The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  “Selling our own currency? Nonsense!” von Zeller snapped back. “People are buying francs in droves. Tell me, what is the average amount of currency we have sold monthly since you convinced the council to take this course of action?”

  Lory glanced at the notes on his desk, though he knew the answer down to the decimal. “Sixteen-point-nine billion francs per month. On average.”

  Shaking his head, von Zeller asked, “And this month?”

  After a long pause, Lory said, “Thirty-five billion.”

  “Quite a spike, yes? One that significantly raises our exposure to the spendthrifts around us.” Von Zeller turned to Greta, the minister of foreign affairs. “What is the likelihood that Italy defaults?”

  Greta leaned back in her chair. “After Greece, it is a matter of when.”

  “And when Italy defaults?” Von Zeller removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Greta said, “Spain goes, too. Maybe France.”

  “Regardless,” Klaus, the minister of home affairs, said, “exports comprise fifty percent of our gross national product. We need to have a cheap currency for people to buy our goods. I am still with Minister Lory on this.”

  “We have little choice,” Fuhr, the minister of economics, added. “We must keep our currency attainable, whether the euro crumbles or not. Minister Klaus is correct.”

  “And if there is no euro anymore?” Von Zeller tightened his brows.

  “Then Americans will buy our products. They account for almost forty percent of all pharmaceutical sales alone, and all Americans like Swiss watches,” Klaus answered. “Those two goods represent over half of our exports.”

  Turning back to Lory, von Zeller pursed his lips. “By selling our franc, precisely how many euros do we own now?”

  Lory said, “Three-hundred and seventy-nine billion euros, sir.”

  “Do we have any idea who is trading against us? Is it the US government? China? Who is so eager to make our franc so expensive?”

  The room fell silent. One by one, they turned to face the minister of justice and police. Von Zeller followed their gazes and settled on her, too.

  Eyes darting around, the minister raised her chin and said, “We have received reports that the Serbian Whale has entered the markets again.”

  Von Zeller sat forward. “Draganic?”

  “How is that possible? He is banned,” Klaus said.

  Lory tapped his desk with a pen. “The ban is only as strong as the securities and exchange commission of any country.”

  “Where is he?” von Zeller asked.

  The minister of police said, “We have heard he is in the Isle of Man. With purchases also coming from the Caribbean somewhere. Bahamas, maybe the Cayman Islands.”

  “We can prevail over him,” Klaus said, looking at Lory.

  “I am not so sure,” Greta said. “He is most likely using leverage, and could have a hundred billion at his disposal, maybe more. Remember what Soros did to pound sterling? We could suffer losses of a quarter of a trillion euros. Not to mention worldwide humiliation.”

  “I agree,” said the minister of defense with a stern nod.

  Sitting as tall as the high, leather-backed seat would allow, von Zeller swept his gaze across the room. He had their support; he could sense it. This would be over in a matter of minutes. “Then we put it back to a vote. A show of hands of those who would like to continue this nonsense of intervention. Shall we risk bankrupting our national bank? Destroy Switzerland’s unrivaled reputation in banking forever?”

  Put that way and only two types of people would raise a hand—an idiot or a fool.

  One by one, Lory, Klaus, and Fuhr raised their hands. Three of seven.

  But the others looked away.

  The intervention would be abandoned, and Draganic would win. But so be it. This insanity would end.

  Lory began to drop his hand, but then Janowitz, the minister of transportation and communications, the man who had yet to utter a single word in the meeting, cleared his throat. All six ministers turned to him.

  “I would rather go down fighting,” he said, raising his hand and giving the fourth and deciding vote.

  It turned out there could be a third type of supporter—the madman.

  Flopping back into his seat, von Zeller said, “Then we keep pace with the Whale. God help us all.”

  Eighteen

  “Nothing here.” Alex took a sip of coffee hot enough to use as a weapon, then placed it by the keyboard.

  “Nothing new, or at all?” Jack stood behind her as she scanned Agent Burke’s files in the basement floor of an Internet coffee shop called the Sacred Café. A Buddha statue wore a Santa cap across from her.

  They were on Ganton Street back near Hyde Park, Alex and Jack were one of two pairs of patrons in the basement; the other was huddled together on a leather double lounger and sharing a bowl-sized cup of tea. They looked cozy. They looked happy. Like Christmas was coming and they were worry free.

  Alex wondered what that felt like.

  “New,” she said. “MI5 is looking into it as a double murder, not a murder-suicide, no surprise. But the missing hand is confirmed.”

  “Do you reckon it was Edgar who killed them?”

  “No.” A knee-jerk answer, and one Alex truly believed, though she couldn't say why.

  Scrolling down the fifty-page document, she paused on the listed biographies of the deceased. The governor of the Isle of Man appeared to have had a solid marriage, though that could be faked. Yet there was no evidence of any impropriety going back the last five years.

  No evidence that the second man, Sid Oban, was anything more than a playboy, either. In fact, though he was a banker at IMB Securities in Douglas, Isle of Man’s capital, he was reportedly keeping multiple girlfriends in separate cities.

  For a politician and a banker, these guys were squeaky clean. The half-naked photo of them together was a plant, some sort of a cover-up staged by the murderer and most likely digitally fabricated. If this work had been done by an intelligence agent or agency, it would’ve included background evidence, plants of impropriety to cement the tale before it could be picked apart.

  Perhaps the plant was a last minute decision, a plan that hadn’t been fully contemplated or prepped?

  Alex turned to Jack. “How much do you know about the inner workings of the UK police and MI5?”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “As much as the average bloke, why?”

  “For one,” Alex said, glancing at the other couple and leaning closer to Jack, “why is Five overseeing this investigation? As I understand it, the Isle of Man maintains its own police and investigative forces.”

  “Perhaps they believed royal investigators were in order, on account of the involvement of a governor and all.”

  “But Burke is head of the terrorist unit at Five. This does not appear to be an act of terrorism.”

  “You have a point.” He pulled a seat over and sat next to her. Then he picked up her coffee, and Alex eyed him as he took a defiant sip.

  She turned back to the montage of crime scene photos, zeroing in on the banker’s arm with no hand. She thought of being unable to draw, unable to create. Her own hands began to tingle.

  “Have they surmised a connection to the café bombing?” Jack asked. “That would no doubt be overseen by the terrorism unit.”

  “Nothing in here on the café.” Alex scrolled down the screen again until she reached a list of Oban’s clients. She scanned each name, searching for any that stood out. She didn’t recognize anyone from her work with the Company, nor, racking her brain, any she could connect to her father or Moss.

  Leaning back, Alex placed her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. The pain from the shoulder wound throbbed, but not as much as her head.

  “Maybe you’re chasing the wrong rabbits.” Jack leaned in front of Alex and took her hand off the mouse. “Let me have a go.”

  She kept her eyes closed and heard him scrolling
the wheel up and down, but kept her eyes closed. After about a minute, he said, “Here’s something of interest.”

  Alex blinked her eyes open. Jack had his finger pressed to a name.

  “Zoran Draganic,” she said. “Sounds vaguely familiar. Who is he?”

  “Serbian money launderer who teamed with his brother during the war in Bosnia.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Article in The Economist a few months back.”

  “You read that magazine?”

  “I like the political cartoons.” He mocked her incredulity with a fake scowl. “Anyway, Draganic’s also known as the Serbian Whale. You may have heard of him.”

  “First time,” Alex muttered, picturing the suitcase of money Aaron had. “So … this is about hiding money?”

  “Serious business,” Jack pointed out, raiding her coffee again.

  “Would you like your own?” Alex said pointedly.

  Jack grinned. “I’m quite happy to share yours.”

  Alex took the coffee back before it was shared away to nothing. Tilting the cup toward Jack, she said, “Let’s say Draganic uses the Isle of Man banker to launder cash from some illicit business or businesses. He then has the banker killed to keep him quiet, but why the governor?”

  “Perhaps he was also cut in on the deal.”

  “Still doesn’t connect him directly to the bombing.” She leaned back again and glanced at Jack. “What else do you know about this Draganic guy?”

  He grimaced. “The Economist article tied him to human trafficking. Apparently he liked to take payment in the form of girls under the age of sixteen.”

  “Fucker.” No question where the two brothers would find their human goods for trade. It was well documented that Serbian war criminals used women and children as collateral damage in their terrorizing tactics of Bosnian villages in Yugoslavia. “And exactly how is Draganic out and about now?”

  “You can thank the Hague for that. The ICC dismissed all charges against him after his brother, a Serbian warlord in Bosnia, died in their custody under suspicious circumstances.” ICC stood for International Criminal Court, the justice system for war crimes.

  “Suspicious?”

  “With a wire around his neck.”

  “Lucky bastard.” Hanging by a wire was getting off easy for that guy. “And now Draganic is, what, free and clear?”

  “He’s apparently banned from trading securities, but still…the man’s not exactly penniless. Word has it, he shares his time between a mansion outside Gstaad and another in Dubrovnik.”

  Alex felt her pulse quicken and her neck become hot. Why the hell did these men always get away with treating women like possessions? Forget objectification, they were one goddamned step above slavery in most countries. In some, a significant step below.

  Jack sensed Alex’s building fury. He placed a hand on her arm and said, “Hold on now, one battle at a time, yes?”

  She took a deep breath, then another. She exhaled loudly, then turned back to the screen and redirected. She punched in a search for information about the shooting in Piccadilly yesterday with the twin motorcyclists. A dozen stories appeared, all with the same strange core storyline: a taxi robbery gone bad. A career spy, Alex understood the importance of controlling sensitive information. It wasn’t necessarily conspiracy, but the public didn’t need to know every damned thing, especially if it would compromise a mission.

  Yet cover-ups were difficult, expensive, and required a directive from very high up to tighten the dissemination of information.

  This one was above the atmosphere, U2 bomber airtight.

  Jack reached for her coffee again, and she grabbed his wrist without looking up. “One more sip and you’ll be the next one missing a hand.”

  Jack, a smart man, placed his palms up and stood. “You could have just said as much.”

  Alex smiled as he walked away, but continued studying the same wide-angle, long-range photo of the crime scene, and same square photo of the murdered taxi driver appeared in each paper. Furthermore, neither of the felled motorcyclists were identified—not as being American, or being Navy SEALs. And, of course, no mention of the passenger—Alex—at all.

  Not one eyewitness, even though she’d noticed at least three before passing out.

  So who’d hushed the story, the US, the UK, or both?

  After returning to Alex’s side, Jack stood silent, drinking his coffee as she explained what she’d found—or not found. He frowned. “I don’t suppose there’s a possibility of cross-referencing Oban’s list of clients with the names of Navy SEALs.”

  “Nope.” Alex cleared the cache and shut down the computer. “Let’s walk. Sometimes it helps shake something loose.”

  As they left the Sacred Café and walked down the block together, Alex wondered if she should just forget about the bombing and refocus on finding her father. Because that would be easy, she thought, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. Edgar had been gone for almost two decades, far away from DC, and likely in Europe, as this is where he’d popped up.

  He’d have various aliases, underground financial arrangements, and likely remained socially isolated to keep all of this safe. He’d want to be near an airport, too, for easy access and travel. A major metro would allow him to blend. But what else?

  No physical ailment or scar to compromise that, plain features. Exceptional intelligence. “The perfect deep spy,” she muttered to herself, thinking back to that last day with him and staring at the storefront ahead.

  Fishing is not something I do. It’s something I am.

  Jack turned, noting she had stopped. He raised a brow when he noted she was smiling as well. “Alex?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “How on earth is a fly-fishing shop to help us?”

  “Humor me,” Alex said, nodding for him to follow. The shop was called Fielders. It had a tobacco-stained wooden façade, cast-iron lettering, and store hours listed on the glass door. Dark inside, the shop was empty of customers. The air was hot but damp, and smelled like a mix of Earl Grey tea and gear oil. A small space, the entire store consisted of two aisles, one holding rods and the other displaying flies, lines, and other smaller items. An ancient, steel cash register the size of a outboard motor and littered with yellow sticky notes sat on a glass case full of antique and new fly reels.

  “Hello?” Alex called out.

  A petite, elderly woman emerged from the rear of the shop, holding nail-clipper-sized hackle pliers, used for tying flies. She walked with her head tilted to one side, her body the other. “Good evening. May I help you?”

  “I was wondering if you could give me some advice, help me find a fishing spot.”

  She eyed Alex. “What sort of spot?”

  Alex glanced back at Jack, who raised his eyebrows at her as she said, “I’ve been there before, but it was a long time ago.”

  “Very well.” Frowning, she walked to the counter and placed the tool on the glass. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Alex thought about the day they’d spent there, the atmosphere, the feelings, as she searched for any details that would distinguish the place. She remembered they had stayed in a hotel in the city, and had wandered a bit then stopped for lunch on their way to the stream.

  This is why trout get caught, Alex. They have patterns.

  “I believe it was an hour’s drive from the city on a weekday, but that was a number of years ago. Anyway, the small stream ran clear as gin, with white rocks at the bottom and tall grass on the banks.”

  “Obviously a chalk stream,” she said, “so west of London, maybe Berkshire or Dorset, but I’ll need a bit more than that.”

  “Why don’t you show the picture, love?” Jack called from the front.

  “You have a photo, then?”

  “Of sorts.” Alex took out her sketchbook and flipped through the first pages until she came to it. The setting she had drawn over a hundred times from every thinkable angle. This was her favori
te, though, the clear stream with milky bottom winding between fields of tall grass and off into the distance. It was a peaceful, good memory. Until this week.

  Turning the book for the shop owner to see, Alex watched her eyes.

  Jack walked closer and peered over Alex’s shoulder at the drawing.

  “Well, this could be anywhere in the country,” the woman said, bending to study the drawing. “Was there anything else about? Special houses, or maybe bridges?”

  “There was a mill, red brick, just behind a bridge. Here.” Alex pointed to the front part of the drawing.

  Waving a hand, the woman said, “I’ll need more than that. Must be dozens of mills along the chalk streams. And bridges—could be hundreds.”

  “Perhaps you should draw her another view,” Jack said.

  “This is a drawing?” The woman snatched the book. “I thought it was a photograph.”

  Flipping the pages, she said, “My God, it’s fantastic. You drew all of these?”

  “I did.”

  Jack winked at Alex as the woman continued, “Well, I wouldn’t have taken you for an artist. You look nothing like one.”

  “No?”

  “You’re much too healthy and have beautiful skin.” The woman continued leafing through the book. Obviously not the starving type.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  Jack pointed at the sketches. “Do you have some paper? A large sheet, maybe?”

  “In fact, I do. I’d love to see you have a go at it,” the woman said enthusiastically. She held out a hand. “I’m Rebecca, by the by.” She pointed a crooked finger at the front door. “Fielder, that is.”

  “Great little shop,” Alex said, reaching to shake her hand but stopping, noticing a tiny fly, a nymph, hooked into Rebecca’s thumb. She pointed at it. “Did you realize…?”

  Rebecca gave a throaty laugh. “Happens all the time. Not as nimble as I once was. Come on.”

  Rebecca showed them to the back room, where she cleared off the fly-tying station and laid down a large piece of paper. “It’s only packing paper, but the sheets are quite large.”