Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (4 page)

She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and headed to the exit. Her cell phone started vibrating before she’d reached the underground parking lot. She hoped it was Patrick Mbeke, calling to tell her about some vital new piece of evidence his team had uncovered, but when she glanced at the screen she was disappointed to discover the call was from an unlisted ‘out of area’ number. Which meant it was an international call. She hadn’t given her cell phone number to Witness Protection, so it was most likely her fiancé calling. She quickly dismissed the call. A conversation with Marshall Claybourne on a poor quality trans-Atlantic cell phone connection wouldn’t be good for either of them.

As she reached her motorcycle in the parking lot, the phone buzzed again. Again the unlisted out of area number. She thought about switching off the cell, but in a moment of rashness answered the call.

“Hey, Marsh. I’m kinda in the middle of something. Can it wait?” She opened the box on the back of the bike and removed her helmet and gloves.

“I need you to get some place fast. Do you have the bike?”

Ingrid looked down at the Triumph Tiger 800 and thought about telling Marshall it was at the garage for a repair. Instead she said nothing.

“Something’s being flagged over here,” Marshall continued, “somebody’s trying to access a bank account that’s on a watch list. I need you to check it out. I have an IP address and a location.”

“What kind of watch list? Are we talking terrorism? If we are, then you should go through the counter-terrorism division. Those agents would be better qualified than me to—”

“He’s not a terrorist.”

“Who is he? What’s he done?”

“I can’t get into the details right now. Just trust me, OK?”

In Ingrid’s experience, whenever Marshall asked for her unquestioning trust, things never turned out well.

“We’re wasting time. Check it out—don’t identify yourself as a Federal Agent, come up with a cover story.”

“What?”

“Report what you find and we’ll decide how to proceed. No need to alert him the FBI are on his trail.”

“Shouldn’t I get some back up?”

“It’s probably nothing. Just check it out. I’m texting you the address.”

And with that he hung up.

Less than a half hour later, Ingrid had arrived in Dulwich, an area in south-east London roughly seven miles from the city center. She kicked down the prop stand and climbed off the bike. She’d parked fifty or so yards from the address Marshall had texted her, in a regular residential street. As far as she could see, the houses were a mix of large, smart detached properties with well-maintained gardens and even larger double-fronted buildings that had been converted into apartments. Some of the houses had shiny new SUVs parked on their driveways.

Once she’d stored her helmet and gloves, she made her way slowly up the street, doing her best to look like a lost tourist. According to her GPS, the property she was looking for was around the next corner. She approached it cautiously, checking the street for any signs of activity. Apart from a dog walker at one end and a guy washing his car at the other, the street was surprisingly quiet for a sunny evening on a public holiday. She sniffed the air and detected a definite tang of grilled meat and supposed people were enjoying barbecues in their backyards.

Marshall had called her back just after he’d texted her the address and reminded her that under no circumstances should she identify herself as an FBI agent. But he still refused to answer any of her questions. She’d worked out a fairly lame cover story on the ride over. Hopefully it wasn’t so lame it would arouse suspicion.

Number twenty-three was the third property on the right. She walked purposely up the driveway of the wide, white stucco house and rang the door bell for apartment two. She waited for thirty seconds or so then rang again, keeping her finger on the buzzer. After another half minute the door creaked open a crack, a suspicious face peered at her through the gap. The woman at the door was probably late twenties or maybe early thirties, thin and very pale. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a haphazard French pleat. It was the color of cherry Kool-Aid. A small, dark green tattoo of a crucifix decorated the left side of her throat. It was a classy look.

Marshall had told Ingrid she was looking for a man in his mid-thirties.

“What is it? Who are you?” The woman’s accent was eastern European, one of the Baltic states, Ingrid reckoned. Estonia or Latvia, maybe. The crucifix tattoo danced as she spoke.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I wonder, could I use your bathroom?”

The woman looked Ingrid up and down and narrowed her eyes until they were no more than heavily mascaraed slits. Then she looked over Ingrid’s shoulder, toward the street.

“I wouldn’t ask, only I’m desperate. You’re the fifth house I’ve tried. Seems no one is in.”

The look of suspicion still hadn’t left the woman’s face.

Ingrid reached into her purse and retrieved a tampon and held it up between thumb and forefinger. “You see, it’s kinda embarrassing.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “OK—you make it quick, yes?”

“Thank you so much.”

The woman ushered her into the house, pointed toward the half-open door of her apartment a few feet away, then stuck her head outside again, before she finally came in and closed the door.

“Quickly!” the woman told her. “Through door, bathroom is on right.”

Ingrid scurried toward the tiny room and locked the door. She quickly checked the cabinet above the sink. It was full of the usual bathroom paraphernalia, a collection of various painkillers, deodorant, depilatory cream, tampons. No sign of any male presence. She unlocked the door as quietly as she could, and opened it a crack, half expecting to see the woman waiting for her outside. Thankfully she wasn’t. Ingrid stopped for a moment and listened. She heard the woman’s voice coming from another room. Then the talking stopped, there was silence for a few beats, and then the machine-gun fire Latvian—Ingrid was pretty sure that was the language she heard—started up again. The woman was having a very one-sided conversation on the phone.

Ingrid crept out of the bathroom and along the narrow, dingy hall and peered into the kitchen and discovered no one lurking inside. The room next to it, a bedroom, was also unoccupied. She was just about to check the closet for men’s clothes when she heard the woman’s voice call from the only room she hadn’t seen inside. “Hello? Are you OK?” came the thick accented voice.

Ingrid hurried back to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and closed the door noisily. Then she strode down the hall and met the woman in the doorway of the sparsely decorated living room.

“Thank you so much—you are a life saver.” Ingrid noticed an open laptop sitting on a table at the other end of the room, together with four cell phones of varying sophistication.

The cherry-haired woman followed her gaze, the suspicious expression on her pale face deepening. “You must go now.”

“I’m just so glad you answered the door, rather than your husband.” It was a long shot, but Ingrid thought she may as well try.

“Husband?” The look of suspicion was quickly replaced by one of confusion.

“You see, in the circumstances I would have felt too uncomfortable to ask a man for help.” Ingrid smiled innocently.

“No husband.”

“Oh—my mistake—I just assumed you lived here with your husband, or boyfriend. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Please—you go now. I am very busy.”

Ingrid glanced at the laptop again, its sleep light gently pulsing bright white every second or so. Why did this woman need four cell phones?

The Latvian redhead spread her arms wide and ushered her unwanted visitor to the door of the apartment.

“Thank you again. You’re very kind.” Ingrid was hustled to the main front door of the building and out onto the driveway. The woman stood at the open door and watched Ingrid return to the street before she went inside.

When Ingrid got back to the bike she called Marshall back.

“Well? Did you see him?” he barked at her as soon as he picked up.

“Can we work this another way? You know, the way where you’re really grateful for all my help and ask me nicely.”

There was silence at the other end. Then a noisy inhale. She knew Marshall was busy counting to ten to control his frustration.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m just a little pressured at the moment.” Another deep exhale. “Of course I’m grateful for any help you can give me. I really appreciate your taking time out to—”

“Enough! Now you just sound phony.” She reached into the box on the back of the bike and pulled out her helmet without saying anything for a long few moments.

“Honey?” She could hear the strain in Marshall’s voice. “Honey? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. I met a woman at the property. Latvian, twenty-five to thirty, dyed red hair, tattoo of a cross on her neck. Description mean anything to you?”

“Zip. No man at the address?”

“No man and no sign of one.”

“Notice anything interesting at all?”

“The woman was using an expensive laptop. I saw four cells too.”

“Four?”

“As far as I could tell, one was a smart phone, the other three no-frills bottom of the range. I assume they were burners.”

“Did you ask her about them?”

“There wasn’t exactly a way to work them into the conversation.”

“See what was on the laptop?”

“It was on sleep mode.”

Marshall went quiet.

“What do you want me to do? Call for reinforcements?” she asked him eventually, tired of waiting while he devised her next move.

“No. Seems you may just have stumbled on an internet scammer who got lucky with one of the accounts on the watch list.”

“Is that likely?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“If she’s a scammer, the local cops might be interested in her. I should call them.”

“No—stand down. Do nothing.”

“So who is this guy you’re so interested in?”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t think you found him.”

“What are you doing monitoring watch lists, anyhow? Have you been demoted?”

“Demoted? Very funny.”

Marshall’s meteoric rise up the ranks was almost legendary. He had a knack of being in the right place at the right time, willing and eager to scoop up any glory on offer.

“So what are you doing? Looking for easy wins?”

“Look, I have to go. We’ll talk later, OK?” He hung up.

Ingrid stood for a moment just staring at her phone. She must have hit a nerve. Marshall had to be trawling intelligence for fast turnaround cases. More notches to add to his belt. She wondered for a moment why that notion made her more mad than envious. Then she remembered just how hungry she was.

7

The next day Ingrid left her hotel shortly after dawn. She jogged around the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park: a simple run followed by a few reps of squat thrusts, lunges and chin-ups. It felt good to really test her muscles.

As she headed back to Euston Road, running along the eastern edge of the park, she realized she was running toward Winfield House, the official residence of the US ambassador. She relived her awkward encounter with Frances Byrne-Williams. An embarrassed glow warmed her cheeks. Automatically, her speed increased as she passed the armed cop on the gates—she wasn’t exactly dressed for another impromptu meeting with the ambassador.

She managed to maintain the same speed all the way back to the hotel and by the time she stepped out of the shower, she felt a little more human, and ready for the day ahead.

After a breakfast of Bircher muesli and a double-shot espresso, she was pretty much ready for anything the day could throw at her. She arrived at the office to discover Jennifer already at her desk. In her four or so months at the embassy, Ingrid had never seen the clerk so keen. Perhaps her conversation with the ambassador had made her more eager to impress. She was tentatively poking a dessert spoon into a bowl. Ingrid peered at the gray-tinged mixture specked throughout with bright crimson pomegranate seeds.

“What have you got there?” Ingrid asked her.

“Quinoa and fruit porridge.” She lifted the spoon to her nose and sniffed. “It’s super healthy.”

“Are you supposed to spread it on your face or eat it?”

“I was talking to Frances about it yesterday.”

“The ambassador is taking an interest in what you have for breakfast?”

“Not exactly. We got on to talking about the new chef. And how all the food is organic now, and locally sourced. It’s a passion of hers. She wants the embassy staff to stop eating junk.”

“Locally sourced?” Quinoa and pomegranate—most probably from South America and northern Africa.

“Wherever possible.” Jennifer prodded the gray mixture again. The spoon seemed to bounce back at her. The porridge was showing signs of resistance.

“Good luck with that. What’s for lunch?”

“There’s a tofu stir-fry I liked the sound of.”

Ingrid felt her own breakfast stirring in her stomach. Thankfully her phone started to ring to take her mind off it. She snatched up the receiver, gave her name and waited for a response, but all she heard was a strange mumble at the other end of the line.

“Hello? Is there someone there?”

She heard a cackling laugh, following by a cough. “Agent Skyberg! How are you this fine spring morning?” It took Ingrid a few moments to place the voice. Once she had, she wished she’d let the answering service take the call.

“Ms Tate?” Angela Tate was a grizzled investigative journalist working for the main London newspaper, the
Evening News
. She had an uncanny knack of turning up at a crime scene just moments after the police. The woman had a fierce reputation for getting the story she wanted, no matter what she had to do to get it.

“I’m calling to claim my prize.”

Ingrid closed her eyes. Tate played a major role in her last big investigation. Such a major role that Ingrid owed her a favor. This was payback time. “What do you need?”

“You!” The cackling laugh erupted again. Ingrid wondered if maybe Tate were drunk. The woman seemed to go nowhere without her own private supply of alcohol. “You promised me a fly-on-the-wall, unfettered access, day-in-the-life profile. And today’s the day! Aren’t you the lucky one!”