No Way Out (2 page)

Finally Vail was led into a large room where the detectives had their desks, computers, and files. She was put in a chair and handed a phone. A line button was pushed and she said, “This is Vail.”

“Karen.”

It was the voice of the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge of the behavioral analysis units, Thomas Gifford.

“You can imagine my surprise when I got a call from Director Knox about some trouble one of my agents got herself into. And the first thing I thought was, ‘Must be Karen.’ Now why is that?”

“I’m sorry they got you out of bed for this, sir.”

“I wasn’t in bed.”

Vail did a quick calculation—but before she could arrive at the answer, Gifford said, “I sent you to Madrid because I thought you’d do a good job representing the Bureau. But maybe that’s my fault for having unreasonable expectations.”

Ow. Did I deserve that?
“You realize, sir, that none of this was my fault.”

“I’ll withhold judgment for the moment. But only because something’s come up. I need you to go to London.”

“London.” She looked around for a hidden camera crew capturing her surprise. “What’s in London?”

“There’s been a bombing and we were asked to provide support and analysis. Threat assessment.”

“What about my conference?”

“Postponed. If you wrap up your assignment in London quickly, you can go back to Madrid. But we’re also discussing a way of finishing it on Skype. Not ideal, but right now the priority is helping New Scotland Yard with this case. And—I can’t stress this enough, Karen—I want you to make like a good soldier and get along with others. Show respect to the other law enforcement personnel you come into contact with, especially the London Legat. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“That’s extremely important. I don’t want anymore phone calls.”

“No more phone calls. Got it.”

“Karen, I’m serious.”

“I am, too, sir. Phone calls are bad. I don’t want any phone calls either.”

“Karen—”

“No worries. Sarcasm’s in check. No insubordination. I will be a good soldier.”

“I’m not going to hold my breath.”

“Probably smart, sir.”

“Lenka worked with the travel office,” Gifford said, ignoring her comment, “to get you a room. London’s usually 80 percent occupied, and it’s particularly busy now, so it wasn’t easy. You’re booked into The Horatio Nelson at Charing Cross. It’s by Trafalgar Square, centrally located and very expensive. The British government is footing the bill. Please be courteous to the staff. Got it?”

“Courteous. Got it.”

“That means no attitude. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir. Got your order. A side of courteous, hold the attitude. When do I leave?”

Gifford groaned. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Sir, have I ever let you down?”

Gifford chortled. “Plenty of times.”

Vail furrowed her brow.
This is a new leaf. No argument. Go with it.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing: all that stuff’s behind me. I’m not gonna let you down. Clean slate.”

Gifford was quiet, no doubt wondering if she was serious—but hoping that she was. He said, “I’m going to hold you to that. Because I don’t have a choice and I’ve got someone from the Madrid Legat packing up your stuff as we speak. Head directly to Madrid-Barajas Airport. Your Lufthansa flight leaves in two hours.”

2

V
ail arrived at Heathrow—a city within a city—and hiked about four miles to the entrance of the Underground, London’s subway system. Fine—it was only about three-quarters of a mile. It just felt like four.

Per Lenka’s emailed instructions, Vail went to the ticket window and purchased a week’s pass. The man handed her a blue card with “Oyster” lettered across it. She wasn’t quite sure what an ocean mollusk had to do with a subway system, but she had other things to worry about—like where she was going.

She navigated the long, narrow tunnels to the tracks and arrived just as the train pulled into the station. As she lifted her suitcase up into the car, a female voice filtered through the speaker. In “The Queen’s English” she announced, “This is a Piccadilly line train. Mind the gap.”

Vail turned to the woman seated to her left. “What did she say? Mind the what?”

“The gap. There’s a step up into the train and there’s a space between the car and the platform. I think you Americans say ‘watch your step.’”

Vail got off at Leicester Square station and “minded the gap” as she disembarked. Then she wheeled her suitcase back and forth, looking for the exit. There was none.

“Excuse me,” she said to a suited man heading toward her. “How do I get out of here? I don’t see any exit signs.”

“Just look for the way out.”

Vail drew her chin back.
Does this guy understand English?
Silly question. Of course he does
. “That’s what I said. I’m trying to get the hell out of here.”

He pointed up and behind her.

Vail turned and scanned the ceiling. A black and yellow sign said “Way Out,” with an arrow that pointed right.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
“And I suppose outside there’s a sign that says ‘Way In.’”

The man tilted his head. “What else would it say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something simple like…‘Entrance’? And Exit?”

He frowned and hurried off.

Vail carried her suitcase up the stairs and then boarded an exceptionally long escalator that featured dozens of small, rectangular advertisements evenly spaced along the tiled walls of the tube-shaped tunnel.

At the top, she wheeled up to the electronic turnstile and placed her Oyster card over the reader. After another flight of stairs, she exited onto a rainy street.
Lovely. No umbrella.

Ten minutes later, she arrived at her hotel, which sat adjacent to the Charing Cross underground station on The Strand, a busy commercial street lined with retail shops. She walked through the curved glass of automatic doors and into the soapstone floored lobby. A strong floral scent curled her nostrils.

She stepped up to the semicircular registration desk and was greeted by a Frenchwoman sporting a smile and a name tag that read, Aimée. Her heavily accented speech was nearly unintelligible.

“Checking in. Karen Vail.”

“Welcome to London,” Aimée said, punching the keys on her terminal. “How was your journey from the airport?”

“Did my best to mind the gaps. They’re very scary.”

Aimée’s smile faded. “Come again?”

“Who knows? Let’s first see if I like your city.”

Aimée stared at Vail a long moment, apparently confused. She recovered and fell back into her spiel. “We’re a full service facility. Would you like to know about the area? See the sights?”

“I’m here for work. I won’t have time for pleasure.”

“Well, if there’s anything you need, just ring us up.” She handed her a key card and said, “Oh wait. Room 204.” She hesitated, bit her lip, and looked back at her screen.

“Something wrong?”

“I will find you a different room. If you give me a moment.” She started tapping her keys again.

“What’s wrong with 204?”

Aimée’s eyes tracked up and met Vail’s. “I’m not supposed to tell the guests this, but you’re a woman, and, um…” She glanced left and right, leaned forward, and said, “Jack the Ripper supposedly stayed there, in 1888. I don’t think you’d find it to your liking.”

Jack the Ripper. How perfect is that?
Vail grinned. “The room’s fine. I’ll take it.”

AFTER SETTING HER SUITCASE on the bed, Vail called her significant other, Robby Hernandez, and her son, Jonathan. She told them both she was in London, prompting Jonathan to ask her to buy him a sweatshirt—and a shot glass.

“A what? You’re fifteen years old.”

“It’s not for drinking, mom. My friend collects them and they’re cool.”

“Let me think about that one.”

“God, ma, sometimes you’re such a—such a—”

“Mother? Guilty as charged. I’m not saying no, I’m just saying I have to think about it.”
Then I’ll say no.
“Okay?”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll talk to you soon. I love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too.”

After hanging up, Vail took a cab to the American embassy in Mayfair. The massive building occupied an entire city block, fronting the adjacent heavily wooded and grassy Grosvenor Square. Statues of Ronald Reagan and Dwight Eisenhower stood heroically at either end of the park’s planters.

Multiple Delta security barriers rose from the ground along a semicircular foot path that brought visitors to two sizable bronzed glass guard booths that sat astride the embassy’s front steps.

An American flag ruffled in the breeze, just above a massive eagle that extended from the center of the roof. Despite the ugly uniformity of the building’s dated and uninspired design amid a city of classic, centuries-old architecture blended with contemporary glass marvels, Vail felt a sense of pride well up inside her chest as she paused to watch the stars and stripes ripple above. The founders were not only visionaries relative to the new government they were forming, but they selected a flag design that was inspiring—and timeless.

Vail had heard that the embassy was moving to an ultramodern facility and that the existing complex had been sold to a Qatari developer. She had little doubt the London demolition crew would enjoy ridding the city of this eyesore.

Vail stepped up to the guard booth. Ten feet away, behind tall wrought iron fencing, men toting large machine guns paced the grounds. The one closest looked her over—at a fit five-seven with a mane of curly red hair, it was something she was accustomed to—but his was not the lusty gaze men often gave her. His expression was stony. All business.

He evidently decided she was not an immediate threat, since he turned his attention to an approaching tourist snapping photos of the embassy.

Vail entered the booth and placed her creds on the security scanner, then walked through the magnetron while one of the British guards called the Legat’s office to confirm her appointment.

Nothing was taken for granted. Such was the state of the world these days.

MOMENTS LATER, VAIL EMERGED from the elevator. The administrative assistant, whose name plaque read Annette Winston, glanced up. “Agent Vail. Welcome. The legal attaché will see you in a moment.”

Jesus Montero, dressed in a finely tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and bright red tie, sat down behind his large desk. He opened a folder and turned a page.

He did not invite Vail to sit, and since she intended to keep her promise to Gifford to be a good soldier, she waited for Montero to offer her a seat.

“So how was your time in Spain?” he asked, turning another page in the file.

Crap. Don’t ask me about Spain.
“Fine,” Vail said. “Beautiful city. My first time there. Lots of churches and antiquities.”
Fewer antiquities, unfortunately, after I left.

Montero skimmed a file note as he spoke. “And ASAC Gifford sent you over here? Is that right?”

“Yes sir. He said it was important. I haven’t been briefed yet. Some kind of threat assessment.”

“Exactly,” Montero said, scrawling his loopy signature across a document. “Bombing at an art gallery. High profile location. Lots of media. The nature of the target makes it a big deal to the British government. You’re going to have your hands full.”

And here I was, hoping to see the town, get in some shopping at Harrods. Damn.

For the first time, he looked up from his paperwork. His eyes were cold and dark, penetrating. Serial killer-like.

“What?”

Did I say that out loud?
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

Montero let his pen drop and leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t have to. Your face said it all.”

My face? Shit, it’s harder to master this good soldier thing than I thought.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Agent Vail.”

“Honesty is always best, sir.”
Bullshit. Sometimes that white lie is worth something. Jesus, Karen. Stop it. He can read the sarcasm on your face.

“It’s your record,” Montero said. “It concerns me. A great deal.”

Vail narrowed her eyes. “I think I’ve got an exemplary record.”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt you’d think that. I’ve had agents like you before under my command. Problems, every one of them. Their value to the Bureau never surpassed the shit they stirred up.”

Vail narrowed her left eye. She felt blood rushing to her face.
Oh crap. Keep your cool, Karen. You’re a good soldier. You’re a good soldier.
She put her hand to her mouth and forced a few deep coughs to mask the flushed skin.

“You’ve had some problems with ASAC Gifford. And a domestic violence complaint—”

“And a lot of very important arrests. Are those in your file, too?”

“Yes,” he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Somewhere.”

Smile. Lighten the mood.
“The reports of my insubordination have been greatly exaggerated.”
Is quoting Mark Twain over the top?

Montero squinted. “Are you trying to be funny?”

She straightened her shoulders. “No sir.”

The door opened and in walked Annette Winston. She marched over to Montero and handed him a message slip.

He glanced at it, then his eyes narrowed and he shifted forward in his chair. “Thank-you, Annette.” The woman turned and headed out.

Montero looked at Vail. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Vail swiveled to look behind her. “You talking to me, sir?”

“There’s no one else in the room,” Montero said. “And no one else here who needed her ass bailed out of trouble by the Legat in Madrid.”

“Oh,” Vail said, swatting the air with a hand. “That. It was nothing, really.”

“Let’s get something clear, Agent Vail. You’re here until I say you can’t be here anymore. In this country, I
am
the FBI. I am the director here. There is no higher authority. Kind of like God. Get it?”

“Yes sir. After all, your name is Jesus. I get it.”

He studied her face a long moment, then asked, “Do you? Do you really?”

“I think so. God is pretty absolute.”

Montero rose from his chair. He walked up to Vail, very close—too close—invading her space—and looked down at her.

“I think you should take a step back, sir. With all due respect, of course. The last man who tried to intimidate me by getting in my face ended up—well, it didn’t end well for him. But you probably saw that in my file.”

Montero ground his molars and took a long moment to respond. But he did not move. Finally he said, “Don’t bother unpacking your bags, Agent Vail. You won’t be staying in London. Wait outside with Annette.”

VAIL ENTERED THE ANTEROOM and took a seat. Annette was on the phone.

“Yes sir. Please hold.” She glanced at Vail with a concerned expression on her face, then pressed a button and dialed a long string of numbers. Moments later, she said, “This is Annette Winston at the London Legat office. Mr. Montero would like to speak with Director Knox…Yes, I’ll hold.”

Oh shit, Karen. The director? Not my biggest fan. But what was I supposed to do?

Five minutes later, Montero’s door swung open. “Agent Vail. Come in.”

Vail pulled herself out of the chair and made her way into Montero’s office.

“Look, sir,” she said, trying to strike a conciliatory tone. “I’m sorr—”

“You will complete your assignment in England,” Montero said. “You will report everything to me, no matter how inconsequential.”

Montero kept his eyes on the desk. Unlike before, his penetrating gaze never once made contact with Vail’s face.

“Okay,” she said, trying to hide the shock. “Can I have a handgun to carry while in-country?”

“No.” He sat down and shuffled some papers. “England’s very different from the States. There’s no tolerance for guns here. Even the police officers—even the detectives—don’t carry.” He shifted a stack of files—and had still not looked at her. “We’re done here. You can leave.”

Vail rose from her chair and turned to leave, but Montero stopped her.

“Stay out of trouble, Agent Vail. I don’t want to have to clean up any of your messes.”

Yeah. I got that speech already. No phone calls.

Vail left the room without responding, still confused about what had happened. As she exited the building, she realized none of that mattered. The faster she could complete her threat assessment, the sooner she could head home.