The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  “My God.” Grant took a step forward and leaned in to have a closer look. “Just how many are there?”

  “One-point-three million.”

  Grant licked a finger and stuck it to a bill, drawing it from the top of one stack. “All hundreds?”

  “Every damn one of ’em.”

  “So that’s…”

  “One hundred and thirty million US dollars.” The math was simple, but so boggling it tripped the human mind.

  “God save the queen.” Grant stood still as he soaked in the implications, gaping like a full-blown idiot at more money than all but a few human beings in the history of the world had ever been in the presence of.

  After almost a minute, he tilted his head to Moss and said with more than a hint of incredulousness, “And your CIA has lost one of these? A whole damned pallet?”

  “No, Peter,” Moss scoffed, then lowered his eyes, feeling as though he may float sheer out of his body.

  “We lost eight of them.”

  Ten

  Before dusk turned to night, they stopped at a convenience store that advertised prepaid cell phones and Alex bought one. Then Jack decided he was hungry enough to eat an also advertised Pukka minced steak and onion pie. Not all bad for a pound seventy, he said, buying two of them.

  The pies looked like something you would find in a pet store, so Alex opted for a bag of sea salt and vinegar chips and a Red Bull.

  As they drove through South London, where Aaron Gebhart lived, Alex squinted at a lineup of decrepit storefronts and said, “Lovely.”

  “Not exactly a bankers’ community, is it?” Jack shrugged. “Katy B was born here, though. Oh, and Rio Ferdinand.”

  “Rio who?”

  He laughed. “Fullback, played for Manchester United?”

  “I’m not surprised you know the soccer player.” She reached across to the knob on the heater and switched it off. “But Katy B.?”

  Turning the car onto a street about as wide as a motel hallway, Jack said, “Saw it on The Box, you know, our own version of MTV. Though we still play music, not reality rubbish.”

  “Novel.” Alex had to admit she was annoyed that Jack knew more about contemporary media than she did—even if it was British trivia—he was a good ten years older than her. She’d have to brush up on her knowledge base there.

  They eased down the narrow road, past yellowed picket fences and snow-dusted bags of trash lining the curbs. Aaron’s house sat at the end of the street, next to a single-story mattress outlet. With simple square windows bracketed by decaying sills and peeling paint, the two-story structure looked like it could be in Ward 8 of DC. Lovely.

  “Pull up there.” Alex pointed to a house a couple of doors down and across the street. “And kill the lights.”

  Jack did, and Alex turned on her phone for a quick search in Google photos for Aaron.

  “Have you found anything?” he asked.

  “He’s not a pro.” She held up the phone. “Keeps a whole, unprotected profile on Facebook.”

  Two minutes later, as Alex was scrolling through his page, Jack nudged her.

  A man with an Adam’s apple the size of an ostrich egg had exited the house.

  “That’s him.” She pocketed the phone.

  Aaron was approaching a small Vauxhall hatchback, carrying the same type of aluminum Zero Halliburton briefcase that her father had.

  “Shall we follow or have a look inside?” Jack asked.

  Still feeling a bit confrontational after their visit with Chef Martin, Alex pointed ahead. “Let’s follow.”

  They crossed back over the river and headed east on Victoria Embankment. Aaron drove fast, weaving in and out of cars, as if he were rushing to catch a flight. Jack navigated well, staying far enough back to prevent him from seeing them, yet keeping pace.

  As they drove along the river, Alex wondered what was in the briefcase Aaron was carrying, and a vivid image of the severed hand flashed in her mind. The mere thought of losing a hand, her drawing hand, sent a cold chill up her spine and into the back of her neck. She tried to come up with a solid reason for a hand to be passed around, but for the life of her she couldn’t. Was it proof of torture or maybe someone’s penalty for stealing? Weak at best. As Alex contemplated this, Jack stayed laser focused on the cars around them and the traffic ahead. She was impressed.

  About twenty minutes later, they reached a dark stretch near the waters of Canary Wharf. Aaron pulled between two tall office buildings, both half-lit in the evening, and stopped as a car pulled from the underground garage of one of the buildings. Alex signaled for Jack to ease to the curb and they waited until Aaron drove forward again, but then lost sight of him as he rounded the corner.

  They exited the causeway between buildings and Alex glanced left and right. Aaron’s Vauxhall was pulling into a construction site, the chain-link gate propped open just wide enough for his car to squeeze through.

  “Now what?” Jack asked.

  She looked around, then pointed to a small lot next to a Barclay’s ATM machine, where an overhang shadowed one of the spaces. “Let’s duck in there.”

  “Surveillance?”

  “No. I’m going in.”

  “Surely not on your own.”

  “Easier to hide a single shadow.” Alex got out, shutting the door on Jack’s protest of for God’s sake. Concern for his safety would only distract her from the task at hand.

  Keeping tight to the plastic-wrapped chain-link fence as she approached the entrance, Alex heard a clank and then a whirring sound come from inside the construction area. She leaned back to see an exposed elevator climbing the building’s exterior. Aaron’s meeting, or drop, was up there.

  Alex considered looking for an alternative entry, but the fence extended to the edge of the water, and unless she wanted to go for a cold dip without a dry suit she would have to take the front entrance ahead. So, staying low to the ground, she made her way to the entrance and stopped.

  The tower reached high but with no glass and only beams and crossbeams extending into the sky, it had the looks of the beginnings of a sketch—if Alex were to draw a building, these would be the first few marks she’d make on the page. A large poster at the entrance of the worksite listed various permit numbers. Another one boasted the finest flats in all of London, and showed an artist’s rendering of a finished residence, views of the city beyond.

  The finished product looked ritzy.

  Alex thought about ascending the crane at the building’s corner but dismissed it, as she would have to climb all the way to the crane’s cab and lower herself onto the roof. From where she stood, she couldn’t see what kind of drop that was. Plus, then she’d have to go down about ten floors to get to the one where Aaron stopped, which looked to be floor twenty. And she’d have to do it all in silence.

  Instead, Alex located the building’s main stairwell, opposite the construction elevator, and stayed in the shadows as much as possible as she made her way across the site. The stairwell, like the elevator, was exposed to the outside, but separated from the rest of the building by a thick concrete firewall. Taking the stairs three steps at a time, she was thankful that Jack had bought her the low-heeled boots; their rubbery soles were almost silent against the concrete. When she reached the tenth floor, her heart began to beat faster. This was the body’s way of prepping for a vital situation, surging adrenaline to one’s synapses to make them hyper-alert. The instructors at Talonstrike called it plugging in, as if you’d just been attached to an electrical current, energized. Truth was, all soldiers felt it at the moment of engagement, which was why the Marines had a saying: “stay groovy.” In other words, manage your adrenaline and don’t freak out.

  Well, they had their own saying out there in Corona del Mar, and it was a reference to enduring the Pacific Ocean’s average temp of about fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Sans wetsuit. So, with the wind swirling, Alex toed up the stairs and steadied her breathing as she silently repeated to herself.

  T
he water’s toasty.

  Still, by the time she made it to the fifteenth floor her hands were damp with sweat. Alex stopped. Listened. Heard nothing.

  As she took another step, a rumble sounded from behind and below. A motorcycle rounded the corner and paused at the entrance of the construction site. The bike was identical to the BMWs from that morning. The driver—she assumed it was a man—wore a dark hooded sweatshirt. He looked in the direction of Barclay’s and stared for a few moments. The nose of Hanna’s SUV, with a tiny gold shield, was barely visible and she couldn’t see if Jack had stayed put. The hooded man then took a long look around and up at the building.

  Alex stood stone still at the edge of the stairs, hidden in the shadow cast by the firewall.

  He kicked the bike forward and entered the construction area.

  The motorcycle’s engine quieted, and a few seconds later, a clank sounded. The whir of the elevator descending then re-ascending echoed throughout the site. Alex continued up after it, as quietly as she could. When she reached the twentieth floor, she crept up the last flight and pictured herself as a stalking puma, movements slow and fluid—nothing to cause a glance or a start. Then she lay, chest to the cold concrete floor, feet extended down the stairs, and watched the exchange.

  High above the city, and in a district that effectively shut down at the end of the business day, the two men’s voices echoed loudly throughout the concrete and metal structure. The second man said something that sounded like a quip, Aaron answered, then held out the briefcase. He stood a good half a foot taller than the hooded man.

  Alex couldn’t see well enough from where she was, so she crept forward while watching for obstructions, anything that would make a scraping sound under her.

  The hooded man took the briefcase and motioned Aaron away.

  When Aaron had moved back far enough, the hooded man opened the briefcase with four audible clicks.

  Alex eased closer and stopped at a gaping hole in the floor before her where the wind twisted upward like a funnel. Looking down, she squinted to see another hole through the next floor and the next. A metal frame with two rails extended down the sides of the openings, but they otherwise gaped open. An unfinished elevator shaft.

  Inching her way around the hole, Alex found herself deeper in the shadows but farther from the exchange. She kept crawling until she could see both men clearly again.

  The hooded man’s back was to her now, as he bent over the case and counted out loud.

  She inched closer and stopped when Aaron looked up and around.

  Any closer and they’d be able to hear her breathe.

  The hooded man cursed and Alex almost flinched. “Where’s the rest?”

  The English was American, not British.

  “I…I…” Aaron pushed against a metal beam, exposing his face to the lights from the building across the street, showing his wide-eyed expression.

  “I told you not to spend any yet. Aaron…” The hooded man snapped the case closed. “That’s failure number two.”

  “I’ll pay you back,” Aaron said in a pleading voice.

  “It’s already done.”

  Aaron stood there, his face long and sullen. “Look, I tried to get it, I really did. It’s just he got to it first.”

  “Shut up,” the hooded man said, standing again, looking away as if in thought.

  Aaron rambled on. “I did half the job, the delivery part, so I should get to keep half, shouldn’t I? That would be the fairest thing, and I’d like you to be fair about it.”

  The hooded man turned back to Aaron. “The deal was all or nothing. That means you accomplished nil.” He reached back, came out with a pistol, and pointed it at Aaron’s chest.

  Aaron took a step backward and looked behind him at the open air, the ledge on which he had just put himself. Taking a quick step to the side, he said, “Why do you…?” He looked at the gun and then at the hooded man.

  “Relax. I thought I heard something.” The man lowered the gun.

  “Why…why did we meet all the way up here?” Aaron had begun to stutter.

  “Privacy.” He swung his gun arm and scanned the floor.

  Alex held her breath. Not moving. Watching.

  “Anyway.” The hooded man turned back. “I brought you something.”

  “What?” Aaron looked around.

  The hooded man patted Aaron on the shoulder and handed him a folded piece of paper. “Read it.”

  Aaron took the paper and unfolded it. “Where did you get this? It’s in my handwriting.”

  “Of course it is. You wrote it.”

  “Rubbish.” Aaron gripped the paper.

  The hooded man snatched the paper from him, folded it, and stuffed it into Aaron’s chest pocket.

  Aaron said, “What are you—”

  The other man shoved him off the edge of the building. Aaron’s scream echoed through the rafters, and grew fainter until it was silenced by a thud.

  The hooded man spun, fired the pistol in Alex’s direction, and ducked behind a half-finished wall.

  She rolled to the side, heart pounding, and a thrum of blood rushing through her ears. The whoosh of the cold wind whipped at her through the upper floors of the structure. She had to keep moving. She had no gun, no weapon at all. Easing forward to see past a metal beam, she took a long stride. Her boot settled on a large, loose bolt on the floor, causing it to scrape against the smooth concrete.

  Another gunshot clanked against the metal to her left.

  Alex darted back behind the beam and searched the floor for a pipe, scrap metal, anything she could use as a weapon. There was nothing but the bolt she had stepped on. As she peeked around the edge of the beam, a single, soft footstep fell behind her.

  Alex dove to the ground as a gunshot boomed and the bullet ricocheted off metal. She rolled away from the elevator shaft and behind the beam. Listening for another footstep, she pulled into a crouch. She felt around the floor until she found the bolt. She waited one full second and tossed it to the left.

  The moment the next gunshot sounded, Alex jumped out from behind the beam and charged in the last direction he’d expect her to go—straight toward the muzzle flash. The hooded man wheeled toward her, but she swung a single kick straight up into his arm.

  The man grunted as the gun sailed from his grip and across the floor, then tumbled off the edge. Before she could spin to ready position, Alex felt the smack of the metal briefcase against her back and she fell to the floor.

  The man’s face remained hidden in the shadows and under the hood. Still gripping the suitcase, he darted forward and swiveled his hips to deliver a kick, but Alex saw it coming and turned just enough to dodge the blow.

  She grabbed his ankle—he was shorter than her, but thicker—and with a forearm lock, managed to twist him to the ground, wincing as the stitches tore from her shoulder.

  The briefcase banged against the concrete and he dropped it. Then, ultra fast, he was up on his feet again.

  Alex stayed low, delivering a sweeping kick to his legs, but he shifted his weight to deflect with one calf, and countered with a snapping kick, catching her kneecap and sending her stumbling backward.

  She answered him with a spinning heel kick in the other direction and caught him in the abdomen, winning an oof, but he responded fast, with a quick punch that she partially deflected with a forearm block. Ready for his response, Alex let him get closer, and, with the agonizing pain of using her right arm to deflect the second blow, she shifted and thrust a solid uppercut to his jaw.

  Nobody expected a lefty.

  The hood slipped off a bit as the man stumbled backwards, exposing a thick, square chin and a drop of blood trickling to his neck. As Alex planted herself for another counter, a clank sounded from behind the man.

  He spun, and she caught Jack ducking behind a pillar ten feet back.

  Damn.

  The hooded man took three efficient steps toward Jack and moved in for a volley of kicks and punches, each
of which were easily turned away by Jack. Then Jack spun and delivered a solid high kick aimed at the hooded man’s head, and the man barely deflected it with a forearm.

  Alex darted forward to attack from behind.

  Jack moved to deliver another blow.

  But the hooded man dropped and rolled, knocking the briefcase into the empty elevator shaft.

  And then he followed it.

  Alex crouched forward to see him sliding down the elevator beam, like a fireman. Passing the floor below, he almost slipped off, but he wrapped his legs around the beam and slid lower.

  No way could she do the same with one arm—

  “Take the stairs!” Jack yelled, as he climbed down the shaft after the hooded man.

  Alex sprinted to the stairwell and bounded down, four steps at a time, but it wasn’t fast enough. The man had three floors on her and reached the bottom while she was still on floor two. Jack was not even in sight.

  Alex rocketed from the stairwell, sprinting across the frozen dirt.

  Holding the suitcase to his chest, the man kick-started his motorcycle and spun forward.

  “Alex, wait!” Jack called from behind.

  She darted to cut him off at the entrance. As she leapt toward the man’s back, he jerked the bike with one arm, almost wiping out but avoiding impact. Her fingertips brushed his shoulders as she tumbled over the back of the bike and into the chain-link fence. As he exited, Alex caught the slightest glimpse of his profile in the harsh lighting from across the street. But it wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t be able draw him.

  A moment later, Jack was bent over and heaving for air next to her.

  And the hooded man was gone.

  Eleven

  Staring out at the ocean—teal blue as far as the eye could see—Draganic heard the landing gear kick into place. He turned his attention to the other side of the plane, where he could see Providenciales, the central city of the sprawling Turks and Caicos Islands. The descent had been so smooth that he hadn’t realized they were about to land.