by Seb Kirby
He looked long and hard at me as I thanked him and prepared to leave. “And we’ve forgotten about saying anything to Hendricks.”
I smiled. “Let’s say he’s someone I’d go a long way to avoid right now. You can be sure of that.”
When I reached the door, he called me back. “What do you want me to do about the work for Miles?”
“Nothing’s changed. Miles will find a way back from the States. So, carry on. See what else you can find.”
Chapter 8
Agent Bedford thanked his stars. The stakeout of the Adam Weston apartment was failing to yield results but, just when he should have been calling it a day and heading back to the safety of the Bureau, here came a tall man approaching Weston’s place and going inside.
Finding Weston had been straightforward. Once he’d taken the bait, the Java script that Bedford had inserted in the database had done its work, delivering the IP address used by the hacker. A little pressure on the Internet service provider had delivered Weston’s address.
Bedford adjusted the laser microphone to focus on the window-pane of the second floor room where he’d seen Weston moving around. He tuned the settings on the compact control box that sat on the vacant front seat of his vehicle and listened to what he could pick up through the earpiece that came with the equipment. Yes, the sound quality was good.
Few people knew that these days you didn’t need to do anything as crude as breaking into the target’s apartment and planting bugs in the light fittings or electrical sockets. Just shine the laser on their window-pane, use the ever-so-versatile ray of light to pick up the vibrations in the glass as the people inside talk and let the box of tricks turn those vibrations back into sound. Why, the clever little box even recorded what was being said and beamed it straight into the FBI main database to be accessed whenever needed in the future. It was just one of the smart surveillance techniques he could call upon.
Still, he needed to concentrate. They were talking.
“l told you not to come here.”
A pause. Then the same voice.
“You’re not Miles. You look enough like him. Where the hell is Miles?”
The second voice.
“I’m his brother. We need to talk.”
Yes, this was James Blake, the brother of Miles, the principal target of the investigation. The same James Blake that both Craven and Maynard wanted a fix on. Bedford smiled. He could use what he was hearing to keep both men satisfied. Not that he’d be telling them both the same thing.
He listened as Blake and Weston discussed their plans. Weston was being guarded, not because he was concerned at being overheard but because he didn’t know if he could trust the man. That was good. It meant they weren’t close and divisions between the two could be exploited.
Weston was admitting he’d removed documents from the database. The recording of this conversation was enough to put the hacker away for twenty years. That would make him pliable. Make him susceptible to doing what the Bureau wanted.
And Blake needed money. He must be planning a trip.
Now Blake was leaving. That was a problem. There was no way he could follow, even if Bedford had the appetite for such a thing. He had to concentrate on Weston. The hacker would deliver Blake and more.
It was time to take the initiative. Time to show Maynard he could return with the goods.
He left his vehicle, made his way to the second floor of the building and knocked on Weston’s door. He could hear the man moving about inside but the door did not open.
Bedford shouted. “It’s James Blake. Let me in.”
Weston’s muffled voice came back from the other side of the door. “Why are you back?”
He lied and picked a significant name he’d just heard in the bugged conversation between Blake and Weston. “There’s something important I forgot to tell you about Ravitz.”
Bedford drew his Glock-23 as the door opened. At the sight of the weapon, Weston froze and fell back.
Bedford pushed his way in. “Get inside and sit down.”
He looked around as he followed Weston inside, all the time keeping the pistol aimed at his man. So this was what a hacker’s place looked like. Not much different from his own set up back at base.
Weston had his hands raised. “Don’t fire. I don’t know who you are but just put the weapon down. We can talk this through, whatever it is.”
Bedford was surprised how straightforward this was.
The target.
The weapon.
The fear.
The response.
He wasn’t used to this feeling of undiluted power. It wasn’t the kind of thing you experienced in backroom work. He decided he liked it.
He spoke the magic words. “FBI.”
Weston, hands still raised, went white. “I knew you’d find me.”
“Yes, Adam. You’ve been known to us for awhile. You’re good. But not good enough. I want you to listen to this.”
Bedford placed the clever little box he’d brought with him from the vehicle and pressed play. It was the conversation between Weston and Blake recorded just minutes before.
“OK, you’ve made your point. I can show you what I archived before I decided enough was enough and I’d never go back into their database again.”
Weston’s mouth sagged open.
Bedford smiled. “So, Adam, what do you say to twenty years in Walls Unit Correctional Facility? It’s a federal offence. Stealing classified information. And, in case you’re thinking there’s some way out of this, the little box I have here is WiFi connected. What you’re hearing now is safe and secure and filed in our database under something like: dangerous subversive, prepare for imminent arrest.”
Weston’s words came one by one. “You have me. Why tell me this?”
“Because there’s a way you might avoid that trip to Huntsville. What you’ve done is bad. And you have no future if things stay as they are. But I’m here to help. I’m here to give you the chance to make amends.”
Weston was not the type to resist. “What do you want me to do?”
“That’s better, Adam. You can put your hands down now. We want you to tell us everything you know about Miles and James Blake. Then we want you to do what we say as you relate to them in the future. That’s simple, isn’t it?”
“You mean you want me to inform on them?”
“Yes, if you want to call it that. Let’s just say you’d be given the chance to redeem yourself by at last living up to your duty as a responsible citizen who’s turned his back on wrongdoing. We’re saying we’ll take it into account.”
Weston had all the look of a defeated man. “OK.” Then, after a long break, he pleaded. “What happens next?”
Bedford could see the man was so frightened he would do as was asked. The agent put the Glock away. “Adam, you stay as you are. We’ll stay in close touch and tell you what we expect you to do. Someone will come here to give you the chance to tell us what you know. And don’t think you can get away with anything stupid. One slip and the deal’s off. You know what that means?”
Weston nodded in agreement and said no more. He didn’t notice as, during the interrogation, Bedford sprinkled RFID, radiofrequency identification, dust on the floor beneath the computer where Weston spent most of his time.
Bedford took time to pack away the clever little box and let himself out. It had been a successful day after all. He’d accomplished more than enough to keep Maynard off his back.
Bedford made his way back to his vehicle. He didn’t see the two Italians sitting in the parked car on the other side of the street who turned their faces away as he left the building.
Back inside, Adam Weston could not stop the shaking that had taken control of his whole body. The paranoia he’d been feeling had been made so real he knew he could no longer call it that.
Chapter 9
Retired Chief Superintendent Giles Cleary was worried about John Hendricks. The man was unreformed, so much a throwback
to the old school of London policing that he was a danger to the whole enterprise.
The Italians had got carried away and this could mean serious problems if Hendricks put the whole story together.
The killing in the Allegro Hotel had been botched. The Blake woman had escaped. Another man, most likely her protector, had been killed instead. It wouldn’t take Hendricks long to make connections beyond Julia Blake. But what was worse was the Italians had killed DI Reid. At least that’s what Cleary was forced to assume.
Cleary had never intended them to go that far when he’d sent Reid to the old warehouse down the river from Canary Wharf. He’d expected they would frighten the policeman off, convince him to return to Weymouth where he belonged and put behind him the dream he had of collecting on the two million the Landos had offered for James and Julia Blake. The Italians were under instruction to achieve that and no more. But they lacked discipline. Reid had not been heard of since. The conclusion that loomed large for Cleary was that the Italians had killed Reid and disposed of the body goodness knows where.
So far Reid was listed as missing. It would be enough to alert Hendricks. The unreformed copper would be bound to make the connection between Reid, the Blakes and the Allegro killing but the significance would remain in the world of speculation without hard evidence.
Cleary hated the idea of damage limitation. It was a sure sign that things were not as they should be. Yet damage limitation was needed now. If Reid’s body was found Hendricks would have the evidence he needed and it would spell trouble indeed.
The retired Chief Superintendent picked up the phone. He called the special number. The number he knew should only be used with the greatest caution.
Alessa Lando picked up the call.
Cleary began. “Signora Lando, you must forgive me for calling like this but it’s imperative we speak.”
She sounded perplexed that he had called. “What can I help you with, Chief Superintendent?”
“We have a problem. Something we need to deal with sooner rather than later. It concerns two of your men. The ones who were sent to target the Blake woman.”
“I thought it had been taken care of.”
“There are complications. Unavoidable problems. It’s likely that your men killed a policeman. Name of Reid. DI Reid. Then they disposed of the body no one knows where. If the body comes to light everything could be on the line. We need to find the body and make sure it doesn’t become a problem.”
Cleary had used all his influence to secure a safe existence in London for Alessa Lando. As the Kolakov business interests had continued to prosper in this city, so had the importance of ensuring that the oligarch’s new wife, Alessa, could have confidence in her security. Dmitri Kolakov had paid well to ensure it was so. Cleary didn’t want anything to interfere with that. It’s what made the present conversation so difficult.
Alessa was not impressed. “I hear you, Chief Superintendent. I’ll deal with it.”
“That would be best.”
Her annoyance was plain to hear. “More to the point, Mr. Cleary, what are you doing to find the Blakes? With your resources I would have thought you’d have tracked them down by now.”
Cleary could feel his blood pressure rising. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say. The Italians had botched the killing at the Allegro and left behind the kind of mess no one, least of all Cleary, should have to clean up. But he could say none of this. It would be madness to be out of favor with this woman. Instead, he tried to sound matter-of-fact. “The Blakes have disappeared from view. The Blake woman is untraceable, though I have hopes of finding her. The husband, James has been seen in London. He was close to being apprehended at Euston station.”
“Close is not good enough. I want him disposed of, you understand? Surely, the two million is enough to loosen tongues. Surely, with all the resources you can count on, you can locate him?”
“We’ll find Blake now he’s in London. It’s just a matter of time.”
“OK, Chief Superintendent. We know we can depend on you.”
“You’ll let me know about Reid’s body?”
“I’ll let you know.” She closed the line.
Cleary took a deep breath.
It was good she had treated him with such contempt, as if he were her underling. That meant she did not know the truth about the power he had, a power bequeathed to him by Alfieri Lando.
Chapter 10
Luigi Bandini thumped the iron bar into his cupped right hand. It was an unfashionable instrument, but one he liked, at least in the early stages of breaking down the resistance of an opponent. That’s the way he’d opened up the policeman Reid before he was dispatched. Bandini smiled at the thought of using it again on whoever was inside the apartment.
The British police were fools.
They were no match for him.
Not for once had Bandini felt he was on the run since the killing in the Allegro Hotel.
Yet he knew he could not call the current state of play a success either. Sure, they’d killed the bodyguard, the one the police had named as Martin Craig, but they’d lost the Blake woman, the one they were supposed to kill. Matteo Lando was not impressed. If they returned home to Florence without addressing this problem their own lives would be short indeed.
Getting on to the FBI man had not been difficult. The Lando man inside the FBI organization was still active, though the recent events involving the German Heller had strained matters almost to breaking point. So, here they were watching Agent Bedford leave the apartment where he’d spent the last thirty minutes involved in something they needed to know about.
It had been difficult to know if they should have followed the tall man who’d left the apartment earlier. Bandini had not recognized him as anyone of importance and had chosen to stay to observe Bedford. He had a photograph of the unknown man and would seek to identify him later.
Bedford was no professional, that much was clear. He was unaware how simple it was to follow him as he left the office in the Haymarket, now identified as the front for the FBI in London. If it went on like this, it was going to be as simple as ever could have been wished for to keep following Bedford and discover each and every one of the suspects he was investigating.
Asputi, the man seated beside him in the vehicle, was not bright. “So, we take down the American.”
“No, Asputi. He’s our meal ticket. Now, we discover what he’s been doing up there in the apartment.”
Bandini opened the car door and motioned Asputi to climb out. He got out himself and pressed the key fob to lock the vehicle.
The two men headed towards Adam Weston’s apartment.
When there was no reply, Bandini used the iron bar to smash a hole in the door so he could reach through and open the lock from inside.
They were too late. The apartment was empty.
* * *
Minutes earlier, Adam Weston had packed everything important to him into a small hold all. This comprised a dozen terabyte pocket drives onto which he had backup of the entire contents of his elaborate hacking system and all the information files that went with it. Then he’d wiped the hard drives of each of his computers before taking a hammer to them. Giving one last look back he’d commiserated with himself at leaving such valuable equipment behind before pulling up the sash window and making his way down the fire escape at the rear of the building before he had any more unwelcome visitors.
Chapter 11
The bus from San Diego Old Town to Tijuana was peopled largely by those ill-informed tourists who believed there were cheap pickings to be had across the border. Miles Blake climbed aboard, paid the fare, and hoped for an uneventful trip.
Leaving the US was straightforward as the whole busload was waved through an exit channel that looked more like a highway tollbooth than a border control post. Miles expected the same easy entry into Mexico but he was mistaken.
The alarm must have been raised. The Mexico police were looking for someone. A mustachioed and un
iformed official boarded the bus when it was stopped at the Mexico border and began checking papers. The person they were searching for was James Blake. That was the name in the passport Miles now carried after the swap of passports with James at Dallas Fort Worth. When Miles showed the passport he was told to stand and leave the bus. He was shown straight to a waiting police car, handcuffed and forced into the rear passenger seat.
“Why are you doing this? Where are you taking me?”
The arresting officer had taken up position in the front passenger seat. A uniformed colleague was driving. They both ignored Miles’ questions.
Miles’ Spanish was poor to nonexistent yet he suspected that even if he had been fluent in the language they would have shown him the same response. The Mexico authorities now believed they had apprehended James Blake. Miles had to decide if it might be best if it stayed this way.
They drove for thirty minutes on a highway that cut through the desert before they arrived at central Tijuana. He was taken straight to a police station in the Zona Norte.
There were no charges, yet he was placed still handcuffed in a cell. His protests were answered with a silent smile. After four hours he was walked upstairs to the top floor of the building and into an office marked: Pedro Martinez – Chief of Police.
Martinez looked up as Miles was brought in and seated on a chair facing the chief’s desk. He nodded to one of the officers. “Remove the handcuffs. I think we can trust Senor Blake to remain seated while we talk.”
Miles whispered. “Thank you.”
Martinez was welcoming. “Senor Blake, can I call you James?”
Miles nodded.
“So, James, I’m pleased you chose to visit us here in Tijuana. I’m pleased we have this chance to talk. Do you mind telling me why you are here?”
“I thought you might be telling me why you’ve arrested me.”
Martinez smiled. “I think you already know that, James. Still, if you wish, I will be formal with you. We have concerns about whether it is appropriate to you to be in Mexico when you have so many unresolved matters with the authorities of our good neighbor, the United States.”