The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  One of the many reasons he loved this plane.

  Smooth and sleek as a Bentley limousine, the Boeing Business Jet boasted details like teakwood tables and Italian leather seats, plus a fully stocked wet bar, a king-sized bedroom, a mosaic-tiled shower, and a drop-down, eighty-inch movie screen.

  It was considered the private sector’s version of Air Force One.

  His wife, Natasha, had chosen to sit in the living room at the rear of the jet and ignore him. With dark leather recliners, walnut furnishings, and Afghan rugs, it was the area Draganic liked best. By sitting in his favorite recliner, Natasha was showing her unending defiance.

  Some sort of payback for the recent tabloid exposé, he figured.

  After a quick deplaning on the tarmac at Providenciales International Airport, and while the pilots took care of the Customs nonsense, Draganic and Natasha were seated in the rented SUV to take them to their respective destinations. Natasha would be dropped at the docks then whisked off to the resort by boat, while Draganic would continue on in the SUV to meet with his bankers at the Royal Turks Bank, a few safe miles away.

  While they were on Leeward Highway, the ocean scent hit full blast and filled Draganic’s veins like a narcotic. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply.

  Natasha said, “I would like you to close the windows and use the air coolers.”

  “You like the ocean,” Draganic said.

  “This land is ugly.”

  He had to admit, if he hadn’t been to the Parrot Cay resort himself once before, he would have thought the same. They passed a large building with a sign that read TOWN CENTER MALL. The blocky concrete structure held smaller signs that bled dark orange and brown rust down the lighthouse’s sides. They looked like shit stains.

  “Buy some jewelry,” he said. “It will make you feel better.”

  She crossed her arms, tightened her brows to match her pouting lips, and turned her gaze to the window.

  When the car slid to a stop in a gravel parking lot in front of a one-room building, the waiting house for guests taking a private boat shuttle to the resort, Natasha opened the door and exited without a word.

  Ten minutes later, the driver navigated Draganic to his meeting.

  The headquarters for the Royal Turks Bank, with its white stucco walls, pale green shutters, and red clay roof, was less impressive than those in the Caymans that boasted tall steel structures with black tinted glass and armed guards. The Turks Bank place looked like a daily workforce building. But Draganic knew better; inside was one of the richest banks in all the region.

  As Draganic exited the SUV, a black man in a dark suit hustled from the building to receive him. Inside, Harold Knell, a small man with patches of freckles and red hair, escorted Draganic to a long glass conference room with a view of smaller buildings and white-sand beaches. Closing the door, Knell said, “We have missed you here at the Royal Turks Bank, Mr. Draganic. We are glad to have you back.”

  Draganic looked past the man. “Yes. Yes, I am glad, too.”

  “We have reviewed all the documents and everything should be in perfect order. We’ll just need some signatures for finalization.” Translation: no red tape to trip over or choke you.

  They completed the paperwork before finishing a single cup of black coffee, and Draganic couldn’t help but remark at how easy it had become to move money around the world.

  Once it had been entered into the virtual banking system, that was.

  “One more thing,” Draganic said. He explained a proposal for the bank. A deposit, of sorts.

  Knell stared back at him. “We have done this for you before, of course.”

  “Yes, I’d like to do it for a separate account. Private.”

  He meant hidden. Contrary to Hollywood depiction, discreet banks didn’t do numbered accounts anymore. They did something called virtual banking. Like a black market for banking, the virtual system kept money hidden from governments and officials. No taxes, no extra fees, no sanctions for improper accounting, or declaration of assets. A necessity for a man like Draganic.

  “There would be a fee. How much are you planning to move?”

  “About five times the amount of last time.”

  Knell fell back in his seat. It wasn’t often that one could surprise a banker with the size of a deposit, so Draganic smiled.

  “That would be a one-time charge of about ten million.”

  Draganic stood. “You’ll have the deposits by Christmas.”

  “Three days?”

  “Perhaps sooner.”

  Knell gave him a handshake that was so warm, Draganic thought the man would crawl right into his lap.

  Draganic returned to the waiting SUV, and directed the driver back to the airport.

  “Don’t you wish to go to Parrot Cay?”

  “Not this time.”

  Ten minutes later, when Draganic boarded the plane, he was pleasantly surprised to see Lulia, the Romanian flight attendant who had all but avoided him on the flight out.

  “You are still here,” he said.

  She stood and smiled. “I am hoping this is of your agreement.”

  He shrugged out of his suit coat, letting it fall into her hands. “And the pilot?”

  “He should soon be returning.” She hung the jacket near the galley.

  Draganic corrected, “He should return soon.” Then he walked to her and stopped, inches from her modest chest. She smelled like body powder and boiled kolbász, and she moved like a ballerina with fluid and wide footsteps. A true Eastern Euro. “How old are you,” he asked.

  She stood a little taller as she said, “Twenty.”

  Draganic looked her over. Lulia was too old to continue in the Romanian ballet companies, but still quite delectable. He raised his brow and gave her a knowing smirk. “And the truth?”

  Lulia blushed, turned her eyes away. “Eighteen.”

  “Even better,” he said. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the office.

  As they stepped inside, she reached up and touched his face, let her hand linger behind his ear, and down his neck. And with a finger, she traced the long rope of a scar.

  Draganic froze.

  She whispered, “Not to worry. I like it.”

  Draganic eyed her.

  She said, “For real. It shows you are of strength. You have suffered through the battles. I respect this in a man.”

  He said, “And you have kept your skin white and pure. I like this in a girl.”

  She smiled. “Tell me, how did you get this one?” She cupped the scar with her hand now.

  Draganic stared down at her. Contemplated his answer and decided on the truth. Why not?

  He said, “I was a boy. Seven and one half years old. A lesson I would keep with me for eternity.”

  Lulia’s eyebrows creased and she tilted her head. “An accident?”

  Draganic said, “I was teasing my brother, placing the poker in the fire and then jabbing at him with it. And I accidentally hit him, in the arm. It gave him a small burn, but one he would carry forever. A scar. My mother immediately saw what had happened. She took the poker from me, placed it in the fire until it glowed red.”

  Lulia stiffened.

  “And then she struck me across the head with it.”

  Lulia put her hand to her mouth and then back on Draganic’s face. “I am so sorry. You were just a child, you didn’t—”

  “After she treated me with the oils and the wrapping, she patted my head and told me to go play.”

  Lulia stood still, mouth open. Perhaps it was too much of a story for her.

  Draganic patted Lulia’s hands and said, “It is OK. This happened many years ago.”

  Finally, she said. “Show me how I can make it feel better.”

  Draganic smiled. That was more like it. “Come.”

  He walked to the desk and picked up the phone. Dialing the cell number, he sat down in the chair.

  Lulia shut the door and walked over to him.

  Draganic took
her hand, lowering her. She turned to sit in his lap, but he shook his head and pulled her down further until she was kneeling before him.

  As the phone began to ring, he took Lulia’s hand and guided it to his zipper.

  She tugged it open as he said, “Natasha?”

  Draganic listened to the nonsense coming from his wife’s mouth as he filled Lulia’s. All he said was, “I will go to Gstaad in two days and send the plane back for you.”

  He dropped the phone on the desk, and ignored it as it immediately began to buzz. Instead, he took Lulia’s small head in both his hands and helped her make it better.

  Lockard pulled the motorcycle into the private garage, switched it off, and sat in the darkness.

  Alex-fucking-Winter.

  Rubbing the lump on his jawbone, Lockard laughed. Who knew she was a lefty?

  Lockard shook his head at the irony of it all. The first time he’d seen her was at the funeral, and like her, he’d been just a child. They’d both mourned the loss of parents that day while Moss stood with a wall of intelligence officers, pretending he was worthy of honor. The memory had faded, though, along with the pain. Lockard had tucked it away deep inside and let it sit alone ever since.

  Memories were like that. They resided in a vast forest, and you had to locate them regularly in order to remember their locations. The more you accessed, the easier they were to find. Like trampled paths in forest brush, the trails to their bedding became automatic, rote. And the ones you didn’t access? Well, they eventually became lost in a tangle of growth. Still there, but almost impossible to find.

  He should have anticipated Alex Winter being smart enough to track down Aaron. Winter came from a family of spies and knew damn well what she was doing. Maybe she was even working with Edgar. Lockard should have killed her tonight.

  Pushed her right off the lip, like Aaron.

  But then the other man had appeared. Unable to get a solid look at his face in the shadows, Lockard only caught a glimpse. Not enough to identify him.

  Both of them had obviously taken more than the typical Company training of tae kwon do and muay Thai, and had clearly learned some sort of judo or maybe kung fu, as well. Between the two of them, they’d used just about every technique in just a few quick exchanges.

  The woman had also caused him to lose one of his favorite pistols, an HK45 Tactical; good thing he had two more just like it inside the house. The best news was that they had most likely not identified him, so Lockard still had the edge. He could stay in the shadows for now. Maybe she would even lead him to Edgar. And because Aaron had royally fucked up the simplest of handoffs, Edgar still had the key.

  Lockard needed that key.

  He knew exactly who would lead him back to Alex Winter, and maybe Edgar. Like small grease fires, they were threatening and would be messy to clean up, but he couldn’t let them smolder. They could take the whole house down. Sure, there was a bounty waiting for Lockard—large enough to be more than a mere distraction—but right now, he needed to focus on the battle. He couldn’t let anything get in the way of that.

  Not even the money.

  He stood, unstrapped the briefcase, and unlocked the door leading to his flat. Speaking of money, he had some more to burn.

  Literally.

  Twelve

  Alex needed a drink.

  She convinced Jack to stop at a pub located in Canning Town, a small neighborhood wedged between the docks and an urban hospital. The place was called the Nag’s Loaf Tavern, and sat across the street from a building labeled South Canning Town Detached Youth Project. With black steel bars covering the first and second-floor windows, and roll-down, dented steel doors, the building looked more like a prison than a youth center.

  Considering that, and the three other patrons, two of whom had more chins than teeth, Alex figured the bartender had seen people in worse shape than her in his tenure. Still, she’d torn the surgical stitches from her shoulder in the fight with the hooded man, and it looked like she’d been shot.

  Again.

  Jack convinced the bartender to give them a few of his extra towels, which he tied tight against the wound to stem the bleeding.

  The sole waitress approached their table and tossed a couple of cardboard coasters in front of them. Probably younger than Alex, but living hard enough to look decades older. She stared Alex up and down as she said, “You can order yourself a pint of ale, but that’s all.”

  The other patrons all stood and yelled at the soccer game on a television above the bar. Two of them pushed each other, and one of them fell into the table, almost spilling his beer.

  “It’s a replay, you plonkers!” the waitress yelled back at them. “You already know how it ends.”

  One of the men waved her off and stumbled back into the booth.

  “How about a pint of bitter?” Jack asked.

  She turned back, saying, “Aye, we can do that.” She pointed at Alex’s shoulder. “What I’m sayin’ is, she needs to stay where she is. I don’t need no John Thomases going off and bleeding all over the loo. Just gave it a bish bash bosh.”

  “Bish bash?”

  “Wash,” Jack said, leaning toward Alex.

  The waitress stood there with a smirk.

  Of course, she was speaking Cockney. Alex said, “It looks worse than it is.”

  “Wouldn’t give a Kate Moss if you were dying. Just don’t up ‘n do it in there. Understand?”

  Couldn’t give a toss, couldn’t give a damn. Right.

  “Toss,” Jack whispered.

  “Shut up,” Alex whispered back. She scanned the bar and brightened to see her favored small-batch gin on the shelf. “Hendricks with a splash of soda.”

  The waitress nodded and walked off.

  Jack squinted at her. “How is it, really?”

  “Kind of feels like I’ve been stabbed with an ice pick.”

  He sat back. “I should have gone in earlier.”

  “You shouldn’t have come up at all.”

  “You’ve escaped a bombing, been shot at, then attacked in high-rise construction site. By my count you’ve only six lives left.”

  “Are you comparing me to a house cat?”

  “More like a snow leopard, I’d say.”

  “A powerful, highly intelligent hunter. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Don’t forget stunning to look at. Those grey-blue eyes.” He placed his hand over hers and left it there. The warmth felt good. She had missed him and was glad he was with her now.

  She said, “So where did you learn the kickboxing? Or was it muay Thai? Fairly impressive.”

  He winced. “It’s actually a technique known as Savate. A martial art devised by the French.”

  She raised her eyebrows for more. From what she’d heard, Savate was a gritty technique born from French street-fighting that used violent kicks as the basis for both offense and defense.

  He continued, “I’ve joined something of a club in Paris. When in Rome and all that...”

  She considered the answer and almost remarked at just how good he’d gotten so quickly, but decided she didn’t need to feed his ego any more after she’d asked him to stay put and he’d ignored her.

  After a minute of silence, he finally said, “So you know, I spoke with Hanna. She’s taking a holiday and has offered use of her flat while she’s away.”

  Alex gave him a sidelong glance and said, “Okay.” Then she watched the TV soccer game absentmindedly as she thought about Aaron and the briefcase, then wondered how the hooded man was connected to Edgar. Obviously, they both wanted the case. Aaron had said ‘he’ had gotten to it first. Was the hooded man an agent, too?

  I’ll pay you back, Aaron had said. I tried to get it.

  As if reading her thoughts, Jack said, “The man with the hood stuffed the piano with explosives for Chef Guy. Aaron delivered it.”

  Not bad, but Jack didn’t have to know about her father or her job with the CIA…not that being an insider had given Alex an
y sort of edge. She wondered if she should find a way to check in with Deputy Director Moss. She doubted he knew all this was going on, and if he did, Alex was pissed he hadn’t clued her in a little better. Compartmentalization of information was sometimes necessary to protect the agent but this time it could get her killed.

  Spinning the coaster on its edge, she said, “So the first million, the case of cash there tonight—that was half the payoff for planting the explosives.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Alex leaned back in the booth. “That’s a hell of a large sum for that kind of job.”

  “Makes you wonder about the end game.”

  Right. “And so Aaron was to pick up the second suitcase the night of the explosion and give it to the man with the hood.”

  “But your father beat him to it.”

  But why? If Alex knew who the hell he was working for, then she could have a handle on that answer.

  “Any idea where he could be living?” Jack asked.

  She squeezed her eyes closed. “Jack, I didn’t even know he was alive until yesterday.”

  Before he could respond, the waitress brought their drinks. Cold and satisfying, the Hendricks unfolded with rose petals, a hit of cucumber, and a bite at the end. It felt like home. She held the cold glass to her head.

  Standing over them but glaring out the window, the waitress said, “It’s taters in the mold outside, ain’t it?”

  Jack nodded, then whispered to her, “Rhymes with --”

  “Cold,” she said, taking a good gulp of her drink. “I got it.”

  One Tooth called out to the waitress. “Hey, Mona, fancy you bringing us another round a Sammy Oaties.”

  She nodded back at them. “Right up your arse if you keep on with the yelling!” She turned to them. “They think Bart’ll give ’em tickets if they keep coming here. They got another think coming.”

  “Bart?”

  “The keeper.” She nodded at the bartender. “His brother works in the ticket office for Arsenal. Bart’s right popular around here. Attracts a lot of battle cruisers.” She nodded back at the three buffoons and walked off.