No Way Out (23 page)

35

V
ail stood outside the American Embassy staring up at the humongous eagle mounted five stories above the entrance. She felt a pang of patriotism in her heart as she considered DeSantos’s words about duty, the greater good, and about why she went into law enforcement in the first place.

She stepped up to the security booth window and showed her identification. “I need to speak with Jesus Montero, the FBI Legat.”

The armed officer, whose name tag read, “Lewis,” examined her ID. “Do you have an appointment, Ms. Vail?”

“No appointment. But I’m operating under Mr. Montero’s orders.”
Or at least I’m supposed to be.

A block from the embassy Vail had removed her hat and glasses and shoved them into her pocket. She would no longer be needing them. She felt as if a weight had been removed from her chest—but had a sense of foreboding that she had started in motion something that was terribly wrong.

She could not recall a situation in her career when she’d experienced such intensely conflicting emotions.

Lewis stepped from the window and lifted a phone from the wall. While he chatted with the operator, Vail paced, slowly, in front of the large security structure. The sun had broken through the clouds and she looked up at the overcast sky, a brave patch of blue fighting for significance.

After a prolonged wait, Vail checked in on Lewis. The man spoke several words, nodded tightly, and then brought his shoulders back. His eyes shifted to Vail as his hand disappeared beneath the counter.

She knew what was about to happen, and she was not looking forward to it.

Finally Lewis hung up the phone and said something to a colleague, who in turn signaled a soldier holding an MP5 submachine gun and patrolling behind the wrought iron fencing.

“Ms. Vail,” Lewis called through the window. “Please come in. The Legal Attaché will see you.”

Vail hesitated a moment, then stepped through the metal and bulletproof glass door. After removing her jacket and emptying her pockets, she walked through the magnetometer, smiling at her foresight when she had wiped down the garrote and dumped it in the bushes of Grosvenor Park across the way from the embassy.

As she retrieved her belongings and slipped into her jacket, Lewis explained that he would need to secure her passport during her stay. He then turned her over to two guards, who ushered her up to the Legat’s office.

So far they haven’t arrested me. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

After delivering Vail to Annette Winston’s desk, the men returned to the elevator, headed back to their posts.

“Mr. Montero is waiting for you.”

I’m sure he is.

“Can I get you something—coffee, soda, water?”

Kind of like a last cigarette before the firing squad?
“Cappuccino, if you’ve got it.”

“All we have is plain coffee,” Winston said. “This isn’t Starbucks.”

Oh, really? Dipshit.

Vail knocked on Montero’s door. She heard him call her in, so she entered, expecting a grim-faced man with a sour disposition.

He motioned her to the chair in front of his desk. The last time she was here she had just gotten out of hot water in Madrid. Now she was hoping for a similar resolution so she could just get the hell out of England.

“So, Agent Vail. Sounds like you’ve had quite a stay in the United Kingdom.”

“Quite a stay, yes sir.”

He rocked back in his chair, studying her face. “How come you didn’t report in or answer your phone when I called?”

“You called?” She feigned surprise and pulled her BlackBerry and made a convincing show of checking the call log. “Sir, my apologies. I see that you did.”
Wow, nine times? Oops.
“Please accept my apologies. I’m truly sorry for missing these calls, sir.”

“Sorry?” He sprung his chair forward. “What kind of bullshit answer is that?”

“Pretty bad, I have to admit. But I am sorry.”

“Do you know what I received this morning?”

Vail thought back to her initial meeting with Montero and her discussion with Gifford. “A phone call?”

Montero drew his chin back, as if he couldn’t believe that Vail had guessed correctly. “Yes, a phone call.”

Great. That means I’m
really
in trouble
.

“Along with several video clips transferred over secure email from CCTV cameras of you engaged in a fight with a man near the London School of Economics. And a lab report from Scotland Yard that claims their forensics crew found your DNA on two men who were murdered in the hotel you were staying in.”

Vail swallowed.
I guess this is what it’s like when the shit hits the fan.

“Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Do I need my FLEOA lawyer here, sir?” she asked, referring to the Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association.

“Only guilty people call their lawyers. So you tell me. Do you need to call him?”

Is this the part where I start bawling about Hector DeSantos and how he forced me to do all these bad things? How he blackmailed me and threatened my son’s life?

“By the sound of this conversation, I think it’d be a good idea.”

Montero threw up his hands. “Okay, hang on a second. I’m sorry for how this is coming off. Let’s back up a second and start over. Totally off the record. As your boss—as your best friend and sole advocate in the UK—I’d like to know what the hell’s going on. I know you’ve had issues over the years, insubordination and God knows what else. But I also know you’re a terrific agent who’s made a lot of key arrests. Your ASAC is particularly protective of you.”

Why do people always wait to say the nice things about you after you’re dead—or disgraced?

“Thing is, I don’t buy what Scotland Yard’s selling. Just tell me what’s really going on and I’ll back you.”

Does he think I’m an idiot?

“Sir, if I knew what was going on, I’d tell you. But I think we’ve got a case of mistaken identity. Someone made…an error in processing the evidence. As to the video, yes. I was attacked near LSE. I was lucky to get away alive.”

“Looks like you had some assistance. The Yard’s currently looking for one of its own. Clive Reid. You, they just want for questioning. Reid, they’ve got an arrest warrant out for him.”

Shit, this is bad. I’ve got to warn him.

Vail clutched her abdomen and leaned forward, let out a muted groan. “Sir, would you mind if I use the restroom? I suddenly feel…a little sick.”
C’mon, Karen,
s
ell it! Don’t give him time to think it through
. She rose quickly and looked around as if she had better find a toilet—fast.

Montero frowned. “Go ahead. It’s down the hall, make a right past the elevator bank, women’s on the left. We’ll figure out this mess when you get back. Be quick.”

Clutching her lower abdomen, Vail practically ran out of the office. She followed Montero’s directions, but instead of passing the elevators and making a right, she hit the fire door to the stairwell and ran down the flights while simultaneously trying to dial her BlackBerry.

Reid answered on the first ring. “Where in arse’s hell are you? I’ve tried reaching Hector—”

“You’re in trouble,” Vail said as she hit the ground floor. “Met’s issued an arrest warrant for you, the guy in the alley. Meet me in Trafalgar Square. Get two new SIM cards, pay cash, so we can’t be tracked. What the hell am I saying? You’re MI5. Do your thing. Good luck.”

She hung up and pulled the wool cap and glasses from her pocket, tucked in her red hair, and walked out of the embassy.

36

T
rafalgar Square dated back to the mid-1800s, and aside from various improvements, the general layout remained unchanged. Its large central area, bounded by roadways on three sides and a terrace for the National Gallery to the north, had served as a public meeting place for Londoners since its completion.

Despite two fountains and four statues mounted on stone plinths, its most enduring—and dominant—feature was Nelson’s Column, a 170-foot-tall Corinthian pillar guarded by four colossal bronze lions at its base and supporting a stately depiction of a war hero from England’s historic Battle of Trafalgar.

Vail remembered reading about the square in a travel magazine on the plane from Madrid. Little did she know that a short time later she would be standing at the famous tourist attraction, wearing a disguise and running from local law enforcement and foreign assassins, tracking down a notorious weapons trader and trying to avert a chemical weapons attack.
How do I always get myself into this shit?

Darkness had fallen. The city lights from the surrounding office buildings and the bustle of people navigating rush hour gave the area a festive, vibrant feeling.
And hopefully, if we’re successful, it’ll stay that way for years to come.

Vail found Clive Reid standing beneath an enormous ship in a bottle, the largest one she had ever seen. Several birds perched on its stone platform, and the noise of rushing water from the two adjacent fountains allowed them to talk freely without the danger of parabolic microphones picking up their conversation.

Reid wore a faux beard and mustache and an “I Love London” ball cap pulled down over his forehead.

“Like the cap. Makes you look like a tourist.”

“Grabbed it at Cool Britannia in Piccadilly Circus on the way over. Facial hair I had in the trunk.”

“You should leave it there.”

“Oh, yeah?” He gestured at her face. “Well, newsflash, Miss FBI agent: sunglasses don’t really work as a disguise after sunset.”

“You think I look a little conspicuous?”

Reid made a point of stepping back and looking her over. “A bit.” He reached into his pocket. “Put these on.” He produced a pair of horn-rimmed frames.

Vail made the switch.

“So they’ve got a warrant out?” he asked. “The cameras on Surrey caught my one-round kill shot?”

“Apparently. The legal attaché told me.”

Reid lifted his brow. “That was nice of him. He wasn’t worried about you warning me?”

“He doesn’t know. I told him I had to use the bathroom and walked out of the embassy.”

“Oh, cack. This is just getting better.”

“No, what’s better is that they have my passport.”

Reid spied a Metropolitan Police car cruising by; he turned his body and, out of the corner of his eye, watched it pass beneath the majestic Admiralty Arch. “Let’s get going. Being out in the open for too long isn’t safe.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and propelled her forward. “Hopefully we’ll get everything sorted out, carry out our mission, and be lauded as heroes. All transgressions forgotten.”

“Yeah, and have our likenesses reduced to stone and displayed on a pedestal in Trafalgar Square.”

They passed the lions and waited for the light to change, the white lettering at the curb reminding them to “Look right”—an obvious aid to Americans and other foreigners who don’t expect the cars to be coming at them from that side. Vail was sure that simple painted phrase saved lives on a daily basis.

“Hector will be waiting for you in The Sherlock Holmes—it’s a pub a couple of blocks down Northumberland—that’s that street right there,” he said, pointing straight ahead. “I’ve got something to set up for us, and then I’ll meet you.”

“At the pub?”

“No. Hector will explain. Two blocks down on the left. Black and gold storefront with chairs out front along the sidewalk. I’ll meet up with you in a couple hours.”

Something tells me it’s not going to be that simple.

37

I
t was a straight shot down Northumberland, like Reid had said. Before Vail stepped inside The Sherlock Holmes, DeSantos emerged.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said as he led her to their car.

“I kind of walked out of the embassy. They know about the bodies in my hotel, and the shit that went down near LSE. The Met’s got an arrest warrant out for Reid.”

“None of this is surprising, Karen. But I know it bothers you.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it would bother any sane person.”

“It’s part of the stuff I do, the challenges I face. Normally, things are a lot cleaner and I’m in and out and no one knows I’ve been there. But sometimes things go to hell and the FUBAR scenario comes into play.”

Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. Now there’s a military acronym I’m all too familiar with.

DeSantos chirped the car remote. “Well, it’s in play now, full tilt.”

“What’s the plan?”

“The plan is that we get in and drive for about ninety minutes.”

“Where?”

“The Cotswolds.”

“The what?”

“A range of hills in west-central England with quaint villages, craft shops, historic churches. Typical English countryside. Most of all, for us, it’s the location of an old, abandoned MI5 safe house.”

“And why do we need an old, abandoned MI5 safe house?”

“Not so fast. I’ve got some stuff to tell you first.”

Vail was in the process of buckling her belt but stopped and looked at DeSantos. “Are you actually reading me in?”

“You want to hear what I’ve got to say, or not?”

She clicked the restraint closed and twisted her body to face DeSantos.

“I’m going to level with you. You sure you can handle the truth?”

“Our problems have usually come about when you don’t tell me the truth. Or at least the whole truth.”

He navigated his way through the London streets like a pro, heading toward the M40 motorway.

“Remember when we were talking about Anthony Scarponi? How much do you know about him?”

Vail snorted. “The Behavioral Sciences Unit spent months studying his case because of the drugs they used to control him for such a long time. It was an extraordinary case. We petitioned the Department of Defense to interview him, just like we’d done so many times in the past for convicted serial killers.”

“Let me guess. You got a big, fat no.”

“Right. We explained that this was an unprecedented opportunity to gain insight into the human mind on a scale we’d never encountered.”

“And they didn’t give a shit, right?”

“Right.”

DeSantos chuckled. “I tried getting in to see him, too. Of course I wanted to kill the guy, and Knox knew it. That probably had something to do with denying me access.”

“Can’t say they were wrong on that one, Hector.”

DeSantos ground his jaw. “Yeah. Maybe. Whatever.” He waited a beat, then said, “An NSA buddy of mine tipped me on something they picked up while reviewing intercepted communications. Hussein Rudenko appeared to be surfacing. I asked Uzi to check with his Mossad connections to see if they’d heard something. And they had. The intel on those intercepted communications came out of Israel. So it got a little dicey, spying on an ally, but Knox asked Uzi to talk with Director General Gideon Aksel, to informally ask what they knew about Rudenko.”

“And that’s when you got the news about the chemical weapons tracer Mossad had put on the shipment they’d intercepted.”

“Yes.” DeSantos turned onto the M40 and entered the motorway. It was wide and looked like any US highway.

“A few months later, Logan Harwood passed some info to MI6 that China was negotiating to buy chemical weapons stores from Libya.”

“Harwood was the guy murdered by the wife of that Chinese politician.”

“Yeah. The spy who wasn’t a spy. Anyway, China claimed that their overtures to the Libyan forces were intended to get the WMD off the market, because they were concerned they’d fall into the wrong hands—like Rudenko.”

“MI6 had a different interpretation, I take it.”

“As did the CIA. They were worried that China wanted the weapons to add to their arsenal. Kind of like the stealth bombers and drones and mammoth aircraft carriers they’re building. Bang—make a purchase and you’ve got chemical weapons at your disposal. But once I heard that China was involved on some level, I started thinking that Scarponi, or his people, might be connected somehow. Scarponi and his crew had deep roots in China.”

“And you explained this to Knox, hoping he’d give you access.”

“Not yet. I started working on it, off the books, with my OPSIG team. But we couldn’t come up with anything other than a tenuous connection between Scarponi and Rudenko—like they’d been in the same city when some big deals went down, leading us to think that Scarponi wasn’t just an assassin. He also might’ve been working with Rudenko on some level closing illegal weapons sales.”

“But you couldn’t bring any of this to Knox because he would’ve told you to find a more solid connection before you approached Scarponi.”

“It was even more complicated than that. There was concern that talking with Scarponi about his past might trigger something and cause a regression in his treatment. They were trying to ‘rehabilitate’ him so that he could provide them with intel on the brain research program China had used on him, and so that they could eventually return him to the field. With his knowledge and network, they thought he could be an invaluable CIA asset.”

“So you had to convince Knox that this would be a good test of their progress.”

“Problem was, they wanted to wait until the doctor gave his blessing. So I lobbied Knox and he got together with my boss, SecDef McNamara, and they—”

“Your boss is the secretary of defense? Are you shitting me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just said—”

“No, listen to me. I did not tell you that. OPSIG is black, Karen, so details about it aren’t known. Lose that information from your brain.”

“How do I do that?”

“How the hell do I know? Just, you know, forget it.”

“Forget what?”

DeSantos gave her a slight nod. “Thank-you.”

“So you got in to talk to Scarponi.”

He turned his attention back to the road. “Yeah. I wanted to get the names of his accomplices. This is hard to explain, but I promised Brian—Brian Archer, my partner—that I’d find the guys who killed him.”

“Did Knox know you wanted to off Scarponi and his men?”

“He’s worked with special ops guys, black operators for decades. He knows the deal. When I told him about the Rudenko connection, he was intrigued. But not convinced. So I didn’t press it. My strongest play was to tell him I needed to get the names of the men in Scarponi’s network. That was true. I’d waited a long time for a chance to pursue those guys, and I had to put the matter to rest. It was destroying me inside knowing those guys are still out there.

“Anyway, I suspected a trained killer like Scarponi could put up a convincing front for medical researchers who aren’t skilled in dealing with people like him. And as soon as I started questioning Scarponi, I could tell he was bullshitting the doctors, manipulating them. He was no different from the day he entered the facility. He was the same trained assassin who’d killed Brian. And if they set him free…Only bad things would’ve come from that.”

“You felt compelled to prove to Knox and McNamara that he wasn’t safe to be released.” Vail smiled when DeSantos glanced over at her. She shrugged. “That’s how I would’ve felt.”

“I wanted them to see it, I wanted to expose Scarponi for what he was—still is.”

He fell silent, the oncoming headlights from the other side of the motorway flashing across his face at regular intervals.

Finally DeSantos said, “But I blew it. He did a passive resistive act, which I should’ve anticipated—but didn’t. I had no alternative but to threaten his life. Even then, I wasn’t sure he’d give me those names. I admit that I lost control. Being in that room with him, that smug asshole…knowing he killed my partner…honestly, Karen, I just wanted to pummel him. For Brian. So I did.”

Vail placed a hand on DeSantos’s forearm. “I understand.”

DeSantos’s face remained set and stern. “I know you do.” Suddenly he smiled. “I’ve seen you in action.”

Vail grinned as well. “As different as you and I are, I guess we share a few similar character traits.”

“I think your ASAC is a little more understanding than the secretary of defense. While I was working over Scarponi, the MPs broke in and, well, they suspended me. I wasn’t lying when we first ran into each other. I really did get into hot water.”

“Looks like you came out of it okay.”

“They let me stew for a while, reduced my security clearance, kept me on a tight chain. Everything I did—office work, phone calls, email—everything was closely monitored. I’d never been in Knox’s doghouse before. Can’t say it was a pleasant experience.”

“Obviously at some point they started trusting you again.”

“I brought them some really important intel that changed the game. The communication NSA intercepted from Mossad. Once Uzi was involved, he started looking for any indication Rudenko and his crew were going to use these weapons on US soil. He finally found it and I renewed my case for interrogating Scarponi. They said no. But a few days later, the Security Services’ database got hacked. This time they came to me.”

“What about Scarponi? Did you get anything out of him before they shut you down?”

“Names. I asked him about Rudenko, too. Didn’t get anything tangible, but I could tell by his reaction that I was on to something. And it looks like it’s paid off.”

“How so?”

“Remember Vince Richter?”

Vail thought a moment. “The guy we asked about in that bar. Scarponi’s associate.”

“Right.”

“That was one of the names Scarponi gave me. Richter and his buddies, Mike Hagel and Kyle Walker. We looked for them all over the globe. Interpol had nothing recent, Mossad had nothing. Even the Russians—the FSB surprisingly cooperated—they had zip. Everything had been quiet for the past six years. Some felt they’d been taken out somewhere, somehow, by someone. But I had a feeling they were still around. Ultimately we decided Richter was the one we had the best shot at finding.

“Once we put out the feeler at the bar, MI5 picked up some activity. It set things in motion, made Richter surface, put him back on the grid. Some Met-controlled CCTV cameras have been fitted with new facial recognition software. They’d talked about it for years, but they’re finally starting to roll it out.”

“So we have a fix on him?”

“You could say that. Carter’s got him in custody at a safe house in the Cotswolds.”

“You think he’ll give us anything that could help us?”

“Even if he’s not directly involved—which I think he is—he knows stuff, I’m sure of it. Assuming I’m right, he could be our ‘in’ for penetrating Rudenko’s network.”

“Just remember that we need to find those chemical weapons stores before they’re used.”

“What’s your point?”

“Promise me that this visit with Richter isn’t going to be about vengeance.”

DeSantos snorted. “Would I do that?”

“It’s human nature, Hector. I may not know about black ops and covert missions, but I do know behavioral tendencies.”

DeSantos considered that a bit. “Well, maybe we’ll both get what we want. Two birds, right?”

Vail gave him a dubious look.
That remains to be seen.