No Way Out (10 page)

BACK OUTSIDE THE BAR, standing in the drizzle, Vail turned to face her colleagues. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, gentlemen. Because if Nigel is truly the head of the Anarchists, they did not set the bomb.”

11

“H
ang on,” Carter said, skirting a large puddle as they headed back to the car. “That’s it? You have a five minute chat with the guy over a beer and you decide he’s not our man?”

“I have to agree, Karen,” Reid said. “Bit of a rush to judgment. They claimed responsibility. Their ideology fits.”

“Opportunists,” she said, stepping off the curb.

“Wait a minute.” Reid moved in front of her. “I don’t see—”

“You’re skeptical because he was willing to put himself out there,” Carter said, “putting a face and name to his organization. But it could be he’s confident they covered their tracks and knows we won’t find any proof linking him to the crime.”

“No.”

“No?”

“They’re piggybacking on this,” Vail said. “They didn’t plant it.”

Carter squinted. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“He said he’d use a remote detonator. Our offender used a timer.”

Carter turned up the collar of his trench coat. “He told you he used a remote detonator? I thought you said they didn’t plant the bomb.”

“We were talking hypothetically,” she said. “But I was reading his body language.”

“Body language?” Carter snorted. “That’s what you’re basing this on? Gobshite.”

“Carty,” Reid said, holding out a hand, as if cautioning him against challenging Vail’s opinion. “Karen’s got a different way of looking at things.”

“When I asked him what type of explosive he’d use,” Vail said, “he didn’t answer. He couldn’t—because you didn’t release that to the press. Am I right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So that means that if they didn’t do it, he’d have to guess. And if he guessed wrong, he’d be exposed as a bullshitter. His only reasonable move was to not answer me.”

Reid stepped aside and they fell in behind Vail as she led the way to the car.

“I’ve still arranged for your buddy Nigel to be followed,” Carter said, nodding at an undercover copper in a sedan a block away. “I was gonna have him tail Hughes, but we need some intel on the Anarchists. Just in case you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

As Reid inserted his key, he said, “What’d you think of Hughes?”

Vail pulled open her door. “I assume you’re asking relative to the bombing, not my personal opinion of the guy.”

Reid twisted his lips.

She stood there, peering over the car at him. “I don’t know. He may know who did it, but I doubt he or the BHP was involved. I think your assessment of the man’s right. He’d like to be doing the more radical stuff—he’s an action guy—but he’s also loyal to Leon McAllister. So he’s learned to temper his anger and toe the party line, no matter how tempted he is to pull the trigger, or how frustrated he got with McAllister’s decision to take the group in a different, more mainstream direction.” She got in and closed the door, and the others followed.

“Not sure I buy it,” Carter said. “I’m not ready to give up on the Anarchists—or Nigel. Security Service is putting together a backgrounder on him right now. Until we’ve checked him out, he’s still on my list.”

Vail clicked her seatbelt closed. “I’m just here to advise. It’s your show.”
Robby’d be proud of me—I’m really getting the hang of this good soldier routine.
She looked out the window as Reid pulled away from the curb.

Yeah, right.

12

R
eid dropped Carter at Thames House, MI5’s headquarters, then continued on toward Turner’s gallery.

“How long till that other bomb goes off?”

Vail consulted her watch. “I’m not sure we can still consider it a credible threat. But if it’s an opportunistic strike—the most likely reason, if it does happen—we’re looking at a little over two hours.”

“If we’re lucky, it’s all just a bunch of bollocks. A hoax.”

“I’m curious,” Vail said. “How long have you known Carter?”

“Carter?” Reid asked. “Just met ’im.”

Bullshit.

“Why?”

“I got the impression you two had known each other.”
First clue’d be when you called him Carty.

Without looking at her, he said, “Nope.”

Vail’s phone vibrated. She consulted the display and said, “Hmm. Speak of the devil. Your mate’s arranged for me to see Turner’s surveillance tapes.”

“He’s not my mate.”

“Okay.”

“He’s not,” Reid said, brow knitted firmly. “But you don’t really want to waste valuable time watching security footage the service has already been through, do you?”

“I do. He said we can access the digital file from Scotland Yard. Know how to get there?”

Reid, making no effort to hide his frown, hung a left at the next intersection. “Should’ve stayed home and spent the day with Brant,” he mumbled.

THEY WALKED UP TO THE main entrance, which sat inside a secured perimeter. To their left, a small, blue sign rotated slowly atop a white pole, its text reading either New Scotland Yard or Metropolitan Police depending on which side faced outward. The immediate vicinity was hardscape, a one-lane rain-slick road fronting the entrance.

They stepped into a glass-enclosed turnstile one at a time. After they entered the tube, the convex door swung shut behind them and the one in front opened a second later. For Vail, it was a second too long, a sense of claustrophobic anxiety building in her chest. She took a breath and stepped into the administrative area, where a contemporary semicircular wood desk dominated the space. Museum-worthy displays peppered the bright room commemorating milestone achievements in London policing.

After the officer at the front desk issued Vail a visitor’s pass, Reid led her to an identical set of curved security pods.

Great. Another glass coffin.
She steeled herself and made it through, then followed Reid to the right into a waiting elevator. They took it up to the cafeteria level, which was well-lit and cheerful, filled with modern white plastic-and-metal tables and chairs.

Rows of computers sat atop a midnight blue counter that ran along the periphery of the sectioned-off work area of the cavernous room.

They walked along the Pergo flooring and took seats in front of one of the monitors. The screen read, “Standard Workstation,” with a Windows XP login. “Good to see you stay up to date on technology. XP is, what? A dozen years old?”

Ignoring her, Reid logged in and navigated to the correct folder on the server where the security footage was located. “Here you go. Fancy some coffee?”

“That’d be great, thanks. White.”

Reid set off down the open hallway to the end of the room, where the vending counter was located. Vail inched the chair closer and oriented herself as to what she was looking at: a screen with an irregular line that resembled an electrocardiogram. There were lengths along the time line where the pattern was flat, with peaks at various points. She had seen digital surveillance systems like this before: you clicked your mouse on the areas where the line became elevated, which were moments when the motion sensors had been triggered.

After having watched several segments that showed Gavin Paxton moving about the gallery and then leaving for the evening, Reid joined her with two steaming coffees in his hands.

“Anything?”

Vail leaned forward to get a better look at the screen. “What time does Paxton normally leave the gallery?”

“Turner leaves at six, Paxton locks up at seven. Why?”

“Just saw Paxton leave, so I wanted some reference.” She clicked on the next peak and the video started again, with Paxton moving through the gallery door.

“Time code’s visible if you hit F4—it activates the onscreen display.”

Vail did as instructed, and the milliseconds started cascading across the bottom portion of the screen. “What the hell’s he doing back at the gallery at 11:30 at night?”

“He’s got a key and permission to meet with clients anytime, even after hours.”

Vail paused the video. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

Reid shrugged. “I asked Turner about it. Didn’t seem fazed by it. Said he gave Paxton the go-ahead. He’s supposedly made a lot of after-hour sales.”

“Why can’t he do the same business during regular hours?”

“Turner said he’s got a very affluent clientele—not that all the people who shop on Bond aren’t affluent. But these are supposedly
very
well-off.”

“The one percent,” Vail said.

“The one percent are comfortable,” Reid said. “These would be the point one percent—maybe even the point-oh-one percent.” Reid shrugged. “You’d have to ask Turner.”

“Or Paxton.” She started the recording again and watched as two men entered the gallery. “Who are these guys? I saw them come in before. Paxton showed them a few things, but they left without buying anything.”

“They made a purchase the second time they came in. A bronze statuette. Then they left. Paxton left a few minutes after them, and about an hour later, the bomb went off.” He gestured toward the screen. “You’ll see.”

Vail observed the events play out as Reid described. When she clicked on a particularly pronounced spike in the line, a bright flash of light filled the screen, followed by dense smoke, and then a few seconds of voracious fire. “And that’s all she wrote. Pretty intense.”

“See?” Reid said, checking his watch. “Nothing there. I’ve been through it, MI5’s been through it, probably even SO15. Waste of time.”

“Uh huh.” Vail clicked on the rewind icon and scrolled back to the activity prior to the explosion, when Paxton met with his two customers. She played it through in full motion, then rewound and replayed it. And again.

“What are you doing?”

“My job.”

The images played out before her: Paxton welcoming the men, shaking their hands, and then chatting for three minutes and ten seconds. One appeared to pull out his wallet and extract a number of bills. He gave them to Paxton, who gingerly lifted a statuette from a lighted display stand and then disappeared off-camera. He returned a moment later with a medium-sized box. The men shook hands and they left. Paxton turned off the lights and exited the gallery ten minutes after his customers.

“Well?” Reid asked. “Do you see anything? ’Cause I sure don’t.” Vail didn’t reply, so Reid continued. “I’ve watched the footage for the seven days prior to the explosion, including the day it went off. I never saw anyone setting it.”

“Did you notice there’s a section missing from the recording?”

Reid leaned closer to the screen. “What?”

“The seconds fly by too quickly, so don’t look at those. But watch the minutes.” She rewound it and then pressed “play.” The digital numbers jumped, skipping numerals. “Twenty minutes are missing, starting fifteen minutes after Paxton and his friends left.”

Reid continued to stare at the screen. “I’ll have to ask the lab, see if they noticed that.”

“Certainly raises a lot of questions.” She clicked back to the moment when Paxton entertained his two guests. “These two guys are standing near the safe, where the bomb was placed. Right?”

“Yeah, but they don’t look like they plant it. I mean, the safe has to be open for them to put the bomb inside.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? Remember I talked about access being one of the keys? So the question is, Who has access to the interior of the safe?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“As a skilled inspector, you might have just asked. Like I did.”

Reid leaned back in his seat. “Bugger. I should’ve asked. So who had access?”

“Turner, obviously. And Paxton, because there are times when he’s in the gallery when Turner isn’t. That’s it.” She pressed “play” again and watched, this time in slow motion. Vail paused the recording, then sat back and appraised the screen. “What do you see?”

“Two guys standing in the gallery, in front of the safe, their backs to the camera.”

“Exactly. And the day before, what did you see?”

“Pretty much the same thing.”

Vail nodded. “Yeah, pretty much the same thing. Two guys, they come into this gallery, and they stand in the same spot.” She indicated the frozen image. “We can’t see their faces, not even a profile or one-quarter view. They could be anyone, really.” Vail leaned closer, thought a moment. “They’re kind of crowding the camera. On purpose?”

Reid moved forward and seemed to consider her comment.

She harumphed. “We can’t see the front of the safe, can we? That guy on the left, he’s positioned himself well, blocking a good part of the camera’s angle into the safe.”

“Or he just shifted his weight and happened to block the view.”

“Or that,” Vail said, continuing to look at the screen. “Then there’s those missing twenty minutes. But for now, let’s deal with what we have in front of us. First, they show an awareness of the cameras. Second—”

“How can you say that? Because they
happen
to be standing in a spot that
happens
to be obstructing our view?”

“Second,” Vail continued, “not only do they know that there are cameras, but they know where the cameras are located. Third, the fact that they’ve positioned themselves to block the safe indicates that they have something to hide.”

“Whoa.” Reid rolled his chair away from the screen and rotated it to face Vail. “You’re so far from the facts, I don’t even think that theory warrants a response.”

Maybe. But something doesn’t feel right about this.
“If the other guy opened the safe, we wouldn’t be able to see. So what if…What if Paxton opened it and they inserted the bomb?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Paxton was standing right there. And if he did nothing to stop them, he knows about it—which means he’s in on it.” Reid started to protest, but Vail silenced him by raising her hand. “At the very least, Paxton knows these guys. And even if he didn’t plant it himself, if they’re involved, he could be, too—or he’ll know where to find them.”

“Think about this a second, Karen. We have zero evidence. If Paxton’s involved and we go off half-cocked, we could put the frights into ’im. He’d disappear somewhere in Europe and we’d never find ’im.”

“Then we can’t let that happen.”

Reid folded his arms across his chest. “This is a bunch of bollocks.”

“Always wondered. What the hell does that mean?”

Reid tilted his head. “You’re seriously asking me that—now?” He saw that she was waiting for an answer. “Literally, it means testicles. But we use it to mean ‘nonsense.’”

“Testicles, eh?” Vail pondered that as she clicked the mouse to an earlier spot in the recording. After watching for a few seconds, she said, “If you were buying a piece of art like that statuette, wouldn’t you bend down, look at it from different angles? Get closer, move back to, I don’t know…examine it, appraise it? They look like they’re just going through the motions of making a purchase.”

“Maybe they’ve seen it before, liked it, but couldn’t decide if they wanted to spend the money. I’m sure it costs a pretty pence.”

“You watched all the footage. Did they ever look it over? I mean really look at it. Especially if it’s expensive, I’d expect them to pay
some
attention to it.” Vail waited a beat, then reached again for the mouse. “Because if you’re not sure, I can rewind—”

“No,” Reid said, “they never did.” He ground his molars. “What you’re seeing is the most interest they ever showed in it.”

“Don’t take it personally. Sometimes it takes a different set of eyes to catch a nuance like that.”

“If there
is
a nuance. They could’ve been in a month ago and seen it, looked at it from every angle and examined it with a bloody magnifying lens.” Reid waved a hand. “It’s just a theory, and not a good one at that.”

“That’s the thing,” Vail said as she clicked stop. “A theory is more than we had an hour ago.” She noticed that Reid was still staring at the blank screen. “This is good. Why do you look like I just screwed up your day? Cheer up, mate.”

Reid grabbed his sport coat. “Don’t talk like a Brit, Karen. Doesn’t suit you.”

A smile flitted across Vail’s lips. “Let’s skedaddle, shall we? Time’s a-wasting and the game is afoot.”

Reid rolled his eyes. “You’re serious about questioning him?”

“Yes, yes. Now hurry along. We need to inquire as to these odd goings on. I smell a rat.”

“You’re just going to confront him, straight up?”

“I go nose to nose with serial killers. A bomber?” She snorted. “Piece of cake. Besides, you may as well find out now: I’ve got a set of steel bollocks.”

They headed over to the elevator bank. “You’re not going to carry on this way for the rest of your stay, are you?”

“It
is
kind of fun. But no. I prefer my bastardized American English.”

Reid lifted an eyebrow. “That makes one of us.”