by Eva Hudson
He shrugged, feigning lack of interest. “You’re pissing in the wind, Agent. You’ve got no CCTV, you got no DNA, you got no photographs. No phone records. Whatever you think you know, you’re never going to be able to prove it.” He really believed his life was Teflon-coated, and that daddy’s money and mommy’s contacts would protect him forever.
Ingrid’s fingers dug deep into his wrist. “Let’s pretend you’re right about that for a minute––and you are so very, very wrong––even if I couldn’t prove you killed Matthew Harding beyond all reasonable doubt, this is the internet age, Marcus. The allegation you killed someone and walked away, that you didn’t even make an anonymous 999 call, will be online for the rest of your life. Those rumors are going to hamper your chances when you apply for a job or, heaven help us, run for office. Teddy Kennedy might have been president if it wasn’t for Chappaquiddick.” She paused. “I thought I might start by editing your Wikipedia profile.”
“You’re a fucking fool.”
“I’m a fucking FBI agent, Marcus.” She leaned in. “I know how to make a prosecution stick. I know about the threshold of evidence and reasonable doubt, you dumb ass.”
He smirked. “Not that dumb. Recognize them?”
Ingrid followed his gaze. Standing in front of the large Christmas tree were three men with physical builds and immaculate haircuts and their geeky sidekick: John, Paul, George and Ringo. Ingrid’s skin prickled. She had always assumed Marcus’s father had employed Red Box, but if they were at Frances Byrne-Williams’s farewell drinks, then it must have been his mother. Ingrid had always thought the ambassador was one of the good ones, one of the honorable ones. She shook the thought away and parked her disappointment for another day.
“They did a good job,” she said. “I’ll give them that. They doctored the CCTV footage at the embassy. They put a block on accessing your phone records. They made sure the ANPR data got lost in the system, and they even fast-tracked the forensics, no doubt because they’d planted evidence on my bike gear.”
The veins in his neck bulged, and the tendons in his forearm were rigid. Ingrid pushed her shoes firmly onto the stairs, anticipating he might try to push her. The fact he hadn’t was a sign he wanted to avoid making a scene. And if that was his weakness, she was going to exploit it.
“But, seems they didn’t know about busses.”
He didn’t respond.
“Don’t suppose you’ve been on a bus in London, have you? So, let me fill you in. There are cameras on every bus in the city. They don’t just record the passengers on the bus, they film the road in front of and behind the bus too.” Ingrid hadn’t heard back from Cath Murray at the Met, but so long as she could convince Marcus she had the footage, that was all that mattered. “So, I requested the recordings from busses driving near the embassy the evening you stole my bike. Guess what the footage shows, Marcus? Or rather, who it shows.”
Ingrid caught sight of Frances Byrne-Williams on the balcony above them. As she moved through the partygoers, they bunched and expanded like a murmuration of starlings.
“I’m confused, Marcus.”
He looked at her.
“I thought you’d paid Red Box to buy you some time, so you could get out of the UK and return home away from the threat of extradition. So why are you still here?”
“I’m going to have to have a word with Director Leery,” he said. “Do you know Director Leery? His son is a very good friend of mine.”
“He’s the head of the entire FBI,” Ingrid said. “Of course, I know who he is.”
“He really ought to know there’s a hole in the training for Special Agents. It seems there are two very important words you missed out on at Quantico.” He tried again to shake off her grasp but failed. “Diplomatic immunity.”
Ingrid reeled slightly.
“The family of an ambassador can’t be charged with a crime.” His smiled stretched into a leer. “And besides, you’re not going to be alive much longer to make an accusation, are you?”
“You going to arrange for my drink to be spiked?” Ingrid released her grip and stepped up so she was on his level. “Seems there was a gap in your education too. All your life you’ve been taught that the rule of law bends before wealth, but nobody told you about me.” She was now blocking the path of anyone attempting to make it down the staircase. She took a step toward him. “See the thing is Marcus, you didn’t just kill one person, did you?”
He rubbed his wrist where she had held him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His right eye twitched.
“And the problem you’ve got is you only confessed one crime to mommy. Told her it was an accident, and she agreed that you shouldn’t have to pay for the error for the rest of your life, didn’t she?”
A figure started to descend the staircase.
“I wonder if she’d have had the same reaction if she knew about the girl in your bed.”
Williams glanced nervously upward to see his fuchsia-clad mother just a few steps away.
“The underage girl,” Ingrid continued. “The girl whose body still has your DNA inside her.” She smiled at the ambassador before whispering in his ear. “And because you didn’t want to tell your dear mama about the girl, Red Box didn’t investigate. Which is why they didn’t kill the witness. The witness I now have in protective custody.” She turned and forced a smile onto her face. “Ambassador, what a wonderful party.”
“Thank you.” Frances Byrne-Williams was wearing a tight-fitting satin dress with heels that had to be killing her. “What an inspired outfit.”
“Your son here was just about to—”
“Give her the tour,” Marcus Williams said, sweat beading in the crease in his forehead.
“Excellent idea, darling. Have fun kiddywinks.” The ambassador waggled her fingers as she stepped gingerly downwards.
When his mother was out of earshot, Marcus grabbed Ingrid by the elbow. “It’s this way.”
Ingrid wondered where the hell he was taking her.
36
By the time Marcus Williams guided her into a bedroom on the second floor, he had regained his composure. Ingrid strode straight over to the bathroom door and checked they were alone. She opened the closet door and checked that too, then made her way to the window.
“Who showed you the footage?” he asked.
Ingrid had her back to Williams and didn’t answer. She tried the window catch but the security bolts meant she could only open it a few inches. The only way out was the way they’d come in.
“I asked who showed you the footage?” His voice was deep and trembling.
Ingrid turned to face him. She leaned against the windowsill and folded her arms.
“Are we alone, Marcus?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to step away from the door? Stop anyone from listening in?”
“Oh.” He looked behind him as if he might see an eyeball at the keyhole, then stepped into the middle of the room. His stride was short, hesitant.
The bedroom, though small, was decorated lavishly. Striped in rose and cream wallpaper was complimented by a carpet of dusky pink. Scalloped sconces concealed wall lights, and the quilted coverlet sported a tulip design. It looked like an old-fashioned five-star hotel right before the renovators moved in and sold the fixtures and fittings on eBay. The larger rooms would have hosted movie stars and Secretaries of State, but this would probably have been used by an aide or an intern.
“Shall I let you in on a secret,” she said. “I haven’t seen any footage, but I can guess what the Al-Kareems showed you. A dirty little sex tape of you forcing yourself on an underage girl?”
He blinked rapidly.
“And did they tell you not to worry about it, because they would take care of it? No one would ever know. Am I close, Marcus?”
His bottom lip protruded.
“Unless—I’m guessing at this point that the sheikh leaned in real close—you didn’t help them out?”
He too
k a long time before answering. “You think you’re so damn clever.” The words shot out of his mouth like venom.
“It’s what they do, Marcus. They find—or create—a weakness, then exploit it. If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one. They threaten the girls with the same tapes, promise to show their families.”
Marcus Williams ran a hand over his chin, then cricked his neck. He stood a little taller, and his entire demeanor changed. “It’s what we all do. You’ve really got no idea, have you?” He stepped toward her, but Ingrid remained leaning against the window, her body relaxed. “We’ve all got a little store of secrets to keep dry until they’re needed. That’s how the fucking world works you—” He stopped himself for launching an expletive in her face. “I know dirt about you and you know dirt about me and that way we all get along.”
“And we all get rich?”
“Precisely.”
Ingrid puffed out her cheeks and exhaled slowly. She pushed herself to standing and went toe to toe with Williams. “We’re not talking about a trade, Marcus. This isn’t two hundred points on the Dow. You’re the son of a diplomat, one of the nation’s most senior diplomats. Your mother is privy to state secrets.”
His jaw twitched again.
“And for the child of a diplomat, for a man intent on pursuing power, I’m really rather surprised you don’t know that right now the United States of America is supplying weapons to Saudi-backed forces who are killing soldiers from Jihar in Yemen. The United States is fighting a proxy war against the country your school chum Sammy will one day lead.”
His mouth curled down at the corners. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Really?” Ingrid was just a few inches from his face. She could smell the wine and hors d’oeuvres on his breath. “You don’t get it?”
His nostrils flared.
“We’re arming their enemies, Marcus. We’re killing their people, and you… your mother is one of our most senior ambassadors, and you are beholden to a hostile power. You’re compromised. And that means our nation is compromised. Do you really not realize how serious this is?”
He turned on his heels and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re a fucking child. You call it compromise because you’re a… a prissy, holier-than-thou, do-good government employee… but in the real world we call it influence. It’s soft power. Heard of that?”
Ingrid pressed her lips together to seal in her anger. “Actually, Marcus, I call it blackmail.”
“Oh, grow up.” Saliva flecked the corners of his mouth.
Ingrid closed her eyes and held them shut for an entire breath before opening them. “They put a lot of effort into recruiting you, Marcus. They really, really wanted something from you. What was it?”
He paced the room, constantly flexing and clenching his fingers.
“They probably had your compliance with the sex tape, but they went further, didn’t they? They made absolutely sure you would do their bidding.”
He shot her a look. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. They did me a favor, didn’t they? They took care of the girl. Of course, I’m going to repay them, that’s the way the world works. The real world.”
He kept using that phrase, ‘the real world’, as if it was a justification for his actions, as if people like her couldn’t possibly understand the gravity of the choices men like him had to make while they shouldered the future of the planet.
Ingrid fiddled with the buttons on the cuff of Marshall’s jacket. “How did she die, Marcus?”
He didn’t answer.
“Her name was Ayana, by the way.”
He sucked in his cheeks and stopped pacing. He bowed his head and looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“Do you not remember?”
“I’d had a lot to drink.”
“How much?”
“What is it with your stupid questions? Does it matter how she died?”
“What matters is you don’t remember. What matters is that even though you have no memories of putting your hands around her throat, you never doubted that you had killed her.”
His lips moved, but no words came out. His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
Ingrid pushed her hands into her pockets. “You didn’t kill her, Marcus.”
He ran his fingers through his hair.
“They filmed you raping her, they spiked your drink, and when you had passed out, they killed her and left her in your bed.”
He swallowed rapidly, his breathing quickened. “I… I…” He sat down on the edge of the bed.
“They wanted your compliance so badly they made you think you killed a girl. Taken a life. But I’ve got a witness that says you didn’t do it.”
“You mean I didn’t?” Ingrid let him soak up the news. He pumped his fists into his thighs. When he started to shake his head, she knew she had him. “The greasy fuckers,” he said.
“But,” Ingrid softened her voice, “you did rape her. And you did kill Matthew Harding.”
He whipped his head around to face her. “But I wouldn’t have, would I, if they hadn’t… hadn’t done that to me. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking straight.” His shoulders slumped forward, like a doll that needed propping up. “It was their fault.”
Ingrid held her tongue and sat down beside him. With great effort, she managed to keep her voice gentle. “Marcus, I know the Al-Kareems targeted you. But what I don’t know is why. What did they want you to do?”
He chewed the inside of his mouth.
“Marcus, why did they go to so much effort? What have they asked from you?”
He sucked his teeth. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense, Marcus?”
“Like you say, to go to that much trouble.”
“What did they ask for?”
He shrugged. “Hardly anything.”
“What was it?”
He turned his head and examined her face, trying to decide if she was worthy of the truth.
“Marcus,” she spoke firmly. “It is possible that whatever it is will have far more dire consequences than the deaths of Matthew Harding, Ayana Petrova and Steve Thompsett.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“A friend of mine Red Box silenced to protect you.”
A flash of fear ghosted over his face. “I didn’t know.” His eyes widened. “Shit. Really?”
“Marcus, I probably know a lot less about politics than you do, but I’m fairly sure I’ve heard the commentators on CNN and Fox say the real damage to reputation isn’t caused by committing a crime, it’s by covering it up. Your coverup has gone so spectacularly wrong it’s gotten two more people killed.”
He kneaded his fist into his leg.
“My concern––and I appreciate I’m just a sanctimonious, prissy, do-good government employee who doesn’t have your experience of global politics––is that while those crimes are devastating for the victims and their families, whatever the Al-Kareems have asked you to do may be devastating for our nation. Now Marcus, what was it?”
He got to his feet in one muscular motion. The steel returned to his eyes. “You really think you’re so goddamn clever, don’t you? You think I’m some privileged frat boy who’s got money instead of brains. You didn’t even stop to consider I might be helping people here, did you?” He was pacing again. “You’re right when you say I’m my mother’s son, and one of the things I’ve learned from her is that diplomacy comes in many forms. And it takes years. It’s friendships like mine and Sammy’s that broker peace accords. They don’t happen at Camp David or The Hague, they happen in clubs and drawing rooms.”
Ingrid tilted her head. “I’m listening.”
“Tonight is going to see the start of peace negotiations between the royal family of Jihar and the militia in Yemen.”
“How so, Marcus?”
“Because the thing they asked me to do, this crime you’re so sure I’ve committed, was to bring one of their negotiators
with me. That’s all they wanted. They wanted an introduction.” He jutted out his jaw defiantly. “See? Real. World. Diplomacy.”
Ingrid got to her feet. She formed fists inside her pockets to stop herself from grabbing him by the shoulders. “Who did you bring, Marcus? What was his name?”
“Her name.” He was point scoring.
“What’s her name?”
“Why does it matter?”
Ingrid pursed her lips and walked up to him. “In my world, Marcus, that’s far too much effort to go to get an introduction. In your world she’s here for a quiet word, in my world she’s planning something.”
He looked shocked.
“What is her name?”
“Hatoum. Arwa Hatoum. She’s a scientist.”
“And who did she want to meet?”
“A guy from the UN’s office in Riyadh.” He paused. “Where are you going?”
Ingrid had reached the door already. “I’m going to find out what Arwa Hatoum and the Al-Kareems really want.”
37
Ingrid took the stairs three at a time. Her knee flamed with pain, and she was glad she wasn’t in heels. She scurried through the ballroom, but pulled up suddenly. Lexi Traynor caught her eye. It wasn’t that she looked like a Miss World contestant in the ballgown around; it was who she was talking to: Ringo. Heat bloomed across Ingrid’s face. Lexi was the embassy mole. She had been working with Red Box all along. Ingrid sniffed hard; now wasn’t the time to get angry. She carried on running until she reached the lobby.
“Agent Skyberg?” Carlos Estevez stood to attention.
“Corporal.” She caught her breath. “I need assistance.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There were two other Marines and three security personnel in the lobby, waiting for the guests to start leaving. They all looked at her expectantly.
“I need to find a guest. You took photographs of everyone on arrival, right?”
“Correct.”
“Can you show me what Arwa Hatoum looks like?”