Tempted to set the record straight with the ignorant fool, Moss bit his tongue and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I trust this will no longer be a problem, then?”
Not for me, Moss thought, but maybe for you. He said, “Not at all, sir. It’ll be resolved by Christmas.”
“Ah, yes. That’d be a nice present for you, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, go find that money. Let’s get reelected.”
Twenty-Nine
Pulling her overcoat tight, Alex entered the designated meeting spot called The Queen’s Ransom pub and was surprised to see it packed. She supposed the storm gave people a reason to forgo a commute in favor of a pint or two, or—from the late hour and sound of the crowd—maybe three or four. Not expecting Edgar to show himself, Alex scanned the crowd for signs of a contact, someone to either tell her where he was or take her to him. Nobody stood out to her.
She weaved through the suits and tucked herself at the corner of the server’s station, resting an elbow on the rubber mat atop the bar. A middle-aged waiter wearing a suit one full size too big looked at her elbow then the bar and back to the elbow.
Perhaps Alex was in his way. She placed her other elbow next to the first and clasped her hands together as she blinked back at him a few times.
He rolled his eyes and barked an order at the bartender, filled his tray with frothy pints, and strode off.
Guess he wasn’t Edgar’s contact.
Leaning into the bar, Alex ordered a Hendricks gin, splash of soda. The bartender nodded with a frown.
She watched him pour her drink, the photos from her father’s house flashing in her mind. She imagined Edgar standing to the side in each of them, hidden from Alex, maybe even cheering her on in silence.
She wished she’d known he was there.
Alex shook the images from her head and took a drink the moment the bartender set down the glass.
Better.
Done with the sudden onset of daddy issues, Alex pulled out her sketchbook and a few pencils then focused her mind as she worked on the likeness of Evan Lockard. The image of him standing beside the Range Rover, knee deep in the freezing water, came quickly and in vivid detail. The deep-set dark eyes, the wide and flat nose, the square jaw. The man’s intelligence was hidden behind that hard facade. So was his hatred. But her goal was to give the sketch no bias. She could not infect the image with her own emotions or knowledge of the man. The portrait would only be useful if it was accurate and untarnished.
She finished the details of the shoulders and the man’s stance, but left out the background, kept it blank. As she modulated the final shadows of the man’s features, the bartender leaned over and said, “Well done. That’s talent.”
“Thanks.”
While shaking a cocktail strainer, he said, “Deep Cover is playing downstairs.” He paused in making the drink and stared up at her. “The lead is not half bad. You may want to have a look.”
Alex peered over the crowd and the bartender tilted his head. “In the corner.”
She looked back at him. He nodded and moved off.
Her cue?
Alex paid for the drink and weaved through the suits, which had somehow multiplied. In the far corner of the pub, a line of people had formed at a doorway with a neon sign saying The Drop-In above it. At the edge of the doorway, behind a red silk rope, stood an enormous bald man. He looked like an albino bull.
Figuring Edgar would have arranged for her to bypass the line, Alex approached the bull.
“Name?” he asked without moving his mouth a centimeter.
She started to say Alex but quickly corrected herself. “Amanda Carr.”
The bull eyed her and then looked at his curved smartphone. It was so small in his hand, it looked like a potato chip. He scrolled the screen with the tip of a pinky, a delicate move for the bull, and then puckered. “Welcome to The Drop-In, Ms. Carr. Enjoy yourself.” He moved aside, unclipped the rope, and let her through.
A few groans sounded from a trio of girls near the middle of the line but the bouncer ignored them, as did Alex.
Leaving the sounds of the pub, Alex entered the thump of electronica, slugging the Hendricks before she reached the bottom of the stairs.
The Drop-In had blue and pink neon lights behind the bottles, gothic mirrors on the walls, and a stage big enough for a one-man comedy act, all stuffed into a basement studio apartment. No sign of Edgar anywhere. The rest of the patrons were middle-aged and looked like successful businesspeople.
Alex made her way to the bar, and before she could order, a tall bartender dressed in a shiny black button-up shirt reached for the Hendricks bottle and poured a double over ice, splash of soda. Without a word, he handed it to her.
Interesting. Though still no sign of Edgar or her contact.
Alex took the drink, left ten pounds on the bar for him, and watched behind her through the mirrors. The crowd grew as the bull let more people in, and after a while the electronic thump stopped. A few minutes later, a band, which she figured was Deep Cover, made its way onto the stage to the loud cheers of the crowd. The band members were all dressed in black jeans and nondescript T-shirts, except for the lead singer. She was in a gray T-shirt dress and platform shoes. No bra, from what Alex could tell.
She had low hopes for the music getting any better than the techno thump.
But then Deep Cover broke into a pretty damned good rendition of Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Peek-A-Boo.” Not that Alex was a big Siouxsie fan as a kid or anything—not many non-rebel teens were—but it brought her right back to the nineties. The band proceeded to play other covers, ranging from the Pretenders’ “Brass In Pocket” to No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak.”
With the music and another Hendricks, she was almost in a better mood, but then Deep Cover slid into a tribute of The Cure’s “Pictures of You.” And Alex checked her watch.
Edgar’s contact was over an hour late. Her father had either chickened out or decided he didn’t need Alex after all.
Though he’d made that decision long ago, hadn’t he?
Alex downed the last of the drink and set it down on the bar, then turned to go back upstairs. As she turned, the bartender grabbed her wrist. In no mood, Alex slipped out of his grasp and reversed the move so that the bartender was in her grasp.
“I paid,” She said, nodding at the pile of notes on the edge of the bar.
He shook his head slightly and eyed the lead singer.
“It’s rude to leave in the middle of an act, yea?”
Alex looked at the band. The lead had been working so hard that sweat soaked through the front of her dress. She could see way more than she’d paid for already. Her contact?
“Right.” She released the bartender, walked to the end of the bar, and took a seat. The singer ended the song, told the crowd she’d be back for another set in a few minutes, and walked off the stage.
Alex watched her saunter around the room, giving clusters of people attention. Some more than others, some only a wave and a smile. Popular gal.
As the girl neared, Alex watched for a signal, but saw none.
Maybe she wasn’t Alex’s contact after all. Alex could have been confused after the day she’d had. She waited another moment anyway.
The singer walked in full stride, smiling at people as she passed them. When she finally reached Alex’s seat, she stopped right next to her and leaned over the bar to order a drink. Close enough that Alex smelled her perfume. Peach and sandalwood—unmistakably Bois de Iles by Chanel. The same scent Jack had given her last year.
A flash of heat spread across Alex’s back as her mind blinked with what could be happening to him right now. She steadied her thoughts, steering them back to the present moment. She had to focus if she was going to help him.
After the bartender handed the singer her drink, she turned with it in her hand, leaned close, whispered, “What are waiting you for?” and brushed past Alex.
&
nbsp; About damned time.
Alex followed her to the back hallway, where the walls were lined with more baroque mirrors. After passing both loos, she stopped in front of a tall, thin black door at the end of the hall. You almost couldn’t see it with the dismal lighting. She unbolted the door and slid the long steel rod aside. Then she turned and smiled, as she walked past Alex without a word.
The door opened, and a blast of cold air hit her in the face. Standing outside, at the bottom of an external stairwell, was her father.
Starting up the stairs, he said, “Let’s go. We need to hurry.”
“Where is he?” Lockard stalked across the floor, staring at the stupid Indian man surrounded by computer monitors. The screens flickered with red and green, echoing the city’s Christmas lights flashing through the windows from far below.
Irony at its best.
“How did you get in? There is security for this,” Randeep said. He looked like a brown mushroom with his thick head and tiny neck. Lockard wanted to split the man’s face open with a fist.
“Where. Is. Draganic?” Lockard repeated.
“I am not knowing this,” Randeep said, nerves thickening his accent. He wrung his hands and spun back around to look at his screens. He began typing furiously.
Lockard walked up behind him and slapped his head so hard that Randeep’s face smacked the monitor before him, causing his nose to bleed.
“Stop! Stop this now! Are you a madman?” Randeep cried.
“Worse.” Lockard spun him around by a shoulder and stared him down. “I want answers.”
With blood trickling to his upper lip, Randeep began to shake. “I’m telling you, I do not know.”
“Find him.”
“You don’t understand. We will lose it. We will lose all the money if I don’t hurry.”
Lockard picked up a stack of papers next to Randeep, scanned them. “How much are we in for?”
“Of what? The franc?”
Lockard blinked once. Idiot. “Yes, the franc, Pachai.”
“A great amount.”
Lockard focused his breathing to calm himself so he wouldn’t tear the man’s face from his skull. “Define ‘great.’”
Randeep turned his gaze to the floor, nodded like a four-year-old caught with the proverbial cookie. “All of it.”
“Christ.” Lockard walked away, paced the room. “When’s the Swiss council speaking?”
“Tomorrow. At Bundeshaus in Bern. It will cause a flood against the currency. This is why I must act.”
“Can you unwind the trades by then?”
“I’m not having luck, no. Everyone is going against me. They know about the announcement.” He pointed to a television screen above the computers. Though the sound was muted, subtitles scrolled on the bottom detailing the intent of the Swiss Federal Council to announce its consideration of joining the European Union.
Lockard nodded. That made it easy. A binary event. Either the council would make the announcement and they lose the billion dollars, or it wouldn’t and they keep the billion.
Randeep said, “What should we do?”
“For now?” Lockard turned back around to him, walked closer, drew out his HK45, and shot Randeep in the face. “Nothing.”
Her father drove fast as he spoke. “We had to be sure you weren’t followed, you understand.”
Sitting in the passenger seat of the Mercedes SUV, Alex glanced at Edgar as he sped them across the city. She paid close attention to where he was taking her, in case they had some sort of disagreement or separation. They had already bypassed Hyde Park and were traveling west of Victoria.
“We.” She nodded. “The CIA owns the pub, then?”
“No affiliation to The Company. The owner is a personal…ally. He lets me use it for meet-ups from time to time.”
“I see.” So, her father had his own network of agents, cleanrooms, and safehouses. A completely separate cell system. Impressive. And she bet quite expensive.
He glanced at her. “You have good tradecraft. No tails for the last two days.”
“Except you.”
“I employ eyes.”
“You mean Jack.”
“Alex, what was the first damn thing they taught you at the Farm, long before Talonstrike?”
“Relax, father. I’ll quarantine my emotion. I’m just making observations, analyzing the situation, my situation.”
“Are you ready or not?”
“I am.”
“Good. We’re almost there.”
They drove in silence for a few more minutes along the Thames, the city’s echoes dampened by a thickening layer of snow. Alex gave up reflecting on her father for the time being, in favor of focusing on the task at hand. She still had not been briefed.
He pulled the Mercedes into a dark lot and shut off the engine. “We’ll walk from here.” Alex looked out the window. The local streets were all but empty of pedestrians, and Christmas lights flickered on storefronts and apartments across the river, giving a powerful atmosphere to the night. More pre-apocalyptic than romantic.
“How much time do we have?” She asked.
“Three hours, if it’s on.”
Giving him a sidelong glance, she said, “We’re a bit early.”
“We’re late. I like to set up at least four hours in advance of a meet.”
Alex felt as if Kim Philby and the Cambridge Five would emerge from the shadows any moment. Either that, or a meteor would hit the Earth, wiping out both her and the T-Rex behind the wheel.
“Edgar, they have technology these days allowing spies to bypass hours of field waiting. You know, satellites and listening devices? Even remote cameras. London is littered with CCTV.”
“Technology is unreliable. Never underestimate traditional methods.”
Right.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I brought some fruit. It’s in a bag in the back.”
“I’m touched.”
He stopped, turned, eyed her. “Alex.”
“Edgar.”
“Honey, I’ve thought about this moment for many years, not sure it would ever even come. And I know that whatever I say right now will sound trite.”
Alex stared at him for a while, not moving. She imagined his face disappearing on a page and then reappearing line by line. Stroke by stroke. She wondered which of the lines were created purely by living and which were the result of living a life of lies. The deep-set eyes darkened in her image and the face became drawn, pulled by the force of gravity.
She said, “Trite, like calling me honey?”
He sighed. “There’re two steel containers of coffee on the floor.” He thumbed the backseat. “And some gloves. You’ll need them.”
Alex grabbed the gloves and thermoses and handed him one. “Tell me the plan.”
“First, I want to brief you on the background.” Edgar reached into his jacket and pulled out a fold of papers, then clicked on the overhead light. “You need to know the basis for all of this.”
He sipped his coffee as Alex read a printout of an Associated Press newspaper article titled “Cash Vanishes in Iraq.” The photo in the article showed a US Marine, about eighteen, maybe twenty years old, grinning as he leaned against a shipping pallet. Atop the pallet were stacks and stacks of shrink-wrapped packages of money.
A veritable shit ton of it.
“How much is there?” She asked.
“Each pallet is over a hundred million. Records show that we sent fifty of them, straight from the coffers of the US Treasury.”
“For what purpose, exactly?”
“To pay the Iraqi government, their soldiers, and our own independent contractors.”
“In cash? Brilliant. And that’s what this is about? They lost a pallet?” Alex pictured the briefcase in Edgar’s research room back at his house, the money spilling over the edge. It was a pittance compared to that pallet of cash.
“According to the Pentagon and a Congress-appointed independent auditor, they’ve all been
located and accounted for.”
“But you think they’re lying.”
“My sources tell me that eight are still missing.” He stared at her. “Over a billion dollars in cash. Vanished.”
Sitting back, Alex stared out the windshield as a few more lines of this operation’s landscape appeared to her. Big ones. Foundation lines.
“The bombing. It wasn’t about the briefcase, was it? It was about the pilot.”
Edgar nodded. “He was stationed as an American ally for the Royal Air Force in Iraq. He went on leave the same day that Lockard and the SEALs supposedly died.”
“He flew the money out for them,” she said.
“Just another loose end to Lockard.” The man who now had Jack.
Alex shuddered.
People killed each other just for money in a wallet. Imagine what they’d do for a billion dollars. Cash. That was enough money to spend a million dollars a year for a thousand years. If you invested it and made only five percent interest annually, you would make fifty million. Per year. Forever.
Holy shit.
Edgar said, “Money will make people do strange things. Often evil things.”
Alex glanced at him and away. Thinking of the house near the river, the townhouse in London, and the hundred-thousand-dollar cars. “Was that it for you? An offer you couldn’t refuse?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Then what?” She turned her gaze to him.
He started to respond, but stopped a couple of times. Then he said, “Look, Alex, I knew I wasn’t a very good father. I knew Ginger would be a better parent for you than I ever could. That’s why I chose this path.”
“You could have tried.”
“I missed the first five years of your life. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember seeing you when you came home.”
“That wasn’t very often.”
“It was more often than never.”
He nodded and looked out the side window. “That wasn’t an option for me. Not in this line of work. I had the advantage of being dead. It allowed me to do things I could never do as a regular agent. It was a chance of a lifetime. And not just for me. For the United States.”
The Shadow Artist Page 20