The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  If Alex confirmed his knowledge, it would not only be a direct and severe violation of her signed agreement, it would also put him in danger … more danger. He’d been seen with her in public. On the other hand, Alex had been left out in the cold. Moss knew she was here and some of what had happened, but still hadn’t initiated contact. She had been effectively orphaned by the CIA while Jack had saved her life.

  Alex was still tempted to weave an explanation. She had plenty of rabbit trails to send him on, tangle him up in.

  She eased her gaze back up to Jack’s and held his stare.

  He didn’t blink.

  She said, “It’s what I was built to do.”

  He nodded, held the stare for a while, and then looked away.

  Alex waited for the onslaught of questions.

  “When did you learn you could draw?”

  Exhaling slowly, she resumed detailing. “The same year my parents died—or...when they were gone—my best friend moved, and I spent a lot of hours alone. Drawing became a kind of therapy for me.”

  “The sketches of the river.”

  “The first of hundreds of that day, yes.”

  Alex concentrated on the drawing. If not for that, she wasn’t sure she could have this conversation at all. Yet by the time she finished the last of the details, she was still calm, and she leaned back to inspect her work.

  “May I have a look now?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Alex worked for a few more minutes in silence and he said, “Now?”

  She made a face as she reviewed her work.

  “That’s it, I’m having a look.” He hopped to his feet and hurried across the office, leaned over her. He stopped and pulled back. “What on earth?”

  She turned just enough to see his face above hers.

  He glanced around the room, then pointed at the sketch. “That’s not—”

  She raised her eyebrows, tilted up her chin as she watched him study the scene, Jack leaning to Alex, their reflections in the glass of the French doors, the sea-aged building beyond them, across the canal.

  He said, “Venice.”

  They’d made love for days.

  He leaned further as he studied the details and textures. “It’s magnificent. Just like yesterday.”

  “Sometimes it feels that way.”

  “Incredible.” Jack pulled back, turned his attention to Alex. He held her gaze as he then leaned forward. His kiss met Alex right in the middle. She wavered, then rose and they joined hands, ending up back at the sofa. He pulled away and stroked his strong fingers along her body as he moved lower, slipping off her panties and tasting her breasts. Just long enough to tease Alex. She tugged the robe open, ready to make new memories.

  Slowly, traced his fingers over the eagles on her ribs. “Will you tell me about this now?”

  Alex gave him a look of you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  He smiled. “Right, then. Later it is.”

  Then he hooked an arm around her lower back, and careful of her shoulder, eased Alex onto the sofa. When he leaned in to kiss her this time, she kissed him back, hard and full, and pressed up against him from below. Then Jack’s legs widening hers and he took Alex whole, for all she really was, somehow making her a little more of who she wanted to be.

  She cried out again, and this time, it was from pleasure.

  Fourteen

  Draganic woke to raindrops pattering against the bedroom window. Typical weather for Dubrovnik this time of year. It kept the tourists away, all but clearing the restaurants and shops for the residents’ benefit.

  Climbing from the bed as quietly as he could, so as to not wake Lulia, he grabbed his cell phone and checked for messages, but there were none. Mildly irritating, as he should have heard from Lockard by now. Draganic noticed Lulia’s phone on the side table, next to the empty bottle of Russian Standard Imperia vodka.

  Had she taken photos of them last night, having sex?

  He tried to search the phone but it was locked with a code, so he set it back down.

  Pulling his robe tight over his belly, Draganic slipped the sheathed Sea Shark into his robe pocket—one could never be too paranoid, even in one’s own house. Then he walked down the limestone stairs, across the house, and into the sprawling kitchen that was equipped with enough wares to service a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  Too bad Natasha could only cook cabbage soup.

  After pouring himself a triple espresso, Draganic continued down the hall to the office. With a view of the red clay rooftops to the right and the blue-green ocean to the left, the desk had been named by the Robb Report as “one of the single best office seats in all of Croatia.” But Draganic had no interest in views today, only news. He had half-heard something on the radio while riding home in the limousine last night, and was curious about the report.

  Settling into the tall leatherback seat, Draganic slid the Sea Shark onto the desk and pulled the keyboard to him. He logged into his RSS newsfeed and read the headlines. Nothing about it in the international news, so he clicked on his UK feed.

  His heart rate jumped and he had to put the espresso down.

  The headline from the Financial Times read, “Treasury Minister and Banker Found Dead in Isle of Man.” Draganic clicked open the article and read about the suspected murder-suicide, and the possible romantic relationship between the banker and the Treasury minister. He didn’t care about that. He cared only about the banker’s name.

  Sid Oban.

  Draganic’s banker.

  He opened and read as many of the stories as he could, skimming the content, though they all said essentially the same thing—both men were found dead at the bottom of a cliff of the Treasury minister’s estate, a few meters from the ocean. The last one, though, added another detail that made Draganic’s heart race even faster. The journalist reported a rumor: The police had cordoned off the area because they were looking for a missing body part.

  Realizing he was holding his breath, Draganic opened another browser window and picked up the espresso. His hand shook as he brought the now lukewarm drink to his lips. He quickly keyed in the search and scrolled down, looking for news rags like the Sun or the Daily Mail. When he found one, he clicked it open and read as fast as he could. Halfway through the article, Draganic saw it.

  Oban was found with one hand missing.

  He gasped and dropped the espresso onto the keyboard, spilling it all over the new white computer and his robe.

  “Yebeni kuchkin sin!” he yelled, and in an involuntary reaction, he unsheathed the Sea Shark and drove the knife into the center of the keyboard, splintering it in half and sending keys and plastic shrapnel across the stone floor.

  Leaving the knife embedded in the huge wooden desk, Draganic pushed from his seat and paced the room, window to wall, wall to window.

  How the hell did he do that?

  Why the hell did he do that?

  And the answers to both were obvious.

  How? Lockard could steal the goddamn queen’s tiara diamond ring right off her goddamn finger. In her bed, with the guards watching, for goddamn sakes!

  And why? Greed, pure and simple. To cut Draganic out. Lockard had the key and Draganic had to find him. He needed to get that key back.

  But locating Lockard would be problematic at best. Draganic could finance a search, but money wasn’t enough to get this job done.

  Calming as he paced, Draganic realized something that made him feel better. No, it made him feel good. Because any way you sliced it, and one could take that literally in this case, Lockard only had half of the key.

  Draganic held the other half.

  Smiling, he eased back into the seat and pried the Sea Shark from the desk. He was thankful he had instructed Randeep to initiate the trading, essentially firing the first shot. And then the second, initiating the secret transfer of capital to the new account in Turks & Caicos. Shrewd moves in the face of conflict. Because with money—especially money like this�
��a battle always ensued.

  And this battle, he thought, spinning the knife in his hands, had just escalated to war.

  Moss woke to the buzzing of his cell phone on the side table. His first thought was, Where the hell am I? And his second, after figuring it out, Did I remember to close the strong room?

  With a jet-lag headache brewing, he reached over and picked up the phone.

  Grant.

  “A bit early,” Moss answered.

  “News for you, old boy. Not sure if it’s good or bad.”

  “Go on.” Moss sat up and rubbed his neck.

  “Just received word from a friend at Five.”

  MI5, the domestic branch of British intelligence, equivalent to the FBI. Moss eased his legs over the bed and stood.

  Grant continued, “Seems a few of your Benjamin Franklins have landed right here in London. They were in the flat owned by the man we found at the Canary Wharf construction site.”

  Damn. Moss cradled the phone to his ear with one shoulder while he slipped into a robe. The same exact robe as those found in The Peninsula Hotels across the world, save the emblem.

  “You still there, Bill?”

  “When?” Moss asked.

  “An hour ago. But that’s not the finest point. The man found in the wharf was connected to our own café bombing. He delivered the damn piano. I’d say there’s a storm brewing your way, ol’ boy.”

  More like a tsunami, Moss thought. “How much?”

  “One sleeve, ten thousand. We found it in the chap’s sports locker. Seems he was a weekend cricketer. Not half bad, from what I hear.”

  “Do you have the cash?”

  “I’m staring at it.”

  Holding the back of his head—maybe too much scotch last night, if that was even possible—Moss said, “And the containment?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s under wraps. I’ve had Five place a mum order all the way down to the shields.” Grant meant even the police were to keep it quiet. That would hold off the press. For now.

  “I owe you, Peter.”

  “So you’re letting me keep the stash?”

  “I’ll come for it this afternoon.”

  “Sore sport. See you then.” He hung up.

  What a damn mess, Moss thought, as he tightened his robe and headed downstairs. With all the noise this was causing, he could soon find himself on the wrong side of a Congressional panel.

  If he ever ventured back into the United States, that was.

  After rounding the corner of the oak stairwell on the main floor, Moss took a single step into the great room and almost screamed.

  “Jesus H,” Moss said, glancing at the alarm panel on the wall. The red light was shining solid, the alarm still armed. Yet sitting in the tall Elizabethan armchair in the far corner of the room, hands folded in his lap, wearing a suit with no tie, was Evan Lockard. “How the hell—?”

  “You overpaid for the system.”

  Straightening his robe, Moss said, “What are you doing here?”

  Lockard squinted at Moss.

  Moss’s stomach tightened, and he wished he had his Beretta Cougar on him, but why would he? He was in the goddamned safe house. His heart began to thump so loudly he thought Lockard would hear it.

  Then Moss pulled it the fuck together.

  He was a deputy director of the CIA, for God’s sake. The mere idea of feeling threatened by one of his own foot soldiers was absurd. Besides, Moss was bigger than Lockard by a solid twenty pounds, he’d say. Taking a step forward, he thrust out his chin. “I asked what you are doing here.”

  Lockard raised his own chin. “Why did you intervene?”

  Mind spinning to catch up to the thought—he hadn’t had a cup of coffee yet—Moss stood there, puzzled. “With what?”

  “The Winters. You told them about the delivery. The handoff, so to speak.” He smiled at his elementary joke. “Why?”

  About to cross his arms, Moss stopped himself. That would be a physical display of uneasiness, of insecurity. He dropped his hands into the robe’s pockets and leaned against the tall stone fireplace mantel instead. He shrugged. “Insurance.”

  Lockard nodded, nice and slow. “So now you have the key?”

  Half true. Edgar had the key, but Moss was working on that. “I do.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Staring him down, Moss decided to put Lockard on the defensive instead. “And the bombing? I would say nice touch, except it was idiotic.”

  Lockard frowned while nodding. “Or maybe it kept the Yard off our trail, looking at dignitaries and motives for assassination, rather than the pedestrian killing of a Royal Air Force pilot.”

  Lockard half turned away.

  Then, in an almost superhuman move, so fast Moss couldn’t even get his hands out of his pockets, Lockard was on him—stripping off the robe’s belt, winding it around Moss’s neck, over the iron sconce, pulling him up, off the floor. Hanging him.

  With his robe gaping open, his willy dangling free, Moss flailed at the makeshift noose.

  “You sonofa—”

  Eyes wide, his body twisting against the wall, gulping for air, Moss watched Lockard climb up the mantel and take a sword off the wall.

  “I’ll kill—” Moss’s head slammed against the stone. “Help.”

  Standing before him, Lockard unsheathed the sword. He held it out, inches from Moss’s groin.

  Moss twisted, turning against the wall, but that only made the noose tighter. “Help,” he tried to yell, but all that came was a raspy whisper.

  Lockard reached up and took hold of Moss’s right hand. He placed it on the mantel.

  “Tell me where Edgar’s safe house is.”

  “I don’t know—” Moss tried to pull away but it was futile.

  Lockard pressed Moss’s hand tighter and raised the sword. “Then I’ll make my own key.”

  “Wait. Wait.” Moss blinked, his eyes tearing up.

  Lockard paused, sword high over his head. “Yes?”

  Staring at the blade, so dull it would probably shatter the bones right up to his elbow, Moss opened his mouth. His arms had begun to tingle and his head felt like a balloon full of blood. A few more seconds and it would pop. He managed to wheeze the address from his throat.

  Nodding, Lockard raised the sword a few inches higher.

  Moss’s sphincter clenched.

  Lockard swung, slicing through the terry belt and dropping Moss to the floor.

  Gasping, Moss rubbed his throat and watched Lockard re-sheath the sword, exit the room. Moss felt the warmth spread from his groin as Lockard tripped the deafening alarm on the way out.

  Fifteen

  The Tube ride on the Victoria line to Kings Cross and then the Piccadilly line to Arsenal took about twenty minutes. It had begun to snow, but only flurries, and when Alex and Jack crossed white-railed bridge aboveground, they fell into a growing crowd of fans. Tits-up blitzed before the first kick, Alex thought, being jostled by fans yelling and singing, an entire drunken chorus making their way into the stadium.

  Jack pressed close to Alex in the growing chaos, scanning the left side as she studied the right. The silence between them was knowing, they were both satisfied by their morning interlude, but also smart enough not to take it for more than it was. Not this time. Still, she couldn’t help wondering what was going through his mind. Whether he was thriving on the adrenaline of all this or really trying to get close to her again.

  Nothing like a near-death experience to make someone realize how much they’d missed you.

  Funneling between two life-size cannons in the street’s median, they entered the fan shop called The Armoury and bought sweatshirts, hats, and scarves, all in bright red Arsenal colors. They kept the sweatshirts under their buttoned coats, and the hats and scarves tucked into their pockets. The last item Alex bought was a rayon Arsenal flag. This little number would come in handy when the meeting was finished.

  For now, they looked like soccer fans with no affiliation,
exactly what she wanted.

  Enormous murals of heroic players, locked arm in arm, adorned the outside of the stadium, wide and tall, all glittering glass and steel. Alex showed the Amanda Carr ID at the Match Day window, and then they entered the stadium in a river of fans rushing through floor-to-ceiling turnstiles. Inhaling deeply the scent of beer, minced beef, and sausage—footballer’s pheromones—she nodded at the tenth yellow-jacketed policeman in about as many feet.

  “All set?” she asked Jack.

  It wasn’t too complicated. They had four tickets: two separate singles and one set of seats together. Alex and Jack would start out in the single seats a few sections apart from each other, watching and waiting. Then Jack would go take one of the paired seats, where Wainscott would be waiting. Alex figured Wainscott also would have bought a couple of extra seats and scoped out the scene before halftime. Only question was who she’d bring as backup.

  Jack winked. “At the ready.”

  Alex said, “Just remember, wait until three minutes into the second half to switch seats. And only if Wainscott is already there.”

  Looking around, he said, “Got it.”

  “And leave immediately after I signal.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t hesitate.”

  He stopped looking around, put a hand on her shoulder, and stared down at her. “Alex. I’m quite capable, trust me.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned and casually weaved his way into the stream of fans entering the stands. Just another fan at a football game.

  Microchip salesman, my ass, Alex thought, narrowing her eyes.

  Alex headed in the opposite direction to enter the stands directly across from the pair of seats waiting for Wainscott and Jack. A dusting of snow covered the field, but was being trampled away by the practicing players. Alex’s section had broken into a slurred version of “The Greatest Team,” Arsenal’s song. She settled into her seat and located Jack with a glance. He, too, was surrounded by Arsenal fans, some dressed in the team’s red jerseys, and some in coats. His charcoal jacket blended in fine.