around her. One of the Serbs sat on the other side of the woman and peered close to her face. She shrunk into her companion, turning away as he held her tighter. The Serb smiled at the back of her head and whispered something.

  The next stop was announced over the loudspeaker, and the couple abruptly stood. Then, in a scurry of movement and body bumping, the largest of the men blocked the woman’s exit, cutting her off from the Indian man who spun back to grab her hand.

  The Serbs circled, confusing them.

  It ended as quickly as it had begun, but Alex saw exactly what had happened.

  The Serbs scattered, allowing the couple walk through them and off the train. They laughed, watching the woman grip her purse like it was her last possession as the couple hurried away.

  Alex carefully stood and kept her eyes on the two Serbs at her side as she made her way toward the doors. The one she needed to track was leaned against the steel pole closest to the doors, watching the departing couple with a shit-stained grin on his face.

  The operator warned to clear the doors, the bell dinged, and Alex made her m
ove.

  Darting forward, she slipped her arm beneath the Serb’s, took hold of his wrist, and twisted, pulling him off the pole.

  He popped forward and stumbled through the closing doors with her.

  “What are you—?”

  They landed on the platform outside, the doors closed, and he was left alone with Alex—his punk buddies rolling away in the train.

  Jumping to his feet, he yelled, “Fuck you are doing?”

  Alex put out a hand. “Give it to me.”

  He brushed himself off and ignored her as the last of the departed passengers disappeared into the stairwell, leaving the two of them alone on the platform.

  Perfect.

  She spoke in Serbian, “Don’t make me take it from you.”

  He gave her a long look up and down, smiled with sharp canine teeth that protruded forward from the others. “You should mind your business, yes?”

  Alex kept her hand out, hoping he would try to take it, but he didn’t.

  Instead, he half-turned, as if walking away, then darted back, hand angled to strike her face. Alex sidestepped as she twisted the scarf from her neck and snared his arm. Pivoting behind him, she kicked straight up into his groin. Then she stepped back and let that sink in.

  Talk about a great caricature. The man stood there, half bent, thick eyebrows in a tight V and his mouth in a distorted O. Then he stumbled forward, arms extended, and fell to the ground in a heap.

  Alex dug a heel into his calf, and leaned over his writhing body to rifle through his pockets. Drooling on the pavement now, he attempted to speak, but it didn’t come out in any of the five languages she understood, so she didn’t answer back.

  Giving him a toe-tap to his forehead, she eased her scarf free. Then she hurried toward the stairs and almost bumped right into the Indian couple who were scrambling back up to the platform. They stopped, stared at the Serbian flopping around behind her.

  “He fell,” Alex said.

  They glanced at each other and then back at her.

  “This is yours, I believe.” Alex handed the man his wallet and watched as he opened it, flipped through the fifteen pound sterling inside, and gave a sigh of relief.

  “Oh, and this.” She dug into her pocket, retrieved an amulet on a gold chain, and handed it to the woman.

  With a look of surprise, the woman felt her neck. Her eyes then filled with tears, and she hugged Alex. They thanked her profusely, began to walk away, and the woman ran back and hugged Alex one more time.

  Keeping a low profile was overrated anyway.

  Alex moved fast the rest of the way, the winter air a brisk relief after the heated altercation off the train. The Palace Gates Dry Cleaners was five blocks southeast of Buckingham Palace, and she walked past it twice, checking for any interested parties—those who would be much more circumspect than punk pickpockets—before striding once more all the way around the block. When Alex reached the shop again, she entered.

  With a tall white storefront, neon lights in the windows, and two long counters inside, it was much larger than she’d expected. Alex had figured it for some dusty old shop with no customers, likely a front for deliveries within the intelligence community, be it CIA, MI6, or other. But from the half dozen customers queued up before her, and the strong scent of perchloroethylene in the air, the place was no operational beard.

  Edgar was good.

  Standing aside for an exiting man, garment bags flapping with a gust from the open door, Alex scanned the store for any tall, blue-eyed men, but the only two visible employees were compact, female, and Asian—one at the register, the other behind the long counter.

  “May I help you?” the cashier asked, the strength of her British accent marking her as a native Londoner.

  Alex held up the receipt she’d taken from the suit bag. “Can you give me the details on this?”

  “What of it?”

  “I’d like to know when the order was initiated and who delivered it.”

  She glanced at the other customers and then back at Alex. “Was there a mishap?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  The woman frowned, but held out her hand and Alex gave her the ticket. Keying the numbers into her computer, she peered at the screen. “According to this, the suit came in the night drop and was requested for this morning. Rush order, it was. See?” She spun the screen and tapped a finger on the date.

  “Right.” Alex scanned the screen, but the only name listed was her own. The order was real, the jacket had been dry cleaned, and the whole transaction had occurred—aboveboard. She said, “And who would have delivered it to my hotel?”

  “Grosvenor, right, miss?” She tapped the screen and nodded. “That would have been Inga.”

  Inga was likely not a tall, handsome man. “Is she here?”

  “Afraid not. She’s off on delivery.”

  “When is she due back?” Alex glanced at her watch.

  “She’s off for holiday after her shift.”

  “She won’t stop back here again today?”

  “Not likely.”

  Not that it mattered. Edgar had somehow cached Alex’s name and order into the Palace Gate system and had the suit delivered by someone else. He was more than a step ahead.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  Alex walked out with no idea where to go next. With no leads, the only sensible move was to return to the hotel and try to pump the clerk for more information. That said, she hated retracing her moves. It wasn’t just wasteful, it was tedious. Besides, her father had remained hidden from her for almost two decades. A professional among professionals, a legend in the days of the Cold War, the man had probably forgotten more tradecraft than she’d ever learned. A ditzy hotel desk clerk wasn’t going to be his downfall.

  Re-wrapping her neck scarf, Alex gave the street a requisite check. London was moving now, everyone with somewhere to go. There were no strangers smoking cigarettes on corners, no dog walkers traipsing the same corners, no interested faces peering at her from behind curtained windows.

  An image popped into Alex’s head just then. Edgar standing at her childhood bedside in the middle of the night, appearing so suddenly it was as if he’d been pulled from her somnolent consciousness. Disappearing again before she fully woke. Each time she’d wondered whether he’d really been there, and into her teens she’d convinced herself that he had. Instead of dying in an embassy bombing, she’d imagined he’d simply been on a long mission, and every once in a while he stole away—for a few hours, anything he had—and come home. Just to see her.

  Alex cursed under her breath. Talk about pure fantasy. That Edgar Winter was a make-believe friend. That father had the imagined personality of a stuffed toy.

  He’d left her.

  Alex caught sight of a carriage-style London cab letting out a passenger across the street. Shortcuts were usually a bad idea, but she was tired and she was pissed. Her morning subterfuge had come to nothing, her emotions were up. She needed a moment to regroup. Besides, finding Edgar was going to be like finding a dime in a pool full of nickels. She knew that if he had his way she’d be headed to the airport now, enroute to D.C.

  So she climbed into the cab and bluntly ordered the driver back to Grosvenor Square.

  Staring out the side window as the taxi wound its way through the streets below Piccadilly, Alex’s mind moved to thoughts about the bombing and all the people who had died. Each of them leaving behind unfinished business, incomplete tasks. Like a miniature version of 9/11, cars would be left in lots, ownerless; children would be left at home, parentless.

  Anger crawled up her esophagus and into the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, but the hollowness felt like a bruise. It was all too familiar to Alex.

  Forcing herself to breathe steadily, she put up a barrier between that feeling and this moment, and allowed the image of the briefcase popping open on the street to flash in her mind. Had all those people died because of a severed hand? She had absolutely no reference
point on that—she’d been expecting to pick up documents or intelligence for the CIA, not human body parts. And what was Edgar’s role in all of it?

  In truth, there was no telling how many people he’d killed over the years. He disappeared for months at a time, even when she was young, and Alex had little doubt he was the type of specialist who got wet occasionally, but responsible for an attack that killed dozens of civilians?

  She couldn’t believe that.

  The taxi veered onto a narrow side street, and began rocking over a patch of cobblestones. The block was empty but for a large truck, and just as they pulled around it, the driver yelled and slammed on the brakes. They spun to a stop on the curb, and the truck screeched to a halt behind them.

  “What are you—” But a rumble drowned out her question and Alex lifted her head to find a man rocketing toward them. He was crouched over a BMW motorcycle, with a wool watch cap pulled low, and he was brandishing a thick and short-muzzled HK MP5 submachine gun. He roared past the driver’s side window as a second masked cyclist swung behind the cab, pointing his MP5 at the back window.

  The driver jerked the cab into Park and looked back and forth.

  Alex yelled, “Get down!” Then she dove to the floor as a burst of flame shot from the front motorcyclist’s gun, bullets shattering the windshield and hitting the driver in the side of the head. Gray matter and blood slapped glass as he slumped, and slid down onto the gas pedal, throttling the engine to a howl.

  Another spray of bullets tore through the metal doors and thumped through the leather bench seat, grazing her head.

  A half dozen options spired through her mind, none with a high chance of survival: kick open the door and run, try to overtake the rear motorcyclist, throw her jacket out one window as distraction and run the other way, or climb into the front seat and speed off. The last option was closest to what she did.